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“Merlin, Potter, just like that. God, you’re such a little whore, aren’t you? Taking this cock. You should see how well you’re taking it. It’s like your arsehole doesn’t want to let go. How are you always so—fuck—so tight?”
Good question.
The answer was, embarrassingly, the result of a new personal care routine Harry had adopted not long after he and Malfoy had fallen into the metaphorical bed together. A few potions and lotions, delicately applied to said arsehole, ensured that he remained tight, which ensured that Malfoy complimented it, which—also embarrassingly—Harry likes.
Quite a lot, actually.
But they weren’t in bed tonight. Or any night for that matter. Beds evaded them. Tonight, they were risking life, limb, and reputation on the sofa in the eighth-year common room. They hadn’t meant to end up fucking on the sofa, but they were, and fuck if Harry didn’t like it.
His knees hurt from the position he’s in, braced on either side of Malfoy’s hips, thighs trembling with every careful rise and fall. The sofa's rough fabric scratches against his skin, as do the buttons of Malfoy’s open trousers against his arse. Malfoy’s fingers are digging into his waist hard enough to bruise, dragging him down each time Harry tries to lift himself, as if he has any right to complain after calling Harry a whore for taking him too well.
The pain in his knees barely matters.
Not when Malfoy is buried inside him—hot and hard—splitting him open in a way that makes every sensible thought in Harry’s head fade away. Not when each downward roll of his hips sends pleasure sparking up his spine, bright and brutal.
He focuses on the flickering flames of the fire in front of him, and not on Malfoy’s lust-fucked expression in the reflection of the ornate, framed standing mirror off to the side.
Not on the way Malfoy looks ruined, head tipped back against the sofa, mouth parted, cheeks flushed, pale hair falling loose over his forehead.
Not on his own cock, either, which jostles with each downward thrust. Not on the fact that it’s leaking steadily now, dripping down onto the sofa between Malfoy’s knees.
Fuck, that’s going to be a pain to clear up when they’re done.
No. He focuses on the flames because focusing on anything else will kill him.
“I’m going to fill you up, Potter. Would you like that? Want me to pump you up full of my come? I’m going to leave you dripping with me, Potter.”
Harry likes the dirty talk. He likes it far more than is sensible. Far more than he is ever going to admit aloud.
He lets out a groan when Malfoy leans forward and takes hold of his forearms, pinning them behind his back, forcing Harry to pitch forward with a sharp and helpless roll of his hips. The angle changes at once, and Harry’s thighs shake as he continues to move, bouncing on Malfoy’s cock even as his balance goes to shit.
He would fall forward if Malfoy didn’t catch him by the hair.
The firm grasp yanks his head back, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make Harry’s spine bow and his breath break. He catches an awful glimpse of himself in the mirror. Face flushed, mouth open, eyes dark and unfocused, his body held in place by Malfoy’s hands.
“Do you think you could come like last time?” Malfoy asks against his back.
The last time Malfoy refers to was another risky rendezvous in the locker room by the Quidditch pitch. Eighth-years aren’t allowed to play for their old houses, so they had formed their own teams at the start of the school year and played friendly games every now and again. After their last match, Harry had stayed behind in the locker room, seeing Ron off with the excuse that he wanted a long shower.
He had had a long shower, and he had enjoyed said shower with Malfoy—especially because it resulted in an orgasm so hard and earth-shattering, made even more devastating by the fact that it had happened whilst his cock had been neglected. Untouched.
“Only if you do what you did last time,” Harry says.
That’s all it takes for Malfoy to wrap his arms around Harry and pull him back, shifting them both until they’re flat on the sofa. Harry’s back is pressed tight to Malfoy’s chest, his legs forced open by Malfoy’s knee, his body held open by the weight and heat of him.
Malfoy takes charge now.
His thrusts slow, turning into deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that make Harry’s breath hitch in his throat. The angle changes again, and Harry lets out a groan with each swipe of Malfoy’s cock over his prostate. It’s too much. Malfoy has spent the last few months learning every way to take him apart and is just showing off.
This isn’t what made him come untouched last time.
No, what made him come untouched last time is the very thing Malfoy is doing now… slipping one hand under Harry’s jumper, reaching higher and higher until he finds Harry’s nipple and pinches it.
“Fuck!” Harry hisses.
Overly sensitive already, the sharp twist shoots electricity through him, and he bucks backwards against Malfoy’s cock.
“Imagine if someone walked in right now and saw you like this,” Malfoy says with a chuckle, the sound low and rough against the nape of Harry’s neck.
“Oh, you’d fucking like that,” Harry replies through broken breath.
Malfoy hums, a small, delighted sound. “I think I would,” he says.
He swipes his tongue up Harry’s neck, all the way to his earlobe, and sucks it into his mouth. His teeth press into the soft flesh at the same time his fingers pluck Harry’s nipple again, and Harry’s entire body jerks.
Malfoy’s other arm is trapped beneath him, which Harry resents because it means Malfoy can’t play with both his nipples at the same time. But he appreciates the fact that Malfoy recognises this and shifts his attention, abandoning one only long enough to torture the other. He twists it gently, then soothes it with the soft pads of his fingers, then twists again because Malfoy is nothing if not a dick.
Truth is, Malfoy would not like it if they were caught.
Not at all.
Because this thing between them has been a secret from day one.
Two weeks after returning to Hogwarts, following a summer of Ministry inquiries, trials, and funerals, Harry had been prepared to get through his final year with his head down. Only a term of Malfoy’s probation is that he has to complete his education as well. Harry had been fine with going back to school with Malfoy. He hadn’t been fine with sharing a dorm with him.
That frustration boiled over quickly, and they came to blows outside the Potions classroom. Slughorn had given them a joint detention cleaning out the cauldrons that same night, which infuriated Harry to no end. Despite Hermione—and even Ron—telling him to keep a lid on his temper, he couldn’t help it.
Scrubbing the remnants of a first-year potion disaster could have been therapeutic. Harry should have focused on hacking away at the Cure for Boils, crusted to the bottom of a cauldron, and not on the fact that he was forced into an enclosed space with Malfoy.
If he had done that, they wouldn’t have got into another fight.
And that fight wouldn’t have ended in the most confusing, crushing, painful kiss of his life.
And that kiss wouldn’t have turned into them ripping at each other’s clothes, falling onto the floor, and losing both their virginities on the flagstones of Slughorn’s classroom.
It’s all talk, the idea of them being caught. Harry isn’t even sure what’s really happening between them, other than the mind-blowing sex. Sure, they get on better now because Harry supposes that it is a natural consequence of mutual orgasms. Everyone else appreciates the newfound camaraderie as well; it certainly has made for a more peaceful life.
“I think I’d love it if the world knew that I had my cock—fuck—eight inches deep in the famous—”
The door to the dormitory swings open, and a thin sliver of light from the hallway outside stretches across the floor.
“You simply do not need that amount of food at this time of night, Weasley!”
“Pardon me for still being a growing boy.”
“Growing boy? You’re six feet a million inches. I’m fairly certain that if you stopped eating so much, you might stop growing.”
Harry’s stomach drops through his body, through the sofa and the several floors beneath him, until it hits the first floor of the castle in a disgusting splatter.
“I don’t think it works like that, Parkinson.”
Harry tries to pull away, then remembers his jeans are balled up underneath the armchair, too far away for him to get to in time.
Malfoy sees them too.
His arm snaps around Harry’s middle, dragging him back flat against his chest. Harry barely has time to make a sound before Malfoy hooks the discarded blanket off the back of the sofa and yanks it over them both.
It covers them from the waist down.
It does not, unfortunately, make Malfoy any less inside him.
“I’m pretty sure it does—”
Parkinson and Ron come to a stop, catching sight of Harry and Malfoy in an incredibly strange position.
“What—”
“Potter was hexed earlier,” Malfoy explains quickly. “Ice hex gone wrong. Madam Pomfrey said that he’d be fine, just needs to regulate his body temperature.”
Harry stares at the fire and tries not to commit murder by clenching.
“So you’re… cuddling?” Ron asks around a mouthful of food. In his hand is a plate of sandwiches, pastries and cold cuts of meat, piled with the sort of confidence only Ron Weasley can bring to a snack.
“Yep,” Harry says, popping the P.
“Who hexed you?” Parkinson asks, crossing her arms.
“Don’t know—”
“Some second year—"
Malfoy digs his fingers into Harry’s hips, the movement both painful and pleasurable at the same time. Harry tightens his jaw.
“We don’t know who it was,” Malfoy carries on. “Potter thinks it was some second-year snot-nosed kid, but I didn’t see them. I was just there to catch the aftermath and get him to the infirmary.”
Weasley considers it for a moment. His gaze moves from Harry’s flushed face to Malfoy’s arm around his waist to the blanket covering both of them.
Harry stops breathing.
Then Ron gives a nonchalant shrug and says, “Good on you for doing that, mate.”
Parkinson doesn’t seem to accept it as quickly.
Of course, she doesn’t.
“Why are you cuddling in here, and not in the infirmary?”
“I hate being there,” Harry says smoothly. “Besides, it will wear off in a few hours. I’ll be fine.”
Her eyes narrow. “And Malfoy, you’ve just happened to volunteer to get all cosy with him?”
“I’m just helping,” he replies coolly. “What are you two doing up so late anyway? I thought everyone was asleep.”
So had Harry, which was why he had allowed Malfoy to deep throat him in the common room before falling into this mess now finds himself in.
“‘Mione has been on at me to get my Potions essay done before the weekend so that we can pop to Hogsmeade for a date,” Ron explains. “I skipped dinner, been in the library all evening. So I popped to the kitchen on the way back—budge up.”
Before either Harry or Malfoy can protest, Ron swipes at both their feet, forcing them to shift into a foetal position as he sits down.
The sudden change in position sends pleasure through Harry. Enough that it makes his vision whiten at the edges. He bites his bottom lip to stop any sound escaping.
Clearly, the same thing is happening to Malfoy.
Harry feels it in the way Malfoy’s chest heaves against his back. In the sharp hitch of his breathing. In the traitorous twitch of his cock still buried inside Harry.
Harry curls tighter under the blanket and stares harder at the fire, willing it to explode and burn him alive.
Ron reaches happily for a sandwich.
Parkinson sits in the armchair opposite them, slow as a cat, and smiles.
Harry’s jeans are under that armchair.
Shit.
“Oh, you do look worse for wear, Potter,” Parkinson purrs. “Dreadfully so. Are you sure you don’t want to be in the infirmary?”
Harry clears his throat, and this unfortunately comes with the side-effect of causing Malfoy’s hip to twitch.
“Fu—no. No. I’m fine,” he says. “Fine.”
Readers: He is not fine.
His cock is rock solid underneath the blanket, throbbing painfully. Still dripping as well. He daren’t even touch it to give himself an ounce of relief for fear of coming, and if he comes, he isn’t sure how far it will shoot out of him.
“Don’t you two want to go to sleep?” Malfoy asks pointedly—threaded with just an ounce of hope.
“I will once I’ve finished my food,” Ron says, before shoving half a cucumber sandwich into his mouth.
“I’m not tired,” Parkinson replies, her eyes twinkling.
Fuck.
“You’ve not told me why you’re up late, either.”
“Professor Copper had to move our meeting to nine. They had to attend some staff meeting or other, I don’t know. Anyway, I ended up staying after the meeting to have a go on the Muggle sewing machine.”
Parkinson wasn’t charged with anything following the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry had made it very clear that he understood her attempt to sack him over to Tom Riddle had been an act of desperation.
That said, the Ministry had requested that she, like most Slytherins, take Muggle Studies.
He wishes, now, that he hadn’t advocated for her.
“Good. How did that go?” Malfoy asks.
Harry blinks.
How on earth is Malfoy holding a conversation with his cock deep inside him right now?
“They’ve written me a letter of recommendation for my apprenticeship. I just need to finish my sample design to send to Madam Malkin.”
Ron chooses that exact moment to drop his cream-filled éclair down the front of his jumper.
“Merlin’s cock,” he exclaims, jumping up and quickly wiping himself down with his free hand.
The éclair falls to the floor with a squelch, and bits of cream shoot everywhere. The sofa shifts with the sudden loss of Ron’s weight, causing Malfoy to jolt.
The movement thrusts his cock out of and back into Harry, and Harry prays to whatever deity exists that he can hold himself together. He bites his lip, his stomach tightens, and Malfoy’s fingers flex before spreading across his skin in a way that feels almost possessive.
“Shit,” Malfoy hisses, low enough that only Harry can hear him.
All Harry can think of is that if he comes, it will look exactly like the cream from the éclair on the floor.
“Really, Weasley. Do you have no manners?” Parkinson scoffs.
“It was an accident!”
“Honestly, I have a lot of respect for Granger—beyond the whole saving the world thing—and it’s for putting up with you.”
“She doesn’t ‘put up with me’,” Ron says defensively.
As the pair of them bicker, Harry decides that now is the perfect time to free himself from the chains of Malfoy’s cock.
He begins to move slowly forward, thinking that if he can just get Malfoy out of him, it will make everything a little bit easier to handle and—hopefully—get his erection to fade away before it becomes everyone’s problem.
Only Malfoy stops him.
His arm slips down, locking tight around Harry’s hips, and he snaps them back with one sharp, brutal tug.
This does two things.
Firstly, Malfoy’s arm brushes against Harry’s sensitive cock.
Secondly, it drags Malfoy’s cock directly against his prostate.
“If I’m going to come, I’m doing it in you,” Malfoy whispers.
The combination of the above and Malfoy’s unnecessary vulgarity is enough to have Harry burrowing his face into the nook of his arm, biting down on the knitted wool of his jumper, and releasing a low, rumbling groan that is entirely not his fault.
The bickering stops.
“Whoa, you okay, mate?” Ron asks, crouching down in front of him and placing his plate of food on the floor. “You look peaky.”
“Aww, you do, Potter. I really think you ought to go back to the infirmary,” Parkinson says, dripping with sarcasm. “You don’t look like you’re cold. If anything, you look warm. Like… really, really, hot.”
“As do you, Malfoy,” Ron adds.
Parkinson crosses the small distance and reaches over Harry, pressing the back of her hand against Malfoy’s brow.
He pulls his arm out to quickly swat her away, which does not help Harry at all, thanks to the pointed pressure against his prostate. He manages to bite back a grunt.
“What are you doing?” Malfoy asks, sliding his arm back under the blanket. Brushing against Harry’s cock, again.
Whore.
“You’re warm,” Pansy says.
Then she does the same thing to Harry. Her hand is nice and cold, a blessed relief against the heat crawling over every inch of him.
“You too,” she continues, eyes narrowing. “Are you sure it was an ice hex?”
“Very sure,” Harry says.
“You’re all… hot and sweaty. Like you’ve been running, or something,” Ron says.
Malfoy’s cock twitches.
“I’m fine,” Harry says, a bit firmer now.
“I think Parkinson is right. Maybe you should go to the infirmary.”
“No!” Harry snaps. “What I need is some peace and—fuck—quiet!”
Ron frowns, and for a moment, Harry feels bad.
Thankfully, it doesn’t last long, because Ron gets up, takes his plate of food, and sits back down. Another shift in the sofa, and Harry hisses, pleasure rolling through his cock. Malfoy does too.
Bastard Ron.
Pansy remains standing over them. Harry focuses on the fire again and not on the desperate urge to roll his hips.
“You heard him!” Draco says.
Pansy rolls her eyes and returns to her armchair.
For a few minutes, there is blessed peace, other than Ron eating his food. The sound of his lips smacking together fills the space, along with the crackle of the fire and the heavy, rhythmic thudding of Malfoy’s heart against Harry’s back.
Though Harry is fairly certain only he can hear Malfoy’s heart.
It’s almost—almost—bearable now. The four of them, sitting in awkward silence. Pansy studies her nails. Ron eats another sandwich.
A sandwich… whilst Harry is arse to groin stuck to Malfoy. Malfoy, who is still inside him. Thankfully, he’s not moving, which Harry appreciates, even if appreciation currently feels a lot like wanting to bite him.
That is, until Malfoy shifts.
“Sorry, Potter,” he says in a way that suggests he’s not sorry at all. “Just getting comfy.”
Malfoy pulls himself up slightly, resting his head now on the fist of the arm that had been trapped beneath him. He pulls his other arm up, and Harry thinks, for one bright, stupid moment, that maybe Malfoy is actually going to remove it completely.
But he doesn’t.
No.
Life isn’t that kind to Harry.
Malfoy’s hand stops just beneath Harry’s erection.
Then, slowly, one by one, his long, elegant fingers wrap around Harry’s cock.
Harry dares to twist his head, just enough to see Malfoy’s face in the mirror. His expression is one of utter, cocky joy. A smirk. Eyes twinkling in the light of the fire.
Malfoy catches him staring and winks.
And before Harry can even summon his dying brain cells to think of a way out of this, Malfoy starts pumping his fist.
It’s slow. Loose. Slick, thanks to the precum Harry has been dripping all night. The drag of Malfoy’s fingers is barely enough and far too much at the same time, each lazy pull sending heat spilling through Harry’s stomach, his thighs, the base of his spine. His entire body feels hot and tingly, and fuck, he’s close.
So close.
“Fuck,” Harry gasps, clenching the edge of the sofa so tightly his knuckles whiten.
Malfoy stops.
Harry nearly sobs.
“Are you alright, Potter?”
He nods.
Malfoy squeezes the base of his cock.
“Are you sure? Maybe you should have something to eat?”
“I’m fine.”
Malfoy squeezes again.
“Fuck!” Harry hisses.
“Weasley, be a lamb and share something from that buffet of yours.”
“I don’t want anything to—”
“Oh, no… Potter, I think Draco is right,” Pansy says. “You should have something to eat. I think I remember something-something-something about how eating is meant to help you when you’re… ill? Or something? I don’t know.”
“That’s chocolate after a Dementor attack,” Ron explains, though he holds his plate of food out anyway.
“Honestly, I’m alright, I just—”
Malfoy tightens his grasp.
Harry grabs the first thing from Ron’s plate and, without thinking, takes a bite.
It’s a cucumber sandwich.
Of course it is.
“Does that taste good?” Malfoy asks, returning to leisurely stroke Harry’s cock.
Harry lets out a soft sigh as he chews.
“See, I knew it would help.”
In the mirror’s reflection, Malfoy is grinning again, an evil, lopsided grin. As Harry chews his food and trembles under Malfoy’s ministrations, Malfoy runs his tongue across his bottom lip.
He’s enjoying this.
The bastard.
So is Harry.
He takes another bite of the sandwich and groans.
“It’s not that good,” Ron says, amused and mouth full.
Only it is. It’s the best sandwich Harry has ever had in his life. The bread is soft, the butter is salty, and the cucumber slices are cool and crisp. That’s what Harry focuses on, and not on the fact that Malfoy is now rolling his hips slowly.
“Looks good to me,” Pansy says, smirking. “Looks like a real nice sandwich.”
Harry hates her.
He hates her so much that, for one wild second, it almost distracts him from Malfoy’s hand on his cock and Malfoy’s cock inside him, splitting him in half, and Malfoy’s hips rolling in slow, shallow movements beneath the blanket.
Almost.
Pleasure is cresting now, and the effort of biting back every noise he wants to make is unbearable. He takes another bite and uses it to let out a whimper.
The sound is pornographic.
There is no denying it.
It causes both Ron and Pansy to stare at him, and thankfully, Malfoy stops.
Or maybe not thankfully, because all Harry wants to do is come.
Ron is faintly green around the gills, and Pansy looks as if she’s played the Muggle Lottery and won ten grand a month for the rest of her wicked little life.
“Merlin, Potter. If you sound like this when you’re ill and eating a sarnie, I don’t want to know what you sound like when you’re having sex.”
Malfoy sniggers.
Harry clenches his arse.
Malfoy’s snigger turns into a hiss and a grunt so low that only Harry can hear it.
Interesting.
Two can play at this game.
He clenches again, and this time Malfoy can’t help himself. The sound is louder. Rougher. It catches in his throat and makes Harry’s cock twitch beneath the blanket.
“Maybe you should have something to eat, Malfoy,” Harry suggests lightly. “You missed dinner because of me.”
“Because of you?”
“Yeah… getting me to the infirmary,” Harry reminds him.
“Oh—oh, yeah… but I’m fine, Potter. Really.”
Harry glares at Malfoy in the mirror and quirks his hips sharply, making it look as if he’s only adjusting himself.
Malfoy’s jaw tightens.
His skin, pale pink already thanks to the earlier fucking and current situation, deepens.
It’s a beautiful sight.
Really. Harry can’t deny how beautiful Malfoy is.
“Potter’s right, Draco. I’m ever so worried you’ve caught whatever really struck Potter earlier,” Pansy says.
“Here.” Ron holds his plate out.
There is now one singular cream-filled éclair left.
Malfoy has no choice but to accept it, releasing his vice-like grasp on Harry’s cock. Harry watches Malfoy through the mirror as he takes a large bite. Cream clings to his lips as he chews. He licks it away, the movement thoughtless and slow.
Harry clenches again.
Malfoy lets out a grunt.
“Godric’s cock, Malfoy! If I’d known you were hungry, I’d have brought up more food,” Ron says miserably.
Sweet, sweet Ronald.
Harry takes the final bite of his sandwich, shoving the last of it into his mouth before leaning up to dust the crumbs off his jumper and the sofa.
Using the movement to jostle on purpose.
He grinds his arse back against Malfoy, pulling from him a sweet, broken symphony of sighs and pants.
Malfoy shoves the éclair into his mouth in a move that is both uncouth and desperate, then falls back against the sofa. Harry can feel the hot line of his body trembling as he, too, lies back down and presses his back to Malfoy’s chest.
“Stop it,” Malfoy hisses
“You started it,” Harry mutters.
Malfoy’s hand slips back under the blanket, grabbing his hip and stilling him.
Harry sniggers.
Ron finishes his final bite of food and stands up. The shift in the sofa causes both Harry and Malfoy to, again, clench their souls for fear of eternal damnation.
“Right, I’m off to bed. You going to be alright down here?” Ron asks.
“F-fine,” Harry replies.
Ron studies Harry for a moment, brows furrowed together in concern. Then, with a shrug, he sets his plate down on the side table and takes the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, bidding everyone a good night.
“What about you, Parkinson? Not tired?” Harry asks.
Ever so desperate to get her gone so that he and Malfoy can just come.
The moment the door clicks shut behind Ron, Pansy crouches down and grabs Harry’s jeans from underneath the armchair.
“Not at all,” she says, holding them out.
Fuck.
“Fuck,” Harry says.
“Fuck,” Draco hisses.
“Fuck indeed,” Pansy replies with a grin. “Do you two really think I don’t know that you’ve been shagging about the castle? I saw these the moment I came in. You’re both terribly indiscreet. In the common room of all places.”
Neither of them says anything.
Neither of them can say anything.
This was meant to be a secret.
“I’m going to presume that my darling Draco is currently balls deep inside you, Potter,” Pansy continues.
She stands up, folds Harry’s jeans, and places them primly on the armchair.
“So I will leave you to it. But may I make one suggestion? We graduate next month. Maybe you should consider what’s next? Instead of committing public acts of indecency everywhere. You slags.”
Without waiting for a response, Pansy turns on her heel and leaves for the girls’ room.
Even when the door shuts behind her, neither Harry nor Malfoy speak.
Somehow, they’re both still fucking rock solid.
Harry twists his head. Malfoy is leaning up again, looking down at him. His gaze is both pensive and hungry, which feels dangerous in a completely different way.
Maybe they should consider what’s next.
Maybe they should talk about what they’re doing, and why the idea of next month sits between them. Maybe Harry should ask why Malfoy keeps looking at him like that. Maybe Malfoy should stop pretending this is nothing every time his hands say otherwise.
But for now, Harry is desperate to come.
He rocks his hips slowly, grinding his arse against Malfoy.
“Malfoy,” he whispers.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Malfoy asks, rolling his own hips.
“You started it,” Harry says. He moans, and it’s quickly swallowed by Malfoy’s mouth.
He kisses him hard, awkward from the angle and filthy for it, his hand coming up to grip Harry’s jaw and hold him there. He slips his tongue inside Harry’s mouth, and Harry sucks it, earning a rough little sound from the back of Malfoy’s throat that goes straight through him.
“We should go somewhere else,” Harry says against his lips.
“Fuck that,” Malfoy replies. “I need you.”
In one swift movement, Malfoy flips Harry onto his front and straddles his arse, then pulls him up until they’re both on their knees. The blanket slips down, pooling across the back of their calves, and Harry braces himself, grabbing onto the arm of the sofa.
Then Malfoy fucks him.
Fucks him hard.
Each thrust of his hips causes Harry to quiver and grunt and moan and whimper, his cock bobbing uselessly beneath him, dripping harder now. Each slide of Malfoy’s cock is torture and pleasure both at the same time, too much after being held open for so long, too much after all that stillness, too much after pretending he wasn’t coming apart while Ron ate sandwiches.
He looks up at the mirror and sees Malfoy watching them both, lips parted and eyes half-lidded.
It’s a different sight than before.
Earlier, it was lust-fucked.
Now it’s that and something more.
Harry forces himself to straighten up, forcing Malfoy’s movements to become shallower but no less intense. Malfoy’s hands are everywhere all at once. The jut of Harry’s hipbones, the fine curls of his snail trail, the front of his sweaty thighs where they’re trembling. They slide up to his throat, pressing his head back so that he falls against Malfoy’s shoulder.
Then they go where Harry needs them most.
Up his jumper.
To his nipples.
Malfoy plays with them like he’s tuning a radio. Twisting, and plucking, and pinching, and running his fingers over, and over, and over them until Harry can’t think past the sharp, bright sparks of pleasure shooting straight down to his cock.
Harry lets out a groan. He feels his balls tighten, heat pooling at the base of his spine.
“That’s right, Potter. Come for me. Come on my cock. You’ve been so good,” Malfoy says, almost crying, his breath hot against Harry’s ear. “Need you to come for me. I’m so close. I’m going to fill you up and—fuck—come, Potter. Come!”
It’s on a broken “Malfoy” that he finally does.
His cock pulses. Come shoots out, drenching the end of the sofa and landing on the floor an impressive distance away.
Malfoy pushes him forward, pressing his face into the come-sodden sofa. Malfoy lifts his knee, and if his thrusting was firm before, it’s vicious now. The sound of skin slapping skin is obscene. It fills the room and drowns out the crackling fire.
“Fuck, Malfoy!” Harry hisses.
His entire body is over-sensitive thanks to how long he’s been impaled on Malfoy, how long he’s had to hold himself still, how long he’s had to pretend that being full of him isn’t the only thing keeping him alive and killing him at the same time.
Every thrust punches the breath out of him. It drags noises from somewhere deep in his chest. It makes the mess beneath him wetter, warmer, and more humiliating against his cheek.
“Take it,” Malfoy says, voice wrecked above him. “Just take it. Fuck, Potter, you feel—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp, his fingers digging into Harry’s hips hard enough to bruise.
Harry knows that sound now.
How can he not after months of this? He knows the way Malfoy’s rhythm goes uneven. Knows the way his breath breaks. Knows the way he presses in deep, like he can’t bear the thought of even an inch of space between them.
“Come,” Harry says, voice muffled against the sofa. “Come in me. Please. Fuck, Malfoy. I need it. Fucking fill me up.”
Malfoy makes a noise like he’s been hexed.
Then he does.
He shoves in deep and stills, cock pulsing inside Harry as he comes, one hand braced on the sofa and the other locked around Harry’s hip like he’s the only thing keeping him upright. Harry feels every twitch of it, every hot spill, every shudder that runs through Malfoy’s body and into his own.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the fire, their breathing, and the horrifying knowledge that they’ve absolutely ruined the sofa.
They’ll have to burn it.
Five heartbeats.
Ten.
Fifteen.
They reach twenty before Malfoy pulls out slowly, and Harry shivers at the loss.
This is the part he hates.
Malfoy will get up now. He’ll perform a perfunctory cleaning charm. Throw Harry’s clothes at him. Then go.
Leaving Harry cold and alone.
Only that doesn’t happen tonight.
No.
Malfoy doesn’t do any of that.
“Scoot up,” Malfoy mutters breathlessly, lying down in the space between Harry and the back of the sofa.
Confused, Harry obliges. He goes to turn to face the fire, but Malfoy stops him.
“No, face me,” he says.
Even more confused, Harry twists again until he’s on his back, looking up at Malfoy. The same strange look is plastered across his face again. A small crease between his brows, the corners of his mouth turned down.
“We shouldn’t have done it here,” Harry says. “Fucking stupid.”
Malfoy snorts lightly. “Why haven’t we ever done it in a bed?” He drags the blanket up from where it has tangled between their legs and covers Harry's bare legs with it.
Good question.
Harry doesn’t know. They’ve never discussed it. Ever. They’ve just done it where they could. Both of them have beds. Sure, Harry shares a room with Ron and Neville, so that makes things a bit difficult, but Draco only shares with Theo, and Theo, like tonight, is often away visiting his fiancée, Daphne Greengrass.
For all Malfoy has claimed in the past that he wants to keep this a secret—a clearly badly kept secret where Pansy is involved—they’ve never really mitigated the risks.
Harry shrugs.
“A bed is… too… intimate?” he proposes.
“And us having sex is what? A walk in the park between two friends?” The crease between Malfoy’s brows deepens. “I think Pansy is right.”
He scratches his lip with his thumb.
“About?” Harry asks.
“About what’s—” Malfoy takes in a deep breath. “What’s next?”
The way Malfoy says it is both hesitant and nervous. As if asking the question is too much and not enough. Like he wants to know the answer, but knowing it could cost him something.
Harry isn’t sure if the flush across his cheeks is from this small attempt at bearing his heart or the remnants of the frankly mind-blowing sex after edging for half an hour.
Harry smiles. It’s a soft, small thing.
“I thought you wanted to keep this a secret?”
Malfoy twists his lips. “Did you not hear what I said earlier?”
Harry knows he’s still cock-drunk. “Remind me.”
“I’d love the world to know that I have my cock eight inches deep inside you, Potter. Maybe not in such a graphic way… obviously.”
Harry chuckles.
“But, erm—maybe…” Malfoy swallows. “Maybe we could start with—with—I dunno. Doing it in a bed. See what happens.”
“Maybe,” Harry replies. “Maybe we could also… go on a date?”
Malfoy nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah… yeah, that sounds good. Maybe we also, erm—fuck—maybe we also use each other's first names… Harry?”
Harry’s smile widens. “I like the sound of that, Draco.”
Draco returns the smile, and it is a really beautiful smile.
They kiss, slow and lazy and deep. When they pull away, Draco cups Harry’s jaw. Clearly not caring about the come drying on Harry’s cheek.
“Do you fancy sharing a bed with me tonight?” Draco asks.
“Sure… but you’re going to need to help me get up, I’ve lost all the feeling in my legs.”
Draco chuckles and pulls himself up and off the sofa, tucking himself away as he does. He grabs Harry’s jeans and, with his free hand, helps Harry up. He winces as he stands; the dull, insistent pain between his legs is strong, but Harry doesn’t mind. He’s never minded the pain. He likes it.
He tightens the blanket around his waist, and, whilst still holding Draco’s hand, they go to leave the common room.
Only, as they do, Harry catches sight of Draco’s gaze as he looks behind himself.
The grimaced expression.
Harry follows his line of sight.
The sofa.
“Vanish it?” Harry suggests.
They both know there isn’t a charm in the world strong enough to clear away that brand of sin.
Draco pulls Harry’s wand out of his jeans and does just that. The sofa disappears with a pop. Draco waves the wand again, vanishing the come from the floor.
In the morning, Ron will ask questions. Pansy will already know.
Harry decides that it is a problem for future Harry, who, hopefully, will have regained the use of his thighs.
“We’ll tell Weasley that the cream from his éclair stained it beyond saving,” Draco says, already thinking the same thing. “Come on.”
Draco takes Harry’s hand and drags him to bed.