Chapter Text
Chapter One
Take the bottle, shake it up,
Break the bubble, break it up.
~“Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard~
Say boy, let’s not talk too much,
Grab on my waist and put that body on me,
Come on now follow my lead, come, come on now follow my lead.
~“Shape of You” by Ed Sheeran~
Intentional adj. done on purpose,
intended, not accidental.
The first time isn’t Harry’s fault; it really isn’t. Genuinely.
It’s just, he’s eighteen, and male, and has had a bit much Firewhiskey—those are enough reasons.
Also, the DJ is an actual fucking idiot. Way too overzealous.
And Malfoy is attractive, is all.
And Harry hasn’t had any kind of sex in eight months.
And it is mostly the DJ’s fault.
Also Malfoy’s.
It really isn’t Harry’s fault at all.
xxxxxx
“Okay!” cries the DJ.
Harry sighs. The guy has way too much enthusiasm for a thirty-something wizard, dee-jaying for a crowd of eighth-year Hogwarts students who’ve been permitted into Hogsmeade for a one-night-only-9pm-to-midnight “rave”. His hair, which looks as though it was mousey blonde or maybe light ginger at some point, is dyes pink and teases into punk spikes. He is wearing grey, acid-washes jeans with holes and studs and tears in them, and a yellow Ramones t-shirt. He is way too old to pull any of it off.
Harry sincerely hopes that his white tee, black skinny jeans, and perpetual mop hair don’t look so try-hard.
“Now, for this one, I want you to grab the person closest to you and dance with them for the whole song, no ditching!” The DJ is grinning like this is a fabulous idea.
It is not.
It wouldn’t be so bad if Ron or Hermione were with him. But they left “for drinks” about ten minutes ago and are most likely snogging by the loos. Someone like Luna wouldn’t be so bad, but Neville’s a horrible dancer, and (magic forbid) he might end up next to – hell, Ginny, or even Lavender or something, –
A hand grabs his wrist, and he turns round to see the person who is standing behind him.
Looking entirely unimpressed.
And as if the whole thing with Voldemort wasn’t proof enough, Harry now knows that fate hates him. Fate is going to get its bloody head chopped off just as soon as Harry can manage it.
Because the hand gripping Harry’s wrist – the silver eyes looking as though they’ve been pitches to rock bottom of boredom are Draco Malfoy’s.
Harry just stares, which isn’t totally his fault, because there is quite a bit to stare at. Malfoy’s hair had grown out after the war, and now most of it is swept back and plastered to his head, but a couple of long strands are dangling in his eyes. And his eyes are silver, and shining in the sweeping strobe lights, and the cut-glass angles of his cheekbones are reflecting the pink and gold flush from the mirror ball, and his lips are curling –
“Are you done staring, Potter?” snarls Malfoy, shaking the wrist he’s still holding. “And would it be too much to hope for that you know what ‘dance’ means?”
“Shut your stupid face, Malfoy,” grumbles Harry. “I did attend kindergarten.”
The look of momentary what are you talking about that tells Harry that Malfoy probably hasn’t ever heard of Muggle kindergarten is dispelled with another eye roll. “A four syllable word! Excellent. Then do try not to break my toes.”
“And I’d like some feeling in my hand, thanks very much,” says Harry. They both look down to where Malfoy is still grasping Harry’s wrist.
“Fine,” says Malfoy.
Which is when the song starts.
All men have secrets and here is mine so let it be known
For we have been through hell and high tide
I think I can rely on you
Something that looks weirdly like a smile twitches Malfoy’s lips. “This song’s not actually terrible,” he says.
Harry reaches out and touches Malfoy’s side through his black t-shirt. Malfoy jerks a little but doesn’t actually step away. “We’re supposed to be dancing,” he says slowly, feeling Malfoy’s skin move gingerly under his fingertips, through the cloth.
“So move, you tosser,” says Malfoy disdainfully; before Harry can take a breath in, Malfoy steps forwards and loops his arms over Harry’s shoulders until their cheeks are pressed side by side. He’s too close. Too close. Harry can feel Malfoy’s hair on his cheek. He can sense people watching, and it angers him suddenly – enough to make him step forwards and place both hands, firmly but definitely not steadily, on Malfoy’s waist and begin to move side to side with him. He can almost feel Malfoy’s smirk, like it’s physical.
“Malfoy – people are staring,” Harry says uneasily.
“Fuck them,” says Malfoy, and it’s so very close to what Harry had been tempted to think that he smiles, suddenly, without nuance or inflection, quickly.
Malfoy’s knee bumps his as they step, and within a few moments they’re closer than, Harry thinks, they have ever been. Harry’s hands slide further round Malfoy’s body and touch the small of his back, where the t-shirt, sweaty, is close to his skin.
Harry’s chest brushes the fabric of Malfoy’s shirt, and Malfoy’s arms tighten round his neck. Harry can almost feel the movement of Malfoy’s stomach as he breathes. And then he can. Can feel Malfoy breathing.
“People are really staring,” he gasps. He’s barely breathing.
“Wanna give them something to really stare at?” murmurs Malfoy, so close to his ear that Harry shivers. The warmth of Malfoy’s breaths heats and moistens the shell of his ear …
There is nothing going to be good, nothing.
He can’t back down from Malfoy. Malfoy is not braver than he – or stupider – Malfoy is stroking his fingers through the hair on the back of Harry’s neck. “Okay,” he says, a breath.
All at once Malfoy was pressed against him – absolute. Their clothes and flesh along two lines and one of Malfoy’s knees between Harry’s. Malfoy presses his face into Harry’s neck, and Harry gasps at the feeling of his nose and lips, touching his sweating skin. He feels Malfoy’s lips part … “Are they staring? Really staring?”
Harry hadn’t thought to check. (He isn’t thinking anything.) He does look … “Yes,” he says.
“Good.” They move. They keep moving. “This is fun,” Malfoy whispers.
Oh, was that it? Fun? Harry’s Gryffindor kicks in. Fun. He tightens his arms around Malfoy’s bobbing body, then slides his hands down and feels Malfoy’s arse. He does have a nice arse. He is wearing very tight jeans. More important, though, is the fact that Malfoy’s breathing hitches in surprise and yet he doesn’t back off or start yelling. Good. Rotten little Slytherin git. Harry will be damned if he isn’t going to make this count. Harry tightens his grip and rocks Malfoy’s hips forward, moving.
“I’ll bet they’re really staring now,” Malfoy mumbles, his mouth still on Harry’s neck. He moves his hips against Harry. Harry’s hands tighten again, his thumbs threading through Malfoy’s belt loops. Oh yeah, that was what this is about …making them stare. The song has changed at some point. Harry grinds against the knee pressed between his legs.
Malfoy’s fingers are in his hair, twisting their way through the curly strands, when he pauses suddenly, and then Harry realises with a feeling of horror that he’s stiff, and pressed against Malfoy’s leg, and Malfoy can feel him.
“Merlin,” whispers Malfoy, and then, before Harry can remember himself and either die of embarrassment or storm off the dance floor – stiff from rubbing up against Malfoy, from playing a joke on the other kids – he feels Malfoy’s tongue gently tracing over the skin of Harry’s throat. “Come on, Potter,” Malfoy breathes. “Toilets.”
“What?” Harry gulps.
“Tell yourself it’s part of the joke, if you like.” Malfoy’s fingers dig into his scalp. His mouth opens, and the wetness glistens over Harry’s skin …
Harry can feel himself fucking panting …
“Enough. Come on.” Malfoy’s dragging him through the crowd. Harry’s groin is aching …
The toilet cubicle that Malfoy drags the pair of them into is far too small for two people, and Harry is slightly dizzy, pressed against one wall with Malfoy leaning over him. Malfoy’s hand releases his arm, and then begins snaking down Harry’s stomach, fingertips pressing through his very constricting jeans in a way that makes sparks dance in front of Harry’s eyes.
“Come on, you tosser,” chokes Malfoy. “Open your pants –” With eyes half open Harry hears, and sees, the metallic zit of Malfoy’s zip coming undone, then the sound of fabric as Malfoy’s jeans are shoved down to mid-thigh.
Harry’s skin is hot with sweat, and he aches, now, all over. With quaking hands he undoes his own jeans, and then Malfoy’s hand is dipping down beneath the waistline of his pants … touching skin, his fingers hot and sure, and Harry moans. It’s fucking embarrassing, how hard he is, but at least he’s managed not to cry out.
Malfoy’s hand grips him and begins to move. Harry gasps, and then thinks Gryffindor, and reaches out a hand (he doesn’t have a lot of space – Malfoy is right there, his breath hot on Harry’s cheeks) and pushes it down beneath the waist of Malfoy’s pants.
There’s curly hair and hot, slippery skin there, and Malfoy is gasping as Harry encircles him and, then that’s so enticing, Harry has to force his hand to move, and Malfoy begins to shiver, his hand tightening, and quickening, around Harry, his smaller fingers brushing Harry’s balls, and Malfoy’s head thunks forwards – his nose presses into the messy fringe over Harry’s forehead.
Harry does his absolute best to move his hand faster, but his breath is coming in ways quicker and louder than he’d thought it could, and then Malfoy comes. In his pants, into Harry’s fist, warm and wet and sticky.
Even through the sparking haze of everything, Harry grimaces a little, but then Malfoy whimpers and tugs at the same time, and Harry comes, too, suddenly, hot and disbelieving, and he really doesn’t have it in him to be disgusted because the utter relief and dreaminess and boneless fieriness is gratifying, in a muscle-deep and necessary way.
Malfoy withdraws his hand, cautiously (so as not to either pain or arouse Harry, he observes distantly) so Harry does the same. He’s not sure where it might be polite to wipe his hand. Then Malfoy lifts his right hand (the one that’s sticky, webbed, with Harry’s come) and puts the first two fingers into his mouth. Harry stares in amazement and a weird arousal. He isn’t sure if he was supposes to do the same thing. Then
Malfoy reaches (with his left hand – the clean one) into his pocket and pulls out his wand. He does some kind of wandless spell and all the creamy stickiness vanishes.
“Uh, thanks,” Harry says (he’s still a little short of breath).
Malfoy smiles. It’s not quite the same as earlier … it was an almost predatory smile, and certainly a scheming one. “Did you enjoy that, Potter?”
Potter. He’s just Potter. Still. Harry isn’t thinking straight. He isn’t thinking. Shit. “I’ve gotta go,” he says. “I came here with Ron and Hermione – I need to find them.”
“Right.” Malfoy leans back against the cubicle wall. “Go ahead, then.”
“I—” Harry pulls up his trousers as quickly as he can. “I was drunk. I mean, am drunk.” He can feel himself flushing heatedly.
“Right,” Malfoy says again. He lifts his voice for Harry to hear as Harry exits the bathroom, making his way as fast as he can out past the urinals—“Keep telling yourself that!”
xxxxxx
“Harry. There you are.”
Hermione flops down on his bed, next to where Harry’s sitting and pulling off his socks. Ron approaches, looking nervous, and sits on his beds, facing them. “Mate,” Ron begins, “Seamus said something about … you and Malfoy …”
“Oh god,” Harry says, blushing. “What did he say?”
“That you and Malfoy ended up dancing and then went off to the loos together,” Hermione says very fast, turning lightly red herself.
“Oh,” says Harry. “Well, yeah.”
“But—” says Ron, looking completely nauseous, “… how, mate? I mean, he’s Malfoy.”
“Well—” says Harry. “Um, I guess—he’s not bad-looking, is he?”
“He’s not,” says Hermione, thoughtfully. Ron looks aghast.
“He’s not?”
“No!” says Hermione. “I mean, whatever he is or isn’t, he’s definitely handsome.”
“He has good hair …” says Harry.
“Oh, God. You’re not going to go all sappy over him, are you?” says Ron, despairingly.
“No,” says Harry decisively. Literally the only thing he’s certain of right now.
“Alright, then,” says Hermione, rubbing his shoulder … “As long as you know what you’re doing.”
“Seamus was pretty up there, mate,” Ron says, getting up with a look of relief on his face. “Alright. Well. So long as you’re not asking us to double-date with the git.”
“Hell no!” Harry says. “It was just—I had a bit much to drink, you know? It was just a … a thing.” He laughs and waves them out. Perish the thought.
xxxxxx
And the second time isn’t Harry’s fault, either.
Malfoy accosts him in the hallways between classes—accosts. He does this annoying thing where he casually steers Harry into a deserts classroom without saying a word, so it’s not like Harry could say anything, other than the, “Malfoy? What the fuck are you—?” that he manages to get out before Malfoy is unzipping Harry’s trousers and sinking to his knees.
And after that, well, Harry isn’t going to interrupt, was he?
xxxxxx
And after the first excellent blow job, Harry isn’t really capable of any more responsible decisions involving Malfoy and sex, going forward. So it isn’t his fault at all, any of it, not really.
xxxxxx
Harry probably could put Ron off forever, but Hermione’s much more observant. When Harry emerges from an empty classroom and heads down for dinner, after having spent the previous twenty minutes snogging with Malfoy up against the stone walls before both of them came with their robes flung open and their trousers pushes down to mid-thigh, she springs out of the shadows by the entrance to the Great Hall and says, “Harry! Where have you been? Dinner’s half over. You should hurry up if you want anything other than dessert—they’ll be bringing it out shortly!”
“Oh, shit, right, thanks,” Harry says. That should’ve been the end of it.
But then Hermione says, “What’s up with your hair?”
“My hair?” Harry’s hands flew nervously to his hair. “What about it?”
“It’s like, really mussed up, it’s—”
“Mione, my hair’s always messy,” Harry interrupts with relief. “It’s permanent. Remember?”
“No, it’s almost like—” She steps closer. “Harry, is your hair sex messy?”
“What?” Harry flinches away from her. “No, it’s just—really normal messy—”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’m not imagining it; you’ll need to fix that before you go into the Great Hall, everyone’ll—” Hermione reaches out for the side of his head as she speaks and gets hold of a curl that’s sticking
out sideways. “They’ll talk, Harry, you know—oh my god, Harry!”
“What!” Harry lurches backwards, one hand flying up to the side of his head protectively. “What did you—?”
“Harry,” Hermione says, her voice cautious, “Harry, you have like the biggest love bite I have ever seen, on the side of your neck. You have to let me heal that for you before you go in.” She raises her wand before
Harry could object, and a cool, tingling feeling washes over the warm skin on the side of his neck.
“Shit,” Harry breathes. “Fuck. Thanks.”
“No worries.” Hermione smirks. “Now fix your hair and hurry the eff up. You’re going to be eating chocolate ice cream trifle for dinner as it is.” She winks and then marches back into the Great Hall.
Harry sags in relief, frantically combs his hair down as best he could, and then enters the hall.
There are going to be way too many questions later.
xxxxxx
He’s right.
Hermione enters the Gryffindor boys’ dorm shortly before lunch the next day. Harry’s sitting on his bed with his Arithmancy maps, and he gets enough of a fright as it is; he’s just very grateful she hadn’t entered fifteen minutes earlier.
“Mione? How did you—nevermind.” He should know better than to question Hermione’s abilities by now. He shuffles his papers across and makes space for her. “What’s up?”
“About yesterday,” Hermione begins, sitting herself down. Harry groans inwardly. It is, it seems, inevitable.
“Yes?” he says.
There’s a pause and then: “So?” says Hermione, in a voice that sounds very unlike her. “Who is it? Can I try and guess?”
Harry just about chokes. Fuck. “You can try,” he says, nonchalantly. God, this is going to be embarrassing. He’ll count himself lucky if Seamus doesn’t crop up as a candidate.
“Is it Malfoy?”
Harry stares at her. Dimly, and through the sensation of his tongue apparently thickening and filling his mouth, he says, “What?”
“Draco Malfoy. Draco Lucius Malfoy. Yes, no?”
Shit. “Um. Little bit. Yes.”
Harry becomes aware that Hermione’s staring at him now, just a bit. “What?” he says.
“I wasn’t expecting you to admit it,” she tells him.
“So you knew?”
“No. But—well. I hate it to break it to you, Harry, but you’re not a … subtle person. You kind of stare at him a lot. Now. More. In class, when we’re eating—you’re always kind of looking at him.”
“I am?” Crap.
“Yes. It’s—it’s fairly noticeable.”
“Ah.” Harry wrinkles his nose. Damn, damn, damn.
Hermione gives him an excessively empathetic hug. Argh.
xxxxxx
After that, Harry corners Malfoy himself. Draco. Whatever. It’s all getting really mixed up in Harry’s mind.
“Okay,” he says decisively, once they were alone in a deserted classroom on the third floor. “We need to talk.”
Malfoy just twitches an eyebrow in response as he leans back against the wall, one knee bent as if he’s some sort of rent boy, hands in pockets and his hips perked provocatively forward. Harry blinks once (and then several more times) and then continues. It has to be said that he’s grateful for the thickness of the school robes he’s wearing.
“Hermione knows we’re—”
“We’re what?” Malfoy jumps in very quickly. “Did you tell Granger that I’m your boyfriend? Am I going to get hexed by all your little Gryffindor pals now?”
“Uh, no. It’s just Hermione who knows,” Harry says. “And I was going to say shagging.”
“A fucktoy, then. That’s so much better,” grouches Malfoy, but he relaxes against the wall a bit.
“That’s not—whatever. I just, uh, wanted to know … what this was. And also ’cause we should maybe be more careful. Hermione says it’s, um, that I’m, fairly obvious.”
“You don’t say,” sneers Malfoy.
“Shut up,” Harry grumbles. “But, uh – what are we? What do you w –”
“Well,” Malfoy We’re shagging,” Malfoy leers, his cheeks pink. Just a little, Harry thinks. “That’s it. Isn’t that what you just said?”
Harry supposes he should be feeling relief right now, but. “Um, yes. So I’ll just –”
“So shag me,” Malfoy says disdainfully, pushing himself away from the wall and making his way, with this kind of gorgeous slouch, over to Harry. “Tosser.” And he kisses him.
The kiss is angry, maddening, and just a little painful, as the hand Malfoy’s snaked up to catch in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck clasps there, his nails digging in like a bloody hippogriff claw. Harry parts his lips and pushes forward, his arms coming up to full-on wrap around Malfoy’s neck. The hand on Harry’s neck leaves and scrapes down his back until it joins the other hand at his hip and Harry’s lifted up by two strong, if pointy and digging-in, hands under his butt. He wraps his legs around Malfoy’s lean hips and they’re both hard and it’s like some damn Muggle rom-com, he thinks – except the fact that both of them have raging hard-ons pressed together as close as they can get.
That’s not something found in most Muggle rom-coms, as far as Harry knows.
Malfoy’s nose digs into Harry’s cheek, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever truly appreciated how close two people’s faces get when they’re snogging, or how much he really, really likes this. He even likes the way he can feel Malfoy’s lips sneering as he pulls back just far enough to release Harry’s tongue and murmur, “Get your trousers off, Potter.”
“And they say romance is dead,” grins Harry. Harry’s lowered to the floor and he leans in and applies his mouth to Malfoy’s neck, which is like his one unbelievable weakness, as Harry fumbles the flies of his jeans open as quickly as possible. Once he’s shucked them down to his ankles and kicked them off, Malfoy’s openly panting, gripping the edge of the desk behind him with pale hands flushed at the knuckles. Harry sees, with mingled guilt and glee, that Malfoy’s neck is marked with lilac bruises, all up and down the pale length of it. He’s going to be slaughtered for that later, but for now he enjoys the idea that Malfoy’s been
marked out as his.
He can’t exactly pinpoint when he started thinking this way; when he started taking pride in the moments post-sex where he could see Malfoy marked and undone by him, Harry Potter, before he recovered himself and Healed the marks away. Or when he started revelling in physical closeness to Malfoy, and in a way that has nothing to do with sexual pleasure. That’s wrong, he tells himself, it’s just the sex and the fact that
Malfoy can be kind of funny and a bit smart as human being and Harry can appreciate that, is all. It doesn’t mean he likes him in – any other way. Except that even when Malfoy’s being an arsehole it sort of amuses Harry and maybe even turns him on a little. Which shouldn’t be happening. This is just a … thing. And nothing more.
A thing that’s expanding to include “Harry liking Malfoy as human being”.
It’s wrong because Malfoy’s not even a very likable human being. He’s a sarcastic bastard … and if Harry likes him, in spite of or because of that, then something’s very wrong, and it’s not just about sex.
Nope. It’s totally just about the sex. Harry snaps back to the present.
He blinks. Sees Malfoy, now with his butt perched on the edge of that desk and his face peering down at Harry. One eyebrow quirked in disdain. Disdain looks good on Malfoy. “Are you going to fuck me or not, Potter?”
Oh. Yes.
This isn’t something they’ve done before; it’s not something Harry’s ever done before, in spite of being the eighteen-year-old Saviour of the Wizarding World. The last person he was with was Ginny, and they never got beyond handjobs and him going down on her. Not that Malfoy needs to know anything about this.
Harry feels cold fingers, spidery, he thinks, how damn Slytherin, deftly unbutton his robes, and he shrugs the fabric off of his shoulders and hears it drop to the floor. He steps closer to Malfoy, slotting himself between his parted thighs, and softly applies his lips to Malfoy’s ear, which blushes hot under the touch of his tongue. He traces the curl of it, and Malfoy’s hands quiver as they work to tug the hem of Harry’s t-shirt out of his jeans.
Harry pulls Malfoy’s shirt off (it’s some pretentious silky thing that has about twenty buttons up the front, and slips seductively down his shoulders onto the table once it’s undone. The sound of silk slithering down skin makes Harry think of a vampire flick). Then he works his hand down, scratching gently at Malfoy’s stomach in the way he likes until he gets to the edge of Malfoy’s trousers, and then he presses the heel of his hand to the front of it, the hard bulge there, and rolls his palm against it, firmly but teasingly, until Malfoy snaps and goes for his neck, lapping and kissing and biting Harry’s collarbone in a way that, oddly,
makes him wince and moan at the same time.
From there, it’s a flurry of stripping the other’s clothes off until they’re both naked, and Malfoy, the poncey arsehole, complaining about all the dust and cobwebs that are going to touch his skin if this continues, even as he’s digging around in the pocket of his school robes for lube. Harry stands back a little and waits for Malfoy to find it, leaning against a desk and stroking himself casually. The sight of Malfoy’s satin-pale skin all flushed and his cock sticking up like that from Harry’s hands and mouth is thrilling.
“Got it,” Malfoy huffs, straightening up. He unscrews the lid and dips his fingers in the clear liquid, then gets back up on the edge of the desk and spreads his legs. Putting on a fucking show for him, Harry thinks as his breathing speeds up. And then Malfoy pushes one dripping, shining finger inside himself and Harry stops thinking.
He hadn’t thought Malfoy would want to be fucked. He thought Malfoy would want to be the one doing the fucking; he didn’t think Malfoy would want to give up control (and himself) like that. But Harry very much wants to fuck him, and when Malfoy, with three fingers pushing and scissoring inside him, looks up at Harry with bright cheeks and says, “How do you want to do this?”
“I –” says Harry.
“Bend me over a desk? Fuck me with my face up against a wall? Or with my legs wrapped around your hips?”
“Oh. Yes, that,” Harry breathes.
Malfoy’s eyebrows flicker upwards in anticipation. “Sure you’ve got the strength, Potter?”
Arsehole, Harry thinks, and he grabs Malfoy’s forearm, the one with the Dark Mark inked into it, and tugs Malfoy from his seat at the edge of the desk and pulls him over to the nearest wall. Malfoy’s fingers pop free with a slick sound as he stands and follows.
Harry pushes Malfoy up against the wall; kisses him. Malfoy lifts one leg and wraps it around Harry’s hip, hitching it as high as he can go, while Harry lines himself up and then –
Pushes forward, slowly, and then –
He’s inside Draco Malfoy, buried to the hilt, with all this tight wet heat clenching around him and stimulating what must be every fucking nerve ending he has until he wants to die of heat and bliss. (This would be a fucking good way to go, he thinks blurrily …)
“Come on,” Malfoy hisses out. “Weak bastard.”
Harry seethes. “Are you sore? Do you need –”
“I need you,” groans Malfoy, “to just fucking fuck me.” He grinds his hips into Harry, and Harry kisses him impulsively.
“Stop it, you weak sap,” Malfoy spits.
Harry fucks him, drawing back and shoving forward and revelling in the hot friction enclosing him. Malfoy curls his arms around Harry’s shoulders as he gets shagged, and some of the way through, he brings his other leg off the ground and wraps it tight around Harry’s hips with his feet crossing behind at the ankle. Harry gasps and gasps at the feeling of having the whole of Malfoy’s body supported by him, and fucks him as hard as he can with Malfoy’s legs so tight around him, both of them colliding with the wall on each thrust, and Malfoy’s cock sticking out between the two of them, hard and searing hot, dribbling pre-come against Harry’s stomach. Harry bends his head forward and leaves little bites on Malfoy’s shoulder as he pushes into him and they both begin to come, Harry groaning something that may have been Malfoy’s name as he releases everything into the slick hot hole of Malfoy’s arse and
and then it all goes to shit.
The room glows silvery-blue and a patronus enters in a swirl of light. Harry doesn’t recognise it. He freezes as he softens inside Malfoy and Malfoy lowers his legs to the ground, peering over Harry’s shoulder.
It’s a – a Persian cat? – and as Harry squints at it a voice that is what can only be described as perfectly aristocratic says, “Draco, we have completed negotiations with the Greengrasses. Please return home tomorrow; a lunch has been arranged for the day following. The Headmistress has been informed. You will Floo from her study at four thirty p.m. Keep well, darling, and I will see you on Friday. We are all very excited about how these negotiations are proceeding. All my love.”
He recognises the voice, sort of, but it only hits home when Malfoy says, in a disbelieving tone, “Mother.”
“… Oh.” Harry withdraws, wincing a little, trying not to stare at the white stain dribbling out and trickling down Malfoy’s pink thighs. “That was your mother?”
“Yes,” says Malfoy, his flushed face hardening as he backs away from Harry and begins picking up his clothes. “I have to go. McGonagall will be wanting to speak with me.”
“Right,” Harry says. “Right, yeah.” He reaches down and picks up a pair of jeans. “What was she saying about the – the Greengrasses?”
“Yes, the Greengrasses.” Malfoy pulls his trousers up over his boxers and fastens them, his back still to Harry. “Marriage negotiations. I’m going to be betrothed to Astoria Greengrass.” He pulls on that poncey shirt, frowning at creases that are barely perceptible to Harry but obviously spell the end of the world for a pureblood, even if they’re going to be invisible, under school robes, all day.
“You’re –” Harry, t-shirt in one fist, stops. “You’re getting married?”
“That’s right,” says Malfoy, finally turning around so Harry can see his dumb face as he buttons the shirt with his long pale potion-making fingers. He sounds like the world’s not ending. Or, well, something.
“And you – you didn’t think to mention this to me?”
“Potter,” Malfoy says, “why would I discuss something like that with you?”
“Oh,” says Harry, veering dangerously into sarcasm, “I just thought you could maybe bring up the fact that you’re getting married before you say, ‘Potter … fuck me harder …’” He puts on a wispy, high-pitched voice that he knows perfectly well will get on Malfoy’s nerves. “I thought you were gay.”
“Potter,” Malfoy repeats. His face is completely pleasant, blank. It really fucking infuriates Harry. “You said it yourself. We’re just shagging. Neither of us plans to pledge eternal love anytime soon. Fuck buddies has nothing to do with marriage. And yes, I am gay. Rainbow bloody gay. Two hundred fucking percent queer. But because I am the only son and heir of a pureblood family, it is my familial duty,” he spits out, which turns his face into something bitter and pungent, “to marry and produce my own heir and spare, to continue the line. So don’t fucking complain about shit that you don’t understand, Potter. Good day.”
He stalks out; his robes billow behind him like he’s the bloody second coming of Snape.
He leaves Harry standing with his t-shirt hanging from one hand.