Title: The Boy Who Wore Pink Knickers
Summary: Grimmauld Place was grim enough before Malfoy unexpectedly arrived.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Cross-dressing. Cheap jokes. I seem to have made Harry a bottom. I hope nobody minds.
Word Count: 3,600
Author's Notes: Thank you to E for looking this over, Harry for letting me torment him, Draco for being Draco, and above all, Hermione for truly being the cleverest witch of her age.
This was all Hermione's fault, Harry thought bitterly, eyeing the pink knickers casually strung between Malfoy's fingers.
"We're all stuck together," she had said, two weeks into the Death Eater siege at Grimmauld Place. "Why not make the best of it. Malfoy can't be that bad, can he?" She wrinkled her nose, as if she weren't quite convinced herself, and then shrugged. "Who knows? You might be surprised."
Surprised. More like thoroughly fucked. In more ways than one.
Malfoy waggled his eyebrows. "You promised," he said, leering.
The knickers even had the word princess written across its bum, spelled out in large sequin letters.
Malfoy always was a fucking ponce.
"Shut up," Harry snapped, snatching the offending undergarment out of Malfoy's hands and stuffing it into his jeans pocket.
Well, he was bored. All right? Nobody warned him that he would be spending the war locked up in a moldy old house doing absolutely nothing at all. Grimmauld Place was grim enough before Malfoy unexpectedly arrived on their doorstep, sandwiched between a bored-looking Blaise Zabini and preening Pansy Parkinson. A sign hung around Malfoy's neck, saying Take me. I'm yours in garish green letters.
If that was some sort of cruel trick of Voldemort's to wear down the resistance. It almost worked. Fuck, Harry was ready to turn himself over to Voldemort right then and there. Ron, hot on his heels. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.
Cooler heads had prevailed and Mrs. Weasley set three extra places at the dinner table. "The house was already full, what trouble could three more people cause?" she said, looking harassed. Meanwhile, Hermione outlined her plan. "Turnabout is fair play," she said, eyes alight with that scary gleam she often got when she had plans whirling inside her head. The trio of Slytherins had already been sent up to their rooms, each carrying their very own set of red silk pajamas and an overstuffed pillow.
"Stockholm Syndrome," she announced to the Order members assembled around the kitchen table. Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye whirled as she paused to let that sink in. "It's better than the Imperius. We'll be polite, helpful, supportive, and…" she began to list off on her fingers like she was running a 12-step program for Death Eaters. Ron grinned back at her like a lovesick puppy —"We will give them everything they desire" – before his chin hit the ground. "In short, we'll kill them with kindness, and then send them back to Old Red Eyes. Malfoy can be our very own Gryffindor time bomb."
She cackled, and it was a scary sound, indeed. Harry had to admit, he was impressed. He had no idea what Stockholm Syndrome was, but if it involved big-boned blonds then he was eager to pitch in.
Heck, it was better than listening to Mad-Eye Moody tell dirty stories about his time working undercover in a goblin brothel. (There are some things one should never hear uttered out loud.) Besides, wasn't Harry supposed to be the hero in this war? If there were sacrifices that needed to be made, well, Harry was going to make them, even if he did have to fluff a few pillows along the way.
Perhaps he should have listened to Ron when he had the chance.
"You must be joking," Ron told him, looking ready to pitch a fit worthy of Lavender Brown, the night her eyebrow waxing charm misfired and her skin turned hot pink. Fred and George vehemently agreed, their elaborate plans to booby trap Malfoy's toilet abruptly put on hold. Only Ginny seemed unfussed, pausing only to roll her eyes before turning back to her diary, a thick tome entitled: Harry Potter: The Pervert Who Broke My Heart.
(Ginny hadn't spoken to Harry since the night after Bill's wedding when he inadvertently moaned Ron's name into her ear.)
What? They're both redheads. Easy mistake to make.
Lupin also looked uncomfortable with Hermione's plan. "There's just something unethical about pretending to like someone," he said, looking sad.
"You would know," Tonks retorted. Her hair had returned to a dingy shade of brown, and she had taken to wearing widow's weeds and crying mournfully into her morning cuppa.
"Good God," Lupin snapped. "Get over it. Look, I never wanted to get involved. You sandbagged me at a man's sickbed. What was I supposed to do?"
Tonks gritted her teeth. "You led me on."
"You pushed me."
"I'll never love again," she wailed.
Harry rolled his eyes. Really, he didn't see what all the fuss was about. This was Malfoy they were talking about. He had nothing to worry about.
Malfoy's finger poked at Harry's chest. "The knickers. You promised to wear them."
That finger had been doing scandalous things to Harry just a scant few hours before. "No, I—" Harry closed his mouth. He could feel his reserves begin to crumble along with the blood rushing to his cock.
How could their brilliant plan have gone so horribly awry?
"Save the blushing schoolboy act, Potter. You love every minute of it. Don't deny it," Malfoy said, looking smug. An evil grin snaked across his face. "On second thought, keep the blush. It will clash so nicely with those pretty… pink… knickers," he taunted.
Harry bit back a groan.
That was why.
Fucking bastard was right. Harry did love it. Every wanking second. It wasn't even about Ginny spending her nights reading poetry to Zabini, or that Parkinson had moved into Ron and Hermione's bed. Every day this siege dragged on, he felt more powerless and impotent. He hated that Mrs. Weasley's vibrant hair had turned to an ashen gray, or that Moody shuffled around the house hexing shadows and spooks. This thing he had with Malfoy had become an oasis from all that. Sure, no one knew which side Malfoy was really on, but what did it really matter? Harry's motives weren't entirely pure either.
All the more reason for Harry not to give into Malfoy so easily.
Harry lifted his chin and ignored the heat growing inside his belly. "No."
"No?" Malfoy's eyebrows shot up and a whine crept into his voice. "You said you would do anything I wanted. You promised."
Harry shrugged. "So. What are you going to do? Run home and tell Daddy?"
"You'd like that wouldn't you," Malfoy shot back. Azkaban's prison walls were breached hours before the siege on Grimmauld Place had begun, and everyone knew Lucius Malfoy was likely outside this very moment, circling like a vulture. Harry had to wonder if Lucius knew what his son was really up to with Harry, or if that had been the idea from the very beginning.
Harry looked down at his fingernails. "I wouldn't care, no. I don't need you." Malfoy's face pinked. Harry had obviously hit a nerve.
"The door's right there, Malfoy," he went on, watching Malfoy's cheeks darken to an angry red. "I bet you miss being Voldemort's pretty little princess. Dressed in pigtails and ribbons, skipping around short little skirts. Or maybe you just pranced around like that for Daddy. Tell me, Malfoy. Are you a Daddy's girl?"
Malfoy's mouth fell open. Harry couldn't tell if he was turned on, pissed off or a mixture of both. Harry decided not to care.
"I bet you liked it too," said Harry. "I bet you wanked off dressed in your skirt, like a nasty little pervert."
Fuck, Harry would.
Malfoy blinked at him, and then let out a long moan. Bingo. "Please," he gasped, his voice rough as sand.
"Please what?" Harry's voice was cold even though his dick was practically waving a red flag inside his jeans.
"God." Malfoy swallowed visibly before he took a half a step forward and fell to his knees. "Kni—Knickers," he finally managed as his hands found Harry's hips.
Harry fished the wadded knickers out of his pocket and dangled them in front of Malfoy's face, the pink sequins catching in the firelight. "These, you mean?" he said, his voice steadier than he felt. Turnabout is fair play, indeed. Hermione's words were coming back to haunt him. It was disturbing how easy it was for Malfoy to get what he wanted from Harry, and it wasn't the first time Harry wondered who was playing who.
But did it really matter? Not with Malfoy down on his knees, the blush of his skin clashing so nicely with his starched white shirt. They could all die tomorrow, and it was all Harry could do not to push Malfoy right to the ground, rip that prissy shirt off his back and fuck him into the threadbare carpet. There would be plenty of time for hard questions later. It wasn't like either of them was going anywhere.
"Yes," Malfoy whispered, his hands sliding up the front of Harry's chest, purposely avoiding the cock tenting his jeans. "Wear them." He found the top button of Harry's shirt. "Please. I'll— I'll—"
Harry groaned, his heart racing in anticipation. "You'll— you'll what?"
Harry's top button snapped open, and then the second. Malfoy looked about as innocent as an alley cat as he moved to rub his cheek against Harry's crotch. An alley cat in heat. "I'll suck your cock," he rasped. "Just the way you like, Harry." His lower lip dragged against Harry's zip before he turned his head and suddenly suctioned Harry's denim-covered budge right into his mouth.
Oh god. Oh god. Don't you dare stop. Harry hands flew to the back of Malfoy's head, holding him still. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?" he gasped as Malfoy panted against his groin. He could just feel the hot wet heat of Malfoy's mouth through the layers of cotton and denim. If Malfoy kept this up Harry was going to shoot his load right into his pants.
Malfoy pulled away, the front of Harry's shirt balled in his fists. He looked beseechingly up at Harry. "Will you wear them for me? I'll—" He tilted his head, lowering his eyes like a errant schoolboy caught with his pants down. "I'll do anything, please."
That was enough. Harry wrenched his shirt out of Malfoy's hands and yanked it off his shoulders. Malfoy remained where he was, on his knees, his expression of feigned innocence slowly morphing into something feral and predatory. Harry couldn't get his y-fronts down fast enough.
The knickers were tighter than he expected as he slipped them over his narrow thighs, the black hairs of his legs catching on the shimmery fabric. His cock bobbed eagerly as he moved, pre-come leaking from its head, and his stomach quivered with anticipation. Here goes nothing, he thought as he took a deep breath, said a quick prayer that his bedroom door was locked, and pulled the knickers the rest of the way up.
Jesus Mary Merlin. He almost toppled over.
What? He was wearing ladies underwear. He was allowed act a little queeny.
The sensation wasn't wholly comfortable, the way the fabric, cut only to cover a woman, binded tightly against his swollen cock, and the pink looked garish against his skin. But he also felt lightheaded and giddy, drunk with the urge to prance up to Voldemort right at this very moment, naked except for his knickers, and wipe the son of a bitch right off the planet.
Oh my god, Harry suddenly thought. I'm the Boy Who Wore Pink Knickers! He could see the headline written across the front page the Daily Prophet now. If that wasn't the most shocking thing in the world, he liked it.
He had never really considered wearing woman's clothing before. This was supposed to be lark, a cheap way to win Malfoy over and keep him interested while Hermione indoctrinated him with her feel-good Muggle propaganda. Harry was supposed to be lying back and thinking of England. He wasn't supposed to be turned on.
Oh, but he was. Very much.
"God, Harry, you look beautiful."
"Huh?" Malfoy's unexpected admission snapped him out of his reverie. Malfoy was staring at him almost reverentially, and he suddenly felt horribly exposed.
"I can't believe you actually did this," Malfoy admitted, not noticing Harry's obvious distress. His hand brushed against the pink waistband, lingering. "Th—" He swallowed. "Thank you."
Harry shook his head. This was a Death Eater trick of the highest order. There were weird feelings churning around inside him that weren't there before. Issues that he frankly didn't want to address right now. Not when there was a war to be fought and a Malfoy to screw. Not to mention the fact that he seemed to be turning into a fatalistic drag queen with a penchant for sequins. Feather boas would be next, and he really didn't think his dead parents would approve.
He decided that Hermione really had to die for making him do this. He'd have to kill himself too, of course. And Malfoy. Let Voldemort run free. That would teach everyone.
Malfoy must have caught on to Harry's discomfort and dramatic tendencies because he quickly recovered, his fingers curling under the knickers' waistband as he looked coquettishly up at Harry through thick, veiled lashes. "Who would have thought the great Harry Potter wore girl's panties," he taunted, his mouth looming close, but not nearly close enough, and Harry's flagging erection sprang back to life. "What would the people think?" Malfoy's grin was pure Slytherin sin as he pulled on the elastic waistband and let go, letting it snap against Harry's skin.
The sad thing was, Harry was a ridiculously easy lay. It probably had to do with the lack of affection he got as a child and his obvious mummy issues, and Malfoy knew how to play him like a broken violin. Perhaps Ginny should have been taking lessons.
What? It wasn't like he didn't think about his ex-girlfriend from time to time. He was human after all. At least there were no worries about that with Malfoy.
Harry's hand clamped back down on Malfoy's head, his cock straining for attention. "Don't you owe me something," he said, tilting Malfoy's head back so he had to look Harry in the eyes. "You promised," he said, mimicking Malfoy's prissy whine. An ugly sneer crossed Malfoy's face just the way Harry liked. Malfoy was so good at this, it was almost frightening, and he yanked a little harder on Malfoy's hair. "Suck it," he ordered.
Malfoy was all too happy to oblige.
"Pervert," Harry murmured fondly, petting Malfoy's blond hair as his dick slid into Malfoy's mouth, the knickers pushed down over the tops of Harry's thighs.
"Ish hot," Malfoy admitted, his mouth full of cock, before shooting Harry a nasty glare, as if Harry had just forced Malfoy to do something horrific like admit the location of the last Horcrux. Not unless the Horcrux was Harry's cock. Harry started to laugh, comfortable in his own skin again. How did that happen?
"What?" Malfoy pulled off, looking perturbed. A pout formed on his swollen, saliva-stained lips "Not funny," Malfoy insisted.
"Hey now," Harry said, those weird, squishy feelings returning. There was a dribble of pre-com running down the side of Malfoy's mouth, and Harry reached to wipe it off gently with his thumb. Maybe getting his dick sucked had softened his brain.
Malfoy's head jerked away as if such sentiment could be contagious. "Fuck you."
"Will you?" Harry said.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You're mad," he said, but he no longer looked angry as he fisted Harry's cock and sucked it back into his mouth. Mad or not, Harry knew not to spoil a good thing. Draco Malfoy knew how to suck cock. In fact, Malfoy was a cocksucking God. There was no fucking way Harry was going to let him go near Voldemort again. Malfoy's hot little mouth belonged to him!
Harry must have said that part out loud, because Malfoy suddenly sucked a little harder, his angry mouth taking Harry all the way to the root, and Harry lost it. He came hard, his thighs straining against the stretched knickers binding his legs together.
Malfoy swallowed it all down, like Harry knew he would, and wiped his mouth with a delicate swipe of his hand. Then Harry's heart sank, watching him move toward the bedroom door, looking ready to flee.
"Wait," Harry said, and Malfoy turned around, looking surprised. "Don't go yet," Harry blurted, tackling Malfoy to the floor.
"What are you doing?" Malfoy asked, his eyes flicking all over the place as he fell back on his elbows.
"Nothing." Harry shrugged, suddenly unsure. What was he doing? Sex between them had always been hot and furious, but when it was over. It was over. "I just wanted to," he quickly bent down, kissing Malfoy on the lips before his nerves told him not to, "kiss you," he finished, grinning, a feeling of giddy warmth washing over him. This is where Malfoy was supposed to smile back, stars alight in his eyes, and tell Harry he l—
Shit. Harry's heart suddenly thudded to stop. Starlight and soft kisses only meant one thing. He really was fucked.
Malfoy must have read Harry's mind because his eyes turned the color of storm clouds. "Why are you doing this?"
"I— I thought—" Harry sat back on Malfoy's thighs. "I don't know," he admitted. Malfoy was glaring at him, which made admitting this so much harder. "I think I'm starting to, you know… like you."
What? This romance stuff was hard.
He hoped he at least sounded charming.
Apparently not. Draco's eyes narrowed as he scrambled to sit up, knocking Harry off to the side. "Then get over it," he spat. "I know what you're trying to do."
"Snog you senseless because you're so irresistible," Harry said, taking a stab at light humor before remembering Ginny telling him that he was never very funny.
Malfoy obviously agreed. "Look, Potter. You're neither witty nor charming."
"Neither are you," Harry snapped back, falling back on his always stellar debate skills.
Malfoy gritted his teeth. "Annoying, though."
"Why don't you tell me how you really feel?"
"—and a wanker for turning this into something personal."
Harry frowned. "Personal?"
Malfoy looked disgusted. "I don't want to like you, Potter."
Harry blinked. He was stunned, frankly. "You like me too?"
Malfoy wouldn't meet his eyes. "Sadly, yes. And you obviously think I'm stupid or desperate, or both."
Harry started to laugh.
Malfoy shoved him in the shoulder. "Get out."
Unfortunately for Malfoy, Harry couldn't stop laughing. Malfoy calling Harry desperate was like a Niffler calling a Goblin greedy. "Wait, you don't understand. I'm not laughing at you," he cried, seeing Malfoy leap to his feet, fists balled at his sides. He yanked at the bottom of Malfoy's robes. "Besides, it's my room. I can't leave," he reasoned.
Malfoy looked mulish. "Don't care."
"Calm down, will you?" Harry got up on his knees and tugged at Malfoy's hands, loosening his fists. "I was just laughing because you just described me. Look, I wore ladies underwear in an effort to get you spy for us, how desperate is that?" Harry clamped his mouth shut. Damn, that was supposed to be confidential information.
Malfoy didn't look at all surprised. "Stellar Gryffindor planning, there. I'm shocked we haven't won the war yet. What's next, coaxing Zabini to be a Death Eater whore with the words in the Weaselette's love sonnets?"
"Erm. It sounds much better on paper," Harry assured him.
Malfoy crossed his arms, looking put out. "And they say Slytherins are shameless."
"Well, usually it's the Hufflepuffs that are immoral. Not that I would know about that, of course," Harry quickly bit his lip, lost in the memory of the summer of love he spent canoodling with Susan Bones and Zacharias Smith. Ginny hadn't been pleased about that episode either.
Malfoy sniffed. "Sluts, more like it, but I'll concede your point."
Malfoy's white dress shirt was yanked open at the neck, and Harry had a sudden urge to suck on his collarbone. So he did.
"What is it about you and starched white shirts?" said Harry, after taking another nibble of pale skin. "You do know we're under siege. You could wear chaps and spurs and nobody would know."
"Speak for yourself," Malfoy muttered, helpfully tilting his head so Harry could have greater access to his skin. "On second thought, that would be really hot."
Harry shivered. Malfoy always had the best ideas. "Will you wear them for me?" he said, blushing again.
Malfoy stepped back to look at him. "Harry Potter, are you becoming a bottom?"
Harry blanched. "No, of course not. It wouldn't set well with my image, would it? Big and strong and slayer of Dark Lords." He flexed his biceps.
What? So he hadn't killed Voldemort yet. It wasn't like he wasn't going to. Eventually.
Malfoy looked unconvinced. Possibly because he spent the last evening fucking Harry over the back of the sitting room sofa. "So what are going to do for me if I do decide to wear them?"
Harry shrugged. "I could… I don't know." He picked up the discarded knickers off the floor and grinned. "Wear these again."
Malfoy studied his nails. "Done already."
"Suck you off."
Malfoy gave him a long-suffering look. "You should be doing that anyway."
Malfoy moved for the door. "You know what? Maybe I should see if the Weasel has grown bored playing in Granger and Pansy's Sapphic wonderland."
"NO!" Harry grabbed Malfoy by the elbow. "Ron has been fantasizing about having sex with lesbians for years. It would be a crime to take that away from him."
"Doesn't mean I couldn't join in," Malfoy countered.
Malfoy was evil, pure and simple, and there was nothing Harry could do about it. He hung his head in shame. "What do you want me to do?"
Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. "I don't know. It depends."
This was how it all began.
"What are you going to do for me?" Malfoy's grin was anything but friendly.
"Anything," Harry replied far too quickly.
"Anything you want."
Hermione was a genius.