[RP Log: Harry, Draco. G - NC-17]
Date: Thursday, December 1st to Friday, December 9th
Summary: Part two of What Harry and Draco Did A Month Before Christmas Holidays. Draco catches Harry outside again the next night and they find closure in each other, even if they know they shouldn't. Another bonus Harry-in-Potions scene, and he finally loses his virginity! To Draco. In the Gryffindor Quidditch showers. Hi, overly priced water bill.
Rating: Some scenes are really just fluffy. I've marked the ones that are higher than PG, though there might be a random swear word in those too. Oh well.
Go to part I.
-----
Thursday, December 1st
He doesn't know why he comes back a second time. The first time was risky enough, and he only left feeling tired and fragile and he hates it. But he doesn't know any other way to deal with it.
It's snowing softly this time, little flakes coming down and gliding along the wind to land in his hair. He doesn't throw snowballs, but sits along the edge of the lake, cloak beside him as he idly traces patterns into the ground. They don't tell a story or even form a picture; he's lost his trail of thought for that a while ago. (Useless, just like him.)
Sometimes, Harry thinks it would be nice if there was someone else there with him. Someone who understood without understanding, who knew without knowing.
He snorts. What sort of impossible thought is that?
He let out a sigh and drops his head onto his knees. At least the snow is nice, he thinks. (And what he means is, how do I make things better?)
Yes, the first time was coincidence. The second time? Not so much.
The sky isn't clear anymore, not like the last time, snow falling gently, melting on the lashes of Draco's eyes. He blinks the moisture away, though it's pointless, really, as there always seems to be a snowflake or two annoyingly eager to take its place.
It had been a whim, actually, that had brought him out here. At first he thought he'd patrol the corridors for a bit, Prefect-ly duty and all that, but then he'd glimpsed a lone figure by the side of the lake, a dark blot amidst glowing whiteness, and here he is.
There's still no real answer to the why in that, but he decides not to concern himself with that part just now.
"Are you planning on making this a habit, Potter?" he asks, once he's within calling distance of the other boy. Draco doesn't pause for an answer, simply keeps walking toward the bank, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the frozen expanse of lake.
The flinch that Draco (he's never stopped being Draco ever since that last time) causes visibly runs through his whole body, starts from the tips of his hair and down to his feet until it's not just a flinch, but a leap from sitting to standing upright. His face is guarded, snow shaken from his head to fall onto his shoulders and down to the ground as he turns to face the blonde.
No one is supposed to be here.
"What are you doing here?" is asked, tone suspicious and he can't mask his shock. Harry says the words like it's an intrusion, directed at the disturber of the peace (and in a way, he was) as if his question was an insult and nothing more.
The tone is not at all lost on him, but Draco merely raises an eyebrow and taps the shiny Prefect's badge pinned to the outside of his robes.
"Catching students out of bed, apparently," he replies easily. Tilts his head to the side. "So the question, really, is what are you doing out here? It's freezing, in case you haven't noticed, and there's also that bit about it being the middle of the night."
"I -- " Harry starts, but he doesn't know what to say. He really shouldn't be out -- but he is -- and it's not like he's going to tell Draco why he's out. But then something Draco's said before clicks and, "Wait, habit?"
Draco opens his mouth to respond. Closes it. If he tells Harry that he was here the night before, the boy will undoubtedly react indignantly and self-righteously, and Draco isn't looking for a fight just yet. Instead, he fixes Harry with a vaguely condescending look.
"That isn't how it works, Potter. I asked first."
"You --" Stops, figures he's in enough trouble as it is if Draco wants to report him and continues, "And since when have I listened to rules? What do you mean by habit, Malfoy?"
"And you clearly aren't very keen on conversational decorum either," he answers dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. Realizing that Harry isn't going to let him get away with avoiding the question, Draco lets out a sigh, breath misting before him. "I mean last night. You were out here. And now you're out here again, and I'm beginning to wonder if you've simply decided to forgo sleep altogether."
And the world just seems to stop for Harry because, No. No one was supposed to know and no one was supposed to see that. He feels exposed and bare and it sort of makes him sick (Draco's been able to make him feel that way far too many times now).
"Why were you there?" Harry asks, because he's sure that he was the only one there yesterday (then again, he didn't exactly check, did he?). It's that state between belief and disbelief, and Harry doesn't want to believe in either. It's like this was bound to happen, and Harry somehow knew it would. It shouldn't have because that was his secret (but secrets are meant to be shared, sometimes).
"You didn't do anything," he adds, more a statement than it is an accusation. And that's sort of funny, now that he thinks about it. As if Draco didn't want to disturb him. "You could have -- I don't know. Taken off points and given me detention or something."
He watches the emotions flicker across Harry's face -- cold surprise, a desperate sort of dread, as if he doesn't quite believe it, and then -- confused curiosity. Draco's hands drop to his sides, shoulders straightening, and his tone is carefully neutral when he replies.
"I could have. I could do it now, too." A pause, and he feels a snowflake brush against his cheek. A part of him still wants to know why Harry is out here, wants to hear it for himself. And he could find out, too, if he threatened the boy with detention, told him he'd dock points if he didn't tell. Draco has more right to be out here, after all, considering the fact that he's a Prefect and Harry is not.
There's a vulnerability in Harry's eyes, however, and that stops him.
"I'll make you a deal, Potter," he says, walking toward the edge of the lake until he and Harry are side by side, with several feet in between them. The opposite bank is barely discernible in the sea of white. "I won't ask if you don't ask."
The situation is bizarre enough to make Harry laugh. He feels the tension leave his body and feels that, maybe, he can relax (maybe this is the first step to moving on). He hasn't laughed in a while and it feels good to remember what it was like.
He looks over at Draco, watches the snow gently glide and disappear onto his body, and there's something soothing about this: about him being the one who's here and this balance that they seem to have in the dead of night, something in the way Draco looks as the small ice crystals fall around him.
"Fair enough."
Harry laughs, and it isn't mocking or scornful, and that surprises Draco simply because he's never heard a genuine laugh from the other boy. Come to think, he isn't sure if he's ever heard him laugh at all. His lips quirk involuntarily, eyes flicking to give Harry a sideways glance.
"So," he begins, tilting his face toward the sky so that a snowflake falls on one eyelid. Eyes open, blinking it away, and Draco turns his head, gaze level again. "Snow. I still don't see how it's at all magical." A raised eyebrow. "Weren't you going to do something about that?"
A grin starts to form on Harry's face, one bordering on a smirk, and he bends over to scoop up a pile of snow with his hands.
"I did say something about that, didn't I?" Moulds the snow into a white ball and hurls it at the front of Malfoy's robes.
He should have seen that coming.
He really, really should have.
"Right," he says calmly, brushing the snow off of his robes with one gloved hand. So this is how he's going to play, is it? Fine. Draco wasn't placed in Slytherin for nothing. Grey eyes catch green, and Harry is smirking at him, the bastard. "Potter? Prepare to die."
With that, Draco lunges, barrelling himself bodily into Harry so that they both end up on the snow covered ground. Hands scrabble, grabbing at whatever snow he can reach, and Draco shoves a handful of the stuff down the front of Harry's shirt, not particularly caring when some of it finds its way into his gloves.
"Hey!" Harry protests, feels his back collide with the ground and it's all he can do just to realize that Draco was on top of him and this was really all his fault, wasn't it, and then he yelps when several handfuls of cold, wet snow are practically shovelled down his shirt. "You fucker."
He kicks his feet, trying to dislodge the taller boy from his body, hands up to protect himself or grab at flailing wrists, and he's laughing harder than he did before. It's like they're both just boys having a snow fight and it's so normal that it surprises Harry with the wonder of it all.
With his first strategy failing, Harry reaches out and pokes Draco hard in the side instead, hoping the other would let up on his relentless attack if he was distracted or ticklish or something.
"You practically asked for that!" he crows triumphantly, the small thrill of victory making him feel pleasantly light headed (or perhaps it's the snow in his hair, Harry's eyes dancing with mirth, this momentary lapse in everything they've known, and strangely, it's all right).
A sharp poke to the ribs and Draco squirms away, just enough to catch the offending hand with one of his own, pinning it there between them. Heavy breaths turn to quickly fading clouds upon the air.
Looking down at Harry, he tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. Grey eyes narrow in speculation, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "One of these days, I'm going to get you good and drunk."
Harry arches his eyebrows, look full of suspicion and mischief, and just as quickly as Draco lunged at him, he flips them both over in Draco's moment of carelessness and reverses their positions. His hands grab a hold of both of Draco’s hands and he straddles his hips so he can't move.
"Why would you want to get me drunk?" Lets himself give a smug look as he looks down at mussed up hair that blends into the snow, flushed cheeks and eyes that shine with something he's never seen before (he feels his chest expand with warmth at the sight).
Draco's eyes widen momentarily, and, shit, he should have seen that one coming, too, but Harry is a solid heat above him, a snowflake melting on the tip of his nose, and Draco only half tries to free himself, struggling for the sake of it rather than any real desire to get away.
"Because," he replies airily, momentarily abandoning his attempts at freedom to fix Harry with a look of feigned reproach. "Knowing you, you're a complete lightweight. It'd be funny to watch the great Potter trip all over himself. Sadistic amusement, if you will."
A sharp-edged grin soon follows this, eyes glittering with a cunning sort of mischief. "And, of course, there's the part where I, being deranged and lecherous and all that, take advantage of you in your inebriated state."
"I'm sure you will," Harry replies dryly, faint amusement in his voice, and he's glad when Draco ceases struggling. He sort of likes how they are here and the peculiar sensation of cool winds and warm body heat against his form.
Tone just a little bit coy, he adds, "It's not taking advantage of if I'm willing. Though I bet I could last longer than you think."
"Do you?" he asks, raising one elegant eyebrow. Long fingers slip between the folds of Harry's robes, curling around the Gryffindor tie and pulling, tugging him closer. "What are the stakes?"
"Mmm," Harry hums, letting himself be pulled closer. He bites his lip in thought while one of his hands reaches in to brush away blonde strands that obscured Draco's face. "What about the loser has to do a performance of the winner's choosing?"
Intrigued, Draco furrows his brows.
"Performance?" he echoes, eyes glittering with amusement. The word itself brings to mind various possible forms of utter humiliation in front of the entire school. "Like can-can dancing? You are a strange, strange person."
"It's really up to you if you win, now, isn't it?" Lets his forehead drop down to rest on Draco's and he closes his eyes, content to stay like that for a while longer.
Harry's breath is warm hushing across his mouth, and Draco thinks that maybe they should go, except that that would be so inconvenient, wouldn't it, because the snow is cold, and Harry isn't, and it's really that simple (though he knows it's anything but).
Gloved hands part the Gryffindor's robes, sliding down to rest on Harry's hips, bringing him closer.
"When I win, you mean," he murmurs, shivering as a gust of wind flutters the blonde hair at the nape of his neck. Turns his head to nuzzle into the underside of Harry's jaw. "Cold."
The hands on his hips feel like such a natural occurrence that Harry doesn't even hesitate to lay his body flat down onto Draco's. He gathers him up in his arms and presses his face against blonde hair (he smells like exotic fruit and clean soap dashed with a bit of something classy that he doesn't know how to name and a scent that is just so uniquely Draco that it makes him want to stay here forever).
"Better?" he asks, and he reaches down to entwine his fingers with Draco's hands. "And I meant if."
Solid heat pressed all along his frame, an amused murmur by his ear, and it's better than better. The thought elicits a flutter of panic (has to be panic) in his chest, and a little voice in the back of his head whispers about how this isn't right, this isn't his to have; it's all dos and don'ts, shoulds and shouldn'ts, an endless repetition that demands his attention. He remembers the encounter in his dorm, remembers that that should have been the end of this ... this whatever it was.
Shouldn't it?
Suddenly, Draco feels stifled, oddly trapped, and he stiffens a little under the lean body (can't bring himself to push Harry away, doesn't want to) above him.
"P -- Harry," he says, and the name alone is a reminder that Draco has obligations, that he shouldn't be doing this. He gives the other boy's fingers a light squeeze. "We should go back."
Harry emits a soft sigh against Draco's skin, groans a little as he pushes away and gets off his body. He knows he's right, they should go (should never have been there in the first place), but he wishes they didn't have to (he's getting better at ignoring the voice that yells out, No).
(He knows in his mind that this should have ended a lot time ago before it even started, but in his heart of hearts, he can't bare the thought of letting go -- he thinks that it has to be a sign that he just doesn't understand yet.)
The snow beneath him is cold once he rolls off of Draco and sits up (he misses the warmth). He holds onto Draco's hand though.
And then there's something that makes him look over to the lake, a shimmer on the waters that were threatening to freeze over soon. It's bits of white snow that looks like the softest fluff floating down towards the land, blanketing the world in the purest of white and covering Hogwarts and the trees in something that looked like frosting. It's the way the moon and stars are reflected on the lake and against the snow, making everything seem almost as bright as day time and still giving it the feeling that everything is glowing. The way he can watch this with someone and keep warm next to each other, see the puffs of white that's their breath in the midnight air and not have to say a thing.
Harry tugs at their joined hands, his and Draco's (it's a phrase that sticks in his mind), nudging him to look and see what he does (he wants Draco to know what magic and snow mean together). Whispers, "Look," and tries -- hopes -- to open his eyes to the sight.
And Draco does look, and he sees, and a part of him thinks he should be awed, but he isn't. Instead, there's a strange sense of calm, snow glittering like crystallized serenity all around him, and the thoughts of should and shouldn't give way to thoughts of here and now and this.
(His father said to him once, Only fools live in the moment, abandon the past and blind themselves to the inevitable future. A man is worthless without his legacy and helpless without a plan. You'd do well to remember that, Draco.
He does remember. And he thinks that, for once, just this once, his father might have been wrong about something.)
Draco blinks, straightens, and there's a soft smile playing about his lips when he stands, tugging Harry up with him. They stand there for a moment, two living, breathing boys amidst a sea of living, breathing white, fingers twined. Draco turns his head, nose nudging at the skin just below Harry's ear.
Murmurs, "You're just a sentimental Gryffindor at heart, aren't you, Potter?"
"I don't think I'm that much of one," is the counter, though Harry would happily admit to being anything because Draco was smiling and still holding his hand (and not letting go), his breath like a gentle caress against his ear. It makes his heart flutter and he feels things that he's never felt before, makes him grin in that goofy sort of way (he must look so silly, he thinks) as he tilts his head forward and softly presses his lips against Draco's temple (he's afraid to do more, but he's happy with this). "Why? Is it a bad thing?"
Pale, pale eyelashes dust over a gaze that's pale, pale grey in the moonlight, and Draco unconsciously leans into the touch. Thinks, yes, because things would be so much simpler if you weren't. Says, "Sometimes. Mostly, it's endearing." He wrinkles his nose in half-feigned distaste. "In a sickeningly sappy sort of way."
The rules of this still aren't quite clear to him, but Draco thinks that perhaps it's all right. It's all right if the pieces don't quite fit together in any sort of logical way, because when he turns and rests his forehead against Harry's, they fit together, and it's enough.
It surprises him every time he looks into grey now to discover how many shades there are and what each of them mean (dark is the colour of lust and light is of soft contentment; smoke rivals on concern or worry and slate could mean resentment). He doesn't wonder on then and before, tells himself he doesn't remember cutting stone grey on guarded green.
"You don't seem to mind," Harry says in a playful tone. (But everyone else does, and in the end, that's what matters, isn't it? There's a destiny to fulfil and he isn't part of it. )
An almost sad sort of smile, and Harry's tightening his grip on Draco's hand just a little (please don't leave like all the others have). "You said something about going?"
There's something bittersweet about the curve of Harry's mouth, and Draco wants to chase it away. Leans in, his own lips replacing the misty breaths that had hushed across it before, and there's a soft sweep of tongue, lazy and undemanding. Draco has always known what he wants, and, damn it, he wants this (shouldn't shouldn't shouldn't, but he does).
"I did," he replies, the words murmured against warm mouth. "But I never said where." Pulls back, just enough to catch Harry's eye (bright emerald amidst a plethora of white, and there's a metaphor in there somewhere, but Draco was never much for figurative language, anyway). "I hear the house elves down in the kitchens would be more than willing to cater to our every whim, and right now, my whim is hot chocolate."
It takes a moment for Draco's words to sink in, mind still caught up in the kiss and he doesn't want it to end so he tilts his head just a little to the right to nip at soft, pink lips gently. He's practically beaming when he pulls away.
"That sounds really nice."
"Good." A faint smirk, soft around the edges instead of sharp and cutting as his smirks usually tend to be. "Because, frankly, I wasn't going to give you a choice."
"What were you going to do if I said no? Drag me there?" The corner of his lips curl upwards and he leans in to gently nuzzle that spot just between Draco's jaw and neck.
"If necessary," he growls in response, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat. Teeth nip lightly at Harry's ear. "Why, are you into that sort of thing?"
Harry shivers because fuck, Draco just growled and that shouldn't even be legal, the way that makes him feel.
"I don't know." Breathless, and he tugs lightly on Draco's robes. "We'll just have to see, won't we?"
A raised eyebrow, and the curl of his lips borders on suggestive now, grey gaze glinting as he allows himself to be pulled forward.
"Sounds promising, Potter," he drawls, snow crunching underneath his boots. "Though, mind you, there are dire consequences for those who tease."
"I'm sure there are," Harry whispers against his lips, closes the distance and kisses Draco thoroughly and slow (teeth lightly scraping skin and a gentle suck on lips with the beckoning of his tongue). Says, "Let's get inside before we freeze to death," even though the other's warmth is all he needs.
Something flares low in Draco's abdomen, heating him up from the inside. He leans forward unconsciously when Harry breaks the kiss, unwilling to give up that heat.
"You're the one holding us up," he murmurs, but it's more pleased than reproachful, and he delivers a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the underside of Harry's jaw. "Then again, there are ways to avoid freezing."
"Am not," Harry says, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of Draco's hand, and he's just a bit coy when he replies with, "I don't know these ways. Are you going to teach me?"
"Are, too." Draco nips at the skin of Harry's neck to punctuate his point. "And you know them better than you think." He pulls away abruptly, decisively, immediately missing the closeness in the frigid winter air as he fixes Harry with a reprimanding look. "Now stop distracting me, prat. I want hot chocolate."
And no, he does not sound petulant. At all.
With that, Draco begins marching up the frozen lawns toward the castle, tugging stubborn Gryffindor along behind him. He always has to do everything.
The sudden-ness of Draco's decision draws a laugh out of Harry, letting himself be dragged along the snow covered field towards the looming shadow that was Hogwarts.
He lets himself be led until that same glimmer that he saw before makes him halt in his steps, drawing Draco into a stop too. He licks suddenly dry lips when the blonde looks back (probably with irritation), and when he speaks, it's with a should-I-or-should-I-not sort of tone. He decides that he should.
"Draco, do you know what the brightest star is called?"
Draco regards him warily, arching a sceptical eyebrow. "Is this going to be some Gryffindor pick up line? Because really, Harry, you shouldn't have."
An arched eyebrow and Harry was hitting Draco lightly in the arm in a way that clearly said, 'Are you joking?'
"Do you?" he asks again, quietly.
There's something in Harry's expression that gives Draco pause, makes him hesitate to further turn the inquiry into a joke.
"Well, yes," he answers matter-of-factly, cocking his head to one side. He's curious now. "The dog star, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Harry replies. And if he's just a little wistful and his heart hurts just a little bit, he hopes it doesn't show too much. "Sirius."
He wonders if he's making him proud right now (he wonders if Sirius minds him being like this with Draco).
And then it hits him, because Draco's hardly slow, and that name had been in the papers over the summer, and he'd heard his father talking about it, too. He thinks Harry must have known Sirius Black at least a little (they were both at the Ministry that night, after all), though the sad sort of look in Harry's eyes makes Draco think that their relationship must have been a bit more far-reaching than 'casual acquaintances on the same side'.
It's a look that tells of loss, and it reminds him a bit of the way his mother speaks of his father now.
It reminds him, all at an alarmingly swift speed, that there's a war going on and that Potter has his side, and Draco isn't on it. That things are more complicated than swirling snowflakes and clasped hands, and fuck it all if the stupidity of what Draco is doing (what are you doing?) doesn't suddenly register in an overwhelming rush.
This isn't going at all like how he'd planned. Not that he'd had much of a plan to begin with, but this -- soft kisses and warm embraces, and what on earth is he, a Hufflepuff? -- certainly isn't part of whatever fraction of a plan he'd had in mind.
Draco realizes that his jaw is clenched, that he still hasn't spoken, that he's still holding Harry's hand. In the moments that follow, he quickly eradicates all three of these things.
"Look, Potte -- Harry," he begins, running a hand through his hair, only it doesn't work quite so well with gloves on, and he can't look at Harry's open expression and revert back to last names, he can't, and it bothers him. "This -- we should go. We shouldn't -- it'll be warm once we get inside, anyway."
Draco doesn't know quite what to say, doesn't know why his hand is shaking, so he stuffs both into the pockets of his robes and exhales. Fucking Harry and his fucking eyes and his fucking nuzzling, making him all inarticulate. It isn't right.
"I know," Harry says, quiet and resigned, and he knows he's done something wrong (but he had too -- needed to tell someone and he knew it was now or never), can see the change as well as feel it (the heat of another body being taken away from him and the clasp of a hand in his own wrenched free). But it's a bit odd, knows he's stepped over some sort of line that they've laid down between them, and he doesn't regret it. Just knows that it's time for them to go.
"I know, Draco, just -- " And then he's leaning in (gives thought no time to think) and kissing Draco with a bruising intensity that surprises even him, all passion and desperation, and just as soon, he moves away (tries to take with him the memory of the night and the stars). "-- Just. Thanks. Thanks for coming out tonight and being there."
There's a split second of silence and then Harry is gone (he doesn't belong in their world of good and easy yet, so he bides).
He thinks he's given Draco more than just his trust tonight.
-----
Friday, December 2nd
The next time he passes the Amortentia in Potions class, he is definitely sure the smell has changed. There's all of the old fragrance, but it's being overpowered by something else. Soap and class and fruit of all things. It's intoxicating.
He wonders what that's all supposed to mean.
-----
Friday, December 9th
--
NC-17 for sex.
--
He doesn't really know why he's here, other than the fact that he needs to talk to Harry. Doesn't really know what he's planning to say either, but that's irrele -- well, all right, it's very relevant, but Draco can't exactly be bothered with that just now.
It's probably incredibly stupid, this entire idea, but then he's been doing a lot of stupid things lately (nearly all of them related to the target of his current pursuit), and he doesn't see any reason to stop now.
Except for the part where one should probably avoid doing stupid things as a rule, but -- damn it, that wasn't the point.
The Gryffindor Quidditch practice had come to an end at least fifteen minutes ago, and Draco glances at the exterior of the changing rooms impatiently, fingers tapping against the side of his arm. He's already seen several of the Gryffindors leave and head back to the castle (he'd only just refrained from throwing something at the Weasel's head, both to take his frustrations out on something and because he doesn't like Weasley's face).
What is taking Harry so long?
Several moments pass, and, at the absence of a head of unkempt black passing through the changing room door, Draco decides that he's waited quite long enough.
When he marches into the Gryffindor changing room, an irritated scowl pulling at his lips, the first thing he thinks is that, oh, well, at least the Gryffindors have some taste when it comes to decorating their changing rooms, now if they could only work on renovating their entire tower, he was sure it would save a lot of people's eyesight. Indeed, there's a distinct lack of red and gold, something Draco was inexplicably expecting, even though the Slytherin changing rooms aren't draped in green and silver.
The next thing he thinks is that there's a shower running. He turns to look in the direction of the harsh sound of water falling on tile and sees steam coming out from around a corner.
And people say he's vain. At least he doesn't take sodding twenty minute showers! (Of course, this is only because his skin will start to prune, and that just isn't attractive, is it.)
Draco pulls off his robes, setting them on a bench, because it's awfully stuffy in here, and then he's marching over to the showers, fully intending to tell Potter off for making him wait and wasting water and making him wait (Again! It's unpardonable!) and --
He rounds the corner and stops short.
Fucking hell.
Staring is rude and unbecoming and undignified. He knows this. Knows because his mother told him this as a child, time and time again, but perhaps that's why Draco doesn't remember it just now, because his mother told him, and his mother is the fucking furthest thing from his mind. It isn't as if he's never seen Harry naked before. He's just never seen him like this -- rivulets of water running down the slope of his back, over the curve of his arse, dark hair plastered to the nape of his neck, muscles shifting, moving under skin, and shit, it's almost enough to make him wish he were on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
Right. Talking is now postponed. Indefinitely.
This decision made, Draco marches right into the shower, not caring that he's still dressed, because there are drying charms in existence, and those are for later. Pinning Harry flush against the tiled wall, wet back pressed against Draco's white shirt (rapidly getting drenched by the shower's spray) -- this is for now.
He rests his chin on Harry's shoulder, water dripping down the sides of his face, down his back, and takes hold of Harry's wrists. "You know, Potter, I was going to tell you off for making me wait outside for twenty minutes, but I think -- " There's a smirk in his voice, and his teeth graze the shell of Harry's ear. " -- that I have a better idea."
Practice had been excruciatingly difficult today and Harry's muscles were screaming in exhaustion afterwards. It didn't help that the wind was particularly fierce today.
It made him almost not want to give the pep talk at the end before dismissing his team, but he figures it wouldn't have been a very captain-ly thing to do if he didn't (at least, he thought so).
He didn't want to get up from his seat on the bench after, so he continues to sit for a while until half the team had left already and someone had to poke him to get him out of the almost sleep-like state he had fallen in before he agreed to undress and hop into the shower.
And hell, if the water didn't feel good on his tired body, washing away the tension in the muscles and the sticky sweat that clung to him. A small moan of appreciation escapes from his throat before he reaches for the soap and starts to lather up his body, the soap suds being taken away just as quickly. And then --
And then there is a hard, firm body pressing up against his own, pushing him up against the tiled wall of the shower stall and hands gripping his wrists to stop him from moving. His brain starts then, wakes up instantly and he tries to push away before that voice starts speaking and he would recognize it even if the person had a cold that reduced him to only a harsh whisper.
"Malfoy," he answers, feels wet fabric brush against his back and trousers rub up along his leg and fuck, if that didn't make him instantly hard (teeth skim past his ear and it's all he can do just to lean into the touch) and the bastard was smirking, he just knew it. "What are you doing in Gryffindor's change rooms? Do you still have your clothes on?"
Draco releases Harry's wrists only to fasten both hands on Harry's hips, spinning the other boy around in one swift movement before placing the palms of his hands on Harry's shoulders and pushing him roughly into the wall. He presses the length of his body against Harry's, and, hell, he's hard, and, oh, that makes Draco's smirk widen, all leering smugness and lecherous intent.
"You were taking too long, and I was tired of waiting," he replies, and then he's crashing their mouths together. It's wet, and it's sliding, and there's water everywhere as Draco slips his eager tongue past Harry's lips, the action accompanied by a sharp thrust of his hips. He groans into Harry's mouth at the delicious pressure, cock straining against the soaked material of his trousers.
Lips break apart, just enough to allow murmured words against a reddening mouth. "On the whole, I think the situation is turning out rather well."
Draco's kiss leaves him breathless and heady and it's all he can do just to cling onto the front of his shirt, releasing a moan and rocking his hips back into the blonde, back into answering hardness and shit.
"It would have been better if you didn't have anything on -- and who walks into showers with clothes anyway?" Harry growls. Draco's white shirt sticks onto him like a second skin, translucent with water and he could see his muscles move and shift under the fabric, see hard pink nipples -- and it was coming off right fucking now, Harry decides, nimble fingers popping open buttons and caressing the skin beneath (hand sliding on slick skin).
The fucking shirt is fucking sticking to him, and Draco lets out a frustrated grunt as he helps Harry in ripping it off, practically tearing fabric in the process. The sodden material lands on the shower floor with a careless sloshing sound, but that's the least of his concern, because now it's wet, naked chest against wet, naked chest, and, ohgod, this was such a good idea, he is a sodding genius.
"Fuck off, I was distracted," Draco gasps in reply, turning his head to mouth at the line of Harry's jaw, lips trailing down to his neck, licking and biting and sucking, and there'll be swollen, red marks there later, he thinks to himself in a satisfied sort of way. Nails scrape carefully along Harry's sides, not quite hard enough to hurt. "What do you want, Harry?"
Harry lets out a breathy sigh, arches his neck towards Draco and his hands are trailing down his body, nails scraping lightly against nipples as he pushes into burning, claiming touch. Reaches the waistband of black trousers and he's unbuttoning and unzipping them enough so that he can reach in and hold Draco in his hand (it's a familiar weight and a remembered encounter).
He squeezes gently, plants his lips all over Draco's face (slippery from the water and his lips shine with it in the dim light). Says, quiet and hushed against the curve of his ear, "You," and what he means is always and only.
Draco bites his lip against a groan; tenses as fingers wrap themselves around his length, deliberate in their idleness. Hips push forward into that maddeningly loose grip, rubbing, seeking the friction that's being denied.
"Touching," he breathes against the smooth wetness of Harry's cheek, "but not what I meant."
His head is swimming, spinning, blood pounding as the water runs down his back, over his shoulders, and there's Harry, pale and perfect, because, fuck, he does have freckles. There's one on the slope of neck-and-shoulder, another just below his clavicle, and Draco dips his head to claim each one with his mouth, tasting and taking, and they aren't close enough.
Fingers thread through soaked strands of black (even darker than usual, weighted down with so much water). He brushes his lips against Harry's ear, hovering. "Do you want me to suck you off? Do you want to suck me off?" A languid suck, tender cartilage pulled carefully between his teeth. "Do you want to fuck me, Potter? Here against the shower wall?"
"Fuck, Draco," Harry groans, feels heat flare and gather below his abdomen and it's all he can do just to keep on his feet.
He pushes at Draco's clothes until they're down around his ankles, wrapping an arm around his waist and pushes their bodies closer (because suddenly it's not a want, but a need to be as close as the world would allow), gasps when finally, finally their cocks touch, free hand carding through blonde hair and he crashes their mouths together in a fierce kiss.
He does want to fuck Draco, claim and mark him as his own against the cool, hard tiles of the shower stall, only his and no one else's --
And see, that's the thing, Draco isn't his and the claim isn't his to make (but Draco gives it up so willingly and fuck, Harry needs; he thinks he's marked him in his mind already). Draco isn't his and he doesn't love him (not the way he loves Ginny, no, it exceeds it already), doesn't even know if he likes him enough for this (too many doubts and dangers to be faced).
There's a line drawn for Harry for what he can and cannot do, and being with Draco (the point hits him again and again) was something he couldn't do and something that should have never happened.
His body stills, but he's still holding on tight (doesn't and can't afford to let go), presses his lips to a throbbing temple (he believes he can feel his heart beat) and whispers, "What are we doing?"
Draco shuts his eyes, groans because they can't think about that right now, he won't, he wants this too much (and that's the problem, that's the problem). Adrenaline is rushing through his head, blood rushing to his groin, and Harry is a solid hardness against him, all angles and planes, but the lips brushing against his forehead are soft, and no.
"Don't," he says sharply, inwardly cringing at how much the word resembles a plea. Hands cup the curve of Harry's arse, firm, hips pushing into hips, and his eyes flutter open at the sensation. Says, "Want you," a low, rumbling sound, reverberating through his chest.
Mouth trails over the line of Harry's jaw, lower, nipping at a collarbone, sucking at the dip in its center. "Fuck, Harry, I want you." Just a little bit desperate, like, don't think right now, don't think.
He wants to push away, but Draco's tone is desperate and pleading and something in his heart breaks. And Harry never was one to let others down.
"Then have me. I'm yours."
Hands grip tight around a pale, slim body, and he mouths the spot just below Draco's ear, moves lower to a collarbone, nipping the skin angry and red and kisses his shoulders. Hips thrust forward, hard and teasing, and he moves in to grasp Draco's cock; a long, slow stroke made easy with wetness.
"I don't," he whispers, just a little lost, "I don't know what to do though."
Relief washes over Draco in a dizzying wave, and all he can do is gasp when Harry rubs, thrusts against him, mouth doing things that can only be described as fucking brilliant, words ringing in Draco's ear like impossible truth, like clarity.
But then there's the soft breath of Harry's words against his skin, fragile and unsure, and Draco tightens his hold on him; switches their positions so that it's his own back pressed against the wall. One leg goes to wrap itself around the back of Harry's thighs, prompting.
"Lift me up," he tells him, a finger tracing the line of Harry's jaw, and there's a strange sort of softness in his eyes, underneath all of the lustwantneed.
"Alright," Harry says, though there's still that note of uncertainty in his voice. He's not sure if he's strong enough, but Draco seems confident and he trusts him -- more than he thinks he does -- so he carefully places Draco's arms around his neck and makes sure he holds on tight before he reaches around Draco and picks him up. Uses the wall for support as he pins him there and when he's sure he won't let Draco fall, he claims his lips, intense and searing (nips them until they're full and red), and nuzzles the crook between shoulder and neck.
Draco grunts appreciatively into the kiss, wraps his legs around Harry's slim waist and hooks feet behind his back. Fingers pull at black, soaked-through strands, fluttering touches along the nape of Harry's neck as he lets him take, and he trusts him for this, his hold firm and strong and unwavering, pressing Draco's back against the cool tiled wall.
There's a groan that's a sigh that passes Draco's lips as Harry's forehead rubs back-and-forth against his neck, and he cups the back of Harry's head, turns his own so that his cheek is brushing against damp locks of hair.
"Fingers," he breathes, lips ghosting across the skin just above Harry's ear. There doesn't seem to be enough oxygen, and he swallows, hopes Harry knows (remembers) what he means. "Use your fingers."
And of course Harry remembers, of course that's the next step (what did he think it would be, anyway?), but he's just a bit nervous (is he really sure about this?) and if it shows, he hopes he could brush it off as just lust.
Except then, it was easy (he shudders remembering the hot sweep of a tongue across his entrance) and he's not sure how he's going to go about it now. Gay sex isn't something someone thought would be useful for him to know.
He supposes he'll need some sort of lubrication and the water on his fingers is alright, but it's not enough (doesn't want to hurt Draco), so he shifts Draco's weight onto him arm and moves one hand towards his mouth (he grunts a bit at the effort, but fuck, it's worth it -- Draco's worth it -- and it's not as hard as he thought it would be).
Opens his mouth and slips his fingers in, coats each one carefully with saliva (tongue sliding between each digit and he looks Draco in the eye the whole time) and then he's using his upper body to pin Draco to the wall. Says, "Alright," and whispers, "tell me if I'm doing anything wrong," and he reaches down to press gently against his entrance before slipping one in (and shit, Draco clenches down on his fingers, and it's tight).
Breath hitches, and Draco shudders in Harry's grasp, eyelids fluttering but only that, because he can't look away, can't tear grey away from green (Harry is beautiful, and it's a flickering, fragile sort of trust, and he doesn't dare to break that).
The water would have been all right, would have been enough, but Harry had other ideas, and Draco marvels a little, inwardly, at the other boy's intuition. The breach is something he's experienced before, perhaps not as often as he lets on, but it isn't an alien sensation. Where muscles would have tensed, would have protested the intrusion, Draco makes them relax, exhaling shakily as he pushes himself down, takes the digit in deeper.
They're in a precarious situation, but Draco tightens the hold of his legs on Harry's torso, uses the arms around Harry's neck to help the other boy hold him up (though he feels them shaking, feels the muscles in his arms quivering, and he's glad that Harry's strong).
"You're doing fine," he says, voice thick with want (has to be that, can't be anything else). Lips slide against lips, hot and slow and reassuring, the soft, liquid heat of tongue gliding against tongue. Hips push down a little, coaxing him on. "Move. Add another."
Harry nods and then he's adding in another finger, moves in to deepen the kiss, drawing Draco's tongue into his mouth and sucking gently on it.
It's as if time holds still and it's a world composed of only them (has always been only them) and it makes Harry want so badly. Here, where no one is watching, they can bare their emotions, though it doesn't feel like that, no. It feels like things he's always wanted to experience and familiarities that hold everything together (even if the rest of the world doesn't see it like that).
"You make me want so badly," he whispers, lips moving against lips, and he scissors his fingers when he feels Draco relax, curls the tips of them in burning heat to prepare him for what was always inevitable.
And Draco whimpers, because god, yes, there. His head falls back against the shower wall, a dull thud against cool, slippery tiles, and his chest is rising and falling more quickly than before, small bursts of breath passing through his lips as a flush rises in his cheeks. He can feel himself stretching to accommodate Harry's fingers, tensing and relaxing, and then those fingers are moving, and he can't breathe, until, oh, they brush that, and Draco lets out a guttural groan, clenching around the digits, cock aching and altogether untouched.
He almost doesn't catch Harry's words, almost loses them to the heat of his own mouth, to the steady pounding of water on tile, but he does, and he needs.
"Harry, fuck," he pants, head thrown back, neck pale and exposed. He knows that Harry isn't going to be able to hold him up forever, and that's all right, because Draco doesn't want forever (there's something terrifying about the word alone, indefinite and immeasurable and wrought with promises that are stupid to make; making something means it's susceptible to being broken).
Draco wants now.
Half lidded eyes focus in on green, and his heart is a pounding beat against his chest; it's a wonder that Harry can't hear it. "Do it," he says, sounds hoarse and winded. "Fuck me."
"You're gorgeous, you know," Harry says, tone soft. And he is. Pale body wrapped around his own, neck laid bare (and he can't help but press his lips along its length, nips and sucks and in this moment, Draco is his), eyes dark with lust (he thinks that's what it is), face flushed and positively wanton (and it's all because of him). It makes him throb with need.
Another curl of his fingers, pressing against that spot inside of him, and then Harry is taking them away and lifting Draco up just a little higher, rubs the tip of his cock against him and moans; he could come undone just like that if he didn't need so desperately.
Slowly, he lowers Draco down, feels him stretch around his length and it's amazing, better than he could ever imagine (heat surrounding him from all around and it clenches down to leave him breathless). Tears a gasp from his throat and he feels his arms tremble, but he holds on. He stops when the head of his cock is buried inside Draco, rests his head against a flat chest (and this time he really can hear his heart beat).
"You okay?" Harry asks, voice just a little shaky, and he's not sure who he's asking.
"God, Harry, if you don't move right fucking now, I may really have to hurt you," is the rushed reply that leaves Draco's mouth, all quavering tension and barely restrained urgency. There's moisture on his brow, on his chest (fingers curl against the back of Harry's neck, tracing nonsense into his skin), and he doesn't think all of it is water anymore, because there's a raw smell in the air now, sweat and sex and them.
He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them, Draco realizes that they were clenched shut. He's breathing shallowly, thinly, short, harsh breaths and an ache for more that's almost painful.
"Look at me," he demands, nudging at Harry's brow with his chin; though it doesn't really sound like a demand when his voice is wavering like that, fragile edges that make him sound vulnerably exposed. He swallows, and when he speaks again, it sounds a bit better. "Want to see you."
Draco's words bring a smile onto Harry's face because that's the Draco Malfoy he knows and it's a relief to know that even he can't be lost in this place of uncertainties and now.
He breathes in deeply, takes in the scent of them, then moves away and focuses green on grey, and it's a sight that he'll never tire of seeing.
"Like what you see?" he teases, the corners of his mouth curling a little into the beginnings of a smirk even though he's panting now and his voice sounds just a little bit strained.
And then he's thrusting upwards hard, buries himself deep into Draco -- and fuck -- he moans, long and drawn out; he's never known completion until this moment.
Draco wants to say something dry or scathing, something like, you know, it's amazing, even when you've got your cock up my arse, how much you can irritate me, but then Harry is pushing up, into, and the words become a strangled groan caught in his throat.
"Shit, Harry," he pants into the curve of neck and shoulder, bucking his hips to take him in as far as is possible, and there's an uncomfortable ache (it's been a while since he's done this), but Draco bites his lip against it. He feels the other boy's muscles quivering, straining against him. "Fuck, don't you dare come yet."
Inwardly, he thinks Harry's doing brilliantly and that what they say about Gryffindors throwing themselves head first (or in this case, cock first) into things really is true. But, fuck, he wants to feel Harry, wants to feel him thrust and move, lazy backward slides and forward snaps of his hips, and they aren't done yet.
He's dazed for a moment, lost in the feeling of Draco and 'us' and he thinks he would come if it wasn't for the voice that told him not yet and his determination to make this last as long as it can (he wants it to be good for them both). But he will if Draco didn't stop moving and writhing like that on his cock and it's intense, the pleasure he feels; he didn't even know he could be this hard before (liquid fire runs through his veins now and he's dripping with sweat -- ironic since he went to shower to wash it all off in the first place).
"I won't if you don't," he whispers, mouth close to Draco's ear in a grin, and he nips at the lobe, teeth scraping and pulling it into his mouth with a gentle suck. It's an empty challenge, one he knows he'd lose, but he thinks it'll be worth it to lose just this once to Draco.
From the way that Draco's moving, eager and wanting (and Harry loves him like this), he suspects that he's adjusted and ready (of course, it's not the first time he's done this and the thought makes Harry mad -- can't be anything else besides that) so he shifts them a little bit to get a better angle, slowly pulling out of Draco and thrusts up again, setting a steady pace (each time is better than the last and he thinks he's become addicted to Draco already).
Each thrust feels like a slow burn that's eating him from the inside out, and Draco revels in it, moves his hips a little, writhes and pushes back, meeting Harry thrust for thrust. And then Harry changes the angle, and ohfuckyes -- pleasure sparks through his body, exploding, white and messy, behind closed eyelids, and Draco keens, arches into willing heat, into careful, sliding hips.
"You're too good at this," he says, panting shallowly against the curve of Harry's jaw, nipping and sucking and marking what's his (his his his), and he groans, because hell, his ears weren't even a sensitive spot until now. Breathlessly, "Should I be jealous?"
Draco keens and Harry thinks that should be illegal (it makes him feel alive) and he tries to hit that spot that makes the blonde see sparks every time.
He breathes in short gasps now, small pants as he tries to hold on, but the edge is perilously close. Sharp angles and hardness against his skin, and Draco arches into him, bites and squirms and moves them closer, deeper, and speaking is the farthest thing from his mind.
"Do you think you should be?" Voice blowing past a wet cheek, and Harry presses his lips against the corner of his mouth, slips his tongue in to tangle with another. "Maybe I'm just a natural."
Green eyes shine with lust and want and need and something else unnameable, and then he's whispering, "Touch yourself."
And, fuck, that sounds like a good idea, which is mad, really, because since when are any of Potter's ideas good ones?
Except that this entire situation is mad, Draco thinks with a winded huff of a laugh, but it turns into a low groan as he wraps a hand around his cock, makes a loose circle with his fingers and thrusts. And then he's fisting himself in earnest, the occasional sharp snap of his wrist drawing out a mewling whimper, each slide and pull of his fingers coinciding with the slide and pull of Harry's hips.
"I think you're mine," he growls, teeth sharp against swollen, lower lip, gaze piercing as it bores into a heady sea of opiate green, and shit, he's close. Fingers speed up, a pullslidetug that's impossibly fast on his cock, because he knows Harry's close, too. Draco clenches around Harry's length, coaxing him to the edge. Says, "Next time, I may even let you fuck me over McGonagall's desk."
His hips move faster, a quick in, out, in out inout, and Harry's about to say something like, If I give you a next time, prat, but the words get caught up in his throat because shit, Draco's touching himself and he's making those noises and it's this close to driving Harry into insanity.
He slams up, hard, against Draco and the wall behind him and, "Fuck, I wish you could see yourself."
A snarl of possession that's a gasp that's a strangled shout as Draco clenches around him and -- shit, fuckinghell -- he loses himself in the feel of Draco, here and now, doesn't fall but practically leaps off that edge and he comes, hot and slick in the body that he holds so close to his own. Eyes shut so tightly that he does see stars explode behind his eyelids and all he knows is Draco.
There's a telltale quiver in Harry's thighs signalling imminent completion as thrusts grow more erratic, harder, faster, slamming Draco's back against the wall, and, fuck, he loves it. Harry fucks the way he does everything, he thinks. Fierce and passionate and with a burning determination that makes it hard to breathe, chest rising and falling and hitching on too little oxygen.
And then Harry's pulsing, fingers digging into Draco's hips so hard that he knows there'll be marks there, angry red with a purple bruise or two, and Draco thinks good, because he doesn't want to forget this. Doesn't want to forget the look on Harry's face as he comes, drives into Draco with a last snap of his hips, liquid heat on his skin, and ohgod, he's fucking beautiful like this.
"Fuck." It's a broken syllable, all he can manage as he twists his wrist and gives a last, answering thrust of his hips, struggling to keep his eyes open, because Harry's all flushed cheeks and bitten lips, ecstasy written on his face as rivulets of water run down his neck, and Draco wants to burn the image into his memory (greedily, selfishly, for no one else to see).
He comes with Harry's name on his lips, breathless and just a little bit awed.
Something hot and sticky falls onto his chest, and he opens his eyes to see Draco ride out the last of his orgasm; mouth open and panting, hair thrown back and darkened by the water that was flowing down his body, makes him shine like a god that should be worshipped, face twisted in bliss and Merlin, he was looking right at him (like Harry belongs to Draco and Draco only and that's alright, Harry thinks, because Draco is his only, too).
He's shaking and shivering, feels boneless and like he could fall so he clings onto the only thing he has and places his lips all over Draco's face (his brow tastes of sweat, the tip of his nose of arcadia, and his lips sing of temptation). He thinks this could last forever, if only in his mind.
When the weight becomes just too much, he slides them both down so that they're sitting on the tiled floor, keeps his hold on Draco and lets the after glow wash over him.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and what he really means is, are we okay?
The water is dripping down onto them, though they aren't directly in the spray, and that's nice, Draco thinks blissfully as trembling legs slacken their hold around Harry's torso, loosely straddling the other boy's lap instead. He also thinks it's colder than before, but he doesn't really mind, because they're both sweaty and sticky, and the droplets wash it all away, leave him feeling clean (but they don't take away the tender, reddening bites on Harry's neck, and Draco is glad).
He curls into Harry, breathes into the dip at the center of his collarbone, feels the rapidly flickering pulse there and kisses it, lazy and soft.
"Yeah," he says, voice roughened and raw. He knows, somehow, that there's more to the question, but Draco doesn't have the answers just now, and he doesn't want to think -- hasn't been doing much of that anyway, a mocking voice in the back of his mind accuses, and grey eyes flutter closed.
Tired, shaking, he clenches his hands (can't remember when they ended up around Harry's waist) and rubs his forehead against Harry's shoulder, exhaling.
It's the way Draco kisses him and the gentle nuzzles against his skin that makes Harry smile, eyes impossibly soft, and he doesn't understand how he's never seen this Draco before in his life (call it heroism, but he'd protect him with his life like this if he could).
Harry wraps his arms around Draco's back, resting his head against wet, blonde strands, and he lets himself believe that they're alright for just a while.
-----
Go to part III.
Summary: Part two of What Harry and Draco Did A Month Before Christmas Holidays. Draco catches Harry outside again the next night and they find closure in each other, even if they know they shouldn't. Another bonus Harry-in-Potions scene, and he finally loses his virginity! To Draco. In the Gryffindor Quidditch showers. Hi, overly priced water bill.
Rating: Some scenes are really just fluffy. I've marked the ones that are higher than PG, though there might be a random swear word in those too. Oh well.
Go to part I.
-----
Thursday, December 1st
He doesn't know why he comes back a second time. The first time was risky enough, and he only left feeling tired and fragile and he hates it. But he doesn't know any other way to deal with it.
It's snowing softly this time, little flakes coming down and gliding along the wind to land in his hair. He doesn't throw snowballs, but sits along the edge of the lake, cloak beside him as he idly traces patterns into the ground. They don't tell a story or even form a picture; he's lost his trail of thought for that a while ago. (Useless, just like him.)
Sometimes, Harry thinks it would be nice if there was someone else there with him. Someone who understood without understanding, who knew without knowing.
He snorts. What sort of impossible thought is that?
He let out a sigh and drops his head onto his knees. At least the snow is nice, he thinks. (And what he means is, how do I make things better?)
Yes, the first time was coincidence. The second time? Not so much.
The sky isn't clear anymore, not like the last time, snow falling gently, melting on the lashes of Draco's eyes. He blinks the moisture away, though it's pointless, really, as there always seems to be a snowflake or two annoyingly eager to take its place.
It had been a whim, actually, that had brought him out here. At first he thought he'd patrol the corridors for a bit, Prefect-ly duty and all that, but then he'd glimpsed a lone figure by the side of the lake, a dark blot amidst glowing whiteness, and here he is.
There's still no real answer to the why in that, but he decides not to concern himself with that part just now.
"Are you planning on making this a habit, Potter?" he asks, once he's within calling distance of the other boy. Draco doesn't pause for an answer, simply keeps walking toward the bank, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the frozen expanse of lake.
The flinch that Draco (he's never stopped being Draco ever since that last time) causes visibly runs through his whole body, starts from the tips of his hair and down to his feet until it's not just a flinch, but a leap from sitting to standing upright. His face is guarded, snow shaken from his head to fall onto his shoulders and down to the ground as he turns to face the blonde.
No one is supposed to be here.
"What are you doing here?" is asked, tone suspicious and he can't mask his shock. Harry says the words like it's an intrusion, directed at the disturber of the peace (and in a way, he was) as if his question was an insult and nothing more.
The tone is not at all lost on him, but Draco merely raises an eyebrow and taps the shiny Prefect's badge pinned to the outside of his robes.
"Catching students out of bed, apparently," he replies easily. Tilts his head to the side. "So the question, really, is what are you doing out here? It's freezing, in case you haven't noticed, and there's also that bit about it being the middle of the night."
"I -- " Harry starts, but he doesn't know what to say. He really shouldn't be out -- but he is -- and it's not like he's going to tell Draco why he's out. But then something Draco's said before clicks and, "Wait, habit?"
Draco opens his mouth to respond. Closes it. If he tells Harry that he was here the night before, the boy will undoubtedly react indignantly and self-righteously, and Draco isn't looking for a fight just yet. Instead, he fixes Harry with a vaguely condescending look.
"That isn't how it works, Potter. I asked first."
"You --" Stops, figures he's in enough trouble as it is if Draco wants to report him and continues, "And since when have I listened to rules? What do you mean by habit, Malfoy?"
"And you clearly aren't very keen on conversational decorum either," he answers dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. Realizing that Harry isn't going to let him get away with avoiding the question, Draco lets out a sigh, breath misting before him. "I mean last night. You were out here. And now you're out here again, and I'm beginning to wonder if you've simply decided to forgo sleep altogether."
And the world just seems to stop for Harry because, No. No one was supposed to know and no one was supposed to see that. He feels exposed and bare and it sort of makes him sick (Draco's been able to make him feel that way far too many times now).
"Why were you there?" Harry asks, because he's sure that he was the only one there yesterday (then again, he didn't exactly check, did he?). It's that state between belief and disbelief, and Harry doesn't want to believe in either. It's like this was bound to happen, and Harry somehow knew it would. It shouldn't have because that was his secret (but secrets are meant to be shared, sometimes).
"You didn't do anything," he adds, more a statement than it is an accusation. And that's sort of funny, now that he thinks about it. As if Draco didn't want to disturb him. "You could have -- I don't know. Taken off points and given me detention or something."
He watches the emotions flicker across Harry's face -- cold surprise, a desperate sort of dread, as if he doesn't quite believe it, and then -- confused curiosity. Draco's hands drop to his sides, shoulders straightening, and his tone is carefully neutral when he replies.
"I could have. I could do it now, too." A pause, and he feels a snowflake brush against his cheek. A part of him still wants to know why Harry is out here, wants to hear it for himself. And he could find out, too, if he threatened the boy with detention, told him he'd dock points if he didn't tell. Draco has more right to be out here, after all, considering the fact that he's a Prefect and Harry is not.
There's a vulnerability in Harry's eyes, however, and that stops him.
"I'll make you a deal, Potter," he says, walking toward the edge of the lake until he and Harry are side by side, with several feet in between them. The opposite bank is barely discernible in the sea of white. "I won't ask if you don't ask."
The situation is bizarre enough to make Harry laugh. He feels the tension leave his body and feels that, maybe, he can relax (maybe this is the first step to moving on). He hasn't laughed in a while and it feels good to remember what it was like.
He looks over at Draco, watches the snow gently glide and disappear onto his body, and there's something soothing about this: about him being the one who's here and this balance that they seem to have in the dead of night, something in the way Draco looks as the small ice crystals fall around him.
"Fair enough."
Harry laughs, and it isn't mocking or scornful, and that surprises Draco simply because he's never heard a genuine laugh from the other boy. Come to think, he isn't sure if he's ever heard him laugh at all. His lips quirk involuntarily, eyes flicking to give Harry a sideways glance.
"So," he begins, tilting his face toward the sky so that a snowflake falls on one eyelid. Eyes open, blinking it away, and Draco turns his head, gaze level again. "Snow. I still don't see how it's at all magical." A raised eyebrow. "Weren't you going to do something about that?"
A grin starts to form on Harry's face, one bordering on a smirk, and he bends over to scoop up a pile of snow with his hands.
"I did say something about that, didn't I?" Moulds the snow into a white ball and hurls it at the front of Malfoy's robes.
He should have seen that coming.
He really, really should have.
"Right," he says calmly, brushing the snow off of his robes with one gloved hand. So this is how he's going to play, is it? Fine. Draco wasn't placed in Slytherin for nothing. Grey eyes catch green, and Harry is smirking at him, the bastard. "Potter? Prepare to die."
With that, Draco lunges, barrelling himself bodily into Harry so that they both end up on the snow covered ground. Hands scrabble, grabbing at whatever snow he can reach, and Draco shoves a handful of the stuff down the front of Harry's shirt, not particularly caring when some of it finds its way into his gloves.
"Hey!" Harry protests, feels his back collide with the ground and it's all he can do just to realize that Draco was on top of him and this was really all his fault, wasn't it, and then he yelps when several handfuls of cold, wet snow are practically shovelled down his shirt. "You fucker."
He kicks his feet, trying to dislodge the taller boy from his body, hands up to protect himself or grab at flailing wrists, and he's laughing harder than he did before. It's like they're both just boys having a snow fight and it's so normal that it surprises Harry with the wonder of it all.
With his first strategy failing, Harry reaches out and pokes Draco hard in the side instead, hoping the other would let up on his relentless attack if he was distracted or ticklish or something.
"You practically asked for that!" he crows triumphantly, the small thrill of victory making him feel pleasantly light headed (or perhaps it's the snow in his hair, Harry's eyes dancing with mirth, this momentary lapse in everything they've known, and strangely, it's all right).
A sharp poke to the ribs and Draco squirms away, just enough to catch the offending hand with one of his own, pinning it there between them. Heavy breaths turn to quickly fading clouds upon the air.
Looking down at Harry, he tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. Grey eyes narrow in speculation, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "One of these days, I'm going to get you good and drunk."
Harry arches his eyebrows, look full of suspicion and mischief, and just as quickly as Draco lunged at him, he flips them both over in Draco's moment of carelessness and reverses their positions. His hands grab a hold of both of Draco’s hands and he straddles his hips so he can't move.
"Why would you want to get me drunk?" Lets himself give a smug look as he looks down at mussed up hair that blends into the snow, flushed cheeks and eyes that shine with something he's never seen before (he feels his chest expand with warmth at the sight).
Draco's eyes widen momentarily, and, shit, he should have seen that one coming, too, but Harry is a solid heat above him, a snowflake melting on the tip of his nose, and Draco only half tries to free himself, struggling for the sake of it rather than any real desire to get away.
"Because," he replies airily, momentarily abandoning his attempts at freedom to fix Harry with a look of feigned reproach. "Knowing you, you're a complete lightweight. It'd be funny to watch the great Potter trip all over himself. Sadistic amusement, if you will."
A sharp-edged grin soon follows this, eyes glittering with a cunning sort of mischief. "And, of course, there's the part where I, being deranged and lecherous and all that, take advantage of you in your inebriated state."
"I'm sure you will," Harry replies dryly, faint amusement in his voice, and he's glad when Draco ceases struggling. He sort of likes how they are here and the peculiar sensation of cool winds and warm body heat against his form.
Tone just a little bit coy, he adds, "It's not taking advantage of if I'm willing. Though I bet I could last longer than you think."
"Do you?" he asks, raising one elegant eyebrow. Long fingers slip between the folds of Harry's robes, curling around the Gryffindor tie and pulling, tugging him closer. "What are the stakes?"
"Mmm," Harry hums, letting himself be pulled closer. He bites his lip in thought while one of his hands reaches in to brush away blonde strands that obscured Draco's face. "What about the loser has to do a performance of the winner's choosing?"
Intrigued, Draco furrows his brows.
"Performance?" he echoes, eyes glittering with amusement. The word itself brings to mind various possible forms of utter humiliation in front of the entire school. "Like can-can dancing? You are a strange, strange person."
"It's really up to you if you win, now, isn't it?" Lets his forehead drop down to rest on Draco's and he closes his eyes, content to stay like that for a while longer.
Harry's breath is warm hushing across his mouth, and Draco thinks that maybe they should go, except that that would be so inconvenient, wouldn't it, because the snow is cold, and Harry isn't, and it's really that simple (though he knows it's anything but).
Gloved hands part the Gryffindor's robes, sliding down to rest on Harry's hips, bringing him closer.
"When I win, you mean," he murmurs, shivering as a gust of wind flutters the blonde hair at the nape of his neck. Turns his head to nuzzle into the underside of Harry's jaw. "Cold."
The hands on his hips feel like such a natural occurrence that Harry doesn't even hesitate to lay his body flat down onto Draco's. He gathers him up in his arms and presses his face against blonde hair (he smells like exotic fruit and clean soap dashed with a bit of something classy that he doesn't know how to name and a scent that is just so uniquely Draco that it makes him want to stay here forever).
"Better?" he asks, and he reaches down to entwine his fingers with Draco's hands. "And I meant if."
Solid heat pressed all along his frame, an amused murmur by his ear, and it's better than better. The thought elicits a flutter of panic (has to be panic) in his chest, and a little voice in the back of his head whispers about how this isn't right, this isn't his to have; it's all dos and don'ts, shoulds and shouldn'ts, an endless repetition that demands his attention. He remembers the encounter in his dorm, remembers that that should have been the end of this ... this whatever it was.
Shouldn't it?
Suddenly, Draco feels stifled, oddly trapped, and he stiffens a little under the lean body (can't bring himself to push Harry away, doesn't want to) above him.
"P -- Harry," he says, and the name alone is a reminder that Draco has obligations, that he shouldn't be doing this. He gives the other boy's fingers a light squeeze. "We should go back."
Harry emits a soft sigh against Draco's skin, groans a little as he pushes away and gets off his body. He knows he's right, they should go (should never have been there in the first place), but he wishes they didn't have to (he's getting better at ignoring the voice that yells out, No).
(He knows in his mind that this should have ended a lot time ago before it even started, but in his heart of hearts, he can't bare the thought of letting go -- he thinks that it has to be a sign that he just doesn't understand yet.)
The snow beneath him is cold once he rolls off of Draco and sits up (he misses the warmth). He holds onto Draco's hand though.
And then there's something that makes him look over to the lake, a shimmer on the waters that were threatening to freeze over soon. It's bits of white snow that looks like the softest fluff floating down towards the land, blanketing the world in the purest of white and covering Hogwarts and the trees in something that looked like frosting. It's the way the moon and stars are reflected on the lake and against the snow, making everything seem almost as bright as day time and still giving it the feeling that everything is glowing. The way he can watch this with someone and keep warm next to each other, see the puffs of white that's their breath in the midnight air and not have to say a thing.
Harry tugs at their joined hands, his and Draco's (it's a phrase that sticks in his mind), nudging him to look and see what he does (he wants Draco to know what magic and snow mean together). Whispers, "Look," and tries -- hopes -- to open his eyes to the sight.
And Draco does look, and he sees, and a part of him thinks he should be awed, but he isn't. Instead, there's a strange sense of calm, snow glittering like crystallized serenity all around him, and the thoughts of should and shouldn't give way to thoughts of here and now and this.
(His father said to him once, Only fools live in the moment, abandon the past and blind themselves to the inevitable future. A man is worthless without his legacy and helpless without a plan. You'd do well to remember that, Draco.
He does remember. And he thinks that, for once, just this once, his father might have been wrong about something.)
Draco blinks, straightens, and there's a soft smile playing about his lips when he stands, tugging Harry up with him. They stand there for a moment, two living, breathing boys amidst a sea of living, breathing white, fingers twined. Draco turns his head, nose nudging at the skin just below Harry's ear.
Murmurs, "You're just a sentimental Gryffindor at heart, aren't you, Potter?"
"I don't think I'm that much of one," is the counter, though Harry would happily admit to being anything because Draco was smiling and still holding his hand (and not letting go), his breath like a gentle caress against his ear. It makes his heart flutter and he feels things that he's never felt before, makes him grin in that goofy sort of way (he must look so silly, he thinks) as he tilts his head forward and softly presses his lips against Draco's temple (he's afraid to do more, but he's happy with this). "Why? Is it a bad thing?"
Pale, pale eyelashes dust over a gaze that's pale, pale grey in the moonlight, and Draco unconsciously leans into the touch. Thinks, yes, because things would be so much simpler if you weren't. Says, "Sometimes. Mostly, it's endearing." He wrinkles his nose in half-feigned distaste. "In a sickeningly sappy sort of way."
The rules of this still aren't quite clear to him, but Draco thinks that perhaps it's all right. It's all right if the pieces don't quite fit together in any sort of logical way, because when he turns and rests his forehead against Harry's, they fit together, and it's enough.
It surprises him every time he looks into grey now to discover how many shades there are and what each of them mean (dark is the colour of lust and light is of soft contentment; smoke rivals on concern or worry and slate could mean resentment). He doesn't wonder on then and before, tells himself he doesn't remember cutting stone grey on guarded green.
"You don't seem to mind," Harry says in a playful tone. (But everyone else does, and in the end, that's what matters, isn't it? There's a destiny to fulfil and he isn't part of it. )
An almost sad sort of smile, and Harry's tightening his grip on Draco's hand just a little (please don't leave like all the others have). "You said something about going?"
There's something bittersweet about the curve of Harry's mouth, and Draco wants to chase it away. Leans in, his own lips replacing the misty breaths that had hushed across it before, and there's a soft sweep of tongue, lazy and undemanding. Draco has always known what he wants, and, damn it, he wants this (shouldn't shouldn't shouldn't, but he does).
"I did," he replies, the words murmured against warm mouth. "But I never said where." Pulls back, just enough to catch Harry's eye (bright emerald amidst a plethora of white, and there's a metaphor in there somewhere, but Draco was never much for figurative language, anyway). "I hear the house elves down in the kitchens would be more than willing to cater to our every whim, and right now, my whim is hot chocolate."
It takes a moment for Draco's words to sink in, mind still caught up in the kiss and he doesn't want it to end so he tilts his head just a little to the right to nip at soft, pink lips gently. He's practically beaming when he pulls away.
"That sounds really nice."
"Good." A faint smirk, soft around the edges instead of sharp and cutting as his smirks usually tend to be. "Because, frankly, I wasn't going to give you a choice."
"What were you going to do if I said no? Drag me there?" The corner of his lips curl upwards and he leans in to gently nuzzle that spot just between Draco's jaw and neck.
"If necessary," he growls in response, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat. Teeth nip lightly at Harry's ear. "Why, are you into that sort of thing?"
Harry shivers because fuck, Draco just growled and that shouldn't even be legal, the way that makes him feel.
"I don't know." Breathless, and he tugs lightly on Draco's robes. "We'll just have to see, won't we?"
A raised eyebrow, and the curl of his lips borders on suggestive now, grey gaze glinting as he allows himself to be pulled forward.
"Sounds promising, Potter," he drawls, snow crunching underneath his boots. "Though, mind you, there are dire consequences for those who tease."
"I'm sure there are," Harry whispers against his lips, closes the distance and kisses Draco thoroughly and slow (teeth lightly scraping skin and a gentle suck on lips with the beckoning of his tongue). Says, "Let's get inside before we freeze to death," even though the other's warmth is all he needs.
Something flares low in Draco's abdomen, heating him up from the inside. He leans forward unconsciously when Harry breaks the kiss, unwilling to give up that heat.
"You're the one holding us up," he murmurs, but it's more pleased than reproachful, and he delivers a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the underside of Harry's jaw. "Then again, there are ways to avoid freezing."
"Am not," Harry says, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of Draco's hand, and he's just a bit coy when he replies with, "I don't know these ways. Are you going to teach me?"
"Are, too." Draco nips at the skin of Harry's neck to punctuate his point. "And you know them better than you think." He pulls away abruptly, decisively, immediately missing the closeness in the frigid winter air as he fixes Harry with a reprimanding look. "Now stop distracting me, prat. I want hot chocolate."
And no, he does not sound petulant. At all.
With that, Draco begins marching up the frozen lawns toward the castle, tugging stubborn Gryffindor along behind him. He always has to do everything.
The sudden-ness of Draco's decision draws a laugh out of Harry, letting himself be dragged along the snow covered field towards the looming shadow that was Hogwarts.
He lets himself be led until that same glimmer that he saw before makes him halt in his steps, drawing Draco into a stop too. He licks suddenly dry lips when the blonde looks back (probably with irritation), and when he speaks, it's with a should-I-or-should-I-not sort of tone. He decides that he should.
"Draco, do you know what the brightest star is called?"
Draco regards him warily, arching a sceptical eyebrow. "Is this going to be some Gryffindor pick up line? Because really, Harry, you shouldn't have."
An arched eyebrow and Harry was hitting Draco lightly in the arm in a way that clearly said, 'Are you joking?'
"Do you?" he asks again, quietly.
There's something in Harry's expression that gives Draco pause, makes him hesitate to further turn the inquiry into a joke.
"Well, yes," he answers matter-of-factly, cocking his head to one side. He's curious now. "The dog star, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Harry replies. And if he's just a little wistful and his heart hurts just a little bit, he hopes it doesn't show too much. "Sirius."
He wonders if he's making him proud right now (he wonders if Sirius minds him being like this with Draco).
And then it hits him, because Draco's hardly slow, and that name had been in the papers over the summer, and he'd heard his father talking about it, too. He thinks Harry must have known Sirius Black at least a little (they were both at the Ministry that night, after all), though the sad sort of look in Harry's eyes makes Draco think that their relationship must have been a bit more far-reaching than 'casual acquaintances on the same side'.
It's a look that tells of loss, and it reminds him a bit of the way his mother speaks of his father now.
It reminds him, all at an alarmingly swift speed, that there's a war going on and that Potter has his side, and Draco isn't on it. That things are more complicated than swirling snowflakes and clasped hands, and fuck it all if the stupidity of what Draco is doing (what are you doing?) doesn't suddenly register in an overwhelming rush.
This isn't going at all like how he'd planned. Not that he'd had much of a plan to begin with, but this -- soft kisses and warm embraces, and what on earth is he, a Hufflepuff? -- certainly isn't part of whatever fraction of a plan he'd had in mind.
Draco realizes that his jaw is clenched, that he still hasn't spoken, that he's still holding Harry's hand. In the moments that follow, he quickly eradicates all three of these things.
"Look, Potte -- Harry," he begins, running a hand through his hair, only it doesn't work quite so well with gloves on, and he can't look at Harry's open expression and revert back to last names, he can't, and it bothers him. "This -- we should go. We shouldn't -- it'll be warm once we get inside, anyway."
Draco doesn't know quite what to say, doesn't know why his hand is shaking, so he stuffs both into the pockets of his robes and exhales. Fucking Harry and his fucking eyes and his fucking nuzzling, making him all inarticulate. It isn't right.
"I know," Harry says, quiet and resigned, and he knows he's done something wrong (but he had too -- needed to tell someone and he knew it was now or never), can see the change as well as feel it (the heat of another body being taken away from him and the clasp of a hand in his own wrenched free). But it's a bit odd, knows he's stepped over some sort of line that they've laid down between them, and he doesn't regret it. Just knows that it's time for them to go.
"I know, Draco, just -- " And then he's leaning in (gives thought no time to think) and kissing Draco with a bruising intensity that surprises even him, all passion and desperation, and just as soon, he moves away (tries to take with him the memory of the night and the stars). "-- Just. Thanks. Thanks for coming out tonight and being there."
There's a split second of silence and then Harry is gone (he doesn't belong in their world of good and easy yet, so he bides).
He thinks he's given Draco more than just his trust tonight.
-----
Friday, December 2nd
The next time he passes the Amortentia in Potions class, he is definitely sure the smell has changed. There's all of the old fragrance, but it's being overpowered by something else. Soap and class and fruit of all things. It's intoxicating.
He wonders what that's all supposed to mean.
-----
Friday, December 9th
--
NC-17 for sex.
--
He doesn't really know why he's here, other than the fact that he needs to talk to Harry. Doesn't really know what he's planning to say either, but that's irrele -- well, all right, it's very relevant, but Draco can't exactly be bothered with that just now.
It's probably incredibly stupid, this entire idea, but then he's been doing a lot of stupid things lately (nearly all of them related to the target of his current pursuit), and he doesn't see any reason to stop now.
Except for the part where one should probably avoid doing stupid things as a rule, but -- damn it, that wasn't the point.
The Gryffindor Quidditch practice had come to an end at least fifteen minutes ago, and Draco glances at the exterior of the changing rooms impatiently, fingers tapping against the side of his arm. He's already seen several of the Gryffindors leave and head back to the castle (he'd only just refrained from throwing something at the Weasel's head, both to take his frustrations out on something and because he doesn't like Weasley's face).
What is taking Harry so long?
Several moments pass, and, at the absence of a head of unkempt black passing through the changing room door, Draco decides that he's waited quite long enough.
When he marches into the Gryffindor changing room, an irritated scowl pulling at his lips, the first thing he thinks is that, oh, well, at least the Gryffindors have some taste when it comes to decorating their changing rooms, now if they could only work on renovating their entire tower, he was sure it would save a lot of people's eyesight. Indeed, there's a distinct lack of red and gold, something Draco was inexplicably expecting, even though the Slytherin changing rooms aren't draped in green and silver.
The next thing he thinks is that there's a shower running. He turns to look in the direction of the harsh sound of water falling on tile and sees steam coming out from around a corner.
And people say he's vain. At least he doesn't take sodding twenty minute showers! (Of course, this is only because his skin will start to prune, and that just isn't attractive, is it.)
Draco pulls off his robes, setting them on a bench, because it's awfully stuffy in here, and then he's marching over to the showers, fully intending to tell Potter off for making him wait and wasting water and making him wait (Again! It's unpardonable!) and --
He rounds the corner and stops short.
Fucking hell.
Staring is rude and unbecoming and undignified. He knows this. Knows because his mother told him this as a child, time and time again, but perhaps that's why Draco doesn't remember it just now, because his mother told him, and his mother is the fucking furthest thing from his mind. It isn't as if he's never seen Harry naked before. He's just never seen him like this -- rivulets of water running down the slope of his back, over the curve of his arse, dark hair plastered to the nape of his neck, muscles shifting, moving under skin, and shit, it's almost enough to make him wish he were on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
Right. Talking is now postponed. Indefinitely.
This decision made, Draco marches right into the shower, not caring that he's still dressed, because there are drying charms in existence, and those are for later. Pinning Harry flush against the tiled wall, wet back pressed against Draco's white shirt (rapidly getting drenched by the shower's spray) -- this is for now.
He rests his chin on Harry's shoulder, water dripping down the sides of his face, down his back, and takes hold of Harry's wrists. "You know, Potter, I was going to tell you off for making me wait outside for twenty minutes, but I think -- " There's a smirk in his voice, and his teeth graze the shell of Harry's ear. " -- that I have a better idea."
Practice had been excruciatingly difficult today and Harry's muscles were screaming in exhaustion afterwards. It didn't help that the wind was particularly fierce today.
It made him almost not want to give the pep talk at the end before dismissing his team, but he figures it wouldn't have been a very captain-ly thing to do if he didn't (at least, he thought so).
He didn't want to get up from his seat on the bench after, so he continues to sit for a while until half the team had left already and someone had to poke him to get him out of the almost sleep-like state he had fallen in before he agreed to undress and hop into the shower.
And hell, if the water didn't feel good on his tired body, washing away the tension in the muscles and the sticky sweat that clung to him. A small moan of appreciation escapes from his throat before he reaches for the soap and starts to lather up his body, the soap suds being taken away just as quickly. And then --
And then there is a hard, firm body pressing up against his own, pushing him up against the tiled wall of the shower stall and hands gripping his wrists to stop him from moving. His brain starts then, wakes up instantly and he tries to push away before that voice starts speaking and he would recognize it even if the person had a cold that reduced him to only a harsh whisper.
"Malfoy," he answers, feels wet fabric brush against his back and trousers rub up along his leg and fuck, if that didn't make him instantly hard (teeth skim past his ear and it's all he can do just to lean into the touch) and the bastard was smirking, he just knew it. "What are you doing in Gryffindor's change rooms? Do you still have your clothes on?"
Draco releases Harry's wrists only to fasten both hands on Harry's hips, spinning the other boy around in one swift movement before placing the palms of his hands on Harry's shoulders and pushing him roughly into the wall. He presses the length of his body against Harry's, and, hell, he's hard, and, oh, that makes Draco's smirk widen, all leering smugness and lecherous intent.
"You were taking too long, and I was tired of waiting," he replies, and then he's crashing their mouths together. It's wet, and it's sliding, and there's water everywhere as Draco slips his eager tongue past Harry's lips, the action accompanied by a sharp thrust of his hips. He groans into Harry's mouth at the delicious pressure, cock straining against the soaked material of his trousers.
Lips break apart, just enough to allow murmured words against a reddening mouth. "On the whole, I think the situation is turning out rather well."
Draco's kiss leaves him breathless and heady and it's all he can do just to cling onto the front of his shirt, releasing a moan and rocking his hips back into the blonde, back into answering hardness and shit.
"It would have been better if you didn't have anything on -- and who walks into showers with clothes anyway?" Harry growls. Draco's white shirt sticks onto him like a second skin, translucent with water and he could see his muscles move and shift under the fabric, see hard pink nipples -- and it was coming off right fucking now, Harry decides, nimble fingers popping open buttons and caressing the skin beneath (hand sliding on slick skin).
The fucking shirt is fucking sticking to him, and Draco lets out a frustrated grunt as he helps Harry in ripping it off, practically tearing fabric in the process. The sodden material lands on the shower floor with a careless sloshing sound, but that's the least of his concern, because now it's wet, naked chest against wet, naked chest, and, ohgod, this was such a good idea, he is a sodding genius.
"Fuck off, I was distracted," Draco gasps in reply, turning his head to mouth at the line of Harry's jaw, lips trailing down to his neck, licking and biting and sucking, and there'll be swollen, red marks there later, he thinks to himself in a satisfied sort of way. Nails scrape carefully along Harry's sides, not quite hard enough to hurt. "What do you want, Harry?"
Harry lets out a breathy sigh, arches his neck towards Draco and his hands are trailing down his body, nails scraping lightly against nipples as he pushes into burning, claiming touch. Reaches the waistband of black trousers and he's unbuttoning and unzipping them enough so that he can reach in and hold Draco in his hand (it's a familiar weight and a remembered encounter).
He squeezes gently, plants his lips all over Draco's face (slippery from the water and his lips shine with it in the dim light). Says, quiet and hushed against the curve of his ear, "You," and what he means is always and only.
Draco bites his lip against a groan; tenses as fingers wrap themselves around his length, deliberate in their idleness. Hips push forward into that maddeningly loose grip, rubbing, seeking the friction that's being denied.
"Touching," he breathes against the smooth wetness of Harry's cheek, "but not what I meant."
His head is swimming, spinning, blood pounding as the water runs down his back, over his shoulders, and there's Harry, pale and perfect, because, fuck, he does have freckles. There's one on the slope of neck-and-shoulder, another just below his clavicle, and Draco dips his head to claim each one with his mouth, tasting and taking, and they aren't close enough.
Fingers thread through soaked strands of black (even darker than usual, weighted down with so much water). He brushes his lips against Harry's ear, hovering. "Do you want me to suck you off? Do you want to suck me off?" A languid suck, tender cartilage pulled carefully between his teeth. "Do you want to fuck me, Potter? Here against the shower wall?"
"Fuck, Draco," Harry groans, feels heat flare and gather below his abdomen and it's all he can do just to keep on his feet.
He pushes at Draco's clothes until they're down around his ankles, wrapping an arm around his waist and pushes their bodies closer (because suddenly it's not a want, but a need to be as close as the world would allow), gasps when finally, finally their cocks touch, free hand carding through blonde hair and he crashes their mouths together in a fierce kiss.
He does want to fuck Draco, claim and mark him as his own against the cool, hard tiles of the shower stall, only his and no one else's --
And see, that's the thing, Draco isn't his and the claim isn't his to make (but Draco gives it up so willingly and fuck, Harry needs; he thinks he's marked him in his mind already). Draco isn't his and he doesn't love him (not the way he loves Ginny, no, it exceeds it already), doesn't even know if he likes him enough for this (too many doubts and dangers to be faced).
There's a line drawn for Harry for what he can and cannot do, and being with Draco (the point hits him again and again) was something he couldn't do and something that should have never happened.
His body stills, but he's still holding on tight (doesn't and can't afford to let go), presses his lips to a throbbing temple (he believes he can feel his heart beat) and whispers, "What are we doing?"
Draco shuts his eyes, groans because they can't think about that right now, he won't, he wants this too much (and that's the problem, that's the problem). Adrenaline is rushing through his head, blood rushing to his groin, and Harry is a solid hardness against him, all angles and planes, but the lips brushing against his forehead are soft, and no.
"Don't," he says sharply, inwardly cringing at how much the word resembles a plea. Hands cup the curve of Harry's arse, firm, hips pushing into hips, and his eyes flutter open at the sensation. Says, "Want you," a low, rumbling sound, reverberating through his chest.
Mouth trails over the line of Harry's jaw, lower, nipping at a collarbone, sucking at the dip in its center. "Fuck, Harry, I want you." Just a little bit desperate, like, don't think right now, don't think.
He wants to push away, but Draco's tone is desperate and pleading and something in his heart breaks. And Harry never was one to let others down.
"Then have me. I'm yours."
Hands grip tight around a pale, slim body, and he mouths the spot just below Draco's ear, moves lower to a collarbone, nipping the skin angry and red and kisses his shoulders. Hips thrust forward, hard and teasing, and he moves in to grasp Draco's cock; a long, slow stroke made easy with wetness.
"I don't," he whispers, just a little lost, "I don't know what to do though."
Relief washes over Draco in a dizzying wave, and all he can do is gasp when Harry rubs, thrusts against him, mouth doing things that can only be described as fucking brilliant, words ringing in Draco's ear like impossible truth, like clarity.
But then there's the soft breath of Harry's words against his skin, fragile and unsure, and Draco tightens his hold on him; switches their positions so that it's his own back pressed against the wall. One leg goes to wrap itself around the back of Harry's thighs, prompting.
"Lift me up," he tells him, a finger tracing the line of Harry's jaw, and there's a strange sort of softness in his eyes, underneath all of the lustwantneed.
"Alright," Harry says, though there's still that note of uncertainty in his voice. He's not sure if he's strong enough, but Draco seems confident and he trusts him -- more than he thinks he does -- so he carefully places Draco's arms around his neck and makes sure he holds on tight before he reaches around Draco and picks him up. Uses the wall for support as he pins him there and when he's sure he won't let Draco fall, he claims his lips, intense and searing (nips them until they're full and red), and nuzzles the crook between shoulder and neck.
Draco grunts appreciatively into the kiss, wraps his legs around Harry's slim waist and hooks feet behind his back. Fingers pull at black, soaked-through strands, fluttering touches along the nape of Harry's neck as he lets him take, and he trusts him for this, his hold firm and strong and unwavering, pressing Draco's back against the cool tiled wall.
There's a groan that's a sigh that passes Draco's lips as Harry's forehead rubs back-and-forth against his neck, and he cups the back of Harry's head, turns his own so that his cheek is brushing against damp locks of hair.
"Fingers," he breathes, lips ghosting across the skin just above Harry's ear. There doesn't seem to be enough oxygen, and he swallows, hopes Harry knows (remembers) what he means. "Use your fingers."
And of course Harry remembers, of course that's the next step (what did he think it would be, anyway?), but he's just a bit nervous (is he really sure about this?) and if it shows, he hopes he could brush it off as just lust.
Except then, it was easy (he shudders remembering the hot sweep of a tongue across his entrance) and he's not sure how he's going to go about it now. Gay sex isn't something someone thought would be useful for him to know.
He supposes he'll need some sort of lubrication and the water on his fingers is alright, but it's not enough (doesn't want to hurt Draco), so he shifts Draco's weight onto him arm and moves one hand towards his mouth (he grunts a bit at the effort, but fuck, it's worth it -- Draco's worth it -- and it's not as hard as he thought it would be).
Opens his mouth and slips his fingers in, coats each one carefully with saliva (tongue sliding between each digit and he looks Draco in the eye the whole time) and then he's using his upper body to pin Draco to the wall. Says, "Alright," and whispers, "tell me if I'm doing anything wrong," and he reaches down to press gently against his entrance before slipping one in (and shit, Draco clenches down on his fingers, and it's tight).
Breath hitches, and Draco shudders in Harry's grasp, eyelids fluttering but only that, because he can't look away, can't tear grey away from green (Harry is beautiful, and it's a flickering, fragile sort of trust, and he doesn't dare to break that).
The water would have been all right, would have been enough, but Harry had other ideas, and Draco marvels a little, inwardly, at the other boy's intuition. The breach is something he's experienced before, perhaps not as often as he lets on, but it isn't an alien sensation. Where muscles would have tensed, would have protested the intrusion, Draco makes them relax, exhaling shakily as he pushes himself down, takes the digit in deeper.
They're in a precarious situation, but Draco tightens the hold of his legs on Harry's torso, uses the arms around Harry's neck to help the other boy hold him up (though he feels them shaking, feels the muscles in his arms quivering, and he's glad that Harry's strong).
"You're doing fine," he says, voice thick with want (has to be that, can't be anything else). Lips slide against lips, hot and slow and reassuring, the soft, liquid heat of tongue gliding against tongue. Hips push down a little, coaxing him on. "Move. Add another."
Harry nods and then he's adding in another finger, moves in to deepen the kiss, drawing Draco's tongue into his mouth and sucking gently on it.
It's as if time holds still and it's a world composed of only them (has always been only them) and it makes Harry want so badly. Here, where no one is watching, they can bare their emotions, though it doesn't feel like that, no. It feels like things he's always wanted to experience and familiarities that hold everything together (even if the rest of the world doesn't see it like that).
"You make me want so badly," he whispers, lips moving against lips, and he scissors his fingers when he feels Draco relax, curls the tips of them in burning heat to prepare him for what was always inevitable.
And Draco whimpers, because god, yes, there. His head falls back against the shower wall, a dull thud against cool, slippery tiles, and his chest is rising and falling more quickly than before, small bursts of breath passing through his lips as a flush rises in his cheeks. He can feel himself stretching to accommodate Harry's fingers, tensing and relaxing, and then those fingers are moving, and he can't breathe, until, oh, they brush that, and Draco lets out a guttural groan, clenching around the digits, cock aching and altogether untouched.
He almost doesn't catch Harry's words, almost loses them to the heat of his own mouth, to the steady pounding of water on tile, but he does, and he needs.
"Harry, fuck," he pants, head thrown back, neck pale and exposed. He knows that Harry isn't going to be able to hold him up forever, and that's all right, because Draco doesn't want forever (there's something terrifying about the word alone, indefinite and immeasurable and wrought with promises that are stupid to make; making something means it's susceptible to being broken).
Draco wants now.
Half lidded eyes focus in on green, and his heart is a pounding beat against his chest; it's a wonder that Harry can't hear it. "Do it," he says, sounds hoarse and winded. "Fuck me."
"You're gorgeous, you know," Harry says, tone soft. And he is. Pale body wrapped around his own, neck laid bare (and he can't help but press his lips along its length, nips and sucks and in this moment, Draco is his), eyes dark with lust (he thinks that's what it is), face flushed and positively wanton (and it's all because of him). It makes him throb with need.
Another curl of his fingers, pressing against that spot inside of him, and then Harry is taking them away and lifting Draco up just a little higher, rubs the tip of his cock against him and moans; he could come undone just like that if he didn't need so desperately.
Slowly, he lowers Draco down, feels him stretch around his length and it's amazing, better than he could ever imagine (heat surrounding him from all around and it clenches down to leave him breathless). Tears a gasp from his throat and he feels his arms tremble, but he holds on. He stops when the head of his cock is buried inside Draco, rests his head against a flat chest (and this time he really can hear his heart beat).
"You okay?" Harry asks, voice just a little shaky, and he's not sure who he's asking.
"God, Harry, if you don't move right fucking now, I may really have to hurt you," is the rushed reply that leaves Draco's mouth, all quavering tension and barely restrained urgency. There's moisture on his brow, on his chest (fingers curl against the back of Harry's neck, tracing nonsense into his skin), and he doesn't think all of it is water anymore, because there's a raw smell in the air now, sweat and sex and them.
He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them, Draco realizes that they were clenched shut. He's breathing shallowly, thinly, short, harsh breaths and an ache for more that's almost painful.
"Look at me," he demands, nudging at Harry's brow with his chin; though it doesn't really sound like a demand when his voice is wavering like that, fragile edges that make him sound vulnerably exposed. He swallows, and when he speaks again, it sounds a bit better. "Want to see you."
Draco's words bring a smile onto Harry's face because that's the Draco Malfoy he knows and it's a relief to know that even he can't be lost in this place of uncertainties and now.
He breathes in deeply, takes in the scent of them, then moves away and focuses green on grey, and it's a sight that he'll never tire of seeing.
"Like what you see?" he teases, the corners of his mouth curling a little into the beginnings of a smirk even though he's panting now and his voice sounds just a little bit strained.
And then he's thrusting upwards hard, buries himself deep into Draco -- and fuck -- he moans, long and drawn out; he's never known completion until this moment.
Draco wants to say something dry or scathing, something like, you know, it's amazing, even when you've got your cock up my arse, how much you can irritate me, but then Harry is pushing up, into, and the words become a strangled groan caught in his throat.
"Shit, Harry," he pants into the curve of neck and shoulder, bucking his hips to take him in as far as is possible, and there's an uncomfortable ache (it's been a while since he's done this), but Draco bites his lip against it. He feels the other boy's muscles quivering, straining against him. "Fuck, don't you dare come yet."
Inwardly, he thinks Harry's doing brilliantly and that what they say about Gryffindors throwing themselves head first (or in this case, cock first) into things really is true. But, fuck, he wants to feel Harry, wants to feel him thrust and move, lazy backward slides and forward snaps of his hips, and they aren't done yet.
He's dazed for a moment, lost in the feeling of Draco and 'us' and he thinks he would come if it wasn't for the voice that told him not yet and his determination to make this last as long as it can (he wants it to be good for them both). But he will if Draco didn't stop moving and writhing like that on his cock and it's intense, the pleasure he feels; he didn't even know he could be this hard before (liquid fire runs through his veins now and he's dripping with sweat -- ironic since he went to shower to wash it all off in the first place).
"I won't if you don't," he whispers, mouth close to Draco's ear in a grin, and he nips at the lobe, teeth scraping and pulling it into his mouth with a gentle suck. It's an empty challenge, one he knows he'd lose, but he thinks it'll be worth it to lose just this once to Draco.
From the way that Draco's moving, eager and wanting (and Harry loves him like this), he suspects that he's adjusted and ready (of course, it's not the first time he's done this and the thought makes Harry mad -- can't be anything else besides that) so he shifts them a little bit to get a better angle, slowly pulling out of Draco and thrusts up again, setting a steady pace (each time is better than the last and he thinks he's become addicted to Draco already).
Each thrust feels like a slow burn that's eating him from the inside out, and Draco revels in it, moves his hips a little, writhes and pushes back, meeting Harry thrust for thrust. And then Harry changes the angle, and ohfuckyes -- pleasure sparks through his body, exploding, white and messy, behind closed eyelids, and Draco keens, arches into willing heat, into careful, sliding hips.
"You're too good at this," he says, panting shallowly against the curve of Harry's jaw, nipping and sucking and marking what's his (his his his), and he groans, because hell, his ears weren't even a sensitive spot until now. Breathlessly, "Should I be jealous?"
Draco keens and Harry thinks that should be illegal (it makes him feel alive) and he tries to hit that spot that makes the blonde see sparks every time.
He breathes in short gasps now, small pants as he tries to hold on, but the edge is perilously close. Sharp angles and hardness against his skin, and Draco arches into him, bites and squirms and moves them closer, deeper, and speaking is the farthest thing from his mind.
"Do you think you should be?" Voice blowing past a wet cheek, and Harry presses his lips against the corner of his mouth, slips his tongue in to tangle with another. "Maybe I'm just a natural."
Green eyes shine with lust and want and need and something else unnameable, and then he's whispering, "Touch yourself."
And, fuck, that sounds like a good idea, which is mad, really, because since when are any of Potter's ideas good ones?
Except that this entire situation is mad, Draco thinks with a winded huff of a laugh, but it turns into a low groan as he wraps a hand around his cock, makes a loose circle with his fingers and thrusts. And then he's fisting himself in earnest, the occasional sharp snap of his wrist drawing out a mewling whimper, each slide and pull of his fingers coinciding with the slide and pull of Harry's hips.
"I think you're mine," he growls, teeth sharp against swollen, lower lip, gaze piercing as it bores into a heady sea of opiate green, and shit, he's close. Fingers speed up, a pullslidetug that's impossibly fast on his cock, because he knows Harry's close, too. Draco clenches around Harry's length, coaxing him to the edge. Says, "Next time, I may even let you fuck me over McGonagall's desk."
His hips move faster, a quick in, out, in out inout, and Harry's about to say something like, If I give you a next time, prat, but the words get caught up in his throat because shit, Draco's touching himself and he's making those noises and it's this close to driving Harry into insanity.
He slams up, hard, against Draco and the wall behind him and, "Fuck, I wish you could see yourself."
A snarl of possession that's a gasp that's a strangled shout as Draco clenches around him and -- shit, fuckinghell -- he loses himself in the feel of Draco, here and now, doesn't fall but practically leaps off that edge and he comes, hot and slick in the body that he holds so close to his own. Eyes shut so tightly that he does see stars explode behind his eyelids and all he knows is Draco.
There's a telltale quiver in Harry's thighs signalling imminent completion as thrusts grow more erratic, harder, faster, slamming Draco's back against the wall, and, fuck, he loves it. Harry fucks the way he does everything, he thinks. Fierce and passionate and with a burning determination that makes it hard to breathe, chest rising and falling and hitching on too little oxygen.
And then Harry's pulsing, fingers digging into Draco's hips so hard that he knows there'll be marks there, angry red with a purple bruise or two, and Draco thinks good, because he doesn't want to forget this. Doesn't want to forget the look on Harry's face as he comes, drives into Draco with a last snap of his hips, liquid heat on his skin, and ohgod, he's fucking beautiful like this.
"Fuck." It's a broken syllable, all he can manage as he twists his wrist and gives a last, answering thrust of his hips, struggling to keep his eyes open, because Harry's all flushed cheeks and bitten lips, ecstasy written on his face as rivulets of water run down his neck, and Draco wants to burn the image into his memory (greedily, selfishly, for no one else to see).
He comes with Harry's name on his lips, breathless and just a little bit awed.
Something hot and sticky falls onto his chest, and he opens his eyes to see Draco ride out the last of his orgasm; mouth open and panting, hair thrown back and darkened by the water that was flowing down his body, makes him shine like a god that should be worshipped, face twisted in bliss and Merlin, he was looking right at him (like Harry belongs to Draco and Draco only and that's alright, Harry thinks, because Draco is his only, too).
He's shaking and shivering, feels boneless and like he could fall so he clings onto the only thing he has and places his lips all over Draco's face (his brow tastes of sweat, the tip of his nose of arcadia, and his lips sing of temptation). He thinks this could last forever, if only in his mind.
When the weight becomes just too much, he slides them both down so that they're sitting on the tiled floor, keeps his hold on Draco and lets the after glow wash over him.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and what he really means is, are we okay?
The water is dripping down onto them, though they aren't directly in the spray, and that's nice, Draco thinks blissfully as trembling legs slacken their hold around Harry's torso, loosely straddling the other boy's lap instead. He also thinks it's colder than before, but he doesn't really mind, because they're both sweaty and sticky, and the droplets wash it all away, leave him feeling clean (but they don't take away the tender, reddening bites on Harry's neck, and Draco is glad).
He curls into Harry, breathes into the dip at the center of his collarbone, feels the rapidly flickering pulse there and kisses it, lazy and soft.
"Yeah," he says, voice roughened and raw. He knows, somehow, that there's more to the question, but Draco doesn't have the answers just now, and he doesn't want to think -- hasn't been doing much of that anyway, a mocking voice in the back of his mind accuses, and grey eyes flutter closed.
Tired, shaking, he clenches his hands (can't remember when they ended up around Harry's waist) and rubs his forehead against Harry's shoulder, exhaling.
It's the way Draco kisses him and the gentle nuzzles against his skin that makes Harry smile, eyes impossibly soft, and he doesn't understand how he's never seen this Draco before in his life (call it heroism, but he'd protect him with his life like this if he could).
Harry wraps his arms around Draco's back, resting his head against wet, blonde strands, and he lets himself believe that they're alright for just a while.
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Go to part III.