Theorem Arc

V=D/T

[Velocity]

It took every molecule of pure-blooded stamina Draco Malfoy had swimming through his aristocratic bloodstream to impel his rangy body a fraction of that most important millimeter forward; paradoxically, it demanded nothing at all. The effort had already been made, all those months ago. Years.

Draco sighed and angled with surgical precision, his lips twisting delicately over Harry's, quicksilver tongue darting to seduce. He kept his keen Seeker's eyes tightly closed, partially in acceptance of his overwhelming need to concentrate solely on touch, with no other distractions; partially because he acknowledged the monumental effort Potter had just made on his behalf, backing Draco into the wall like this – tilting his chin up just so. Mostly because this way he could feel and taste and inhale and finally allow himself the freedom of wanting a fuck of a lot more, right now.

And, as he wished it, perhaps because he wished it, the stone at his back shifted. On cue, Harry walked forward, never taking his mouth from Draco's, never hesitating. Draco stumbled backward, but not before he took against himself the comforting length of a Potter pressing all the way down his shivering frame, shoulder to chest to belly, thigh and shin. The uncomfortable crick in his neck from bending over Potter meant nothing, as little as the reddened scrape developing along his upper arm where the door's ragged wooden frame caught above his tight-bent elbow on the way past. Later, he'd maybe regret the loss of another Italian wool jumper; later, he might wish that Potter could've for once picked a cleaner, less disreputable place for them to shag, but for now the only things that had any bearing on the universe were Harry's tongue and Harry's hands and Harry's—

Malfoy nearly sobbed aloud when Potter ripped his mouth away, feeling his hopes wither in the vacuum.

"H-Harry?"

Potter was forging forward, clear-eyed, something more than mere inertia apparently keeping him moving, the arm around Draco's waist hauling him inescapably along as well, and Draco stumbled again, turning sideways to frontways and organizing his shaky legs in concert fast enough to accommodate Potter's marginally shorter stride.

"Come on."

The passageway was as dirty as Draco remembered it: all cobwebs and mousebones crunching, dead tendrils of some light-abhorrent vine creeping up damp granite block. It narrowed and Draco had to duck and hunch all too soon, which only made the tension in his nape and temples that much worse. He realized he wasn't breathing again, cursed Potter silently, and sucked in deliberate mouthfuls of musty air as he rushed helter-skelter. There was a wooden panel above his head before he knew it and then Potter was scrambling up a rickety ladder, balancing impossibly with one hand shoving up the flimsy trapdoor and the other one - equally grubby - extended back to Draco behind him. Draco took the hand gratefully and used his own free one to follow Potter up. He was vastly unsurprised to find himself in a storeroom, fighting off an overbearing miasma of sugar.

'This way."

The glamour was a waft of warm air. Draco blinked and blinked again at the lights of Honeydukes, swallowing back nervous bile. His stomach clenched at the odor of chocolate, the earthy wellings of butter and cinnamon and black current syrup. Harry had his dirty, rough hand caught round securely round Draco's forearm now and was urging him forward again. A good thing, Draco realized, because he was going to vomit immediately if he didn't get out of there. They were in the darkened street in seconds, the shopbell clattering faintly behind them, and Draco gratefully got back to coordinating his breathing again, feeling his lungs inflate and compress as he willed them.

"Finally!" he muttered, impatiently, mostly inaudibly. Blast Potter for doing this the hard way!

They walked faster now, pacing down the lamp-lit cobbles quietly, darkened storefronts presenting yet more memories of Hogsmeade weekends past. The glamours fell from both their features, unnoticed. After a minute of two of rapid perambulation, Harry spoke.

"I've got a room reserved – you hungry? Thirsty? Want a drink?"

The bright green glance sent in his direction was blandly inquiring and Draco suppressed the normal urge to pound the face that surrounded it into smithereens. How the fuck could Harry think he wanted mere food? More food?! Cretin! Alcohol – well, maybe, if only to slow his thundering heart rate, but then he'd begrudge the time it took to drink it and Harry had enough to put up with without adding Draco's foul temper and they should just get to the bloody room and do what they needed to do. Now.

"No!"

Draco's regular voice was rusty, as he hadn't used it for so long. Not to talk to Potter, at least. He hadn't spoken much to anyone, really, even if it was clear that most of the other students – the 6th, 7th and '8th' Years at least – accepted his presence without too much trouble. That was…nice. He hadn't expected it, but then the Trials had been very well broadcast and Potter and his cronies had made it their zealous mission to stomp out prejudice from the very get-go. Even Lucius probably would've gotten a shortened sentence, had he lived. But he hadn't; simple pneumonia had carried off his already curse-weakened body within a month of being sent to Azkaban. The time remaining of Draco's foreshortened summer break had been sucked up by lawyers and trustees and goblins and the Ministry – and his mum, heartbroken and inconsolable. Thank Merlin for wily Aunt Andromeda, who had gotten through when an equally forlorn seventeen-year old boy could not.

Potter had been at Hogwarts all that time, as near as a portkey and a short, hard walk, as far as the closest galaxy. Draco spent the early morning hours of most days wondering if he dared pleasantly surprise Potter with his company, maybe invite him out to breakfast. Maybe climb into his bed if he could get past the wards and the remaining phalanx of DA members and Aurors and displaced students no doubt milling around the Boy like mayflies.

"Not at all. Get the fuck along, you twat!"

Draco's impatience had already edged him past the smaller teenager; he was the one dragging Harry along now, pell-mell, and Harry was grinning snidely at his back, Draco could feel it. The concept irritated him, as so much did nowadays, no matter how hard he worked on maintaining his peerless control and proper distance and the aloof Malfoy pride he still wore like a prince's mantle.

They fetched up at the newly remodeled Three Broomsticks while Draco was still fuming and Potter stepped past him with assurance, already flirting mildly with the pimply-faced night-clerk manning the desk. A bustle of humming conversation, raucous laughter and clinking glasses rolled toward them from the bar to their right. Silverware and the muted voices of late-dining tourists and leftover Hogwarts parents from the first weekend out trickled in like an insidious fog from their left. Draco noticed suddenly in a rather absent way that his robes were navy instead of grey and his unclaimed wrist and hand were a lovely shade of coffee-brown, one finger bound with a platinum ring. Potter still had a tight grip on his other arm, which somehow prevented Draco from seeking the comfort of smoothing his hair.

"Second floor, please. Two-ought-two. Under 'Evans'. I flooed earlier today."

"Mister and Mister?" The clerk pushed forward a large parchment and a quill, unfazed by Harry's famous smile. Draco didn't take his usual offense at this slight to Potter's undeniable charm, though he did shudder infinitesimally: the tosser was a half-head taller than he right now, rail-thin as Snape and covered in lurid freckles and a fox-red goatee. He wore plaid trousers with a rather loud pattern and was using a loud, vaguely Yankee-styled voice: an escaped tourist, mad for St. Andrews. Yes…perhaps Harry was not at the moment as attractive as usual, but that was alright.

He'd do.

"Yeah, that's us. Y'all still do room service here?"

Potter signed with a flourish as the clerk nodded, Draco peering over his shoulder to see the scrawl of 'H. & D. Evans, Wilts & Conn, USA' taking up all the space in the blank beside 'Room 202'.

Their old room. Nostalgia clutched at Draco's gut for a wavery moment, dragging him down, weakening his knees. Harry remembered—

And he missed the passing to-and-fro of a Muggle credit card and a coffee-spotted menu and an old-fashioned brass key entirely, completely asea in those memories. Harry had him moving again before he realized, this time fully hand-in-hand, and Draco was stumbling up again, this time on a familiar narrow wooden staircase, and bumping gently into Harry's shoulder when Potter came to a stop before a beloved but very nondescript brown door.

On the other side of it he could breathe again, because Harry's mouth was back on his, slipsliding across the twitching corner of it, and then diving in when Draco gave an involuntary smile. Draco groaned and attempted to meld his person into Potter's and nearly gagged on their combined spit before he remembered once again to inhale through his nose. His robe was dragged off while he was recalling how to swallow, sucking Harry's tongue down his throat as far he could go without choking. Well! All those mundane, life-supporting things he'd somehow forgotten how to do, over the endless summer and into the Highlands autumn. He'd have to make a list or some such. Later.

"Me?"

How Potter could manage to verbalize in this situation, Draco didn't know. He paid no attention, hands on Harry's buttons, fumbling and tugging.

"Or."

The flannel shirt was yanked down and off and sent to the floor. A dexterous Harry had vanished Draco's ruined jumper in the meantime, using wandless, wordless magic, and Draco spared a thought to the incontrovertible fact that Potter really was a fucking show-off, as well as a perverted wanker.

"You?"

"Yeah."

Draco loved that about Harry, that shining pride the twink held in the largest and smallest of his various accomplishments, that secret joy that glimmered in his remarkable eyes whenever he outdid himself and managed something all those years of Muggle oppression had formerly convinced him he could not do. He'd been envious of it – the wonder, the innocence – and had not realized for forever that it drew him as much as Potter's raw power did, all along. There'd been only one time Harry's magic had caused Harry real grief – only one, in Draco's experience at least, and that was worst thing the Dark Lord had ever done, in Draco's humble opinion. Draco wished he could take on that regret, free Harry of it, for Draco was learning how to deal capably with loss and he had better defenses than Harry did, being a Malfoy. Most of the time, anyway.

"Please."

No matter what Harry said.

They were both pantless and shirtless now, toeing off shoes. Draco pushed his shoulders away from the door and guided Harry back to the bed, blind and relying on memory for he was fully occupied with nibbling his way down Harry's neck. Potter's knees caught the edge and Draco flung an automatic arm out and they fell sideways in a graceful Malfoy-controlled manner and bounced twice.

Potter moaned just a bit when Draco finished up the second hickey, a wispy sound that had Draco's erection swollen almost beyond endurance. Harry's poke at his chest and muffled snort of laughter did absolutely nothing to reduce the engorgement.

"Hey! Which?"

With typical Malfoy wit and the flash of lightning-fast intelligence Draco had become celebrated for, in classrooms and at war, Draco finally twigged that Potter had asked him some sort of burning question, in the very recent past.

"Whatever. Whichever. Don' care."

And Draco truly didn't mind, as long as it led to them stuck together somehow, glued with cum and spit and sweat. The thought impelled him forward, mouth first, greedy hands and hips a heartbeat behind, and Potter met him and matched him, to Draco's unspoken delight.

"Just—"

In me. Around me. With me. Please.