MTN ch. 3 - "Lies And Memories"
WOO!! Okay, so I've been evil and waited over a week to do this, but at least I've done it now!!
The next few weeks were frustrating at best, and volatile at worst.
It was the end of term at Hogwarts, and all the students were itching to go home for the summer holidays. The classrooms were muggy, the students were distracted, and even a few of the teachers seemed impatient to leave. And yet, for the first time ever, Draco found himself wishing the school year were longer.
Summer break meant no chance of seeing Harry at all.
The thought weighed on his mind, a grim shadow that took up his attention when he was supposed to be doing schoolwork. It bothered Draco to know that, soon, Harry wouldn't be always be nearby. Then it bothered him that he should care; after all, he was still unreasonably upset with the other boy, though he couldn't imagine why he was upset. That was how he knew it was unreasonable; he couldn't think of a reason for it. This thought always made him angrier, because it was Harry's influence that taught him to pay attention to where his emotions were coming from. At least he understood the source of that problem; he resented Harry for being right, even if that wasn't a very logical thing to feel.
After taking Harry's advice on managing anger, he'd learned on his own that emotions and logic don't always work together.
Draco's mind wandered away from his Divination homework (Harry had once told him the “write nothing but doom and get an A” trick, and he'd been in the middle of writing something about a deadly Herbology experiment). He settled instead into thoughts of Potions class that day.
True to form, Professor Snape had interrupted his own lecture to berate Harry for not taking notes. Harry's elbow had been resting on the table, propping his head up on his hand. It looked, from Draco's vantage point, like the other boy had been writing in a particularly bored fashion, but his hand was stalled on the page, and the ink from his quill had been pooling on the parchment.
“Mr. Potter,” Snape had seethed, “I see you don't find my class important enough to keep up with the notes.”
There was a pause, one which had intensified when Harry said nothing in response. It was only when Snape slammed his hand down on the table and Harry jumped in his seat that Draco had realized Harry had fallen asleep in class. In Potions, of all the stupid--!
“I apologise for waking you, as you so obviously need your rest,” Snape said, his voice deadly low, “But this information will be on the exam next week. Perhaps you should consider sleeping at night? Or is my class too early in the day for your delicate constitution?”
“Sorry, sir,” Harry had managed in response. Though he couldn't see Harry's face well, Draco had seen the blush creeping across his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
In the pause before Snape turned his attention back to his lecture (knocking ten points from Gryffindor as he lifted his hand from the desk), Draco was blindsided by the memory of the last time he'd seen Harry's face that flushed-laid flat on his back on the floor, chest heaving with ragged breaths, his hands clutching at the robe beneath him, his hips switching back and forth in response to Draco's hands massaging his cock. Draco felt his breathing and his thought process stop, and for a moment felt like he couldn't even see the classroom around him; his mind was back in one of the disused classrooms, and he felt his groin respond accordingly.
Draco had been endlessly grateful, over the next several minutes, that he was in Potions class behind a desk instead of standing in the hallway, surrounded by other students.
Returning to the present, Draco glowered at his Divination homework. There was still two weeks of misery he had to divine, and quite honestly he was miserable enough without predicting his own death-by-everything. He rolled it up and tucked it into his bag, which he then slung over his shoulder and walked to his room. He dropped the bag near the foot of his bed and flopped down on the covers, sighing and staring into space.
Draco spent more time thinking these days than he had in any of the years before, philosophizing about his own mental and emotional processes. The more he thought about his feelings, the more he realized he wasn't angry with Harry. This was a consideration that some scared-yes, scared-part of him didn't want to admit to or even acknowledge; anger had been his immediate response to everything he didn't understand, to every bad situation. He'd been angry when his father was arrested, he'd been angry when 'Moody' turned him into a ferret, he'd been angry when Potter turned down his hand of friendship on the train six (Almost seven, he marvelled) years ago. Anger, as he was now realizing, was a cover. He was scared when he found out what happened to his father. He was embarrassed at the indignity of being turned into a ferret. And when Potter turned down his friendship, he'd been genuinely hurt.
Draco, of course, had been raised too proud to react in any way other than outrage to all those situations. He was a Malfoy, and a Malfoy slighted was a Malfoy out for revenge.
As all this thinking was teaching him, however, pride could be a deceitful thing. Not only to others, though it certainly was a wall against them. Pride, indeed, had often meant lying to himself.
As frustrated as Draco was at Potter for changing his views and taking away what he now recognized as a sort of naivety, he wouldn't go back to that way of thinking, even if he were given the choice.
Draco hated being lied to. He especially hated realizing he'd been lying to himself.
*
It was late. Harry had had a long day. After being rudely awakened in Potions by a very displeased Professor Snape, he was granted some slack in Divination when Trelawney either didn't notice he'd fallen asleep or had written it off as a 'vision-induced trance' (he figured that, of all his teachers, she would be the most likely to let him sleep under the pretenses of having a prophetic dream). But now, tired though he was, Harry couldn't sleep.
Harry had spent several minutes practicing turning a book into a picture frame, then the picture frame into a spool of thread, then back into a book-compound transfigurations were on the exams, as Hermione had so practically reminded him-and when he lost interest in that he hazarded his Defense Against The Dark Arts essay on resisting the Imperius curse (an idea their latest, though very twitchy and skittish, DADA teacher had decided was necessary, inspite having gone over the implications of the curse in their fourth year).
That lost his interest soon enough, and he found himself glancing at the clock every few minutes, as if it might have a suggestion of something more gripping to do.
“You really should go to bed,” Hermione said. “You aren't getting any work done anyway, and if you fall asleep in class again Snape will pick a random potion from his cabinet and make you drink it."
Harry couldn't help but chuckle at Hermione's humor. “I know, but I can't sit still. I think I'm nervous about the exams.”
“You should be.” It never ceased to amaze him how Hermione could say something that threatening and make it sound perfectly matter-of-fact. “You haven't been paying very close attention in any of your classes, and you've been very lucky in that Professor Snape only caught you sleeping today. You've fallen asleep in his class at least twice over the last week alone!”
“I know...” Harry sighed. “And then I stress over not doing well, and stressing makes it harder to focus on studying.”
He was telling only part of the truth. The rest of it was something along the lines of '...And would you believe, on top of all that, I fancy Draco Malfoy? Of all the people in the entire school, I pick the one with the least interest in me!'
It was the situation with Draco-or lack of one, as the matter stood-that was causing the most grief. In all likelihood, if Harry wasn't paying attention to his surroundings be they classroom or otherwise, he was thinking about Draco. This was making him feel just short of mad; he'd ended the game in order to get Draco off his mind, not have him in it constantly. For whatever reason, never interacting with him only made Harry think about him more. When he told Draco they needed to stop, this had not been part of his reasoning.
That's right, Harry affirmed. I stopped it because I needed more than what was there. I needed more than just hand jobs, and Draco couldn't have given me that. His heart stung as he thought those words, but he didn't try to take them back.
Harry stood up and packed his things away into his bag.
“Going to bed?” asked Hermione.
“Going to bathe,” Harry replied. “Maybe if I go take a late-night bath, I'll relax enough to sleep.”
Hermione pursed her lips disapprovingly. “You really shouldn't be using the Prefect's bathroom. One of these days, you're going to get caught.”
She knew him too well.
“I promise to be careful,” he assured her. I'll keep the invisibility cloak close by. Besides, it's not like I use their bath often.”
“Using it at all is too often,” she snipped before turning back to her work. “Go on. Just be careful.”
Harry hauled his bag upto his room as quietly as he could, careful not to wake Ron, Neville, or Seamus in their beds. He winced when the lid of his trunk hit the floor heavier than he intended, but when none of them seemed to notice he quietly shuffled through his things and pulled out the cloak, wrapping it around his shoulders and tucking the Marauder's Map into a pocket before leaving the room again.
Hermione jumped and glared when the portrait hole opened. “You watch out!” she hissed.
“Yeah...”
Harry unfolded the Marauder's Map and checked it quickly before leaving. Mrs. Norris was wandering the halls over near the Ravenclaw dormitories, and Filch was lurking about near the Astronomy Tower-the way to the Prefect's bathroom was clear, but he hurried along the halls anyway.
Once inside, and certain he was the only one present, Harry cast off the cloak and set it near the bath tub, twisting on the tap and letting it fill while he undressed, piling his clothes in a corner away from the door. The mermaid statue yawned, but otherwise seemed unperturbed by his presence. All the better; he'd gone to use the bath to wank once and had gotten a stern, disapproving look from her that ruined the 'mood'.
Harry tried not to think about that as he sank into the water, leaning back against the basin and sighing. The water felt good, and was hot enough to turn his skin pink. He didn't bother waiting for the tub to finish filling before brushing his hand idly along his shaft. His dick began to stiffen slowly, waking up under his almost non-commital administrations.
You'd think, his inner voice began, That after not getting any attention for weeks, it would rise to the occasion faster than this.
That inner voice had a point; he hadn't gotten off since the last time he'd been with Draco. He had thought about it, of course, and almost tried a few times, but every time he started he thought of the look on Draco's face when Harry had said “I can't do this.” Surprise and confusion and then annoyance and disappointment. The whole scenario went better than he expected; he'd thought for sure that Draco was going to swing a fist at him, or make him do it anyway, the latter of which he found a little exciting.
Maybe if he'd done that, Harry thought, I would've changed my mind.
It wasn't very fair of him to say it like that, as if it were Draco's fault things were what they were now. It was definitely Harry who had let his emotions get loose and wander in places they didn't belong, and he had taken responsibility for it as tactfully as possible. He had very briefly considered explaining the situation in full to Draco, and was very glad when he didn't. Somehow, he didn't imagine Draco would've taken it much better if Harry was calling off their game on account of an illegal play of emotion.
Harry shook off the imaginary scene he suspected would've followed. It involved a lot of screaming and violence, and that wasn't a thought he wanted to entertain.
He turned his attention back to his groin, and tried to think of every possible erotic thing he could that didn't involve Draco. It didn't take long for him to realize how implausible that was. Draco was all the experience he had, and his imagination towards the girls in their class was limited.
This was what happened the last time he had tried and failed to jerk off successfully; he'd eventually given up under the pretense that he couldn't do this without Draco being in some way involved.
But now, at midnight of the third and a half week or so of nothing, Harry finally caved in. If I just think about the sex and not that last night, I can make this work, he assured. Just think of all those other times...
Floodgates opened in his mind, and he realized just how much he'd been trying to suppress and forget. With his eyes closed, he could see Draco leaning over him, grey eyes glowering with an unfamiliar heat while his hand worked at an increasing pace over Harry's cock. Draco eye level with Harry's hips, teasing the head of his cock with his tongue-oh, so many different occasions for that one, and none of them the same-just to take it in his mouth a few moments later. Sometimes he moved his head faster than others; it depended on how much he felt like teasing, how much he wanted to torture Harry. In the moments where he had still felt sensible enough to watch, Harry had absorbed every detail of what Draco did specifically for times like now, when he was on his own.
The first night back from Christmas break had proven to him exactly why he needed to memorize the little things. That had been weeks of nothing. He'd gotten so used to company when he got off that he hadn't been able to go it alone, a dependency that scared him a little when he realized it, and one he swore to fight off.
Fine job you did of that, he thought, reflecting on the last few weeks and feeling sincerely like he'd failed. He pushed it aside. Returning from Christmas break, he reminded. Remember that.
They had met in a storage room in the Astronomy tower. It was cold, being early January, and he'd brought several blankets up with him, not trusting their activities to keep either of them warm enough. When he arrived, though, he found the room to be bearably warm, even with his shirt off. Harry looked down to the blankets in his arms, momentarily at a loss for what to do. In the end, he decided to lay them on the floor, folded over enough to provide a thin cushion against the cold stone.
It was as he was standing, admiring his makeshift bed, that he'd felt a hand grip his groin firmly. Harry made a noise of surprise and grabbed the offender's wrist, but his hold relaxed and his head had tipped back of its own accord when he felt the familiar teeth of Draco Malfoy nip the sensitive spot on his neck.
“Potter,” Draco greeted, as per their custom, but his voice held a growl that curled up Harry's spine like incense smoke, tendrils tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. It took a lot of effort not to shiver.
“Malfoy.” Harry's voice didn't carry the same effect, still too startled by the very sudden intrusion on his personal space to have gathered his thoughts, and it wasn't helping that Draco was fondling him at a very deliberate pace and biting at his earlobe.
“I had the foresight to set up a heating spell earlier,” he murmured, “Though I see you thought enough to bring blankets.” Draco twirled the tip of his tongue at the base of Harry's neck, at the point on his spine where Harry's shoulders were level, and Harry only shuddered in response. Then Draco bit the spot on the other side of Harry's neck, the one that, without fail, would make his knees give out. Draco chuckled lowly, as if he hadn't really expected it to work this time and was pleasantly surprised that it did, and he sank to the floor with Harry in his arms.
Harry recovered himself enough to pull away from Draco and turn around to face him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him onto the blankets before kissing him roughly. He only fumbled a little with the Draco's buttons, distracted by the feel of Draco's hands on his bare back, sliding down slowly to the top of his pants. Harry pushed the shirt open, forcing Draco's arms back so he could pull it off completely and throw it at the door. As soon as Draco had his free range of motion again, his fingers went straight for the button at the top of Harry's trousers. He deftly flicked it open and unzipped the fly, and in a move so sudden it surprised them both, he had flipped Harry back onto the blankets and yanked both trousers and boxers down, catching only momentarily at the before they, too, were thrown at the door, sliding sadly down to land on top of Draco's shirt.
Then his hands were wandering all over Harry's skin, tweaking his nipples and teasing the sensitive spots on his lower abdomen, arse, and thighs, with a desperation that sent Harry's mind reeling. Draco kissed and nibbled along Harry's neck and collarbone and shoulders and chest, and as hard as Harry tried to do something in response, he couldn't gather his focus enough to act.
It was only when Draco stopped that he opened his eyes, vision swirling to attention, squeaking in protest before he could stop himself.
Draco was drawing his hand out of his pocket, a vial of something between his thumb, index, and middle finger. He uncorked it with his teeth and poured some of it onto the fingers of his right hand, then stopped it up again before setting it aside on the floor. Harry's gaze flicked from the hand to Draco's face: the expression there was one of wicked delight, and he felt immediately frightened and thrilled.
Draco leaned over Harry again, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, and his lips brushed against Harry's as he whispered “Are you ready?”
Draco was kissing him before he could answer, and Harry's senses were able to register grey eyes looking victorious and Draco's left hand on his shoulder, Draco's right hand just behind his balls and then-
Harry's body went rigid and he cried out sharply, tried to breathe then cried again as Draco crooked his finger inside of him.
“Ohgodohmygod” was about all he managed, and he grasped at Draco's torso with frantic energy, digging in with his fingers as Draco slid the finger in and out a few times. Distantly, Harry heard that same chuckle from earlier but with an attitude of delight, like having discovered a new toy.
Then he let out a shuddering sob as Draco pressed a second finger in and scissored them back and forth. The sensation was indescribably intense; Harry shot his load with a previously unknown force, his sticky come slicking across his stomach and Draco's.
In reality, now-outside the memories-Harry shuddered in orgasm, his chest heaving in short, ragged breaths.
But it was the memory of Draco murmuring in his ear “I missed this” a few minutes later that made Harry's breath catch in his throat and force out a final moan of pleasure.
The next few weeks were frustrating at best, and volatile at worst.
It was the end of term at Hogwarts, and all the students were itching to go home for the summer holidays. The classrooms were muggy, the students were distracted, and even a few of the teachers seemed impatient to leave. And yet, for the first time ever, Draco found himself wishing the school year were longer.
Summer break meant no chance of seeing Harry at all.
The thought weighed on his mind, a grim shadow that took up his attention when he was supposed to be doing schoolwork. It bothered Draco to know that, soon, Harry wouldn't be always be nearby. Then it bothered him that he should care; after all, he was still unreasonably upset with the other boy, though he couldn't imagine why he was upset. That was how he knew it was unreasonable; he couldn't think of a reason for it. This thought always made him angrier, because it was Harry's influence that taught him to pay attention to where his emotions were coming from. At least he understood the source of that problem; he resented Harry for being right, even if that wasn't a very logical thing to feel.
After taking Harry's advice on managing anger, he'd learned on his own that emotions and logic don't always work together.
Draco's mind wandered away from his Divination homework (Harry had once told him the “write nothing but doom and get an A” trick, and he'd been in the middle of writing something about a deadly Herbology experiment). He settled instead into thoughts of Potions class that day.
True to form, Professor Snape had interrupted his own lecture to berate Harry for not taking notes. Harry's elbow had been resting on the table, propping his head up on his hand. It looked, from Draco's vantage point, like the other boy had been writing in a particularly bored fashion, but his hand was stalled on the page, and the ink from his quill had been pooling on the parchment.
“Mr. Potter,” Snape had seethed, “I see you don't find my class important enough to keep up with the notes.”
There was a pause, one which had intensified when Harry said nothing in response. It was only when Snape slammed his hand down on the table and Harry jumped in his seat that Draco had realized Harry had fallen asleep in class. In Potions, of all the stupid--!
“I apologise for waking you, as you so obviously need your rest,” Snape said, his voice deadly low, “But this information will be on the exam next week. Perhaps you should consider sleeping at night? Or is my class too early in the day for your delicate constitution?”
“Sorry, sir,” Harry had managed in response. Though he couldn't see Harry's face well, Draco had seen the blush creeping across his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
In the pause before Snape turned his attention back to his lecture (knocking ten points from Gryffindor as he lifted his hand from the desk), Draco was blindsided by the memory of the last time he'd seen Harry's face that flushed-laid flat on his back on the floor, chest heaving with ragged breaths, his hands clutching at the robe beneath him, his hips switching back and forth in response to Draco's hands massaging his cock. Draco felt his breathing and his thought process stop, and for a moment felt like he couldn't even see the classroom around him; his mind was back in one of the disused classrooms, and he felt his groin respond accordingly.
Draco had been endlessly grateful, over the next several minutes, that he was in Potions class behind a desk instead of standing in the hallway, surrounded by other students.
Returning to the present, Draco glowered at his Divination homework. There was still two weeks of misery he had to divine, and quite honestly he was miserable enough without predicting his own death-by-everything. He rolled it up and tucked it into his bag, which he then slung over his shoulder and walked to his room. He dropped the bag near the foot of his bed and flopped down on the covers, sighing and staring into space.
Draco spent more time thinking these days than he had in any of the years before, philosophizing about his own mental and emotional processes. The more he thought about his feelings, the more he realized he wasn't angry with Harry. This was a consideration that some scared-yes, scared-part of him didn't want to admit to or even acknowledge; anger had been his immediate response to everything he didn't understand, to every bad situation. He'd been angry when his father was arrested, he'd been angry when 'Moody' turned him into a ferret, he'd been angry when Potter turned down his hand of friendship on the train six (Almost seven, he marvelled) years ago. Anger, as he was now realizing, was a cover. He was scared when he found out what happened to his father. He was embarrassed at the indignity of being turned into a ferret. And when Potter turned down his friendship, he'd been genuinely hurt.
Draco, of course, had been raised too proud to react in any way other than outrage to all those situations. He was a Malfoy, and a Malfoy slighted was a Malfoy out for revenge.
As all this thinking was teaching him, however, pride could be a deceitful thing. Not only to others, though it certainly was a wall against them. Pride, indeed, had often meant lying to himself.
As frustrated as Draco was at Potter for changing his views and taking away what he now recognized as a sort of naivety, he wouldn't go back to that way of thinking, even if he were given the choice.
Draco hated being lied to. He especially hated realizing he'd been lying to himself.
*
It was late. Harry had had a long day. After being rudely awakened in Potions by a very displeased Professor Snape, he was granted some slack in Divination when Trelawney either didn't notice he'd fallen asleep or had written it off as a 'vision-induced trance' (he figured that, of all his teachers, she would be the most likely to let him sleep under the pretenses of having a prophetic dream). But now, tired though he was, Harry couldn't sleep.
Harry had spent several minutes practicing turning a book into a picture frame, then the picture frame into a spool of thread, then back into a book-compound transfigurations were on the exams, as Hermione had so practically reminded him-and when he lost interest in that he hazarded his Defense Against The Dark Arts essay on resisting the Imperius curse (an idea their latest, though very twitchy and skittish, DADA teacher had decided was necessary, inspite having gone over the implications of the curse in their fourth year).
That lost his interest soon enough, and he found himself glancing at the clock every few minutes, as if it might have a suggestion of something more gripping to do.
“You really should go to bed,” Hermione said. “You aren't getting any work done anyway, and if you fall asleep in class again Snape will pick a random potion from his cabinet and make you drink it."
Harry couldn't help but chuckle at Hermione's humor. “I know, but I can't sit still. I think I'm nervous about the exams.”
“You should be.” It never ceased to amaze him how Hermione could say something that threatening and make it sound perfectly matter-of-fact. “You haven't been paying very close attention in any of your classes, and you've been very lucky in that Professor Snape only caught you sleeping today. You've fallen asleep in his class at least twice over the last week alone!”
“I know...” Harry sighed. “And then I stress over not doing well, and stressing makes it harder to focus on studying.”
He was telling only part of the truth. The rest of it was something along the lines of '...And would you believe, on top of all that, I fancy Draco Malfoy? Of all the people in the entire school, I pick the one with the least interest in me!'
It was the situation with Draco-or lack of one, as the matter stood-that was causing the most grief. In all likelihood, if Harry wasn't paying attention to his surroundings be they classroom or otherwise, he was thinking about Draco. This was making him feel just short of mad; he'd ended the game in order to get Draco off his mind, not have him in it constantly. For whatever reason, never interacting with him only made Harry think about him more. When he told Draco they needed to stop, this had not been part of his reasoning.
That's right, Harry affirmed. I stopped it because I needed more than what was there. I needed more than just hand jobs, and Draco couldn't have given me that. His heart stung as he thought those words, but he didn't try to take them back.
Harry stood up and packed his things away into his bag.
“Going to bed?” asked Hermione.
“Going to bathe,” Harry replied. “Maybe if I go take a late-night bath, I'll relax enough to sleep.”
Hermione pursed her lips disapprovingly. “You really shouldn't be using the Prefect's bathroom. One of these days, you're going to get caught.”
She knew him too well.
“I promise to be careful,” he assured her. I'll keep the invisibility cloak close by. Besides, it's not like I use their bath often.”
“Using it at all is too often,” she snipped before turning back to her work. “Go on. Just be careful.”
Harry hauled his bag upto his room as quietly as he could, careful not to wake Ron, Neville, or Seamus in their beds. He winced when the lid of his trunk hit the floor heavier than he intended, but when none of them seemed to notice he quietly shuffled through his things and pulled out the cloak, wrapping it around his shoulders and tucking the Marauder's Map into a pocket before leaving the room again.
Hermione jumped and glared when the portrait hole opened. “You watch out!” she hissed.
“Yeah...”
Harry unfolded the Marauder's Map and checked it quickly before leaving. Mrs. Norris was wandering the halls over near the Ravenclaw dormitories, and Filch was lurking about near the Astronomy Tower-the way to the Prefect's bathroom was clear, but he hurried along the halls anyway.
Once inside, and certain he was the only one present, Harry cast off the cloak and set it near the bath tub, twisting on the tap and letting it fill while he undressed, piling his clothes in a corner away from the door. The mermaid statue yawned, but otherwise seemed unperturbed by his presence. All the better; he'd gone to use the bath to wank once and had gotten a stern, disapproving look from her that ruined the 'mood'.
Harry tried not to think about that as he sank into the water, leaning back against the basin and sighing. The water felt good, and was hot enough to turn his skin pink. He didn't bother waiting for the tub to finish filling before brushing his hand idly along his shaft. His dick began to stiffen slowly, waking up under his almost non-commital administrations.
You'd think, his inner voice began, That after not getting any attention for weeks, it would rise to the occasion faster than this.
That inner voice had a point; he hadn't gotten off since the last time he'd been with Draco. He had thought about it, of course, and almost tried a few times, but every time he started he thought of the look on Draco's face when Harry had said “I can't do this.” Surprise and confusion and then annoyance and disappointment. The whole scenario went better than he expected; he'd thought for sure that Draco was going to swing a fist at him, or make him do it anyway, the latter of which he found a little exciting.
Maybe if he'd done that, Harry thought, I would've changed my mind.
It wasn't very fair of him to say it like that, as if it were Draco's fault things were what they were now. It was definitely Harry who had let his emotions get loose and wander in places they didn't belong, and he had taken responsibility for it as tactfully as possible. He had very briefly considered explaining the situation in full to Draco, and was very glad when he didn't. Somehow, he didn't imagine Draco would've taken it much better if Harry was calling off their game on account of an illegal play of emotion.
Harry shook off the imaginary scene he suspected would've followed. It involved a lot of screaming and violence, and that wasn't a thought he wanted to entertain.
He turned his attention back to his groin, and tried to think of every possible erotic thing he could that didn't involve Draco. It didn't take long for him to realize how implausible that was. Draco was all the experience he had, and his imagination towards the girls in their class was limited.
This was what happened the last time he had tried and failed to jerk off successfully; he'd eventually given up under the pretense that he couldn't do this without Draco being in some way involved.
But now, at midnight of the third and a half week or so of nothing, Harry finally caved in. If I just think about the sex and not that last night, I can make this work, he assured. Just think of all those other times...
Floodgates opened in his mind, and he realized just how much he'd been trying to suppress and forget. With his eyes closed, he could see Draco leaning over him, grey eyes glowering with an unfamiliar heat while his hand worked at an increasing pace over Harry's cock. Draco eye level with Harry's hips, teasing the head of his cock with his tongue-oh, so many different occasions for that one, and none of them the same-just to take it in his mouth a few moments later. Sometimes he moved his head faster than others; it depended on how much he felt like teasing, how much he wanted to torture Harry. In the moments where he had still felt sensible enough to watch, Harry had absorbed every detail of what Draco did specifically for times like now, when he was on his own.
The first night back from Christmas break had proven to him exactly why he needed to memorize the little things. That had been weeks of nothing. He'd gotten so used to company when he got off that he hadn't been able to go it alone, a dependency that scared him a little when he realized it, and one he swore to fight off.
Fine job you did of that, he thought, reflecting on the last few weeks and feeling sincerely like he'd failed. He pushed it aside. Returning from Christmas break, he reminded. Remember that.
They had met in a storage room in the Astronomy tower. It was cold, being early January, and he'd brought several blankets up with him, not trusting their activities to keep either of them warm enough. When he arrived, though, he found the room to be bearably warm, even with his shirt off. Harry looked down to the blankets in his arms, momentarily at a loss for what to do. In the end, he decided to lay them on the floor, folded over enough to provide a thin cushion against the cold stone.
It was as he was standing, admiring his makeshift bed, that he'd felt a hand grip his groin firmly. Harry made a noise of surprise and grabbed the offender's wrist, but his hold relaxed and his head had tipped back of its own accord when he felt the familiar teeth of Draco Malfoy nip the sensitive spot on his neck.
“Potter,” Draco greeted, as per their custom, but his voice held a growl that curled up Harry's spine like incense smoke, tendrils tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. It took a lot of effort not to shiver.
“Malfoy.” Harry's voice didn't carry the same effect, still too startled by the very sudden intrusion on his personal space to have gathered his thoughts, and it wasn't helping that Draco was fondling him at a very deliberate pace and biting at his earlobe.
“I had the foresight to set up a heating spell earlier,” he murmured, “Though I see you thought enough to bring blankets.” Draco twirled the tip of his tongue at the base of Harry's neck, at the point on his spine where Harry's shoulders were level, and Harry only shuddered in response. Then Draco bit the spot on the other side of Harry's neck, the one that, without fail, would make his knees give out. Draco chuckled lowly, as if he hadn't really expected it to work this time and was pleasantly surprised that it did, and he sank to the floor with Harry in his arms.
Harry recovered himself enough to pull away from Draco and turn around to face him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him onto the blankets before kissing him roughly. He only fumbled a little with the Draco's buttons, distracted by the feel of Draco's hands on his bare back, sliding down slowly to the top of his pants. Harry pushed the shirt open, forcing Draco's arms back so he could pull it off completely and throw it at the door. As soon as Draco had his free range of motion again, his fingers went straight for the button at the top of Harry's trousers. He deftly flicked it open and unzipped the fly, and in a move so sudden it surprised them both, he had flipped Harry back onto the blankets and yanked both trousers and boxers down, catching only momentarily at the before they, too, were thrown at the door, sliding sadly down to land on top of Draco's shirt.
Then his hands were wandering all over Harry's skin, tweaking his nipples and teasing the sensitive spots on his lower abdomen, arse, and thighs, with a desperation that sent Harry's mind reeling. Draco kissed and nibbled along Harry's neck and collarbone and shoulders and chest, and as hard as Harry tried to do something in response, he couldn't gather his focus enough to act.
It was only when Draco stopped that he opened his eyes, vision swirling to attention, squeaking in protest before he could stop himself.
Draco was drawing his hand out of his pocket, a vial of something between his thumb, index, and middle finger. He uncorked it with his teeth and poured some of it onto the fingers of his right hand, then stopped it up again before setting it aside on the floor. Harry's gaze flicked from the hand to Draco's face: the expression there was one of wicked delight, and he felt immediately frightened and thrilled.
Draco leaned over Harry again, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, and his lips brushed against Harry's as he whispered “Are you ready?”
Draco was kissing him before he could answer, and Harry's senses were able to register grey eyes looking victorious and Draco's left hand on his shoulder, Draco's right hand just behind his balls and then-
Harry's body went rigid and he cried out sharply, tried to breathe then cried again as Draco crooked his finger inside of him.
“Ohgodohmygod” was about all he managed, and he grasped at Draco's torso with frantic energy, digging in with his fingers as Draco slid the finger in and out a few times. Distantly, Harry heard that same chuckle from earlier but with an attitude of delight, like having discovered a new toy.
Then he let out a shuddering sob as Draco pressed a second finger in and scissored them back and forth. The sensation was indescribably intense; Harry shot his load with a previously unknown force, his sticky come slicking across his stomach and Draco's.
In reality, now-outside the memories-Harry shuddered in orgasm, his chest heaving in short, ragged breaths.
But it was the memory of Draco murmuring in his ear “I missed this” a few minutes later that made Harry's breath catch in his throat and force out a final moan of pleasure.