This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work

Thanks to emansil08 for being my beta and to softly_sweetly for several ideas which made this work.

This was written for hp_rarities fest and includes the following from the request: Quidditch!smut, Hogwarts Era, first time, flangst, hurt/comfort, happy ending, and awkward, fumbling sex.

"Our National team is a disgrace; I blame that idiot Dumbledore!"

Anger was displayed openly on some of the Gryffindorks' faces. Which Draco thought was typically stupid of them.

Dolohov continued: "He never took Quidditch seriously. Half the English team were educated in France! Other countries have proper training systems, they spot the youngsters with potential, start training them early. They don't bumble around ..."

Dolohov continued to rant, marching up and down in front of the couple of dozen students who stood frozen to their brooms. Was he Professor Dolohov now? Draco knew he couldn't call him Antonin any more. The Death Eaters had all got a lot less friendly since he'd wimped out on the Astronomy tower that night last year.

"... Proper training has to start at a school level, and that old fool abolished the school team, leaving you playing just a handful of House matches every year ..."

He had known that Dolohov was interested in Quidditch, but he'd never suspected this level of fanaticism. Somehow the man had permission from the Dark Lord to have time off from tracking down half-bloods, and he had persuaded Snape to let him come into Hogwarts to take a select group of the older pupils out of lessons. For this.

"... a regime of fitness and skills training which will leave those Bulgarian bastards ..."

Generally these days, Draco was ostracised by those in power. He wasn't a Prefect, or a Quidditch captain any more; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd been asked to answer a question or give a demonstration in class. Yet he was here and he knew why: he was a bloody good Seeker. He was the best still in the school, now that Potter had run away.

Dolohov was so fanatical about the English Quidditch teams of the future that he had actually chosen this little group on merit alone. Even the girl-Weasel was here and she had been heading an open rebellion all term.

"... every afternoon we will be out here, in every weather ..."

Draco was forming a plan. He had a suggestion to make. He wanted this idea to be taken seriously, though, so he wasn't about to let Dolohov know that it had come from him. Luckily, he sat between his two best friends: the rather average Beaters of below average intelligence who had suddenly and unexpectedly become the school's star pupils. He tipped his head to the side and stretched his neck so that he could get somewhere near Vince's ear.

"... the glory that will be the English Team!" Dolohov climaxed, lifting his broom over his head.

Most of the pupils obediently followed suit. The Weasel girl folded her arms and pouted: Gryffindorks were always confusing bravery and idiocy. When the dutiful cheering had faded away, Vince raised his hand.

"Mr Crabbe. Ah, yes. I have heard many good things about your ruthlessness. I hope your aptitude for Unforgivables can give us reason to hope for extreme brutality on the Quidditch pitch. Do you have something to share with us?"

"Please, sir," Vince began, looking as smug as Draco had ever seen him, "could we have some coaching, sir, maybe from like professionals or something?"

"I looked into that. It's a possibility after the season ends, apparently, but the clubs are loathe to release players at this stage. It would not be in the interests of the national game to take the current stars out of competition."

Draco subtly leaned the other way and then Greg shot up his massive paw.

"Mr Goyle?"

"Sir, Marcus Flint of the Tornadoes is currently serving a sixteen day -" Draco hissed behind his hand "... sixteen match, sorry, ban. He's an Old Boy. He might be available."

"What a splendid idea! I know your father well, boy, and you are a credit to him. I will owl the Tornadoes' Manager this very evening! Now! Flying Exercises! From here to the Whomping Willow and back ..."

"You really love Quidditch, don't you, Draco?" Greg observed as they trooped back to the castle later.

"My calves ache and there's mud on my socks," Draco complained. "I do hope he's not going to work us that hard every afternoon."

"Your idea about Flint, though. I mean ..." Greg closed both eyes slowly. It was the closest he could get to a wink. "... our idea about Flint. That's 'cos you really love Quidditch, isn't it?"

"You are so thick," Vince countered. "He's up to something."

"What's he up to?" Greg Goyle looked from one of his best friends to the other, his head having to twist up and down as well as side to side.

Draco just smirked. Crabbe replied, "I don't know and I don't care as long as we get the credit." He fixed Draco with a steady, threatening look, as he added, "And it don't fuck up."

"I need a shower," Draco replied and marched away from him.

After showering, he cuddled into his silk dressing gown and closed the curtains around his bed. It wasn't as though he would be welcome in the Common Room anyway. He kept two types of magazines in his trunk and tonight he ignored the porn, instead selecting last August's edition of Quidditch Fan Weekly. The pages fell easily to one near the back, one he had studied many times before.

He lay back. By the light of his wand, he stared at the team photograph of the Tornadoes. They shifted and scratched themselves; the front row were kneeling and the middle row sat, but it was one figure standing on the back row who interested Draco. Like his team-mates, he had perfect teeth and an expensive haircut: there was a lot of money to be made in merchandising and the team made sure their players all looked good enough to eat. Nobody suspected how much Draco dreamed of getting his mouth on them.

Marcus Flint would be his starter though. His appearance had improved since he'd left school, but even then something about him had excited Draco. It looked like Draco's plan might just work out. He slipped his hand inside his dressing gown - staring at the picture of Flint, who stared straight back at him - and he began to stroke himself.

Less than a week later, Flint was standing on the school pitch, next to an over-excited Dolohov, looking every inch the sports star that he now was. His Tornadoes uniform was immaculate and tight in all the right places; he was tall and muscular and his hair shone; his teeth were as straight and white as magic could make them; it was the old disdainful snarl in which they were displayed which really turned Draco on, though.

Dolohov introduced him to the gathered school kids (most of whom remembered him when he was one of them) as breathlessly as a fangirl with an autograph book. Then he stepped back diffidently and Flint began to speak. His voice was deep, his tone harsh, his delivery lazy as he outlined his training plan. They would begin with a match, he said, so that he could assess them and tell them what they were all doing wrong. He ended by asking if there were any questions.

The girl-Weasel raised her hand. Trust her to try to get noticed. Well, this was one man she wasn't going to get her paws on. Flint just noted the colours of her house and gave her the appropriate sneer. Dolohov nodded at her.

She asked her question: "What's the latest news about the Chaser you put in St Mungo's?"

There was a shocked silence which Dolohov eventually broke with a gritted, "Detention for being rude to our guest, Miss Weasley."

Flint swallowed hard and said in a sharp voice, "Look, it's a physical game. I never hit her that hard. I didn't know she'd fall off the broom. She should be back playing when I am. That's the last I heard. About another three months. You've got to take the knocks as a professional, and anyone who's not prepared for that – actually anyone who's not prepared to dish it out a bit too – shouldn't waste my time coming to these sessions." His tough words were undermined by his face, which had gone a bloodless grey colour and his eyes, which were darting all over the place. "That's all." he added. Then he took a deep breath before shouting out with a lot more confidence, "Right! Get yourself into two teams and get your arses on those brooms! Let's play Quidditch!"

Draco nominated himself a captain and gathered his fellow Slytherins around him. Flint stomped up into the stands and sat on one of the long benches. For a few minutes his face was invisible, held back in the shadows, but then he sat forward and started to watch the young players mount their brooms. Draco made sure he was looking in the right direction, before lifting his leg over his Nimbus and wriggling onto the saddle. He couldn't tell what Flint's reaction was from the ground.

As they settled down to receive notes after the training match, though, Flint's hazel eyes did linger on Draco's face before he began to rip into the rest of the students. He had picked up on every tiny mistake they had made. If he'd noticed Cadwallader's hesitant wrist action, then he could not have missed the shape of Draco's thighs.

"And Malfoy ..." Flint said finally. He looked straight into Draco's face and paused. Draco's breath stopped; time stopped. He drank in the complete attention from that serious face. Then Flint winked. Draco's brain melted. "Good flying."

Draco decided that he was definitely going to have to go back at the castle to shower. In private.

Marcus was given a seat at the teacher's table in the Great Hall for dinner. His old school had changed and he couldn't decide whether it was a change for the better. The Slytherins seemed to be getting more respect these days - which had to be a good thing – and it was great to see his old head of House become Headmaster Snape. This atmosphere of fear and despair made him edgy, though. It matched something inside himself which he was trying to ignore.

Things looked different from up here, looking down on all the kids eating their supper at those long tables. He hadn't realised how much the teachers could see. There were a lot of empty seats now; Gryffindor seemed to be the most pruned, or maybe it was just because they looked the most down-hearted. There was no sign of the red-headed girl from practice. She must be serving that detention. Marcus could have done without that reminder. He couldn't help wondering what a detention entailed these days. Weasley, they'd called her. Percy Weasley's sister? Well, she had more spunk than he did.

His old House looked pretty healthy. Slytherins were survivors: they did what it took. They had all got older; it brought home to him just how long he'd been gone. The oldest of them now, had been squeaky-voiced third years when he'd retaken his last year. He must have bullied some knuts out of several of them. It would be prudently Slytherin of him to remember which ones, and to watch his back. That Vince Crabbe was enormous now - in a fight you'd want to pick his side. The dark-skinned boy (Zabini?) was one he hadn't even noticed before, but now you couldn't miss him. Stunning. And even straight boys rolled over for Quidditch professionals.

There had been a shift of power, though, a resettling of the group dynamic. Malfoy had been their leader then. Not any more. Marcus knew very little about the internal politics of Death Eaters – safest not to get too close – but he suspected the boy's new cautiousness had something to do with that. Boy? Was he? A seventeen year-old was of age, no matter how slight and vulnerable he looked. If Marcus thought of young Malfoy as a man, then he could entertain other thoughts about him. Zabini might be fun for one jump, but Malfoy had real potential. He'd seen that look in his eyes – and Marcus loved to be adored.

"Everything satisfactory?" Dolohov simpered.

"Fine," Marcus agreed quickly. The old man's fawning was creeping him out.

"The food? The accommodation?" Dolohov's hot, cheesy breath was too close. "If there is anything I can do to make your stay with us more pleasant, just let me know."

Marcus leaned away, muttering that everything was fine. They ate in silence for a few minutes, while Marcus thought things through.

Then he said, "Actually ..."

Dolohov gazed on him. "Anything," he whispered. "For The Game!" he added.

"At the club," Marcus replied, trying to stay cool, "we have people to look after our kit, to attend to our more mundane personal needs."

"Yes, yes, of course! A servant. I will assign you a personal Elf."

Marcus sneered. "Not a House Elf. It needs to be someone who understands Quidditch. I can't waste time explaining every little thing to some," he pulled a face of disgust, "creature."

"No, no, I see."

"I need one of them."

"Ah." Dolohov swallowed nervously as they both looked out over the sea of students below. "I'm not sure that we are allowed to actually interrupt the pupils' studies for that kind of menial duty."

"He'll need to be strong enough to carry equipment, so it has to be one of the older boys. Not a girl, I'll be changing in and out of kit. Detailed Quidditch knowledge is essential so a team member preferably," Marcus continued, as though the Death Eater had not spoken.

"I would have to speak to Headmaster Snape. It is not usual."

"And I don't want anyone who might go complaining to their parents if they find a task I set them too arduous or undignified."

"Oh. Undignified?" The old man's eyes glittered nastily. They focussed on the far end of the Slytherin table. Perhaps this was going to be even simpler than Marcus had anticipated.

"Potentially," he said.

"There is one who might fulfil your requirements."

They were both looking at the silver-blond head bowed over his pudding plate, making conversation with no-one.

"Yes?" Marcus asked, as though he did not know.

"Would Malfoy be strong enough?"

Marcus pretended to consider the matter doubtfully. He sniffed. "I don't want to have to deal with his father if there are complaints."

Dolohov's grin was like a snarl. "Don't you worry about Lucius Malfoy. He does not hold the position he once did in our Lord's affections. His son will be perfect; do with him what you will."

Draco was summoned to Dolohov's office that evening. He entered the room trembling slightly, with his head bowed, wondering what his punishment would be this time, but not caring on what trumped-up charge he had been found guilty.

Marcus watched his entrance a little sadly, missing the cocky little shit who had dared to approach him when he was only twelve, with the offer of a bribe. He might have lost face, temporarily, by listening to that brat, but Marcus had never regretted agreeing to his deal. The new brooms had produced an instant improvement in the team, and it hadn't taken long for Malfoy to develop into a pretty tasty Seeker. In more ways than one, Marcus thought to himself as the slim young man drew near.

When he saw Marcus standing by the window, an intelligence illuminated his grey eyes, which he quickly quashed before looking towards Dolohov, who was seated behind the large desk.

"I have a special task for you, boy," said the old Death Eater. "I hope you can manage to succeed with this one."

Draco didn't rise to the insult, he merely lowered his gaze to the carpet. "Yes sir," he mumbled.

"Mr Flint here is a very important man. You will make yourself useful to him. In whatever way he sees fit. Do you think you will able to accommodate him?"

Draco looked directly at Marcus, then; their eyes met and they dared one another to betray any emotion in their expressions.

"I will do my very best to please Mr Flint. Sir."

Marcus nearly smiled.

"Obedience and efficiency are the requirements here, boy. So, mind you damp down that trademark Malfoy arrogance."

"Yes sir."

"You will be in Mr Flint's service constantly, whatever the hour, so you will be sleeping in his quarters."

Draco nearly smiled. "Yes sir." His plan had been to hang around the Changing Rooms and seduce his hero there. This should make things much simpler.

Dolohov's harsh tone honeyed as he looked up at Marcus to ask, "Does that cover everything?"

"For now," Marcus grunted. Then to Draco, "This way."

He marched along three corridors and up a narrow flight of stairs before unlocking a heavy, arched door and leading the way into his rooms.

"I'd had enough of being underground," he explained conversationally. He directed Draco towards the view as he kicked the door loudly shut. "So ..." he said to the back of that well-formed blond head. "Alone at last."

Hesitantly, Draco turned to face him. "Sir," he said. Unsure still.

Marcus grinned in a manner which could only be interpreted in one way. "Do you think you'll be able satisfy my every need?" he asked in a low, suggestive voice.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I don't envisage any complaints."

Marcus laughed loudly. "Well, if that's the so-called 'trademark Malfoy arrogance', then I'm in favour of it!" He backed out through one of the curtained archways in the room, beckoning Draco to follow him.

In the centre of the next room was a large four-poster bed on which Marcus sat down. "Take my boots off!" he commanded.

Draco knelt in front of him and began to untie the thick laces. Marcus watched his face as he did so. "What happened to you?" he asked softly.

Startled, Draco looked up. The hazel eyes that met his were surprisingly warm and concerned. "Happened to me?" he repeated foolishly.

"You just obeyed an order. This is not how I remember you. What happened?"

"The usual," Draco drawled, avoiding eye contact. "The Dark Lord. His loyal servants. What happened to you? When did you start giving a shit about anyone else's reactions?"

"This school isn't the same," Marcus observed instead of answering.

"The world isn't the same," said Draco.

"That's why we're not." Marcus tipped his head to one side. "We can make this one little bit of the world change for the better." He raked his gaze lasciviously up and down Draco's body. "Would you like that?"

"Oh yes," Draco breathed. Then he added, with a knowing smirk. "Sir."

"Come here then, and let me take your clothes off."

Draco stood steadily enough. Marcus grabbed his elbows and fell backwards, pulling the slighter young man with him. He brought their mouths together in a bruising kiss. His hands ran flat down Draco's back as he pushed his tongue into the warm, moist, aniseed-flavoured depths of Draco's mouth. Draco moaned lightly, his lips pushing back against Marcus', his tongue darting in their shared space. Marcus caressed further down, over Draco's buttocks, between them, filling his hands with their tempting curves. Draco abruptly stopped moving.

Marcus had no trouble in pulling back from now-unresponsive lips to ask, "What's up?"

Draco stared back at him. "Nothing," he lied unconvincingly.

"Come on, stud. Did I do something wrong?" It seemed unlikely, nobody had ever had problems with his kisses before.

"I ... I ... d-d-don't know." Draco swallowed, stop stammering and took control of himself. "No, of course not. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "Have I ruined it?"

Marcus sat up, gently rolling Draco off him. "I thought we were both looking for the same thing here. Are you not into me?"

"Oh I am, yes, I am." Draco nodded several times. "Very much." He looked down at the quilted bedspread, rather than meet Marcus' wary gaze. "I'm nervous." He explained in a flat voice. "I'm not great with pain, and I don't know what ... how much ..." He frowned down onto golden-yellow stitching on an emerald hexagon. "Basically, I'm a coward. I always denied it when Potter said that, but since the Astronomy Tower, I've had to face it. And everything I've heard about ... you know ... well, it -"

His rambling was cut short by a mouth covering his and then a strong hand gripped his jaw. After a brief, closed-mouth kiss, Marcus asked. "How old are you?"

"Of age!" Draco snapped back.

"Seventeen?"

The blond shrugged and then nodded.

A broad smile spread gradually across Marcus' face. He raised one eyebrow. "Still a virgin?"

Draco stood sharply, walking from the bed before Marcus could grab him. "I've had a lot of other concerns," he muttered.

Marcus jumped after him and took hold of his waist; Draco struggled. "I think it's great. It's lovely. It's a lovely thing. Let me be your first."

Draco stopped moving. He allowed Marcus to guide him backwards towards the bed, where the big Chaser pulled him onto his knee, his back against that strong chest.

"No experience at all?" he murmured into the soft, pale skin of Draco's neck.

"Mmhm," Draco agreed quietly. He closed his eyes: embarrassed.

It was lucky that Draco couldn't see the feral grin on Marcus' face. Slowly and gently, he caressed the young man over his clothes until he relaxed. They kissed softly.

"Seriously," Draco whispered. "The pain?"

"I think the best thing would be," Marcus murmured, between little, pecking kisses against Draco's cheekbone, "if we make sure that if anybody gets hurt around here, it's not you."

Draco didn't understand – but then those big hands were doing something very distracting around the top of his trousers. Marcus lay back, hugging Draco tight, bringing him down, too. He rolled him over so that they were chest to chest, face to face, lip to lip. Almost to himself, Marcus mumbled, "I think I'm even more scared of hurting you than you are of being hurt." Looking deep into Draco's eyes, he opened up his legs and let the pale lad slide between them. Then he raised his feet and wrapped them round Draco's waist.

Draco understood. His full prick rubbed against the cleft of Marcus' arse: constrained and frustrated by the clothes they still wore.

"I didn't think you'd let me."

"Let you?" Marcus' chuckle vibrated through Draco's body. "I'd beg you to, if only Slytherins could beg."

"You're not at school any more. Are you still a Slytherin?"

"Good point. In that case, Draco, please, I beg you, fuck me deep and slow and hard."

Marcus' voice was deep and sensual. It went straight to Draco's cock. He groaned loudly and his hips rutted. Desperately, he tried to make his fumbling fingers obey his commands, but his fly button kept slipping out of his grip. He turned his attention to Marcus' waistband instead and tried to tug it down.

"Easy, love," Marcus whispered. He pulled off his own shirt and then Draco's. He kissed messily along the collarbone above him and over as much as he could reach of the sweat-soaked chest, lightly decorated with fine, pale hair.

Marcus muttered a spell and their clothes disappeared. Draco was shocked by the feeling of air on skin, but too intoxicated by his passion to try to make sense of it. He wriggled and his bare cock slid between Marcus' naked belly and his own. His pelvis thrust up again and again.

Just when he thought he wasn't going to last any longer, he was lifted up off Marcus' body and the contact of flesh disappeared. He whimpered with disappointment.

Marcus didn't laugh this time – he was too overwhelmed himself. Instead, he concentrated on making his trembling fingers uncap the lubricant and enter his own body.

Draco watched, fascinated as those thick digits pistoned in and out of Marcus' hole. Marcus moaned and swore and pushed down onto his hand. Then he stopped, stilled and stared into Draco's eyes.

"You ready for the ride of your life, boy?" he asked breathlessly.

Draco nodded. Marcus coated his prick with the lube. That slickness and the firm grip were almost enough to send Draco into climax. He tried to think of something mundane and ugly, but his mind slid away from Umbridge and House elves' feet and tealeaves and Pettigrew– unable to focus.

So instead, he scrambled over Marcus' well-built thigh, determined that he would at least enter the man before he came. But then he had to concentrate, because it was such a very tiny puckered hole, and the pink, leaking head of his cock looked so huge, and his whole body was being so unbelievably disobedient that it kept slipping away, across Marcus' skin, and twice his prick fell out of own hand. He tried to breathe slowly.

Marcus lay beneath him, flushed and panting, his fingers digging into Draco's hips. "Now. Please," he whispered. "Or you're gonna kill me."

Then suddenly, for no good reason, it all worked. Where there had been solid body, there was now an opening and Draco was pushing into it. He would have cheered if he'd had any spare breath. The ring of muscle was hot and tight around him as he thrust as slowly and gently as he could. In little, jerking movements, he got himself in deeper and deeper. Then he pulled back, before slamming in and Marcus' body moved up to meet his.

For a few minutes there was nothing but pleasure and the sounds of their cries and the slap of skin on skin. Then Draco's orgasm overtook him in a tide of heat. When he could see again, he found that Marcus was tugging at his own erection and splashes of hot semen were hitting both of their bellies.

Their breathing slowed and calmed and for a while they dozed – Draco's slim hips held between Marcus' thighs, their bodies falling gradually away from each other. Eventually, Draco had the strength to kiss Marcus' cheek, to climb off him and fall onto the cool sheets beside him.

"That what you were expecting?" Marcus asked.

"Better."

Draco could practically hear Marcus' face shifting into a smug grin.

"And I've been thinking about it for a very long time," Draco added.

"How long?"

"About five years." They lay in silence for a while. Draco wasn't sure whether he was going to say this or not. Then he did. "I wanted to be one of the people you noticed."

"You're difficult to ignore."

"You managed it. In the Common Room. First Year. You only talked to Quidditch Players. And really handsome boys."

"Sorry." Marcus wasn't yet sure what he was apologising for.

"That's why I made sure I got on the team the next year. That's why I wanted to be Slytherin Seeker."

Marcus huffed lightly. "That and the rivalry with Potter."

"Well. Yes." There was a pause.

"The Runt that Wouldn't Die, as we called him."

Draco laughed. "I didn't know that one," he said. "See, that's the sort of joke I wanted to be in on. And then I was. I was on the team and in the changing room and during training you took notice of me."

"Yelled at you quite a lot."

"But in the changing room you still only looked at the handsome, older boys." Draco ran his fingertips lightly over Marcus' hip bone. "I wanted to be someone you looked at in that way. I knew what you were interested in, that most of the players who'd bribed their way onto the team hadn't done it with broomsticks."

Marcus chuckled.

Draco took a deep breath but he kept going; he told him: "I decided then that you would be my first."

After training, Draco lingered in the changing room, pretending to tend to a blister. He didn't look up from his foot and no-one approached him. He was going to have to clean Marcus' boots for Dolohov's benefit, and he didn't want anyone to see him doing that. He hadn't been asked any questions yet about where he had slept this last fortnight, nor what he did with his evenings; he'd had some funny looks, though.

Marcus had been masterful this session – so frightening that he had driven a Hufflepuff girl to tears. Draco had found it difficult to concentrate on the snitch. Every time Marcus yelled, his colour rose and then he looked so close to how he looked when he was trying not to come too quick, that Draco had to shift position to keep himself on the broom.

Eventually, the other players left. Dolohov and Marcus remained, talking tactics and drawing out diagrams in coloured lights above the lockers. With a submissive angle to his neck, Draco sank to his knees on the gritty floor and picked up the brush, the boots and his wand. Dolohov liked him to look cowed. If the old bastard ever got the idea that Draco was enjoying his servitude to Marcus, then it would end.

Draco concentrated on the mud between the studs. A lot could be achieved with Cleaning Spells, but his man deserved perfection, and that involved actual scrubbing. He was so engrossed, that he jumped when he felt a hand on his neck.

Marcus looked deep into his eyes. "He's gone," he whispered. "Time to shower!"

Marcus circled the room, casting locking and silencing spells. Heat rose in Draco's belly, he felt it dry his tongue, burn his cheeks and prickle his armpits. He didn't dare to imagine what Marcus' plan was: he was hard already, too much anticipation and he'd spray his shorts.

Marcus leaned back against the door, his shirt unlaced and untucked. His hands rested on hips and he stared silently down at Draco. Slowly, with deliberate movements, Draco stood, holding the tense eye contact between them. He displayed his long, pale fingers.

"I'm all muddy," he said. "And it's your fault."

"Is it really?" Marcus asked, one eyebrow rising slowly, his lips sensually forming every syllable.

"They're your boots," Draco drawled.

Marcus gave a low chuckle. "And who's fault is it that you're so dirty?"

"I think you know," Draco whispered.

"I think I do. Well," Marcus waved his wand at one of the showers and they both heard the water splashing repeatedly onto the tiles, the sound singing the promise of sex. "It's up to me to get you all lathered up then, isn't it?"

With a smirk, Draco turned his back and began to slowly slide his Quidditch robes off his shoulders. He threw his head back and let out a little moan as he wriggled his hips out of the fabric.

"I swear to Salazar, you are going to kill me you little tease." Marcus strode quickly across the space between them and grabbed Draco hard by the hips.

He jerked Draco back, so that he could feel Marcus' hard cock pressing into the small of his back. Marcus' hot mouth kissed softly at Draco's neck: then he bit hard into the soft flesh there. Draco cried out and pushed himself backwards against Marcus' contained erection.

"Gonna kill me," Marcus muttered breathlessly. He shoved his young lover forward towards the shower stall, took a couple of breaths and then, when Draco turned round to look at him, he said, "Dirty little boys need to get washed."

Draco's pointy teeth smirked back at him. Marcus raised his wand and the door to the stall flew open at the same moment that Draco found himself flying backwards through the air. He landed against the tiles, a Cushioning Charm ensuring that he wasn't hurt, but the powerful jet of water soaking through his kit immediately.

Draco swore loudly; Marcus laughed heartily. Then the older lad ran across the changing room fully clothed and landed on top of a thrashing, splashing Draco. As soon as he felt the weight and heat of the other body, the pleasure that was promised by the contact stilled Draco and he lay back obediently. Their mouths met in a scorching kiss.

Hands clawed at wet fabric, ripping where they could, scrabbling close to skin. Their chests were soon bare. Draco sighed at the contact of flesh on flesh, then whimpered as Marcus' strong, tough-skinned fingertips found his nipples.

Marcus pulled back from the kiss so that he could watch pale flesh grow rosy, watchful eyes dilate then close, and stiff, formal respectability unravel under his touch. Draco's hips pushed upwards, grinding his erection against Marcus' belly.

Slowly, Marcus peeled down Draco's leggings, crawling backwards down his body and out of the stall, into the dry air which made his wet skin shiver. He stepped back into the warm water, putting out a hand for Draco to grab. As he hauled him to his feet, he closed the shower stall door, shutting them up in their own steamy space.

Pale blond strands of hair were stuck down flat over Draco's head. He was directly under the jets of water. He blinked at the droplets threatening to run into his eyes. Marcus circled him, kissing his way along collar-bone and shoulders. The palms of Draco's hands smoothed their way down Marcus' well-defined chest to his waistband. He hooked his thumbs under and tugged hard, wrenching the soaked fabric down over dark-haired, firm thighs. Marcus' hard, red cock flicked up as it was released.

They stroked each other in a shared rhythm, increasing pressure, gaining speed, until Draco threw his head back to moan out. Instead, his mouth filled with water and he spluttered. Marcus chuckled. Draco faced him with fire in his eyes and spat a stream of water into his face. Marcus retaliated with a tickle and soon they were wrestling, squirming round, laughing, pinching, scratching.

There was never any doubt which one of them would win: Marcus was built of packed muscle and soon had the slight youngster pinned to the wall.

"Surrender?" he muttered into his ear, followed by a lick to the lobe.

"That depends on what you do to your prisoners," Draco responded breathlessly.

Marcus' chest vibrated against Draco's, hot breath huffing onto the skin of his neck. Then he reversed their positions, placing himself against the tiled wall, and Draco back under the head of the shower.

"I'm not going to do anything. I'm wondering what you are going to do for me."

Draco stepped back, breaking the contact of their dripping skin and muttered, "You'd better turn round then."

"Sir!" Marcus saluted. It was a pretty sharp salute, but the effect was undermined by the wink which accompanied it. Then, slowly, his hips wiggling in a dance of display, his knees still bound together by his half-stripped leggings, he turned himself to face the tiles.

Draco slammed forward, squashing the bigger body between his own and the wall. They both laughed, the laughter gradually quieting down to a concentrated panting as Draco's long, slim finger traced its way between Quidditch-toned buttocks. Marcus leaned forwards, bracing one arm against the wall, his other hand thrusting awkwardly into the twisted, wet material of his trouser pocket. He pulled out the lube; Draco snatched from him.

Marcus' hand reached up and behind him to stroke Draco's face, then he placed it against the wall, too. Draco curled his hand round, to stop the running water from rinsing the lubricant straight off them. He quickly pushed the slicked finger into Marcus, making him gasp.

"Ok?" he checked.

Marcus nodded. He thrust back against the finger. Then, carefully, but confidently, Draco moved it and wriggled it, dancing easing circles to open him up. Then there was another finger, more movement, panting and groaning, warm water beating onto sensitised skin. Draco bit his lower lip to try to keep his composure – just a little bit. Just enough.

He pushed his long, slim fingers into the hot, welcoming softness as far as they would go. He curled them in the place that he remembered and Marcus' sharply drawn breath told him that he had remembered right.

He reached up onto his tiptoes, did his best to lubricate his cock in spite of the steadily flowing water, and then pushed in.

"Right?" he asked. He wasn't sure whether he was asking if Marcus was iall/i right, or whether he was asking his instructor whether he had got this right.

Marcus' broad ribcage rose and fell a few times under his own. Then he nodded. Draco eased his pelvis forward, as gently as he could manage, his knees beginning to tremble. When he was all the way in, he stilled.

"Gonna kill me," Marcus mumbled, shaking his head lightly.

Draco let himself move. The angle was difficult but he barely noticed. His entire consciousness was focused on his groin. He couldn't feel the water any more, or see the gleaming tiles. The only things outside of his own body which he noticed, were Marcus' good-looking body and the wanton, desperate noises he was making.

It felt so good to know that he was doing that to Marcus Flint – the hardest Quidditch professional in the league; the ruthlessly cool manipulator; idol of all wizards and lust-object of deluded witches; skilled co-ordinator of his own body; experienced lover. Even though Draco had been a virgin two weeks ago, he knew how to make this man dissolve.

He reached round for Marcus' hard, dripping cock. Only a few seconds after he touched it, it exploded and a guttural scream filled the changing rooms. Marcus' come shot hard onto the shower wall, where it was immediately washed off again. The big man began to collapse, but not before Draco's own climax shook his slender frame.

They fell together onto the floor, gifting each other with languid little kisses in the steam.

Draco was woken by the insistent tapping of a hard beak on ancient glass. It was early, the light creeping across Marcus' bedroom floor was greyish. He opened his reluctant eyelids and saw the worried-looking profile of his lover.

"It's an owl," he said croakily.

Marcus swallowed. "It is," he answered, without looking away from the ceiling.

"It'll be for you; it's your room," Draco mumbled before rolling his face back down onto Marcus' broad chest. The older man didn't make any movement, though, so Draco peeled his sticky thighs away from the muscular leg he had wound himself around in sleep. He glanced back once as he crossed to the window, to find Marcus watching him anxiously.

Draco stopped. "Do you know the bird?" he checked.

The head shook wordlessly on the pillow.

"Then what are you so worried about?" Draco asked dismissively.

Marcus didn't answer so Draco opened the window and the large tawny entered with a hop. As the fresh mountain air rushed in, Draco realised how stuffy the bedroom had got. He thought for a moment of leaving the window opened – but the smell of the room was the scent of them and of their lovemaking, so he decided to keep it, gently closing the window with a light click.

Draco removed the scroll from the owl's leg. Marcus sat bolt upright in the bed and snapped out "Shit!" from between his teeth. Puzzled, Draco checked out the seal.

"It's from St Mungo's," he said.

"I know. Look, don't ... I mean, maybe I should ... or no, I don't know. You open it. No don't! Burn it!"

"I'm opening it." Draco read it through to himself then looked over to the bed. "It's fine," he said. "She's fine. Shall I read it to you? Do you want to read it?"

He made his way over to the four-poster, ignoring the impatient owl scratching at the window to be let out again. He opened up the scroll and they read it silently together:

iAlicia Spinnet, (occupation, Chaser: Wimbourne Wasps), was released from our care last night, fully recovered from her injuries with no permanent damage. No further treatment is advised. All registered interested parties are being informed./i

Draco looked at his lover and smiled. He was astonished to see that Marcus' rugged face was wet with tears. Silently, he dropped the letter onto the blanket to wrap both of his arms round Marcus, and lower his dark head onto his shoulder. They sat like that in silence for many minutes, before Marcus looked up.

"I thought ..." he choked down a sob " ... I thought ... when she dropped out of the air ... that I'd killed her." He pushed his face against the tear-dampened skin of Draco's shoulder. "I didn't think it would bother me so much. Couldn't think about anything else. I really didn't want her to die."

"She didn't die," Draco soothed.

"Made me think about ... I'd never thought much. Been on my mind all this time: how she felt."

"Well, she feels fine now."

"She'll even play again. That's what it says, isn't it?"

"It says there's no permanent damage. She'll play again. So will you." He ran his fingers through Marcus' short, brown hair. "So will you," he whispered into his ear.

"I think I can now. If she'd been paralysed - or worse - I don't think I would have had the nerve."

"Don't worry. Nobody died." Draco gently kissed Marcus' wide mouth, tasting salt. "Neither of us killed anyone," he said softly. Almost silently he added, "But it was close."

They sat up, naked, in the bed, holding each other tight. Draco soothed his hands down Marcus' tanned, strong back. He brought their mouths back together. The kiss started off tender, but gradually the passion built in both of them and it became heated, harder.

Draco lay back, pulling his lover on top of him. As he sucked on the thick tendons of Marcus' neck and scratched at his back, his legs fell apart. He wriggled his hips down until he felt the hard, hot press of cock on his perineum. Then he wrapped his legs round Marcus' waist – kicking off the bedding as he moved.

"You're so lovely." Marcus' voice was muffled by Draco's shoulder.

Draco pulled Marcus' hand up from where it was stroking his thigh. He got the lube out from under the pillow where they had left it the night before and squirted it all over Marcus' broad-knuckled fingers. He placed those fingers where he needed them to be, at his hole, and relaxed as Marcus prepared him. When he decided he was ready, he raised his hips and guided Marcus' cock in.

There was a burning feeling, but it was so swamped by the shimmering, satisfying sensation deep within him, that he hardly noticed it. He wasn't afraid of the pain any more. He wasn't afraid of anything as long as Marcus was with him.

And Marcus was with him, he was above him and all over him and inside him. He was flushed and panting and smiling. They thrust together until they both came, then lay contented, watched the owl from St Mungo's growing increasingly frantic as it scratched at the window, both too bone-tired now to let it out.