"Draco! Wait!"
Striding faster, Draco quickened his pace, ignoring the shouts of his own name echoing behind him. He considered breaking into a run but remembered in time that he was a Malfoy and was therefore far too sophisticated for anything as common as running down a school corridor. The next moment, however, as a dark hand reached out to pull him to a stop, he cursed his refined breeding and superior social class.
"Fucking prat, what'd you make me run for?" Blaise demanded, panting.
Draco shrugged. "Personal amusement?"
Blaise snorted and gave him a look. "God, you're insufferable. Now get your albino arse back to the Common Room and don't be an idiot."
At his words, Draco fell silent, simply staring at his friend. The only friend he now had, after Vincent's death and Gregory's self-destructive grief. Even Pansy—stable, reliable Pansy—was gone, now residing in Italy with her parents. Draco missed her terribly. No one was as catty or as prone to gossip as Pansy, and Draco missed her vicious sense of humor and cackling laugh. She was the only one who was even bitchier than he was and he missed it.
Although, Blaise was not without his bitchy side, Draco amended, looking him over. The war had not changed Blaise one bit—he was still just as sarcastic, just as tenacious, and just as unwilling to bend the rules even slightly.
Just to prove Draco's thoughts correct, Blaise grabbed his arm and gave it a sharp tug. "Come on!" he glared. "You can't afford to get into any trouble this year, Draco."
"I'm hardly going to get into any trouble, Blaise," the blond scoffed. Blaise simply raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Not if nobody can see me." And with that Draco whipped out his wand and tapped it smartly on the top of his head. A cold, uncomfortable trickle began to spread from where his wand had connected, creeping down along his body until his limbs were just a hazy outline, causing Blaise's eyes to widen for a fraction of a second before narrowing dramatically.
"I can still fucking see you," he responded tightly.
"Oh, that's only because you know where to look," said Draco, the posh voice issuing from near the top of the vague nearly-transparent shape.
"No," said Blaise slowly, as if he thought Draco incapable of understanding him. "That's because a Disillusionment Charm is not the same as invisibility, you tosser."
"Yes, well, not all of us are sodding Potter with our own sodding Invisibility Cloaks," Draco sniffed. Stupid Potter and his stupid Invisibility Cloak. Although, Draco relented, considering the constantly horrendous state of Potter's hair, the poor boy was lucky to have the Cloak. Or maybe it was the rest of the world that was lucky to be spared the sight of Potter's stupid, messy hair.
Blaise shook his head. "You need to get back to the Common Room, and for the love of fucking Salazar, Draco, you need to stop talking about Potter."
The blond immediately adopted a look of pure outrage, but of course Blaise couldn't see his anger, so he instead settled for huffing loudly and informing Blaise, quite plainly, "I do not talk about Potter! Hardly. Mentioning him in passing does not count as talking about him." Blaise rolled his eyes at that. "Also, you can't tell me what to do."
A dark hand shot out to wrap around his upper arm—damn Blaise, he really could see Draco—and gripped it firmly. "You are coming back to the Common Room, Draco, I mean it. I know exactly where you're going, so unless you want me to follow you and annoy you until you either die or come back, you'll decide on the easier choice right now and come back to the fucking Common Room with me."
With a heavy sigh, Draco considered the options. Not the dying part, of course; he did not plan on being annoyed to death by Blaise Zabini. Picturing the humiliating headstone that would lead to, he shuddered internally. Relenting with another drawn out sigh, he raised one invisible—all right nearly invisible, damn Blaise—hand and tapped the top of his head again, rolling his eyes at the look of relief that crossed the other boy's features.
The hand that had prevented his escape was still clutching him tightly and began to drag him back down the corridor in the direction of the eighth-year Common Room, which was located in a neutral part of the castle. The firm grip refused to release him the entire journey, despite the numerous threats sent its way from the grumbling blond still held captive. They were empty threats and both boys knew it.
It was only once they reached the portrait guarding the entrance—an annoying giggling couple painted holding hands beneath a large apple tree—and Blaise had given the password to reveal the room did he release Draco, who snatched his arm back immediately and began rubbing where Blaise's fingers had gripped.
"If I have even a hint of a bruise anywhere on my body, Blaise Zabini, you shall be met with the exact same fate as your mother's latest husband," Draco glowered, but Blaise simply waved the threat away and flopped into a violet armchair. The large room was decorated in varying hues of purple so as to not show favoritism for a specific house. The eighth-years were scattered around the room, studying or talking, or simply just breathing too loudly and far too often, in Draco's opinion, turning his glare on the offensive shade of red hair guffawing in the corner.
"Checkmate!" the redhead crowed in victory, earning a few chuckles and a good-natured grin from the black-haired loser.
"Stupid Weasel," Draco muttered. "Anybody can beat stupid Potter in chess."
"Oi! Weasley!" Blaise called, grinning at the blond. "Draco wants next."
The glare Draco sent him should theoretically have melted steel—achieving a glare with that ability was a goal Draco had been actively working towards since the age of four—but damn Blaise was far too immune to Draco's tempers.
"Sure," Weasley sniggered. "I always have time to humiliate the Ferret."
"Care to put money on it, Weasel?" Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Sounds boring," he responded loudly. "How 'bout we play for social respect and more than one friend, eh?"
Draco reared back as though slapped and sent his most evil glare—the one he saved for extremely special occasions—at the Gryffindor, fingering his wand and reminding himself that he really couldn't afford to get into any trouble, and hexing Weasley dead would, unfortunately, be guaranteed to upset one or two people.
"If they're your friends we'd be playing for, feel free to keep them," he responded coolly. "I'm surrounded by quite enough plebeians as it is already, thank you."
"Plebs trump Death Eaters," Weasley smirked.
Silence cracked around the Common Room like the sharp lash from a whip. Draco stood with his hands clenched, squeezing his eyes shut tight, willing himself not to Avada Kedavra the stupid ginger idiot. Dragging deep breaths into his lungs before slowly releasing them, he began to calm and when he opened his eyes, the world was no longer shrouded in red.
"Fuck you," he spat, turning on his heel and stomping from the stupid purple room. He could hear the sounds of Blaise scrambling after him as the entrance swung shut and, firmly ignoring the fact that he was a Malfoy and was supposed to always act with the utmost decorum, ran. The echoing sounds of his rapid footsteps slapping against hard stone sounded loudly in his ears as he turned down yet another corridor, finally pausing to lean against the wall and pant heavily. There, he thought savagely. Let Blaise find me now. Deciding to overlook the mental suggestion that it not wise to run from the only person willing to tolerate his company, he shoved away from the wall and continued down the corridor.
When Blaise had dragged him back to the Common Room, the sun had been a low orange ball sinking heavily into the horizon; it was now fully submerged, casting everything into shadow and flickering torchlight. Draco was grateful for the darkness as he wandered aimlessly; everything seemed easier at night, when the world was hushed and most things asleep. It was much harder for an unconscious person to look at him with the same level of scorn and loathing everyone around him managed once awake.
Except for Potter.
Potter, who hadn't even looked in Draco's direction this term. Not once. Draco couldn't decide if being ignored completely by Potter was better or worse than seeing his face twist in disgust at his presence. Not that Draco cared about the prat's opinion, of course. It was just that, as a Malfoy, he was hardly accustomed to being ignored. Especially by lanky bespectacled gits. Maybe Potter's brain had been addled somehow in the final confrontation with the Dark Lord and he had been left even less intelligent than he had started out.
That was it, Draco nodded to himself. Potter had been damaged and was now too stupid to remember to prioritize a certain blond Slytherin into his life. That made sense. That Draco could forgive.
It wasn't until he shivered and realized that everything had grown darker and much colder that he looked around to see where he was. His feet had led him down to the dungeons and he stared in surprise at Snape's office door. Trembling only slightly, he reached out a hand, knowing it would be locked but praying for the universe to be on his side anyway. Fuck you too, universe, he thought dryly as he discovered that the door was indeed locked tight.
Forty-five minutes later and the fucking door still wouldn't budge. Draco kicked at it in frustration, knowing that yelling profanities at a solid oak door was hardly conducive to helping him gain access beyond it, but he couldn't help but swear and kick at it until his toes were bruised and his voice ragged.
Sagging in defeat, he slumped against the wood before sliding to the floor in a dull stupor, hardly caring about the racket he had made and the possibility that it had most likely been heard. What does it matter if I'm expelled? What does any of this fucking matter anymore? he thought dejectedly, clinging to any scrap of self-pity he could feel well up inside. He had never even wanted to return to Hogwarts in the first place—far too many bad memories and far too many people who despised him, such as Potter.
And giving in to the overwhelming temptation to wallow in his immense suffering and despair, Draco lowered his head to his knees and sighed morosely.
But he had only been wallowing for several minutes when a sudden whisper nearly made him shriek. Heart pounding, he leapt to his feet and stared around wildly but could see nothing.
"Malfoy."
This time the voice was accompanied by a head. A floating head and nothing else. This time Draco really did shriek.
"Hey!" The fucking floating head comforted. "Hush! It's fine! It's just me!" Two hands appeared out of nowhere and shot out toward the blond palm up.
Terrified, Draco scrambled back clumsily, tripping over his own feet and sprawling painfully on his arse, staring up in horror as nothing but a dark head and two floating hands reached out to him.
And this is how I die, he thought desperately, eyes squeezed shut. At least it wasn't death from annoyance.
The floating hands gripped his upper arms firmly, lifting him to his feet and patting his shoulders awkwardly before releasing him.
"Um," a voice began, "you can open your eyes."
At the familiar voice, Draco's eyes snapped open to meet a familiar green gaze staring at him somewhat abashed. A familiar body shimmered into view as a silvery cloth slid from his limbs and was stuffed into a small shoulder pack.
"Fucking hell, Potter," Draco snarled, instantly furious. "Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack? Decided I didn't nearly die enough this past year or something?"
"Sorry," Potter apologized in a sheepish voice, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've gotten so used to this cloak I sometimes forget I'm wearing it."
"What are you doing all the way down here?" Draco asked suspiciously. There wasn't a chance that Potter was still following him around, was there? Potter couldn't possibly still be suspecting him of Dark activity, could he?
Mentally sighing, Draco acknowledged the depressing fact that most people still suspected him of Dark activity. For Merlin's sake, he had been wallowing on the floor of a corridor, not stringing Muggles up and gutting them for the pleasure of a noseless psycho.
Potter shrugged with obvious discomfort. "Zabini asked me to look for you. He was really worried when you took off like that and never came back, said something about you making stupid decisions and never listening to him and he didn't want you to get into trouble, so…" His voice trailed off in embarrassment.
"Why ask you?" Draco's tone was an odd mixture of mistrust and hurt. Potter was only there because Blaise had asked—probably begged—him to find Draco before the blond could do anything stupid. And Potter was a Gryffindor hero to his very core, spending his free time rescuing damsels in between classes and stopping genocides before breakfast. It was just Draco's turn, yet again, to be the damsel he rescued. It was what the prat did, it was nothing personal. It wasn't like Potter cared or anything. And Draco cared even less about how little Potter cared for him. And he would prove it. With glares.
"Well, he said that I always seemed able to find you wherever you were, so…" the dark-haired teen mumbled awkwardly.
"So he decided to put your mysterious stalking abilities to good use," Draco snorted bitterly. "Turned you into his own Gryffindor bloodhound."
"Yeah, I s'pose," Potter grinned, glancing up at him through his eyelashes, head tilted to the side in a manner that was decidedly not adorable.
"Well, you found me, Potter, and I am neither in trouble nor in danger. Your hero complex can rest easy tonight," Draco said tightly.
Ignoring his tone, Potter nodded toward the locked door. "What are you doing outside Snape's office?"
"Not answering questions," the blond snapped, turning to leave, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. He stared down in surprise at the pale fingers wrapped lightly around his bicep, raising both eyebrows at Potter in silent inquiry, who dropped his hand. He had only been touching Draco for a few seconds, but his arm now felt cold without Potter's warm fingers covering it.
"I'm sorry," Potter blurted. "For what Ron said. He doesn't always think before he opens his mouth, and he really didn't mean anything by it, so…sorry," he finished sheepishly.
Silver eyebrows disappeared further into Draco's hairline at the almost-believable sincerity in the other boy's voice. "Shouldn't apologies ideally come from the person who did the offending?"
"Well, yeah," Potter scuffed his shoe on the dungeon floor uneasily. "But I can be sorry for him." His voice sounded petulant and Draco's lips twitched, despite his earlier annoyance.
"I suppose since he only has half a brain he can't be expected to understand the concept of an apology," Draco graciously allowed, hoping Potter would recognize the gesture as unnecessarily kind-hearted and mature and one hundred percent newly-reformed, hopefully finally proving to Potter what a high-class gentleman Draco truly was, and he would never again suspect the blond of any corrupt behaviors.
"Right," Potter wasn't bothering to hide his grin and despite Draco's efforts, he felt his own mouth widen in response. "So what are you doing down here then?"
It was Draco's turn for discomfort. "I…don't know," he admitted. "I didn't plan it, I just sort of ended up here."
Potter nodded. "I didn't expect to find you down here. Zabini warned me you might try to break into McGonagall's office."
At the sound of those words, Draco's fury returned in full-force, directed this time at the dark-skinned Slytherin he had considered his friend. Fucking traitor. Well, Draco would miss him after his murder, but such betrayal could hardly go unpunished.
"Yes, well, you needn't fret, Potter. I can't even break into Severus's abandoned office, let alone the Headmistress's." Draco's grin had disappeared and his tone turned sneering.
"You've done the Saviour thing," Draco continued in the same haughty inflection, "caught the naughty Slytherin breaking curfew. So if you'll excuse me, I'll just be going to bed now. I would like to get some sleep before you report me to McGonagall and I am expelled." The moment he finished speaking he spun around, whirling his robes dramatically in a pale imitation of Snape and preparing to stalk off, but Potter's hand once again reached out to halt his escape.
"I'm not going to report you, Malfoy," he said quietly.
Draco looked back at him in surprise. "Then why are you here?"
"I just came to find you and apologize," Potter shrugged. "And make sure you weren't getting into any trouble. For your own sake!" he dropped his hand and added hastily as Draco's eyes narrowed.
"As if you care about my sake, Potter," he muttered, crossing his arms. As if anybody cared about his sake. They only cared that his sake not be near them. He and his sake were tainted and polluted. Corrupted, his unhelpful brain supplied.
"Don't tell me what I care about, Malfoy," Potter snapped, green eyes flashing as he took a step closer.
"You hate me," Draco scoffed, feeling the truth of those words sink into his gut like a physical blow. Of course Potter hated him. He'd always hated him. Even when saving his life, he hated him. He probably hated Draco even more for having to save his life. Because Harry Potter was too annoyingly heroic for his own good—he couldn't look a person in the eye without trying to save them from something.
"Why is everyone always telling me how I feel?" With an explosive sigh, Potter roughly dragged one hand through his hair. "I don't hate you, Malfoy."
Draco refused to acknowledge the tiny bloom of warmth sparking in his chest. "Of course you do. You said it yourself—you only came to find me to make sure I did not ransack the Headmistress's office for my dastardly schemes. Which I am clearly not," he continued, raising his voice slightly as Potter's mouth opened to argue, "so you may be on your way now."
"That's not why I'm here!" Potter cried in frustration. "Fucking hell, you're impossible!"
"I've been told," Draco responded coldly, turning once more to leave, only to be stopped by bloody Potter yet again.
But this time he was spun roughly around to face the green-eyed git, who had seized both of Draco's upper arms in a fierce grip and slammed him up against the stone wall of the corridor.
"What is your fucking problem, Malfoy?" Potter demanded, squeezing tightly and leaning in close.
"You mean besides the entire world hating me and everybody expecting me to turn into the next Dark Lord and create an extremist cult of my own tattooed minions of evil?" Draco drawled sarcastically, attempting to still the frantic hammering of his heart that Potter's proximity had caused. "Tell me, Potter, how do you think I would look without a nose?"
"Shut up, Malfoy," the other boy growled. "Not everybody sees you that way. Not everybody hates you."
"Easy for you to say," Draco spat. "You're the fucking Chosen One. Everyone fucking adores you. I'm a Death Eater, I get garbage thrown at me on the streets. Nobody wants me around, you included. That's why you've been ignoring me all term, isn't it? Decided your life would be much better off if you simply pretended I didn't exist?" His tone was rancorous and biting. The truth was—a truth Draco had been trying desperately to deny to himself—Potter's refusal to even look his direction all year hurt.
At the sound of the apparent pain in his voice, he prayed for the ability to just stop talking, but the more words tumbled from his mouth, the tighter Potter's grip became on his arms.
"You couldn't be more wrong, Malfoy," Potter said in a low voice. "That's not why I've been avoiding you."
"Then why?" Draco tried to mask the hurt in his voice, he really did. But the two syllables he had uttered had been dripping with confused pain and the bruising hold on his arms was loosened considerably. Assuming that Potter had recognized the pathetic emotions behind his words, he closed his eyes and waited for the other boy to leave, run away, possibly straight to McGonagall to have him expelled so that he was no longer forced to even reside in the same building as the blond.
But as warm lips pressed roughly against his own, his eyes flew open in shock. The kiss was short and hard, almost angry. Potter pulled back half an inch, breathing heavily.
"That's fucking why," he growled, before crashing his mouth back over Draco's.
Draco felt frozen where he stood, trapped against the wall and completely numb with shock. A ringing seemed to be vibrating through him from head to toe. Was Potter kissing him? Was Harry Potter kissing him? Did he maybe not hate Draco after all?
The pressure on his lips disappeared just as the fingers still gripping his arms released him and Draco panicked, thinking that Potter meant to pull away and leave him all alone in the dark corridor. His hands shot up to wrap around the other boy's neck, tugging him back towards himself and swearing loudly when their foreheads banged painfully together.
But the next moment it didn't matter because Potter's lips were on his once again and it was so much better when Draco wasn't frozen like a statue. He was kissing Potter back and his hands were buried in the other boy's thick ebony hair, clutching tightly out of the fear that Potter might not actually be real. But those fears were quieted as two warm hands began touching Draco everywhere—his hair, his throat, sliding over his shoulders and chest, running up and down his stomach and trailing over his lower back.
"Want you, Draco," Potter panted hotly against his mouth. "Wanted you for so long."
"Prove it," Draco challenged in a throaty voice.
Chuckling wickedly, Potter's fingers tugged Draco's shirt free from his trousers, slipping both hands underneath the starch fabric and tracing maddeningly light circles onto the bare skin just above Draco's waistband. The fingers slid higher along the planes of Draco's stomach, fingernails scraping delightfully over his nipples just as Potter's hot mouth attached itself to the tender skin of Draco's neck, earning a shuddering moan from the blond pressed against the wall. Draco's own hands moved from the black hair of Potter's head down to grip his hips tightly, pulling him closer and thrusting against him, earning a groan from both boys. One hand had just started to coax open the fastenings to Draco's trousers when they heard a wheezing shuffle approaching.
"Filch!" Harry whispered, pulling away and tugging Draco hastily down the corridor and into the empty Potions classroom.
They threw themselves inside and eased the door shut, both casting several locking and silencing spells at it before turning to stare uncertainly at one another. Neither said a word, cautiously assessing the other in silence for several long minutes. Draco was sure he could see regret in the deep emerald of the other boy's eyes and sighed, hardly blaming him for changing his mind. It had been a miracle that Potter had kissed him in the first place, no matter how much he may now be bemoaning that admittedly rash decision.
"Look," Draco began wearily, "we'll just wait a few minutes for him to leave and then go back upstairs, all right?"
The words were met with silence as Potter simply stared, frustration etched across his handsome features.
"Really?" he finally said in a flat voice. "So that's it?"
Draco shrugged uncomfortably. Didn't Potter want that to be it? Wasn't this the part where he laughed at Draco, shouting that the whole thing had been a prank and whipping open some curtain to reveal his hateful friends pointing and laughing cruelly at the gullible, pathetic Slytherin? Any second now, a curtain would appear, Draco was sure of it.
"Then what was all that out there?" Potter demanded, stepping closer.
Where the hell was the bloody curtain? Why was he waiting so long to unleash utter humiliation on the blond? Draco opened his mouth to inform him that he was going about this public shaming all wrong when Potter continued speaking, cutting off any helpful advice the Slytherin might have offered to aid in his own demise.
"Why did you kiss me back?" Potter's voice had turned desperate, pleading, hands twisted together as though attempting to keep from lunging at the other boy.
But the words he spoke made no sense. Potter wasn't supposed to be begging for a response, he was supposed to be shattering Draco into a thousand tiny, embarrassed pieces with his cruel prank. Right?
"I…but you hate me." Even to his own ears, he sounded confused. When had the world stopped making sense?
Potter's eyes flashed and his hair seemed to crackle with anger. "Stop fucking telling me how I feel," he growled, launching himself at the blond and sending them both crashing to the floor.
Draco landed on his back with an oomph of surprise, feeling Potter settle heavily on his chest before capturing his lips once more in a bruising kiss.
"I don't hate you, Draco," the brunet panted, pulling back to gaze evenly into Draco's eyes. "I fucking fancy you like mad, have done for ages."
A delicate shiver wracked Draco's slim frame and he closed his eyes, willing himself to believe the words.
"Hey," Potter murmured, stroking Draco's jaw with gentle fingertips. "Look at me."
Draco shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.
"Please?"
At the low pleading in the other boy's voice, Draco sighed and opened his eyes to meet the intense green gaze staring at him from only inches away.
"I like you," Potter whispered. "I think you're interesting and funny and Christ, you're fucking gorgeous, and I want to spend more time with you. And…" he ducked his head shyly. "I think you like me, too."
"As if there's anyone alive who doesn't like the Boy-Who-Lived," Draco scoffed weakly. Potter actually liked him? He thought Draco attractive? He hadn't been ignoring him out of anger, but out of…nervousness? Did Draco make the Chosen One nervous?
Potter shook his head resolutely and Draco's heart clenched, thinking his reaction a response to the blond's thoughts, but then Potter spoke. "I don't want you to like the Boy-Who-Lived." His voice had turned pleading once more. "I want you to like me."
At the desperate sincerity in the brunet's voice, a tiny smile turned up the corners of Draco's lips and he nodded. "I do, Harry."
A sigh of relief brushed Draco's upturned mouth as Potter—Harry? —smiled impossibly wide at the admission and kissed him soundly. Draco held nothing back this time, kissing him in every way he knew how, a tiny voice in his brain deciding that even if this was a cruel prank, maybe he could still get something out of it.
Encouraged by the tiny voice, it was Draco's turn to slip his hands beneath the hem of Potter's t-shirt and run his palms over smooth bare skin, reveling in the warmth and solid realness of the boy atop him. Just to prove to them both how real the dark-haired boy was, Draco's hands slid lower to grip his arse tightly, pulling him even closer into his body and rolling his hips upward. The kiss ended as Potter broke away to breathe heavily, and Draco feared that he might have gone too far too soon.
But the next second Potter was speaking and everything was okay once more. "Do that again, Draco."
Draco was only too happy to comply, wrapping his legs around Potter's waist and making escape impossible.
"I need…" Potter panted, and Draco was struck again with the dizzying fear that he was about to announce that he needed to punch Draco in the face and run away before he was even more tainted and violated by the ex-Death Eater. "I need to touch you."
What? Touch him? Not run away or sick up in disgust?
"You are touching me," Draco responded stupidly. Wasn't this touching? The other boy's chest was hard and flat against his own, his hips were tucked snugly between Draco's thighs and their mouths had up until very recently been attached.
"Not enough," Potter smirked—and god, who knew the Gryffindor Golden Boy could smirk like that—as he slithered out of Draco's grasp to slide further along his torso, yanking the blond's shirt up to plant hot open-mouthed kisses along every inch of skin he could reach as he fumbled with the fastenings of Draco's trousers. Both trousers and pants were jerked down to mid-thigh, but as the cool air hit the fevered skin of Draco's groin, Potter paused and Draco froze in response, certain that this was the moment that the damned curtain would appear to reveal his howling classmates.
Please, Merlin, let death by humiliation be quick, he prayed desperately, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the sounds of mocking laughter. But those sounds never came. The only sound Draco heard was a sharp gasp from his own mouth as warm lips suddenly wrapped around his cock and sucked.
"Oh fuck!" he cried out in surprise. Potter's mouth was hot, his hands were warm, and Draco could feel him everywhere. "Fuck, Potter, is there anything you're not exceptional at?"
Potter bobbed his head and hummed, increasing his pace as Draco groaned, lost in a haze of white pleasure. He could feel his body tightening up and he tried to warn Potter, he really did, but half his muscles seemed unable to work and his mouth, unfortunately, was among them. As Draco came with a wailing shudder, Potter coughed and sat up, choking inelegantly.
"Sorry," he gasped. "That part I wasn't quite ready for."
At the possible meaning behind those words, Draco leaned up on his elbows to look Potter in the eye. "Was that your first time doing that?" he asked cautiously. That couldn't possibly have been, not with the way the adoring public seemed to throw themselves at the man. He could have absolutely anyone.
But Potter blushed and nodded, causing a smug rush of surprised satisfaction to sweep through Draco. The very first prick the Saviour ever sucked was mine. The thought was immediately followed by an intense surge of possessiveness. My prick, my Potter.
"Good," Draco responded casually, sitting up all the way and watching as Potter did the same.
"Good?" he asked in confusion.
"Oh yes," Draco nodded. "That makes it a first for us both." And with those words he tackled the other boy, knocking him to the floor and tearing open his jeans.
Just before his lips closed over the head of Potter's cock, Draco wondered briefly if it would taste disgusting and he would hate it or maybe he wouldn't be able to breathe with a massive prick jammed down his throat or worse—maybe he would be terrible and Potter would laugh and mock him for his inexperience.
But the next second his mouth was on Potter and Potter's head was thrown back and he was groaning and clutching Draco's hair. Draco's name was being chanted in a breathless moan and he wanted to smirk around the heavy appendage in his mouth. He swirled his tongue over the tip before trying to take in as much as he could, hollowing his cheeks and willing his throat to relax.
When the hands in his hair tightened painfully in warning, he pulled back slightly but refused to remove his lips completely, determined to swallow. Or at least not asphyxiate to death. As warm liquid filled his mouth, Draco coughed at the bitter, unpleasant taste, but at least he didn't choke. If he thought a headstone depicting death from annoyance would have been embarrassing…
Finally, the shudders stopped and his mouth slid from Potter with a loud smacking pop. Grey eyes stared down at the dark-haired boy still lying on the floor, shaking his head slowly as though in a daze, and Draco waited for him to leap to his feet and run from the room. Or at least for the damn curtain to finally show up. Honestly, Gryffindors clearly had no sense of timing when it came to public humiliation.
So when Potter reached out and brushed the edge of his jaw lightly, he was surprised. The doubt must have shown in his eyes because Potter chuckled softly.
"I really do like you, you know," he informed him quietly. "I swear this isn't some sort of joke."
"But why?" Draco argued, refusing to allow the words to comfort him. It just wasn't possible. "I've been horrible to you. And your friends."
Potter just shrugged. "I've been horrible back. But clearly we're both different people now."
As Draco opened his mouth to disagree further, Potter hurried to continue. "Besides, it's like I said earlier. I think you're interesting. I always have."
Interesting? Was Draco interesting? Well, clearly he thought he was interesting, but was the Boy-Who-Lived just as impressed?
"You…I…this is…real?" Draco asked haltingly, wanting to hex himself for every hesitation.
"It better be, Malfoy," Potter said, stroking past his jaw to tangle his fingers gently in the soft blond hair behind Draco's ear.
"Draco," he corrected automatically.
"Harry," Potter smiled, and Draco smiled back.
"So what does this make us?" the blond wondered aloud. Were they boyfriends? Lovers? Fuck buddies? Did Potter want them to remain a secret? Draco wouldn't blame him if he did. Sometimes he wished he could be kept a secret from himself.
"Well, I'd like you to be my boyfriend," Potter blushed adorably and glanced away, speaking to the far wall. "But if you're not ready for that or anything we could take it slow. Maybe just try dating for a bit or something?"
"No, boyfriends…boyfriends are good," Draco nodded. Was Harry Potter his boyfriend? Did Draco Malfoy have a boyfriend?
"Good. That—that's good. Boyfriends are definitely good." Potter colored further and Draco decided it was a very good look on him.
"So, boyfriend," Draco grinned. "Walk me back to the dorm?"
Potter—Harry—smiled at him and stood, reaching out a hand to help the blond from the floor. Once they were both upright, he simply shifted his grip on the hand until their fingers were interlocked, refusing to let go.
"Course," the Gryffindor agreed, pecking a quick kiss to Draco's mouth. They adjusted their clothing—rather tricky with only one hand each, but Potter adamantly refused to let go of Draco's palm—and cancelled the spells they had both cast on the door of the classroom. The dark head of the other boy peeked around the doorframe, scanning the corridor to make sure it was clear.
"Come on," he tugged lightly and Draco followed with a wide grin, the smile refusing to melt from his face.
"So," Potter began conversationally as they strolled up a dark staircase. "Why were you going to break into McGonagall's office anyway?"
Jerking his shoulders in a shrug, Draco flushed. "I just wanted to talk to Severus," he mumbled.
"Well, have you tried, you know, asking her if you can?" Potter wondered, his lips twitching.
"Well, of course I could," Draco replied haughtily, "if I wanted to face stern rejection and give up any element of surprise I had."
A chuckle reached him in the darkness as Potter released his hand to wrap one arm around Draco's waist and pull him tightly against the side of his body.
"It's like I said, Draco, not everyone hates you," he admonished. "Of course McGonagall would say yes. She lets me in to talk to Dumbledore sometimes."
"Really?" Draco asked. Was it possible that McGonagall would let him in to speak to Severus's portrait? There was so much he wanted to say to the man…but Draco shook his head.
"That's different," he argued. "You're you and Dumbledore is Dumbledore. Snape and I are the Death Eaters responsible for killing him. She's hardly going to allow me access to her private office to converse with the man."
But Potter just shook his head and tightened his grip. "You're not responsible for his death," he said softly. "He was already dying and you didn't have very much of a choice. You lowered your wand, you didn't kill him even though Voldemort was threatening your family. McGonagall let you back in school, didn't she? Do you really think she would do that if she thought you were a danger to the others?"
Draco shrugged his narrow shoulders helplessly. How would he have any idea what McGonagall was thinking? For all he knew, she had allowed him back in just to wait for him to mess up so she could exact swift and vicious vengeance.
"It's McGonagall, Draco," Potter sighed in exasperation. "She may not be warm and cuddly, but she's never been spiteful or petty."
"I…oh all right," Draco conceded. "I suppose that I will seek permission before attempting to break in."
"Good." Harry sounded relieved.
All too soon they were back at the entrance to the shared Common Room. As the portrait swung open to reveal the dimly lit room, cast in a dull orange glow from the burning embers hissing in the fireplace, Draco saw Blaise jump to his feet from the violet armchair he had been sitting in, speaking quietly to Weasley and Granger.
"Draco!" he called, crossing his arms and strolling over to the two boys. "You absolute fucking wanker." Dark eyes glared and Draco shifted uneasily.
"So melodramatic, Blaise," he scoffed. "I'm back and have yet to do anything earning expulsion."
Blaise's eyes widened as he took in the sight of Potter's arm wrapped possessively around Draco's waist, gaze traveling over their rumpled clothing and mussed hair.
"Well, well, well," he purred, a wicked grin splitting his face. "Draco and Potter, eh? Looks like I chose the right person to send after you, then." Both boys flushed and glanced at each before coloring further and looking away.
"Does this mean we have to be nice to him now, Harry?" Weasley called in a loud voice. Granger elbowed him sharply.
Potter nodded firmly. "Everybody treats my boyfriend with respect. Spread the word."
Draco felt a warm tingle in his spine. He was Potter's boyfriend. Potter wanted to protect him. Even though Potter had saved his life in the past, he had never felt as if the boy had actually defended him or consciously thought of himself as protecting the blond.
Blaise just smirked. "Does this mean you'll finally stop whinging on and on about Potter?"
At the question, Draco glared his fourth most vicious glare at the dark-skinned boy. "I do not whinge," he snapped, only succeeding in deepening Blaise's smirk.
"You do about Potter," he responded lightly, earning a chuckle from the three Gryffindors.
"God, that means you too, Harry!" Weasley snickered. "I don't want to hear any more about how perfect Malfoy's alabaster skin is or how his hair resembles silken moonlight."
Instantly, Potter flushed a deep crimson and shuffled his feet nervously, shooting his own stinging glare at his friend. "Shut up, Ron," he mumbled in mortification.
"Perfect, is it?" Draco nudged him. "Have you been waxing poetic in regards to little old me, then?"
"Well, it's hard not to," Potter replied defensively. "I mean, just look at you, for Christ's sake!"
The warm tingle in Draco's spine was spreading outward along his nerves, heating him from the inside out.
"Oh, you should hear what Draco says about his eyes," Blaise laughed. "What was it, Draco? Something about flashing eyes like emerald summer and hair like blackest midnight?"
It was Draco's turn to flush, all the blood in his body pooling instantly in his cheeks.
"I—no—that's not—" he stammered, but the others were already laughing. "Oh, sod off!" he snapped, attempting to storm past them to the safety of his dorm room, but Potter still refused to release him.
"Who knew you were such a closet romantic?" Potter mused, kissing his temple lingeringly. "I love it."
Draco buried his face in Potter's neck to hide from the laughter still echoing around him.
"All right, stop teasing my boyfriend," Potter chuckled.
"Yes, stop teasing his boyfriend." The words were mumbled into the skin of Potter's neck and Draco wasn't even sure if the others had heard him, but the sniggers stopped and Draco raised his head to look at Potter.
"I'll see you at breakfast, yeah?" Potter murmured, placing gentle kisses on Draco's lips.
"Sure," the blond breathed.
"Good night, then, Draco," Potter whispered.
"Good night, Harry," was the reply and with one final lingering kiss, the two boys broke apart. Blaise pulled the blond along, shaking his head in amusement and smiling at the dazed look on his face.
"Hey, Blaise?" Draco said, grinning widely.
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad I came back this term."