|
Draco Malfoy was chatting away merrily to various sycophants as they gazed at him, starry eyed. It was difficult being the House sex-god, it required very unsociable hours, a certain charm and the perks weren’t all that great. It was unfortunate also that many of the Slytherins were ugly enough to make a mule back away from an oat bin, but they were convenient and Draco liked to think he was providing a public service. In fact, if you really thought about it, which he did often, he should be commended for satisfying the masses. He was a bit like Jesus in that respect. Three tables away, Harry Potter, Gryffindor Hero and resident Saviour of the Wizarding World was talking just as animatedly to his adoring sycophants and looking up occasionally to glare at his erstwhile nemesis. The scene was not at all out of the ordinary, but the problem occurred nonetheless. It was very silly really, but both sides concurred in that they were most definitely the innocent party. It all started with a little light-hearted sparring across the tables, nothing to worry about, thank you, just two known enemies taking the piss out of each other. After they had covered parentage, lineage, intelligence, Quidditch prowess, fashion sense and hairstyle, it all got very out of hand when various other House members got involved. Observe: “Don’t talk to Harry like that!” Ron shouted across the hall. “You stupid little ferret!” “Weasley,” Draco said, grinning. “In the battle of wits, you are forever unarmed. Kindly bugger off back to your hovel and leave us civilized people alone.” “Yeah!” Pansy stood up in a show of Slytherin solidarity. “And take Scarhead with you!” “You’re such a trollop, Parkinson!” Hermione shouted. “How dare you!” “Ah Granger, don’t hurt her feelings,” Draco said, mock reproachfully. “What are you going to do about it?” Harry asked, hands on hips, quite possibly asking the most stupid question ever invented. Draco glowered at him before turning it into a sly grin. “Hungry, Potter?” he asked, picking up a bowl of strawberries. Harry realized what he was going to do a fraction too late. What followed was a big tasty war across the middle tables that made the Battle of the Somme look like a Friday night punch-up. Casualties included Ernie Macmillan, who received a face full of trifle, Susan Bones who was struck by various courgettes and Ginny Weasley who was taken down by the accurate wielding of a boiled potato. After scraping liberal amounts of strawberry out of his eyelashes five minutes later, Harry felt someone grip him by the back of his robes and haul him up onto his toes. Across the room, Professor Snape was doing likewise to Draco. “Hello Professor McGonagall,” Harry said cheerfully. “You’re looking very Scottish today.” “Potter! Malfoy!” she shrieked unnecessarily loudly. “What do you think you’re doing? Throwing food like children?” “We weren’t throwing food,” Harry protested lamely. “This isn’t food, it’s um…” “All natural face-packs,” Draco said smoothly, his blond hair rinsed with green. “We were conducting an experiment, Professor. You see, when applied with enough force-” “Mr. Malfoy.” “-it just smoothes away all the wrinkles-” “Mr. Malfoy.” “-and leaves your skin baby soft-” “Mr. Malfoy.” “-would you like to try some?” “Mr. Malfoy!” Professor McGonagall looked irate. “Please cease your silly excuses!” Draco looked mutinous through his carroty lashes. “I thought they were rather endearing.” “Detention,” McGonagall snapped. “Both of you. Tonight. Report to my office at eight ‘o’clock sharp.” Harry groaned. Seven hours later and not even a vigorous scrubbing had relieved Harry of the vegetables clinging to his hair. He was pink in the face when he arrived at McGonagall’s office but balked when she told him and Malfoy what they were going to be doing. “Polishing all the school brooms?!” Harry exclaimed, thinking of the alarmingly well-stocked broom shed out on the Quidditch pitch. “At this time of night?” Draco looked aghast. “But I’m wearing chiffon!” “There are hundreds of them!” “It’s dark outside and I don’t like bats.” “I won’t get any sleep, Professor, it’s not fair.” “I heard that Hagrid molests students out in the grounds at night.” “It’s cold outside.” “I’m very delicate.” “Enough!” Professor McGonagall was getting a very bad migraine. “Out! Both of you! And don’t come back until you’ve finished. And no magic.” She accio’d their wands and chivvied them, gaping like goldfish, out into the corridor. “This is slave labour.” Draco stamped one theatrical foot. “I won’t do it.” “You will,” McGonagall replied promptly. “Unless you want Professor Snape to find out what really happened to his six-month supply of Sir Shagalott’s Aphrodisiac Potion.” Draco meeped. The Quidditch pitch closely resembled a big bowl of moonlit peas, the clear November night making the hoops gleam silver against the sky. It was very cold, with a biting wind and Harry had to pull his arms into his body to keep himself warm as he and Draco sprinted across the pitch towards the long shed that stood at one end. Inside, it was magically enhanced to make it much larger and rows upon rows of broomsticks met their eyes, making their hearts sink to somewhere round their navels. “This is going to take all night,” Harry said resignedly. “Usually when I hear that phrase I’m in for a better time,” Draco muttered. “Just try not to do anything that will make me want to hurt you,” Harry said. “I don’t fancy the teachers finding your body out here. That could lead to awkward questions.” He picked up a rag and the nearest Comet Two-Sixty and began polishing it furiously “Honestly, Potter, I can’t believe you’ve got us into this mess.” “Me?” Harry exclaimed, “I’ll think you’ll find that was you. Losing your memory, Malfoy?” “I have the memory of an elephant, in fact, they often consult me,” Draco said, sitting down on a bench and unscrewing the lid of ‘Oily Broom Oil for Well Oiled Brooms: We’ll oil anything!’, “so I think I’d remember something like that.” Harry rolled his eyes and picked up a jar of wax. “I wasn’t the one who threw the bowl of strawberries,” he snapped. “You had another psychotic episode and resorted to violence, which never solves anything.” “Yes, but it’s so much fun,” Draco said absently. “Besides, I thought you liked strawberries?” He feigned a look of complete innocence. “In my mouth, not in my hair,” Harry replied. “All it did was give the fifth-years an excuse to lick me in the common room, so thank you very much.” “You’re complaining?” Draco’s mouth dropped open. “Pretty little virgins start licking you all over and you’re complaining? You should be thanking me, Potter for jump starting your sex life.” “I don’t need you to get me sex from fifth years,” Harry said, thinking of the way Colin Creevey had tried to put his tongue in his ear. “I found the licking business to be very disturbing.” Draco looked at him for a long moment and then shook his head sadly. “Oh you poor misguided creature,” he said as though in lamentation. “That’s not sex.” He assumed the air of someone having to explain something difficult to a child. “Let’s see, when two people, who love each other very much and are slicked up like a McDonald’s McWizard Burger-” “I know what sex is, thank you,” Harry said, turning pink. “Gryffindors aren’t full of unsullied virtue, I’ll have you know. It’s a common misconception.” “I wouldn’t dream of presuming such a thing,” Draco said beatifically. “The way you’re handling that broom, Potter, is enough to convince anyone of your competence in that respect.” Harry looked down at the Shooting Star clamped between his thighs, the head of which he was carefully massaging and shifted position sharpish. He opened his mouth and, drawing on his fine command of language, closed it again, saying nothing. Draco was half heartedly rubbing away at a Nimbus, his manicured hands looking to be labelled ‘Not for manual labour, keep in silk gloves until required’. Harry looked down at his own bitten nails and callused hands and wondered if Draco’s were as silky soft as they looked. He probably used hand cream, Harry thought, and then wondered vaguely where he might get some for himself. It was then that he realised Draco was saying something to him. “What?” he asked, oblivious. Draco sighed. “Here I am, deigning to talk to you and you don’t pay attention. Sometimes I just don’t understand you.” “Usually when you ‘deign to talk to me’ it’s to tell me that my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a plug socket or that you think I’m getting fat.” Draco was sniggering helplessly, obviously finding himself incredibly amusing. “Tell me, Malfoy, do you even know what a plug socket is?” Draco looked thoughtful for a moment. “Me understanding why it’s funny isn’t important,” he declared. “All that matters is that you get effectively insulted.” “Thank you, it’s the thought that counts,” Harry said sarcastically. “What were you saying that I wasn’t listening to?” he asked, picking up the next broom and going to work on it with his rag. “I was saying that in this day and age it’s fine to be inexperienced in the bedroom,” Draco said. “I was being helpful.” “I am not inexperienced!” Harry said hotly. “Just because I don’t sleep around like you! Crabbe and Goyle, now there’s inexperience for you.” Draco looked up at him, blankly. “You are kidding?” he asked and gave a short laugh. “Crabbe and Goyle have had more sex than you’ve had hot dinners!” he exclaimed. “What!” Harry was bewildered. “Who with? Not each other?” He suddenly had a horrifying mental image of Crabbe and Goyle, naked, sweaty and mid-coitus and thought he was going to fall over from the terror. “No!” Draco replied at once. “At least, I don’t think so.” His manner was suddenly nonchalant. “Goyle will shag anything that moves,” he admitted. “Crabbe doesn’t think he should limit himself like that. Are you alright, Potter? You’ve gone very white.” “Fine,” Harry squeaked, turning back to the broom and stacking it on the ‘Just Oiled’ pile he had made himself. “Must scrub out brain and replace it with new one,” he mumbled to himself. “Mind imploding from horror.” “Don’t be narrow-minded,” Draco chided. “Crabbe and Goyle have lots of…um…charms, I’m sure.” “I just always figured they’d end up chaste and bald in some monastery far away from wherever I am,” Harry said. “Or together in some sordid manner. Either way I imagine them bald.” “I don’t think they’re gay,” Draco mused. “Not all Slytherins are, you know.” “Maybe it’s just the snake motif,” Harry supplied. “You seem excessively fond of it. That and the chiffon.” Draco looked down at his black sheer shirt with some outrage. “I’m not gay,” he said. “I just help them out when they’re busy.” “Fair enough,” Harry replied, not really paying attention. He was far more interested in the way the moonlight seemed to glimmer on Draco’s hair, making him look like a tall, sleek ice-cream and infinitely lickable. Harry felt his face approach a dazzling crimson as he paused to wonder what Draco did taste like when licked. “Fag?” Draco asked and Harry dropped the broom he was holding. “Wh-what?” he asked, his heart doing some kind of strange two-step. “Fag?” Draco repeated and held out a cigarette. Harry felt inexplicably relieved. “Uh, no thanks,” he said. “Let’s just get this done.” It annoyed him slightly that Draco seemed to be going at a much slower rate and was just having a nice sit down between waxing. “D’you think we could speed this up a bit?” Harry asked, “only I would have like to get out of here before dawn.” Draco scowled. “I said, I’m delicate and must not be subjected to much physical effort. You’re doing a sterling job, Potter, I can see you have had a lot of practise in polishing your own broom.” Harry flushed again but Draco just blinked at him serenely. “You are not delicate,” he said. “You’re just sodding lazy.” “Excuse me?” Draco spluttered. “I’m a frail and dainty person and deserve nothing but love and luxury. I’m also fucking freezing.” He did actually look cold and Harry felt a pang of sympathy for him. “It serves you right for wearing such poncy clothes,” he said. “You are a philistine,” Draco declared and continued to shiver, his teeth chattering melodramatically. “Not even a bloody warming charm in here, it’s disgraceful.” “Jog on the spot,” Harry suggested. “It’s a muggle thing to keep you warm.” Draco looked at him like with mild alarm. “Or I could just take one of these brooms for a quick spin,” he said, looking with interest at the stash of Nimbus 2003s that were propped, gleaming, against the wall. “Oh no,” Harry said. “I’ve just waxed them.” “Then let’s test them out,” Draco suggested, picking up a broom and straddling it in a very distracting manner. “Ahem, yes,” Harry said, trying to divert his eyes from where the long shaft of wood was stretched from between Draco’s thighs. “That’s probably not a good idea, we’ll get caught.” “I can understand if you’re chicken,” Draco said nonchalantly, pulling a snitch out of his pocket and tossing it from his palm into the air where its wings opened and started to flutter madly. “I am not a chicken!” Harry replied vehemently, grabbing the nearest Nimbus and mounting it. Draco grinned wickedly. “Let’s have a little one-on-one then, shall we?” he asked, letting the snitch go and watching it zip out of the open door and into the night air. Harry and Draco hared after it, drawing close together as they went through the door and then not bothering to separate as they sped over the pitch, eyes fixed on the glimmering speck of gold that was darting around ahead of them. They looped and swerved and flew at breakneck speeds up and down the pitch, gaining ever so slowly on the snitch. They were flying straight, drawn thigh to thigh, Draco’s lean body next to Harry as they jostled each other, shouting obscenities and getting their arms and legs tangled until they had stopped noticing the snitch at all. “Let go of my broom, Potter!” Draco yelled, trying to jerk Harry off him, Harry having clung on to gain an advantage over him. He pulled so hard that he lost control of his broom and went careering towards the ground, Harry dragged with him as he too was knocked off balance and unable to regain a grip on the heavily oiled broom. Swerving futilely, they hit the ground with a winding thud and rolled several feet before coming to rest, as tangled together as ever. Harry groaned, his voice a throaty rumble somewhere near Draco’s collarbones. The Slytherin was pressed up against him, his arms interlocked behind Harry’s neck and one of his thighs lodged against Harry’s groin. “Are you ok?” Draco asked huskily, shifting ever so slightly on top of Harry. Harry could feel a throbbing ache in his gut where his broom handle had jabbed him as they had fallen. He thought it was going to be horribly bruised in the morning. “Yeah,” he said, feeling it gingerly. Draco made no moves to get off him, instead his face broke into a slow, mischievous smile. “Well well,” he said, looking thoroughly pleased with himself and motioning to the space between their hips. “You’re hard, Potter! How sweet.” “No I’m not!” Harry said, bewildered but honest. Draco arched one eyebrow. “That definitely feels like wood to me,” he said silkily. Harry grinned. “That’s because it is wood, Malfoy,” he said. “You’re rubbing yourself against my broomstick.” He moved a little and pulled the Nimbus out from between them so that Draco now lay completely on top of him, aligned perfectly with his body. “Oh.” Draco pouted and looked put out. Harry winced as he felt the ache in his gut start to drum painfully against his nerves and tiny flashes of pain told him that he was scratched as well as bruised. “What’s the matter?” Draco asked, looking concerned. “I hurt myself when I fell,” Harry said, gesturing to his abused abdomen. “Let me see,” Draco said, fingertips reaching beneath Harry’s t-shirt. “No, it’s fine, really,” Harry said, batting Draco away. “Fuck off, Potter, I can see how much pain you’re in.” “Honestly, you don’t need to-” All words died on his tongue as Draco slid smoothly up his body and straddled him, creating a delicious friction as he did so, his warm weight settling on Harry’s groin, forcing him to grit his teeth. “Let me see,” Draco said again and lifted Harry’s t-shirt, Harry being too preoccupied with Draco’s position to stop him. He felt the wind rush to kiss his bared skin and was gratified to see a hint of admiration in Draco’s eyes as the Slytherin beheld his firm, ridged muscles, slick from moonlight and rippling tantalizingly. His hands were as soft as Harry had anticipated, brushing against Harry’s skin with an uncharacteristic gentleness that made him want to kiss them all over. “You’re going to be bruised,” Draco said, clucking his tongue, “and you’ve got scratches all over your stomach.” “Ouch,” Harry said succinctly as Draco poked one of them. “Stop that.” “I’d cast a healing charm but I haven’t got my wand,” Draco said absently, his eyes on Harry’s stomach as he sat back on his thighs, rubbing against Harry’s groin. “S’ok,” Harry said, trying desperately to keep from arching upwards into Draco’s body, wanting more than anything to prolong the sensation of searing heat and roughness. He lifted his hips ever so slightly, just enough to make firm contact again and send sparks of delight shooting the length of his spine. Draco’s eyes closed for a moment of their own accord and he seemed mesmerized by the gentle movements between them. Harry could feel himself growing hard but he arched again, with a little more force and watched as Draco’s eyes flew open and he let out a small gasp of pleasure. “Potter,” he breathed, his voice low and gravelly. He ground himself a little harder to Harry who felt their erections meet with startling force and threw his head back against the grass as they rocked together. “Malfoy,” he whispered as Draco lowered himself onto his body and he gripped him even closer. Their mouths were suddenly against each other, sucking all the air out of Harry’s lungs before nipping and kissing his lips with remarkable skill and a torrid wetness that left him breathless. Draco’s tongue flicked against the inside of his mouth, massaging his own and plundering him, making him his own. Harry ground himself into him harder and harder, clenching Draco’s arse through his jeans as Draco’s hands wound themselves into Harry’s hair and he planted soft kisses all over his face. Wanting more and more of Draco he fumbled with the flimsy chiffon shirt and succeeded in divesting him of it, feeling his own t-shirt being struggled off until their naked torsos met with a shiver of exhilaration. The skin to skin contact was almost unbearable and as the friction between them reached intense levels, Harry spasmed and came, an explosion going off behind his eyes and tremors of delight rushing through his body. A few seconds later with a bite to Harry’s lip and a ragged gasp, Draco came as well, clinging to Harry as though he never wanted to let go. For a long time neither of them said anything and they just lay together, enjoying this new sensation of being so savagely intimate with each other, their lips red with unspilt blood. Draco looked at him, framed in the moonlight with silver, his skin smooth and pale and looking debauched and ravishable. He was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen, and he was filled with an ache of longing so powerful that he wrapped his arms around Draco again and pulled him close to his body. It wasn’t until Draco started to shiver from the cold that Harry said, “Do you think we should go in?” “Probably,” Draco said, kneeling back and hauling Harry to his feet. They both looked around for their shirts and Draco let out a small squeaking sound. “This was Armani!” he wailed looking at the sizeable rip in the front of the shirt. “Draco-” “Cost a fortune!” “Draco-” “No respect for clothes at all!” He continued in this vein until Harry silenced him the most effective way he could think of, by taking him in his arms and kissing him so deeply he thought he lost a little of himself along the way. Draco tasted like toothpaste but slightly bitter and he quietened as Harry’s hands roamed over him and he tasted and touched Draco with increasing elation, wanting nothing more than to keep this boy pressed against him. When at last he was released, Draco looked with some thought at Harry, then at his shirt, then at Harry, then at his shirt until… “Fuck it.” Draco threw down the ruined Armani and leapt into Harry so hard that he was knocked backwards onto the ground. They rolled over so they were on their sides and Draco moved to stroke the renewed hardness between them without breaking their kiss. “Draco?” Harry whispered into his mouth. “Hmm?” “That’s the broomstick again.” |
 |
|
 |
