Title: Chasing After Impossibility
Summary: Quidditch is the only thing keeping Harry sane these days. It seems to be working for Draco as well.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): None that I can think of.
Epilogue compliant? Nay!
Word Count: 6014
Author's Notes: katerina_black, I had so many things I wanted to write for what you prompted, and probably have more on my “To Write” list now than is healthy! It was hard to settle on a single art piece of yours to write for, but this is tied around After the Storm, and I hope it’s enjoyable. ♥ Many, many thanks to the fantastic S for the beta and making sure I kept my head on. ♥
The team has long since vacated the pitch, returning to the warmth of the dorm after hot showers in the changing rooms. Yet Harry remains, flying laps around the pitch and half-heartedly looking for the Snitch that still manages to elude him. Not that he’s trying particularly hard at the moment anyway.
Taking the next turn with a slow tilt, Harry feels the grass brushing against his boots, individual blades running together into a continuous stream of green under his feet. Coming abreast with the middle hoop, he swerves and darts in between the golden poles, weaving in and out until he’s soaring high above the pitch, breezing through low lying clouds and feeling dots of mist dust over his robes and glasses, melding with the thin layer of sweat on his brow.
Up here, where the wind whistles through his hair and is going past at such a speed that it makes it difficult to breathe at times, Harry is relaxed. Up here, he’s able to get away from all the chaos that comes with school, every memory that follows him from the war and the nightmares of what had been or could have been.
He sees the person in the stands at the same time he spots the Snitch, hovering right before the cloaked figure. The gold of the ball is complemented by the glow of unconcealed hair, the lights from the castle making both of them gleam.
Harry dives from straight above them, seeing the moment when Malfoy spots the Snitch hovering in front of him, and then Harry’s increasing approach, almost as if he’s sensed Harry getting closer. Harry sees him hesitate for the barest of moments, and he’s so close now that if he waits a moment longer he’ll collide with the stands, and by association, Malfoy, when Malfoy reaches out and plucks the Snitch from the air as if he was merely pulling a petal from a flower.
Harry pulls his broom to a halt and jumps from it onto the stands to land cat-like beside where Malfoy is still standing, the Snitch in hand. The wings flutter against the gloves he wears, and to Harry it looks as if it couldn’t be happier. He fights the desire to glare at it for its blatant betrayal.
“You could have hit me, you know,” Malfoy says, sounding both indignant and amused.
“Too bad I didn’t,” Harry responds, but neither of them believe there is any sincerity behind it, and they both know Harry is only saying what’s expected.
Malfoy lifts his Snitch-wielding hand and rolls the ball between his fingers. The wings stir a little, as if irritated by the treatment. The edge of one wing catches the fabric of his glove, tearing it a little and slicing a small line into the skin beneath. Malfoy hisses and releases the Snitch, clutching his hand close to his chest as the Snitch darts aggravated circles around his head before darting off into the night.
Harry sighs under his breath, not nearly loud enough to be heard, and reaches out to pull Malfoy’s hand away from his chest. Malfoy flinches back from Harry’s touch and clutches his hand closer. “What are you–”
“Oh, calm down. It’s just a healing spell,” Harry reassures him, and snatches Malfoy’s hand away from where it’s being cradled. There is enough light streaming from the castle and across the grounds to allow Harry to make out the small incision, and with a few whispered spells, both finger and glove look as if they have never met the wrong end of a Snitch.
Malfoy eyes him quizzically. Examines his glove before removing it and peering at his hand. Looking back at Harry, he asks, “Why?”
Harry shrugs and finds he has no idea why exactly, just that it felt like something that needed to be done, something that was natural and instinctive. He doesn’t tell this to Malfoy though, and instead chooses to say, “I’m a sucker for people in need.”
Malfoy’s eyes turn as cool as the air that is beginning to acquaint itself with the inside of Harry’s robes. “Of course,” he says and takes a deliberate step back. “Well, you’ll have my thanks, of course, Potter. Though it hardly seems worth doing.” Harry’s not sure if he’s talking about the thanks Harry doesn’t think he’s really getting, or for healing something so small. Malfoy’s stiff politeness is grating. “But you’ll excuse me, I must be going. Ta.”
Malfoy swirls around and sets off down the steps of the stands, disappearing into the shadows that hang about the stadium. Harry can’t help but think he’s said the wrong thing, and he fancies that the wind that makes the stands howl agrees.
Harry’s already outside when he sees the Slytherin team heading across the field and making their way towards the pitch. Despite all the issues floating around Slytherin House with the new year, the team has outstanding morale, often dedicating three to five nights a week for practises. Hermione had said that it was so they could make a point, that they wouldn’t fade away because everyone might want them to; Ron had said that they were just being conceited and to leave them alone for awhile.
Harry thinks it’s both of those, and also a little bit more. While Quidditch is one of the only places the house can defend itself on a – slightly – clean and fair field, the team is also iconic for all of Slytherin. Being so public, and unable to withdraw from the Championship, they are set to change the school’s opinion of them and have an opportunity to redeem themselves, Harry figures. Or at least put on the front that anything anyone says to them, they couldn’t care less about.
Harry watches from a distance as the team trudges across the ground, and he can just make out the clouds that hang around them as their breath freezes on the air. It’s been unseasonably cool for mid-November, and Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets.
When the last team member has been shrouded by the stands, Harry makes a split second decision and follows them. By the time he reaches the edge of the pitch, still hidden by shadows created by early evening, the team is in the air and performing warm-up practises. He watches for a bit, seeking out one particular person. Malfoy is as easy to spot now as he had been a week ago, the sun being in the prime position to turn yellow to gold and white.
I won’t stay too long, Harry thinks. Just long enough to… make sure no one else comes out to sabotage. It hadn’t been unheard of. Harry would have liked to think people would have let the past stay in the past, but he knows that it’s not that easy, even under lighter circumstances.
Evening turns to dusk, and then to dark quite quickly, the cold increasing and forcing Harry to cast warming charms on his robes and do a little two-step to keep warm. Clouds roll in and it begins to snow lightly, just a few small flakes that drift down and melt once they touch his robes. The team heads down and meets in a huddle on the ground, and Harry is slightly disappointed when they head towards the castle as one.
His disappointment doesn’t stick around for long, as one figure turns and heads back to the middle of the pitch, long after the rest of the team has disappeared into the night. Harry watches as Malfoy mounts his broom and rockets off into the night, rising high enough that he becomes lost in the sea of grey clouds, and making Harry wish he had the forethought to bring his Omnioculars. Though he’s sure that borders on being a bit creepy and makes him out to be more obsessive than he really is.
Harry stops that line of thought before it can get even more out of hand, and walks around the edge of the pitch to distract himself. Every now and then, he’ll catch sight of Malfoy diving or swooping through the air, but Malfoy stays high enough that these remain small glimpses as Harry is determined not to look anywhere but straight ahead.
He hadn’t realised he had walked out of the protective shadow of the stands until Malfoy lands in front of him, hair windswept and cheeks pink. His eyes look a little eerie, a little too bright.
“What are you doing?”
Harry shrugs. “Walking.”
Malfoy crosses his arms over his broom and stares at Harry. He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and considers. “What would make you want to walk around here, Potter, in the dead of night in the cold?” He eyes Harry’s robes as if they’ve insulted him.
Harry adjusts his robes self-consciously and wishes he had recast the charm on them. “It’s a nice night,” he says and is rewarded with a gust of wind and a face full of drifting snowflakes. He sputters and drags his mittened hand across his face in a vain attempt to wipe them off, and only succeeds in spreading them more.
It takes him a moment to realise that Malfoy is laughing at him, the sound carrying across the pitch and making the night seem a little lighter. Harry stares at him, indignant and confused and bristling, and Malfoy laughs a little more. His chuckles die down and he shakes his head. “Oh, Potter, how have you survived winter until now?”
Harry snorts and shakes his hand to rid it of snow, but the flakes cling to his mitten and are set on being as big of a nuisance as they can be. Warm air spreads across his face and down to his toes, melting the snow that’s landed in his hair and still sticks to his cheeks. Malfoy is slipping his wand back inside his robes when Harry looks up at him, surprised.
“Thanks,” he says.
Malfoy looks uncomfortable and waves Harry off. “Consider us even. Small exchanges.” Harry nods and relaxes his grip on the collar of his robes. They fall open a little, but the air that scouts out the opening turns from freezing to pleasantly warm upon contact.
Malfoy looks away from him and back up at the sky, turning in a circle until his back is to Harry. Unsure of what to make of this, Harry follows Malfoy’s line of sight, watching as the clouds mix together and getting snowflakes, which rapidly turn to water droplets, caught in his eyelashes. He blinks and wipes them away.
“Get back to the castle, Potter,” Malfoy says. His back is still to Harry, so he’s unable to gauge his expression, and there’s nothing in Malfoy’s tone that hints at whatever he may be feeling. Harry shuffles, kicking up small drifts of snow; Malfoy doesn’t move.
The silence that stretches between them feels very uncomfortable, growing longer until Harry has no idea how to proceed. He opens his mouth to say something, but Malfoy beats him to it. “Go. You’ll be missed.”
Harry wants to say that if Malfoy doesn’t return to his common room he’ll be missed as well, but he doesn’t. He follows Malfoy’s order and leaves, grass crunching under his feet and the snow that dusts it melting from Malfoy’s spell.
He turns and looks back at the pitch in time to see Malfoy shooting back into the clouds, lost in them in the blink of an eye.
The school year is as difficult as they had expected, and Harry is relieved that teachers and examiners are not going easy on them, him especially. The stares he, Ron and Hermione receive are neither as bad, nor as numerous as they would be if they hadn’t returned to Hogwarts. At least in the school, nearly the entirety of the upper years were involved with the war one way or another, and they also receive a number of stares.
Quidditch is the only thing keeping Harry sane these days, really. When Hermione seats herself beside him during breakfast, arms filled with five different books on two subjects, Harry mentally prepares himself for the headache he knows is going to plague him for the rest of the day.
Hermione gives him three of the texts. “I want you to look through these,” she says, and withdraws a sheaf of notes from thin air. “These are the key points you need to cover or pay the most attention to. They're bound to be on the exam.”
Harry flips the cover of the topmost book open and glances down the table of contents. Escaping in a Pinch, Top Ten Devices Every Wizard Should Have, Detecting Poisons and Other Noxious Substances… “Hermione, how is this going to help me at all?”
Hermione looks at him, confused. “I thought… Auror? Kingsley had said that they’d waive the Potions NEWT if you got Outstanding in everything else, right?”
Harry shakes his head, closes the book and pushes the pile back over to her. “I… well, yes, he did, but I don’t think it’s something I’d like to do now, you know? There’s been enough of chasing dark wizards all over the place and anyway, I’d be getting into the program by favouritism or something, right? Ignoring the fact that I can’t brew a potion to save my life – or someone else’s – is too similar.”
Hermione’s confusion clears away, like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Oh, good,” she says. “I had been worried for a moment.”
“Worried over what?” Harry asks her, frowning and glancing between her and the books she is now stowing inside her bag. She must have an Undetectable Extension Charm on it.
“It’s pretty obvious that you need a break from fighting evil and saving the world, isn’t it? I mean, you can’t do it forever. You may like to,” she says, stopping Harry’s sputtering, “but it runs you down. Maybe a break is good for you. Go into Quidditch, or take a year to travel, maybe to Indonesia or Canada or some distant island in the Caribbean.”
None of those really appeal much to him, as he doesn’t want to go too far away from home, where all of his friends are. Though the allure of being in a new place where hardly anyone would recognise him is extremely strong, Harry doesn’t think he’d be able to stay away for very long. Not by himself, at least. And Quidditch, that’s tempting too.
He shakes his head. “No… I had an idea.” He fiddles with his fork for a moment until Hermione’s shifting beside him spurs him into continuing. He gives her a stern look and says, “It’s only an idea, and I’d have to work more on Potions, but… I fancied the idea of being a Healer or something…” He trails off at the gleam in Hermione’s eye.
“That sounds excellent, Harry! Of course, you’d still be doing your day job of saving people, but it would be in a completely different atmosphere, though you may have to think about how the patients would respond to you? Here, maybe I have a book or two you can look through. Maybe a biography of a famous Healer might have some idea? You know, Theodore Tresden was a popular mediwizard in the late seventeenth century…”
As she continues to ramble on, naming obscure texts and already setting up a study schedule in rough sketches, Harry tears his toast in half, crumbs showering down onto his plate. Across the Great Hall, he sees the Slytherin team stand and leave for the Quidditch pitch.
Winter is hard for Harry. Not only is it the time where it seems most pointless to do schoolwork and study, where there’s Christmas to look forward to and holidays and a real break this time, but it’s far too cold to get a chance to fly. Quidditch is off for the holiday months anyway, so there’s no real reason to practise. Except that it’s his only method of avoidance.
Harry takes to exploring instead. Sometimes he brings the Marauder’s Map, and other times just his Invisibility Cloak. Often times, he doesn’t bring anything at all, wandering the corridors at will and tapping his wand against the odd missing brick in the wall or crooked suit of armour.
He gets lost often, of course. Tonight is no different as he wanders corridor after corridor, trying to remember how he got here in the first place. He must have left the common room nearly two hours ago, and each patch of stone he passes looks just like the last.
After awhile, he finds a hidden passage, narrow enough that his shoulders graze the stone as he slides through sideways. It widens the farther in he gets and winds downwards, far enough that he suspects he must be near the dungeons. So it’s no surprise that the figure standing farther along the passage is dressed in green-edged robes. It is a surprise that it’s Pansy Parkinson, though.
She raises her wand when she hears Harry approach, and he stops immediately, wondering if he should just back up and head back into the labyrinth he had previously escaped from.
“What the devil are you doing here, Potter? And how did you get here?” She eyes him suspiciously, eyes raking over Harry’s frame and lingering on the wand he holds loosely in his grasp.
He has no desire to say he got lost and hear what she has to say about that, and he finds it much easier to say, “I could ask you the same question.”
Parkinson studies him for a moment, and her fingers curl tighter around her wand as she crosses them over her chest. “I don’t think that should be any of your business.”
Harry lifts a shoulder uncomfortably, and decides he’d have better luck with the labyrinth. He begins to edge away, back down where he came from, until Parkinson stops him. Her arms fall down to her sides and she heaves a tragic sigh. “You’re not going to get anywhere down that way. I’d know.”
“Make it a habit of wandering corridors?”
“Well, what do you suppose you were doing?” She snarks back at him. “Look, if you want to go down that way, fine. But don’t come back looking for me to save your sorry arse.” Her robes snap around her ankles and she’s nearly lost in the gloom after three paces. Harry suspects that her unpleasantness is just a means of protecting herself, a sort of front; Malfoy has the same one. And she has offered him a way out… he’s quick to follow after her.
Her shoulders tense a little when he catches up to her, and she doesn’t slow to a more measured pace. Harry doesn’t expect her to say anything and prepares himself for an uncomfortable walk back up into recognizable territory.
“You’ve been acting odd this year,” she remarks, and Harry blinks at her.
“You don’t seem like you want to be back here.”
Harry remains silent and counts the stones as his shadow overcomes them.
“I didn’t say I blamed you.” Her eyes flicker between the floor and the walls, never settling fully on anything. “To be honest, I don't either. None of us do, really.” Harry makes a noise between hmm and er and nods. Parkinson makes as if she hadn’t heard him. “So we all find different things to distract ourselves with. For many, it’s homework, or petty games. For me, it’s haunting places of good memories.”
“What was that good memory back there?” Harry didn’t give that question permission to be voiced, and scrambles to take it back. Parkinson doesn’t look like she’s keen on answering it, if the colour in her cheeks is any indication.
“I think it’s best if I don’t answer that,” she says over Harry’s bumbling attempts. She stops him in the corridor, and the light from the nearest sconce flickering off her face makes her look dangerous and frightened. “Look, if there’s one thing you have to understand about us, it’s that most often, things we do or say is for show. Even back before the war, and some of us are more adept at putting it on then others.”
“I know what you’ve been doing,” she hisses, and grips his wrist painfully. “Since when? September? The start of the Quidditch season? Nearly every week now he’s been gone, and he comes back with snow in his hair and that expression on his face that he always used to get around you, only now it’s changed. Warped.”
Harry doesn’t need to ask her who she’s talking about. But there is one thing. “Since September? No, we’ve only been–”
“I may be overstepping my boundaries, but I don’t care. You make this promise to me: you make sure that he is in no way harmed, by others or by you. Especially you. Those after Quidditch activities are a lot more than the ‘getting away’ that they might be to you.”
She releases her grip on his wrist and strides off down the hall. Harry feels the blood rush back into his palm, and decides that though he has next to no idea of what just happened, he’ll be sure to be careful around Parkinson.
Harry – and the Slytherin team – are back on the pitch before the snow has even properly melted. Malfoy’s always around after Harry finishes his practise, but he doesn’t always fly. Sometimes, he just sits in the stands and studies, or walks the grounds. When Harry goes out after seeing the Slytherin team come back in sans Malfoy, he’s not chased off when he joins Malfoy on the pitch, broom in hand.
The next time Harry manages to catch sight of Malfoy staying after practise, he returns to the dormitory and grabs his own broom. Malfoy doesn’t say anything when Harry mounts, or when he kicks off and begins a warm-up lap. He only watches Harry warily for a moment before rising a couple feet higher into the air and allowing Harry more room to manoeuvre.
It becomes fairly routine, flying together like that. They stay separate though, each keeping to their own side of the pitch or at different levels of flight. They rarely speak to each other either, yet always manage to touch down at the same time and head for the changing rooms, or for the castle, separating in the Hall as Malfoy descends to the dungeons and Harry climbs to his tower. The only communication they really have is a simple nod of greeting or farewell, despite Harry’s attempts for a proper conversation. Malfoy is always able to stop his efforts with a well-placed comment or one of his looks. Eventually, Harry stops trying altogether.
Flying with Malfoy isn’t terribly awkward, Harry thinks. But today feels different for some reason. It’s late spring, and the green sprouting on the trees and sweeping across the ground as new grass overtakes old is vibrant, and makes Harry feel a thrill.
Neither of them have a practise today, but Harry’s in the air nevertheless, and Malfoy’s not far behind. Harry watches him hovering back near the stands and wonders why, as it has been a long time since Malfoy has really hovered near Harry. He continues to chase an imaginary opponent and thinks that when Malfoy’s ready, he’ll rise. He loses sight of Malfoy as he follows the curve around the stadium, and the next thing he sees is a Snitch whizzing by his ear.
Turning sharply, he sees Malfoy hanging in the air behind him, his smirk both challenging and slightly apprehensive. Harry grins at him and is rewarded with Malfoy relaxing just a bit.
“Thought you might as well try something new this time around,” Malfoy says. “It’d be best if we get some actual practise in instead of just flying in circles. Agree?”
Harry nods, not only because he’s gotten slightly bored with flying in circles, but because this is something new with Malfoy – a growth in the relationship that seems to have snuck up on them; Harry thinks it’s about time, but he doesn’t dare voice this.
Without another word, Malfoy shoots off in the direction the Snitch has taken, leaving Harry to catch up. The speed of the chase is exhilarating, and this is what Harry’s been after every time he comes to the pitch, the feeling that he’s craved and anticipated. This is vastly different than any Quidditch game Harry’s ever played, though; for one thing, his only opponent is Malfoy, someone whose techniques he knows almost as well as his own by now, after having watched him fly every week.
Ahead of him, Malfoy lets out a crow of triumph and plummets into a dive. Without hesitation, Harry follows, speeding until he’s neck to neck with Malfoy as they hurtle towards the ground. The Snitch, barely a foot way from them, changes direction and speeds off to the Hufflepuff stands, an imperceptible glint on the yellow banners.
After an hour, chasing the Snitch from end to end and having it dart through their fingers more than should be possible, the sky begins to change, from a nice sunset rose to grey and purple as clouds begin to roll in. Harry looks up when he feels a splash of water against his nose.
“Malfoy!” he calls, but doesn’t see the dark figure that had once been Malfoy respond, now blurred and indistinguishable from the rain that coats his glasses and fills the space between them. Malfoy continues to weave through the rain, following the trail of the Snitch ahead of him.
He curses under his breath and darts after Malfoy, gripping the handle of his broom tighter as the wind howls and throws spears of rain at him. He blinks against it and doesn’t dare risk taking a hand off his broom for longer than it takes to make his glasses repel water. Malfoy is still speeding around, using the wind to his advantage and getting another boost. Harry growls under his breath and hollers, trying to get the twit's attention so they can go inside, where it’s warm and dry.
Malfoy turns, just when Harry’s blown off course and into the column that separates the Ravenclaw stands from the Slytherin ones. His shoulder bears the majority of the impact, jarring his arm and sending pins and needles down his fingertips. He tries to get control over his broom again, tries to get back down to the ground or turn to head over to the stands. He sees Malfoy, fighting his own battle and looking as if he’s trying to make his way over towards Harry.
He doesn’t know how it happens. He knows that his grip, ice cold against the wood of his broom, is as strong as he can make it, his knees clenched together and frozen in place as he tries to guide the broom and stay on. But his efforts seem useless as he’s thrown off balance and sent tumbling through the sky, and he’s viciously reminded of third year. His broom is ripped from his grip, and the only thing he’s aware of is how difficult it is to reach inside wet robes to withdraw his wand.
Harry’s not particularly sure if the shout he hears is his own, or if it’s Malfoy also being thrown off course and about to meet his own mud puddle. So he’s confused when he suddenly stops, his fall slowed by the arm that’s now wrapped around his waist, the warmth of it seeping through the wet clothes that separate them. Harry twists and gapes at Malfoy.
“Did you really think I’d let you fall?” Malfoy asks, and Harry can barely hear him over a clap of thunder. At a loss for what to say, Harry opts to say nothing, and Malfoy’s expression rapidly darkens.
Harry lands on the ground in a heap when Malfoy lets go of him, and the distance of three feet seems much farther when his hip makes contact with the mud and sends globs of it into the air. The rain has only made the top portion wet, so there is still a hard layer below; he knows he’s going to have a bruise there.
He staggers to his feet as Malfoy lands before him, clear of the mud, and remains a fair distance away from Harry.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Harry finds himself saying, as Malfoy sulks in the rain, his hair plastered to his head and his robes dragged down so they brush lightly against the ground. Malfoy scowls at him, opens his mouth for a retort, but Harry beats him to it. “Can you honestly blame me for thinking otherwise first?”
“Yes,” Malfoy snarls and Harry jerks back from the venom that drenches the single word. Malfoy unleashes a loud breath and runs an agitated hand through his wet hair. It sticks up at odd angles and the only thing Harry is aware of is that this look suits him better. “No. I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” Harry asks, and he’s almost yelling to be heard over the sound of thunder, of the rain that falls around them. His trainers squelch in the mud as he takes a step forward and, Harry’s pleased to note, Malfoy’s do as well.
“Because it’s always like that with you! Confusing and irritating and all wrong!”
“Then why do you bother?”
“I don’t know!”
They're nearly standing nose-to-nose now, and Malfoy’s breath is hot against Harry’s cheek compared to the chill from the rain. Perhaps he’s asking all the wrong questions, Harry thinks.
“Why does it matter?”
Malfoy is at a loss. “Because…”
Harry’s possessed by an idea. Malfoy’s eyes widen, and Harry knows his intentions are written all over his face, but he can’t seem to care. Malfoy has plenty of time to back away, but he doesn’t, so Harry fists his robes and pulls, until they are separated only by a wet layer.
“Fuck,” Malfoy says against his lips. Harry opens his mouth greedily and his hands find their way around Malfoy’s neck and are soon tangled in wet hair. Malfoy’s hands are fisting the back of Harry’s clothes, hiking them higher as he pulls against him and it’s so hot and wet and Harry’s pretty sure his lips are tingling and he never wants this to end, because it’s perfect and Malfoy’s not yelling at him.
And then he slips, making them lose their combined balance in his effort to get closer. Malfoy pivots, and it’s Harry who hits the ground again, his glasses flying off to land in the mud, but he’s beyond caring about where they’ve gone.
He gasps when Malfoy pulls away, as his mouth slides over and down until his face is buried in Harry’s neck. Harry feels a tremble slide down his spine, and Malfoy shudders against him as the rain continues to pound at his back. Malfoy’s hands are clutching at his shoulders, his breath hot against Harry’s neck and Harry’s tempted to use his grip on Malfoy’s hair to drag his mouth back to where he wants it.
Malfoy ends up doing it himself, stopping just before their lips make contact to catch Harry’s eye, before he crushes their mouths back together and Harry groans. His hips twitch, his back arches and his hand tightens its hold on Draco’s hair, who grunts and bites Harry’s lip.
His robes are caked with mud and heavy with water. When Malfoy pulls away this time, he sits up and brings Harry with him. “This rain is fucking freezing,” he says and yanks Harry up. He stumbles as Draco drags him over towards the protection offered by the stands, goaded on by rumbling thunder and an increased intensity of the rain.
Draco slams him against the wooden support of the stands as soon as they’re underneath. “What the hell are we doing?” he asks, but kisses Harry again before he’s able to stutter out anything.
“Dunno,” Harry gets out eventually. “Think it matters?”
Under Draco’s robes, his skin is warm and smooth and Harry luxuriates in the way it feels under his palms. Draco hisses at first from the cold of his hands, but he doesn’t shove them away, and begins to fumble with the clasps of Harry’s robes until he just settles for tugging at his shirt until it rips instead. Draco’s robes are much easier to shove off his shoulders, and Harry takes pride in the smear of mud he gets across his chest.
Draco’s thigh wedges itself between Harry’s legs and starts up a jerking rhythm as he rubs himself against Harry’s thigh. Harry’s breath stutters to a halt when Draco’s fingers slip under the waistband at his hips, trying to separate the wet material from his skin. He bucks a little, matching Draco’s movements and giving him more room. Harry shivers as Draco’s fingers skate across his skin until they meet in the middle and begin to pluck at the button to his jeans.
Instead of reciprocating, Harry reaches back and grasps at Draco’s arse using it to urge Draco to move faster and to pull him in closer. Draco’s cock feels thick and hard against Harry’s thigh, and he’d reach into Draco’s pants if it didn’t mean that he’d lose this closeness.
Draco’s fingers don’t get much farther than undoing the button before Harry twines his leg around one of Draco’s and decides to hell with it, and shoves his hands down between skin and Draco’s trousers, making Draco’s head shoot up as he exclaims, “Fu– Potter–!”
Harry shudders and twists and pants, pushing his hips away from the beam and into Draco’s, knowing that he’s so close, and Draco can’t be far behind him, not with the way he’s huffing in Harry’s ear, how tight of a grip he has on Harry’s hips. Harry reaches out and sucks Draco’s earlobe into his mouth, giving it a small nibble and feeling Draco jerk and hiss, and his rhythm gains an erratic tempo, forceful enough to shove Harry back against the pillar before he’s stiffening and gasping. Harry’s eyes screw shut, and with a small shift of his hips, he gets just enough friction to send him off as well.
His head falls back and lands against the support beam behind him and he sucks in a shaky breath, Draco’s head resting on his shoulder. His breaths ghost down over Harry’s exposed shoulder and torso and send little thrills and chills down his spine. His eyes fall shut.
The thunder sounds far off and there is no longer the pit-patter of rain against the stands above them. His hands are warm from their contact with Draco’s arse and, grinning, he gives it a squeeze. Draco jerks against him, moves back and glowers. “I was comfortable there, I’ll have you know.”
“You can have this position next time around, and we’ll see how you like it.” Next time. Huh.
Draco’s eyebrow twitches and he pushes away, wobbling until he regains his balance and brushes a hand through his hair, pushing wet strands away from his face. Harry mourns the heat of the contact, and attempts to pull his shirt back together.
“You’re blurry,” Harry says, and looks around for his glasses, and then out at the pitch where they’re most likely covered in mud and lost in a puddle.
He hears Malfoy huff and can just imagine that he’s rolling his eyes. “Accio glasses,” Draco says and the mud-soaked glasses slap wetly into his outstretched palm. “Need these that badly, do you?”
Harry accepts them, and accepts that it’s a lost cause to even think about cleaning them without magic. He places them in a pocket, locates Draco and says, “I don’t need them for this,” and yanks him close again.