Word count: 17,689
Gift for: gauriel (tis very long, love! I hope you don't mind)
Summary: Harry's Christmas isn't shaping up the way he'd imagined it would.
Disclaimer: The HP characters don't belong to me and I don't make any money off of them.
Part One: Business As Usual
Christmas wishes were funny things. When they weren't busy not coming true at all, it seemed they amused themselves by morphing into something that hadn't actually been wished for and then coming true. But then, it made sense that Harry Potter's Christmas wishes would be just as argumentative and confusing as the rest of his life.
Harry was fairly certain that he'd never actively wished to be in Draco Malfoy's home, even though it was a rather stunning four-winged manor with more antiquities than a Greek Muggle tragedy.
Never mind that maybe he'd wished to be in Draco Malfoy's bed once or twice. Or three times. Or that he'd wished to be under Draco Malfoy in Draco Malfoy's bed. Just details. The manor didn't even factor into it.
And yet, here it was, two weeks before Christmas, and where was Harry?
“Getting nearer and nearer to that bed because you're in the bloody manor,” he muttered aloud.
“What was that?”
Harry looked up, chewing at his lower lip. Malfoy's cocked eyebrow stared back at him, as if eyebrows had any right to stare. He glanced away. “Just admiring your… décor.”
Malfoy's mouth quirked up slowly and gracefully, and maybe a little bit lewdly, but Harry considered that it might just be all this expensive lighting and the fact that he was pretty sure his host was supposed to be elsewhere right at that moment instead of scandalously absent from his current party and scandalously alone with Harry.
“State of the art,” Malfoy said, sweeping a hand over the porcelain, cherry wood, and velour luxury of his foyer. “My mother had impeccable taste and my father had the means to implement it.”
Harry nodded, and tried not to wonder what he was doing in Malfoy Manor. After all, he'd planned to come to a Malfoy Manor tonight. Just… not this one.
It wasn't so unusual to receive an invitation to a Wizarding gathering. Godric knew Harry James Potter held box seats at the top of every bloody guest list in the magical community. And Draco Malfoy's lists were always up to date. It would be more of a statement not to invite Harry Potter. He was an eligible bachelor, still fairly young, and infamous enough that an alteration to either of those two facts wouldn't matter for some time yet.
Besides, he had yet to attend a Malfoy party where he actually spoke to Draco Malfoy without the presence of sixteen people only four feet away, chomping at the bit to schmooze with one or the other of them.
Which was why the solitude and proximity now were quite interesting.
Malfoy leaned casually against the arch between the foyer and the massive living room. If people who lived in manors called it that. “Wine, Potter?”
Harry thought about it. “No, thanks. But I will take some Scotch. If you have it.”
Malfoy's eyes glinted. “Single malt, pure, or vatted? And that's just the first cellar.”
Harry smirked back. “Malt.”
His host's gaze was as even as tempered glass. “Perhaps you'd like a tour while we secure our drinks.”
It wasn't a question. Harry hadn't expected it to be. He nodded and followed Malfoy through the vast rooms and halls, listening to the sensuality with which the man spoke of his home. Not difficult to see why Malfoy was where he was today; that voice could sell - or buy - anything. Hells, Harry would have fronted money he didn't even have for the lushly furnished drawing room alone, just for the privilege of pondering exactly which “stimulating activities” the blond man was speaking of in reference to the settee in the corner and a rather private gathering three years ago.
“I don't even use the east wing right now,” Malfoy said as they traversed the longest hallway yet. “Tis the season for airing it out, though, so you will be one of the lucky few to see my summer chambers.”
Harry hmmed, caught up a bit on the idea of seeing any of Draco Malfoy's chambers.
The man was certainly an enigma. More a figurehead nowadays than a real person, because real people did not own half the known magical estates in the world, or continue their extravagant spending-and-selling sprees, while at the same time managing a respectable social life and remaining clinically sane. Though there were rumours about all of that, too. The one truth that everyone knew was that Draco Malfoy was married to his business.
Not that he didn't have a social life. Just, priorities were priorities. Everyone knew Malfoy had a healthy sex life. He was entrepreneurial, not dead. Harry wouldn't exactly have called him a playboy, but that was more on account of his professionalism than any devoted tendencies he'd witnessed from the man. Draco Malfoy was a businessman, heart, body, and soul. The entire Wizarding world had watched in awe as the last Malfoy, stripped of everything he owned except for the trust money the Ministry couldn't touch, had fought, cajoled, bartered for, swindled, bribed, won, allocated, and downright purchased every single thing that had once belonged under the Malfoy name, along with a hell of a lot more. The day Draco swiped his own property in the Italian Apennines right out from under the Ministry's outraged nose, using nothing but plain, old-fashioned guile and Galleons, had prompted the largest popular uproar since Harry's own defeat of Voldemort years before. One simply had to respect Malfoy's talent for navigating the world of supply and demand. If one didn't absolutely worship the last surviving Malfoy, then there was always the grudging admiration and desire to see what he would sink his talons into next.
Alas, Harry was not of the latter group. Not lately anyway. Rather, he fell into the rubric of those who desired the toned and lean body that went with the ingenious mind. It was a little distressing, to be perfectly frank, because even though the war was long over, surely there was something more crucial on which Harry could be expending his energy than the current state of Draco Malfoy's clothing and bedtime company.
It just felt a little strange to Harry to have time to think of normal things like ridiculous crushes again, instead of keeping himself alive.
The trip down to the cellars was quite adventurous, in Harry's opinion. Had he not been with Draco Malfoy, he never would have chanced the maze of catacombs. And if Malfoy said anything about rare casks of Amontillado, he was planning to run as fast as he could for the surface. It was the only Muggle story he remembered clearly from his days pre-Hogwarts, partly because it had scarred him for life. But Malfoy lit the darkness in front of them with a lazy flick of his hand and guided Harry not only to his malted Scotch, but also back up out of the damp, dank dungeons and into the light.
“Don't you have house elves for this kind of thing?" Harry asked curiously, because he really was curious. Malfoy shot him a patronising glance, smirk once more in evidence.
"Please, Potter. You think I would leave them in charge of my finest liqueurs and wine vats? No, 'this kind of thing' definitely requires a human's touch."
Harry could immediately think of about five other things in the near vicinity that required a human's touch, all of them belonging to his person, and he took a rather large drink of his beverage in an attempt to shut his overactive brain down before it got him into hot water. Alcohol mightn't be the best of ideas at this juncture, he considered, but that thought really didn't hold a candle to the actual presence of the alcohol itself, and Harry let it go with a wistful smile.
Besides. They were supposed to be at the Malfoy Manor in Greece, hob-knobbing with the foremost in Wizarding business and entertainment. Obviously they were here instead for a reason, and Harry didn't think he was too presumptuous to guess at what that reason might be. He was a grown man, able to take care of himself, and it wasn't everyone who got to see the original Malfoy Manor in Yorkshire, under the direct - and very interested, if Harry was good at summary judgments - supervision of the lord of the manor himself. If the host could sneak away from his own party, then who was Harry to deny the unexpected invitation?
It was just a little odd to him that he'd actually dropped his reservations at the door and gone with Malfoy. Certainly he'd imagined doing it. Draco Malfoy was… Well.
If wishes were Hippogriffs.
"Well, Potter, this is my study, and I'm in need of a short dalliance while I wait for this wine to breathe. Care for a seat?" Malfoy swept a hand toward one of the lush couches in the center of the room, half-facing a huge and roaring fireplace. The colour was rich and crimson, incredibly soft to the touch, and Harry sat gingerly, watching as his host took the equally plush high-backed chair across from him.
Luckily, Harry found another focus for his eyes before Malfoy noticed what he was sure was a somewhat vacant stare, and looked about the room instead. Matching tapestried walls and strategically placed portraits of snoozing ancestors and mythical beasts gave the room a comfortably muted quality. Wherever it might be in the manor's floor plan, Harry felt as if he were in the center of the house, as far from the outside noise and interruptions as he could get. "Nice place you have here," he said jokingly.
Malfoy swirled his wine glass with elegant fingers. "What, this drafty old shack?"
Harry met his smile and shook his head, partly because those eyes were almost too grey to look into for very long, especially when they were fixed upon him already. He heard his host sigh contentedly. Malfoy draped himself further into the chair's depths, legs falling apart in such a way that Harry rethought his initial preference of looking there instead of at Malfoy's eyes. "Well, it's home. Not like the others. Certainly not like that monstrosity we just left. Merlin almighty, my mother was daft as a Bugbear to purchase that place. But it was her favourite for some godawful reason, and I wouldn't feel I was doing her justice if I let Scrimgeour get his dirty little hands on it, now would I? Pride, Potter. Must be maintained at all times."
That was one thing Harry didn't need to be convinced of. He was about to ask about the other manors, particularly the largish one in San Rafael, California, US of glorious A, when there was a sharp crack, and Harry nearly dropped his Scotch.
The house elf was halfway through its tirade before Harry even registered that it was a house elf.
"Will Master please to give Flinky instructions on the gentlemen's owls that are currently beating down the French doors in the ballroom and carrying very large packages with the name Gluckworthy and Sons on the return address before the stained glass breaks and Flinky must explain to Master why he must replace the doors that the most kind and magnanimous former former former mistress had commissioned all the way back when Flinky was just a wee elfling--"
"Yes, yes, Flinky, do shut up for a moment." Malfoy sat up a bit and took a measured sip of his wine, rolling the taste across his lips with a tongue that by all rights should never leave his mouth, as it caused certain unruly things to start tossing in the vicinity of Harry's navel. "Open the windows and let three of the owls in, but tell the fourth to go back home immediately. I don't do business with that third Gluckworthy son, and he had damn well better cease with his insipid brown-nosing before I choose to reallocate all of his family's assets, the snotty arse."
"Oh, Flinky thanks Master and will see to it presently." Crack.
"Bastard tried to rob me of half my aunt's cabinetry last month," Malfoy said with a sneer, kicking back into the chair again. Harry looked down at his Scotch, glad he was still in fact holding onto it, and took a sip.
"Your elves... pop in here like that much?"
Malfoy shrugged. "I really hadn't noticed. It's become such a madhouse recently, what with the holidays. I suppose I'm used to it." His gaze focused rather openly on Harry again, and another drink of Scotch was in order. Though he didn't really seem to be making much progress. Perhaps the glass was charmed to refill automatically from the vats in the cellar.
"So. You leave your own parties often?"
Malfoy's laugh was the heat of a cozy fire. "Only when I have better prospects for the evening, Harry."
Ah. Well. He supposed that answered that question.
Harry thought that maybe he would try to hold Malfoy's gaze this time, and then realized how naïve a notion that was when he looked up… to find his host's eyes just raking over him. Head to shoulders, knees to feet, chest to hips to thighs. The glow in those pale irises was fervent and just a little unsettling. Harry swallowed, and Malfoy spoke.
“You wouldn't believe how long I've waited to see you in this manor, Harry.”
His given name again. And Harry had noticed it the first time; it was just that he'd been distracted by other things. But this time around, there was no mistaking the conscious watchfulness of the other man. His gaze licked over Harry like a flaring flame.
“I'd no idea,” Harry managed, quite a bit more calmly than he'd expected. Maybe because it was the truth. Malfoy had never given any real signs of such blatant appreciation. But to ignore it now was the stupidest, most useless idea Harry had ever had. His throat dried and he lifted his glass to wet it once more.
Malfoy rose sinuously from his chair, wine flute dangling from his fingers. The liquid gleamed a sensual amber as it tipped and coated. Glazed the glass just as Malfoy's eyes glazed him. There was something almost affectionate in his stare, coupled with something far more familiar to Harry, and this time he really did need that drink.
Malfoy reached out one slender hand and eased the tumbler very deliberately out of Harry's grip. His shirt, ice-white, was opened to the third button, and the skin of his chest glowed nearly the same colour as the wine. Harry saw rather than heard the intake of breath as Malfoy inhaled, muscles decorated by firelight and shadow, and felt something thud heavily into place in his belly.
“I wasn't… finished with that,” he said slowly.
Malfoy sank down onto the couch not two inches from Harry, all smouldering eyes and body heat and good smell. His fingers slid up Harry's bare forearm and his other hand settled the Scotch onto the tea table in the same movement. “I'm the host,” he said, voice very low. “My right to rescind any comforts I might have offered, in favour of my own.”
“Ah,” Harry said, not entirely sure if that was a good answer or not, but he was willing to negotiate, though he was having trouble organising his thoughts around anything except the way Malfoy kept getting closer and closer and closer.
“Ah,” Malfoy agreed amicably. Softly. He leaned closer still.
And then Harry was tasting wine instead of Scotch. Just a fine tang of it across his lips, followed by heat, and suddenly his Scotch wanted more of that wine, it was a very good vintage, and Harry's mouth was open, and Malfoy's mouth was just delicious somehow, and there was a tongue and it wasn't Harry's, and oh gods, he hadn't had a good kiss in ages, explosively good, he could hear the sparks crackling--
"Will Master please forgive the intrusion because Flinky is indeed more sorry than words can express, but that Sardovich goblin is in the fireplace asking for particulars again and Flinky has told him to bugger off as Master specified, but he is holding the nasty yellow potion again and Flinky is not liking getting splashed with it this time--"
It was only then that Harry realized the crack he'd heard had been real.
Malfoy pulled his lips from Harry's and looked around at the elf. “Tell him the funds have been transferred to his client and will be finalized by next Wednesday; should he need confirmation, he may bother my solicitor after ten tomorrow morning, and mind your manners, Flinky.”
The house elf cracked away again.
Harry blinked at the abruptly empty space. But Malfoy turned back to him before he could form words. “As I said, very busy,” he hastened, in a voice much huskier than it had been, and plunged back in, and Harry's eyes shut all by themselves, and he quite forgot what he'd been about to say.
Malfoy's tongue was indeed talented, both in his own mouth while speaking, and in Harry's mouth… doing other things. He smelled of sea breeze and musk, and slightly sweet, and he had on what had to be Wizardom's softest shirt. It just made a home for itself between Harry's fingers, and it was perfect clutching material for the moment when Harry realised he hadn't kissed anyone else who really had a talent for kissing in a long, long time, and Malfoy certainly had it, juggling tongues and lips and breath and hands as if he were born to kiss people for a living. And Harry wasn't in the habit of pulling back when he didn't need to - like, say, to catch his breath, because Malfoy saw to that need without breaking the press of lips and tongue and teeth for more than an easy instant - and so he rather lost track of how long it had been going on until he became aware of the extreme softness of the couch all along his back, and the weight of the body he'd had dreams about on top of his. Malfoy's hair was even silker than his shirt, and long enough to tangle fingers in quite inextricably, and if Harry felt a new coolness against his chest, an absence of the familiar cotton of his own shirt, it was much more of a haze than any real conscious observation.
It was nothing but a tiny shiver in the back of his mind that maybe this was proceeding just a little too speedily. Easily dismissed with Draco Malfoy's tongue stroking slowly and deeply and achingly against his.
It wasn't everyone who got this. Sure, there had probably been a few on this very couch, but it was hard to be concerned with that right then, and surely Malfoy wouldn't have asked him here if he wasn't a tiny bit interested.
Except then a log in the fire snapped, and Harry pictured a house elf.
And suddenly he wanted to ask questions, a whole lot of them, like Are you sure it's a good idea? or Perhaps this room isn't quite right? or In here, with all those portraits? and they were silly questions because obviously this was Draco Malfoy's whole bloody manor, all five kilometers of it, and he could certainly do whatever the hell he wanted in any room he chose, but for some reason, it just… felt…
CRACK. “If sir pleases, mightn't he see to the gentlemen sticking their heads through the Floo in the fifth grand fireplace where the bats roost for Solstice?”
Harry swallowed and raised himself on his elbows, already aware of just how open his button-down shirt currently was. Draco had straightened, one knee still on the velvet couch, pressing hot against Harry's thigh, and was frowning rather balefully at the much more diminutive house elf that was blinking at him from the other side of the tea table.
“Bulper. Did we not discuss what would happen to lesser house elves who barge in upon the master when he is entertaining guests?”
The elf's ears flopped and big watery eyes got even bigger. “But sir asked to be informed about all matters concerning the Swiss account, and Bulper recognizes Mr Halifax, yes, he does--”
Draco let out an audible sigh. “Bulper, tell them first that it's much too late to be Flooing me about their accounts, second, to straighten out their limited grasp on time zones, and third, that I will personally curse my fireplaces shut on their ridiculously unaesthetic noses if they insist upon pursuing their inquiries tonight.”
“Yes, Master, certainly, Master, Bulper will most positively see to it, Master--” CRACK.
Harry met Malfoy's eyes for an instant, and then looked away. Damn it, but he could feel his cheeks turning red. “Well. You seem to be quite busy. I think that maybe I--”
“Shall we get out of here to somewhere more comfortable?”
Harry frowned upward, wary of some sort of sinister joke at his expense. But there was nothing but the shimmer of internal heat in his host's eyes, and they were still very, very close to him. A hand climbed slowly up his bare chest, and Harry couldn't resist - his own goosebumps weren't exactly known for following his orders anyway.
“Where, uh… where did you have in mind?”
The grin that slid over Malfoy's face was positively erotic.
Necking heavily in a darkened third floor corridor against a wall hanging that sent up clouds of lavender scent wasn't exactly the way Harry had imagined spending the latter part of his Friday evening. But then, Malfoy was very skilled at necking in general, and he certainly knew how to go about it, if the firm grip with both hands just at Harry's ribs was anything to judge by. Malfoy's hands roved up and down, squeezing, rubbing. His mouth was a fervent tease of movement over the arc of Harry's throat. Harry let his head drop against the wall, enveloping them both in lavender again, and hugged Malfoy's body closer, running his hands up, down, over anything he could reach. Hair, hair was good. And the baby-soft skin on the back of Malfoy's neck. He forced back a groan as the blond bit down lightly on his collarbone, pressed his tongue there, and eased off, sucking firmly.
Moving to another spot.
Harry bent his head when Malfoy came up for air - again, such a brief period of time - and laved the hollow of the other man's jaw with his tongue. Malfoy's body gave a shudder and pressed closer, hips to shoulders, and Harry could feel through his trousers just how desperate things were becoming.
“Salazar, Harry… Oh gods. You… I knew I wasn't expecting the impossible,” Malfoy murmured between deep breaths. He tangled his fingers through Harry's hair, and there was no helping it: Harry lifted his leg and tucked Malfoy's hips right up against his. Couldn't stop the moan at the sudden, firm thrust into him.
Another one. He broke free of the kiss and just tried to breathe. Malfoy's hands slid frenziedly over his back, tugging him closer, pressing him backward again. Fingers fumbled at his belt line, fell away, gripped his thigh. Malfoy's hips quickened their pace against his, and Harry shut his eyes and sought for air.
“The impossible?” he managed. Malfoy nipped at his throat. Sucked. Teased again with his teeth.
“Never really thought you'd… take me up on my… invitation.” Hands closed around Harry's wrists and lifted, shoved his arms back against the tapestry. Sudden scorching heat thudded down into Harry's groin and he let out a helpless mewl. Malfoy's weight was heavy and so, so hot over his chest. In the cradle of his thighs.
Malfoy continued. “You honestly don't know… how long I've been wanting this… do you?”
Spoken almost incredulously. Harry's head knocked against the wall as stars began to tingle around his vision. He shook his head. “Malfoy--”
“Call me Draco.” A mere hiss against his neck. A tiny chuckle. A thrust, oh gods, and Harry was happy to call him anything he wanted, just as long as he didn't stop. And that new, aching warmth in his chest was not so bad either--
Crack. “Does Master wish to be informed if Mr Halifax's partners have arrived at the gate, or would he rather pretend they do not exist again, as he did last week and the week before?”
Harry's first instinct was to drop his legs from around Malfoy's waist as swiftly as he could, which caused three things in quick succession: him to slide down the wall, his shirt to slide up, and his feet to perform a rather ungainly stumble for purchase. It was very dark in the hallway; otherwise he had the feeling that his blush would be reflecting off the very wallpaper, it was so bright. He couldn't look at the elf or at Malfoy.
Fortunately, it wouldn't have mattered, as neither was looking at him.
“Send them on their way, and for Merlin's sake, make sure the wards are set properly this time. Last week they got as far as the foyer.”
“Oh, but Master does not understand the ferociousness of Mr Halifax's agents. Flinky believes that one is not entirely human, and if she were to throw garlic at his face--”
“Flinky.” Malfoy's voice had dripped into deadly. “Is my account being closed for some reason?”
“Flinky does not believe so, but Master may wish to--”
“Is Switzerland repossessing my house in the Alps?”
“Flinky has it on good authority that that is not the case, but--”
“Is the Wizarding world imploding due to my not speaking to Mr Halifax tonight?”
“Flinky cannot know for certain, but--”
Malfoy sighed and shifted away from Harry, levering against the wall with one hand. “Well, then,” he said slowly, “will Flinky please inform Mr Halifax's agents that they are to leave the immediate vicinity of the manor before the master sets the Thestrals on them?”
“Oh, Flinky will be happy to do that, sir.”
Another crack. Harry cleared his throat and straightened his shirt. A little hard to do, considering the bloody thing had been as far from straight as it could get for some time.
Malfoy gave an exasperated sigh. “Of all the cheek. Coming to my home. Tonight. It's unbelievable.”
“They don't… usually come here?”
Malfoy huffed. “Certainly not on a Friday.”
Harry managed a weak laugh. More of a wheeze, actually. He cleared his throat again and stepped sideways away from the wall, avoiding his host's still-lingering grasp on his hip. Merlin, he didn't know if he could handle all this arousal and deflation, arousal and deflation. Perhaps Malfoy was a bit different, all things considered, but the presence of house elves put a damper on Harry's level of lust, toned blond physiques aside.
“You know, I really can go. If. You know. If it's not such a good night. And all.”
Rain check, he could take a rain check. Except he wasn't sure if the offer would come again, and he already knew he wouldn't be the one to send his owl to Malfoy Manor in the pitiful hopes of some reprieve at a later date. Malfoys didn't do rain checks, Harry just had a feeling. This could very well be a once-in-a-lifetime offer.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Oh, don't be ridiculous, Potter. It's a perfectly good night for it.”
He caught Harry's hand in his and began to lead him down the darkened hall. Harry followed along, wondering exactly what “it” was that this night was so good for. For sex? Or for Harry himself? That was certainly a wishful thought. And then suddenly, Malfoy was telling him the history of this or that tapestry again, as if they hadn't just been snogging up against one of them, as if he hadn't been this close to bringing Harry off right through two layers of trousers and Merlin knew what else. Harry listened halfway adequately as Malfoy led him further and further into what proved to be the north wing of the manor.
“…and it's been centuries since that particular centaur wove anything remotely resembling a tapestry, so obviously this one is quite rare. I've no idea if it really does depict the future, but apparently I had several superstitious cousins on my grandfather's side who bet their life savings on it, and, seeing how much loot my family was swimming in before the war, they couldn't have been too far off, could they? Ah, here it is.”
Malfoy jiggled an ornate bronze handle, and a thick, heavy door swung inward to reveal what Harry could only describe as A Bedroom. But he'd never seen a bedroom of this caliber before. The room itself was larger than any three flats Harry had ever lived in, including the one in which he currently resided in South Kensington. It was all decked out in tones of muted gold and vibrant green: tassels and couchettes and dark, solid wooden desks and cabinetry. An absolutely huge wardrobe sat against the farthest wall, almost lost in the dim light. The room had its own fireplace - blazing merrily - and it smelled like…
Harry breathed deep and was flooded with Draco's presence. Even if Draco Malfoy had not led him here, he would know who lived and dressed and… and slept here just by its scent.
And speaking of sleeping…Harry blinked. Looked again.
A four-poster straight out of a royal's chambers sat dead center along the outer wall. The lush drapery was pulled back with thickly woven cords that gleamed in the flickering light from the hearth, and mounds of bolsters and pillows perched one atop the other at the bed's head. Red, green, gold and silver threads glimmered; even the bedspread looked crisp and expensive. And so comfortable.
Malfoy let out a stark laugh and waved his hand dismissively. “I've a bigger one in Venice. Would you like another drink?”
He walked across the room, kicking off his shoes as he went, and Harry followed more slowly, wondering if there was anyone else on the face of the earth aside from Draco Malfoy who could engage in such childlike behavior without detracting from the general mystique of his persona. Not to mention the sight of Malfoy's bare feet sinking into plush carpeting. Harry clenched his toes within his shoes and pasted a smile onto his face.
Halfway across the room, Malfoy turned. “Oh, please sit down, Harry.”
Malfoy crossed to the bed and with one sweep of his arm, flung all the burgeoning bolsters and tailored pillows to the floor. He gestured at the spread, and continued on toward wherever he'd been going to find that drink. Harry eyed the bed warily. Sitting there… mightn't be such a wise idea. Sitting on Malfoy's bed. Where Draco Malfoy slept.
Possibly without a stitch of clothing on.
“On your bed?”
Malfoy turned and stared at him. “Yes. It really is the most comfortable.”
Harry decided to wait until Malfoy had resumed his trek across his room, and then find a safe perch on the end of the bed. Except Malfoy didn't move. He only watched Harry curiously - and a little bit eagerly? - until he had no choice but to cross the room and sit. The bed threatened to swallow him, and Harry gripped the nearest post to remain upright.
Malfoy's eyes flicked to his hand around the post, and glittered.
“You know,” he said in a low voice, “you fit right in there.”
Harry let go of the post and settled both hands on his thighs. Tried to meet Malfoy's gaze. “Do I?”
“Oh, yes.” Malfoy stood framed by the firelight, golden heat sifting around him in sleepy waves. Harry felt eyes raking over him again, caressing almost as certainly as if their owner were actually touching Harry's body.
That was a nice thought.
“I have to confess something to you, Harry.”
Oh gods. Whatever might pour forth in the wake of that sentence, that one sentence, felt like it held Harry's ability to breathe in its grip. His heartbeat quickened to a swift tattoo. He stared at Malfoy. Watched the blond step toward him. “And what might that be?” he managed.
Malfoy was closing the distance, as if he were stalking him. Harry could think of worse things than being stalked by Draco Malfoy. He shivered in spite of himself, and Malfoy's eyes fired somewhere deep within, a depth of blue seeping into grey irises. His feet made no sound over the carpet, and he came to a stop just inches from Harry's bent knees, hips angled slightly forward, making Harry's palms itch to just… grab them and…
Malfoy bent. His answer came in a low whisper, right up against Harry's ear. “I should never have waited so long to bring you here.”
Harry let out a breath, Malfoy turned, and lips found his and suckled, teased his mouth open. Malfoy thrust his chin up, deepening the kiss so suddenly Harry gasped, tongue moving in and stroking. Harry let out a small sound. Malfoy's hands were on his thighs, arms bracing. Fingers clutching in time to his kisses. A knee slid in between Harry's, and he parted his legs.
The kiss was ravishingly good, and Harry could do little in the face of its onslaught except kiss back, raise his hands and find purchase on Malfoy's hips, sides, shoulders, try to give Malfoy at least half of what Malfoy was giving him with each touch of tongue, each needy sound. The blond leaned forward, pushing Harry before him, and the feel of the mattress giving like down beneath his back was pure heaven, and Draco Malfoy's weight on top of him was even better, if that were possible. Harry pulled the other man down, raised his own body to meet him, and heard the soft, almost helpless groan that pulled itself free of Malfoy's throat.
“Harry…” Breathless. Malfoy - oh, it was alright to call him Draco now, wasn't it? - ducked his head, pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Harry's chin. Moved lower and nibbled with his teeth. “Gods. Are you always this perfect?”
“I have my moments,” Harry gasped back, and then wondered where the hell that had come from. But he liked the result: Draco's eyes narrowed and then his hands were clutching a little desperately, gripping the edges of Harry's already-open shirt and tugging them wide, baring his chest. Harry shrugged one arm out of its sleeve and Draco sucked at his throat, palm gliding over his stomach, and oh gods, that was a little lower than his shirt there, wasn't it?
Harry's hand shot down before he could think and closed around Draco's wrist. The other man stilled, fingers nudged beneath Harry's belt. Ash coloured eyes rose and locked on his.
“What?” Draco murmured huskily.
For a long, surreal moment, the question waiting on Harry's lips concerned house elves. But here, pressed between Draco's bed and Draco's body, it just felt ridiculous. Surely they knew better than to come into Draco's bed chamber, even if the Wizarding world was imploding.
Harry shook his head and sought out Draco's shirt collar in answer, and Draco pulled upright, letting Harry work the remaining buttons open. Pale, muscular, exquisite chest was revealed; Draco shrugged the shirt off, almost as an afterthought, and tossed it aside. Harry felt him shift over his hips, and couldn't help the arch his own body responded with.
Draco chuckled. His hands went to work, and before Harry knew it, he was trouserless, and Draco was trouserless as well, and oh holy followers of Merlin, was he actually naked in Draco Malfoy's bed? With Draco Malfoy? There was little use debating that topic, especially with all that glorious, sweet-smelling heat teasing him, thudding into him. He didn't even know where his glasses had ended up. Draco knelt over him, one hand touching his face, knees a hot press on the outsides of Harry's bare thighs.
“Gods, you are so fit,” Draco muttered, and Harry might have been appalled at the level of pure lust that poured from the other man's eyes, had he not been so entirely taken with the way Draco was moving right then, repositioning, sliding a hand up the underside of Harry's knee and slipping bodily in between his legs. “Don't know why I waited so long for this.”
Harry smirked. “This? You mean you want me?”
Draco's smirk was a hundred times more convincing. “Oh, everyone wants you, Harry. I, on the other hand, demand it.”
“Why does that… mmm… not surprise me?” And really, foreplay banter with Draco Malfoy was actually sort of fun, and enlightening, in a way. The blond's lips curled even more as he leaned down, kissing Harry sensuously, seeking fervently with his mouth for something that Harry wasn't even sure he'd known existed until now. He felt the agonising heat of Draco's body lowering to his, gliding along his, oh gods, oh gods, there, that was just… just…
“Wasn't sure what I'd do… if you weren't the kissing type,” Draco gasped. Harry could only nod, utterly at a loss for words now that Draco was completely on top of him, finally, he couldn't remember what he'd been so concerned about earlier, Draco was kissing him again, beginning that small, steady movement with his hips that would have Harry helpless in mere moments, end this too soon, it would, and Harry tangled his fingers in Draco's hair and thought about rolling him over, watching his mouth open and eyes roll up, chest heave, pressing him to the bedspread--
“Flinky must inform the master that those who must not enter the manor have entered the manor.”
Draco sat up so quickly that Harry nearly came with him, so tightly was he clutching onto him. “Where?”
Flinky blinked owlishly at them both. “Flinky tried to douse the fire in the drawing room so the room would be most uncomfortable, but Master's guests insist upon sitting in the dark and waiting, and Flinky fears that she will have to be hospitable if they do not leave.”
Draco's hand lay flat upon Harry's chest. Harry struggled to slow his breathing, not yet mortified, but only because he had not yet moved past surprise and alarm.
“Well, can't you entertain them for an hour or so, Flinky? It's a big mansion; give them a tour and then lose them somewhere.”
“Oh, no, Flinky couldn't, even if Master orders. Flinky must abide by the wishes of the guest, and the guest did schedule an appointment some weeks back, wards or not--”
Draco swung himself off of Harry in a heartbeat and strode toward the door, stark naked and glowing from the firelight. “Oh, all right, Flinky, do go away. I'll be down in a moment. What in Grindelwald's name do they want, anyway?”
“Flinky must inform Master of his rapidly expanding estate in Switzerland, and that Master may wish to bid it farewell before it goes away with the guests, and that Flinky secretly fears great piles of Galleons like the one sitting in the master's foyer--”
“Oh, they are most certainly not buying my Alpine estate! Of all the bloody impudence--” He wrenched a richly coloured robe off of an ornate hook by the door. “--come to my home--” Shoved his arms through the sleeves. “--middle of the bloody night--” Tied the belt with deft hands. “--not enough Galleons in the world to bail them out of Azkaban when I get through with them--” Tossed his hair expertly with his fingers. “Oh, Harry, this will only take a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”
Grabbed his wand off the floor and stalked out of the room, ranting at the house elf that bobbed diligently along behind him. The door swung shut.
Harry looked down at himself. The fire popped happily, and he shut his eyes, finally feeling the cinching in his chest.
“Oh gods.” He was naked. In Malfoy's bed. Still half hard from… well, from Malfoy. Who was no longer there, as it were.
He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up before his knees managed to buckle on him. His muscles felt weak and jittery - most likely from the shock of having a house elf see him right as he was about to be buggered, he supposed - and oh, that wasn't the right thing to think about at the moment, but there it was, the room, the strewn piles of clothing, his glasses flung on the other side of the bed, a very mussed duvet, one missing host, and an unsurprising lack of self-respect.
Harry looked down at himself again. Merlin… what was he doing? He felt his throat heat up for the umpteenth time that night and snatched at his clothes with a shaking hand.
He was halfway into his trousers, with his shirt flung around his shoulders and buttoned haphazardly, when yet another crack scared him so badly he nearly jumped back onto the bed. The house elf had returned. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, large eyes gazing rapturously up at him.
“Is Mr Harry Potter going to be wanting tea while he waits, or would he prefer Firewhisky from the lower vaults?”
“Um. Flinky, is it?” Harry took a deep breath, trying to ignore how hard his pulse was thudding into his temples. He smiled at the house elf. “Do you think you could drop the anti-Apparition wards? I… I'll just be heading home.”
The house elf bobbed into a series of bows, ears flopping about like kerchiefs. “Right away, Harry Potter, sir. Flinky will just go and inform the master of Harry Potter's imminent departure.”
Harry hissed and waved his hand frantically in front of the elf's bulbous eyes. “Not necessary, Flinky, there's no need to bother the master. I'll just go. Really.”
Flinky's huge eyes got even huger. “Oh, but that is just not fitting, Harry Potter, sir. The master would be most angered if Flinky neglected to inform him, Harry Potter, sir.” She began to wring her oddly shaped hands frenziedly. “The master might make Flinky clean the old boots, and he knows how much Flinky fears the old boots--”
Harry shook his head. “No, no, it's okay, really. He must be very busy. He'd hate to be interrupted, don't you think?”
Flinky looked at him skeptically. And suddenly it all felt ridiculous.
Harry sighed, hating the heaviness in the back of his throat. The great Harry Potter, destroyer of dark lords, standing barefoot and half-dressed, with his shirt buttoned all wrong, coercing a house elf into lying to help cover his escape. On a Friday night.
How utterly degrading.
“Look, Flinky, I really am tired. And I just remembered something I have to do early tomorrow. For… for my business. So I really do need to… to…”
The elf bobbed her head fanatically. “Oh, Flinky understands how important business is. Flinky will inform the master that something has come up and Mr Harry Potter will be back.”
“Yes. Yes, right.” Harry yanked his belt back through the loops on his trousers where it belonged and wondered if he dared ask after his cloak. Decided he could afford another one. “Well, then.”
Flinky snapped her fingers, and Harry took a final breath of Draco-scented air and Apparated home.
END PART ONE