Author: tigersilver
Pairing: H/D
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5000
Summary/Warnings: Malfoy hesitates; Harry is a Gryffindor. Gift!Fic for potteresque_ire , demicus , valinorean & glorafin . Hogwarts-era, AU, EWE. Huggles! Tiger

HD 'Après Deux'

When Harry opened his eyes finally after that first dazzling shagging, Malfoy was already sitting up and fumbling for what remained of his clothing. His shirt was shreds-and-tatters and his pants had been Vanished in a fit of passion, but Malfoy apparently wasn't bothering himself about them. No, he looked to be intent on gathering what was left and exiting Harry's room and Gryffindor Tower as fast as his two legs could carry him.

"Erm," Harry said, sitting up as well, abruptly enough to leave his head spinning, and reaching a sweaty, sticky hand out, which landed quite by accident on Malfoy's upper arm and not his shoulder because Harry never had bothered with that particular Charm and his spectacles were somewhere else. He latched on, nonetheless. "Er, what are you doing, exactly? Malfoy?"

Malfoy didn't look around, but his spine tensed; even blind-as-a-git Harry could see that in the patchy moonlight streaming through the windows without benefit of either his spectacles or any old Charm.

"Avoiding detention for violating curfew, Potter—isn't it obvious?" It was quick reply, and even a dolt could sense right off it was insincere: too facile. Almost insulting. No…definitely insulting.

Harry scowled.

"But…" Harry, half-muddled by fabulous shagging, half-alert because he'd never once known Draco Malfoy to run away from him, even if he regularly skived out on others, suppressed a frustrated yawn attempting to twist his frown into outright confusion, "it's Christmas. There's no detentions given over Christmas hols."

"Even so, someone will notice if I'm gone."

"Oh." Harry wrinkled his brow. He was growing weary of speaking solely to Draco's pale nape. "And, er—that's it? That's the only reason you're leaving? Curfew?"

"Someone's always noticing in Slytherin, Potter, curfew or not, detentions or no. I need to be off. I'll be seen, otherwise."

Malfoy still made no move to face Harry; in fact, he only scrabbled about on the floor by the bed at a faster rate, locating and then hauling his trousers up his bared legs and toeing on his loafers sockless, or so Harry assumed by the bob-and-seated shuffle of moonlight-limned limbs. The bared back was abruptly covered by black woolen school robes as Harry peered in growing dismay at his very recent 'surprise' lover, more and more nonplussed with each passing second.

'Surprise' as in he'd never thought they'd manage to make it to his bed, much less out of the Gryffindor corridor. 'Surprise', too, because Malfoy evidently nursed a secret passion that ran as deep and true as Harry's. Nice surprises, both, those.

"Um…Malfoy?" he asked, reluctantly. He'd been hoping to bask in afterglow, yet. Not slide right back into 'business as usual'. Didn't new lovers do that—bask? Maybe snog a bit more—go for the next round? "Is something wrong? Did I…did I, uh, do something I shouldn't have? Or, er—you?"

Harry really didn't want to know, but he felt the need. Even the air felt increasing thick with unspoken urgency. And if Malfoy successfully legged it out of Gryffindor unchecked, Harry had the sneaking suspicion the git would then turn up nigh on invisible. He'd done it before, he had, back at the very beginning of autumn term, and it had actually taken Harry several days to even notice his one-time nemesis was returned to Hogwarts in preparation for the long, hard haul to NEWTS.

Of course, once he had noticed, he was instantly immersed in closely observing Malfoy on a regular basis. Which, coincidentally, was much to the general and specific amusement of his friends, particularly his ex, Ginny, and all the returned members of Slytherin House, many of whom appeared to be especially wary and noticing this year. In general. And specifically.

Not that Harry could fault them for that; Hogwarts had taken quite some time to accept McGonagall's stridently enforced InterHouse Unity precepts. It hadn't been a peaceful revolution, by far; not for some. Malfoy in particular had been especially resistant to Harry's tentative overtures; git had required a great deal of convincing proof.

"No, Potter—of course not." Malfoy's voice was very smooth and completely as it always was —a rich melty upper-class drawl that had used to set Harry's teeth on edge and now simply left him craving more toffee-flavoured 'Draco-speak', if only for the sheer unadulterated pleasure of hearing it pour fluid over his thirsty senses. Barely mattered what nonsense the prat actually said to him—just that he was speaking to Harry civilly. Taken months to maneuver Malfoy to offering up more than mere platitudes. "It's just late, is all. Past time, and so I must be going."

"Oh. Um."

Harry's grip on Malfoy's arm had been casually brushed off by the sweep of the luxurious robe fabric when Draco had thrown it over his bare torso and tucked his own goose-pimpled arms in. He stared at it now, fingers curled uselessly and laying rather forlornly on the coverlet, lying just shy of the indent where Malfoy's fine arse sank into Harry's feather mattress. It was heart-shaped, Malfoy's arse, and Harry had plundered it with vehemence and enthusiasm, not even a half-hour before, ending at least part of his plaguely persistent virginity. Why Malfoy would want to leave after that—they were just getting started, weren't they—Harry didn't twig. Seemed a right shame, waiting for another opportunity, especially as the dorm room was deserted and no one in the Castle cared a fig for they were getting up to in private.

In a nagging sort of way, Harry had rather concluded Headmistress McGonagall was quite aware of the sneaky pash he felt for his ex-enemy. Perhaps even condoned it. Not the shagging, of course, but the finer feelings at least.

"Then…I still don't understand," he went on, after a long moment of listening to cloth and leather creak and rustle as Malfoy carefully did up his flies and belt and eventually located his discarded bookbag. They'd been coming from the Library when Harry had first snogged him. Malfoy had responded—reluctantly at first, yes, but then with a marked increase in interest. But, at the moment, the miserable wanker still had yet to glance Harry's direction—not even when replying. Harry found this to be unutterably rude, actually. His innate sense of justice and fair play was ruffled—and bewildered. Why was Malfoy avoiding him, all the sudden?

"Look here, git, no one's going to come looking for you now, so why go? Nobody's left on Staff who'd care, Malfoy—and certainly not McGonagall or Hagrid. They're asleep, both of them. You can stay all night—if you want."

"I care, Potter." Malfoy's tone chided Harry gently, but still he faced adamantly forward, never bothering to turn that clear, fearless gaze on Harry's puzzled frown and pursed lips. Harry noticed instantly he also dodged the question as to whether he wanted it. Slippery prat. "I've no interest in soliciting even Peeve's attention, nor the horde of ghosts who haunt this place, either. You can understand that, I'm sure. They'll report me at first opportunity for sneaking about suspiciously in the dead of night and I'm on probation yet; don't forget."

Malfoy rose to his feet in an elegant rush, stamping his shoes fully on and twitching his robe around him for warmth, but never once turning. Harry had not a clue what his hidden expression might be relaying to the uncaring walls and the dorm door and Malfoy wasn't exactly cooperating, stubborn git. He was, in fact, fleeing.

"Malfoy, truly—I don't think anyone cares," Harry felt compelled to object to at least that. "It's not as if you're likely to be out repairing questionable Magical furniture at this time of night—not again, at least. No point."

He blinked and saw that Malfoy's tall body was before the dorm room door that quickly, a hand on the big brass knob. It took all Harry had left within him (post-mind blowing shagging, when he was quite admittedly lethargic) to impel himself from bed in a huge rush—in fact, he rather thought he'd Apparated himself, if that weren't fairly improbable, here-just for the chance to slam the flat of his hand against the grain of the shuddering oak and keep it firmly closed.

He'd allow no exit for the git; not yet. Not without a decent explanation. He was owed that, thanks.

"Not so fast, you tit," Harry snarled when Malfoy stubbornly kept his hand on the doorknob. His sleepy lethargy was fully Vanished; no silvery mist of blissful post-coital cheer remained. Malfoy was in process of leaving him, pretty much slinking away like a bloody thief in the shadows, and Harry wasn't about to waste another solid four weeks of Slytherinish maneuvering of the wily bastard into corners and supply closets in a vain effort to force him to understand the basic tenets of their 'new' relationship. That last four had left Harry with a raging case of sexual frustration and bollocks of turgid blue, bar none in his previous experience. "I don't want you to go," he spat at the bland expression. "Maybe you're, er, not getting that, Malfoy? Well?"

Harry stared accusingly at the pale, moonlight-rimed profile and saw none of the fire that had lit it within recent memory. The Malfoy of his bed—the perspiring, feverish, moaning with long-suppressed want Malfoy—he was gone, as magically transported to the ether as his unfortunate silk undershorts.

"Malfoy!" Harry prodded, hustling his back and shoulders against the planking to make his point of no exit all that much more clear. He was a little louder, perhaps, than he intended to be, and sharpish, but this was rapidly becoming a dire situation and he'd no clue why. It was so sodding unnecessary, this. He didn't know why Malfoy staying 'til morning should even be an issue.

His would-be lover remained horribly uncooperative, lips thin and pressed firm together. Harry waved a desperate hand, his free one.

"Malfoy, talk to me, please—alright? Just tell me what's going on in your head; why you're leaving when you clearly don't need to."

"No. No, Potter—it's nothing."

The blond hair sparkling diamond-bright in the moonbeams refracted through Harry's windows. Malfoy turned his recalcitrant chin toward Harry in a fast blur of movement, but Harry couldn't quite make out all the nuances of the tight expression hovering behind hooded lids…only the slight, casual twist of Malfoy's chiseled lips and the faint shrug of wide shoulders. So fucking casual, this Malfoy—it fair turned Harry's stomach.

"Potter, it's fine," the git tossed out, as if it were, when it so clearly wasn't. "Nothing to worry yourself over. I'm only…this isn't anything negative, really. I simply should be in Slytherin right now, in my dorm, in my own bed, thanks—that's where I'm expected, yes? So, I'm heading back there, that's all, so there's no unpleasant chatter, come morning. Don't make such a big deal of it, alright? It's nothing."

"No! Malfoy, no! It is 'something'—you can't convince me it's not!"

Harry shook his head. Sure, all of that guff sounded perfectly reasonable—if it was regular term and Hogwarts was crowded with students; if Nev and Seamus and Ron were present, snoring, in Harry's dorm. But not; no, not right at this time, on the day after Christmas, when Hogwarts was a holiday ghost castle. Malfoy was hiding something, something large and unwieldy and very nasty, likely, and Harry knew of old all the tells of Malfoy's concealment. There was a tense strain to the skin 'round his glittering eyes that spoke of some great, nearly unbearable stress. There was a note in that easy tenor that, very simply, did not ring true in any sodding universe.

Git was lying to him. Lying!

"Potter…"

He hated the lack of truth, Harry did, with all the passion he'd felt for Malfoy not even forty minutes before, when they finally managed to do the deed that had been seven long years coming. He'd fallen into a pleasant doze after, still musing over how happy he was; how incredible Draco was—how it would all work out, at last, this thing Hermione called 'happiness'. He'd have it for his very own, at last.

And ruddy Malfoy—this close-mouthed idiot standing so nonchalantly before Harry, eyeing the doorknob speculatively—he'd been more than agreeable about that. He'd been, Harry would swear on a stack of Restricted Potions texts, 'happy', too. More than.

"I think perhaps you're making too much of this, Potter," Malfoy remarked, a brow climbing strategically. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'll be on my way."

And now, Harry concluded, red rising before his blurry gaze, every single thing about Malfoy was telling him Malfoy had lied to him, the nipped-tight, sour-faced arsehole. If not right now, then before. If not then, then now—this moment. And Harry would lay all the odds—no, he'd swear up and down on his parent's graves in Godric's Hollow—that Malfoy was lying like a carpet right now. Because neither of them had the wherewithal to actually manage to hide that much before, in the rush to share everything from saliva to choked-out and nonsensical endearments.

Besides, there were no detentions given on Christmas and no curfews in effect. And, if there was anyone in Slytherin who actually cared about Malfoy's whereabouts, Harry would eat his Quidditch greaves—boiled, with parsnips.

So—fuck!

"Shut up!" Harry ordered Malfoy and his voice was louder yet than before. He was actively shouting; yes, yes, he was, and with excellent reason. Fucking with someone's heart was not acceptable—not even from Malfoy.

"Shut the fuck up, Malfoy—you cheating, abusing bastard! What in hell do you think you're doing, sod it? Who d'you think you're fooling with this—this!" Harry flapped his free hand furiously at Malfoy's cast-marble face. "This crock of bloody curfew shite? No one cares about that; it's not important! No! You're lying to me—I know it! Now—stop!"

"Potter, of course I'm not—" Malfoy began, drawing back just a bit, as if Harry was a dangerous beast and to be avoided. He didn't get far before Harry's rage burst out in an unhampered torrent.

"Stop! Stop-stop-stop, Merlin sod it! Stop lying to me, you of all people! Draco!"

Harry drew in a trembling, humid breath—a sob, yes—and bowed his head, eyes downcast to the dim pavers, as it stung him something fierce, right in the centre of his chest cavity. He could feel the burn in his gut—his magic in turmoil, seeking an out under unbearable pressure.

He'd not come this far; plotted this hard; coaxed for this long to have Draco lie to him and duck the damn consequences. No!

And the devious git had better not have been lying before, Harry swore under his breath. 'Before' was the crucial part, the one in which they'd come to terms, finally, the two of them. Not that Harry thought anyone could, not while in the midst of something like that, the—the feelings they'd both felt (he'd swear that, too, in the name of sodding anyone who mattered!), and then, afterwards, when it was all quiet and content, manage to don some skeevy, pusillanimous mask of non-involvement. No, Malfoy had to have been fibbing mightily through those perfectly white, perfectly even chompers of his just now, and not before. Harry had not been born yesterday—he was no fool, not even for this thing Hermione called 'love'.

"Please!" he begged of his uneasy guest, nonetheless. "Just—just tell me what's going on, Draco!"

Because if the oily, scheming devil of a bastard's son had strung Harry along when he had his cock buried deep in Harry's arse—if he had—then Harry's heart had been summarily broken some forty odd minutes ago, and he hadn't even realized it was happening. Hadn't known; hadn't even felt the pieces of it ground to so much broken-glass dust beneath the heels of Malfoy's hand-tooled leather shoes.

The sod!

"Potter, there's no need to—" Malfoy flapped a wrist, carelessly, as if he couldn't understand why Harry was fussing. "Look, let it pass. I'll be seeing you in the morning, right? At breakfast—"

"There's every need, Draco! You're fucking sneaking out on me! You're leaving me, you cowardly prick!"

"I'm not," Malfoy shot back instantly, so calm still, so placid—so very much the practicing, accomplished liar, Harry felt he might vomit all over the git's shiny shoes. "Really, Potter, why ever would I?"

"Because I'm too much trouble for you? Because you don't—you don't feel what I feel?" Harry suggested, stepping closer, saying yet more words he didn't want to think, much less voice.

"You just took advantage, when I—when I so much wanted…wanted you?"

"Hardly that, Potter," Malfoy replied wryly, tilting his head. "I should say rather there was no mistaking the desire was mutual. I really do believe you're making too much of this, really. Steady on, Potter."

Harry could feel the warmth of Malfoy's chest emanating from beneath his school robes; he could smell the mingled odours of sex and perspiration, dried cum and aftershave. He felt anything but steady. It enticed him, teased him, and he angled himself in a bit more, wedging his own torso up against Malfoy's, but keeping a wary hand still firmly on the contested doorknob. Immoveable force.

Irresistible object, Draco was. Harry had no plans to stand down. Those opaque eyes were just a little too transparent, now he could see them properly.

"Draco," he purred, with an abrupt change of tactics, "you don't seriously think I'll buy into whatever it is you're selling with no argument, do you? Do you truly believe I'm that blind—that foolish? A bloody John for the taking, like Zabini—like that poor arse Finch-Fletchley—whomever it was rumour claimed you were shagging? Because while I don't damned well know why you're doing this, being this way, I'll still get to the bottom of it, trust me on that. You've never, ever run away from me before, Malfoy-why begin now? And you've sure as shite never, ever spared my feelings, either, so don't think I'll believe you if you try to pass this all off as nothing but a lark or a one-off—because I shan't. I will not, Malfoy. I know you too damned well now, Draco. You're my fucking other half, aren't you—my evil twin? Didn't you just say that—how I complete you, how you can't conceive of your life without me in it? Didn't you? Screamed it, rather!"

"Potter—"

"Don't bloody 'Potter' me, Draco! It's Harry!"

"Be reasonable then, Harry. I just want to snag some decent sleep tonight, that's all—"

"And don't lie!" Harry blustered, stomping his foot, as he'd been wanting to for several endless moments. His feet were both freezing on the flagstones and they could've been in his bed now, making a decent start on that third promised round.

"Don't you dare lie! I'll bloody murder you if you mess with my head now, Draco-Lying-Malfoy—I fucking well will! Just lay it out, nice and clear! Tell me precisely why it is you think you need to return to those grotty dark dungeons of yours when we just—we only just this minute sorted ourselves out! Speak to me, you arse, and make it snappy and make it damned convincing, because I'm not at all happy right now, Draco, and I want to—no, I deserve to be happy—and so do you! So do you!"

Malfoy chuckled, right in the face of Harry's justifiable fury. Bitter peals of acid amusement, deep and rich and vile. It hit Harry like a backhanded slap across his red cheeks; like a kick square in his bared, dangling, chill-shriveled bollocks. It was pain so horridly reminiscent of the sort the Dursleys had doled out yearly—those petty people who should have loved him, who were supposed to have taken him in as a second son; someone important, who mattered-he lost his breath at the sheer rending force of it. Swayed numbly where he stood, lips parted, his hips bumping blindly up against Malfoy's angular ones through the all-covering robes Malfoy wore.

"Hah!" Malfoy was still chucking quietly, a full thirty seconds later. "Right, super. That's brilliant, Potter. Too, too amusing, all this 'being happy' business. How long exactly d'you think it'll last, then? What're your wager? A week? A month? Did you foolishly believe we'd manage to carry this farce off all the way 'til St. Valentine's Day, even? Were you that idiotically excited over exchanging some stupid childish gift of hearts and flowers—all that futile, pointless muck, Potter? Well, I'm not. I'm so not, Potter, let me tell you. This is a bloody joke, you know—on you and on me. This is fucking Fate, laughing her arse silly over two prime fools who dare act as if it might work out—because it won't. It won't and I'm not waiting about for it to be broken, Potter. I don't need that shite, not on top of all the other shite I've—"

"You? You're serious, Draco?" Harry gawped, sagging. His knees were rubbery, his head buzzing. "You really, really are? You think I lied to you?"

"No!"

Draco shook his head and the hand that had twisted down with such force on Harry's doorknob—the same one that had hung onto it like a lifeline all the time Harry was shouting, that hand finally came free—only to grab at the back of Harry's neck, where it joined his collarbone. He was hauled closer, his body roughly yanked off the doorframe, his elbow banging against it painfully as he came.

"No—wait! What're you doing, git?" Harry demanded, loath to give up his body-block of the only way Draco might escape, excepting the window. "Draco, stop it!"

"No, I do not, Harry." The passionate Draco was returned—the 'fire in his eyes' version. Harry's Draco. "Gods, no! You are so pathetically sincere, you prat, I can't believe it. Such a Gryffindor, Potter. The Hat couldn't have been more on target—but being sincere and courageous won't buy acceptance, idiot. It won't buy peace, and that's something we'll never have the luxury of. No one will allow us that commity, trust me on that that, and you'll grow tired of it—and me—long before the rest of the world bustles off to mind their own business."

"What?" Harry gasped. "What? Draco!"

"No, Harry," Malfoy smiled down at him, even going so far as to stroke Harry's hair, "it's not that easy. Not that simple, I'm afraid. I have to protect myself, you see, and this isn't going to cut it, shagging Harry Potter. Being your sodding boyfriend; holding hands in Hogsmeade—taking sodding tea at Puddifoot's and buying sweets and all that rot. It's all a very pretty picture, yes, but—"

"No! Gods—Merlin!—NO!" Harry howled, digging his fingertips into Malfoy's shivering form, at waist and across small of back, and shoving him after, with all the blunt force he could muster, 'til Malfoy fell back from the doorway at last, his hand clutching wildly at Harry's hair for balance.

"What the fuck, Harry? You clumsy bastard! You cease manhandling me this instant!" Malfoy protested, but Harry had stopped his ears to anything other shite Malfoy might spew. It was all so much Thestral droppings—stinky, skanky and useless even as good fertilizer. It was lies, and a trove of them, and he could barely get a handle on just how little Draco believed in them—in him—even now.

"You lie!" he hissed. "You bastard! You want this—you need this as much as I do—more, arsehole! You've been gagging over my arse for years and years now; you even admitted it yourself! You want me—you'd have died for me at the Manor when I was Snatched! You talk such a bloody great match, Draco, but there's no bloody way in Hades I'm ever letting you go now—no way! So accustom yourself, git, to the new you—the New Order! The you who's my sodding boyfriend—the one who's my bitch, Malfoy, if I want that! As I am yours!"

"Oh, for Salazar's sake, Harry!" Malfoy exclaimed, stumbling inelegantly as Harry shoved him. "I already am that—I already admit that, you daft git! But that's not my point, nimrod! The point is we won't get away with it—and we're all of fucking eighteen, Harry! This is hardly the time to bollix up your entire lifetime because you like the way it feels when I shag you! Merlin! It's not as though you've much to compare it with, either! Ginger-haired schoolgirls hardly count!"

"I don't need to, Draco," Harry exclaimed, and flung himself bodily, staggering his addled arse of a nemeses across the very few feet that separated them from the bottom end of Harry's empty bed. With a twist and a triumphant snort, he rappelled them both off the post on the corner and dumped then unceremoniously half-on and half-off the crumpled coverlet, the ice-cold floor. "I don't need to, arse! You've already convicted yourself for me! You liar!"

"I don't lie, Potter!" Draco shrieked, fighting still to rise, to run. "Not to you—not about this! It's truth, bastard! Plain, unvarnished truth and if you don't want to hear it, that's hardly my fault, is it? I'm just telling you as it is, Harry—it'll never work!"

"Shut it!"

Harry fastened his lips on Draco's, the only surefire way he knew of to prevent the git from gibbering further nonsense at him. He stuck his tongue deep in, practically raping Draco's gums, the sensitive root of his tongue—the soft spongy swell of sucked-in cheeks. Draco was so, so hot on the inside—all of him. His exterior lied, with all its icy-pristine perfection. He was a mess on the inside, where it mattered; just as Harry was; a roiling cauldron of desire and raw, aching need.

And he showed his true colours, moaning and wriggling frantically beneath Harry, hands just as harsh as his mouth. They inched up themselves the side of the fourposter as one, jerkily, both aiming to find a flat space, one where they could sprawl out—where they could finally manage to get a meaningful grip on each other's bits—hair—skin.

Draco's robes were spelled off this time instead of merely thrown aside, to join his Vanished shorts in the 'somewhere'. The bookbag had fallen derelict by the wayside. There was no sound but the smacking of wet lips, the gurgle of them swallowing, the tiny, muted squeaks and grunts of carnal satisfaction.

"Draco," Harry groaned, when he could. "Please?"

"I—can't, Harry!" Draco replied in a tortured whimper, and his lashes were damp, now, as much as Harry's own. He blinked furiously at Harry, looming over him. "Gods! I can't trust this—I daren't! I'm not like you, Harry!" '

"Draco…" Harry was coaxing again, with all his heart, and had hot palms everywhere across that bare, scarred chest. "My Draco."

"Harry, Harry, don't—let go of me! Get off!"

"No." Harry was adamant. "Oh, no." Draco moaned like a dying banshee, but Harry wasn't standing down.

"No." He snogged him again, gentle and passionate all at once. And again, never lifting away, never pausing, till at last Draco sighed and fell back off the elbows he'd struggled up on but a moment before. "No, no, no."

"You'll break me, Potter." Draco's statement was at once both sad and resigned, the latter belying the angry tears the on-again, off-again moonlight revealed. "You already have, wanker. There'll be nothing left of me when you're through. I hope you're happy, then."

"Never through—never over," Harry pressed hasty kisses, licking up spilling droplets in passing. They shouldn't be allowed to mar that face, Harry was sure. Never again. "Never finished."

"I…wish I could believe you, Harry."

"I'll prove it," Harry announced staunchly. "Over and over. You won't have the chance to leave me again, Draco. I won't let you."

That earned him the wispy beginnings of a grin. "Gryffindor."

"Umm-hmm. To the hilt. Speaking of…? Yours? Mine? Which d'you want next, Draco?"

And a stifled gasp of unwilling laughter, toffee-flavoured. Harry grinning hazy-eyed at that, pleasure washing gently through him like the neap tide. This was what he'd wanted, exactly: 'happy'.

"Right. Harry Potter says it's so, so it is, yes?' Draco sneered that, but Harry could easily see he was back to his usual sly, joking mode, with no nasty to taint it. No fear, here, then. All was well again, as it should be.

"Yes! Now, which, git? I'm set to burst here, Draco! You're just being needlessly cruel to me now, making me wait on your fancies. Come on," Harry urged him, tweaking, pinching, and finally kissing his murmuring way across the map of Draco's waist, his perfect navel. "Come on! Choose!" he ordered, mouth muffled by silky flesh flinching.

"Mmmm, mine, I think," Draco replied, and stretched leisurely, which was unbearably sexy. "Gryffindor. And we'll simply have to see, alright?"

"See? About which, Draco?"

"How it works—whether we can—it can even—"

"We will, non-believer," Harry was certain. "We will, it will; everything will be fine, trust me on this. I am a terribly powerful Wizard and so are you, don't forget, and we can do this. I'm sure of it. Now, face to face or from behind, git? Which?"

"Always so much useless talk, Potter," Draco's smile—the one that perfectly complimented that narrow-eyed assessing look he usually spared Harry; the one that riled him up automatically, though admittedly his reaction was a little different now. It was potent, that. "And far too many pointless questions. Um, er, lessee. Face to face, I think. I want to watch you again, all debauched and coming undone. By me—for me, of course. I happen to enjoy that part immensely."

"Oh! You are a git, aren't you?"

"Yes," Draco allowed, adroitly flipping them around, so Harry ended up beneath him. "I am. I pray to Salazar and Merlin both you continue in this pleasant delusion you like that about me, Harry."

"No worries, mate," Harry grinned up at him, gamely taking hold of the backs of his knees when his lover rudely shoved them toward his nose. "Not on that subject, at least. All sorted."

"Better be," Draco replied, a little grim 'round the edges yet.

"Is," Harry countered cheerily. "Shag me incoherent and I'll prove it. Dare you."

"Gryffindor! Really, Harry—watch your flanks, will you? I could be nefarious, still."

"Dolt. Shag me."

"On it, git. Hold your sodding Thestrals, yeah?"

"Me, you say, wasting time, talking—I don't bloody well think so—arrgh!"

O0O

…Malfoy stayed, until morning. Every morning after, too.

Finite