hd_hols (hd_hols) wrote in hd_holidays,


Author: sdkshelly
Recipient: leo_draconis
Title: Swish and Flick
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, non-explicit Ron/Hermione/Pansy
Summary: The Swish and Flick is the last place Draco wants to spend his Saturday evening—especially when he discovers Potter is also in attendance—and he can't wait for the night to end. Unfortunately for Draco, time is not on his side.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Explicit sex.
Epilogue compliant? Not in the slightest.
Word Count: 7300 words
Author's Notes: My undying love to my betas, T and T. You're both angels! Happy holidays, leo_draconis! I hope you enjoy this!

Draco opens his eyes blearily, his vision a hazy blur of unfamiliar shapes. Cheek stuck to the pillow by what could only be drool, he yawns and tries to stretch his legs, only his feet are tangled up in cotton sheets. His jaw is sore, his mouth is dry, and there is a sweaty press of skin against his back.

"Ugh," he groans. He blinks and blinks again and slowly the bed curtains come into focus.

Only Draco doesn't have bed curtains in his flat, and definitely not scarlet ones.

A light snore sounds, accompanied by a faint gust of warm breath tickling the back of his neck. Draco tenses automatically, then forces himself to relax. Clearly, he went home with someone from Swish and Flick the night before, though when he tries to remember what exactly happened, his memory comes up frustratingly blank. As he gingerly flexes his muscles, kicking free from the confines of much cheaper sheets than his delicate skin is used to, he discovers his thighs are sticky and his arse aches in that tell-tale way that, unfortunately, he hasn't been all that familiar with as of late.

At least he had a good time—or so Draco assumes. His body certainly bears all the signs of one. If only he could actually remember.

As Draco inches carefully to the edge of the bed, the weight against his back drops away and he feels the other man shift. Draco hastens to make his escape—he hates the awkward morning afters and he has no desire to navigate around the 'breakfast' issue or the 'owl me' conversation, especially when he has no idea who this man is.

Draco spies his boxers on the floor near the foot of the bed. He grabs them, slips them on, and catches a glimpse of messy black hair out of the corner of his eye.

A Bludger slams into his stomach.

It's Potter. Harry bloody Potter.

"Fuck," he exhales, then immediately clamps his mouth shut. His brain continues a steady litany of curses, though thankfully his momentary outburst didn't cause Potter to stir. He just lies there, sheet slashed over his waistline, all tanned skin and lean muscles, and his neck and chest are littered with mouth-shaped splotches as if someone had spent the night vigorously sucking on his skin.

That someone would be you, Draco's brain helpfully supplies before he can tell his brain to shut it. Draco manages to tear himself away from the sight, though he barely has the presence of mind to locate his wand and summon his clothes before he tries to Apparate.

As he flicks his wrist to activate the spell, Draco spies a small thatch of mistletoe hovering over the bed. Then the world twists sideways and Potter and his bedroom disappear.


The Swish and Flick is not Draco's ideal place to spend a Saturday night, especially not the Saturday before Christmas when they have their annual Yule Fest, which is just an excuse for a crowd of witches and wizards to grind against each other and snog beneath the mistletoe under the guise of celebrating the season. But the Swish and Flick is where Draco's been dragged, kicking and screaming, by his soon-to-be-ex best mate, Pansy Parkinson. If he's going to get through this night with his sanity intact, he's going to need a drink.

Draco squeezes himself into a narrow opening at the bar and attempts to grab the bartender's attention; unfortunately, it looks as if Draco needs ample cleavage to obtain his goal, something he definitely lacks. It's too bad, Draco muses as he gazes at the man spinning several bottles in the air with his wand in a complicated dance that lands the perfect amount of alcohol in each of the shakers that line the edge. He is a rather fit bloke, wearing only a Santa hat and low-riding denims that show off his hip bones. Draco wouldn't mind getting his tongue on those. But the bartender definitely only has an eye for the witches in the crowd, taking full advantage of the charmed mistletoe that flies about the room. Where is Pansy when Draco needs her?

"Darling, it's a party, not a funeral. Try to at least look as if you're having a good time?"

Speak of the devil, and that isn't too far off the mark, Draco thinks when he takes in Pansy's skimpy red velvet dress. She did warn she would be dressing for the occasion, but all she needs is devil horns and a whip and she'd be better suited for Halloween.

Draco himself feels overdressed. Swish and Flick is a wizard's pub, but, like Pansy, most of the party-goers have opted for Muggle-inspired clothing for the holiday-themed soiree, and bare skin is on display nearly everywhere Draco looks.

"I'd manage better if I could get a bloody cocktail."

"Leave it to me." Pansy winks, then presses her tits up to the bar. Her skin is dusted in red and silver and her cleavage sparkles in the dim light. It does the trick and the bartender zooms in her direction.

"Two Flaming Santas please. Make his extra flaming," Pansy says, fluttering her eyelashes. The bartender flashes a grin and Draco rolls his eyes.

"Charming," he says as the man throws two bottles into the air and catches them with a timely Wingardium Leviosa.

"You need to get laid," Pansy replies.

"Then we should have gone to a gay bar." Draco accepts his drink and pays for both, though the bartender barely pays attention as his eyes are back to Pansy's chest again. Pansy ignores him, clinks her glass against Draco's and gives him a knowing smile that instantly puts Draco on alert.

Pansy's plotting. Draco suspects there isn't near enough alcohol in this 'Flaming Santa' to prepare him for whatever she has in mind, but he tips his glass back anyway.

"Potter's here," she mentions casually once she's swallowed. Draco nearly spits out his drink but manages to force the foul concoction down. His stomach flips, a nervous energy zips around his body all the way down to his toes, and as much as he wants to blame the alcohol, the shot is not nearly strong enough to warrant this reaction. He just hopes it's not written all over his face, but one glance at Pansy's smirk dashes that wish away.

Draco turns back to the bar and takes a deep breath.

"Don't you want to know where?" she adds innocently.

"Why would I be interested in Potter's whereabouts?"

"No reason," she says lightly. "But he's over in the corner with Ron and Hermione. I'm meeting them, didn't I tell you? Let's go say hello!"

Before he can protest, Pansy grabs his elbow and yanks him across the crowded pub, using a repelling charm to gently push others free from their path.

"Since when are they 'Ron' and 'Hermione'?" Draco calls over the incessant thrumming of what passes as music at the Swish and Flick.

"Since I've been sleeping with them." Pansy throws a grin over her shoulder and tugs his arm. "Do keep up, Draco."

Draco trips over his feet and nearly stumbles into a giggling witch—certainly this has to be one of Pansy's practical jokes—but moments later she releases Draco and launches herself between Granger and Weasley, giving them each overly-friendly hello kisses. Draco splutters, and watches—despite his better judgement—as Weasley gives Pansy's arse a quick squeeze. Granger bats his hand away, but instead of smacking the snot out of his nose, she laughs and pecks Weasley's cheek.

"Has the whole world gone mad?" Draco mutters under his breath.

"It's a bit odd, isn't it?" A deep voice cuts through the pub noise. Draco turns to find that voice belongs to the one and only Harry Potter. He's still wearing his trademark round glasses and his hair is as hopeless as ever, flopping this way and that, sticking up at odd angles—Potter perpetually looks as if he's just escaping a wind-storm. He lifts his drink to take a sip and reveals an overly-fat Santa decorating his loud red jumper. It jiggles its belly and wishes Draco a Happy Christmas.

All and all, Potter should look utterly ridiculous, but the perplexing fact is, the odd get-up somehow works for him. Merlin help Draco if Potter ever discovers form-fitting clothes.

"Did you know about this?" Draco's tone comes out more snide than he intends, but Potter doesn't seem to notice. He shrugs.

"Whatever makes them happy, I suppose," he says.

"Right." Draco's voice is laced with disbelief. Potter gives him this little half-smile and Draco's stomach explodes with pixies. He hates the way Potter can affect him; all Potter has to do is look in Draco's direction and Draco's mouth goes dry and his skin starts to itch and he feels jumpy and out of control, heart pounding like he's racing Potter to the Snitch one last time. It reminds Draco of why he usually avoids Potter at all costs. And tonight, Pansy, the bloody cow, led Draco straight into Potter's path.

Draco shifts his weight, acutely aware of the awkward silence hovering between them, but what exactly do they have to say to one another anyway? 'Thanks again for saving me for a fiery death, by the way, and making sure I didn't end up rotting in Azkaban the rest of my life.' It doesn't seem quite appropriate party conversation.

Potter breaks the silence by clearing his throat. "Ron tried to set me up with her first, you know. Pansy, I mean."

"I can see how well that worked out," Draco says as Pansy drapes herself over Granger's shoulders. She grabs Weasley's hand in turn and shouts, "Have fun!" in Draco's direction before the three of them disappear onto the packed dance floor. For the first time that night, Draco is thankful the pub is so crowded. He might have a mental breakdown if he were subjected to the sight of their three-way grinding.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco catches Potter grimacing slightly and Draco snorts.

"Let's just say she's not exactly my type," Potter says.

"Yes, she's entirely too good for you, Potter," Draco says, narrowing his eyes. "Pansy is bloody marvelous."

"Then why aren't you with her? Let me guess," he adds before Draco can respond. "She's not your type either. I'm guessing in the same way she's not my type."

Draco's eyes widen before he can help himself. Merlin's frilly knickers, is Harry The-Chosen-One Potter coming out to him? Draco peers into his impossibly green eyes and only finds sincerity, and perhaps a hint of amusement. Potter's enjoying himself, the bastard.

Draco tears his gaze away. His robes are way too hot for such a small pub; he needs air or at least an excuse to get as far away from Potter and his painfully earnest expression as he can.

"I need a drink," he says as he turns away.

"Wait—" Potter grabs his wrist and points up, a silly little grin coming to his lips. "It's mistletoe."

Draco follows Potter's eyes and finds a charmed sprig of mistletoe hovering over their heads, bathing them both in a faint red light.

Draco swallows thickly. On instinct, his gaze returns to Potter just in time to catch Potter's tongue sliding over his lower lip. His hand is hot against Draco's wrist and there's a pulsing electricity zinging between them where they touch.

"What's the matter?" Harry says, his voice pitched low. His green eyes dance, nearly glowing in the darkened room. "Scared, Malfoy?"

Draco can't breathe. He yanks his wrist away and in that instant, some sort of connection is broken.

"Sorry, Potter. Try your luck with Weasley. Maybe they'll let you make it a foursome."

Draco flees before he can change his mind, his heart beating wildly in his chest.


His brain feels like it's squeezing itself into a tight knot as Potter's bedroom morphs into his own. It's a relief to be home, though his head was already pounding when he'd woken up (in Potter's bed, his traitorous mind helpfully supplies), and his frantic Apparition has only made things worse. He assumes it's due to alcohol consumption, only he can't remember having more than that one wretchedly weak shot; it certainly wasn't strong enough to cause anything more than a mild hangover, much less what he's now experiencing.

Deep breaths, Draco tells himself. He looks down at the balled-up clothes in his hands, shakes his head, and deposits them in the self-cleaning hamper. He needs a hot shower and to forget everything about this night: Pansy's tits, Potter's ridiculous jumper, that mistletoe, all of it.

The steam eases the tightness in his lungs and the hot water feels heavenly, kneading the tense muscles in his shoulders with its hard quick pulses. He closes his eyes and ever-so-slowly the pain in his head recedes until it's nothing more than a dull throb.

Relax, Malfoy. The ghost of Potter's touch is on his shoulders and his back. A flash of memory whizzes through Draco's mind, mixing with the spray of hot water. He can almost feel Potter's hands on his skin, tracing down the curve of his spine, rounding over his buttocks, and easing his cheeks apart.

Arousal spikes through him and his cock swells between his thighs. Draco tries to push the image away and ignore it, but the memory is insistent, like the press of someone else's mind into his own. Something warm and wet licks around his rim and before he can help himself, Draco grasps the base of his cock and begins to stroke.

Potter teases him, swirling his tongue ever so lightly against Draco's entrance, giving just enough sensation to make Draco hungry for more—now—please. When he bucks back into the touch, Potter laughs, his breath hot against Draco's skin.

You like that, Malfoy? His voice is low and teasing, but he doesn't wait for a response before diving back in, licking in short wet stripes around the rim again and down over Draco's ball sac. Draco's legs quiver and he bites back a moan. He won't beg—Malfoys don't beg—

The memory is gone in a flash and Draco is left alone in his shower, frantically wanking himself. His mind reaches out for more, but there's nothing left, just the imprint of that short snippet he's been granted as if Potter is still teasing him, holding back the rest until...until—Draco doesn't know. He's too far gone to stop though, and with a stifled gasp, his orgasm rushes through him.

As Draco catches his breath, he watches the sticky remnants of his come wash away almost as quickly as his memory.



I've got a wonderful surprise for you so don't even think of standing me up tonight. I'll see you at Swish and Flick at 8pm. Oh and do wear something festive. It's a party!


Draco reads the letter twice, looks up at Pansy's owl, Persephone, who sits on his windowsill preening herself, then reads the note again.

It's the exact same owl he received yesterday, which makes absolutely no sense unless Pansy is attempting to trick him into attending another party. Draco wouldn't put it past her, but she's too much of a Slytherin to think this plan will work and Draco will forget he's already experienced one Saturday night at the Swish and Flick. That party had been quite enough for him to last the entire holiday season.

Something niggles at the back of Draco's brain, and as he mindlessly feeds Persephone a bit of leftover sausage, he tries to put together the events of the night before. He remembers the packed pub, Harry Potter's ridiculous Santa jumper, watching Pansy take turns snogging Granger and Weasley—much to his stomach's regret—and that damn mistletoe hovering over him, bathing Potter in a red glow. How green Potter's eyes were, the path of his tongue along his lower lip. How badly Draco wanted to—

No. Draco doesn't remember that. What he does know is that he made a hasty excuse and fled as fast as his feet allowed and then...

And then, nothing.


It is perhaps a fit of masochism—or his desire to avoid Pansy's howler that is sure to come the next morning if he stays home—that leads Draco to the doors of Swish and Flick only a few minutes past eight. He's learned his lesson and decided against robes that evening, opting for the closest thing in his wardrobe to Muggle Casual as he could find: sharply pressed black trousers and a button-up, open and loose at his collar.

And yet, he still feels overdressed.

But that feeling is surpassed by the overwhelming sense of deja-vu he experiences as soon as he walks inside the pub. It's like a snapshot of his memory: the magicked speakers spilling out a house-mix of the latest Weird Sister's holiday album, the half-dressed bartender to the left levitating his spinning bottles and kissing the wenches that line the bar one by one as mistletoe flies over their heads. Draco's feet automatically carry him in that direction, but he stops just short of squeezing himself through the crowd.

I'm never going to get a drink, he thinks. Just then, his vision is blocked by sparkling cleavage and tight red velvet. He looks up to see Pansy's raised eyebrow and her smirking blood-red lips.

"You're late." She kisses one cheek, then the other, then draws back and gives him a once-over. "Nice to see you out of those stuffy robes for a change."

Draco stares at her, perplexed. He's never known Pansy to wear the exact same outfit twice, much less two nights in a row, but she stands before him in the same low-cut, tight red velvet dress that barely covers her bits; she even has the same sparkling eyeshadow glamoured on her lids.

Pansy's brow furrows. "Darling, I know you're not exactly my target audience, but could you please stop staring at me as if I'm wearing a dead peacock from your family's garden?"

"Sorry, Pans." Draco shakes himself. The night before is a blur; perhaps Draco is just...misremembering. "You look nice."

"I was going for festive, but I suppose from you, I should take that as a compliment."

"I'm sure Granger and Weasley will enjoy your efforts more than I will," Draco says sardonically. Pansy's eyes widen and she lets out a little gasp.

"Who told?" Pansy plants her hands on her hips. "I wanted to see the look on your face! I'm going to smack to magic out of whoever spoiled my fun."

"You told me....last night? And showed me." He grimaces and expects to be slapped for it, but Pansy just looks ever more confused.

"Have you been spying on me, Draco Malfoy?"

"What? You don't remember last night...here? I swear they played this exact same horrid song too." Draco glances around the room; there is just something so familiar about everything—not just the bartender's hip bones or the screeching of guitar mixed with a drum and bass beat or even Pansy's dress. There's also just something about the people in the room, the way the witch in the corner giggles as mistletoe flies over her and her dance partner...

"Darling, are you all right?" Pansy's hands come to his cheek and forehead, breaking his gaze. He ducks away from her.

"I just...I need a drink," he says.

"Yes, a drink," Pansy says. She looks at him quizzically for a moment, then pats his cheek and smiles. "And then, we'll mingle."

Draco knows that smile; he's been subjected to that smile on more than one occasion including not less than twenty-four hours ago at this very pub right before she led him straight to Potter.

"Nothing Santa-related!" he calls out as an after-thought, but Pansy's already elbowed her way through the mob at the bar.

Draco's gaze wanders, then catches on a tangled mess of black hair. Potter stands in the back with Granger and Weasley. The wizard in front of him inches to the left, Potter points at something that makes Weasley guffaw, and Draco sees it: The overly-fat Santa, shaking its belly on the front of Potter's jumper.

"Drink up," Pansy says as she sashays back to his side, depositing the familiar Flaming Santa in his hand. "Oh, I see you've found Potter. Let's go say hello!"

Draco groans and tips back the shot in one go. It's just as unpleasant as he remembers.

Pansy grabs his elbow, but this time, Draco manages to keep up with her as they make a beeline to the Gryffindor trio. Pansy throws herself at her two lovers, but Draco heads straight for Potter, whose eyes widen slightly at Draco's determined approach.

"This is terribly wrong," Draco says by way of greeting. Potter's lips twitch upwards, and a tingling warmth spreads throughout Draco's chest. He ignores it—he doesn't have time for his usual reaction to Potter's stupid smile.

"It's a bit odd," Potter says. "But whatever makes them happy, I suppose."

"No, not their deranged threesome," Draco huffs. "This—all of this. We've done this before."

"You and me?" Potter cocks his head. "I think I'd remember—though we probably should get used to it if our friends have their way."

Potter nods over to where Pansy is leading Granger and Weasley to the dance floor; she shouts "Have fun!" then all three of them disappear into the writhing crowd.

"No, no, no." Draco squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, Potter is gazing at him curiously. "This—everything is the same. Look, I can prove it. You're about to tell me that Weasley tried to set you up with Pansy first, yeah? Then I'll say she's too good for you and you'll tell me you're gay! Well, you don't actually say it outright, but it's fairly obvious, and then...what?"

Potter is smiling at him, that damned smile that makes Draco's stomach flip, and his green eyes are dancing beneath a faint red light. Draco feels twitchy all over like he's about to jump out of his skin.

"Is this supposed to be a chat-up line? Because it's bizarre, even for you." Potter's lips quirk and Draco's not sure whether he wants to kiss him or punch him.

No, it's definitely punch, Draco reassures himself. He has no desire to kiss Potter whatsoever. Despite the fact that he woke up in Potter's bed that morning—but that's besides the point. Potter clearly has no memory of the event, so it definitely does not count.

"I need a drink," Draco says. There's something disconcerting about the red light that makes Draco want to flee (not that he particularly wants to stay in Potter's company either), but it's not until Potter grabs his wrist and says, "Wait—" that Draco remembers why.

"It's mistletoe." Potter points up, and Draco follows his gaze to find the same sprig of mistletoe glinting down at him, whirling its little leaves, mocking him. Draco glances down just in time to catch Potter licking his lower lip. His fingers brush the inside of Draco's wrist.

"What's the matter?" Potter says in that low pitch of his that makes Draco shiver. His breath comes short; his chest feels impossibly tight.

"Scared, Malfoy?"

Draco swallows thickly. Potter's green eyes are piercing, almost hungry.

"I have to—I have to go."

For a split second, Draco regrets his decision after he pulls away from Potter's touch, but he's halfway through the crowd and on his way out—to the cold night air—to a place where he can breathe. It's too late to change his mind now.


Draco opens his eyes to scarlet bed curtains.

He closes his eyes and groans.

Not again, he thinks as a light snore tickles the back of his neck. Draco squeezes his eyes shut tighter and wishes it all away.

When the sweaty weight remains pressed against him, Draco sighs and starts to scoot toward the edge of the bed; just as he predicts, his bed partner shifts, and Draco makes his escape.

This time when he slips his boxers on and Summons his clothes, he doesn't bother to turn around. He knows exactly who he will see.

Just as he Apparates away, Mistletoe whirls past his vision, then Draco pops out of existence.


The squeeze of Apparition produces a similar effect on his head as before; it's as if his temples are trapped in a vice grip that's being cranked closed inch by inch. It almost seems worse than the day before—or was it yesterday? Or is it the next day? Draco feels like he is losing his mind. He's sticky and he smells like sex, but Draco hesitates before he goes into the shower and decides on a strong Scourgify instead. It isn't nearly as effective, but it does the trick, and after a few minutes of deep breathing, the pain in his head recedes to a dull throb.

Draco tosses his clothes into his self-cleaning hamper and gazes longingly at his bed. He feels as if he hasn't slept in a week.

"No time," he mutters. The words sink in and a laugh bubbles up in his chest, just on the edge of hysterical. No time. If the day goes like all the others, Draco thinks as he heads to his study, he'll have all the time in the world.


The words on the page begin to blur. He's on his sixth tome—soon he'll have exhausted his own personal library—and Draco's starting to feel a bit desperate. He can find no hex or charm or spell that sends a person back in time and back into their own body, to relive the same day over and over again.
He'd started to feel like he must have just dreamed the whole experience up, but Pansy's owl had come and gone, demanding his presence at the Swish and Flick that evening, which reminded him that this is his reality now.

He's moved on to potions, but the edges of his vision are going dark. He closes his eyes—he tells himself it will just be for a moment—and rests his forehead against the desk.


Potter arches beneath him, pressing his chest more insistently against Draco's mouth, and Draco's lips curve to a smile. Potter's thrashing and begging for more, and all Draco's done so far is litter his neck and chest with love bites and swipe his tongue across Potter's nipples a time or two. His hands roam over Potter's sides and hips, soaking up his warm, sweaty skin. He kisses his way down Potter's lean torso, then nuzzles the thatch of tangled black hair just above his groin. Potter's cock twitches and brushes against Draco's chin, and Draco pulls away just as Potter's hips buck off the mattress.

"Not yet," he whispers. He licks his lips and isn't disappointed when Potter's eyes follow the drag of his tongue.

"I knew you'd be a bloody tease," Potter says, but his eyes are sparkling. His skin is bathed in a faint red glow and just above him, charmed mistletoe twirls and twirls...


Draco's eyes snap open and he sits straight up, sending a pile of books flying off his desk. But they don't matter—not anymore. Draco knows the mistletoe is the key. It has to be.


Draco stands warily at the doors of the Swish and Flick. A steady thump thump thump resonates through the thick walls and fills the small alley with sound; if Draco strains his ears, he can hear the scream of a guitar and Myron Wagtail's dulcet droning.

"No time like the present," he murmurs under his breath, then rolls his eyes at his unintended pun and crosses the threshold to make his way inside.

He instantly ducks to his right, avoiding the bar where Pansy will be showing up soon, looking for him. He has no desire to get stuck in the same loop—he needs to find that cursed mistletoe and destroy it before it yanks him back in time once more.

Only there is mistletoe everywhere; dozens of sprigs flying to and fro, pausing at random intervals to hover until their magic is satisfied with a kiss. He strains his memory, but he can't think of anything particularly unique about the one that has him under this hex, besides that red light that shone down over his and Potter's head. None of the mistletoe he spies is exhibiting that sort of quality.

Draco takes a deep breath and comes to the distasteful conclusion that he might just have to face Potter once more. Only this time he's going to catch that mistletoe before it can cast its spell.

He inches around the outskirts of the dance floor until he sees Granger and Weasley. Pansy appears at their side, kisses them both, then turns to Potter and shrugs. Despite the small differences, the rest of the scene plays out just as Draco remembers: Pansy slings one arm around Granger's shoulder, grabs Weasley's hand and leads them both to the centre of the dance floor.

Draco's gaze refocuses on Potter; but a laughing couple stumbles into him and blocks his view. He steps to one side, ignoring their drunken apologies, and searches for Potter's shock of black hair again. He slides his wand to his palm—the mistletoe will be showing up any moment now—but when he finds Potter again, the sight is like a hot poker to his stomach.

Potter's speaking to someone—another blond. The bloke turns his head for a split second, but that's all Draco needs to recognise him. It's Zacharias Smith, the smart-arsed Hufflepuff who strutted around Hogwarts in a poor imitation of Draco's natural charisma.

Irritation burns up through Draco's chest. Potter laughs at something Smith says, his eyes crinkling, his lips turned up in a bright smile; fire blazes through Draco's veins.

Draco catches a sprig of mistletoe out of the corner of his eye zooming in their direction. Its leaves glow faintly with red and Draco begins to rush through the crowded pub before he even knows what he's doing. All Draco can see is the vision of Potter and Smith kissing, of Smith laving Potter's bare chest with kisses, of Potter sinking to his knees and prying Smith's cheeks apart, of Smith waking up next to Potter's solid warm weight—

The spell ignites from his wand before he can even form the words and it sends Smith stumbling backwards. Draco screeches to a halt in front of Potter, panting and out of breath, just in time to be caught beneath the red light.

Potter's smile is dazzling.

"You're late," he says. Relief paints his features and when he touches the back of Draco's hand, something inside Draco clicks into place.

"It's been a long day," Draco replies, still catching his breath, but his lips turn up despite himself.

"Look," Potter says, though his eyes never leave Draco's. "It's mistletoe."

The noise of the pub and the press of the crowd fall away as Draco moves closer. Potter's fingers brush over his wrist. Magic sparks between them and zings over his entire body. Potter angles his head, his mouth so close that Draco can feel his breath against his lips. But somehow Draco knows Potter is waiting for him to make the final move and close the last inch between them.

"Scared, Malfoy?" he whispers.

Draco's heart thumps in his chest. "Not anymore." Draco's eyes fall closed and he kisses him.

Their lips slide together and all the nervous energy zipping around Draco's body is somehow calmed and heightened all at once. Potter parts his lips, and his tongue, warm and wet, dives into Draco's mouth. Draco's arms twine about Potter's neck and his hands seek out Potter's messy hair, bunching it between his fingers. With one arm wrapped around his waist, Potter tugs Draco closer, his tongue delving deeper, until suddenly he's pulling away. Draco lets out a little whine of protest before he can help himself. Potter's lips curve against his own, both of their breaths coming hot and fast.

"I think we should—"

"Yes—" Draco says; he'll agree to anything as long as Potter never stops kissing him. Potter whispers a spell into Draco's mouth and their tongues tangle together as the world swirls around them and fades into nothing.


Draco can't take off Potter's clothes fast enough, but his intensity is nothing compared to Potter's. As soon as they Apparate into Potter's bedroom, Potter rips open Draco's shirt, spraying buttons all over his hardwood floors.

"Whoops," he says with a sheepish half-smile. "I forgot you weren't wearing robes this time."

Draco's about to ask what Potter means, but Potter kisses the question away, then slides his lips down the column of Draco's neck. His mouth meets the juncture at his shoulder and whatever Draco wants to ask can wait; he can't remember the question anyway.

It's not until they're both naked and Potter's thrown Draco onto his bed, that Potter slows down. He kisses Draco lazily, almost frustratingly so, taking his time to drag his tongue over Draco's lower lip before he dips inside. His cock his thick and heavy against Draco's thigh and Draco reaches down between them, but Potter bats his hand away.

"Not yet," he whispers against Draco's mouth. "Turn over."

Draco obeys the command helplessly, pillowing his head on crossed arms. Potter's thighs come to rest on either side of Draco's knees. Draco feels the heat of Potter's gaze almost like a caress all on its own, but a prickle of nervousness overcomes him. He feels vulnerable and on display and it's titillating and nerve-wracking all at once.

"Relax, Draco," Potter whispers. His hands brush over Draco's neck and his shoulders and down along the curve of Draco's spine. His lips come after, kissing a wet path that follows the trail of his fingers. With each press of his lips, Draco's tension eases and arousal takes over.

Potter's hands round over Draco's buttocks and ease his cheeks apart just as his lips reach the cleft. He tongues down the narrow path and at his first lick around the rim, Draco bucks back against the touch. Potter holds Draco's hips steady, his breath hot and his tongue hotter. Draco's tingling everywhere with Potter's incessant teasing. His tongue flicks across Draco's entrance and down, then dips to Draco's balls. He mouths the sac until Draco is thrashing within Potter's steady grip, his legs spreading wider as he whimpers over and over, unable to stop.

"You like that?" Potter pulls back to whisper. Draco can feel him smiling against one cheek.

"No, you sodding wanker—what do you th—oh—"

Potter doesn't wait for Draco to finish before he thrusts his tongue inside the tight ring of muscle. He massages Draco's buttocks, his thumbs circling closer and closer to his mouth. Draco's as hard as a piston and he frots against the bed, desperate for some friction against his aching cock. Potter's licking him everywhere, as far as he can reach, and suddenly a slick finger joins his tongue, gently stretching him.

Draco pushes back, forcing Potter deeper, the burn only heightening his pleasure. He's already sticky, smearing pre-come into the bed covers with each thrust. His fingers twists into the sheets and he lets out a loud moan as Potter adds another finger.

"Fuck, Draco—I can't wait." His ragged words are followed by a scrape of his teeth along the inside of Draco's thigh and Draco keens and says something that sounds like, "Please--" but it's swallowed up in his moan.

Potter pulls him upright on his knees, his chest hot and sweaty against Draco's back. He plants sloppy kisses along Draco's neck and shoulder and Draco reaches behind him, desperate to touch Potter anywhere, but he only manages to tangle his fingers into Potter's impossibly soft hair. He hears a whoosh of a spell, feels Potter's knuckles skim across the small of his back as he slicks up his cock and then finally the head slips between his cheeks and finds his entrance.

Draco takes a deep shuddering breath as Potter breaches him; he's enormous and so thick, but moving too slow for Draco's needs. Draco tugs on Potter's hair and pushes back, groaning as Potter slides all the way inside, stretching him wide open. Potter is everywhere, hands sliding over his chest and his sides, thrusting inside him in long measured strokes. Draco's head falls back and Potter's lips slide from his neck to his chin and catch against his lips in a messy kiss. Draco's thighs burn and the next moment, he's falling forward, catching himself with his hands. He's already to the brink, coasting the edge of his orgasm when Potter's hand finally reaches his cock.

His fist is tight and Draco bucks into it, hips rolling in time with Potter's. Then Potter dips down and licks the shell of his ear and he's growling nonsensical words, and Draco is shaking all over, his centre coiling tighter and tighter until with one more thrust, his orgasm shoots through him and he comes so hard he nearly falls over.

Potter grabs his hips, his rhythm tight, fast, and growing erratic. Draco barely has enough energy to squeeze his muscles around Potter, but it's worth it when Potter gasps and pulses hard inside him. His head falls between Draco's shoulder blades, his breath harsh and uneven. He brushes his lips against the centre of Draco's back and his whisper is so soft, Draco barely catches it.

"So worth the wait."


Draco yawns and rubs his eyes and this time isn't surprised by the scarlet bed curtains when his vision clears. Potter's solid warm weight presses against him like a blanket. Draco's sticky and sore, but as he gingerly stretches his legs, dislodging the mess of sheets about his ankles, he smiles to himself because this time he remembers why. Thrice over. In perfect detail.

Sunlight seeps in through the window, bathing the room in a faint buttery light. Potter rolls to his back, but continues to doze. Despite his lack of sleep due to Potter's incredible stamina (not that Draco is complaining), Draco's too giddy to be tired; there's an excited nervous energy pulsing through his weary body, keeping him awake. He has a sudden thought and sits up, scanning all corners of the room, but the mistletoe he expects to see is nowhere to be found.

Draco breathes a sigh of relief.

He leaves Potter asleep in the bed, and after throwing on his boxers and one of Potter's singlets, he stumbles out of the bedroom, following an aroma of coffee wafting up from below. After thumping down a flight of stairs, Draco meanders into the kitchen and finds Pansy sitting at the kitchen table, two steaming mugs of coffee set in front of her. Somehow, he's not surprised to see her.

"I take it Granger and Weasley live here, too?"

"Third floor," she says and she wears a sappy sort of smile that Draco's never seen before. He doesn't know what to make of it, so he just drops into the chair beside her.

"Don't worry; Hermione always makes certain the privacy charms are in place. Two sugars?" she asks, pushing a red mug his way. Draco wrinkles his nose at the statement 'Gryffindor Rules!' inscribed on its side, but it smells too delicious for him to resist.

He sighs in contentment with his first swallow.

Pansy snickers behind her mug.

"What?" he asks, then his eyes narrow. "You knew I'd be here, didn't you?"

"I hoped," she said. "After a little encouragement."

Encouragement...the word dances around his weary brain until suddenly it hits him with laser-sharp precision.

"You—you did this. With the mistletoe!"

Pansy throws her hands up in supplication. "It's not like you were going to kiss him on your own, though you've been gagging for it since first year."

"Third," he corrects, then flushes a hot red when he realises what he's admitted. Pansy claps her hands in delight.

"I knew it." She ruffles his hair as if he's a child, and he slaps away her hand.

"Oh chin up," she says, returning to her coffee. "It's not as if you had to kiss him if you didn't want to. You could have ignored it and the mistletoe simply would have gone on to the next unsuspecting victim."

"Tried that. Didn't work."

When Pansy's brow knots together in confusion, Draco snorts. "Feigning innocence doesn't suit you, Pans. Unless your charm had some unintended side-effects."

"Afraid that was me."

Draco looks up to see Potter standing in the doorway. He's adorably rumpled, his hair even more of a disaster than usual, and his bare feet sticking out of a pair of much-too-big sweat pants.

"I thought you'd left," he says, looking relieved rather than put out that Draco is sitting at his kitchen table, drinking from his Gryffindor mug. He runs a hand through his smattering mess of hair, fluffing it further.

Pansy excuses herself, though Draco doesn't hear her words, only notices that she's leaving when the kitchen door snicks closed behind her.

"Disappointed?" Draco asks with a slanted smile. Potter rolls his eyes.

"Wanker. Is that coffee? Do you mind?"

Draco expects Potter to pour himself a cup and is surprised when instead, Potter slides into Pansy's vacant seat and steals a sip from Draco's mug.

"Hey—get your own cup," Draco protests, but warmth uncurls in his belly. Potter winces, smacking his lips as if he's found a bogey-flavoured Bertie Botts bean.

"I'll have to—this is more sugar than coffee."

Draco harrumphs. "Just two lumps. Let me guess—you like yours bitter and black like a proper bloke."

"Something like that."

They fall into silence, only it's comfortable, almost peaceful, with Potter still sharing Draco's coffee, despite his earlier words. His earlier words...

"What did you mean—it was you?"

Potter takes Draco's hand from where it's wrapped around the mug and laces their fingers together. It's a simple act, but it makes Draco want to push Potter down onto the table and kiss his breath away.

"I would have kissed you the first time under the mistletoe, but I figured you'd need a dozen times to kiss me back."

Draco's eyes widen. He should be annoyed. He should be furious. He should smack that little smile right off Potter's lips, but instead he feels like a blushing first year, heart all pitter-patter, his stomach flipping like it doesn't know what to do with itself.

"It didn't take me that long," he says.

When Potter laughs, his eyes sparkle. "I'm rather glad; I was getting sick of the Swish and Flick."

"Well, I was getting sick of that horrid jumper of yours. Someone had to do something."

"Clearly," Potter says. He rakes this thumb over the top of Draco's knuckles.

"One thing I don't understand—I kept waking up in your bed—but I only slept with you the one night, not all the other nights."

"But the other nights were this night—it's all the same night, Draco."

With his free hand, Draco rubs his forehead. "I hate temporal magic." He peers at Potter. "I don't suppose you're going to share how you accomplished this feat?"

Potter laughs and stands and pulls Draco up after. He's pressed so close, Draco can see each individual lash lining Potter's lids. Potter nudges his nose.

"Magic," he whispers. His lips curve upwards and Draco's follow automatically, and he decides, as they share a kiss, that he can get used to Potter's magic.

Tags: [fic], rated: nc-17, round: winter 2012

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Recent Posts from This Community

  • Fics/art no longer hosted on private domain

    Long time no see! So, yeah. This update is a few months overdue, and for that I apologize. Archive of our Own H/D Holidays Collection That link…

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    *dusts off* Some of you may have received AO3 notifications today regarding your fics that were used for hd_holidays. snowgall has taken…

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    If you ever experience an issue with one of the entries on this comm, please do not leave a reply in comments - either send me a PM or email me…