Title: The Stars All Explode
Summary: If there’s one thing Draco’s learnt to believe in over the last couple of months, it’s Potter. Even when it’s something as big as this – killing Voldemort – Potter’s the only person he will ever trust to do it.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Epilogue compliant? Nope! Not even Deathly Hallows compliant, actually.
Word Count: 6,350
Author's Notes: Thank you very much to vaysh who beta-ed this for me, and bryoneybrynn who looked over this at the last minute! I hope you enjoy this phoenixacid, it was lovely to write for you! Happy Holidays!
It is with no feeling that Draco looks out of the window of Grimmauld Place; he sees nothing, not the rain against the window nor the squirrel in a tree. His Dark Mark has been aching for what seems like weeks, now hurting more than the damage left over from when the Death Eaters were at Malfoy Manor. Are at Malfoy Manor. As of a few days ago, he’s been enveloped into the safety of the Order. A single thought about why almost makes him ill.
It’s been two days since his injuries were healed, and despite his nearly full bill of health, Draco still feels ill and hurt... wrong. He hesitates to use the word delicate.
“Draco?” he hears behind him. Snape. Draco turns in the direction of the voice. He wonders how Snape found him at the back of the library. The layer of dust on the ancient books led him to guess that no one has been back here in a long while, which is his main reason for sitting there. It doesn’t surprise him to know that Potter, an older Weasley (Draco suspects he’s baby-sitting, although with the amount of tattoos that litter his skin, Draco can think of no one less suitable) and the other casual inhabitants of Grimmauld Place have neglected the library, but he is slightly disappointed in Granger.
Draco raises an eyebrow, before settling down in a floral arm chair. Small clouds of dust emerge from the fabric, despite the fact he’s having to sit carefully. He hurts.
“How are you?”
“You mean despite the fact that I’m stuck in this shithole for the foreseeable future, I ache like fuck and my parents are...” He takes in a shuddering breath, and he wants to kill Snape for the look of sympathy that appears on his face.
Draco’s parents died three days ago. They were killed by Death Eaters after disappointing the Dark Lord. Draco can still hear their cries - after they were finished with his parents, they had turned on him. Dolohov and Mulciber had showed little mercy, but they’d left him alive. Barely. Snape had taken one look at him before bringing him here.
Draco has been a spy for the Order for the last two years, and it had taken eighteen months before that for the Dark Lord to trust him enough to let him take the Mark and finally be given enough information to help the Order in anyway. After that night long ago on the Astronomy Tower, Draco couldn’t remain loyal to the Dark Lord. This is his compromise. He knows why his parents were killed.
In the days since then, Draco had been treated to a lot of dirty looks, a concise (but seriously lacking) history of what the hell is going on from this side of the battle and more pain potions than he’s ever taken in his life.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco says, looking into his lap.
“It wasn’t you, Draco,” Snape says. His voice is stilted - Draco knows there are a million places Snape would rather be right now than dealing with Draco, and the feeling is rather mutual.
“Wasn’t what?” he asks.
Draco snorts. He can feel tears welling up, and that cannot happen. Never, not in front of Snape. Now more than ever, he needs to be strong. “Of course it was. If I hadn’t started spying, I would never have told the Order about the raid on Helpston. I didn’t know that my parents had organised it… or that Voldemort was going to kill them if it went wrong. Which it did. Catastrophically.” By now, Draco is standing just feet away from Snape, shouting in his face.
Draco can smell smoke like it’s woven into Snape’s clothes as he stands close before he moves away from Snape. Snape puts his hands on Draco’s shoulders, pushing him back into the chair.
“It’s not your fault, Draco,” Snape tells him before he sweeps away. Draco sags into the chair, his breath suddenly gone. The door slams shut, and Draco finally thinks he can relax for five minutes, try and drive away the awful thoughts from his mind. The sounds of his parents’ bodies hitting the ground with a sickening thud after Voldemort cast Avada Kedavra at them.
Then he hears something slip. It sounds like a book falling off a shelf, and he’s on his feet in a second, his wand out and he’s stalking through the library. Draco turns a corner, and there is Potter.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Draco sneers. He holds his wand higher as Potter raises his hands in a gesture of (mock) surrender.
“Calm down, Malfoy, Jesus, it’s not your library!”
“Did you hear all of that?” Draco asks, a cold shiver spreading through his body from head to toe.
Potter winces, and Draco knows without a doubt that he was listening in to every word: Potter is always in his fucking business. Potter shakes his head.
“Well, you shouldn’t have bloody well been shouting it for the whole world to hear, should you? I didn’t mean to eavesdrop and I actually didn’t hear your conversation with Snape, but I could have easily if I’d moved a bit closer, so watch what you yell at the top of your lungs, yeah?” Potter swipes at Draco’s wand, and Draco puts it down.
“You better not breathe a word of what you heard,” Draco threatens, even though he’s fully aware that in the grand scheme of things he’s entirely at Potter’s mercy. It’s his house, his Order, his fucking everything. For once in his life, Draco is fully capable of recognising when he has to give in and not punch Potter’s stupid face. Even though there’s little he’d enjoy more right now, apart from a blow-job, and he’s pretty sure Potter would rather take a punch than do that.
Potter rolls his eyes. “I didn’t hear anything, but of course I wouldn’t, you stupid prick.”
“Charming,” Draco mutters as he slides his wand back up the sleeve of his robes. They hitch up, flashing Potter a glance of his Dark Mark. It had to be done to show the Dark Lord Draco really was loyal to him, even if he can’t stand the sight of it. Potter’s gaze feels heavy as his eyes flick over the stain on his skin. Draco covers his arm again, hoping his blush isn’t too bright before he turns away.
“Malfoy,” Potter says. Draco turns to see Potter biting his lip, the skin red and bruised. “I’m really sorry about what happened to you and your parents.”
Draco scoffs, but looks away. He doesn’t need Potter’s pity. “Don’t be ridiculous. You hated the very ground they walked on.”
“They were still your parents,” Potter says. “Just let me know if you need anything, yeah?”
Somehow, Draco wants to punch him in the face at the same time as thanking him. God knows he needs some kind of ally in this place, but he wasn’t planning on it being Potter.
“Piss off,” he says, and as he walks away, Draco can hear Potter snort.
Draco hates Grimmauld Place. Hates it with a passion. All around him are reminders of the life he’s left behind - detailed tapestries, portraits, beautiful, ornate furniture that Draco runs his fingers over, breathing in the history. Of course, this house is hideously run down and a shadow of the beauty it should be. But as well, he hates Weasleys and the food is crap because Potter can’t cook for shit and a lot of time it seems to just be the two of them. And Potter talks rubbish.
And Potter is always busy, reading or casting spells and sometimes he disappears altogether, returning with a jubilant look on his face, or Draco doesn’t see him for three days and knows that whatever he was doing went badly. So, Draco doesn’t get the chance to annoy him and irritate him because what else is he supposed to do here? Fucking Shacklebolt ignores him whenever he visits to conduct meetings, and he’s not allowed to listen to those either. All in all, he’s absolutely useless.
But now, it’s three a.m. and Draco can’t sleep. Probably because he didn’t wake up until lunchtime and has spent the day doing absolutely fuck all so he’s not tired.
He’s trudged down to the kitchen to make some hot milk or something, because maybe it will help. But Draco pushes open the kitchen door, and there sitting at the table, a huge mug in front of him and a pot of tea with steam emerging from the spout, is Potter. Across the table are huge piles of paper, stacks of books, and sheaths of parchment with Potter’s chicken scratch all over it.
“Potter!” he says. Why on earth is he down here now? Draco can’t even wander around he house in the middle of the night without Potter being in the wrong place. And why is he sitting there, hair all ruffled like he’s just been fucked, and eyes glowing eerily bright in the dim candle-light?
“Malfoy!” Potter says, turning quickly. His eyes - so fucking bright - flicker between Draco and the stuff he’s got spread out all over the table. “What... what are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Draco mutters. He walks across the room, and starts fiddling around for the milk.
“There’s tea here,” Potter says. When Draco turns to look at him, Potter pushes the teapot an inch through the sea of paper.
“Mugs in the cupboard on the left,” Potter says, even though Draco’s been living here for God knows how long now. His voice is gravelly, Draco can hear the tiredness behind his words. He sounds ridiculously hot.
“Thanks,” he mutters, his cheeks heating up.
“How are you doing? And why are you up?” Potter asks bluntly.
“I’m fine,” Draco says through gritted teeth. Why did he wish he saw Potter more again? A few words from the boy, and Draco wants to punch in his pretty face. He is fine, Potter didn’t need to ask every five fucking minutes. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either,” Potter says. The chair opposite him shoots out from where it was tucked under the table; Potter having nudged it with his toes. Draco takes the hint to sit, and pours himself a cup of strong, twiggy tea, the smell overwhelming his senses.
“What’s all this?” Draco asks, running his eyes over the sheets of paper strewn in front of him.
“Er...” Potter says. “You probably shouldn’t be reading this. Pretend you’re not.”
“Highly classified, eh?” Draco asks. Now his interest is piqued. Maybe something interesting will happen in this boring old house. For headquarters of a supposed side of a war, the place is awfully dull.
“Yes,” Potter says, eyeing him suspiciously. “So keep off.”
“I could help,” Draco offers. He has no idea where that came from, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he means the sentiment behind them. He’s in this house because of what he’s sacrificed for the Order of the Phoenix, he may as well continue that now, make himself useful. Maybe his parents’ deaths’ will have some meaning.
Potter makes a face.
“Malfoy, don’t be like that. It’s just... it’s you and this is so fucking important, and I know why you’re here and everything...” Potter looks down at his book.
“I was the spy, Potter.” Fuck. He isn’t supposed to be revealing that. Snape will kick his arse if he ever finds out.
Potter’s neck snaps up. “What?”
“Why do you think they’ve let me stay here with you, idiot?”
Potter shrugs, but Draco can see the cogs ticking in his mind, puzzle pieces likely fitting together now. “Charlie - “
“Is that the Weasley that’s been staying here?”
Potter rolls his eyes, but nods. “He was sort of babysitting us to start with, but I think the fact that we’ve been in the same house for a few weeks now and no one has had their nose broken yet means he’s not bothering anymore.”
“Charlie told me that Kingsley trusted you and that some shit things had happened to you, so we should trust you, too.”
“And you always do what they tell you?”
The look Potter gives him chills Draco to his bones.
“I know you, Malfoy, more than you ever would believe. I know that you aren’t all you pretend to be. So yeah, when they told me you were trustworthy, that you needed somewhere to stay, I knew it was true. And that was that. You’re here. Because believe me, if I had any real doubts about you, you would not be sitting here right now.”
They remain in silence for a minute, staring at each other. Draco has the inexplicable urge to bury his hands into the thick mane of Potter’s hair and kiss his stupid pink lips.
“Right,” Draco says. “So, do you need some help?”
Potter pushes a book at Draco, and in silence they read until the candles’ wick runs out.
The next day, when they are both a bit more awake, starts with an argument about what Potter is trying to achieve in this war.
“Horcruxes, Potter? Are you fucking kidding me? You can’t go around messing with them! They are some seriously dangerous magic.”
“Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious, I had realised that, and I’ve already got rid of five of them!”
“It’s still dangerous shit, Potter!”
“It might be, but it’s also my life, so piss off, you tosser!”
Slammed doors and evil looks were the only things between them for a few hours after that, until in an unspoken gesture of apology, Draco approaches Potter with a horrifically disgusting spell which has the potential to destroy the Dark Lord. Potter accepts, and that is pretty much that.
After that, they almost become friends, with it being just the two of them stuck in the house together. Draco likes to think it’s more than that, but he’s not going to bet on it.
More and more as Draco watches Potter, he can see him resembling a caged animal (he seems to throw things a lot). The frustration coming from him is palpable, and Draco knows it is only a matter of time before something happens, before something snaps in Potter’s mind. Draco can only hope that Potter will take his frustration out on him in an amazing fuck rather than a punch to the face, but he fears this is nothing but a fantasy. Apart from a couple of lingering, heated glances that Potter had thrown his way (and they could probably be easily explained; Potter also makes those faces to bacon) there was nothing real that Draco could base his fantasies upon. Not that that would stop him, thank you very much.
“I would kill right now to be outside on a broom,” Draco says, as he stares out the window. Behind him Potter moans.
“Don’t start, Malfoy, I haven’t been outside in months!”
“Last time I was outside, my parents were killed.”
Potter is silent for a minute before he grumbles, - “Least you were outside.”
“Wanker.” He turns to look at Potter, lounging in his chair, looking so ridiculously delectable that Draco has to take a breath to calm himself down. God, he wants him. Sometime he wonders if it would be worth coming on to Potter just to find out the answer he so wants to know - does Potter want him, too? Then, if (and more likely when) Potter says no, Draco can storm off and ignore Potter for a few days before coming to him with a new piece of research and they can pretend nothing happened. Plus, there’s always the possibility that Potter will say yes...
What does he have to lose?
But then, just as he decides to straddle Potter’s lap right on that chair, and kiss him and rub up against him until he comes, Potter sighs and stands up. “Come on, Malfoy, back to the grindstone. I’ve got a funny feeling that something’s going on, Kingsley’s been a right tosser lately... Usually means that something’s going down.”
That stops Draco in his tracks, not least because of Potter’s ridiculous usage of Muggle slang. ‘Going down’ indeed. “Do you think it’s time?”
Potter shrugs, but the look on his face, a look of determined fear, confirms it for Draco. “Dunno. Come on, we better finish looking through those books we got out last night. If we finish before ten tonight, I’ll drag out the Firewhisky Charlie hid, yeah? Been ages since I had a good strong drink and fuck me, after today I need it.”
It occurs to Draco that Potter never stops talking, but he stopped listening after Potter’s mouth formed the words ‘fuck me’, anyway.
Later that evening, Potter does drag out an old bottle of Firewhisky the authenticity of which Draco has his doubts about. However, getting Potter pissed seems like the perfect opportunity to kiss the four-eyed idiot, so Draco takes a sip when the bottle is offered to him. He imagines Potter’s lips round the bottle as he swallows the bitter, sharp liquid. It burns down his throat.
They sit in silence for a while, on the floor in the library, a fire blazing, passing the bottle between them. Draco feels his mind relaxing, and his limbs becoming looser as the alcohol flowing through his veins, warming him.
The fire flickers, casting an ominous light over Potter. He’s laying on the floor now, the bottle dangling from his fingertips.
“What do you want to do before you die?” Potter asks.
Draco’s heart clenches within his chest. The thought of Potter dying makes his breath come faster. It’s just not possible. He has to live. He’s the fucking boy who lived! “You’re not going to die, Potter.”
He sighs. Draco turns to sit and look at Potter properly - his hair is splayed across his face, his glasses laying a few feet away. The fire is reflected in his eyes, and Draco can’t look away. He doesn’t want to.
“There must be something,” Potter presses. His tongue licks across his red, bitten lips.
Nothing comes to Draco’s mind apart from wanting to take Potter’s bottom lip between his teeth and bite down on it, bruise him, make sure he realises that he’s still alive, that he still feels, that he’s Draco’s.
Draco shrugs. He shuffles across the thick, patterned rug to lie next to Potter. The knotted tassels dig into his head as he settles. Draco isn’t sure if Potter sees him - the shrug or his movement, but Potter speaks anyway.
“I feel like I should have some big long list of things to do. Like... get married, make some babies. Have a sexual identity crisis. Have sex in the bathroom of a club because someone wants me so much we can’t wait. Read Hogwarts: A History. But all I want... all I really want is to do this, to kill this fucker so I can think about something else, have something else in my life...”
Draco doesn’t know what to say. “Potter...”
“I could die tomorrow,” Potter says blankly. His head falls to the side, to stare at Draco. Draco can’t help but take Potter’s fingers between his own, squeezing them. Feeling life beneath his fingers.
He shakes his head. “No,” he insists vehemently. “No. You won’t. Potter, if there is one thing I can trust in this shitty world, it’s that you can do this. I’ve watched you. Over the last few weeks, and I know you’re ready. We’re more than ready for you to do this – it’s time. So if tomorrow is the day that all this ends, I know, more than anything else in this fucking world, that you can do this. Okay?”
“Okay,” Potter says hoarsely. “I guess I’ve been told then.”
“You fucking have.” Draco tightens his grip - their hands are properly entwined. Potter’s eyes flick down to look at their clasped fingers, before his gaze stops on Draco’s lips. Just for a second.
There is little Draco wants more right now than to kiss Potter, but he doesn’t get the chance to initiate it, as Potter’s soft, pink, amazing lips are on his. Potter sucks on Draco’s bottom lip, his teeth dragging across the flesh.
“Oh,” Draco breathes, and lets Potter kiss him. It’s gentle and searching and possibly the best thing Draco has ever felt. Potter’s tongue darts from between his lips, wetting Draco’s lips, pushing between them. Sucking at the tip, Draco pushes his tongue along Potter’s. He feels the pad of Potter’s thumb brushing over his cheekbone, cradling his face.
Potter rolls over, straddling one of Draco’s thighs. He rises up above Draco, resting on his elbows and knees, his mouth never leaves Draco’s. His kisses move from Draco’s mouth now, along Draco’s jaw, kissing the roughened skin - Draco can feel him rubbing his lips along the stubble.
Arching upwards, Draco pushes his cock up to meet Potter’s side, the friction sending shivers through his body, leaving his fingers and toes tingling.
“Malfoy...” Potter groans against into Draco’s shoulder. His tongue flicks out and licks across the pulse point on the left of Draco’s throat. Draco’s cock throbs.
If they’re going to do this... there is one thing that Draco wants more than anything. To have Potter’s cock in his mouth, to feel the weight of his length resting on his tongue. Yes.
“Potter,” he gasps, “lie back.”
“What?” Potter licks up Draco’s throat again, before he nips his teeth along his jaw.
“Lie back,” Draco tell him, pushing at Potter’s shoulders.
Potter flops down, his arms cushioning his head. His knees are up and his feet flat on the floor, his legs slightly splayed. Draco kneels in front of him, brushing over his cock through the fabric of his trousers.
“I need to take your trousers off.” Draco runs his hands up Potter’s calves, rubbing his thumbs over his knees.
Potter pushes his hips up slightly. “Go on then.”
Draco shuffles to his side, rubbing across the bulge in Potter’s trousers. He arches into the touch, and Draco’s mouth aches with the need to have Potter in his mouth.
He leans down and kisses the fabric, the heat from Potter’s arousal warming his lips.
With shaking fingers, Draco undoes the zip of Potter’s jeans, before inching them down his thighs as Potter lifts up his arse. Potter’s grey boxers are tented where his cock strains against the fabric, there’s a small wet circle where Draco imagines the tip of his cock has been rubbing. He licks his lips, and Potter groans.
Eventually, Draco manages to get Potter’s jeans off, as well as his socks and boxers. His t-shirt is still covering his chest, but God, Draco needs this now. The top can come off later.
If there is one thing Draco will never forget, it’s the sight of Harry Potter on his back for him, cock hard for him, legs spread for him. There are blow jobs, there are good blow jobs and then there is the blow job Draco is going to give to Potter. It’s going to be one he’ll never forget.
Draco settles between Potter’s thighs, lowering his face to inhale the unique, male, intoxicating scent of Potter’s arousal. His cock, reddened, and long, arches away from his body. Potter’s hands are buried in the strands of the rug, his knuckles white.
Draco hasn’t even started yet.
The fire crackles, the flames licking at wood, and the inside of the chimney breast.
Draco runs his palm over Potter’s prick. Twitching into his hand, he wraps his fingers around it, squeezing, watching the skin strain and bulge. His hand moves further down, circling the base.
Lowering his head, Draco glances up at Potter. He’s staring down at Draco, his eyes dark, and his brow plastered with his damp, black fringe.
“Suck it,” Potter says.
Draco could not say no if he wanted to. He lowers his mouth to begin to lick up the shaft, his tongue finding the vein that runs from base to tip, and licks along the length. He can feel the blood pumping, throbbing beneath his tongue.
Potter’s breath is loud. His hands flex in the strands of the rug. Draco thinks he’s trying to stop himself from grabbing Draco’s hair, pushing him onto his cock. Draco wishes he would.
Draco takes the head of Potter’s cock into his mouth, sucking at the flesh, dipping his tongue into the salty slit, and he reaches for Potter’s hand. As Potter grasps it, Draco squeezes, and places Potter’s hand on the back of his head.
With a groan, Potter digs his fingers into Draco’s hair. He doesn’t pull or push, he just let’s his hand rest there. Draco wishes Potter would push him. Just a little.
Draco breathes around Potter’s cock, swallowing the length as far into his mouth as he can manage. He wraps his tongue around it, flicking his tongue up the length, before sucking as hard as he can.
Moaning quietly, Potter’s hips jerk up, and his cock taps against the back of Draco’s throat. Draco swallows, and Potter lets out a groan that sounds like a cat dying, but that doesn’t explain the insistent throb that his cock gives against his trousers.
Why on earth didn’t he undress, too? He could be wanking himself off to Potter’s moans right about now.
Draco pulls back, and works himself up into a fast rhythm, sucking on Potter’s cock before pulling off, then sinking down again, fast. He pushes his hand along Potter’s stomach, his hands sliding across the smooth, hard muscles and under his t-shirt, until he can just about reach a nipple. He rolls it between his fingers, pinching. Potter whines, shifting about against the floor, the sensations seemingly too much for him to stay still.
After a minute Potter knocks Draco’s hand away, before taking it and slipping it under his body until Draco’s fingers are against Potter’s arse.
Potter’s cock slips from Draco’s mouth, bouncing against his stomach. His mouth falls open, as Potter whines again.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Potter gasps. He thrusts his hips in Draco’s direction, his cock bobbing in the darkened room. The fire is almost out by now. Draco grabs his wand, and suddenly they are bathed in light as the fire bursts back into life.
“You really want me to?”
“Fuck me,” Potter says.
Draco hesitates. There is nothing more Draco wants, but their conversation comes back to him.
“You’re not just doing this are you?”
“Doing what?” Potter asks. He grabs his own cock, pinching the base.
“Because of tomorrow,” Draco says. Potter spreads his legs, and Draco’s gaze falls between Potter’s legs, to the dark, secret spot behind his balls, so far hidden from his gaze.
Potter shakes his head. “Wanted this since you threatened me just over there, all those months ago when you got here. Never thought it would happen. Please, Draco. Don’t leave me alone tonight.”
Draco throws himself at Potter, kissing him fiercely. The kiss is nothing like before. It’s full of wet tongues and sharp teeth, tugging and pulling, needing contact and friction.
Potter takes Draco’s face in his hands and stops kissing him. Their lips rest, pressing against each other as they both catch their breath.
“Fuck me,” Potter says against his lips, and Draco’s prick throbs against Potter’s stomach. “I’m not going to ask again. Don’t push me.”
Draco’s heart clenches. Potter’s eyes blaze, and suddenly, somehow, Draco feels a chill in the fire-warmed room. Potter gives him that chill. He nods, and moves down Potter’s body, nipping at the veins in his neck with his teeth, then pulling at his nipples. But as he does, his hand lingers on Potter’s shoulder, until Potter takes his fingers between his teeth, deep into his mouth, and sucks.
For a moment, Draco is tempted to straddle Potter’s chest and push his cock between Potter’s pretty, cock-sucking lips, but he doesn’t. He pulls his fingers from between Potter’s lips, raising an eyebrow before pushing Potter’s knees apart.
Potter slips his hands underneath his thighs and pulls them back towards his chest, revealing himself to Draco.
He has to take a minute to sit and look at this, Harry Potter spread out before him, begging to be fucked, biting his lips to stop from making too much noise.
No. If Potter is going out to war tomorrow, Draco is going to give him the fucking of his life. Just... just in case.
Draco presses one fingertip against Potter’s arse, the muscle giving way and swallowing Draco’s finger quickly. He crooks his fingers as he thrusts it in, he watches Potter writhe on the end of his finger.
He reaches over, and parts Potter’s lips. “I want to hear you.”
Potter nods, biting at Draco’s finger.
Draco returns to what he has been doing, slipping another finger inside Potter. Picking up his wand from where it was hastily thrown, he murmurs a few words and the lubricant from his bedroom is soon in his hand. He pops the cork open before tipping a small amount onto the point where his fingers push into Potter.
Potter moans as Draco twists his fingers. “There,” he breathes, “there.”
Draco pushes his fingers back and forth as Potter directs, and stares in awe as Potter fucks himself on Draco’s fingers, uninhibited, raw, emotional.
He needs to be inside Potter -- now.
Draco pulls his fingers from Potter’s arse, before lining himself up against his hole. He pushes Potter’s legs back so he is bent more than double. With one swift push, Draco thrusts his cock inside Potter, who keens as Draco’s balls slap against his arse, and he is entirely sheathed within him.
He has to take a breath. Potter’s finger’s curl around his shoulders, then slide down his back to cradle his arse. They dig into the flesh and Draco thrusts into Potter. He pulls himself out slowly, and Potter’s fingers tighten.
“Fuck me,” Potter breathes.
Draco leans down to brush a kiss on the tip of Potter’s nose before he does just that. He withdraws form the gorgeous heat that surrounds him slowly before pushing in again. Potter tilts his hips, his arms curving around Draco’s neck as he thrusts down onto Draco.
They fuck in a seamless rhythm, pushing and pulling before Potter bites down on Draco’s neck, and Draco finds himself on his back.
Potter smirks down at him as he raises himself off Draco to plunge down again. A tight grip on Potter’s skinny hips keeps Draco grounded, but increasingly, as Potter fucks himself on Draco’s cock, his eyes drift shut as he allows himself to be consumed by the over-whelming pleasure that Potter gives him.
“Eyes,” Potter says softly, and Draco’s eyelids flutter open, and it seems like they do so with no say on Draco’s part. Potter has some huge power over him, he just can’t help it.
Draco is greeted with the sight of Potter’s own reddened cock in his large, tanned hand, and fuck if it’s not the best sight ever. Potter works his cock like a professional, twisting his wrist and tossing himself off at the same time and at a pace that looks like it is just about keeping him from coming.
“Potter,” Draco moans, as he is treated to a particularly fantastic thrust downwards.
“You going to come for me, Malfoy?” Potter brushes his finger over Draco’s lips - he tries to chase it with his tongue.
“Soon,” Draco says. “Soon.”
Potter puts his hands on either side of Draco and begins to work himself up and down Draco’s cock quickly, Jesus, so fucking quickly, Draco doesn’t know what to do with himself. He thrashes his head from side to side as his orgasm rises through his balls to pool in his stomach, and spread through his whole body, until his fingers and toes tingle, and Potter bites his neck once, and fuck, Draco’s coming, coming so fucking hard.
Never slowing, Potter grins as Draco’s cock slips out from inside him. He crawls up Draco’s body to put his cock between Draco’s lips.
Taking handfuls of Potter’s arse in his palms, Draco pulls Potter into his mouth, down his throat. It only takes three hard sucks for Potter to come down his throat.
Potter clambers off Draco, he sinks to the floor next to Draco, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Draco watches him finger the t-shirt they never took off him, then he pulls it over his shoulders and wipes Draco, and then himself, slowly erasing the mess they made. He chucks the t-shirt away, and lies on his side, looking at Draco. They made a huge mistake leaving the t-shirt on Potter - the man has amazing shoulders and Draco has a brief vision of himself wanking as Potter is on all fours, coming on his arse and back and fuck, - his cock twitches.
“Potter...” Draco says.
“Shh,” Potter breathes. They lie on the floor of the library for a few more minutes, until once again the fire dies away until only a few embers are glowing.
Potter takes his hand, and tugs him up. Their clothes remain on the floor, Potter’s dirty t-shirt hanging from the fire poker. Draco is led to Potter’s bed, where Potter fucks him, bends him almost double. He comes before Potter has even thought about pushing his cock inside Draco’s arse, by Potter’s clever tongue that makes him beg and moan and spout phrases he’s not convinced are English. Potter’s hands are slow and careful as they prepare him, his thrusts hard and fast. Draco wonders if he’s ever had a fuck like this before, so careful and passionate, measured and emotional all at the same time. He whimpers and begs until Potter loses control, until Potter fucks him like it is the last day of the world.
Because at the end of the day, maybe it is.
The next morning, early, so fucking early they don’t even have a chance to exchange good morning blow jobs, Shacklebolt’s lynx Patronus bounds into the room and booms loudly, waking them both up. It Summons Potter to somewhere in the Yorkshire moors. Draco is to stay in Grimmauld Place.
They barely speak as they move around the house - Potter dresses and Draco makes him a cup of tea and toast. The tea goes cold as they sit at the kitchen table, and Potter pokes at his toast. Draco may have slightly burnt it, but Potter doesn’t complain too much. It’s not really the time.
A few minutes later, there are a few pops of Apparition as Order members appear in the living room.
Potter glances over his shoulder. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he yells, before dragging Draco off his chair, claiming his mouth as he pushes Draco against the sink.
They kiss, but it doesn’t feel like kissing to Draco. It’s a plea for survival, a final chance to feel human before Potter disappears off, to perhaps never return. Draco seizes Potter’s shirt, pulling him closer, trying to meld their bodies together.
“You’re going to come back,” Draco mutters against Potter’s mouth. Their foreheads and noses are touching as their hands touch as much flesh as possible.
“I am,” Potter says. “I am.”
“You’re not going to say good bye to me,” Draco tells him, because if he has to listen to that, he may just have to curl up in a ball. Or blow this fucking house to smithereens.
“I’m not,” Potter agrees and surges forwards to claim Draco’s lips again. “Because I’m going to be back.”
Potter takes a step away, his teeth pulling at Draco’s lips until the last second.
“See you later, Potter.” Draco clenches his hands into fists. The knuckles are white from the pressure.
Potter offers him a small smile, and he leaves, his robes a swirl behind him.
Draco sits back down in the chair at the kitchen table and does the only thing he can. He waits.
It turns out that waiting is not as easy as Draco thought. Mainly, because after he manages a couple of hours his arse protests so much that he has to stand up and start pacing rather than sitting. The day goes quickly, but too slowly at the same time. Because every second that passes is a second that Potter is out there in the middle of the countryside, in the pissing rain, fighting for his life, and the lives of everyone that Draco knows, loves and hates.
Eventually, he falls asleep on the couch in the library, having spent at least one very depressing hour staring at the droplets of rain running down the window pane. In one brief moment of clarity, Draco swears he sees the rain stop, and stars explode in the sky. Later, he’s convinced he’s dreamt it. The clothes they discarded last night are slung all over the library, but Draco can’t bring himself to move them. While the mess remains there where Draco can see, it’s as is he remains safely in a state of stasis. Nothing can go wrong. It’s like Potter is still there.
He’s awoken by soft lips against his, and splashes of water over his face.
His eyes shoot open, and there is Potter. He’s soaked from head to toe - it’s been raining for hours, and apparently the tosser didn’t think to use a water repelling charm. There is mud streaked across his face, and caked in his hair, smeared over his ripped clothes.
But he’s there.
Draco opens his mouth to ask, but he doesn’t need to. Potter nods, a dazzling grin overcoming his face, and Draco begins to laugh. What else is there to do now, but laugh? It’s over, finally over.
Now, now they can finally start to live their lives.