Author: tigersilver
Title: Queer Chemistry, or Why Draco is Always Right
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,100
Warnings: Bottoming from the Top!Draco; Crying!Harry. Post-war, EWE.
HD 'Queer Chemistry, or Why Draco is Always Right'
"Why the fuck are you snivelling, Harry?"
Draco had always been an impatient man. He often was, still. Harry believed it might be residual; sort of a bad habit, because mostly he wasn't impatient at all.
"Stop that nonsense at once. There's no need."
"There—there is!" Harry wailed. All the snippy orders to stop in the world weren't enough to make it so; now that Harry could cry, he did cry—often.
"Oh…you! You idiot little-little!" Draco exclaimed, till words failed, throwing up his hands in a flap and flurry, but he rushed across the room all the same. Pounced on the huddle of naked limbs and bowed mop and sniffly soddenness and collected him. Wrapped steely arms around Harry and firmly and deliberately gathered him up, as if he were something important that had been left behind by the wayside, like an abandoned parcel, and Draco had just now discovered it.
"Nah—hah—hargh," Harry choked and gasped, snuffling miserably into Draco's expensive shirt. "Can't—can't help it; makes me sad…you and him."
"You're an unmitigated arse, Potter," Draco crooned, stroking Harry hard, almost painfully. "And a whinger and a girl. And you're blubbering all over my shirt, too. There is no 'me and him', twat. There is 'me and you'!"
"Ngh," Harry sniffed, burrowing his smeary nose deeper into Draco's armpit, ruining it for wear. "Meh."
"Meh, yourself, stoopid."
He was embraced firmly, yes, but Draco was infuriated with him, all the same. Or so Harry concluded, when the scathing mouth somewhere above his head opened again and a whole long spew of invective-spiced rhetoric tumbled out.
"Why the bloody bleeding fuck would you ever think, Harry, having gotten this far, anything would ever bloody end between us simply because some head's-up-their-arse, bloody shite-for-brains reporter says it is—or will—or might?" Draco snorted his outrage at the very idea; his fingers upon Harry were such an odd mix of contrariness, just like the man himself: holding him tight and loose and yet petting constantly 'round Harry's hunched spine and shoulders all the while. The way Draco held Harry was often perverse. Like the Wizard.
Harry wailed, inconsolable really. His lover forged on, attacking Harry's illogic with short bursts of sharp words, like spellfire.
"Besides, that was Blaise—you know how he is, Harry, don't you? Bastard bloody lives and breathes for opportunities like this—making trouble. Attention whore. Miserable prick."
"Grngh. Mnphf!"
Harry mumbled an unintelligible something about how he was the miserable one and not about denying what was clear as the nose on his face. That was all very well but Blaise Zabini knew Draco Malfoy like no one else did—they'd been lovers, once, hadn't they? Harry was ridiculously jealous over it and he was well aware the git currently wrapped 'round him like cellotape didn't understand in the least.
"Circe and Brede, you're such a ridiculous noddy, Harry," Draco growled. "Man up."
The whole of Harry was jiggled; Draco pressed kisses all over his rumpled hair and his stupid scar, murmuring wordless sounds of sweet reassurance all the while, as if to charm him into compliance. Harry sniffed and gulped nonetheless, his sobs subsiding gradually as he was stroked. He was enjoying the wallowing, actually. There was nothing like being consoled by a Malfoy. An irate, impatient, irked Malfoy, even.
Nothing like. He'd take advantage of it while he could.
"I—" he gasped and snuffled, raising his damp chin after a long moment to affix huge red-veined green eyes on Draco's tucked-in-at-the-corners, very frowny lips, as he didn't quite dare meet those burning silver eyes directly. "I can't help it! He's always saying shit like that, Draco—always! I can't stand it!"
"I swear, you're an absolute nutter, Harry," Draco complained, still kissing Harry's eyelids and snotty chin and still clasping him just as firmly as before, if not more so—but acid it was, his grousing. As if Harry's dramatics were a perpetual nuisance and he was completely worn out, dealing with them. "Bollixed up in the head like no other, you are," he carried on. "Fucked over by the those bloody Muggles of yours, Harry—and likely your asinine Order, too!" Harry blinked, not comprehending. What had the Order to do with it? Draco sneered at his frown, a mocking brow on the rise. "Come now—be reasonable, Harry. I take my eyes off you for all of five seconds and you're all over wet. Like that's normal human behaviour! I don't think so. You should trust me more, Harry. I am very dependable."
"I'm not wet, Draco," Harry couldn't help rolling his swollen eyes. Because he wasn't; this was a completely reasonable problem he had. Anyone should be able to grasp the extent of his issue with Zabini...shouldn't they? "And it's not that I don't! It's-it's only that it's all right there, in the headlines, in black-and-white. And why would Zabini lie? Gods knows it's true—you've shagged him before. Likely do it again at the drop of a Nimbus."
The very idea of Draco and Zabini was a serrated knife-edge, twisting right on through Harry's unhappy spleen. With a dire moan he leant his aching head against the bicep rippling beneath his cheek and closed his burning eyes very firmly, shutting one fuming Malfoy out. It wasn't like they hadn't had this fight before; stupid-arse Zabini and his great big flapping mouth!
Draco harrumphed at him, glaring down that sharp nose of his—the one Harry had come to admire. Pointy suited Draco; his edges countered all that limitless passion contained within.
"Look, Harry, use your stuffed-up noggin for what it's meant for, alright? Think first!" Draco directed him. "Don't assume! By all means, don't read the bloody rags if they upset you, okay? They mean nothing, all those fucking nonsense words the reporters strung together—it's utter buggery, Harry and you know it. Fucked up! A lot of useless gossipmongers, all of them. And a great load of steaming, stinking Thestral crap, too, if you ask me. That's it."
"But—but—I have to," Harry protested feebly, swallowing. He blinked nervously up at his lover. "I mean—Draco, they're right there, wherever I turn, all those horrible headlines, day after day! I can't help it—it's all I see!"
For that admission, he'd his chin grabbed hard enough to bruise it and his face forced up so Draco could examine every damp, blotchy inch. Piercing grey eyes gleamed at him ferociously. And then he was kissed. Thoroughly so, with Malfoy hands all over him, Squidlike and bloody possessive, and Harry found himself sinking into the lazy, hazy hot familiarity of it, till the mundane world and that bugger Blaise Zabini seemed very far away indeed. The way he preferred it, actually.
"Hippogriff brain," Draco breathed when he at last pulled back, apparently satisfied he'd stoppered Harry's anguish with snogging. "Stupid. Blind! Do shut up and stay shut, Harry. You're completely misguided, little fool. Blaise means nothing to me. Nothing!"
He snogged Harry again, before Harry could summon a single syllable in reply or even nod his misty acquiescence. Practically shoved his squirmy tongue straight down the slick pathway to Harry's roiling, queasy stomach, too, tonguing him dirty and hard. It was fantastic—but not enough.
"They even have plaquards, Draco," Harry muttered fretfully, when he was at last allowed to speak once more. minutes later. No snog, no matter how earth-shattering, could obliterate front-page news: headlines the size of banners—and the snap they'd run with it! Heart-wrenching, even if Harry was certain for sure the image was leftover from Sixth Year and dug out of the Prophet's dead news vault for an airing. "Huh!" he snorted wretchedly. "Do you know? They stand about in sandwich boards in Diagon and have signs that read you don't love me. That this is you using me-that I'm a fool to stay with you. You can't miss 'em, Draco; surely you've seen?"
"So don't look, twat," he was advised severely. The pale brows curled, scowling at him as of yore, and Harry shrank back a little, flinching. He hated it when Draco got shirty. "Walk on—I always do." Draco sniffed.
"Can't," Harry muttered grimly, lips twitching. "In my face, those people. Right there, can't avoid them. Always wanting to ask me about it—how I feel to be cuckolded-or tricked-or what! That sort of thing."
"Oh, stop, do!" Draco growled, not letting his unhappy captive shift another uneasy inch. "That's what you get for being an utter naïve peabrain, you gormless Gryffindor, and letting them to run you scared. Just face them down, Harry—give them the old what for, alright? Or bloody well ignore the arseholes, like I do. Don't take it so seriously, man. You're giving them credence every time you look and listen to those pricks and, by Merlin's bloody bollocks, they sure as shit don't deserve any! Wankers!"
"I…can't," Harry muttered, shamefaced, eyes everywhere but meeting Draco's stern glare. "Oh, I can't. I do try, Draco, but…I just can't." He cast his watery eyes down, blinking furiously, wanting only to be allowed to rest his ear against the thunder of the familiar stout heart beneath the dress shirt. Draco was always warm for all he looked to be icicle; Harry adored that about him. He adored everything about Draco, honestly, even his hair-trigger temper. Pity a few too many others felt the same...damn Zabini! "I hate that I can't, you know? It's bloody awful. I feel like an arse, when I know! I mean, I know-"
He'd his flopping fringe tugged sharply for his admittance of cowardice. Draco shook his white-gold glory in patent despair over him.
"Oh, please, Harry! You know better than to heed the fucking Prophet, much less Witch Weekly. Ignore them all, why don't you? You certainly used to, back in the day. Where's your pride, prat?"
"Dunno," Harry mumbled, curling down and into himself. He blinked back yet more tears, as Draco was correct—he was being ridiculous. But…"Please just hold me, alright? I want you to hold me, that's all."
"Come closer then, stupidhead," Draco chuckled, making it so. "You know? Sometimes I can't quite believe you, Harry. More hair than brains." He pressed a kiss to the bounteous hair, all the same. Harry felt the imprint down to his curling-in-misery toes. "Lovely hair, though," Draco smiled.
"Oh, but-" Harry was peremptorily cut off.
Harry's smeared, turned-down-in-a-frown lips and his snotty nose were snogged passionately; every inch Draco's hot mouth could reach, actually: all his damp, creased face, from hair-line to wobbly chin and 'round to the burning tips of his ears. He was petted by fingers long and cool and soothing; he was steadied by a tense, coiled-up body braced beneath his own. A body which served to keep him right where the arrogant, gorgeous snot he adored wanted him.
It was very much marvellous, the whole cuddling-by-Malfoy experience; exactly, precisely, completely what was needed.
For a long while Harry luxuriated in it, the heady feeling of being cherished above all others. He'd not known till very recently Draco was even capable of caring deeply for any other than his so-precious parents. It had been an exquisite surprise to learn he'd made the short list, entering into the very esoteric company of 'those Draco Malfoy loved'. That it was through absolutely no fault of his own was astounding, really, when he considered all that had gone before...but still true.
Draco had admitted once—late at night and drunk with it—that Harry was his real nemesis. His downfall, his Achilles heel—his one undeniable, unending fixation.
It was as good as all the flowery compliments in the world to Harry's hungry ears. He didn't require chocolates or compliments or even the recognition of the wrong-headed press. He only needed Draco, needing him. And he'd been basking in the recollection of that singular whisky-sodden admission for months now, and found he could even allow himself a wee bit of leeway. Enough to finally cry, at least. He'd not ever cried before a lover before; he not believed he could.
"Um…"
Harry wiggled a bit, cozying up to the shirt that smelt of starch and hot-iron pressing and the lemon verbena bodywash-scented skin that lay beneath. Draco had ceased yammering at him about how much of a pickle-headed brat he was—that was helpful and good. Draco was instead occupied with silently trailing his gorgeous firm lips through Harry's mussed hair and caressing Harry's pelvis with those curiously hard-soft fingertips. It was super-and even he, jealous as he was, couldn't honestly believe a Malfoy could be sufficiently two-faced enough to proclaim his love for Harry on the one hand and then go shag Blaise Zabini on the side for the fucking notoriety on the other. Not even a Slytherin Malfoy could manage that, could he? Right?
"Er...?"
"Mmm?"
Draco was distracted, seemingly, caught up in Harry's person. Well he might be, too, given what he was up to, plucking methodically at Harry's nipples with the one hand and smoothing the hollow in Harry's taut-with-nerves hips. Bent intently over his snuggling captive as if Harry were a tasty morsel and Draco one of those great sodding sea eagles that circled for hours on end, just before choosing the exact and proper unwary dormouse to dine upon. Harry shivered; being the dormouse was good, sometimes. He knew that rapine stare intimately; it was generally a prelude to some very intense shagging. Inventive shagging. And the effect of the proprietary glint in Draco's eyes was exciting to the core, even if he, personally, was still verging on the bitter edge of a minor emotional breakdown. Bloody Prophet!
His cock twitched despite his invested load of miserable jealousy. Should've been impossible, that, but wasn't. Draco grinned and grew bolder yet, sending seeking fingers down Harry's crack. He wet his dry lips and blurted out his need regardless, before it was too late and he too distracted, stoically ignoring the randy rise of hormones automatically enriching his bloodstream…because sometimes a good cry was even more necessary than a good shag:
"And you swear—swear, Draco!—there's nothing? Nothing...?"
Harry couldn't quite bring himself to say what all that 'nothing' entailed. Putting real live words round the leaden lump in the pit of his stomach would lend too far much weight to them. He'd enough trouble even crying—though he'd been duly amazed that he could. Finally.
"Left over inside for your arsehole fuck buddy Zabini? 'Cause, if there is, Draco-if there is!"
Mayhap it was the having of someone his very own to actually cry buckets upon that made the crucial difference. Someone infinitely reliable if not exactly polite—because Draco was that. Both. Very.
"Merciful Salazar, Harry!" A grumpy Draco shook his slumping shoulders a second time—or maybe a third; Harry had lost count—punishing fingers biting where they'd finally alighted. "Do you not have working ears on your pointy little head?" He made a distinct moue of annoyance at Harry. "I've said it, git-and then said it, over and over! Repeated myself how many times now? There's nothing for you to concern yourself over—I'm not interested in Blaise. Blaise is old news. Blaise is ancient history."
"But!"
"Blaise," Draco stated, determined to have the final say, "is a prick and a waste of time and now he's shortly to be a dead man, for upsetting you!"
"Oh!" Harry was pleased as punch to hear that. Even if Draco was snapping his teeth at him in a fury.
"I'm only concerned with you, snotty-faced ponce you are, Harry!" The grey eyes were intense...and rather frightening, really. Harry felt a thrill shiver up his spine. "So be quiet about Blaise already. It's enough; he's not worth wasting even a second over. Get over yourself, Harry, will you please? Think about me, idiot. Why ever else would I bother with you being a booby every three seconds if I didn't fucking love you?"
Harry blinked wet spiky lashes, searching that harshly frowning face intently. Draco was still fit when he scowled; part of his charm, really. And Harry...well, Harry was much defter at discerning people's baldfaced lies than he had been, 'ere the war. But then...Draco never lied to him, generally, except when he was pranking—he wouldn't fib about this, would he?
"Really?" No, Harry decided. He wouldn't.
"Really," Draco huffed, very much atop his high horse. "You're such a girl, Harry. Come on, then—think! Use that head of yours for something other than holding hair for once. I've handed you plenty of proof, prat. What about all the other headlines that shout out we're together, huh? Or don't you read that sort, four-eyes?"
"What?" Harry sniffed, affronted. "I am thinking—I'm seeing, and that's the trouble, Draco. There's no smoke without fire, you know? Sometimes the gossipers are really on to something, alright? It's not all lies."
"And sometimes they're just gits, you fucked-up, screwy-headed, mush-for-brains idiot girly-man," Draco countered flatly. "What goes on between you and me is our business, Harry. The Prophet wants circulation numbers and you're news. You're always news. If there's no news, they'll make it up—you know that."
"Um," Harry nodded. "Yes, but..." He dropped his gaze to Draco's neck, considering the marks he'd left there earlier. They were huge and scarlet in colour and there were even more lingering tooth marks 'neath Draco's starched collar, trailing downwards and out of sight. He was proud of them all. Quite. "Well, still…they say—and I—um, you did see them, didn't you?" he accused. "And now you're still planning to meet with him, Draco! You were dressing up just for him, just now!"
"Huh!" Draco snorted. "I always dress well, Harry. Don't be a total berk. When have I ever not dressed well? And what does that have to do with the price of tea in China, arse?" He hauled Harry very firmly against his chest, manhandling the rest of him onto a boney but firmly muscled lap and some killer-hard thighs. And that wasn't all that was hard, either. Evidence of their sexual activity was yet discernable in that region, despite Draco's very recent shower and his change into clean, neatly pressed trousers. He shifted on the bed, budging Harry about till he was satisfied. And then he glared at him, narrow-eyed and nasty. "You're quite, quite stupid, Harry, that's all—plain dumb as a box of bloody rocks. Infantile and ridiculous, too. Trust your damned instincts, will you? Who loves you, git—who?"
"Ah, erm," Harry gulped, fluttering eyelashes behind his smeared specs. "Er, you do, Draco—or, so you say, at least."
"Exactly!" Draco replied triumphantly. "Exactly so! And I do still say, wanker! Very much so, alright? And will, for all the foreseeable future, Harry. Now cease your unattractive whimpering, for once and for all, and let's have round two. I'm not finished with you, not by a long shot."
"I thought—" Harry sniffed and gulped simultaneously, which meant he then choked—and then coughed, right after, eyes awash with reawakened tears. "I thought—but what about your lunch with Zabini?"
"Shit, Harry, here!" Draco thumped his back and Summoned a handkerchief for him. "You're such a mess. Mop yourself up, do!"
"I thought," Harry returned to his point like a homing pigeon, despite Draco's decided air of humouring the ravings of a James Thickey patient, "but I thought-you were going out." He glanced down at Draco's lap, wherein resided Draco's cock, tucked neatly just under the sheath of wool-weave plaquet and poking painfully into the gap between Harry's tense thighs, and scowled miserably at the mound of Malfoy manhood. He yearned for it already, that cock—those bollocks. And here was Draco, ready to trot off to meet up with Harry's worst enemy and take his damned fine bits right along with him! "With him."
"Not hardly, Harry." Draco scowled like a vengeful Fury in return; Harry glimpsed it though his kept his head ducked down. "Like I would, now. Plans can be cancelled, you realize? And besides, the next time I see Blaise it won't be for a nice luncheon at the fucking Leaky—it'll be for a duel to the death. He's got it bloody coming, the sneaky prick."
"Er, um?"
That vow had Harry perking up instantly. He raised his head and blinked furiously at Draco's fierce raptor's gaze, a tentative grin taking hold of his damp features.
"R-Really?"
"What, Harry?" Draco snapped. "Why so surprised? You think I won't hex his arse off? Because of course I will-if it's for you."
"R-Really, really?"
Harry caught his breath over the wonder of that! Malfoy turned against Zabini—and all due to the likes of Harry Potter? It was a totally alien concept to swallow. Those Slytherin gits were thicker than thieves, blood, and spunk combined. He knew that; had always, really. Nothing ever came between the Snakes—certainly not a by-the-way, disposable, lover du jour.
Which he sort of was, wasn't he? As they'd never really said...much. About it.
Harry's thick lashes slowed in disappointment; his face falling all to quickly into lines of renewed despair.
No, he really didn't quite fully buy into it, not even now, after months and months of glorious steady-on shagging. But he did need to end his pointless bout of tears and enjoy what he actually had—for the moment. Before Draco went off to see that fucker Zabini...at the Leaky, where there were always rooms-for-hire.
Ugh! He did—he would. Yes.
"Um, sure," he murmured, bobbing his head and keeping his eyes firmly on Draco's bulging trousers. "Alright. Right, then—if you say so, Draco. Okay."
Harry did of course realize a deaf-mute could easily clue in to the insincerity of his response. He didn't care, though. Not one whit, he thought mutinously, grinding his jaw. Draco should acknowledge he wasn't stupid—nor particularly easily deceived. He wasn't some dumb Sixth Year-not anymore.
Whatever they had would likely blow over in a few months anyway and then that crap in the papers would be real enough, again. Wouldn't it? Draco Malfoy had always had a bloody reputation, didn't he? No matter what nonsense he blathered about Harry being 'the one' or 'his only'. He'd only said it because they were shagging at the time...and he and Draco were shagging all the time, so it wasn't as if he really meant it. It was utter guff—a lousy line of rubbish. Prob'ly Draco said the exact same shit to everyone he shagged, even Zabini.
Harry knew better than to believe in it; he did, of course, but he still indulged himself in daydreams, now and again. Besides, Draco could be convincing when Harry was in the mood to be convinced. He was doing a bang-up job now, wasn't he?
"Really, Harry." Even Draco's chin was angry. He set it to the consistency of hewn granite and eyed the smaller man disdainfully, much in the way he used to in Potions class, once upon a time. "I'm deathly serious here and you aren't buying a single word of it, are you? How like you." He heaved a great sigh, unsettling Harry's perch upon his knees. "Fine, okay. Should've expected it, really. Come here, Harry—closer than that. 'Cause if words don't work for you, there's always other ways to go about it."
"What does that even mean, Draco?" Harry automatically resisted the arrogant yank of long white fingers and thought briefly of jumping up and fleeing. Not seriously—he didn't really want to, now did he? He just knew he probably should. So he did...a little. Resist; hold back. Enough to seem mulish about it, so that Draco would have to work for it; would understand Harry was no pushover and not one to have the wool pulled over his eye willingly. Because his feelings were currently being trampled by a whole lot of arseholes who knew nothing of the reality of the relationship between he and Draco and—and well, Zabini frightened him, more so even than the blond berk who fucked him on a daily basis ever likely realized. "Why do you think I wouldn't believe you? I mean I—this is just one lousy instance, Draco! And it's only because of the Prophet, alright? It's not like I fall to pieces all the damned time!"
"Huh!" Draco was patently unconvinced by this argument. "Hmmm. Could be because you're nothing more than a scoffing, cynical twat about love, Harry—you think, maybe?" Draco curled a lip at him. "Scarred three ways from Saturnalia on the inside and completely clueless when it comes to the finer emotions, aren't you now? Stubborn as common dirt, too, and just as thick. You wouldn't know the truth about love if it came up and slapped you silly. You're pathetic, really. Admit it, Harry."
"Oi!"
Draco snorted.
"Ask your Granger, Harry—better yet, ask Weasley if you must, alright?" He nipped Harry's one eyebrow punishingly and then laid a kiss over the instantly fading damp red mark. And grinned the grin of the Devil himself, all charming-evil and full of himself. As if he knew something Harry never would-never could. "They'll both tell you the truth even if you don't believe in the likes of little old me, runt. Merlin knows I've been grilled nearly to death by them both, these last three months. It's insulting, you know? I don't appreciate it one bit."
"They—you—what? What?"
"Harry, your mates have all but dosed me with veritaserum and put me to the rack. Only to make absolutely certain I wasn't fucking with your head, Harry."
"Ah? Ah-hah?" Harry nearly fell off Draco's lap, he was so surprised.
"I, Harry, have been essentially tortured to honest-to-Merlin tears by those two denser-than-shit friends of yours. I have been lectured until my ears well nigh bled, Harry! I am not to hurt you—I am to take especially excellent care of you, Harry. As if I wouldn't!"
"Erm?" Harry goggled.
"Clear? Get it now? All's well, Harry. All will be well, too. You've got your mates looking out for you, git, just as always—and they believe what I say and swear and bloody well confess, at least, even if you don't care to. Now—get your scoffing arse back here and stop with that stupid cringing. We'll finish what we've started-and then we'll do it again!"
"Ngh!"
"Course you're a fucking mess at the moment. Disgusting." Draco tilted his chin at Harry's wide-eyed gaze, considering. "Right. Let's clean you up, first." He magicked a handkerchief, right out of thin air. "Here, Harry. Blow."
"Ah—ah?" Harry blew as directed and was hastily wiped up with the edges of the handkerchief. "Oh!" Dropped his jaw right after and stared at Draco as if he had gone and gotten himself another head. And earned a bulging mouthful of hot tongue for his trouble. Was fiercely clutched and ferociously kissed. He loved that Draco was that way, though—taking every advantage available, all spark and sizzle. Made it all seem real, somehow. Realer than most everything else in Harry's life. "I—er—they did?"
"Stupid—pigbrained—jealous—arsehole!" Draco spat between kisses, laying Harry abruptly flat to the rumpled sheets and clambering atop him. "If Imperius actually worked on you, Harry, believe me I'd be employing it! Force you not to read the damned papers! Make you sit up and take notice!"
One final punishing kiss was pressed upon him and then his lover pulled up and away, hissing impatience and shedding the snot-smeared shirt.
"Um," Harry gulped. "Ah? Now, Draco?" He swallowed rapidly, mainly to stop from choking in his own saliva, trickling evilly down the back of his throat. He sucked a breath in through his clogged nose and boggled up at Draco, who had risen high above his prone person and was busily unbuckling and unsnapping. The shirt went sailing away like a white flag; Harry instantly surrendered. "You. I?"
"Yes, Harry?" Bloody Malfoy eyebrows, Harry thought grimly. They got to him every single time; he was toast before them, really. Draco was just so—so fucking fit when he was irritable. And he was irritable, often. And then he was not. "You were saying?" the arrogant one purred, darting his gleaming head down to Harry's level and practically shoving Harry's thumping brow into the pile of rumpled pillows with the force of his forehead alone. Twin grey pools of molten mercury resolved into one giant and quite frankly terrifying eyeroll of doom. Draco blinked; Harry blinked back, dazzled. "About your jealousy, Harry? Because I'll give you jealousy, twat. I can do you one better, Harry—every single time!"
"Erm?"
"Oh, yes," Draco growled, withdrawing swiftly and rising up on his knees to shuck his trousers and pants down his trim hips. His belt was snapped out of its loops and was flung away with a clatter. "Yes, I can! You're not alone in that feeling, Harry—not at all. I read the papers, too, you know?"
"There's nothing—I mean, I don't—what're you even talking about, Draco?"
"Your ongoing affair with Weasleyette, Harry. That's what." A shimmy and two bounces took care of the remainder of the rumpled clothes and Draco's hand-sewn loafers; he was bare-arsed and fully erect. It was gorgeous, breathtakingly so
Harry gawped, fascinated by the distracting bob-and-weave of long, pale-pink cock. The tip was scarlet-and there was no affair with the Weasleyette—er, Ginny! No, not at all!
"Um—no!" He raised his hands to wave them about feebly, pleading for Draco to look—to stop—to cease with that ridiculous shit about Ginny. Ginny didn't exist; there was only Draco, for Merlin's sake! Didn't the idiot know that by now? "I never—well, I did snog her—but it was only a few times—and that was ages ago, Draco!" he yelped. "And your fucking Slytherin piece of arse on the side was just yesterday! Zabini, Draco! How dare you—"
"How dare I lie to you, Harry?"
"Ack! Gah! Nooo! Not what I meant!"
Naked, Draco was a flaming brand—a human torch. He looked as if he were entirely lit up from within, all hellfire and brimstone and bloody frigging sex appeal, rolling on greased skids and rising on leagues-high pyres. If covens truly held those continual lusty orgies Muggles always claimed they did, Draco Malfoy would constitute one superbly excellent reason why the rumours were so damnably popular in myth and legend. Muggles would fall at his feet by the dozens, worshipping. Witch-hunters would bow their damned heads, down their pitchforks and bloody kowtow! He was fucking wizard—ace and top of the line. Bloody magic incarnate, miraculously in human form.
"First off, I'm not lying."
"Oh, but—" Harry could allow for a little lying, if lying got him this!
Draco's teeth snapped. "Prick! Lube, now."
He got it in a gelatinous mass from thin air, dripping gooey through his clenched fingers. Harry watched him, falling silent and bug-eyed whilst the arrogant, not-to-ever-be-contradicted Malfoy writhed up ever higher and twisted about on his kneecaps, tucking a generous gobful of lube up his bum. Draco gave it a cursory stretch in passing; that about did Harry in completely. He certainly hadn't the slightest urge to cry-not anymore! Whimpering, though...that he might do.
"Second, get your bloody cock up, Harry—I'm planning to sit on it, git."
"Urrrrr," Harry drooled eagerly, his previous woe tucked well back behind a cerebrum chock full of very nice healthy lust. His tears had evaporated in all the heat Draco was generating simply by breathing in those impatient pants—and squatting atop Harry's spread thighs like a bloody war banner. It was an invigorating sight to witness. Harry felt very sorry for Zabini, suddenly. "'Kay!" he gasped, unwilling to even blink and perhaps miss a single sultry twitch on Draco's part.
"Third, Zabini will never—ever, Harry, and this I do solemnly swear—say another word to the papers about anything at all. Much less us. Because he shan't be capable, Harry. I have my ways—you know that. He's dead meat."
"Ah," Harry nodded frantically. "Ah-hah!"
"There, now." Draco finally deigned to grab Harry's rampant dick and regard it with interest. He rose up once more upon his kneecaps, smearing the swollen blue-veined monster liberally with more magical goo and giving the turgid tip a twisting caress in passing, possibly for luck...definitely for love. His look was fond; Harry was about ready to melt into the mattress. "Ready, baby?"
"Nnnn!" Harry clapped a hand over his wide-open mouth to keep from yelping. He adored those silly little pet names Draco used so infrequently; they were so...so fucking normal. Ron and Hermione employed them all the time; that made him bilious. But this! This was different-this was good. It was Draco. "Mmphfff!"
"Fourthly—lastly—and always, Harry," Draco hissed, settling his too-tight hole down upon Harry's straining prick with a swivel of narrow pelvis and a gleam in his eyes that surely meant some tricky business to come. "Do not doubt me. Do not. Alright?"
"Um!" Harry sent out grabby hands but Draco evaded them easily, glaring at him. "No!"
"No?" Draco enquired blandly, his cock resting heavy and ripe upon Harry's pubes, just pulsing there at the ready. He was earthy and ethereal all at once—Puck alive. Harry fell fathoms deep in love yet again, for perhaps the millionth time in twenty minutes, and was incredibly grateful that he was alive and breathing. "No, you won't doubt me or no, you can't promise? Which is it, Harry? Speak up."
"I love you—Zabini's an arse and a dead one, too—and I won't read the Prophet, ever again!" Harry babbled, thrashing both spinning head and trembling hips, the latter in hopes of encouraging his irritable angel to get a move on to the actual fucking. He hardly ever cried when they were fucking. Well…sometimes he did, after, but then Draco would kiss him all better. That's what had gotten him started with the crying in the first place, months ago...the absolute, cast-in-marble Malfoy promise of being kissed better again. "I promise—I swear!"
"Good. And Harry," Draco smiled, icily composed—though his face was pink across the cheeks and pointy nose and the raspberry cream flush was already spreading attractively down his elegant throat in a long wicked wave. "One more thing."
"Ah?" Harry swallowed with difficulty, struggling to say 'Yes!' instantly right past the happy lump of tears in his throat, because of course anything Draco wanted, Draco could have. Would have. He'd make bloody sure of it! "Ahhh-HAH!" he added, half-strangled, bucking upwards, because, too, finally and at fucking long last his lover had consented to move his contrary arse up and then down, thank Merlin, thank Jesus, thank Buddha! Gods, but Draco was bloody infuriating!
"No more of that irritating sniveling, Harry." Draco was convincingly stern, for a chap with another fellow's dick well up his arsehole. Harry quailed, just a bit, nodding his willing agreement. "You've nothing to cry about. Not now, not ever. Promise me."
And then Draco squeezed.
"Okay! Oh, nooo…!" Harry's brain blipped out mid-wail, what with the serious array of muscles closing round the base of his cock and garroting it to the utter boundaries of sensation, but still-he could twitch, froth and gargle his undying love—as soon as he'd caught his breath and given his demanding Malfoy lover the answer he very much expected to hear. "Noooo!" he panted. "No-no-no! Wouldn't—dream—of—it! Pr-Promise!"
"Hmm. That's what I thought you'd say, somehow." Draco Malfoy grinned slyly, swooping down upon Harry as if he sighted his much-desired snitch. He captured Harry's lips with his own thin hard ones and swallowed all those scattered unintelligible syllables of undying love, eating them right up as if they were sweets procured from the finest of confectionery shops. "You're so, so wet, Harry," he drawled in that lovely old, brilliant old Malfoy manner, driving his more than bloody brilliant arse down Harry's shaft with a bump-twist-grind. "Like a sponge, wet. And that I do love!"
Finite