A bludger zooms overhead.
The beater moves defensively. Miss. Nearly topples from his broom with the force of the blow. There will be a bruise under his shirt later. Draco grins.
The quaffle is volleyed back and forth between two chasers whose names the young Slytherin has not deemed important before one, a dark skinned girl of African descent sends it to the goal. Blocked. Return. Repeat
Draco leans in against the wall, secure in the shadow of the building as he watches the Gryffindor Quidditch practice. It would be unbearably tedious, but the blond is not about to give up a free pass to watch Potter sweat and zip around on his Firebolt. The off-white trousers are pulled taught against his backside as he leans forward on the broomstick, pushing for speed as he chases the near-invisible snitch. Delicious.
Really, though, it's not every day he gets to enjoy the luxury of Harry Potter's bum without the distraction of antagony and competition. Even now he can hear those two fat idiots stomping towards him. Bastards. Surely they can manage to survive without him for five bloody seconds.
Apparently not.
"Oi! What are you doing out here? We've been looking everywhere for you!"
"Are you collectin' intel or somethin'? Plannin' to hex his broomstick again?"
Draco rolls his eyes and shrugs off the wall, spinning on his heel back towards the school. "Doesn't matter now, you two have ruined it. Did you actually need something, or were you just lost and stupid without me?"
Goyle has the decency to look insulted. He sneers and opens his mouth in what might have been a challenge, but an elbow to the ribs cuts him off before he manages to defend himself. Pity, Draco feels like he could use some conflict right about now. Quidditch practice really is dreadfully boring, minus the fact that he's still half hard.
Crabbe manages to look unphased by the insults, commonplace that they are.
"You told us to remind you at half four to start on your potions assignment. We really have been looking all over for you. Could'a told us you were comin' here 'n saved us the trouble!" He looks a bit put out for a moment before shrugging and following behind the blond.
"Oh, yeah..." Draco sighs and walks mindlessly to the library, only vaguely aware that his two companions are still talking. He has no way of knowing if they are actually talking to him or to each other, or if each of them are actually just talking to themselves. Doesn't matter anyway. Maybe he'll get lucky and Potter will skip the shower and pass through the library on the way to the Gryffindor common room still ruffled and sweaty. Unlikely but it's a nice mental image regardless.
He shakes his head slightly, trying to push aside his arousal. Potions.
It turns out Draco had actually been paying a modicum of attention when he spied on the Gryffindor team. Apparently he had subconsciously picked up on all the tricks, weaknesses, and improvements of the other, unimportant players during practice and even more surprisingly, he was able to relay the information to the Slytherin captain. Practice is uneventful but the team leaves with the hope of actually beating their rival this year.
Freshly showered and redressed, Draco slinks past the Gryffindor table jeering at the Quidditch team that always seems to sit close together to "watch your backs next week!" Inwardly smirking as Potter goes red in the face, obviously trying to come up with a witty reply of some kind. Too late, though as the blond is half way across the canteen now. L'espirit de l'escalier, he supposes. No matter.
Draco sits across from his usual companions, strategically facing the opposite end of the room so as to have an eye on Harry while he socializes with his little friends. Again, he has no idea what the two idiots at his table are actually going on about, something about that Irish kid and a presumably malformed charm resulting in a catastrophe of some sort. Or something. He hums in what seems to be appropriate places. He doesn't think Crabbe or Goyle actually expect him to be listening anyway. At the moment he is sidetracked by the fact that both Potter and his pathetic ginger friend both appear to be eating their dinner one-handed. The gap in the seating is not enough for Draco to have a clear view under the table but he suspects those missing hands to be involved in a non-heteronormative activity of some kind that leaves the pure-bred seething in irrational, possessive jealousy.
"Malfoy?" Goyle prods tentatively. Apparently Draco's possessive rage was a little too obvious and now he's gone and drawn attention to himself. Damn.
"Nothing. What were you saying? Something about Charms class," he tries to steer the conversation back towards safer territory.
"D.A.D.A., actually, I said the professor's got to be mad if he expects us to have memorized..."
Potter's fucking Weasley, that stupid, simple, ginger, bastard. Or even worse, Weasley is fucking Harry Potter. His Harry Potter. Draco 's Harry Potter. This is unacceptable. He hadn't a problem with the Gryffindor going off with his little girlfriends, there was no comparison there, but to think that Potter has been shagging a boy who is not Draco Malfoy is unimaginable. Sure, they hate each other and Harry Potter would probably rather cut his own arm off than be buggered by Draco, but that hardly matters.
It is high time Harry Potter knows who he belongs to. Chosen One or not, that little four-eyed twat is going to learn his place. Draco Lucius Malfoy does not share his toys.
He's got a plan.
The following week saw Draco decked out in full Green and Silver Quidditch gear, leading his team onto the pitch. Crossing the field, he swaggers up to Potter leading the gaudily dressed Gryffindor team up opposite.
"Care to make a friendly wager, Potter?" Draco asks, crossing his arms arrogantly, cocky attitude intentionally provocative, though not quite so much as to start a fight. Just enough to get Potter's attention and get him all puffed up like an angry kitten. Adorable.
Predictably, Draco's tone sets him on edge and he tenses. "What are you talking about, Malfoy?" he spits.
Draco grins. "If you win, I will personally pay for Gryffindor's victory party; food and liquor included. If I win, however, you have to do whatever I want."
The brunet pauses, visibly considering the offer.
"Hell yeah, Harry!" Weasley pipes up, Finnigan on his tail.
"Kick his arse, Harry! Make him shell out for the good stuff!"
"You haven't lost to him yet, Harry!" chimes some voice Draco doesn't recognise.
Potter makes a vague quelling motion. "Why?" he asks. Not overly bright, though Draco figures that's what he has Granger for.
"I want something from you when I win," he admits honestly.
The other boy doesn't look convinced. Shows what he knows. "Katie's right, though; you've never beat me before. Why are you so confident now?" he narrows his eyes suspiciously, green eyes glistening like an AK.
Draco shrugs. There's no more chance of him winning than any other year, but he is still the only seeker whose skill even comes close to Potter's own. And the Gryffindor had lost before; he wasn't infallible.
"Because I have a little something called confidence, look it up sometime. Do you agree to the terms or not?" Draco pushes, bored of this argument and ready to start the game.
"Promise not to cheat?"
Bloody, buggering-
He rolls his eyes, but indulgently lays his right hand over his heart, left hand aloft, "On my honour," he insists. Potter squints at him for a few more moments, but eventually relents, holding his hand out to shake.
Draco shakes his hand, inwardly crowing with victory – just in time, too, because Hooch was fast approaching to start the game.
Now all he has to do is win.
Draco flies alongside the other seeker, both ignoring the game playing around them, though Draco does, occasionally, keep an eye on the board, making sure Slytherin stays close enough in points that the extra 150 would actually win them the game. It seems that Slytherin's leading by a close margin, though, so his planning is paying off.
Neither player has caught sight of the snitch yet, zig-zagging around each other; each one taking the inside, outside, top, bottom, orbiting one another even as their eyes dart to and fro looking for the faint glimmer of the ball.
Then he sees it.
Just on the edge of his periphery, the tell-tale golden shine taunts him from the corner of the pitch. It's on Draco's side, and Potter hasn't spotted it yet.
The Slytherin inches forward, just barely taking the lead, though not enough to alert Potter that there is a race yet to be won. He attempts to stay within the Gryffindor's field of sight, hoping to block any sight of the snitch. Draco can still see it, flitting aimlessly by the flags. They fly closer... closer... finally they are within shooting distance and the snitch senses them, darting off to the side and Draco gives chase, cutting Potter off at the helm, clipping the front of his broom and sending him briefly spiralling downward.
By the time Potter has righted himself, Draco is in hot pursuit and closing in. He leans forward, hugging the broom to urge himself faster. Potter is gaining behind him, but for once in his life, Draco ignores the brunet, zeroing in on the snitch.
Potter overcomes him and Draco snarles, shoving him bodily over. The two fight mid-air, snitch in their sights at all times. Suddenly it turns sharply upward. Simultaneously the two seekers tip their brooms up toward the sky, flying vertically in chase of the golden ball.
They near closer, both boys holding their arms out, fingers reaching, when suddenly it veers off slightly, disappearing in the blinding glare of the evening sun.
Draco swears internally, but keeps his arm out, stretching his hand out farther.
There!
The faint flutter of wings against his fingertips.
He blindly searches out the body and finally, finally grasps it, just as it tries to fly off in the opposite direction.
He caught the snitch.
He caught the snitch.
Bloody buggering fucking shit; he's actually fucking won!
"What's this? Malfoy's caught the golden snitch! Slytherin wins!" The fans in the Slytherin stands are deafening in their cheers, screaming over the opponents booing and Jordan's muffled, indistinct swearing over the microphone.
Honestly, though, Draco can't hear any of it; the world tunes itself out while Draco sits frozen on his broom, staring incomprehensibly down at the snitch in his palm.
It's not that he's never caught the snitch before; he's a damn good seeker. But he has actually beat Harry Potter this time. He'd hoped and planned, but...
Nothing's ever quite the same in reality.
He beat Potter.
He has a prize to cash in.
Draco lands on the field long after everyone else and is immediately accosted by ecstatic team-mates. He allows them to bask in his glory for a moment before shouldering his way through the crowd to find Potter.
"Good game, Malfoy," the brunet offers graciously, if reluctantly.
"Yes, thank you, I know," Draco rattles off automatically. "Now for my winnings."
Potter winces and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Do we really have to do this? Can't I just pay you whatever you were going to shell out for Gryffindor?"
Draco raises a pale eyebrow. "Potter, believe me, neither I nor our House are in need of your gold. Thanks for the offer, but it's entirely unnecessary. I mean, please, feel free to pay for our party, as it's likely to be spectacular and expensive; after all, best leave your own resources for last, that's just common sense. Your choice, though. You shook on our deal, however. My prize is one bespectacled, green-eyed Gryffindor, and I will expect you tomorrow night at midnight in front of the Slytherin dormitories. Don't be late, I'll not be chasing after you, but I will get you back for standing me up, so don't."
The brunet bites his lip, glancing back at his team. "Fine," he mumbles, and turns sharply away, shoulders hunched up around his ears like he is trying to hide within himself.
The shame must be eating him alive.
Gods, it felt good to best him for once. Let him wallow in his failure, see how he likes it.
He almost can't wait for tomorrow, but he has an inordinate amount of alcohol awaiting him, and he isn't about to hold back for Potter's sake.
Tomorrow.
The next evening, Draco waits outside the portrait, eyes on his pocket-watch as he waits for Potter to arrive. It has just gone midnight, but he won't count the boy as late, quite yet.
Thankfully, he's had all day to deal with the, frankly, massive hangover that had plagued him most of the day, and feels none the worse for it now.
He'd slept off a lot of it earlier, and was wide awake and alert waiting for his guest to arrive. He's been planning this night for over a week. Longer if you counted the (many) baseless fantasies he'd had over the last few months (years). Suffice to say, tonight's been a long time coming, and he's fortunate that he feels up for it, because the disappointment he would feel if he were ill... Well, actually he'd probably go ahead and continue no matter how much like shite he felt. These opportunities came but once in a life time, and nothing short of death or the Dark Lord himself could tear him away. Consequences be damned.
Ah, and here's Potter, now.
"Malfoy," he greets curtly.
"Potter," Draco responds in kind. "Come along, now," he opens the portrait, which he had kept cracked open while he waited, ushering the Gryffindor inside.
Potter looks around curiously, but seems unaffected by the splendour of the Slytherin common room. Well, that wouldn't do.
"Pretty nice, huh, Potter?" he prompts, to which the shorter boy merely shrugs.
"Yeah, I guess. It's not the first time I've been in here before, though, so it's nothing I haven't seen."
What the fuck?
"When were you ever in Slytherin House?" Draco demands, pulling Potter to a stop beside him, pale hand squeezing the other boy's arm.
Potter shrugged evasively and smirked, taunting.
No, seriously: what the fuck?
Draco gapes, but quickly composes himself, pinching his lips shut and tugging the sneaky little Gryffindor along after him. The other tries to pull his arm free, but Draco only squeezes tighter, leading him onward. He hopes it bruises.
Draco leads them down a corridor away from the dormitories, and opens a nondescript door which opens into an empty guest room. Ostensibly, this room would belong to any potential guests hosted by Slytherin House – parents, visiting or substitute professors, et cetera, and was off-limits to students. In practice, however, this corridor hosted private bedrooms for the intimate rendezvous of any upper-classmen lucky enough to have a reason to pay for it. Draco, himself has already paid a Galleon for the private room, and the door, like the portrait, is cracked open for his convenience.
He pulls Potter inside, and shut the door, the locking mechanism clicking automatically behind them.
Potter looks at the nondescript bed and neutrally toned walls and then glances at Malfoy in confusion. He gestures to the room as a whole.
"I expected we'd have an audience," he confesses.
Draco snorts. "Um, no."
Dark eyebrows furrow. "You don't want to show off how you have 'Harry Potter' at your command? Were you thinking more of having me do your homework or taking pictures of me in girl's clothes or something?"
The blond stares balefully at the poor, innocent child in front of him. "Harry," he started in an uncharacteristically gentle voice that immediately sets the Gryffindor on edge, "I have better marks than you in almost every single class."
"Although," he continues as Potter opens his mouth to protest, "the cross-dressing thing has merit. We'll have to do that another time, though, I don't have any supplies right now." At that, the younger boy pales, visibly regretting having brought up the suggestion. "No, I was thinking of something a little more... personal."
Potter tilts his head in a way that Draco refuses to categorize as 'adorable' (although it absolutely was), and Draco elaborates. "The only audience you're going to have tonight is me," he promises. "And while you are my prize, and you did agree to do whatever I wanted, you should probably pick out a safe-word, just in case."
"What am I going to need a safe-word for?" Potter asks obtusely.
Draco blinked. "For safety." Obviously.
Potter has the audacity to roll his eyes, "I know what it's for ," he says, "but why do I need one?"
The Slytherin looks pointedly at the bed before looking into his rival's green eyes again, "So you can tell me to stop if you're too uncomfortable."
The brunet flushes brightly, lost for words. He turns and stared at the bed then back to Draco. "We're not actually going to...?" he asks.
Draco frowns and thinks for a moment. "I suppose we don't have to. I'll tell you what," he offers, "I promise not to touch you until you ask for it. Fair?"
"I... Okay?"
"Besides, it's all about you doing what I say, right? I can have plenty of fun with that without touching you."
Potter hesitates before finally asking, "Like what?"
Draco grins.
"You can touch yourself."
The Gryffindor stares, open mouthed. "You're serious?" he asks, and Draco nods. "You want to watch me...?"
"That's right."
He turns to look at the bed for a long moment and Draco lets him collect himself, watching carefully.
"So..." Potter trails, "should I... start?"
Well, that was easy.
Draco releases a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, tension leaving him. "Of course not, you'll wait until I tell you to. First you have to pick out a safe-word. You know, just in case."
"Why can't I just say 'stop'?" he asks. Merlin.
The blond sighs, "Because sometimes 'stop' doesn't mean 'stop'. Sometimes it means 'slow down', or 'I'm a little uncomfortable but otherwise fine', or 'ignore me, I'm just protesting for the sake of protesting, and I actually want you to keep going'. So for clarity, you need a word that means 'cease everything at once'."
"Oh..." Potter bites his lip (which is quite fetching, actually, and makes Draco wants to take it between his own teeth, though he holds himself back in the face of his promise). "How about 'Voldemort'?"
The Slytherin flinches. "Can you not pick something else? Like, literally, any other word? Salazar," he mutters under his breath, goose-pimples pricking his skin.
Potter raises a brow in challenge. "Oh, do you think you'll want to keep going if I called 'Voldemort'" he invokes again, and Draco shivers.
Cheeky, vindictive little...
"Fine! Whatever. Take your shirt off."
The order was purposefully abrupt and did its job in jarring his partner, leaving the other boy wrong-footed. Hesitantly the brunet unbuttons the threadbare dress shirt and shrugs it off his shoulders. There wasn't even a vest underneath it, just pale, olive coloured skin and perky, brown nipples that Draco wants to set his mouth on.
There was a chair facing the bed which Draco sits himself in, the other boy turning himself to face him.
"Take off your shoes and socks and set them by the door," he says, thighs spreading open casually, cock filling in his trousers.
Potter toes off the shoes but bent double to remove his socks, perky arse in the air. Draco licks his lips, watching as the Gryffindor's hips sway as he walks over to the door and back, awaiting further orders. The blond can see that the blush that coloured the Gryffindor's cheeks continue down his chest, and he admits the boy had a good idea when he suggested taking pictures.
"Trousers now, but leave the pants." He sucks in his stomach uselessly, unfastening his fly and letting the fabric pool around his ankles. Draco groans at the sight of Potter standing in nothing but red and white briefs, front straining slightly over a half-hard cock. He palms himself then reached into his pocket, pulling out a green striped Slytherin tie which he tosses to the younger boy.
"Sit on the bed and tie that over your eyes." Potter gulps audibly, but Draco watches his throat move anyway, Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Obediently, the brunet backs up until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat down, bouncing slightly then hesitantly tying the tie around his eyes, blindfolding himself for Draco's pleasure.
The Slytherin exhales sharply, opening his trousers and pushing a hand inside. "Very good," he praises, relishing in the way Potter relaxes minutely at the reassurance. "Now take off your pants."
That pretty pink lip was back between his teeth again. Potter lays back on the bed, lifting his hips to slide his pants down off his skinny legs, kicking them off his ankle before bringing his legs up onto the bed with him, squeezing them tightly closed to preserve his modesty.
That won't do, though the sight of Potter's pretty naked legs was certainly a treat.
"Spread your legs, Harry," the name feels both strange and natural on his tongue. Harry must have felt similarly because he tenses. Draco was about to reprimand him, reminding him to do as Draco said, but didn't get around to it as at that moment he let his legs butterfly open, baring himself to Draco's gaze.
Fucking gorgeous.
His cock isn't yet fully hard, bobbing half-swollen against his thigh, bollocks hanging over the crease of his arse.
"That's it, Harry, now touch your nipples. Pinch them, play with them, whatever you want, I want to see it." He wants to see the boy make himself hard touching only his pretty little nipples. Wants to play with them himself: bite and suck on them, squeeze them between his fingers, breathe on them and watch them shiver and harden like magic.
It's possible Harry senses what he wants, because he worked himself perfectly. First touching them softly with his thumbs before taking them between thumb and forefinger, twisting and pulling each one lightly. He rolls them between his fingers, pausing occasionally to rub his palm across the hard little nubs, maybe feeling, maybe just to soothe the hurt, though from the way his erection swells, it's obvious that whatever pain there was wasn't unwelcome.
"Perfect," Draco breathes, and Harry's breath hitches, fingers twitching. "Touch your cock now."
He isn't hesitant any more, his hand immediately goes to his erection, palming himself. He holds himself loosely in hand and strokes leisurely, hips rising of their own accord.
"Put your other fingers in your mouth." He can just barely see at this angle the way Harry's eyebrows creases in confusion, but to his credit he doen't over-think it, popping three fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking on them.
"There you go, get them nice and wet," he pulls his cock out, stroking it firmly as he watches Harry buck up into his own fist, sucking his fingers like a perfect little whore.
"Now rub your arse – You don't have to put them inside, but I want you to rub the rim."
Harry's thighs shake, chest heaving as his breath quickens. He stays silent though, breathing deep to brace himself then slowly spread his legs. Feet planted far apart, he pushes up on his heels fingers trailing down behind his balls and farther, glistening wet fingers tentatively probing at his tight hole.
They doesn't push inside, though whether that was because he was told he didn't have to or because he wasn't explicitly told to do so remains unclear. Still as they get more familiar, his other hand relaxes back into its rhythm, pumping a little faster as his fingers rub and toy at his rim.
The Gryffindor pants open mouthed, the room fills with the slick sounds of flesh on flesh, Draco and Harry both striping their cocks. Draco watches a pearl of precome dribble down the other's cock and his tongue darts out involuntarily, eager to lap it up in spite of the distance.
Harry's hips rock up into his hand then bear down, middle finger just barely breaching the ring of muscle.
Suddenly he stops. "Draco?" he calls. The blond wasn't sure what the issue was, but answers regardless.
"Yeah?"
"Is this okay?" Draco doesn't answer, puzzled, and Harry clarified, "Can I put my fingers in yet?" he asks.
"Oh!" that cleared that up, "Yeah, yes. Definitely." Gods yes, please do!
Harry sighs in relief, pushing his finger further in, hips pushing down on it.
"Draco?" he asks again.
"What?"
"Have you got any, um, lube? Or something? It's just, I'm... uh..." he whimpers a little, twisting the head of his cock between his fingers, trailing off.
"Shit," Draco mutters, mostly to himself since Harry was barely listening. The Slytherin grabs his wand and approaches the bed. "Hold out your hand, will you?" The appendage darts out eagerly, palm up. Draco casts a charm into the offered hand, lubricant spurting out of the tip of his wand onto Harry's skin. The boy flinches, shocked at the sensation and blind, but slicks his fingers with it nonetheless.
Draco doesn't bother to move back to his chair, kneeling instead on the floor by the bed, resuming the attention to his cock when Harry immediately pushes his middle finger inside. His hips rock back and forth, seeking attention at both ends.
Draco watches for a moment, then- "Another finger, now." He's leaned forward while he watched and his breath puffs gently across the sensitive skin of Harry's inner thigh, though apparently that's enough to startle the boy who jerks in surprise.
"You're really close," he observes breathlessly.
"You look fucking amazing," Draco reasons. Harry huffs what might have been a laugh then moaned loudly when he pushes a second finger inside him.
"Fuck! Fuck, it's tight..."
Draco fists his hand in his pant-leg to prevent himself from touching. "Shhh..." he soothes impotently, "it's all right, you can take it. Relax a bit, it'll loosen."
Harry spreas his legs wider, lifting them up, but dropping them when he realises he had no leverage, fingers darting in and out hypnotizingly.
"Okay..." some of the tension in his stomach eases as he grows accustomed to the digits inside him. Suddenly he gasps loudly, the sound so sharp it's nearly a scream.
"Fuuuck..." Draco swears. "There it is, yeah, rub it for me."
He does, fingers no longer pistoning inside him, instead rubbing, grinding at that spot inside him. Harry keens, hand leaving his cock to hold his leg up, folding himself in half to keep the angle, hips still thrusting, trying to fuck itself on his hand.
Harry's cock is dripping wet, come bubbling out, dripping onto his stomach as he milks his prostate. Draco's own is little better, could probably fuck the other boy even without the help of the lubricant.
"Draco!" Harry sobs, fingers shaking inside him with the effort of keeping up the overwhelming circular motion.
"What do you want, baby?" Draco cajoles mindlessly, eyes locked on the pink little hole, swollen and wet around Harry's fingers.
"You can touch me now! Please! Please, I need- Aah!" He screams, Draco had darted forward before he finished his sentence, yanking the fingers out and replacing them with his tongue, hands holding Harry's shaking thighs, folding the boy in half.
The lubricant is sugary-sweet and Harry himself is musky and earthy and hot and tight around his tongue. He thrusts it inside, tasting, fucking him with it before swirling around the rim, sucking and lapping at it.
He gluts himself on it, and Harry was so close he never stood a chance, quickly tensing, cum shooting in ropes across his stomach and chest, splashing his chin. Draco does't stop until Harry is sobbing, over-sensitive and overwhelmed.
He drops Harry's legs which flop uselessly over the edge of the bed, moving up to clean up the mess on Harry's quivering stomach, fisting himself desperately. He finally sets his mouth on Harry's chest, both boys groaning at the sensation, and Draco loses himself, coming over Harry's spent cock.
Panting and shaking, Draco trails kisses up Harry's neck before licking into his mouth, ripping the tie off his head.
Harry moans sleepily, arms wrapping around Draco's shoulders as his mouth relents to Draco's ministrations.
Finally he pulls away and flops down next to him, both laying half on-half off the bed, chests heaving, hair mussed.
"Fuck," Harry says, eyes blinking against the light.
"Yeah," Draco agrees.
"Was this your plan the whole time?" Harry asks, turning his head to face the blond.
"Yeah," he repeats. "Are you fucking Weasley?"
"What?" The Gryffindor weakly props himself up on his elbows, looking down at him. "No!" he exclaims, scandalized. "Wait, which one?" He shook his head, "Never mind, none of them! No! Ugh!"
Harry shudders in disgust and Draco grins. "Fantastic."
"What would you ask that?" Harry demands.
"'Cos the only boy you're allowed to shag is me," he says simply.
"Oh," Harry flops back down, arms too weak to hold himself up. "That's all right then."