Genre: Angst, romance
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me but to J. K. Rowling. I’m only borrowing them.
Summary: Draco doesn't remember, and Harry doesn't let him forget.
A/N: Once more, happy hd_holidays to you mizbean, your request was a pleasure to write. And heartfelt thanks to elsie, my brilliant beta, for all her excellent help.
Not Through With You
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place can hardly be described as inviting even for the friends of the cause, so for those who fall under the category of enemies, it seems even more hostile.
Draco pulls his hood lower over his head, trying to escape the incessant drizzle that permeates everything, and knocks on the door. He doesn’t want to think how often in these past months he has stood here waiting, always arriving and leaving during the twilight hours. Sometimes he gets to stay a few days, sometimes less. The time spent at Grimmauld Place has become just one big hazy period that has no beginning and no end. Only countless moments that blend into hours, then days until it's time again to wear the mask and play the part of the loyal servant.
The door opens a crack, then enough for Lupin to usher Draco inside. Draco steps into the hallway, taking off the heavy travel cloak. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a glimpse of an untidy black mop peeking from behind another door further down the hall.
"Scarh — Potter. Headmistress."
The black untidiness is not the only human form in the dark hallway, and Draco recognizes the tall figure of McGonagall behind Potter just in time.
"Mr Malfoy, you are late. The meeting has already begun."
Draco nods silently and follows her. Potter reaches out a hand, trying to touch him when he walks by. He sidesteps it easily, however, and snaps, "Watch it, Potter!"
Potter snatches his hand back as though burned by Draco's harsh tone. He stays where he is until Draco and McGonagall have disappeared into the meeting room and closed the door behind them.
Two hours later, Draco finally makes it to his own room. The meeting has been exhausting as always, because Draco's report is not enough. It never is. They use Legilimency on him, and even though he has very little secrets left, he doesn't like anyone poking around in his head. What's more, he hates it when he's forced to relive all those nightmarish moments again with McGonagall or Mad-Eye Moody as witnesses, but after Snape's betrayal the Order doesn't take any chances. It has been made very clear to Draco that as their new spy he'll be kept on a tight leash.
Snape. Much good the potions master's help has done Draco. After the horrors Draco helped to commit, inflicting them on his school last year, he only wanted to flee to the end of the world. Snape found him and talked some sense into him, making him see the only way out. Snape killed the other Death Eaters who got away and highly recommended that Draco take credit for killing Dumbledore but tell the truth to the Order. Snape was through with spying. His last words to Draco at the doorstep of Grimmauld Place were: "Make yourself useful." Then he was gone.
Someone knocks quietly on Draco's door.
"Draco? Is everything okay?"
Potter's voice gets on Draco's nerve. Potter is still the hero everyone loves and worships; in the eyes of his adoring fans and the Order members he can't do anything wrong. Potter has it all; Draco has nothing.
If there's something he can recall from the grey blur that is his existence in Grimmauld Place, it's definitely Potter skulking in the background, always somewhere in the background.
This past year Draco has harboured plans of his own, because he wants to get even with Potter. He has entertained ideas of seducing the great hero, making Potter fall for him so that he would finally gain the upper hand in something. It's difficult to say, however, when the plans started to slip away. Somewhere along the way Draco lost interest in revenging Potter. Now, for some reason, it's all reversed; Potter is always tailing him, trying to talk to him, even calling him by his first name. As if they were friends.
When silence has fallen on the other side of the door, Draco can relax and move further into the room. It's one of the smallest and most modest rooms that this miserable house has to offer, but it doesn't matter. He has long ago accepted that this new lifestyle he has so wisely chosen is but a shadow of the past one, of the manors and house-elves. Gone are his own wing, the dressing rooms and luxury items. The Malfoy estate and gardens. Father and…
It's no use to wallow in the past, what's lost is lost. Draco deftly takes off his robes and gets ready to sleep. Tomorrow is yet another day closer to his true goal. There are more important enemies than Potter.
Draco is lying on a bed that is not his own. More importantly, he's in a room that is not his own. He knows this because the place is at least three times bigger and has a separate dressing room on the left side of the bed. Light flows from the open door, spilling its golden shine onto the carpet. Draco tries to lift his head to see better, realizing only then that his hands are tied to the headboard. A shiver runs through him when he tests the ropes. He is very much secured where he is.
Then someone comes out from the other room. Potter. A very naked Potter.
Draco's muscles tense but he can't help looking at Potter's body in all its glory. His skin is pale, as can only be expected for someone who spends much of his days indoors, hiding from the sun. There's very little hair covering his body except for the legs, but it's better that way, since Draco has never appreciated apes. And it leaves Potter's bits plainly out there for anyone to see.
Potter walks closer to the bed, and Draco's straining becomes half-hearted. Potter has incredible thighs that cause another and entirely different kind of a shiver course through Draco. He has never seen Potter naked before and now he only wishes it's not too late to put all that hating to better use. A boring personality aside, Potter is most certainly a man of Draco's tastes. Besides, the wicked glint in his eyes does wonders to Draco's cock. Draco is the first person to admit he's an opportunist. He knows when to put a grudge aside and just enjoy the ride.
Then Potter is standing right next to Draco but not touching him, and Draco worries if the lack of sex can reduce him to begging faster than a Cruciatus. Luckily, Potter doesn't seem to be here to tease him; he moves to sit astride Draco.
The weight on his legs and the hint of balls touching balls make Draco gasp. He pulls his unyielding ropes, arching his back and trying to get more contact. He has always thought being tied up would scare him, but he has had no idea what a turn-on it is.
Draco doesn't allow himself to give in quite yet, though, and his pride kicks in. A Malfoy is not supposed to be this easy. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Potter?"
"Shh, call me Harry," Potter says and kisses him.
And Draco knows that mouth. Potter's kisses are almost tentative and gentle, and he moves to lie down on top of Draco, chest to chest. Draco's ancestors can turn in their graves for all he cares, because then Potter gets his hand between them, aligning their cocks. Draco gives in to the hunger that he always denies and kisses back.
Normally he's not good with losing control. He can't be; he needs to come out on top in every situation, never let his guard down unless he has a death wish, but now it feels good to let go. Every slide of Potter's hand on their cocks, every kiss and nibble along Draco's jawline leave him wanting more. It feels so good to give in to Potter. Potter is warmth, Potter is here, Potter is safety.
Potter's hand speeds up, their ragged breathing filling the room, and he leans even closer whispering, "Whatever — whatever they have, they won't have this. This belongs to us."
Draco can only agree with a faint whimper, because then he's coming and it's happening too fast and it's all over before he even has time to realize it. Then Potter's gone and Draco can't get him back and he only knows he has lost something that belongs to him.
Draco wakes up in his own bed, alone and covered in sweat. According to the clock on the wall, it's past noon, and the cooling patch of sperm on his bare stomach is the only evidence of the strange dream. He still remembers everything clearly and frowns. He seldom has dreams of a sexual nature and certainly never such vivid ones.
He checks his wrists, but there are no signs of rope burns. The idea of him giving in to Potter disturbs him, and he seriously needs to think about whether he has his priorities sorted.
Reluctantly, he gets up and heads for the shower. The house around him is quiet as always, since everyone except the Golden Trio has left. In this new life there are no happy moments, only tolerable and less tolerable ones, but with some luck he can have several hours to himself.
The minute Draco feels the warm water cascading down his back, he closes his eyes, sighing with pleasure. He just stands there under the shower, letting the water wash away the dirt and grime, nightmares and horrors of the past days, and relax his tense muscles.
Finally, he picks up the soap and starts to wash himself properly, almost smiling. There might have been a time when he, the precious heir of the Malfoy family, had only had the best of everything; when the bubbles of the finest liquid soap had poured down from a golden tap. Now it's all a distant memory, and the plain soap fits the present lifestyle better, even if this isn't the image the others have of him. The ascetic, simple things bring Draco consolation in his chaotic life. It's like a ritual of sorts, and he performs it almost reverently. He imagines how, besides the external dirt, the tiny piece of soap washes away his monstrous deeds under Voldemort's command.
Draco is mainly a spy for the other side, too, even though little do the Death Eaters know where his true allegiance lies. His mission is to feed Voldemort the false information the Order keeps giving him, and it's a constant struggle for balance. He must always be in control of himself and curb his emotions at all times. With Voldemort there's no room for errors; even the tiniest slip is enough. Only now he appreciates what Snape must have gone through, and despite his own disappointments with the man, he can't respect his former professor enough.
Sometimes his information is not sufficient, though. Sometimes Draco is forced to torture captured Muggles. It's because of sheer luck that he has never had to use the killing curse since Voldemort enjoys it too much, believing he can drain some obscure power from it. Draco is grateful for it because he doesn't know how far his promised pardon from the Order would otherwise stretch.
But even if he takes all the showers in the world, it's still not enough to cleanse him of all that he's done. It's never enough. Icy fear takes hold of Draco, ripping his insides. He tries to take a deep breath and quell his restless mind. It's almost easier to spend the days with the Death Eaters because it makes one numb faster than should be possible. But whenever he stays at Grimmauld Place, the fragile illusion that it's safe to let his guard down gets him every time, making him careless and vulnerable.
The panic attack hits Draco full force, and he's fighting a losing battle. The water is getting colder, breathing becomes more difficult, and Draco can't move a muscle. He shuts his eyes, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, and presses his forehead against the cool tiles, trying to find something — anything — that would help him to calm down.
And suddenly images of last night's dream fill his mind: being tied to the bed, feeling the tight knots on his wrists, Potter everywhere around him, kissing him, controlling him. Against the odds, a warm feeling spreads all over his body, calming him a little, soothing him.
It's a good thing his eyes are still closed. That way he can pretend not to notice how thinking about surrendering to Potter is making him hard again.
The kitchen is mercifully empty, and Draco makes himself a cup of coffee. He's not all that hungry, so he just grabs a few biscuits for a late breakfast. Once he manages to sit down and get the Prophet, someone enters.
Weasley looks like he's here on business. "I need a word with you."
Draco feels a bit sceptical but folds the paper, forming a fake smile. "Shoot."
Seems like Weasley is lost for words for a moment, but then he straightens up and blurts, "I want you to stay away from him."
Draco blinks. "From who?"
"You know who."
"Oh, him. Don't worry, Weaselby, you'll get your fair share of the red-eyed snake when I'm done with him."
Weasley's face turns red with anger. "Don't play games with me! You know very well who I mean."
Draco gets more comfortable on the hard wooden chair and smiles charmingly. "Do I now? Perhaps you should enlighten me anyway, since I have no idea what you're babbling about."
"I don't know what you think you'll gain with trying to be smart with me. You know as well as I do that Harry doesn't need any distractions. He has more important things on his mind right now."
"Oh, really? Well, you can tell The Boy Who Has More Important Things On His Mind Right Now that I don't give a fuck about him and what he does."
"Oh you don't, do you?"
"No, I don't."
Right then the door opens and Potter steps in. He seems a bit surprised for a moment, seeing the two of them there. "What's going on? Ron? Weren't you supposed to be helping Hermione?"
Weasley looks maliciously at Draco and says, "Would you mind repeating to Harry the same thing you just said to me?"
"Repeat what?" Potter turns to Draco.
The intensity of that green stare is too much too fast. Draco quickly averts his own eyes but blushes all the same. It's only a stupid dream, but the brief glimpse of the real Potter makes Draco feel hot all over. He curses inwardly and sips from his mug, trying to hide his discomfort, but managing only to burn his mouth with the scalding black coffee. Draco steals a glance at Potter's hands hanging by his sides, and shivers when he remembers how those same warm and determined hands feel on his cock, and fuck but isn't he supposed to control this thing? Draco reins in his growing desire, knowing that he needs to get a grip. He can handle two Gryffindors anytime. He stretches his long legs under the table and plasters his most arrogant grin on his lips, looking like he couldn't care less.
"Our redhead here is having a sexual crisis is all. He can't make up his mind whether he'd rather bang the bushy one with the brains or his best mate's scrawny arse, so just in case he's come to claim them both. Please inform him that I have no objections either way."
"Oh, for Godric's sake! Shut the fuck up!" Weasley shouts, looking furious, clenching his fists and eyeing Draco like he's about to jump on him any given second.
"Ron!" Potter warns, seizing his friend by the arm.
Draco's grin widens. "Hit a nerve there, did I?"
Weasley is grinding his teeth almost audibly while trying in vain to shake off Potter. "You are such a useless bastard. I knew from the first day that you're no good. I bet you're here just spying for your evil lord and reporting all the things we do here right back to him."
Draco's smile stays on, but it's more forced now. "Oh, sure, Weaselby, there's just so much to tell about your great master plans. What do you think would be the most useful thing for the Dark Lord to know? That you busybodies rot away, spending your days immersed in dusty books, looking for a miracle? Or that Shacklebolt likes his tea with two spoonfuls of sugar?" The look on Draco's face darkens. "Or how the saviour of the wizarding world here gets his weekly relief when your sister comes to get him off during the visiting hours?"
"You little piece of shit! Don't you dare talk about Ginny that way!"
"Ron, stop it!" Potter nearly has to tackle Weasley to prevent him from attacking Draco.
Weasley is puffing now, but he shakes Potter's grip off and controls himself with an effort. "I bet you must love torturing all those Muggles. You must get some kind of sick pleasure from hearing their agonized screams just like all the dirty Slytherin scum."
"Dirty Slytherin scum, is it?" Draco is livid. "You're damn right, Weasley. But if I'm a dirty Slytherin, it's because the sissy Gryffindors like you are too afraid to do what must be done. I do all the dirty work so that you cowards can keep hiding in the dark."
"Draco! Ron! That's enough!"
Now it's Potter's turn to lose his temper, and for one petrifying moment the light in the kitchen flickers, but nothing further happens and slowly the situation eases off. Weasley makes a move as if to leave. "I'll go and see if Hermione needs help. Are you coming, too?"
"Yeah. Just give me a second here," Potter affirms, staring at Draco.
Weasley casts one last vicious look over his shoulder with murder in his eyes. "I swear that if I ever catch you —"
Draco raises his eyebrow mockingly. "Promises, promises."
When the door closes behind Weasley, silence falls, and suddenly the situation feels really awkward now that the two of them are left alone. The room seems a lot smaller, too. After a moment, Potter takes a chair opposite Draco and clears his throat to break the tension.
"It's not true what you said about Ginny."
It's such an absurd thing to say that Draco bursts out laughing.
"Like I care one bit where you shove your dick. As long as you don't bring that manly extension near me, you may bugger all the animate or inanimate objects you want."
Potter looks a bit offended. "Why do you have to act like that?"
"Like what? I was just here minding my own business until you two came along."
Potter sighs, sounding resigned. Draco takes a sip from his now cooled coffee and looks properly at Potter for the first time. He seems really tired and strained. He doesn't have much in common with the dream Potter who is radiant and sure and powerful. Once Draco realizes this, he can slightly relax. This Potter is no threat to him.
"Look," Potter says, running his hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his that reveals he's feeling insecure. How Draco knows this is another question entirely. "I'm just saying that you shouldn't always wind up Ron. It might not come out right, but I'm sure he means well."
"Well?" Draco snaps. "Which part of his yelling sounded well to you? Was it when he accused me of spying for Voldemort? Or when he said I'm Slytherin scum like the rest —"
"Draco, please, I didn't mean it like that." Potter reaches for Draco's hand, but Quidditch aside, Draco has good reflexes and he snatches his hand out of the way. "It would just be so much easier if you tried to get along."
The look in Potter's eyes is almost pleading, but Draco is having none of it. He's seething from the injustice of it all. "Why is it always about me? Why do I have to try to get along with everybody? It's never about you or your stupid friends. Oh no, you Dumbledore's pets can never do anything wrong."
Saying Dumbledore's name aloud is not so painful anymore, not after such a long time and all that has happened since.
"Look, I'll — I'll talk to him. I'll talk to Ron, okay?"
The difference between the old Potter from school and the new one puzzles Draco greatly. Potter seems almost beaten somehow, and it just doesn't fit the picture. But since the time spent at Grimmauld Place is rather foggy at best anyway, there's a lot that doesn't fit the picture, and Draco shrugs his suspicions off.
Potter looks over his shoulder as if to make sure they are still alone in the kitchen.
"Actually I came down to see you, because there's something we need to discuss."
"Oh no, not you too," Draco grunts. "All right, fine, but make it fast then. I'm a busy man."
Potter stares intently at Draco like he's trying to convey a hidden meaning to his next words. "I need to show you something, but it's in my room."
The first and obvious thing that comes to mind is so ridiculous that Draco dismisses it straight away. All the same, it's an opportunity not to waste.
"Oh, I get it." Draco smiles. "You've heard the rumours, then."
"What rumours?" Now Potter looks puzzled.
Draco leans towards him, lightly touching Potter's hand which is still lying on the table, lowering his voice. "I may like men, but I'm not desperate. Thanks for the offer, though."
Potter blushes furiously and yanks his hand back, but not before Draco sees a strange emotion flashing in his eyes. It's so fast that Draco hardly recognizes it, but can it possibly be hurt? The miracles never cease: Draco is only joking but he hits the bull's eye. The almighty hope of the wizarding world who can do nothing wrong is a shirt lifter, too. What endless possibilities for taunting Potter this new insight offers. Draco feels almost a pang that they aren't in school anymore.
"What? No, that's not what I meant. I — it's nothing like that. I just — you got it all wrong."
The more fervently Potter tries to deny it, the less convincing it sounds. Potter has a very nice blush, though. Draco smirks condescendingly.
"Don't worry, I'm not gonna give away your big secret. Run along now, like the good boy you are. Your friends must be missing you already."
Now Draco is certain of it. The feeling in Potter's eyes is definitely hurt.
The small victory Draco feels when left alone in the kitchen vanishes quickly. It would be child's play now to carry out the original plan and make Potter worship him like the lost puppy he is. But why bother, since for some reason Potter seems to be ready meat anyway? Now that Draco finally has the upper hand, he doesn't want to give it up. At least not until he's sure he can keep his cool before messing around.
He pours the cold coffee into the sink; so much for breakfast.
On the way to his room Draco passes by one parlour, catching a snippet of a hushed conversation. Potter and Weasley. Quietly as ever, he sneaks closer to listen.
"…so you say, but you always act strange and moody when he's around, and it worries me."
"And I've said a hundred times that it's not what you think."
"Then what is it, Harry? Why can't you tell me?"
Potter lets out an exasperated sigh, and Draco can almost see how he puts on his most serious face that he always wears when he wants to play the martyr.
"I — I can't tell you about it. Not yet."
"Why not? Has he said something? What could be so important that you can't tell it to your best friend?"
"Look, I'm really sorry, Ron, but you just have to trust me on this one. I can't tell about it, because there are lives at stake."
Draco imagines Weasly putting on his sulky face.
"Fine, but it's your funeral, mate. If I were you, I'd give it serious thought before trusting that ferret. He might be on our side for now, but the moment he gets the chance he'll betray us all."
"You can't say that, Ron. You don't know him."
"And I suppose you do, huh? What's there to know? He's a Malfoy. Always was and always will be."
Draco moves away from the door, having heard enough. The momentary glee he feels at problems on the Potter-Weasley front is marred by a nagging worry. What does Potter mean by saying that Weasley doesn't know him? When has Potter become an expert on all things Malfoy?
While Draco tries to make sense of it and recall a time when he and Potter have sat down to have a good old face-to-face chat in an amiable atmosphere for more than two minutes, he opens a wrong door by accident.
Draco realizes his error the moment he tries to magic the candles on, since there aren't any. He swears and turns to leave but the door has closed already, and it's pitch black. He is searching for his wand in order to find his way back to the place where the door is supposed to be, but ends up hitting his toes on something hard on the floor, and this time utters a louder curse. When he finally gets his wand out and is about to cast some light, a soft touch on the back of his neck startles him, making him jump.
His heart is beating frantically in his chest when he whispers "Lumos," but there's no one there. It's a smaller room than his own and it's used as some kind of storage. Once the light fades out and the darkness claims the small space again, Draco closes his eyes, listening carefully. If someone is here with him, hiding under an invisibility cloak or using some sort of advanced Disillusionment Charm, he should hear their breathing.
First — nothing, but when Draco opens his eyes, trying in vain to see any shape or form in the darkness, he feels it again: lips kissing the side of his neck. He points his wand there in a heartbeat, illuminating only the same empty space.
When the light fades out for the second time, Draco wills himself to calm down. Even if it's not just his imagination, it can't be anything dangerous. He's not afraid of the dark and no straightforward Death Eater attack is possible as long as he's inside the house, since the location remains a secret of a selected few.
Draco stares at the darkness and stays still. And then it comes again. This time it's not just lips; there are invisible fingers as well. His skin tingles with each light caress to his jawline and throat. It feels both strange and exhilarating. The lips appear anew on the corner of his mouth, and Draco tilts his head to the side, wanting to taste them, but the invisible lips are elusive, and all he catches is air.
The hands around him are moving further down under his clothes, passing his nipples that harden under this inexplicable ghost assault. Draco's every nerve ending feels alive, and yet the invisible touches are spreading an odd comfort in him. Deep down he knows that his immaterial admirer won't hurt him.
Draco stumbles a few steps backwards until he hits the wall. He slides down to the floor, knowing and expecting the mysterious other party to follow. He gropes the air a few times in order to catch something, even though he knows it's a futile effort. Maybe it's all in his head, but he enjoys it all the same.
He spreads his legs apart, guessing what comes next. The hands have already proceeded to linger around his crotch. Draco's breathing quickens when the fingers finally find their target: his hard cock.
The invisible movements in his pants quicken their pace, and Draco moans aloud. He loses all pretence in this small and dark storage room, basking in the gentle kisses. He recognizes that touch, and his body does too, yearning for more. When he closes his eyes at the very end, there's only one tiny detail that bothers him before all rational thought flees from his head. Of the very few Slytherin dormmates and the occasional Ravenclaw he's had, there has been no one with callused hands.
The rest of the day is agonizingly slow. The only place in the house to have even relatively meaningful things to do is the library, but it has been tainted by the invasion of the three Gryffindors who have camped there as long as Draco can remember. They have spent the entire year there, searching for information for their Horcrux hunt and making notes, done some fieldwork, either succeeding or failing, and returned back to search some more. And since it's Granger's heaven but Weasley's hell, confrontations like earlier on in the kitchen are hard to avoid.
Now that the last Horcrux has been found and destroyed, Potter is theoretically free to strike anytime he chooses to. But the Order is not unanimous about the best moment for attacking. Draco believes, however, that the inner circle has made the decisions already and that the rest is just a scam lest someone should feel like exposing their plans at the last minute.
Mrs Weasley arrives with her daughter in tow to cook the dinner and check in on them. The atmosphere around the table is brooding while everybody eats quietly. Every now and then the girl Weasley throws furtive looks at Potter with silent accusation in her eyes, resulting only in Potter eating his helping faster than necessary and excusing himself from the table the first chance he gets.
The girl Weasley leaps after the retreating hero, and Draco grins wryly. The show he's being forced to witness borders on amusing, but it has also aroused an unnamed black emotion that eats him from the inside. He almost wishes she would return to the kitchen so that he could throw Potter's earlier offer in her face and crush her foolish beliefs once and for all. Potter is free to do as he pleases with whomever he pleases but only because Draco has declined him first.
Draco lies on the bed, gazing at strange, twisting patterns on the wallpaper. This is not his room.
As if on cue someone turns him over. Draco should be surprised, but he isn't. Potter is lying next to him.
He touches Potter's chest to make sure he's tangible and asks, "Am I dreaming?"
Potter doesn't answer him, only smiles and leans closer to kiss him, cupping his face. A liquid warmth fills Draco's stomach, and he kisses Potter back, sighing with pleasure. He may have issues with Potter during the daytime, but they won't stop him from doing whatever he wants in his own dreams.
When the kissing starts to get more heated, Draco rolls on top of Potter, revelling in the sensation of skin on skin. Potter is warm and inviting and hard in all the right places. Draco presses his erection against Potter's and feels blood rushing in his veins. It's imperative that he get more of this.
A soft glimmer on his right catches his eyes then, and he sees a small bottle full of oily substance on the bedside table. His heart skips a beat, when he knows how he can get more, and he picks it up. Potter still doesn't say anything, but nods his acceptance. It doesn't really matter what Potter thinks, since this is Draco's dream, but after having witnessed some nauseating scenes back in the Death Eater den, Draco has no rape fantasies and Potter's consent helps.
The lid is hard to open, and it takes a while before Draco's eager, fumbling fingers succeed in the task, managing to spill some of the wetness over him in the process. When he finally gets to sink his fingers into the cool liquid, he trembles with anticipation. He coats his prick with it, looking at Potter, who seems as impatient as Draco feels, not blushing or turning his gaze away, but dipping his fingers into the bottle as well and reaching unmistakably towards the area behind his balls. Under Draco's unblinking stare he pushes two fingers inside himself.
Draco's breath catches in his throat. His hand stills on his cock while he stares almost hypnotized at how Potter's fingers disappear inside and come back out only to disappear again. The bottle slips forgotten to the floor when Draco bumps Potter's bent knees out of the way to get between those legs right now. When the fingers come out again, Draco shoves them hastily aside, angling his cock to the glistening hole. He hesitates only a split second before pushing in almost violently with one hard stroke. Potter lets out a grunt but seems otherwise okay. That's good, because no power on earth could drag Draco away from where he is at the moment. Incredible, tight heat is enveloping Draco's cock, and all he can do is pant.
He trembles, moving his hands to take hold of Potter. He feels Potter's legs wrapping around him, pushing him ever deeper inside. Carefully, he withdraws a bit and pushes in again, then repeats the movement with more force. The third thrust makes him whimper. He has never been inside anyone like this, but surprisingly it's not difficult at all. And it's way better than anything he's ever imagined. He leans forward bending Potter in half, quickening his pace.
It's the most glorious feeling to be buried deep in Potter's arse. Draco doesn't understand how anyone would ever want to do anything else besides this — this fantastic thing called sex. It's utter bliss, it's heaven. Potter's heat surrounds him, and he doesn't ever want to stop. Potter is panting too now, while wanking himself to the rhythm of Draco's movements, and Draco can't think of a single good reason to keep away from him.
Potter's eyes shine brightly, lips parted, and Draco feels a sudden fearless urge to kiss him. Hastily and awkwardly he leans down, squashing Potter's hand between them. He presses his lips on Potter's, and Potter kisses him back with teeth and pent-up desire.
Then Potter shudders under him, the hot, tight muscles spasming around Draco's prick. Draco can't hold it any longer and he comes too, clinging to Potter with all his might.
In the morning, Draco stays in bed a long time after waking up, thoroughly shaken. It's one thing to have a wet dream about one's so-called enemy, but a different matter entirely to try and face the new day, meeting the said enemy eye to eye. He's slightly hysterical about it all, fearing it's a sign he's starting to lose his mind. He can't give in to Potter. He desperately needs to control himself or he'll be ruined in this world where there are no friends left.
But when he closes his eyes and relives the dream, a faint blush covers him from head to toe, leaving him with a raging desire to see Potter again privately with just the two of them. He opens his eyes reluctantly and berates himself for dreaming of things he can't afford. Staying alive must always come first, and doing the deed with the Scarhead doesn't help. If Voldemort should ever catch him reacting to Potter's name any differently than with pure resentment, that would be it. Voldemort would use Legilimency on him and find out about everything. Draco would die twice; first in shame, then enveloped in green light. No, the less Potter occupies Draco's thoughts the better. If he only makes it through the war, he can have all the sex he wants with whomever he wants. And Potter can go to hell.
On his way down to the kitchen Draco hears Potter's voice clearly from behind the library's closed door, and on the spur of the moment he changes his mind and goes to snoop around in Potter's room.
Surprisingly, it isn't in any better condition than the other dusty rooms at Grimmauld Place, but it's much bigger than Draco's own confined space. Draco is scanning the room without really knowing what he's supposed to be searching for here. There's a large, old-looking bed on the far side of the room, and Draco walks deeper in, collapsing onto the soft mattress.
The duvet is carelessly tossed over the bed, showing half the pillow. Automatically, Draco searches for signs of red hair. There are only two loose strands of hair on the pillow, and they are both black. The half-amused, half-relieved smirk on his face freezes, however, when he looks to the side and notices the wallpaper. It's the same pattern from his dream. His heart starts beating faster and it gets difficult to breathe. A nanosecond later, the thrill reaches his cock, and Draco hisses, trying to press the swelling down in his pants. He's either been here before or Potter is spelling visions to his mind.
Even the slightest suspicion that the events of the previous night might be real, makes him clench the duvet, flushed and angry. Is Potter tailing him because he's feeling guilty for what he has done and wants to apologize? Draco doubts that very much. He knows from the experience that you only feel guilty if you get caught.
Somewhere a door slams, and Draco jumps up. He's still gripping the duvet tightly when he realizes what he's doing and lets go. His tugging has moved the covers, though, and from the corner of his eye he catches something glimmering under the bed. He turns to look closer and sees a box peeking from under Potter's bed. Something in the box flickers through. Something silvery and shiny. Instinctively, Draco steps closer still, intending to pull it out.
That very moment the door opens, and Potter comes in, finding the intruder.
"Draco, what are you — DON'T TOUCH IT! Get away from there!"
Draco is startled by the shouting and hardly has time to straighten up before Potter is already beside him full of righteous anger.
"Hold your Thestrals, I wasn't going to steal or break anything. I just wanted to have a look."
"Don't ever touch my things unless I say so!"
Draco is averting his eyes, dusting off his robes a bit shaken.
"All right, fine. It's still no reason to act like a madman. I just came here to see what you wanted from me yesterday and I found the room empty. When I happened to see something glimmering —"
The word 'glimmering' makes Potter's already settling temper rise again, and he steps closer to Draco.
Draco is struggling between his shame and rising anger, but when Potter steps into his personal space, standing only few inches away, he can't help but remember the dream where he penetrated Potter, how this hothead writhed and panted under him. The temperature in the room rises, and Draco feels himself getting aroused again. He wants to ask — no, demand answers from Potter, see how Potter would react to his accusations that he knows the wallpaper in Potter's room without ever having been there, but the words die in his throat. Potter is standing mere inches away from him, radiating such heat that Draco feels his determination slipping away. All Draco needs to do is go a little further, hurl a few insults at Potter, and Potter will be all over him, seizing the front of his robes, throwing him to the bed, pressing him on the mattress, and…
Draco's pants are tenting, and it terrifies him more than Potter's presence. He doesn't give Potter a chance to explain but rushes past to the safety of the hall.
Late in the afternoon, Draco must surface from his room where he's been hiding since he's already missed breakfast and lunch, and the Order has no use for spies who starve to death, not to mention that resisting Potter won't do with an empty stomach. He nearly turns around when he finds Potter in the kitchen, but at the last moment he remembers what it has cost him to get this far, and lifting up his chin he saunters in head held high.
Potter looks apologetic when he sees him. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I didn't mean to yell at you like —"
"But I —"
"Just shut up already. Your whining makes my ears bleed."
Potter does shut up, but all the way to the cupboard Draco can feel how the accusing stare burns two holes in his back. A change of plans it is then. A few biscuits must suffice until dinner time. Draco can't stay here a moment longer. He opens the cupboard door but sees, much to his chagrin, that some idiot has put the cookie jar near the back wall. He bites his lip, irritated, but refuses to give up. Using the wand is also unacceptable; it's not like he couldn't get the stupid jar without it. Besides, Potter's haunting stare must still be glued to his back.
Draco gets up on his toes, reaching for the damn jar, but it's still a few inches out of reach. He swears under his breath and leans on the edge of the sink in order to push himself up.
And suddenly Potter is behind him, pressed up against his back, also reaching out for the same cookie jar and breathing in his ear, "If you really want something that badly, you only need to ask."
Potter's taut body against Draco's spine is too much. Draco closes his eyes, desire coursing through him. Potter feels incredibly good against him, better than any dream version. He rubs his arse against Potter's cock through the fabric, wishing they were naked eons ago.
Draco still has one hand up on the shelf and the other one holding on to the sink's edge with a death grip, when he decides that having the upper hand is highly overrated. Why not surrender to Potter this once and just refuse him the next time? And if he asks really nicely, maybe Potter will obey his wishes, bind his hands to the cupboard door and take him roughly from behind.
Just when Draco is about to rest his head against Potter's shoulder and offer his neck for Potter to lick or bite, the door opens.
"Harry, I — oh god, I'm sorry."
Draco and Potter fly apart, looking guilty as hell, and Draco needs no other interruption to sober up. He abandons the cookie jar and takes the first available option that comes to him so naturally by now, fleeing from the crime scene. Potter shouts something after him, but Draco doesn't stop on his way back to the safety of his room. He can hear someone running after him, but he manages to make it to his destination.
He waits for his breathing to slow down, listening for any possible noises from outside his door. When finally somewhere a door closes, he grabs a towel and ventures back to the corridor. He frequents the shower too often as it is, but he's just sick and tired of the dirty sheets.
Draco never makes it to the bathroom, though. He hears a moan from the next room that makes his dick jump with sympathy, and even though he knows that nothing good will come of it, he soundlessly opens the door to the next room and enters.
It's another one of the countless, unoccupied rooms that Grimmauld Place is full of. Sometimes Draco wonders if the whole house is just one big Room of Requirement that gives birth to innumerable but identical dusty old rooms only to dispose of them at the same speed when no one's looking.
A second door, now halfway open, leads into another room, and Draco cautiously tiptoes there to have a peek.
The sight beyond makes him grab the door, knuckles white. Potter is on his knees in the middle of the room, trousers open, hand flying on his cock. His eyes are closed and he's biting his lip, trying to suppress the moans and gasps that treacherously escape from his lips time to time. Draco's mouth is watering when he looks at him. Potter has a beautiful cock, nicely sized and angry red. Draco would do anything to get a taste of it.
He holds on to the door, pressing hard on his own erection that's growing fast in his pants. He lets out a small moan himself, but luckily Potter doesn't hear it. He's too far gone to mind anything else.
Draco's eyes are riveted to Potter's hand going up and down his cock. He must be close now, and Draco is rubbing his own hardness through the layers of clothes, trying to get there, whining quietly. At that moment he wants Potter so much it hurts.
Potter arches his back, face contorting with pleasure in the throes of his orgasm. Draco's breath hitches when he hears his own name from Potter's lips.
Then he's running, and his legs won't carry him fast enough back to the privacy of his own room. He doesn't care whether or not his hasty departure causes noise when he flies out the door and in from the next one. Draco falls on his knees like that image of Potter, and has just enough time to get his hand in his pants, when he's already climaxing messily all over his palm.
Draco doesn't leave his room unless absolutely necessary. He's convinced that Potter has put a spell on him. That's why he keeps seeing those dreams and fantasizing about Potter all the time because now his head is about to explode from all the dirty images he has of him.
He should start preparing for the departure that's inevitably getting closer every moment, but there's no way he can appear in front of the other Death Eaters now. Just no way. He knows he's dead meat as soon as he leaves these walls. There's room for only one loony at a time in Voldemort's gang, and since the man himself is currently holding onto that position, Draco has no choice but to keep his wits about him.
Even with all the tumult in Draco's mind, he can't fast forever. When the dinner time draws closer, he leaves reluctantly for the kitchen, but just when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, the front door opens. In comes Lupin, looking even more weary and tired than usual. He nods empathically at Draco.
"It's your time soon."
Panic hits Draco again, turning his insides into ice, because he knows that Lupin is right. The icy feeling maintains its steely grip on him, and he can almost feel the way his left forearm is starting to itch as his master calls for him. These games of hide and seek with Potter have made him forget everything else, and now he can only wait helplessly for the call that's almost here.
Excluding the rebelling house-elves, it's as if Grimmauld Place has accepted its new master, keeping him informed about what goes on in the house at all times, because Potter has arrived on the scene, too. He's standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at the sight of Lupin, realizing immediately that Draco's countdown has started.
Voldemort keeps a strange order in the chaos he's ruling. The werewolves act as one pack, doing their part, and the wizard puppets as another. It's almost like a surreal dance routine. When the wolves are done, it's time to send the Death Eaters on the mission again.
Sheer desperation flashes in Potter's eyes, and when he locks gazes with Draco, Draco knows he can only run so far and that before Voldemort's call, there's another countdown compelling him.
Before dinner, the Order holds a number of meetings. Shacklebolt comes with his Aurors, McGonagall stops by and even Mr Weasley visits them, wanting to hear the latest report from Lupin. Sometimes Draco's allowed in the meetings, more often not. The less he knows about the Order plans the better. This time Potter, however, is included in all the meetings, and when he finally comes to the kitchen where the others have started their dinner, his jaw is set tight and he looks stubborn as hell. Draco knows this never bodes well.
Draco has already started to raise protective walls around him. He knows he won't be sitting here with the others tomorrow night, spooning soup in a carefree manner. Despite hardly eating for the past few days, he has no appetite. He keeps lifting the spoon to his mouth, as though under Imperius, without tasting anything. Simple routines are what he needs now, if he wants to save his life.
It doesn't help his digestion one bit that Potter keeps staring at him from across the table, turning Draco's innards into jelly. An oppressive mood hangs over the dinner table, when Draco reads his own destiny in Potter's eyes. He's frantically calculating how to make it upstairs and to his own room before Potter, but comes up with nothing. No one will help him, and it's too late now to look for allies.
He doesn't make it further than the door before Potter leaves the table, chair scraping the floor. Draco runs up the stairs as fast as he can, hearing Potter gaining on him with every step. This time Potter catches him.
"Let go of me, you stupid arse!" Draco cries, trying to wriggle out of Potter's iron grip. "I need to get ready to leave."
Potter doesn't let go. "I know exactly what you need."
And then he kisses Draco. The anger and fear caused by Potter's sudden assault fade with his raw kiss, and no matter how hard Draco's brains are screaming for him to get away while he can, his treacherous body is caving under Potter's hands, all blood speeding downhill, brakes forgotten.
Potter's hungry mouth moves onto Draco's neck, forming its own dark marks there, and Draco clings on to him with all the power he has left. He doesn't give a fuck about any dark lords. Potter is grinding their erections together, and Draco is only afraid he'll come in his pants before they even get started.
Potter fumbles for something behind Draco's back, finding at last the door handle and opening the door to his room. Draco stares into the vibrant green eyes, whining, "You'll be my downfall," before Potter shoves him backwards, not unkindly, and they stumble into the room without Potter ever letting Draco far out of his reach.
"It's all right, I promise."
Then Potter is all over Draco again, ripping Draco's clothes off as though he's the only gay man in town, and he lets it all happen. Potter takes off his own shirt, and hair tousled, cheeks flushed, he commands, "Get on the bed."
Draco doesn't even try to disobey him and lies quickly down on the duvet, watching Potter lose the rest of his clothes. When Potter steps closer, he reaches a hand to touch that familiar hard-on, but Potter slaps his hand aside and shoves him rather forcefully on his back, attacking Draco's groin.
"What are y — oh, fuck!"
Potter's bobbing head between his legs leaves Draco gasping for breath; he can't remember the last time he has felt this good. Potter licks and sucks and kisses him fiercely, and Draco wants to sell ringside tickets to the Weasley siblings and all the other hypocrite bastards; he wants them all to see with their own eyes how he, Draco Malfoy, can make their Golden Boy kneel before him and suck cock like he's born for it. And where on earth has Potter learnt to give a blowjob like that? The mere thought of Potter spending his nights blowing countless strangers while Draco risks his life, saving people who don't even want it, fills Draco with irrational jealousy.
Then even his jealousy must give way because he's so close he can't form one coherent thought to save his life. His body goes tense and he lifts his hips, whimpering.
"God — Harry — oh…"
It takes a while for Draco's racing heart to slow down while he lies bonelessly on the bed. He stares at the ceiling, and Potter moves to lie beside him. When his blood cools some more and he becomes the master of his own emotions again, he remembers what's waiting for him.
"What?" Potter asks, turning to look at him.
"I told you I have to get ready. I don't need this."
"Why can't you get ready here in my bed?" Potter asks and has the nerve to put his arm on Draco's stomach.
"You don't get it, do you?" Draco snaps, removing Potter's arm. "I need to clear my thoughts and prepare myself mentally. I don't want this sort of mess. Thanks to you and your stubbornness, I'm a total wreck now."
Potter has such a sad look in his eyes.
Draco feels all the more furious.
"The fuck you do! I can't afford to have this, when he says your name. I can't control it, if there are feelings involved and he'll know there's something I'm not telling him and he'll kill me and come after you."
Potter moves his hand back to Draco's belly, stroking him soothingly.
"Shh. There's a way. Let me show you."
Potter turns over to search for something from underneath his bed. When he faces Draco again, he's holding a small glass jar full of brightly glittering silver substance.
For a moment Draco just stares at the silvery swirl, and then a familiar cold feeling takes over him. He already knows the answer even before asking the question. He licks his dry lips nervously.
"We've — we've done this before, haven't we?"
"Yes." Potter looks dead serious, and Draco doesn't doubt him for a minute. He can't remember any of it, but he just knows Potter is telling him the truth. He looks at the one big mass of memories so mingled together that it's not possible to see where one ends and other one begins.
"But — but I don't understand. What about all the visions I've seen lately? Are they a part of the deal too?"
"Visions? What visions?" Potter frowns with concern. Draco's mouth tastes ashen.
"Like me tied to your bed or us doing it in a dark closet or — or the one time when I'm actually fucking you."
Potter's eyes widen almost comically. "You remember it? That's never happened before."
"So you're saying it's all true then?"
"Yeah, it's — we've done that, except never in a dark closet."
Draco grabs Potter's hands and turns them upside down, finding the familiar calluses there. "I couldn't see anything, but I felt your hands all over my body and you were kissing me."
Potter clears his throat, thinking back. "There was that one time when you wanted to try a blindfold."
It's Draco's turn to clear his throat. "I don't get it. I mean, if all the memories are removed like you say, how come I still see them so clearly?"
Potter's frown deepens. "They must be the echoes Hermione warned me about."
Draco has just enough time to ask, "Echoes?" before Potter's words hit home like the Hogwarts Express full of giants. "WHAT? Wait, are you telling me Granger knows about this?" A terrible idea occurs to Draco. "Has she seen them?"
He tries to get up, but Potter wrestles him back to bed.
"Of course she hasn't, don't be ridiculous! She knows I have some memories that belong to you, but she doesn't know what they're about."
Draco makes a face. "Wonderful! Who else knows?"
"No one else, I swear," Potter assures him. "I had to ask her for preservation spells because I didn't know how to keep memories intact out of a Pensieve. It was the only way. She may have guessed what they are by now but she's promised not to tell anyone."
Draco is appalled, but Potter goes on. "She told me something about how the removed memories will always leave an empty space behind and that if it happens repeatedly, your mind might start reproducing them when a familiar place or person or smell triggers it."
"You mean that from now on every time I see your scarred face or smell a mouldy house, my mind starts inventing these wild scenes of us rutting together? That's just bloody brilliant! Do you realize you're not just leaving private evidence of me for everyone to see but also turning me into a nutcase in the process?"
"I — I didn't, I mean it's the first time it really happened. You've never told me anything like that before."
Draco snorts. "Didn't it ever occur to you to just Obliviate me?"
Potter looks like he's having a hard time with all this. "Actually, it did."
"So? What stopped you?"
For once Draco is lost for words. Potter has a distant look in his eyes as he thinks back.
"The first time you came here, a year ago, you stayed longer. First I wasn't — I had never thought about you like that before, but you were quite persistent."
Draco's really sorry he doesn't have any recollection of the event, because he's dying to know what's causing Potter to smile inwardly like that.
"I think it surprised you too, but it was a really good couple of months. When he summoned you back you were really worried that he or someone else would use Legilimency on you and find out about us, and I suggested a Memory Charm. I didn't want to do it, but it seemed like the only choice."
Potter is quiet for a moment until Draco urges him to continue. "So I suggested you take the memory then?"
"Yeah. You said a Memory Charm was too risky because you needed to remember what went on in the meetings, and —" Potter hesitates. "— and you also said you wanted to have something to return to."
Potter's cheeks are slightly flushed, and Draco feels awkward. This conversation is becoming weirder by the second.
"I only Obliviate the brief moment after you give me the memory."
"And then you go and store it to the safest possible place you can think of, a jar made of glass?"
"I made it unbreakable," Potter insists defensively, cradling the jar in his lap. "I'm the only one who can open it. If anyone else tries it, it self-destructs. That's why I got so scared and yelled at you when you were about to touch it."
"So if you're gone, I can't even get my own memories back?"
"You wouldn't remember they exist."
"But couldn't I — "
"If I'm gone, does it really matter what we've done?"
Potter looks rather miserable, and Draco doesn't feel very happy either.
"Why don't you ever show them to me?"
Potter seems a bit hesitant before answering. "Sometimes I want to, like the other day, but it might get complicated. And — and I want you to want it too. Every time."
It's such a Gryffindorish way to think that Draco bursts out laughing. And he says so.
"You utter pillock! What's the point in all the courting, if I can't remember any of the previous stuff anyway? You just lose valuable fucking time."
Potter almost grins before turning serious again. "Are you okay with this?"
Draco thinks about all he's been through this year, and there's anger inside him, but it's no more Potter's fault than it is his own. All this time he has wanted to get back at Potter not knowing that in a way he has already won. The victory seems hollow now, though. He doesn't really hate Potter; maybe he never has. He doesn't remember any of the times they've been together except for the few vague visions, but there must be something in it, if he keeps coming back to it time after time. And if he's being honest with himself, it actually feels nice to be here with Potter instead alone in his room, waiting for the call.
"Yeah. I guess I am."
The look Potter gives him makes his cock stir. Draco swallows, trying not to make more of this than what it probably is. "But it's not like I'm in love with you or any such rubbish."
The sad look is back in Potter's eyes, and Draco's heart feels heavy.
"Just tell me it'll end soon."
"It will. Soon."
Draco casts one more look at the swirling silver and gets an idea. "Could I see one now?"
"I'd rather make a new one."
Draco blinks, trying hard not to drown in the bottomless green of Potter's gaze.
"Fuck me, Draco."
Draco is standing in the hallway, shaking his head. He's on his way somewhere, but has apparently forgotten where. He blinks in the dim light of the corridor and spots Potter, who's walking away from him, clutching something tightly to his chest, looking deflated. The poor hero with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Draco snorts. So typical of Potter.
His arm itches for real, and he knows it's almost time. Draco gets ready to Apparate.
When the end comes, it's surprisingly swift. With the help of Aurors, the Order attacks right in the middle of a Death Eater gathering in Voldemort's lair. The battle is short and ugly. Draco tries to dodge curses, clutching his wand tightly and heading for the only target he has in his mind, but it's no use. When he gets near enough to Voldemort, the lunatic is dead. Of course Harry bloody Potter has already thrown his Avada Kedavra, and no wordly misery can touch the man now.
Draco sits on the ruins, trying to come to terms with all that has just happened. He has dreamed about this over a year and now he can never avenge his parents' murders. The new world order is here and there's nothing waiting for him. He's just as useless and unworthy as the next bloody Death Eater corpse turning into dust.
Some Order members have gathered further away, and they are all clapping each other happily on the back for the job well done. Draco notices Potter with his two sidekicks, and his eyes meet briefly those of Weasley, who frowns and says something to Potter. Potter turns to look at Draco, and he has the strangest look in his eyes that Draco can't figure out the meaning. Draco averts his gaze, turning away so that he doesn't have to witness their overwhelming joy a minute longer.
Suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder. He lifts his eyes, seeing Lupin the werewolf in his human form.
"Don't forget to stop by at Grimmauld Place one last time."
"We need your report."
Draco snorts. "I'm sure you can manage without it."
Lupin looks tired but smiles a lopsided grin all the same. "There's still the small matter of assigning your pardon."
"Well, there's that."
When Draco stands up to Apparate away, he steals a glance at the Gryffindor trio. Potter is still looking at him.
Draco is sitting in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place for the very last time. During the past year he has sat here more than he cares to remember, and he can't say he's sorry now that he's finally able to leave the place behind for good. He can't recall a single happy memory from here.
There's a great hustle around him, people constantly coming or going. Draco has yet to decide where to go from here, but any place other than this is a welcome change. The war has cost him a lot, maybe more than almost anyone else he knows, but he's still a Malfoy and there will always be a place for a Malfoy in this world. If not, Draco will make it so again.
Waiting for his pardon to be approved by the Ministry officials, he sits there idly, staring at the cupboard across the room. He knows there's a cookie jar inside, but he has no idea why all of a sudden merely looking at the cupboard makes him feel really hot and bothered.
Someone taps him on the shoulder. Draco turns around to see Potter standing next to him, holding a small package hastily wrapped in a simple brown paper. One corner is slightly open, though, and Draco can see something silvery shining through.
"What's that? It's not even Christmas yet."
"Take it, it's all yours. Just let me be there when you open it."
From the triumphant look on Potter's face, Draco can't but accept the gift and smile hesitantly back.
The moment Draco opens the wrapping and reinstalls the first memory, he understands why Potter has insisted to be present and that they find a quiet corner. It's not a long memory but it's a very vivid one, and Draco pales considerably.
"Which one was it?" Potter asks next to him on the sofa.
"We were — erm — sharing a shower."
Draco doesn't look at Potter, but his hands are trembling as he realizes what all these silvery strands must contain. His grip on the jar tightens when he picks another one, which ends up being a rather heated moment with them on Draco's bed. Draco feels his cock taking an interest, swelling in his pants, and he doesn't really resist when Potter pulls him into his lap.
While getting reacquainted with the third memory, sitting in Potter's lap and tasting his tongue, Draco remembers now their first time together, and he's only mildly surprised to see that in the very beginning, he was the one to initiate it all.