Never Mind The Bollocks, It's Draco/Harry (Shake Your Groove Thing)
These things just happen sometimes. If you are here expecting a realistic and thoughtful continuation of my novel-length H/D fics, this sure ain't it! Mwhahaha. Thanks to painless_j and phreid for the brainstorming.
Title: Never Mind The Bollocks, It's Draco/Harry (Shake Your Groove Thing)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Word Count: 4,999
Summary: This is crack!fic at its worst. Can we say cliché? Yes, yes we can. I tried to get them all.
Warning: Authorial insanity.
Notes: My first (hopefully not last) PP story. I blame it on the pretty pills.
Harry had had a busy evening.
He'd wandered the halls of Hogwarts in his invisibility cloak, alternately sulking and sneaking into the girl's bathrooms for an eyeful, had raced around the Quidditch pitch on his Firebolt, angsting for hours in the dark, had played an acrimonious game of chess with Ron, culminating in an ALLCAPS argument, and had ended up at a Truth-or-Dare party with Hufflepuffs, who were stunned into silence by his bravery at putting a quill in his shirt while he wasn't wearing a pocket protector.
Tired yet satisfied, he climbed the stairs to the seventh-year boys dormitory.
The last thing Harry expected to find there was Draco Malfoy, Ice Prince of Slytherin and missing for eight months, reclining meaningfully on Harry's bed, wearing nothing but a schoolgirl skirt, black eyeliner, and a rather suggestive smirk.
Even more alarming was the fact that his roommates were circling him like jet fighters around an aircraft carrier, looking for an opportunity to hit the deck.
Something was definite up, and it wasn't only the nether regions of his mates. Harry became aware of a subtle yet alluring siren song luring him closer, which grew stronger as he approached Malfoy, except there was a kind of dead zone where he had to shift over a bit to the left or the reception would abruptly cut out.
"Can you hear me now?" he asked. "I mean, Malfoy! What are you doing here? And by here I mean in my bed, despoiling my pedestrian yet almost clean sheets that are clearly not the 6,000-count Egyptian cotton ones you usually favor."
"Hello, Potter," Malfoy cooed, in a strangely seductive voice that had feathers in it. "Long time no see."
The way he said that hit Harry like a truck that the author couldn't be bothered to Britpick.
"You... you're a Veela," Harry exclaimed, deeply worried at the obvious direction this story was taking.
"Half-Veela, actually. And half-dragon. And half-ferret Animagus."
"That's three halves."
"Well, they don't teach maths at Hogwarts, so don't blame me. Anyway, you're very astute, Potter. Was it the fact that my milkshake brought all the boys to the yard?"
Harry found himself gazing into the depths of Draco's grey eyes. They reminded him of a cloudy day. No, wait, they were more like the steel grey of ball bearings before grease got to them. Or maybe - yeah - grey like lint collected on a dryer filter, a delicate blend of ash grey and slate grey and stovepipe grey and dove grey, with just a suggestion of white flecks from the tissue you'd accidentally left in your pocket, but without too much blue, because you are no idiot and didn't cram your denims in this load although you were sorely tempted to because it would have saved time.
Only greyer.
"Where have you been for the past eight months?" Harry asked, in case anyone missed the earlier reference.
"I was either working in a Muggle bookstore or servicing the Dark Lord as his unwilling yet attractive fucktoy, I forget which." Draco shrugged his elegant shoulders. "When all the children of Death Eaters got warning owls last term and skedaddled, I did, too."
"What are you talking about? You were the only one who left Hogwarts, and it took everyone weeks to notice you were even missing."
"Can I help it I jumped the gun? How was I supposed to know that my mother's message wasn't a secret warning of dire things to come?"
"What was the message?"
" 'Your father snuffed another house elf yesterday'. "
"Whoa. I can see where that would be alarming."
"Alarming? Not really. He did it all the time. What was alarming was Mother bothering to mention it. She also suggested I stop shagging Pansy Parkinson."
"Ewww. Het."
"Not that I ever had. Pansy's either too ugly for words or into muff-diving, I forget which. No one at Hogwarts is straight, anyway. Makes you wonder where the next generation of students will come from."
"Not an issue. There are only two more books planned."
"So, to get on with the tedious exposition that sets up the conditions for my sad story, in the past EIGHT months, after you finally killed the Dark Lord, thereby saving all of wizardkind, my father was captured and is either in Azkaban or dead, Mother buggered off to Europe with Luigi, our former gardener, and the Ministry confiscated the Manor, leaving me penniless. With my elite upbringing and my pointy, androgynous good looks, the only jobs I could qualify for were blow."
"Hey, you stole that line from Hedwig and the Angry Inch!"
"So? Do you really believe that left to my own devices, I'd manage to sound like Oscar Wilde?"
"You were a rentboy?" Ron asked, sounding to Harry's ears more breathlessly excited than horrified.
"You seem surprised, Weaselby. Don't be. When I turned 17, I came into my full Veela powers, and I practically had to beat off the men. With sticks. Beat them off with sticks."
"You were a Veela rentboy?" Harry said. Asked. Said.
"It made me a wealthy man, Potter, so don't knock it. In my Gringotts account, I have one million and two Galleons."
"Who gave you the two Galleons?"
Draco looked momentarily puzzled. "Why, they all did."
"Figures," Harry muttered.
"Anyway, enough backstory about me. What did I miss around here?" Draco asked. Said. Asked. "Who's left after the brutal war that killed off half the population of Hogwarts or an irrelevant few, I forget which?"
"Hagrid was one of the first killed," Harry answered, his eyes filling with tears. "No one can write his accent worth shit, so it's easier just to off him."
"And Dumbledore?"
"He sacrificed himself in the dramatic style of better-written mentor characters like Gandalf and Obi-Wan Kenobi. On second thought, I take that back about Obi-Wan. George Lucas sucks at screenplays."
"Anyone else?" he asked repetitively.
"A handful of minor yet oddly irritating characters who would be wearing red shirts in a Star Trek episode, including Lavender Brown, Dennis Creevy, and two or three interchangeable Weasleys who aren't Ron."
"So how are you holding up after your sadly tragic destiny reached its pinnacle?"
"Besides being the world's most powerful wizard and teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts in my spare time? Either I'm wracked by guilt over every war death, or else I'm determined to make my mark as a Quidditch-playing Auror, I forget which."
Draco shifted, revealing more of that creamy-pale skin that Harry wanted to lick. He knew, however, that they still had a shitload of plot to hack through before he'd be allowed even the tiniest taste of that paley-cream dermatological covering.
"So why are you here?" Harry said, leading-the-witness-ly.
Malfoy sighed, and stretched his beautiful torso, emphasizing his rippling muscles and pink rosebud nipples. It suddenly occurred to Harry that Malfoy looked an awful lot like the awesomely hot model, Boyd Holbrook.
"I need a Veela soul mate. And since I've been obsessed with you for yonks, I thought you might want to give it a go. How about it?"
"Me?" Harry squeaked breathlessly.
"No, the other Boy-Who-Lives-to-Torment-Me-With-Unresolved-Sexual-Tension. Yes, you. Ever since I lusted after your Quidditch-toned arse at Madame Malkin's robe shop-"
"Wait a minute! I didn't play Quidditch until later in the book. I won't tolerate canon error."
Draco sighed. "It's subtext, Potter."
"Oh, okay. But I thought we were sworn enemies ever since I refused to shake your hand."
"That was mere authorial subterfuge to disguise the fact that we writhe around on the ground together an awful lot. Although if you had taken my hand that day, a lot of plot threads would have to be recast."
"Well, I didn't want to shake your hand because I had an embarrassing wart."
"Fine. Anyway, we are no longer threatened with a dreaded chan rating, so it's all good. I've grown up to be breathtakingly gorgeous yet strangely fey, and you - well, your hair has gone from wretchedly messy to endearingly tousled. Take off your dorky glasses, Potter. I want to see your piercingly emerald -"
"Don't say 'orbs'!" intoned a Greek chorus of Gryffindors.
"Oh, so the rest of you can talk," Draco said smirkily.
Harry looked at his friends. "Well, Ron can say a line or two on his own, but Seamus, Dean, and Neville are under Imperius to keep them quiet, or we'll owe them more royalties." He peered more closely at the group, then stopped short. "Wait a minute. Who are you?"
"I'm Mary Breanna Heather Brittany Moonfeather Elwynnead Sue," she announced with a toss of her multicolored hair and a flutter of dark lashes over stunningly violet eyes. "The tanned, long-legged transfer student from southern California. Don't you remember admiring my awesome flying skills second only to yours, Harry? Or appreciating my uncanny ability to predict danger and to save you in the nick of time?"
"No," Harry admitted. "But look. You're not really needed here - this is slash." He nodded to Ron, who casually strolled over and shoved her out the window. Rather than plummeting to certain death, Mary Sue unfurled an enormous pair of brilliant rainbow-colored wings and flew away to either Egypt or Romania, everyone quickly forgot which.
Malfoy smiled a tantalizingly Veela-like smile. "Listen, Potter, can we cut to the chase? I already got the okay for this seduction from Professor McGonnagall. Er. MacGonigal. Uh. McGonnee- Professor Sprout. Even though it makes her into a near-pimp, she's arranged for us to have our own bedroom for the rest of the term-"
"Which is one more day."
"Well, it's the thought that counts," Draco huffed. "Look, Potter, we've got a 5,000 word limit here, so can we get on with this?"
"Sorry."
"So, back to the soul mate deal. All I need to do is to claim you with my glistening and perfectly proportioned manmeat, then-"
"What? No way, Malfoy. You've got things the wrong way round."
"What are you talking about?"
"Hey, guys? Draco Malfoy - top or bottom?"
"Bottom," came the unison reply.
"See? Everyone knows you're the prototype for the mouthy-yet-submissive bottom. There's even a community set up for it. I'll be doing the manmeat thing, thank you very much. Besides, you're the one wearing a skirt. And lipstick."
"Clinique Colour Surge Berry Nugget lipstick, I'll have you know. Plum Chrome made my skin look washed out."
"I rest my case." Harry shrugged, which he knew made him look really cute. "Anyway, do we have to start with shagging? Can't we start with you asking me to the graduation prom?"
Draco made a strange gesture on his forehead with his thumb and index finger. "What are you, American? Hogwarts doesn't have a prom. We don't even have graduation, you ass. Er. Arse." He shrugged. "No, what I had in mind, actually, was a clandestine grudgefuck."
"Quidditch shed or broom closet?"
"Not the Astronomy Tower?"
"That's too cliché even for this story. Bed! Now!" Harry rolled his eyes at Draco. Draco reached down and dusted them off before handing them back to Harry.
"Anyway, you Gryffindorks, I've chosen my Veela mate, so the rest of you can piss off wherever extra characters go when they're not needed in the scene."
Seamus, Dean, and Neville headed obediently out the door, but Ron stubbornly refused to budge.
Draco glared at him. "Didn't you hear me? Bugger off, Weasel."
"I can't. Not until I call you Ferret boy at least once."
"Mission accomplished, then. Now shoo. Don't make me fandom-wank you."
"Oh, Merlin, not that. I'm going! Hey, Harry, can I borrow the cloak? Hermione wants to give it a go on Pince's desk."
"Yeah, sure." Harry tossed him the priceless cloak, by now in need of a thorough decontamination. It took Ron seven tries before he caught the invisible garment and exited stage right.
"What does the Mudblood see in him, anyway?" Draco asked with a moue of disgust on his pointed face.
"Hung like a horse. All the Weasleys are."
"And you would know this, how, exactly?"
"Er. Oops."
Draco scowled. "Are you secretly lusting after the Weasel, giving me a great shot at showing off my drama queen skills in a display of over-the-top jealousy?
"Are you nutters? Or did I mean nuts? I get them confused. Ron's had a thing for Hermione forever. They pretended they were only friends all through the first six books, but now, as you just observed but the author can't be arsed to fix, they go off together at all hours of the day or night. Either that or he's getting off with some if not all of his brothers, I forget which."
"Incest? I thought Father and I had that category sewn up."
"TMI, Malfoy. Anyway, with Ron and Hermione hooked up, I can feel left out and wait forlornly for the right Veela to take my virginity off my hands."
"You're still a virgin?"
"Well, if we're assuming the paradigm of heterosexual comparability, where anal penetration in male-to-male sexual activity is the most viable equivalent to the vaginal experience in male-female copulation..."
"What?"
"Short answer: yes. If you don't count frottage with Bulstrode, or Zacharias sucking me off, or the things Justin Finch-Fletchley can do with those kinky magical anal beads."
"So why haven't you hit up your other friends to do the nasty? Finnigan or Thomas?"
"Already shagging each other, of course."
"Longbottom, then."
"He's with Luna Lovegood. Or going at it like bunnies with Professor Snape, I forget which."
Draco looked gobsmacked. "Longbottom and Snape? Who is incidentally my godfather, and who may or may not be a vampire depending on the not-yet-written events of book 7?"
"Well, someone has to cover the rare pairing. Unless you'd prefer to see Dobby and Zabini?"
"That slut? Even the crack of dawn isn't safe from Zabini."
"For the longest time I thought he was a girl," Harry admitted.
"You mean he isn't?" Draco looked oddly horrified.
Harry, meanwhile, had been surreptitiously checking Draco's arm for evidence of the Dark Mark. When he didn't find it, he let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. But there were several unexplained gashes that he couldn't ignore.
"These scars - you aren't into self-mutilation are you?" he asked. "That's so passé these days. Now it's all about rimming."
Draco looked appalled. "But I don't like rimming!"
"Don't be a prude - it's the new black. Anyway, it's not always about you. This is a request challenge, and they specifically asked for post-War Veela grudgefuck with rimming."
"Eeuuw. Let me see that list." Draco snatched the parchment from Harry's nailbitten hands. "Watersports? But I can't swim!"
"Listen, just be glad this isn't one of those Deatheater rapefics. Last Smutmas I had to do a necrophilia scene with Firenze. That was rough."
"What's wrong with the old way? A little dry-humping, a quick lube spell, one, two, three fingers, then in?"
"You have been gone a while."
"Well, it's just that I've never done anything but mutual orgasms before. My partners always come untouched from the sheer hotness of watching my hair become slightly mussed."
Harry was taken aback - he'd hoped for a lot more. He'd love to find out what secrets Malfoy had learned in eight months of rentboydom.
A/N - Harry's thoughts are in slashes, and Draco's are in asterisks
/ I wonder if he's thinking of kissing me right now. /
* Does he know he's got spinach stuck in his teeth? *
/ Has he fantasized about this moment for years like I have? /
* Did I remember to turn off the stove before I left? *
/ I hope he'll let me go all the way. /
* I wonder if Buffy is on tonight. *
"Okay, Malfoy, before we go any further, I just need you to agree to the standard prohibitions. At no time during the next fifteen" - Harry glanced down at Draco's sizable throbbing and weeping erection - "five minutes, will you say the following, no matter how close to ecstasy you may find yourself. 1. You will not refer to me as baby, lover, honey, sugar, or bunnykins. 2. You will not refer to any body part as a sword, a wand, a rosebud, or a starfish - actually , you can add any sea creature to that list. 3. You will not describe anything in terms normally used for dairy products. 4. You will not utter the word cum."
"Come?"
"No, that's allowed. Cum."
"That's what I said!"
"No, you said come; I said cum."
"Oh. Right." Draco sniffed like an offended upper class twit or an 80's cocaine addict, I forget which. "A Malfoy would never say cum. I am an aristocrat, bred to exacting sartorial and epicurean standards. Give me some credit for upper-class gentility, you crotch-sniffing fucktard. I agree to your terms. Let's get it on."
Harry picked up an unmarked bottle from his bedside table, uncorked and swallowed it.
"What's that stuff, Potter?"
"Oh, just a little something Neville made in Potions. Vitamins, I think. I could stand the energy boost to prepare for what's coming."
"Are you crazy? You willingly drank the only potion Longbottom ever made without blowing up the school?"
Harry looked concerned for a moment, then shrugged. "Even a broken clock is right twice a day," he said, then clutched his stomach and doubled over in extreme agony. "Oops," he managed to whimper through the spasms.
When the ripping pain subsided, he looked up at Draco. The other boy was beautiful. His nemesis shone with sensuality. The Slytherin was stunning. His former enemy radiated appeal. The last of the Malfoys was a hunka hunka burning love.
"I think I just accidentally took a love potion," Harry admitted. "And now my one burning desire is to possess you entirely. Got a problem with that?"
Draco smiled coyly. "Bit redundant, isn't it? Seeing that I'm here to make you my soul mate, remember? Did we lose the plot thread in all this PWP action?"
Harry grinned. "This guarantees the boy-on-boy sex everyone knows is coming, while still playing to the romantics in the crowd. It's you and me forevah, One True Pairing."
Draco looked put out. "I was hoping for a little side action later from one of the non-Ron Weasleys who's still alive," he grumbled.
"No way, Draco. Infidelity is the third rail of fan fiction."
"So you're saying that they'll accept any kind of deviant sexual practice you and I can invent, but one little snog with someone else-"
"You might be able to get away with it on Skyehawke," Harry begrudgingly told him.
"Never mind. I think somehow we're meant to be a couple. Listen, Potter. There's a song in my head and it reminds me of us. Together. Let me explain." He began to sing, at first softly, then with more confidence.
"I am an antichrist
I am an anarchist
Don't know what I want
But I know how to get it
I wanna destroy the passerby."
When he was finished, he smiled beguilingly at Harry.
"Uh. That's .... Different. Anarchy in the UK, isn't it?"
"Yes. Like it?"
"Uh. It reminds you of us?"
Draco frowned. "Well, yes. Are you trying to marginalize the emotional impact of what is admittedly my personal response to this particular song?"
"No, not a bit. Really. I'm moved. It's just that it's more common to do songfics by Alanis Morrisette or Rufus Wainwright or Evanescence, that's all. But there's nothing wrong with the Sex Pistols."
"I didn't think so. Although I was tempted for a moment to go with Shake Your Groove Thing."
Draco seductively pulled him down to the bed and let one lazy, elegant finger trace along Harry's famous scar (TM). Harry's leg thumped rhythmically against the mattress like a dog's when its stomach is scratched.
"Wow, Potter. I didn't expect that."
"Well, it's not like you can describe that in a children's story. 'Harry Potter had a lightning-bolt scar that was hardwired straight to his dick'."
"Yeah, I know. I'm always portrayed as a two-dimensional, selfish prat."
"And that's different, how?" Harry muttered, but fortunately for the rest of this scene, Draco didn't hear him.
Harry leaned closer, closer, ooh, too close. He snatched off his glasses and carelessly tossed them into the next county. Moving back towards his strangely androgynous bed partner, he ran a careful tongue across Malfoy's lower lip, before the silver-tressed Slytherin handed him an engraved invitation to come inside his mouth for a little party. BYOB.
There were suddenly teeth and lips and tongues and that funny cartilage that keeps everything together, not to mention that dangling thing in the back of your throat that no one remembers the name of. Their tongues dueled, the tiny swords causing electric shocks that went straight to Harry's throbbing manhood.
"Oh, you've had your tonsils removed," he remarked.
Harry's eager fingers danced their way down Draco's freshly-Naired chest, waltzed around the erect nubs of his pebbled nipples, mamboed into the erotic dip of his navel, and finally boogalooed below the scratchy wool of the skirt. They pirouetted in a dramatic dying-swan crescendo when they touched something... odd.
Leather underwear.
Apparently, no-one had ever explained to Draco that leather wasn't a particularly breathable fabric choice for unmentionables. The result was unmentionable.
A quick cleaning spell took care of that.
They deepened their kiss. Draco tasted like a 1976 Château Rieussec, with a distinctive caramel flavour to the almost brown sugar and chocolatey fruit. Harry noticed some volatile acidity, but on the whole it was big, thick, juicy, and almost a hybrid cross between a Madeira and a Sauternes.
They broke off their kiss, both of them breathless, even though any high-school student knows how ridiculously easy it is to breath through your nose while snogging.
"I want to see you come for me, Harry," Draco whispered enticingly.
"Whoa! Red light! We aren't allowed to come."
"What? You're bloody mad!" Draco barked, shedding. His restraint.
"No, we're trying for ff.net or Fiction Alley. No bodily fluids."
"What's the matter, sex with me isn't NC-17 enough for Pornish Pixies?"
Harry frowned. "I'd have a better chance if it weren't you. That's just classic old school fanfic. The cool kids are setting me up with Theodore Nott. Or Zabini, when Dobby's not using him."
Draco looked interested. "Well, who do I get paired with, then?"
"You and Lupin are trendy lately," Harry confessed.
"Lupin? The werewolf? Yuck! I hate cross-generational pairings!"
"No, it's not so bad. And he only has that dorky mustache in the movie. Anyway, he keeps you from joining the Death Eaters -"
"Little late for that," Draco mumbled.
"And you do the comfort thing back. Remus is hurting since Sirius died."
"Sirius Black, my distant cousin? What's he got to do with it?"
"Sirius was my godfather and the closest thing to a real father I ever had, even though I spent less time talking to him than to my LJ flist. He and Lupin were getting it on - it even says so, practically, in Book 4."
"You mean that crack about laying low at Lupin's?"
"Yeah. Low, meaning anywhere south of the waistband. Anyway, Lupin's been a wreck since Sirius went through the veil. Werewolves mate for life, you know. Or else they shag everything that comes within reach, I forget which."
"But I suck at giving comfort."
"As long as you can handle the first part of that, the second part is a given."
The Veela hormones finally proved overpowering, and Harry buried his nose in Draco's soft, blond, silky, soft, gossamer, satiny, baby-fine, soft, smooth, wispy, and soft flaxen locks. It was very soft.
"Are you getting bogeys in my hair, Potter?"
"Sorry, " he murmured. Harry liked Draco in a skirt, but he thought he'd like Draco even more out of a skirt. He inched the material off Draco's narrow hips, and Draco did a shimmy and kicked it off. He was nude. Naked. Starkers. Butt-bare.
Except for the snake tattoo, of course.
"Is that a real tattoo or a Sears tattoo?" he asked politely. But apparently that's not what Draco heard.
"Oh my God, Parseltongue! You have no idea what a turn-on that is."
Unfortunately, Harry did know. He'd been forced to give Parseltongue lectures every Thursday night to his obsessed and thoroughly aroused classmates. Lately, he'd run out of reading material and had been reduced to spouting sections of Beowulf. He hit Draco with a bit of The Two Towers, setting the stage for a half-baked crossover. Draco looked like he'd died and gone to heaven.
"You're wearing far too many clothes, Harry," Draco mewled and purred, unaware of Harry's terrible allergy to cats. He unwrapped the woolen muffler, peeled off the balaclava, divested Harry of the down vest, the sweater-like jumper, the ski bibs, and the mukluks, until Harry was left clad in nothing but a pair of Snitch-decorated green silk boxers.
"Phat," Draco crooned, trying to catch a couple of elusive balls and allowing the author to make a very bad pun. "It's just like Pac-Man, only better."
"Don't stop," panted trousered Harry. "Just don't stop!"
All that fumbling around in drawers apparently reminded Draco of something.
"Lube?" he queried. Enquired. Queried.
"In the drawer next to the Gideon's Bible. Here, I'll get it." He also extracted a shiny, foil-covered, rectangular object about the size of a Tic-Tac container.
"What's that thing, Potter?"
"It's a condom. We don't have to use it, but if we don't give a token nod to disease prevention and sexual responsibility at this critical point, the fangirls will post endless meta-rants about how we're misinforming readers who acquire their knowledge of sexual behavior from fan fiction."
"You're joking!"
"Sadly, no. Anyway, I hate mpreg. You'd end up whining about losing your boyish figure and suffering through horrible mood swings which you'd express through the sarcastic but somehow still endearing dialogue of a much older man. Just give me a sec to cast the all-encompassing Condomus Spell. Okay, done. We're covered."
Draco looked dangerously annoyed. "Now I'm all thrown out of the mood. Can we take it from the top, Harry?"
Harry drew in a surprised breath. "That's the first time you ever called me Harry-"
"So?"
"It's a signal, you idiot. It means we have about 30 seconds left before we're mauling each other on the hearthrug. If you have any snarky banter left, now's the time to use it up."
"No, I'm ready to get physical."
Harry began mapping Draco's perfect body with his mouth. He started along the Canadian border, conveniently bypassing Calgary, paid his respects to the Twin Cities, then trailed his lips over the Continental Divide with the Grand Canyon in view. He dawdled in Guadalajara, got a little seasick at the Panama Canal, and surreptitiously squeezed the soft globes of Africa. When he got to Rio De Janeiro, he was busted.
"Redeem me, Harry!"
"Mmmm-"
"What are you trying to tell me? More? Mew? Muddy mittens?"
"No, you imbecile. Mine! Mineminemineminemine."
"Greedy bastard, aren't you?"
"Oh, Merlin, Circe, and all the pagan gods I remember from junior high great books! I'm going to - well, you know-"
"Come?"
And they did. Simultaneously. Harry felt himself flying, soaring, reaching a new high, touching heaven, and other various pseudo-aeronautical euphemisms that culminated in a spectacular display of fireworks. He especially liked the ones that started out with red streamers, then shot off a second round of blue before dying away in a shower of silvery sparks that made this really neat whistling sound as they fell - you know the ones I mean? Yeah, those. Although the big puffy ones with the long gold streamers were sweet, too.
Meanwhile, Draco passed out.
When he came to, they cuddled in each others arms (A/N: Sorry, I only like fluff, so if you don't like it you can write your own story, loser).
Harry finally realized it was his turn to say something.
"Listen, Draco, we can't tell Ron about this. Ever. He'll never accept that you and I are Veela soul mates. He'll blame it on a Dark spell. He hates you. He hates your family. He hates everything you stand for."
"Why, because I ridiculed him relentlessly all through school?"
"No. Because you borrowed his quill in first year and returned it with tooth marks all over it." Harry shrugged. "Dude knows how to nurse a grudge."
Draco looked longingly into Harry's eyes. "I'd deny my Malfoy heritage - which happens to be a train wreck these days, so no biggie - and embrace your sickening friends for the sake of our soul bond, Harry. Because by now I'm so out-of-character that none of that matters." He wriggled his suddenly reawakened, diamond-hard cock against Harry's thigh. "Ready for another go? It's been at least a minute."
"Is this just sex, Draco?"
"No, my feelings run deeper than that. I just can't admit it until the sequel."
"Try."
"Well, all right. I. I. " He paused, then admitted in a rush, "I'd love to revamp your wardrobe."
Harry sighed happily. "You do care, Draco!"
Draco smiled slowly, letting Harry absorb the full effect of his suddenly sharp, very pointy, and rapidly lengthening teeth.
"Surprise!"
Harry was horrified. "That is absolutely not on, Draco. You cannot be a vampire."
Draco scowled. "Oh, come on. You never blinked an eye when I told you I was a rentboy, and a Veela, and a fucktoy for Voldemort. Why can't I be a vampire, too?"
"You didn't warn for character death!"
"Now you tell me. Well, how about if I vaguely mention an unwritten chapter to come, and this whole fic morphs into an unfinished WIP?"
"All right. Like I said earlier, in a fantastic example of foreshadowing, this fic has a 5,000 word limit and we're running out of-"
The End
Author notes: If I don't get 50 reviews by midnight, I will hold good my threat to write that Dobby/Zabini sequel.
Title: Never Mind The Bollocks, It's Draco/Harry (Shake Your Groove Thing)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Word Count: 4,999
Summary: This is crack!fic at its worst. Can we say cliché? Yes, yes we can. I tried to get them all.
Warning: Authorial insanity.
Notes: My first (hopefully not last) PP story. I blame it on the pretty pills.
Harry had had a busy evening.
He'd wandered the halls of Hogwarts in his invisibility cloak, alternately sulking and sneaking into the girl's bathrooms for an eyeful, had raced around the Quidditch pitch on his Firebolt, angsting for hours in the dark, had played an acrimonious game of chess with Ron, culminating in an ALLCAPS argument, and had ended up at a Truth-or-Dare party with Hufflepuffs, who were stunned into silence by his bravery at putting a quill in his shirt while he wasn't wearing a pocket protector.
Tired yet satisfied, he climbed the stairs to the seventh-year boys dormitory.
The last thing Harry expected to find there was Draco Malfoy, Ice Prince of Slytherin and missing for eight months, reclining meaningfully on Harry's bed, wearing nothing but a schoolgirl skirt, black eyeliner, and a rather suggestive smirk.
Even more alarming was the fact that his roommates were circling him like jet fighters around an aircraft carrier, looking for an opportunity to hit the deck.
Something was definite up, and it wasn't only the nether regions of his mates. Harry became aware of a subtle yet alluring siren song luring him closer, which grew stronger as he approached Malfoy, except there was a kind of dead zone where he had to shift over a bit to the left or the reception would abruptly cut out.
"Can you hear me now?" he asked. "I mean, Malfoy! What are you doing here? And by here I mean in my bed, despoiling my pedestrian yet almost clean sheets that are clearly not the 6,000-count Egyptian cotton ones you usually favor."
"Hello, Potter," Malfoy cooed, in a strangely seductive voice that had feathers in it. "Long time no see."
The way he said that hit Harry like a truck that the author couldn't be bothered to Britpick.
"You... you're a Veela," Harry exclaimed, deeply worried at the obvious direction this story was taking.
"Half-Veela, actually. And half-dragon. And half-ferret Animagus."
"That's three halves."
"Well, they don't teach maths at Hogwarts, so don't blame me. Anyway, you're very astute, Potter. Was it the fact that my milkshake brought all the boys to the yard?"
Harry found himself gazing into the depths of Draco's grey eyes. They reminded him of a cloudy day. No, wait, they were more like the steel grey of ball bearings before grease got to them. Or maybe - yeah - grey like lint collected on a dryer filter, a delicate blend of ash grey and slate grey and stovepipe grey and dove grey, with just a suggestion of white flecks from the tissue you'd accidentally left in your pocket, but without too much blue, because you are no idiot and didn't cram your denims in this load although you were sorely tempted to because it would have saved time.
Only greyer.
"Where have you been for the past eight months?" Harry asked, in case anyone missed the earlier reference.
"I was either working in a Muggle bookstore or servicing the Dark Lord as his unwilling yet attractive fucktoy, I forget which." Draco shrugged his elegant shoulders. "When all the children of Death Eaters got warning owls last term and skedaddled, I did, too."
"What are you talking about? You were the only one who left Hogwarts, and it took everyone weeks to notice you were even missing."
"Can I help it I jumped the gun? How was I supposed to know that my mother's message wasn't a secret warning of dire things to come?"
"What was the message?"
" 'Your father snuffed another house elf yesterday'. "
"Whoa. I can see where that would be alarming."
"Alarming? Not really. He did it all the time. What was alarming was Mother bothering to mention it. She also suggested I stop shagging Pansy Parkinson."
"Ewww. Het."
"Not that I ever had. Pansy's either too ugly for words or into muff-diving, I forget which. No one at Hogwarts is straight, anyway. Makes you wonder where the next generation of students will come from."
"Not an issue. There are only two more books planned."
"So, to get on with the tedious exposition that sets up the conditions for my sad story, in the past EIGHT months, after you finally killed the Dark Lord, thereby saving all of wizardkind, my father was captured and is either in Azkaban or dead, Mother buggered off to Europe with Luigi, our former gardener, and the Ministry confiscated the Manor, leaving me penniless. With my elite upbringing and my pointy, androgynous good looks, the only jobs I could qualify for were blow."
"Hey, you stole that line from Hedwig and the Angry Inch!"
"So? Do you really believe that left to my own devices, I'd manage to sound like Oscar Wilde?"
"You were a rentboy?" Ron asked, sounding to Harry's ears more breathlessly excited than horrified.
"You seem surprised, Weaselby. Don't be. When I turned 17, I came into my full Veela powers, and I practically had to beat off the men. With sticks. Beat them off with sticks."
"You were a Veela rentboy?" Harry said. Asked. Said.
"It made me a wealthy man, Potter, so don't knock it. In my Gringotts account, I have one million and two Galleons."
"Who gave you the two Galleons?"
Draco looked momentarily puzzled. "Why, they all did."
"Figures," Harry muttered.
"Anyway, enough backstory about me. What did I miss around here?" Draco asked. Said. Asked. "Who's left after the brutal war that killed off half the population of Hogwarts or an irrelevant few, I forget which?"
"Hagrid was one of the first killed," Harry answered, his eyes filling with tears. "No one can write his accent worth shit, so it's easier just to off him."
"And Dumbledore?"
"He sacrificed himself in the dramatic style of better-written mentor characters like Gandalf and Obi-Wan Kenobi. On second thought, I take that back about Obi-Wan. George Lucas sucks at screenplays."
"Anyone else?" he asked repetitively.
"A handful of minor yet oddly irritating characters who would be wearing red shirts in a Star Trek episode, including Lavender Brown, Dennis Creevy, and two or three interchangeable Weasleys who aren't Ron."
"So how are you holding up after your sadly tragic destiny reached its pinnacle?"
"Besides being the world's most powerful wizard and teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts in my spare time? Either I'm wracked by guilt over every war death, or else I'm determined to make my mark as a Quidditch-playing Auror, I forget which."
Draco shifted, revealing more of that creamy-pale skin that Harry wanted to lick. He knew, however, that they still had a shitload of plot to hack through before he'd be allowed even the tiniest taste of that paley-cream dermatological covering.
"So why are you here?" Harry said, leading-the-witness-ly.
Malfoy sighed, and stretched his beautiful torso, emphasizing his rippling muscles and pink rosebud nipples. It suddenly occurred to Harry that Malfoy looked an awful lot like the awesomely hot model, Boyd Holbrook.
"I need a Veela soul mate. And since I've been obsessed with you for yonks, I thought you might want to give it a go. How about it?"
"Me?" Harry squeaked breathlessly.
"No, the other Boy-Who-Lives-to-Torment-Me-With-Unresolved-Sexual-Tension. Yes, you. Ever since I lusted after your Quidditch-toned arse at Madame Malkin's robe shop-"
"Wait a minute! I didn't play Quidditch until later in the book. I won't tolerate canon error."
Draco sighed. "It's subtext, Potter."
"Oh, okay. But I thought we were sworn enemies ever since I refused to shake your hand."
"That was mere authorial subterfuge to disguise the fact that we writhe around on the ground together an awful lot. Although if you had taken my hand that day, a lot of plot threads would have to be recast."
"Well, I didn't want to shake your hand because I had an embarrassing wart."
"Fine. Anyway, we are no longer threatened with a dreaded chan rating, so it's all good. I've grown up to be breathtakingly gorgeous yet strangely fey, and you - well, your hair has gone from wretchedly messy to endearingly tousled. Take off your dorky glasses, Potter. I want to see your piercingly emerald -"
"Don't say 'orbs'!" intoned a Greek chorus of Gryffindors.
"Oh, so the rest of you can talk," Draco said smirkily.
Harry looked at his friends. "Well, Ron can say a line or two on his own, but Seamus, Dean, and Neville are under Imperius to keep them quiet, or we'll owe them more royalties." He peered more closely at the group, then stopped short. "Wait a minute. Who are you?"
"I'm Mary Breanna Heather Brittany Moonfeather Elwynnead Sue," she announced with a toss of her multicolored hair and a flutter of dark lashes over stunningly violet eyes. "The tanned, long-legged transfer student from southern California. Don't you remember admiring my awesome flying skills second only to yours, Harry? Or appreciating my uncanny ability to predict danger and to save you in the nick of time?"
"No," Harry admitted. "But look. You're not really needed here - this is slash." He nodded to Ron, who casually strolled over and shoved her out the window. Rather than plummeting to certain death, Mary Sue unfurled an enormous pair of brilliant rainbow-colored wings and flew away to either Egypt or Romania, everyone quickly forgot which.
Malfoy smiled a tantalizingly Veela-like smile. "Listen, Potter, can we cut to the chase? I already got the okay for this seduction from Professor McGonnagall. Er. MacGonigal. Uh. McGonnee- Professor Sprout. Even though it makes her into a near-pimp, she's arranged for us to have our own bedroom for the rest of the term-"
"Which is one more day."
"Well, it's the thought that counts," Draco huffed. "Look, Potter, we've got a 5,000 word limit here, so can we get on with this?"
"Sorry."
"So, back to the soul mate deal. All I need to do is to claim you with my glistening and perfectly proportioned manmeat, then-"
"What? No way, Malfoy. You've got things the wrong way round."
"What are you talking about?"
"Hey, guys? Draco Malfoy - top or bottom?"
"Bottom," came the unison reply.
"See? Everyone knows you're the prototype for the mouthy-yet-submissive bottom. There's even a community set up for it. I'll be doing the manmeat thing, thank you very much. Besides, you're the one wearing a skirt. And lipstick."
"Clinique Colour Surge Berry Nugget lipstick, I'll have you know. Plum Chrome made my skin look washed out."
"I rest my case." Harry shrugged, which he knew made him look really cute. "Anyway, do we have to start with shagging? Can't we start with you asking me to the graduation prom?"
Draco made a strange gesture on his forehead with his thumb and index finger. "What are you, American? Hogwarts doesn't have a prom. We don't even have graduation, you ass. Er. Arse." He shrugged. "No, what I had in mind, actually, was a clandestine grudgefuck."
"Quidditch shed or broom closet?"
"Not the Astronomy Tower?"
"That's too cliché even for this story. Bed! Now!" Harry rolled his eyes at Draco. Draco reached down and dusted them off before handing them back to Harry.
"Anyway, you Gryffindorks, I've chosen my Veela mate, so the rest of you can piss off wherever extra characters go when they're not needed in the scene."
Seamus, Dean, and Neville headed obediently out the door, but Ron stubbornly refused to budge.
Draco glared at him. "Didn't you hear me? Bugger off, Weasel."
"I can't. Not until I call you Ferret boy at least once."
"Mission accomplished, then. Now shoo. Don't make me fandom-wank you."
"Oh, Merlin, not that. I'm going! Hey, Harry, can I borrow the cloak? Hermione wants to give it a go on Pince's desk."
"Yeah, sure." Harry tossed him the priceless cloak, by now in need of a thorough decontamination. It took Ron seven tries before he caught the invisible garment and exited stage right.
"What does the Mudblood see in him, anyway?" Draco asked with a moue of disgust on his pointed face.
"Hung like a horse. All the Weasleys are."
"And you would know this, how, exactly?"
"Er. Oops."
Draco scowled. "Are you secretly lusting after the Weasel, giving me a great shot at showing off my drama queen skills in a display of over-the-top jealousy?
"Are you nutters? Or did I mean nuts? I get them confused. Ron's had a thing for Hermione forever. They pretended they were only friends all through the first six books, but now, as you just observed but the author can't be arsed to fix, they go off together at all hours of the day or night. Either that or he's getting off with some if not all of his brothers, I forget which."
"Incest? I thought Father and I had that category sewn up."
"TMI, Malfoy. Anyway, with Ron and Hermione hooked up, I can feel left out and wait forlornly for the right Veela to take my virginity off my hands."
"You're still a virgin?"
"Well, if we're assuming the paradigm of heterosexual comparability, where anal penetration in male-to-male sexual activity is the most viable equivalent to the vaginal experience in male-female copulation..."
"What?"
"Short answer: yes. If you don't count frottage with Bulstrode, or Zacharias sucking me off, or the things Justin Finch-Fletchley can do with those kinky magical anal beads."
"So why haven't you hit up your other friends to do the nasty? Finnigan or Thomas?"
"Already shagging each other, of course."
"Longbottom, then."
"He's with Luna Lovegood. Or going at it like bunnies with Professor Snape, I forget which."
Draco looked gobsmacked. "Longbottom and Snape? Who is incidentally my godfather, and who may or may not be a vampire depending on the not-yet-written events of book 7?"
"Well, someone has to cover the rare pairing. Unless you'd prefer to see Dobby and Zabini?"
"That slut? Even the crack of dawn isn't safe from Zabini."
"For the longest time I thought he was a girl," Harry admitted.
"You mean he isn't?" Draco looked oddly horrified.
Harry, meanwhile, had been surreptitiously checking Draco's arm for evidence of the Dark Mark. When he didn't find it, he let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. But there were several unexplained gashes that he couldn't ignore.
"These scars - you aren't into self-mutilation are you?" he asked. "That's so passé these days. Now it's all about rimming."
Draco looked appalled. "But I don't like rimming!"
"Don't be a prude - it's the new black. Anyway, it's not always about you. This is a request challenge, and they specifically asked for post-War Veela grudgefuck with rimming."
"Eeuuw. Let me see that list." Draco snatched the parchment from Harry's nailbitten hands. "Watersports? But I can't swim!"
"Listen, just be glad this isn't one of those Deatheater rapefics. Last Smutmas I had to do a necrophilia scene with Firenze. That was rough."
"What's wrong with the old way? A little dry-humping, a quick lube spell, one, two, three fingers, then in?"
"You have been gone a while."
"Well, it's just that I've never done anything but mutual orgasms before. My partners always come untouched from the sheer hotness of watching my hair become slightly mussed."
Harry was taken aback - he'd hoped for a lot more. He'd love to find out what secrets Malfoy had learned in eight months of rentboydom.
A/N - Harry's thoughts are in slashes, and Draco's are in asterisks
/ I wonder if he's thinking of kissing me right now. /
* Does he know he's got spinach stuck in his teeth? *
/ Has he fantasized about this moment for years like I have? /
* Did I remember to turn off the stove before I left? *
/ I hope he'll let me go all the way. /
* I wonder if Buffy is on tonight. *
"Okay, Malfoy, before we go any further, I just need you to agree to the standard prohibitions. At no time during the next fifteen" - Harry glanced down at Draco's sizable throbbing and weeping erection - "five minutes, will you say the following, no matter how close to ecstasy you may find yourself. 1. You will not refer to me as baby, lover, honey, sugar, or bunnykins. 2. You will not refer to any body part as a sword, a wand, a rosebud, or a starfish - actually , you can add any sea creature to that list. 3. You will not describe anything in terms normally used for dairy products. 4. You will not utter the word cum."
"Come?"
"No, that's allowed. Cum."
"That's what I said!"
"No, you said come; I said cum."
"Oh. Right." Draco sniffed like an offended upper class twit or an 80's cocaine addict, I forget which. "A Malfoy would never say cum. I am an aristocrat, bred to exacting sartorial and epicurean standards. Give me some credit for upper-class gentility, you crotch-sniffing fucktard. I agree to your terms. Let's get it on."
Harry picked up an unmarked bottle from his bedside table, uncorked and swallowed it.
"What's that stuff, Potter?"
"Oh, just a little something Neville made in Potions. Vitamins, I think. I could stand the energy boost to prepare for what's coming."
"Are you crazy? You willingly drank the only potion Longbottom ever made without blowing up the school?"
Harry looked concerned for a moment, then shrugged. "Even a broken clock is right twice a day," he said, then clutched his stomach and doubled over in extreme agony. "Oops," he managed to whimper through the spasms.
When the ripping pain subsided, he looked up at Draco. The other boy was beautiful. His nemesis shone with sensuality. The Slytherin was stunning. His former enemy radiated appeal. The last of the Malfoys was a hunka hunka burning love.
"I think I just accidentally took a love potion," Harry admitted. "And now my one burning desire is to possess you entirely. Got a problem with that?"
Draco smiled coyly. "Bit redundant, isn't it? Seeing that I'm here to make you my soul mate, remember? Did we lose the plot thread in all this PWP action?"
Harry grinned. "This guarantees the boy-on-boy sex everyone knows is coming, while still playing to the romantics in the crowd. It's you and me forevah, One True Pairing."
Draco looked put out. "I was hoping for a little side action later from one of the non-Ron Weasleys who's still alive," he grumbled.
"No way, Draco. Infidelity is the third rail of fan fiction."
"So you're saying that they'll accept any kind of deviant sexual practice you and I can invent, but one little snog with someone else-"
"You might be able to get away with it on Skyehawke," Harry begrudgingly told him.
"Never mind. I think somehow we're meant to be a couple. Listen, Potter. There's a song in my head and it reminds me of us. Together. Let me explain." He began to sing, at first softly, then with more confidence.
"I am an antichrist
I am an anarchist
Don't know what I want
But I know how to get it
I wanna destroy the passerby."
When he was finished, he smiled beguilingly at Harry.
"Uh. That's .... Different. Anarchy in the UK, isn't it?"
"Yes. Like it?"
"Uh. It reminds you of us?"
Draco frowned. "Well, yes. Are you trying to marginalize the emotional impact of what is admittedly my personal response to this particular song?"
"No, not a bit. Really. I'm moved. It's just that it's more common to do songfics by Alanis Morrisette or Rufus Wainwright or Evanescence, that's all. But there's nothing wrong with the Sex Pistols."
"I didn't think so. Although I was tempted for a moment to go with Shake Your Groove Thing."
Draco seductively pulled him down to the bed and let one lazy, elegant finger trace along Harry's famous scar (TM). Harry's leg thumped rhythmically against the mattress like a dog's when its stomach is scratched.
"Wow, Potter. I didn't expect that."
"Well, it's not like you can describe that in a children's story. 'Harry Potter had a lightning-bolt scar that was hardwired straight to his dick'."
"Yeah, I know. I'm always portrayed as a two-dimensional, selfish prat."
"And that's different, how?" Harry muttered, but fortunately for the rest of this scene, Draco didn't hear him.
Harry leaned closer, closer, ooh, too close. He snatched off his glasses and carelessly tossed them into the next county. Moving back towards his strangely androgynous bed partner, he ran a careful tongue across Malfoy's lower lip, before the silver-tressed Slytherin handed him an engraved invitation to come inside his mouth for a little party. BYOB.
There were suddenly teeth and lips and tongues and that funny cartilage that keeps everything together, not to mention that dangling thing in the back of your throat that no one remembers the name of. Their tongues dueled, the tiny swords causing electric shocks that went straight to Harry's throbbing manhood.
"Oh, you've had your tonsils removed," he remarked.
Harry's eager fingers danced their way down Draco's freshly-Naired chest, waltzed around the erect nubs of his pebbled nipples, mamboed into the erotic dip of his navel, and finally boogalooed below the scratchy wool of the skirt. They pirouetted in a dramatic dying-swan crescendo when they touched something... odd.
Leather underwear.
Apparently, no-one had ever explained to Draco that leather wasn't a particularly breathable fabric choice for unmentionables. The result was unmentionable.
A quick cleaning spell took care of that.
They deepened their kiss. Draco tasted like a 1976 Château Rieussec, with a distinctive caramel flavour to the almost brown sugar and chocolatey fruit. Harry noticed some volatile acidity, but on the whole it was big, thick, juicy, and almost a hybrid cross between a Madeira and a Sauternes.
They broke off their kiss, both of them breathless, even though any high-school student knows how ridiculously easy it is to breath through your nose while snogging.
"I want to see you come for me, Harry," Draco whispered enticingly.
"Whoa! Red light! We aren't allowed to come."
"What? You're bloody mad!" Draco barked, shedding. His restraint.
"No, we're trying for ff.net or Fiction Alley. No bodily fluids."
"What's the matter, sex with me isn't NC-17 enough for Pornish Pixies?"
Harry frowned. "I'd have a better chance if it weren't you. That's just classic old school fanfic. The cool kids are setting me up with Theodore Nott. Or Zabini, when Dobby's not using him."
Draco looked interested. "Well, who do I get paired with, then?"
"You and Lupin are trendy lately," Harry confessed.
"Lupin? The werewolf? Yuck! I hate cross-generational pairings!"
"No, it's not so bad. And he only has that dorky mustache in the movie. Anyway, he keeps you from joining the Death Eaters -"
"Little late for that," Draco mumbled.
"And you do the comfort thing back. Remus is hurting since Sirius died."
"Sirius Black, my distant cousin? What's he got to do with it?"
"Sirius was my godfather and the closest thing to a real father I ever had, even though I spent less time talking to him than to my LJ flist. He and Lupin were getting it on - it even says so, practically, in Book 4."
"You mean that crack about laying low at Lupin's?"
"Yeah. Low, meaning anywhere south of the waistband. Anyway, Lupin's been a wreck since Sirius went through the veil. Werewolves mate for life, you know. Or else they shag everything that comes within reach, I forget which."
"But I suck at giving comfort."
"As long as you can handle the first part of that, the second part is a given."
The Veela hormones finally proved overpowering, and Harry buried his nose in Draco's soft, blond, silky, soft, gossamer, satiny, baby-fine, soft, smooth, wispy, and soft flaxen locks. It was very soft.
"Are you getting bogeys in my hair, Potter?"
"Sorry, " he murmured. Harry liked Draco in a skirt, but he thought he'd like Draco even more out of a skirt. He inched the material off Draco's narrow hips, and Draco did a shimmy and kicked it off. He was nude. Naked. Starkers. Butt-bare.
Except for the snake tattoo, of course.
"Is that a real tattoo or a Sears tattoo?" he asked politely. But apparently that's not what Draco heard.
"Oh my God, Parseltongue! You have no idea what a turn-on that is."
Unfortunately, Harry did know. He'd been forced to give Parseltongue lectures every Thursday night to his obsessed and thoroughly aroused classmates. Lately, he'd run out of reading material and had been reduced to spouting sections of Beowulf. He hit Draco with a bit of The Two Towers, setting the stage for a half-baked crossover. Draco looked like he'd died and gone to heaven.
"You're wearing far too many clothes, Harry," Draco mewled and purred, unaware of Harry's terrible allergy to cats. He unwrapped the woolen muffler, peeled off the balaclava, divested Harry of the down vest, the sweater-like jumper, the ski bibs, and the mukluks, until Harry was left clad in nothing but a pair of Snitch-decorated green silk boxers.
"Phat," Draco crooned, trying to catch a couple of elusive balls and allowing the author to make a very bad pun. "It's just like Pac-Man, only better."
"Don't stop," panted trousered Harry. "Just don't stop!"
All that fumbling around in drawers apparently reminded Draco of something.
"Lube?" he queried. Enquired. Queried.
"In the drawer next to the Gideon's Bible. Here, I'll get it." He also extracted a shiny, foil-covered, rectangular object about the size of a Tic-Tac container.
"What's that thing, Potter?"
"It's a condom. We don't have to use it, but if we don't give a token nod to disease prevention and sexual responsibility at this critical point, the fangirls will post endless meta-rants about how we're misinforming readers who acquire their knowledge of sexual behavior from fan fiction."
"You're joking!"
"Sadly, no. Anyway, I hate mpreg. You'd end up whining about losing your boyish figure and suffering through horrible mood swings which you'd express through the sarcastic but somehow still endearing dialogue of a much older man. Just give me a sec to cast the all-encompassing Condomus Spell. Okay, done. We're covered."
Draco looked dangerously annoyed. "Now I'm all thrown out of the mood. Can we take it from the top, Harry?"
Harry drew in a surprised breath. "That's the first time you ever called me Harry-"
"So?"
"It's a signal, you idiot. It means we have about 30 seconds left before we're mauling each other on the hearthrug. If you have any snarky banter left, now's the time to use it up."
"No, I'm ready to get physical."
Harry began mapping Draco's perfect body with his mouth. He started along the Canadian border, conveniently bypassing Calgary, paid his respects to the Twin Cities, then trailed his lips over the Continental Divide with the Grand Canyon in view. He dawdled in Guadalajara, got a little seasick at the Panama Canal, and surreptitiously squeezed the soft globes of Africa. When he got to Rio De Janeiro, he was busted.
"Redeem me, Harry!"
"Mmmm-"
"What are you trying to tell me? More? Mew? Muddy mittens?"
"No, you imbecile. Mine! Mineminemineminemine."
"Greedy bastard, aren't you?"
"Oh, Merlin, Circe, and all the pagan gods I remember from junior high great books! I'm going to - well, you know-"
"Come?"
And they did. Simultaneously. Harry felt himself flying, soaring, reaching a new high, touching heaven, and other various pseudo-aeronautical euphemisms that culminated in a spectacular display of fireworks. He especially liked the ones that started out with red streamers, then shot off a second round of blue before dying away in a shower of silvery sparks that made this really neat whistling sound as they fell - you know the ones I mean? Yeah, those. Although the big puffy ones with the long gold streamers were sweet, too.
Meanwhile, Draco passed out.
When he came to, they cuddled in each others arms (A/N: Sorry, I only like fluff, so if you don't like it you can write your own story, loser).
Harry finally realized it was his turn to say something.
"Listen, Draco, we can't tell Ron about this. Ever. He'll never accept that you and I are Veela soul mates. He'll blame it on a Dark spell. He hates you. He hates your family. He hates everything you stand for."
"Why, because I ridiculed him relentlessly all through school?"
"No. Because you borrowed his quill in first year and returned it with tooth marks all over it." Harry shrugged. "Dude knows how to nurse a grudge."
Draco looked longingly into Harry's eyes. "I'd deny my Malfoy heritage - which happens to be a train wreck these days, so no biggie - and embrace your sickening friends for the sake of our soul bond, Harry. Because by now I'm so out-of-character that none of that matters." He wriggled his suddenly reawakened, diamond-hard cock against Harry's thigh. "Ready for another go? It's been at least a minute."
"Is this just sex, Draco?"
"No, my feelings run deeper than that. I just can't admit it until the sequel."
"Try."
"Well, all right. I. I. " He paused, then admitted in a rush, "I'd love to revamp your wardrobe."
Harry sighed happily. "You do care, Draco!"
Draco smiled slowly, letting Harry absorb the full effect of his suddenly sharp, very pointy, and rapidly lengthening teeth.
"Surprise!"
Harry was horrified. "That is absolutely not on, Draco. You cannot be a vampire."
Draco scowled. "Oh, come on. You never blinked an eye when I told you I was a rentboy, and a Veela, and a fucktoy for Voldemort. Why can't I be a vampire, too?"
"You didn't warn for character death!"
"Now you tell me. Well, how about if I vaguely mention an unwritten chapter to come, and this whole fic morphs into an unfinished WIP?"
"All right. Like I said earlier, in a fantastic example of foreshadowing, this fic has a 5,000 word limit and we're running out of-"
The End
Author notes: If I don't get 50 reviews by midnight, I will hold good my threat to write that Dobby/Zabini sequel.