Title: Spinner's End, 1/2
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: The war is in full swing when Harry is forced to spend an unexpected stint in Spinner's End.
Word Count: 18,009 words
Author's Notes: Thanks to M and K!
This story was written for prompting requesting the following: Prejudiced but not evil!Draco, misunderstood!Draco, sophisticated and sarcastic!Draco, awkward but determined!Harry. Harry falls in love first and has to earn Draco's attention. Pansy as Draco's overly protective best friend. [No] homophobic!Ron (he won't love the fact that Harry likes blokes, but he's not going to stop speaking to him). School-age or early-mid twenties. One or both the boys are still virgins. Draco does what he does to spite Harry, but ends up getting attached in the process. Forced co-habitation (secluded and stuck together somewhere from whatever reason) leads to attachment.
Although some of these elements are included in this story, due to rearrangments and such, the story was reassigned as a gift to jamie2109, and I hope very much that she likes it.
The wards gave way with a sudden loss of pressure and Harry fell forward onto his hands and knees. Coughing Floo powder, Harry shook out his jarred wrists and got to his feet, wand still in hand.
“Put that down!”
The voice came in a harsh whisper from somewhere in the murky gloom ahead. Harry didn’t obey at once, squinting into the darkness. “Malfoy?”
“Are you deaf, Potter? Put it down!”
Harry could just see Malfoy, silhouetted against the faint light coming in from the grimy windows. He warily lowered his wand. “What’s going on?”
“They’re outside,” Malfoy said tensely, not looking at him. “All around the house. They can’t see it, but they know it’s here. Let go of your wand.”
“They can only trace wands if the owner is using it. Just do it, Potter.”
Harry put the wand on a grimy coffee table and gingerly edged over to Malfoy, wishing that Malfoy hadn’t seen him fall on his face. “Why don’t you have the curtains closed?”
“Makes it a bit difficult to watch them, don’t you think?” Malfoy’s gaze was trained on the window, not on Harry. “They can’t see in. They wouldn’t even know where to look.”
Harry wiped the grit from the dirty carpet off his hands and joined Malfoy in silent surveillance. Outside, shadowy hooded figures prowled silently around, sometimes coming alarmingly close to the window. He clenched his jaw. There were too many to attack. He stole a surreptitious look at Malfoy, who was hunched forward, wand resting on his knees, watching the Death Eaters with clenched fists.
During the entire course of the war, Harry had seen him now and then. They had exchanged words, but Malfoy in particular was always quick to keep it as brief as possible. Harry did not need the bother of wasting words on a person as antagonistic as Malfoy, regardless of which side it turned out he was on. Regardless of other things, too. He looked around. “Where are we?”
“You don’t know?” Malfoy glanced at him. “Haven’t you been here before?”
Harry glared. “It’s dark,” he said pointedly. “Some safehouse with dirty carpet and a dirty window. That’s about what I’ve got.”
“Spinner’s End,” Malfoy said, returning his gaze to the window, his voice passionless.
Spinner’s End. Harry felt a twinge of negative feeling. “Is Snape here?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Malfoy snapped. “Of course not.”
Stung, Harry vowed not to talk to Malfoy any more. Of all people to be stuck somewhere with, though what was worst about that was that he didn’t mind it half as much as he should have.
About ten minutes passed. Malfoy examined his nails in the dark. “How did you get here?”
“Moody,” Harry said. “He gave me some Floo powder, shoved me into the fireplace at Grimmauld Place and yelled something. I couldn’t hear it over the battle.”
“At Grimmauld Place!” Malfoy didn’t disguise the shock in his voice.
“You didn’t hear?”
“When did that happen?” The shock was still there.
“Yesterday. Or today. What time is it?” Harry automatically checked his watch, but it hadn’t worked since the attack in Northumberland.
Malfoy cast a wandless tempus. “Four thirty-five.”
Harry looked around. “Is there anywhere to sleep?”
Malfoy gave him a disgusted look. “There’s a bedroom,” he said, not bothering to hide the contempt. “One bedroom.”
Harry flushed under Malfoy’s scorn, but did his best to let the same expression form on his own face. “Is there more than one bed?”
“Bed?” Malfoy gave a short laugh. “Good one, Potter. There’s more than one bedroll, yes.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Harry snapped. Attractive or not, Malfoy was still a bastard.
Malfoy sighed. “Look, Potter. We may be here for awhile. I haven’t found a safe way to leave just yet, and we’re the only people here. We could probably both do without the hostility.”
Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. Malfoy was serious. “How long have you been here?”
“Two weeks and counting,” Malfoy said, looking somewhere at the floor between them. “There’s a bit of food. Nothing fancy. The range works, though, and so does the refrigeration unit.”
“Refrigeration unit?” Harry repeated, amused despite the circumstances. “Right. Fine. I guess Moody knows where I am, at least.”
“If this is where he sent you,” Malfoy said. “I was trying to get to Grimmauld Place. I guess the wards were already off or something.”
Grimmauld Place. The amusement evaporated. “I was staying there when it happened,” Harry said heavily. He could still hear the screams, smell the smoke. “I… don’t know what happened, exactly. I hope… well, I hope some of them got out all right.”
Malfoy shot him a quick, diagnostic look. “Not much you can do at this point if they didn’t,” he said briskly. “Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
Harry swallowed down the knot in his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”
“It’s filthy, of course,” Malfoy said, getting up and going to the first doorway. “I don’t know very many cleaning charms, and I don’t want to risk too much magic, anyway.”
“Are we stuck because we’re surrounded, or are there other reasons, too?” Harry asked, following.
“Mostly the first one. The house has been surrounded since right after I got here. I think they followed me. I didn’t mean to lead them here.” Malfoy stopped by a doorway leading into the only other room on the ground level. “This is the kitchen, such as it is. It’s cleaner than the main room.”
Harry glanced into the room, but wasn’t all that interested. “Where’s the bedroom?”
Malfoy’s lip twitched. “In a hurry, Potter?”
Harry realised that it sounded odd, but it was the middle of the night. He’d been fighting for nearly ten hours and he was grimy, horrified, and exhausted. He opened his mouth to find a retort, but nothing came to mind.
Perhaps Malfoy saw some of what was going on. His expression changed a little and all he said was, “It’s upstairs. The bathroom is up there, too, if you need to shower. There’s no tub, so that will have to do.”
“I don’t have anything,” Harry said. “Are there any extra things here, like toothbrushes and shampoo and stuff like that? Towels? I don’t even have a change of clothes.”
“You can spell your clothes clean,” Malfoy said. He pushed past Harry and gave him a condescending sort of look. “If you think I’m going to offer to lend you something, think again.”
He turned and went up the staircase. Harry kept his mouth firmly closed and trudged after him.
After showering, he felt much better physically, though he was still ready to pass out on his feet. Malfoy had shown him where the bedroom was, the musty-smelling bedrolls scattered about the floor. Harry picked up his shorts from the floor of the bathroom. Even through his outer clothes, someone else’s blood was on them, as well as his own from a cut on his thigh. They smelled sweaty and he was loath to put them back on. He couldn’t hear Malfoy moving around and didn’t want to ask if he thought it would be all right to use a charm on them, so Harry wrapped the towel Malfoy had silently handed him from a hall closet around his waist and went to the bedroom.
It was dark, though the moon added some illumination through the window. Malfoy was sleeping, his breathing slow and regular. Harry dropped his filthy clothes in a pile near the door and chose a bedroll several feet away from Malfoy’s. It was not a large room, and Harry was reluctant to sleep too close to the door. It was supposed to be a safehouse, certainly, but Grimmauld Place was supposed to have been impregnable, too. He crawled into a bedroll nude and was asleep within seconds.
When he woke, the room was empty. Sunlight was straggling in through the streaked and filthy windows. Harry touched his face. It had become reflex, feeling for cuts and his glasses. He found neither. The glasses were close by. Harry put them on and sat up. He found his wand and was set to cast a tempus to find out how late it was, then remembered Malfoy’s hissed warnings about using it the night before. There was no clock. He got up. The pile of clothing on the floor was as dirty as it had been the night before. Harry didn’t even want to put the robes back on, never mind the things that had been next to his skin. He found the towel from the night before and wrapped it prudishly around himself and went downstairs to ask Malfoy about using his wand.
Malfoy was in the kitchen, wearing a pair of glasses that Harry had never seen before, reading a book. They made him look rather intellectual, which Harry supposed he was. There was a plate with unfinished toast crusts pushed away from him and a cup of something steaming nearby. He looked up as Harry’s step creaked on the wooden floor, eyes travelling dubiously over Harry’s nearly-nude frame.
“You’re awake,” he said expressionlessly.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Can I use my wand? I’d like to clean my clothes.”
Malfoy pushed back his chair and pushed past Harry. “Can you see them out there?”
Harry turned around and followed the jerk of Malfoy’s head toward the window. “No,” he said, but left it open to question.
“Me neither,” Malfoy said. “But I’m pretty sure they’re still here, looking for us. They can probably sense that you’re here. The aura of the house has probably – ”
“I know about auras,” Harry said, giving him a dirty look. “Fine. Is there anything else here that I can wear? Is there a washer or anything?”
“No, and no,” Malfoy said, glancing at Harry’s chest again. “Just some of Snape’s old robes, and I imagine you don’t want to wear those.”
The glance had the effect of making Harry feel very naked, and suddenly he was self-conscious. He’d barely thought about his body, about changing in front of other people, or any of the related issues in months. Maybe even years. But Malfoy had always made him feel like a loser. He thought of his bony ribs and body hair and wondered if his build was completely awkward and disproportionate. At least he was fit. He knew that much. Trying not to squirm, he said, “Well, what I am supposed to do, then?”
Malfoy sighed. He went back into the kitchen and put his book down on the table. He brushed by Harry again and went upstairs. Harry followed him uncertainly, not sure whether he was expected to or not. Going into the bedroom, Malfoy went to a satchel in the corner and crouched down. “I suppose I will have to lend you something, after all. I’ll have to give you something that stretches. You’re bigger than me.”
Harry stood where he was in his towel and felt ridiculous. “Er, thanks,” he said uncomfortably.
Malfoy didn’t respond, digging through his things. After a bit he said, not looking at Harry, “You don’t have anything at all?” Harry made a negative sound, embarrassed. Malfoy sighed again. “Here.” He tossed something small back and Harry caught it, nearly losing his towel in the process. He clutched at it and just caught the underwear. They were briefs, and he was accustomed to boxers, but he turned the other way (not that Malfoy was looking) and put them on. They were oddly constricting, but held things together rather securely. Undergarments had been the only articles of clothing Harry had ever had new, and Aunt Petunia’s idea of a suitable garment for Harry had been plain white briefs. He’d never worn them since he’d turned fourteen, secretly preferring the Weasley brothers’ wildly patterned boxer shorts. Malfoy’s were comfortable, though, and at least the navy wasn’t plain white.
He was still holding the towel in front of himself and trying to look as though he wasn’t when Malfoy straightened up and turned around. He came over and handed Harry a pair of jeans. “These are old and a bit loose on me,” he said. “I hope they’re not too tight.” His eyes slid down Harry’s front again, eyeing his waist. “They might be all right. Try them on. Otherwise, it’s Snape’s robes.”
Harry let go of the towel and reached for the jeans. “God forbid,” he muttered, and Malfoy actually gave a short laugh. The jeans fit snugly, but they fit.
Malfoy examined him critically. “They’ll do,” was all he said, but Harry was fighting not to blush under the scrutiny. “Here.” He gave Harry a t-shirt. “If you’re cold, I might have a jumper or something. I don’t want you stretching my stuff, though. This is an old shirt.”
“Thanks,” Harry said awkwardly. He put the shirt on, simultaneously relieved to have something to cover himself with and feeling strange in the clinging shirt. He’d always been used to clothes that fit more loosely. And damn it, where had the self-consciousness come from? That had to stop. He looked discreetly around for a mirror.
Malfoy caught him at it. “In the bathroom,” he said, lip twisting.
Harry nodded, face growing hot, and went to view himself. The result was rather surprisingly good, though he didn’t feel much more comfortable than he had. He couldn’t imagine Malfoy in the faded jeans and Muggle-seeming t-shirt, but both items were well-worn and comfortable, apart from the tightness. Malfoy barely made a sound as he went past the bathroom on his way back downstairs.
The bread was stale and Harry guessed it would taste much better toasted. There was no coffee, but there was quite a bit of tea in the cupboards. Harry carried this meagre breakfast into the other room. Malfoy was sitting in a chair that faced the window, wand lying on the arm beside him, reading the paper. Or pretending to read. Harry chose a dusty armchair not far from him and sat down to eat his toast. Malfoy ignored him. Harry thought of the many, many occasions during which he had eaten in front of other people and thought with annoyance that he’d never managed to get as many crumbs on himself as he was currently doing, or made as much noise chewing. The only sign that Malfoy knew he was in the room was the tiny line that had appeared between his eyes. He was wearing the glasses again, Harry noticed, and otherwise tried not to notice him at all.
The silence in the room grew thick. Harry got up to take his dishes back to the kitchen and then start working on a way to get out of the depressing place.
“How did it happen?”
Harry stopped. “What?” He looked back over his shoulder at Malfoy.
The paper was folded on Malfoy’s knee. “How did it happen?” he repeated, voice barely audible. “At Grimmauld Place.”
Harry felt the shadow cross his features before he could prevent it. He found himself unable to speak. Making an inarticulate sound, Harry gestured with his dishes and escaped into the kitchen. He put the plate and cup down in the sink, his heart suddenly racing. It was all rushing back. He’d become so good at just not thinking about things, turning it all off and refusing to acknowledge it. He hadn’t thought of what had happened at Grimmauld Place because he was afraid to and didn’t even want to acknowledge to himself that it had happened. He couldn’t go back out and deliver a calm explanation to Malfoy. Not and keep it together, and to fall apart in front of Malfoy was unthinkable.
He stood there, breathing hard and trying to hold himself against the images, fingertips white where his hands were gripping the edge of the sink. He didn’t know how much time had passed.
The floor creaked behind him. He could sense Malfoy there in the doorway, his eyes watching him appraisingly. “That bad?” Malfoy said quietly. It wasn’t really a question.
Harry made himself nod, his glasses slipping down his nose, his back to Malfoy.
There was a moment of silence. “What was going on when you left? I mean… was there… who was there?”
“Death Eaters,” Harry said, hatred lacing the bitterness in his voice. “Everywhere.”
“Yes, but from our side… were you near anyone?” Malfoy sounded anxious.
Harry reached up and pushed his glasses up his nose. Still speaking into the sink, he said, “I saw Lupin not too long before I… and Moody. Moody was somewhere nearby. I don’t know about everyone else. I – George – ” He stopped, unable to go on.
There was a pregnant pause. “George Weasley?” Malfoy asked carefully.
Harry nodded again. “I… I don’t know if he made it out. The room where he was… was surrounded. I couldn’t get to him. I don’t know if anyone could.”
“Where was Fred?”
“Right outside the room,” Harry said dully. He couldn’t think of Fred. Fred without George was an unthinkable thought.
Malfoy fell silent. Eventually, he asked, “How did you get here?”
“Moody,” Harry said. “Threw me in the Floo with no powder to get back. I’m sure it wasn’t a mistake, sending me here, not that there was much time.”
There was another pause, and Malfoy shifted his weight, the cracked linoleum protesting again. “Then I guess it was too late for you to do anything else there. Was the – was Voldemort there?”
“No,” Harry said, his throat burning. “If he had come, I would have killed him, for what they did to…” Again, he couldn’t finish, and didn’t try.
Malfoy crossed the small kitchen and put the kettle on the range to boil. For a moment he just stood there, not far behind Harry. “I’m going to make tea,” was all he said.
It wasn’t much, but Harry made himself nod again. “Right,” he said, and his voice sounded more normal. “That would be great.” He moved away from the counter and from Malfoy. The house was too small to really be able to go anywhere much, but he didn’t want to be in the same room as Malfoy any more. Not like this.
“There’s a bottle or two of firewhisky upstairs in Snape’s study,” Malfoy said, almost conversationally.
Harry turned around to stare at him on his way out. “What?”
Malfoy was matter-of-fact. “Tonight, I think we should get smashed.”
Harry tried to think of something to say that would make sense to that. It struck him as being the best idea. The only good idea, at this point. “Right,” he said, still staring at Malfoy.
Malfoy gave him a glimmer of a smile, all coolness and business still. “You’re on, then.”
“Okay.” With that, Harry got himself out of the kitchen and off to the bedroom to hide.
Malfoy hadn’t been joking, it seemed. Harry spent much of the day skulking upstairs and writing owls that he couldn’t send, because there weren’t any owls. At one point he saw one flying in the general vicinity, but perhaps it couldn’t find the house under the wards. And if it could, it would only lead the Death Eaters to them, so perhaps that was for the best. He would figure something out.
Malfoy came up around seven, sometime after Harry’s foray down to the kitchen to find something to eat. He knocked and opened the bedroom door without waiting for an answer. Harry was sitting against the wall, trying to read an old spell book he’d found in the closet. He looked up.
Malfoy looked at him. “Here you are,” he said. He was carrying the bottle of firewhisky and two tumblers. He came over and sat down on a bedroll, placing one glass in front of Harry and the other in front of himself, the bottle between them.
Harry looked at the set-up. “In the flesh,” he said.
Malfoy gave him an almost-smile. “I’ve needed this for days,” he said. “It’s a bit pathetic to get completely pissed on your own, though.” He shrugged. “Now that you’re here, I figure you need it as much as I do. Or more.”
“More,” Harry said. He leaned forward, reached for the bottle and poured a full glass. The whiskey smoked and he admired it for a second. Malfoy was pouring his own glass and held it up in a mock toast. “What are we drinking to?”
Malfoy shrugged again. “I don’t know. Surviving the war seems a bit too obvious.”
Harry eyed him. “I didn’t think that was something you were too worried about.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Malfoy looked irritated.
“You seem to be pretty good at picking the winning side,” Harry said, not caring if it was blunt or not particularly nice.
“Fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy said, glaring. “I’ve been on this side my entire adult life.”
Harry inhaled the fumes but didn’t drink. “Surviving the war is too obvious,” he said.
Malfoy contemplated his whisky, the glare fading. “Surviving it well, then,” he said. “Not much point in surviving if there’s nothing left worth living for.”
There was so much truth in this that it hurt like a punch to the gut. Harry gritted his teeth. “Here’s to surviving in style, then,” he said flippantly.
Malfoy leaned over and clinked his glass to Harry’s. “I can drink to that.” He swallowed, grimacing. “Ah.”
Harry followed suit. The firewhisky was well aged and burned acridly down his throat. It hurt at first, and then the pain faded to numbness which was immediately addictive. Harry drank again, relishing it.
“So,” Malfoy said soberly, gazing into his glass. “Where do we go, once we figure out how to get out without being followed?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “There are other safe houses where we could find people. There’s the Ministry building, but I haven’t trusted that for months. There’s Hogwarts, but that’s too big to be secured. St. Mungo’s, maybe. The Weasleys’.”
Malfoy made a face. “Say it hasn’t come to that.”
“Don’t be a prick.”
“Old habits die hard.”
Harry almost laughed. Malfoy caught it and gave a wry smile. “True enough,” Harry said.
Malfoy drank some more. “I have to admit, I’ve been stuck here a long time with no one to talk to. I guess I shouldn’t alienate the only other person here.”
Harry poured himself another hefty tot and shifted down onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Also true. Do you have a plan for getting out?”
“If I had one, I’d have left already,” Malfoy said. He nodded toward Harry. “I’m counting on you, Potter. Work your luck or magic or whatever it is. I’m sure you’ll think of something. I’ll help. We’ll come up with something. Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Harry said. “I don’t know where it would be best to go, though.”
“We don’t have to figure it out now. I’m more interested in getting pissed.”
Harry did laugh this time.
Harry wasn’t sure how much later it was, but it was late. Malfoy had turned a light in the corner on as darkness had fallen in the room. He was back, mirroring Harry on his side, saying something about Ginny. “… never did find out why that ended,” he said.
Harry blinked himself back into focus. “What? What are you saying?”
Malfoy’s eyes bored into his. “Pay attention, Potter. Weasley. I’m asking why you broke up with her. Everyone thought that was going to be sort of permanent.”
Harry snorted. “Hardly.” He put his glass down and rolled onto his back, contemplating the cracked ceiling.
He waved a hand in a random sort of way. “There was a war on. Or about to be on. I didn’t want to drag her into it. And then I figured out that I didn’t really care or miss her all that much, anyway. And other stuff, but that’s the main thing.”
“What other stuff?”
Harry could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him and wondered if his face would give him away. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, to have Malfoy suspecting that he was stuck living with someone who – no. “Just stuff,” he said vaguely.
Malfoy snickered wickedly. “Would ‘stuff’ have anything to do with the rumour I heard about you and Bill Weasley?”
So much for his face not giving him away. Harry could feel it flaming. “What rumour?” he tried, but even drunk, he could hear how pathetic it sounded.
Malfoy laughed again. “Good try, Potter. Thanks for confirming it. You know the one. Goes to the tune of you and him behind the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and somebody – or two twin somebodies, rather – walking in on someone going down on someone else.”
Harry turned back on his side to finish his drink, trying not to choke on it and using the time to stall. “How did you hear about that?” he muttered, meeting Malfoy’s eyes.
“How do you think? There are mouths the size of the Panama Canal around, Potter.” Malfoy’s eyes gleamed with mirth. “So how was he, Potter? Was that your first one? Did you return the favour after?”
“Fuck you,” Harry said, his tongue thick from the firewhisky.
“Is he hung? I heard he was.”
Harry glared at him. “As if I would tell you that. And why are you so interested, anyway?”
Malfoy shrugged. “Just curious. Is he rough?”
Harry’s face burned again. “What kind of question is that!”
“Pretty normal one, I thought.” Malfoy’s eyes had narrowed to gleeful crescents.
Harry put down his glass and sat up. “Look, if you just want to ridicule me for my, er, my preferences, then you can fuck right off and leave me alone. What do you want to know? Yes, it was my first, and you can spare me any comments about ‘keeping it all in the family’; Fred and George covered that ground quite thoroughly, and if you ever tell Ron or Ginny or Molly or Arthur or Hermione, I’ll maim you. I’m serious.”
Malfoy just stared at him, the humour disappearing. “Fuck, Potter, calm down. I was just asking.”
“Right,” Harry said, still angry. “Well, now you know.”
“Look, I had a little thing for Weasley – Bill, that is – a long time ago. That’s all.” Malfoy held his gaze until what he was saying filtered through Harry’s sluggish mind.
Harry felt his jaw drop. “You’re gay?” He’d never suspected. Hoped, maybe, but never really thought it was true.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Brilliant, Potter. You must be the only person in the Order who doesn’t know that. What hole have you been living in?”
“Fuck you. Are you serious?” Harry stared back at Malfoy.
He got a cool look and Malfoy dropped the sarcastic banter. “It never came up in conversation before.”
“And you knew that I was? How long have you known?” Harry was flustered and not sure how to react to this.
“About you or about me?”
“Well, both, but I meant about me,” Harry said.
Malfoy squinted into his glass. “I’d say… January,” he said. “About you.”
It was May now. Harry was shocked. “And you never said anything to me? Who told you?”
“The twins,” Malfoy said. “And as I said, it didn’t exactly come up.”
“Why would they have told you?” Harry burned with indignation.
“At least one of them was in a compromising position, shall we say, at the time,” Malfoy said. A smirk was beginning to grow at the corners of his mouth.
Harry was shocked again. “You – and the twins? At the same time?”
Malfoy treated him to a smile that was full of Slytherin. “The safe house in Norfolk got pretty cold sometimes, what can I say?”
Jealousy hit, burning a hole in his gut. “I can’t believe that,” Harry said. “That’s so – I don’t even know what to say.”
Malfoy poured more firewhisky into his glass. “I’ll leave it to your imagination, then.”
“Was it just a one-off?” Harry was embarrassed for asking, but wanted to know.
“Definitely. They both have their charms, but the ginger thing is a huge turn-off. For some of us, anyway.” Malfoy smirked at him.
Harry took the firewhisky from Malfoy and drank straight from the bottle. “I would do a lot for a no-strings one night stand about now,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, not caring how it sounded. “All I ever see are people from the Order, and that’s just – well, the selection is hardly very big, and there are emotional problems with that.”
Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. “Really,” he said.
Harry realised that it sounded rather a lot as though he’d just propositioned Malfoy. “Uh – maybe that didn’t come out right,” he tried. “I didn’t mean you, specifically.” Only he had, but Malfoy didn’t need to know that.
Malfoy looked down. “You’re hard,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end. “You got hard thinking about me with the twins.”
Alarmed, Harry looked down, too. There was definitely a bulge where there shouldn’t have been one. His face grew hot again. “No, I – it’s just from talking about sex in general,” he said. “I didn’t – I mean – ”
Malfoy crawled forward and reached over, cupping his hand under it, which shut off Harry’s stream of attempted speech in a strangled sound. He felt his cock grow instantly much harder. How often he’d tried not to let himself think about this. He couldn’t believe it was actually happening. Of course, Malfoy was completely pissed, but then, so was he. There was no point now in thinking of what Malfoy would think of this or how he would be tomorrow, not when his hand was already touching Harry through the jeans that didn’t even belong to him. It also didn’t prevent the sound he had just made.
For a second, their eyes locked. Then Harry grabbed Malfoy by the back of his neck and brought their faces together violently. It was nothing. He told himself this. It was two people who were really drunk and trying not to think about the war. It wasn’t him and Malfoy; it was random drunken snogging. And hopefully more. It didn’t really matter – whatever the reason, he was still kissing Malfoy, the other half of his brain argued, and it was a fucking fantastic kiss. Malfoy had pushed him back against the wall and was straddling his knees, his mouth devouring Harry’s. It was strong and not too wet and wet enough and intensely erotic all at the same time. It was everything he had expected – or hoped – that kissing Malfoy would be like. And it tasted like firewhisky, smoky. He could hear himself moaning, as though it was someone else making the sounds, but he could feel the resonance in his own throat. He was aware that he was grinding impatiently against Malfoy to the best of his ability, Malfoy’s weight holding him in place.
Malfoy pulled back. “What do you want, Potter?” he breathed, his eyes dark as slate in the incandescent light. “Say it. Tell me what you want.”
His hand came back to grip Harry’s erection, making him lose his breath in a rush. The alcohol made him far too honest. “I want you blow me,” he gasped, pushing desperately into Malfoy’s hand.
Malfoy gave him the sort of smile Harry imagined a predator would give its prey. “Nice and direct. I like that, Potter.” He went for Harry’s neck and bit savagely, and Harry was inarticulate, clawing at Malfoy’s back and arse, anything he could reach, really.
Malfoy’s fingers were undoing the button of the jeans, shoving the zip down around Harry’s cock, which was doing its best to get in the way, bursting out of Malfoy’s briefs, and the thought that they were Malfoy’s didn’t help anything at the moment. Long fingers pushed those out of the way, too, and then they were touching Harry in strokes that were just this side of being too rough, and the roughness made him writhe with need, pushing himself desperately into Malfoy’s hand.
Malfoy’s laugh was dark and seductive. “Patience, Potter,” he said, but Harry had got his hand onto Malfoy’s cock through his trousers, and he wasn’t in much of a position to talk, Harry thought.
“You – I need to – ” he tried, but Malfoy shook his head.
“That’s not what you said you wanted. First things first, Potter.”
His mouth left the vicinity of Harry’s neck and skipped directly down past the t-shirt to Harry’s bare cock. Harry only had a second to register what was coming next, but he still jerked with pleasant shock when Malfoy’s hot mouth enveloped him, half his cock swallowed on the first go. He gasped and clutched at Malfoy’s hair. It was hard and fast and Malfoy’s mouth was far too strong; it was like he was sucking Harry’s core out through his cock and it felt far too good. The truth was that Harry had never had a blow job before, never had a mouth on his cock before at all, in fact, which was none of Malfoy’s business at all. He hadn’t answered the question about Bill; somehow, he had a feeling that telling Malfoy that Bill hadn’t returned the favour, thanks to the twins’ untimely interruption would only provide him with more ammunition. But the sensation was overwhelming, and if he wasn’t careful, he was going to come perhaps thirty seconds into it, and he wanted it to last much, much longer than that. He bit into his bottom lip hard and made himself push at Malfoy’s head. “Stop!” he gasped.
Malfoy looked up, annoyed. “What?” His voice was raspy from Harry’s cock in his throat, and that didn’t help anything, either.
“I want to suck you first,” Harry said. The words were slurred between lust and alcohol, but he got them out.
Malfoy stared at him, eyes glassy, and looked about to object. Then he appeared to change his mind. “We can do it at the same time.”
The words took a second for Harry’s brain to process, but then he got it and went for Malfoy’s trousers at light-speed. He was tugging at them, Malfoy’s hands pushing his out of the way to help, and with all the grabbing, Harry could feel him straining, almost shaking with need. The zip was dealt with and Malfoy’s cock was in front of him, hard and pushing against his briefs. Harry yanked these down and went for Malfoy’s cock with his face and hands. His cock was nicer than Bill’s. Malfoy twisted around and let Harry have his cock, going back for Harry’s. They were both on their sides, bending over each other. Harry got his mouth onto Malfoy and moaned over his cock as Malfoy grabbed his again, devouring it. His mouth was too strong now – Harry could feel it coming and he was helpless to prevent it. He sucked harder, trying to catch Malfoy up, his mouth sliding over Malfoy’s flesh at a furious rate. He couldn’t help it – he was moaning again and arching his hips up to pump himself into Malfoy’s mouth. Harry gripped Malfoy’s arse and tried not to clench his jaw as he came, wheezing through his nose, red colouring his vision, lips clamped like a vacuum around the head of Malfoy’s cock.
Malfoy made a somewhat surprised sound and pulled back to swallow, not taking his mouth away completely. The skin there was particularly sensitive and Harry shuddered convulsively as more of it shot into Malfoy’s waiting mouth. It was almost too much, but it felt so, so good. It was over at last and Harry remembered what he was supposed to be doing. Malfoy let his cock go. “Fuck, Potter. Doesn’t take you long, does it?” he panted.
Harry pulled his mouth off long enough to glare at Malfoy’s cock and say, “Fuck you!” before returning his energies to the job at hand. Or mouth, rather. He went faster, trying to adjust to the fact that Malfoy’s cock was upside down in his mouth. One hand found the balls and tugged lightly. Malfoy shut up quickly, his breath coming harder. Harry noted this with satisfaction and kept going. His cock was lolling limply against his thigh now and Malfoy was propped up on an elbow, watching him. Harry kept going until he heard a sharp breath and then Malfoy fell onto his back, cursing and jerking his cock up into Harry’s mouth. Harry instinctively backed off a little and waited, massaging the head of Malfoy’s cock with his tongue. That did it; Malfoy came hard, a groan tearing from his hoarse throat. Harry caught it on the back of his throat and nearly gagged. He coaxed out more with his tongue and swallowed it all. Malfoy reached down and let his cock slap against Harry’s cheek.
“Ah,” he said, his voice immensely lazy now. “God, I needed that.”
Harry let himself fall back. “Me too.”
“Obviously,” Malfoy drawled, making Harry feel about two inches tall.
“Shut up,” he muttered, his face burning. He was glad Malfoy couldn’t see him. And also very tired.
Malfoy seemed to feel the same way, at least. He rolled over and unzipped the nearest bed roll. Without a word, he crawled into it and turned his back to Harry.
Harry lay where he was for a bit longer, then at last dragged himself over to his own bed roll and got into it. The firewhisky bottle and glasses stayed where they were, and his last thoughts were that this was likely going to be rather awkward in the morning. But at the moment, he didn’t particularly care.
When he woke, it was to a pounding, swollen head, and it was probably not morning any more. Harry groaned and fumbled for his glasses. He couldn’t find them. When had he even taken them off? He reached around and patted, and, unable to locate them that way, finally managed to summon them wandlessly. Shovelling them toward his face, Harry pushed himself upright and wondered what had crawled into his mouth and died. A tooth brushing was definitely in order.
Memory filtered back, delaying him temporarily. His recollection of the previous night was only a little fuzzy. He remembered quite well what had happened. It began to sink in. He looked instinctively for Malfoy, knowing already that he wasn’t in the room. He was right; Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. He had no idea what he was supposed to say to him, or what Malfoy was going to be like.
Only one way to find out, Harry supposed, but he needed a shower first. He staggered to his feet and into the bathroom, rinsing his mouth repeatedly, then brushing his teeth. He was sticky and his muscles were a touch sore in unexpected places. The shower was heavenly. At least Snape’s meagre house had hot water.
After, Harry ventured downstairs in Malfoy’s clothes, trying to tell himself not to be nervous. Perhaps Malfoy wouldn’t even remember that he’d come so spectacularly soon in the proceedings. Perhaps he wouldn’t remember it at all. He couldn’t prevent the leaden feeling in the pit of his belly, though – surely if Malfoy was feeling good about the entire thing, he might have stuck around in the morning.
A glance in the kitchen proved futile. Harry looked in the main room and found Malfoy sitting on the edge of the sofa, gazing out the window. There was a small bag on the floor, packed and too obviously ready to go. He heard Harry’s step and turned his head.
A long moment passed. “Are you leaving?” Harry asked starkly.
Malfoy broke the eye contact, speaking too quickly. “I think the Death Eaters are gone. The aura around the house feels different, can’t you feel it? I just wanted to ask if you know where it’s still safe to go.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. If Malfoy was leaving, then he could leave, too, but it seemed so sudden that it was hard to believe it was unrelated to the previous night. “I – I don’t know,” he said, feeling extremely uncertain. “I don’t know anything for sure about the other places. The last I heard, the safehouse in Devon was still protected. The one in Scotland was blown up, as you probably know. St. Mungo’s might be the best.”
Malfoy’s tone was cool. “Will you be going there?”
Harry made a random gesture. “I don’t know,” he said again. “I hadn’t given it any thought. I mean, I didn’t know the Death Eaters were gone. Yeah, I guess so.”
Malfoy got to his feet. “I suppose I’ll see you there, then.” He picked up the bag.
“Wait!” Harry said urgently. When Malfoy sighed and looked up, he stammered, “Do you mean that you – I – never mind. I don’t know what I was going to say.”
Malfoy studied him for a moment, the line between his eyes hard. “I meant that if you’re going to be there and I’m going to be there, then I’m sure I’ll end up seeing you around,” he said. “I hope that makes it clear enough.”
Harry was taken aback by the hard edge to Malfoy’s voice. “Very clear,” he said neutrally, trying to disguise his hurt.
“Good.” Malfoy straightened his robes and avoided his eyes. “I’m leaving, then.”
“Bye,” Harry said, but the pop of Malfoy’s Disapparition meant that he’d probably missed it. Harry went upstairs, feeling horribly disappointed and empty.
St. Mungo’s was busy and full. Harry arrived to a crowded Apparition foyer. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, but Ron was. Spotting him, Ron hurried over, relief all over his familiar features. “Harry! Where have you been? We’ve been going spare, wondering where you’d got to after Grimmauld Place!”
“Moody sent me to a safehouse,” Harry said grimly. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch. It was surrounded.”
“I owled you, but it came back with the letter,” Ron said. “Which safehouse? Devon’s gone now, and so is Northumberland.”
“Northumberland,” Harry repeated, startled. “What’s left?”
“This,” Ron said, looking serious. “We don’t even trust the Burrow now.”
“Is there bed space here?”
“Just barely. We’re in the minor injuries wing; it’s furthest from the patients.”
“Wasn’t that the infirmary before?”
“Still is,” Ron said, grimacing. “It’s pretty ugly. And full. You’ll get a bed, though.”
He was leading Harry toward the lifts. Harry followed him, and felt slightly better, though he didn’t ask about Malfoy.
He saw Malfoy later, though; in the common area where the food was being served. He was with Pansy and looking annoyed. Pansy saw Harry before Malfoy did, her eyes narrowing in the same old contemptuous, overly familiar way. Harry looked away, steering Ron toward the opposite corner where Hermione was waving them over.
Ron set down his tray and looked back. “Why’s Parkinson staring at you, mate?”
Harry glanced over, only to see Pansy smirk and look away, bending to whisper something to Malfoy. He felt his mouth compress and worked hard not to react. “No idea,” he said, but he was gritting his teeth.
Three days passed. St. Mungo’s was overcrowded and Harry desperately wanted to leave. He was craving solitude and there was none to be had. Sitting in a corner with a book he couldn’t concentrate on over the noise of the people talking across the lounge, Harry found himself suddenly faced with Pansy. She dropped into the seat across from him and reached into her purse for a packet of cigarettes. Sticking one between intensely red lips, she said, “Potter, we need to talk.”
Harry felt his expression turn to a scowl. “Why would we need to do that?”
“You mind if I smoke?” Not waiting for an answer, she snapped and the cigarette flared briefly.
“Yes, I mind,” Harry said.
She smiled around it and left it exactly as it was. “You’re as bad as Draco. And speaking of Draco, just don’t.”
His annoyance grew. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t play stupid, Potter. You know exactly what I’m talking about. It can’t happen. It wouldn’t work, and he doesn’t want it. So don’t waste your time there.” Pansy blew smoke out the corner of her mouth, her dark hair swinging into the hollows of her cheeks.
Harry let the furrow crease his forehead. “What makes you think I want anything? And what do you know about it, anyway?”
She looked amused. “Oh please, Potter. I’ve seen the way you look at him. When you’re in the same room, you get so hot and bothered you can barely sit still. And as for what I know about it, let’s just say that I hear you’re a little quick on the draw. Draco generally needs it to last a little longer, you know? Trust me on that one.”
Harry felt his face suffuse with heat so quickly it nearly made him light-headed. He swallowed hard, both angry and embarrassed. “First off, I do not get hot or bothered by Malfoy at any time, second, I was drunk, for fuck’s sake – I don’t usually – I mean, that’s not how it usually is – ” the tips of his ears were flaring by now – “and for your information, he barely lasted any longer. It was a matter of seconds, if you need to know. And how do you know?”
Pansy smirked. “Not personal experience, if that’s what you’re trying to ask, Potter. God, you have no subtlety whatsoever.” She eyed him, the smirk lingering along with the smoke. “I’ve heard stories, that’s all.”
“Maybe he’s just slow,” Harry shot back. “Have you considered that?”
“Draco? Not likely,” Pansy drawled. She inhaled deeply, leaving red lipstick around the filter. “He’s very particular, though. And you do so get hot and bothered. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s just not going to happen, though, and I don’t want you getting all distracted and mopey when we need you to be on your game. More to the point, I don’t want to have to deal with you. A lot of people have crushes on Draco. If he was interested, he’d tell you. I’m just doing you a friendly favour here.”
Harry’s flush had finally died down. He felt rather deflated, and the embarrassment lingered. “Well, I wasn’t pursuing him,” he said stiffly. “I’m not interested in him.”
“Cute, Potter.” Pansy said, exhaling smoke through her nose. She got to her feet. “And nice try. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. And I’d work on my technique, if I were you. Toodles.”
She made her exit, leaving Harry feeling more humiliated than he’d felt in awhile. He hadn’t thought that Malfoy would tell Pansy what had happened at Spinner’s End, and it wasn’t fair that he had told her that. Not that Malfoy had ever been fair, but it made Harry angry nonetheless.
Two hours later, the signal came and the minor injuries wing of St. Mungo’s emptied as everyone answered the call to battle.