Written For: monster
Written By: lotrwariorgodss
Pairings: Harry/Draco, OMC/OMC/OMC, (heavily implied Remus/Sirius)
Kinks Used/Warnings: wanking, voyeurism, threesome (anal/oral/interracial), fight!smut, frottage, some gay-bashing, language
Word Count: 12,700
Disclaimer: All sexual beings in this story are over the age of consent (one is described as a 'boy' but he is an of-age teenager). Also, these boys were never and will never be mine, and the way in which I use them is in no way related to JKR. I'm just making presents out of their sexual escapades.
Summary: An exhibit to honor fallen war-heroes turns into more for Harry and Draco when they uncover some hidden photographs and are forced to face their pasts and each other.
If there was one thing Harry was sure of, it was that the next spell out of his wand was going to be an Unforgivable, and it was going to be aimed straight at Malfoy's expensively clothed chest. He couldn't decide whether to use Imperius to shut him up, Crucio to give him a taste of the pain Harry was in from listening to the posh brat complain for hours on end, or the Killing Curse just to have it done with. Oh yes, a trip to Azkaban was definitely worth it if it shut Malfoy up. But then Malfoy would have the satisfaction of ratting him out, being coddled, or cackling at Harry from beyond the grave, and that was not worth it. If this was how they treated war heroes, saddling them with amateur turncoat Death Eaters, Harry was beginning to regret not hiding out for the duration. Of course, being the brat that Malfoy was, he refused to go down in flames like his dear old man; his Slytherin self-preservation had kicked in for the last few months of the war and he came to the side of the Light offering information in exchange for amnesty. When all was said and done, none of the Death Eaters who had done so were sent to Azkaban, but they were all given specific community service activities in which they had to participate, and Harry thought that was almost worse than Azkaban because it severely threatened his happiness as well.
As the one-year anniversary of Voldemort's defeat drew nearer, the Ministry had approached Harry and asked him to put together a tribute to all the fallen – something personal, something touching, something to remember them by. Having lost so many who were close to him, he had accepted the request and started planning, with a great deal of help from Hermione and his Ministry liaison. In the end, Harry decided to set up an exhibit for the fallen heroes to be displayed in the Ministry atrium for a year and then moved to a magical museum in France. Everyone knew the events of the war with a fair amount of accuracy (mostly thanks to Harry and Snape's interview with the newly prominent Sorcery Times), so Harry decided they should get to know their heroes as people, not just warriors.
With permission from their families, Harry had begun the long and strenuous task of shifting through possessions and properties, conducting interviews with relatives and friends, scouring old newspapers and school records looking for achievements, doing anything and everything he could think of to make the exhibit a success. In the beginning, he had been grateful for something to do; he could hardly open a door or buy a drink for himself anymore, what with everyone wanting to show their undying gratitude for their "savior", and he had no job prospects to speak of, so doing nothing, after being on missions or researching constantly for the past two years, was maddening. Unfortunately, they started assigning the Death Eater deserters their community service around the same time as Harry started his little project, and when Harry suggested that he might need some help, they dumped Malfoy in his lap faster than he could say 'Fuck, no!'.
The whiney blond was on house arrest during the night, but between the hours of eight and six, he had to be under Harry's constant supervision. Normally, Harry would have jumped for joy at the prospect of having to look after a gorgeous blond all day, but…well, it was Malfoy! And more importantly, he had work to do, which would never be finished if he was constantly bickering with the other man. To his amusement, when the raven-haired man had had that thought, he realized that he hadn't even added the fact that Malfoy was a bloke to his list of complaints, and finally admitted to himself that no, he was not solely attracted to girls. Not that he had had much spare time to come to terms with having a sexuality of any kind, but it was definitely on his To-Do list. It had never been overly important because he'd never had time to consider a serious relationship. He'd never been close enough to anyone to whom he was remotely attracted, he just had fantasies and got off; whether the star in said fantasies was a bird or a bloke didn't really matter so long as it produced the desired result. And really, he didn't –
"Potter! Are you even listening to me? I said –"
Harry turned slowly with a murderous look in his eye. "Look, Malfoy, I really don't care that the Ministry refuses to import wine for you. If you think it's that big a travesty why don't you interview the next bunch of orphans we've got and tell them your troubles? I have a feeling you'll develop a taste for whatever wine the Ministry's willing to provide."
The blond glared back at him, hands on his hips and looking every bit the offended aristocrat. "I was just trying to make small talk, Potter; I suppose I assumed too much by thinking even you were civilized enough for that."
Harry sighed and held his temper in with all the self-control he could muster. "I have a lot on my mind, and your whining isn't helping. Now come on; I just have to file these last photographs and then we're done with this case."
"New case tomorrow?" Malfoy seemed genuinely interested – a new case meant a new location, a new story, and a bit of curious excitement for a least a few days. "Who is it?"
"You'll find out tomorrow." Actually, if Harry had his way, the blond wouldn't find out the next day, but he didn't have to know that yet. "I'm calling it a day; go ahead and go home."
"Apparition coordinates for the new case?"
Harry shook his head. "Can't give them to you. Just Apparate to my office in the morning – I have some things I need to straighten out."
Malfoy shrugged. "Tomorrow then, Potter."
Harry gave a curt nod and the other man disappeared with a pop. He put the last of the photos in a file folder, and sighed as he pulled out tomorrow's war hero. It was going to be one hell of a day.
When Draco arrived at Potter's office door the next morning, it was locked and warded, but un-silenced. He was unable to resist his Slytherin nature and pressed an ear to the wood, trying to discern what was happening on the other side. He could make out Potter's muffled voice – he sounded quite agitated.
"I requested to do this one on my own…yes, I put it in months ago!...it'd just be for the day…but why can't you just stick the git with someone else?! Merlin, you'd think I was the only person on this team!...whatever; anything I find that I want, I'm keeping…oh, fuck off."
The end of Potter's conversation was followed by an angry crash of something on the other side of the door and stomping footsteps. Draco moved out of the path of rage just in time. The door swung open, revealing a red-faced, dangerous Harry Potter shoving his wand into his back pocket. He looked unsurprised to see Draco lurking at his door.
"Come on, Malfoy," he scowled, throwing a worn leather jacket over his shoulder and grabbing a strange looking bowl by its strap as he stormed down the hallway. Draco followed the raging man downstairs and out of the building. When they reached the street and Potter had still not given him the Apparition coordinates, but was instead stomping towards a Muggle motorbike, he stopped in his tracks.
"Oh, no way, Potter. You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm going anywhere on the back of that thing – especially with you controlling it."
Potter just smirked and straddled the hulking chrome death trap. "Fine, Malfoy, I'd actually prefer you didn't come today. You can stay here and explain to your MPO that the big bad Death Eater had to skive off his assigned labor because he was afraid of a little motorbike ride. I'm sure he'd love to add six months to your sentence."
Draco glared at Potter, the current bane of his existence. He just had to be a bloody smart arse didn't he? "Fine, Potter."
"Fine, get on, Malfoy."
Potter rolled his eyes and faced away from Draco. "Get your skinny arse up here before I leave you behind." Draco approached the motorcycle with caution, certain that at any minute it would come to life and try to kill him.
"Heads up!" he heard Potter shout and looked up just in time to see the bowl flying at his head. His Seeker reflexes saved him from a smashed nose. "Wouldn't want that pretty little head of yours to get all crushed and bloody if we crash." Draco scowled, and would never let on that he hadn't known what the bowl was for or that he appreciated the gesture. It took a minute for him to get situated behind Potter so that he was comfortable but not touching his dark-haired nemesis at all. Potter twisted something near the front, and the contraption rumbled to life beneath them. Draco jumped and Potter turned slightly to speak. "Grab hold of my sides or you're gonna fall off."
The blond recoiled in disgust "I'll take my chances, Scarhead."
Potter just shrugged and revved the engine before taking off like a shot down the street.
Harry chuckled under his breath as the wind blew through his already tangled hair. Thank God Malfoy didn't grow out his fingernails or this assignment would be more painful than Harry suspected. After the first hard turn he'd made, the skittish blond had grabbed his waist and clung to him for all he was worth; apparently, he had decided that Harry's hips were less formidable foes than the asphalt. He was almost glad for Malfoy's presence after his friendly little chat with the git at the Magical Law Enforcement office. In his own sort of way, Malfoy calmed him at times when he felt his life was spinning out of control; he suspected it was a sort of solidarity issue, that no matter how much changed and how much he was revered by the rest of the world, Harry would always be lowly in Malfoy's eyes, and Malfoy would always be a stubborn Slytherin brat in his eyes. The way his eyes had widened when he'd seen the motorbike and the way they'd argued had calmed Harry to the point where he could focus on what he'd have to do today – it would probably be the hardest thing he had done since war's end. Harry wove his way through the city, eventually speeding down a familiar road, losing himself in memory.
Remus's house had become somewhat of a haven for Harry after his fifth year, as both he and the former-Marauder had been in the deepest grief over Sirius's death. Harry had spent Christmases with the werewolf, had stayed for weeks at a time during the summer, and had been given special permission to visit on weekends when he felt it was necessary. Dumbledore had understood (if only because Harry had all but told him) that they needed each other now. Harry was also one of the only people who realized the true depth of Remus's grief – that he hadn't lost just a friend in Sirius, but his lover as well. He had known since almost the beginning of his fourth year and was not averse to it in the slightest. How could he be when all it really meant was that two of his most revered adults were happy and loved each other? Harry and Remus had found a subdued sort of happiness together as well, though their relationship had never gone beyond holding one another through fits of hysterical sobbing and when Remus had slept beside him to put an end to week-long bouts of nightmares. They were a family; small, broken, and strange, but a family nonetheless.
That was why, out of all the deaths Harry had witnessed, Remus's hit him like a tidal wave, leaving him washed out and numb. It was almost ironic that a man who had lived his entire life flirting with danger, risking his life constantly throughout two wars would lose it not on a battlefield, but in a hospital bed, dying from something he couldn't see. A difficult winter transformation had lead to a cough, which had lead to pneumonia, which had lead to a rickety bed at St. Mungo's, with Remus scolding Harry for keeping vigil at his bedside. They both knew it was over; Remus had lost most of himself when he lost Sirius to the veil and he couldn't bring himself to live for his surrogate son. Remus's last words had been "I'm sorry, Harry". It had taken weeks for Harry to sleep more than two hours at a time, and he still had not regained his adolescent appetite. It was no coincidence that Voldemort's death followed a week later; Harry had found the rage and despair he'd needed to cast a perfect killing curse. And then it was over, leaving Harry with more grief than ever before and no one to share it with.
A sudden stinging in his eyes threw him back into the real world, and he realized he was on the verge of tears. He also realized (with a certain measure of amazement) that he had managed to stay on the road and that Malfoy's hands were still firm on his waist. He turned his head to the side and shouted, "We're almost there!" against the rushing wind.
Malfoy threw him a panicked scowl. "Keep your eyes on the bloody road, Potter," he shouted, and dug his fingers into Harry's sides to punctuate his command. Harry laughed and revved the engine, flying down the road at a highly illegal speed. A few minutes later, he turned down a narrow dirt road and slowed down until they came to a large clearing where Harry stopped. He stepped off the bike with a practiced grace, while Malfoy stumbled off to one side and struggled with the helmet strap. Harry took a moment to revel in the refreshing cliché swap before taking out his wand and flicking it seemingly aimlessly through the air. Malfoy stared at him incredulously, a quip about the questionable sanity of the "Boy Who Lived" poised on the tip of his tongue, but a gasp came out instead when Harry stretched up and tugged on a low hanging branch.
It was as though a curtain was falling down slowly, a curtain that had seemed invisible and was concealing a small house. Malfoy was standing to the side, gaping, just another in the series of un-Malfoyesque expressions that Harry had already witnessed that day. Harry strode up to the house, facing the plain wooden door with sadness and loathing. It should have been his – this house, Remus's library, everything inside – but apparently the Ministry did not respect the posthumous wishes of werewolves, even ones that were also considered war-heroes. Harry had fought them for months without success until they threatened to charge him with harassment. As the sole living wizard who had the passwords to all the self-invented wards, however, there was very little the Ministry could do to keep him away permanently, and they couldn't seize the assets for themselves unless Harry gave up the tricks to get past Remus's wards, which he had adamantly refused to do. Taking a deep breath, Harry braced himself for the emotional onslaught and opened the door. Everything was as he'd last seen it, down to the books thrown haphazardly on the low coffee table and an abandoned teacup on the mantle. His eyes flicked to a familiar picture of Remus and Sirius sharing a furtive glance behind the backs of Kingsley and Tonks, and several iron bands around his heart tightened, squeezing it to an impossibly small size. His expression hardened and he rounded on Malfoy. "Look Malfoy, I'll give you fifty galleons to sit in that chair and not bother me all day. I don't care what you do – have a field day with the Dark Arts library if you want, just don't get in my way."
For a moment the blond stared back at him, stunned, but then his inner Slytherin reared its head and his expression turned suspicious. "No tedious, manual labor, Potter? Why?" His eyes scanned the various picture on the walls and it dawned on him. "Ah, so this is the werewolf's house is it?"
"It's Remus's house," Harry growled.
Malfoy waved him off "Very well, Potter. It's not like I would want to touch anything that diseased mongrel has had his hands on anyway."
In one swift move, Harry had one hand around Malfoy's neck and pushed him against the back of the door so hard that his head snapped back on the hard wood with a satisfying thud. Harry dug the tip of his wand into the blond's temple and stared him down, a brilliant green fire of hatred burning in his eyes.
"If I ever hear you say anything bad about him again, I swear on his grave that I'll Crucio you so hard you'll be dressing in St. Mungo's white for the rest of your pathetic life." At the word 'Crucio', Harry's wand had sent forth an involuntary nip of pain and Malfoy winced, holding up his hands in truce.
"Alright, Potter, calm down." When Harry didn't back away from the blond, Malfoy sighed and spoke again. "I get it, Potter – Crucio, insanity, hospital. I promise I won't say anything more about…Professor Lupin."
Harry lowered his wand slowly and took his hand from around that fragile, little neck. "Good. Now, are you going to do as I ask or do I have to petrify you and leave you down here all day?"
"Petrify me? Oh really, Potter, that's so…" Harry's eyes narrowed and Malfoy's widened, "Yes, I'll stay here. Go on and do…well, whatever it is you're going to do; I won't get in your way."
"Excellent." Harry smiled a wicked smile and turned from Malfoy to face the stairs. He drew in a deep breath that tasted of books and licorice and RemusandSirius, and walked into his past.
Sweet Merlin, Potter was uptight; the war must have really done a number on his sanity. Then again, with the Dark Lord gone all that insanity had to have gone somewhere. Draco didn't blame Potter for going mental on him – the boy had hated him, and now the man hated him, and probably always would hate him because he just believed Draco to be a cowardly Death Eater, lacking any morals save those that had been drilled into his head by his father. The truth was Draco had never wanted to take part in his father's war once he found out what was really going on. Sure, battle could be honorable, but killing helpless children and Muggles? Was there really any honor in that? And he had grown up hearing "Malfoys are subservient to no one, Draco", yet the second the Dark Lord had returned, his father had been at his feet, groveling and begging for forgiveness. Draco should have known something was up on his coming-of-age ceremony when his father insisted on a small gathering instead of the normal gala that would have been held in other pureblood households. As it turned out, the "small gathering" was a meeting of Death Eaters with Lucius at their head, simply gushing over the fact that his son was the first of his generation to be Marked.
That was his breaking point, the point when he stopped being his father's son and started the long path that lead to the Draco he wanted to be. Unfortunately, his courage had lain too far down that road for him to find it in time to defy his father and escape his Marking, but he had found it eventually, and it had led him straight to Potter. Draco wasn't sure how one very Slytherin act of self-preservation had led him to be surrounded by Gryffindors, but when he defected, they seemed to be everywhere, full of annoying questions about something or another, usually pointless things like whether Voldemort's minions really had constant orgies, and had he ever killed someone, and whether he had got out for his own sake or for the sake of the Wizarding world at large. Potter didn't ask Draco any questions, and when Draco had asked him why, all he had said was that Draco would not like the questions he asked, and he doubted he would like the answers he received. Neither of them pushed, and neither offered anything freely, so they remained in the dark. Draco didn't know exactly what had gone on between Potter and the werewolf, but obviously, Potter was sensitive about being in this house, so Draco decided not to invoke the wrath of the most powerful wizard on the planet and stayed downstairs like he was told. Really, his Slytherin side was being more and more cultivated every day; perhaps he should have a look at that Dark Arts collection…
After an hour or so, Draco was terribly bored. He had given himself a tour of the downstairs – twice – and scanned the titles of all the Defense books, finding nothing in particular to interest him. Well, that wasn't completely true, he just didn't feel like reading, even though the werewolf had a collection of rare journals and books to rival that of the Restricted Section or the Dark Arts library in the Malfoy vaults. He wondered if they had been given as gifts or if he had found the reason Professor Lupin had looked so threadbare all the time. It was also not true that Draco had ever thought of the man as just a "diseased mongrel" as he had told Potter earlier. When he had found the courage and good sense to abandon the side of the Dark Lord, he had been extremely pleased to discover that his beloved godfather had been on the right side the whole time. He had walked into Grimmauld Place with misconceptions about many of its occupants, but, as much as Severus loved to bicker with and tease the man, he had set Draco straight on Lupin. He had sacrificed much only to receive nothing in return, and had found only one good friend and confidante outside the "Marauders", and that had been Harry.
He knew how much this visit meant to Potter, and was a little disappointed in himself that he had made such a comment earlier. Draco had come to terms with the fact that he no longer wished misery and depression on The Git Who Lived – the man had saved his life, after all – but neither was he overjoyed to be spending his nights confined to his small flat, reading, practicing fencing, or wanking if he truly had nothing else to do. Having to spend his days with his childhood rival who mostly ignored him (which was more aggravating than it seemed) and thought very little of him, didn't help his frustration level at all, and he took most (alright all) of it out on Potter. He wasn't happy to have done so – the world might still see only spoiled, remorseless, cruel git Malfoy, but he was working on that, working on making his name mean something more than "Death Eater Brat" in polite circles. He was sorry, and though it would be a cold day in Hell before he actually apologized, he thought it might not kill him to be a little nicer.
And that whole circle of thought brought him back to the fact that he was mind-numbingly bored and he thought that perhaps he should seek out his raven-haired companion. Draco was just standing, preparing to mount the stairs when he heard said companion's footsteps echoing down the stairwell, so he jumped back into his chair and picked up a book to make himself look busy. When Potter was on the last step, Draco looked up with feigned nonchalance and a coolness that vanished when he saw the other man's face. He had been crying. A lot, from the looks of it, and he seemed more agitated now than when he had disappeared up the stairs.
He shot a look at Draco and said in a gravelly voice, "Let's go, Malfoy."
Draco wondered if he should inform Hell of their weather change, but supposed they could figure it out for themselves. "Wait, Potter." The man stopped, but did not turn to face him. "Are you alright?"
Potter sighed and looked over his shoulder at the blond. "I'm fine; we're done for the day, let's go."
He started to walk towards the door again, but Draco called after him, "Look, Potter." He hurried to catch up to the other man. "What I said about Professor Lupin…"
Potter's glare darkened. "What about it?"
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and I know being here means something important to you, so I'll try not to fuck it up."
Potter looked genuinely stunned for a few moments before his frozen features softened and melted into a smile. "Thanks, Malfoy. You know, I think that's the first time I've ever hear you say those words."
"Yes, well, I'm attempting not to be such an utter bastard now. Helps with the image." Draco tossed his head in superiority before leading the way out of the werewolf's house and back towards the motorbike. Potter followed after him with a bewildered look still plastered across his face, and that wide-eyed, innocent-looking face made something twist in Draco's gut, and he thought, 'This is what being a good person must feel like.'
Malfoy apologized. To him. Draco Malfoy apologized to Harry Potter. Draco Bloody Malfoy, Prince of Slytherin and all things Snarky, Bratty, and Vexing, had apologized to him, Harry Potter, his schoolyard enemy and general rival. He was still shocked. He actually had heard the blond say he was sorry before, but it was so lost in the pleading and sobbing and clouded with doubt that he hadn't had time to appreciate it. Draco apologized. It still hadn't quite sunk in yet. Maybe he really had changed; maybe Draco really wasn't the same prick he'd been in school. It was promising. After all, Harry was still going to have to spend almost every day with him for the next few months, it would be nice if they could be civil, even nicer if they could actually be friends.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been out with friends; Hermione spent most of her time at school, what time she didn't she spent with Ron, and what time Ron didn't spend with her he spent with his brothers, trying to retain the sense of family he'd always had growing up. Harry was happy for them, but he just felt like everyone else was jumping into their future while he was trying to live in the present for the first time. They were often too busy, and they couldn't understand a lot of what he was going through, though they tried extremely hard. Harry knew they loved him, he just felt like there were limits to what he could really talk to them about, unlike the way he had felt with Sirius or Remus.
A new friend would be nice; Draco would keep him on his toes, and he had a feeling that between Draco and the Slytherin's posh friends, if he were to join them on a night out he would have the time of his life. It only helped that the blond was bloody gorgeous – Harry definitely wouldn't mind going out and staring at Draco all night. Plus, he knew Draco wouldn't have any aversions to his questionable sexuality because he was still friendly with Blaise, who Harry knew for a fact preferred his own gender – often. In fact, Harry had often wondered where Draco himself fell on that subject; he certainly dressed and acted like a ponce, more so than Harry anyway. He supposed once they were friends he'd figure it out, but for now he could be happy that they were at least going that far. He settled into bed that night, looking forward to tomorrow for the first time in over five years.
Somehow, in the time that he had apologized until now, the fourth day at the werewolf's house, he and…Harry…had progressed to being on a first name basis. It hadn't happened based on any 'I think we should be civil so I'll call you Draco and you can call me Harry' conversation, it had just sort of…happened. Two days before, the dark-haired boy had almost hexed him because the blond had snuck up on him in the attic to ask about lunch, and when he realized what he'd done, he gave him an apologetic smile and said "Sorry, Draco." Then, the next morning when they had arrived at the house, Draco had stumbled off the motorcycle as per usual, but this time he almost fell in a huge mud puddle. He was saved from the gooey tragedy, however, when his companion caught him around the waist and pulled him upright, stabilizing him and moving him a safe distance away from the mud. Blushing profusely, he had mumbled, "Thanks, Harry" and walked towards the house.
Now he was bored again, and he was thoroughly sick of wandering downstairs all day. If he wasn't going to do any work, he thought he should at least be allowed to explore, and that's exactly what he would spend his day doing. Just because he had promised to stay out of Potter's way didn't mean he couldn't have a look 'round upstairs. He reached the top of the climb and immediately noticed the change in atmosphere. A series of photographs lined the wall of the corridor, some Wizarding, some Muggle, subjects ranging from portraits and group photos to landscapes and someone's attempts at artistic photography.
He focused on the first one that met him as he began to look – it was the werewolf and a dark-haired man sitting on a motorbike and looking over their shoulders at the camera. After a few seconds, the unknown man threw his head back in laughter, and Lupin rolled his eyes, nudging the other man in the back as he wrapped his arms around the leather-clad waist in front of him, preparing to speed down the road. Draco moved on to the next photograph in which a chubby baby was being thrown up into the air and caught by the same unfamiliar man in the previous picture, with a nail-biting redhead being held around the waist by a beaming man who looked a great deal like the Potter Draco knew. He looked a bit closer at the man entertaining the baby and realized he was wearing Harry's leather jacket, the same one he had been wearing on all their trips to this house; he began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The dark-haired man had to be the infamous Black cousin, the one who'd been branded a blood-traitor, murderer and escaped Azkaban, the one whose death Draco had mocked to irritate and depress Harry when they were younger – Harry's godfather. He and Lupin took precedence in about half the pictures on the wall, and were usually accompanied by a few repeating figures – presumably Harry's mother and father among others. When Draco approached the end of the corridor, he noticed only one door was open and assumed it was the room his companion was currently searching, so he walked to it and pushed the door open wide.
He stepped into the room and his eyes were drawn to a large hole in the floor, one of the floorboards removed and tossed to the side. Sitting next to the hole was an empty shoebox, and scattered over a significant portion of the floor were photographs. 'Oh great, Potter's been reminiscing again,' Draco thought, taking a second to glance at the photos, which were similar to the ones he had just seen in the hallway. But there was something significantly different about these pictures. Draco sat cross-legged on the floor as he picked up the first one; it was Harry's godfather again, but this time all the pale flesh that had been hidden underneath the leather and denim in the hallway pictures was exposed and had water cascading down it, sliding over his smooth back and down over his arse. He was showering, clearly oblivious to the photographer behind him until suddenly, startled, he looked over his shoulder and gave a smirk and a wink to the camera before turning around again.
What. The. Fuck. Having photos of naked men hidden under one's bedroom floorboards was not normal – he had to figure out what was up. Frantically, Draco picked up another Wizarding picture and stared at it; this time it started like the ones in the hall, Black and Lupin looking at each other like they were about to cause a great deal of mischief, but suddenly, the werewolf pounced on the dark-haired man and proceeded to snog him into the ground. Oh god – they were queer for each other! Rising to his knees, he leaned over the hole in the floor and grabbed another one, which featured a young Lupin in a rumpled bed sans clothing, looking at the camera with a sleepy grin as he reached for whoever was behind it. Draco made a face - 'Merlin, this is vile! This is so…so wrong! This is –'
Just then, the door to the adjoining bathroom creaked open and Potter stepped out, still doing up the buttons of his trousers, once again looking like complete shite. When he spotted Draco kneeling on the floor, pictures spread out before him, he stopped dead in his tracks.
"What are you doing up here?"
"Apparently discovering the Golden Boy has some twisted and vile perversions."
The raven-haired boy scoffed nervously and ran a hand through his hair. "They're just happy memories, Draco, it's not like I wank to them."
"This isn't happy, Potter, it's disgusting."
Potter raised an eyebrow at him and walked over to where he was kneeling. "Well, I'd have never pegged you for a homophobe, but I suppose I've been wrong about you before."
"So you don't find this…" Draco waved his hand towards the homoerotic photographs "…revolting? Are you queer then?"
Potter shrugged and knelt down next to the blond, picking up the pictures one by one and placing them lovingly in the shoebox. "To tell you the truth, I don't know. If you're asking whether I'd rather suck on a prick than a pair of tits, I can't really say because I haven't done either properly."
Draco scrunched up his nose in disgust. "Merlin, do you have to be so graphic, Potter? And you've never been with a girl before?"
"I have, but that's not what I said. Why do you think it's so 'revolting' anyway? They loved each other and they were happy together."
"It's revolting because men were not meant to be together. Sex is foremost meant for procreation and the production of fit heirs and if you can't fulfill that, then anything else you gain from sex is wrong. Boys don't touch boys – it's perverted and will only lead to isolation and persecution. Plus, men who like it in the arse are sick, and wanting to put your prick in someplace it doesn't belong is almost as bad."
Potter looked at him with something akin to amusement and disgust. "Well, that sounded overly rehearsed. Who'd you hear that bigoted nonsense from anyway?"
"It isn't nonsense, Potter – it's the truth!"
"What about men who stick their pricks up girl's bums then? Is that revolting? Does that make them queer?"
"That's completely different – they're still with a girl."
"And what about blowjobs? I'm fairly sure that's not the mouth's main purpose, though perhaps it should be." Potter grinned at him, clearly thinking he'd won.
"I refuse to talk with you about this anymore, Potter," Draco said with a sneer. "Just finish what ever you were doing so we can leave." He nodded and Draco rose from the floor.
"You know, Draco," Potter began, "In the Muggle world they say the people who are the most homophobic are just people who are trying desperately to hide their own impulses."
The blond scoffed and turned to leave. "Yes, good one, Potter – I think being a fag is disgusting, therefore I am one in secret. That's very clever of you."
He shrugged. "It's true. I've even seen it happen a time or two." Draco rolled his eyes and almost walked out when he caught a gleam in Potter's eye and decided to see what he was up to now. The dark-haired man finished putting the pictures away and replaced the box and floorboard. "What would you say to a little dare, Draco, for old time's sake?"
"Please, Potter – we're hardly adolescents anymore."
"Oh, come on, Malfoy – not scared are you?"
Draco ground his teeth and glared at Potter, old feelings of loathing and competition rising in his chest. Damn him. "Absolutely not. Fine then, Potter, what's the dare?"
He grinned and approached Draco slowly. "Well, you're so keen on proving your staunch sexuality, and I think you're just a big closet ponce, so why don't we come to a conclusion on the matter?" His grin widened. "I dare you to kiss me."
"If you like it, I win and I get to kiss you again. If you don't like it, you win and I'll never question your preferences again." He paused, looking thoughtful. "And I'll give you the night off your house arrest."
Draco was about to tell him to go fuck himself, but…"You can really do that? Let me have a night off?"
Potter shrugged. "Sure, as long as you promise not to go out and do anything illegal. Here," he conjured up a piece of parchment and a quill, fashioning a quick note and showing it to Draco.
'Well, this is interesting,' Draco thought. He hadn't been out alone for months, and he'd be delusional if he said he wasn't going a bit stir-crazy. In fact, if he hadn't been spending his days out with Potter, he'd probably be insane already. And he had nothing to be afraid of – he was straight, that he knew for sure – it was just pressing a part of his body to Potter's, no big deal. Draco took a deep breath, closed his eyes and lunged forward until his lips hit Potter's. He heard the other man make a small noise of surprise, and he pulled back and held out his hand.
"Well? Give me my night off."
Harry laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. "God, Draco – what are you five? That was not a kiss."
"Oh really? And what would you call a kiss, Potter?" As soon as the other man quirked his eyebrow and smirked at him, he knew that was the worst question he could have possibly asked. In an instant, he was drawn into his companion's arms, left with time only to show surprise at the other man's grin before his lips were pressed tenderly against lips equally as soft and his eyes closed as he melted into the kiss. Damn but Harry was good at this – his hands on Draco's arms felt like hot irons and when his tongue outlined Draco's bottom lip, the blond opened his mouth in willful submission, paying no heed to his previous reservations, absorbed in the feeling and sinful bliss of being held and kissed and wanted. Harry's arms snuck around his back, lips and tongue moving forcefully over his own, and oh God, it was so different from kissing one of his whores or any of the little slags he'd been with at school; no, this was a real kiss, this was what people dreamt about, this is what he'd missed…
Suddenly, a niggling itch in the back of his mind exploded into a cry of outrage; Harry's hand was on his arse, and Harry was moaning, and it was deep in pitch, and he was a…he, and it was so bad, so wrong. Draco brought his hands up to the other man's chest and pushed with all his might so that Harry dislodged and stumbled away from him, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed in that endearing expression of bewilderment. Draco's heartbeat sped in a moment of brief panic, but he forced his eyes to ice over, showing nothing but contempt for the man who had just given him the kiss of a lifetime. Harry was unconvinced and reached out for him again, but the blond shoved him away with a sneer.
"You are a filthy ponce," Draco spat. He snatched his release paper from a stunned Harry's fist, and marched out of the room, down the stairs, through the parlor and out the door. Draco always wondered what it would be like to Apparate when your mind didn't want you to leave, and his curiosity was satisfied when he sat in his own living room minutes later, heaving all over the floor, feeling truly miserable, and more alone than he had felt in months. Good lord – what had Potter done to him?