Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
A/N: This isn't properly British.
"Greg?" Harry mumbles, after being elbowed one too many times in the side and enduring quite a bit of pained grunting. When Gregory still doesn't stir, Harry rolls over, lightly shoving him. It takes a few pushes to wake him. Harry's joked before about how deep Gregory sleeps, despite his nightmares, and how all his muscles must insulate him. Gregory comes to with a groggy snort, promptly followed by rolling into Harry.
Harry grunts and shoves him off—it's too late for that, and they have classes tomorrow. It's late enough at night that Harry's not sure if the silencing spells are still holding, although he's sure the protection ones will—he casts those double-strong. It's a necessity of sleeping in the Slytherin dorm, he thinks, but then, he usually does the same for Gregory when they stay in Gryffindor.
Eighth years are a hodge-podge of everything. They come and go as they like much easier, and less eyes are batted at odd alliances. They're still a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, though, and Harry still hates Malfoy and Gregory still hates Ron. But Harry learned a while ago that Gregory and Malfoy aren't the same person, and sometimes loyalty and simplicity are good things.
Somehow, Gregory's become just as loyal to Harry. He's just as quiet and strong as he always was, and Harry doesn't see it as stupidity anymore. It's just different. Gregory's a sturdy force in Harry's life, always there when he needs him and always ready to fight for or protect Harry.
Now it's Harry's turn to return the favour, and he brushes Gregory's brown hair out of his dark eyes, mumbling, "You okay?"
Gregory sniffs. Not in a weak way, but in a vaguely unpleasant way. He takes a moment and seems to consider what to say—brush it off or talk it out. Gregory doesn't like to talk about himself too much, but Harry doesn't want that. A part of him likes that Gregory isn't clawing for interest—doesn't compete and never begrudges Harry's fame. But the other part wants to know what's wrong. Gregory seems to decide, in his deep, lulling voice, "...I had that dream again."
"The one about the Room of Requirement?" Harry asks. He doesn't move his hand from Gregory's face as Gregory nods, and he gently thumbs Gregory's cheek. Gregory lifts one hand to hold it, his fingers thicker and longer atop Harry's—stronger and reassuring. Even though Harry should be the one soothing Gregory. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Gregory shakes his head in the dark. "No. ...'Won't help."
"It wasn't your fault," Harry says quietly. He knows that's part of the problem. Gregory's dark eyes seem to say otherwise, but he doesn't argue. It'll be the same argument they always have. Harry understands more than anyone—you can't blame yourself for these things. It was a war and they happened. And if you let them, they'll eat you all up. ...Harry hasn't figured out much more than that, though. He doesn't know how to make it better, so he just says, "It's okay."
Gregory leans forward, and the sheets rustle between them. Harry tilts closer to meet his boyfriend's lips—Gregory's are slightly chapped and pleasantly rough. Warm, like always, and a little wet. When Gregory pushes further, Harry lets him, and they roll over, under the blankets. Harry's back digs into the mattress and Gregory climbs atop him, deepening the kiss and making it fiercer. This won't make things better. But it's a distraction, and Harry lets Gregory do what he needs to.
He lets Gregory slip his hands down Harry's body, feeling everywhere and tugging up his shirt. Gregory's calloused fingers run over Harry's stomach, up under the fabric, playing with his nipples and mapping his whole chest. Harry opens his mouth to gasp, and Gregory's tongue dives in. He grinds Harry down into the bed, starting to rut. It doesn't take much to get Gregory going. He eats like an animal, and he grunts like one, and he fucks like one. After everything Harry's been through, it's what he wants sometimes—to just be thoroughly ravished so hard that he can forget about everything else. He needs it rough to feel it. He likes that Gregory's bigger, that Gregory's stronger—it's so hard to be the strong one all the time. He likes that Gregory will take over if Harry lets him—he's tired of being the leader.
He's still the pinnacle of Gregory's world, though, and it's the one time he doesn't mind. When Gregory breaks the kiss long enough to grunt, "'So hot," Harry blushes. Gregory kisses the side of his face, hard, and trails more down his neck, biting and starting to suck. Harry rolls his head to the side to give more room, moaning languidly.
"'M so glad I made it outta there," Gregory mumbles into Harry's skin, now tugging at the drawstring of his pajama trousers. Harry knows what Gregory's referring too, and he slips his hands down Gregory's chest, feeling every curve of hard muscle. He traces the six-pack through that loose shirt and helps Gregory free them both from their confines. "So glad I got you." Gregory bites particularly hard, and Harry arches off the bed, flattening their bodies together.
Gregory's cock is heavy in Harry's hand, wonderfully large and very, very thick, just like the rest of him. Harry pumps it a few times while Gregory returns the favour, and in minutes, Harry's a writhing mess. He was supposed to comfort Gregory. It wasn't supposed to be like this. But he can't help it now that it's started, and he mumbles, "Wait a minute," and pushes Gregory lightly off.
Then he rolls over and reaches through the curtains, feeling around for his wand on the nightstand. Gregory's too big to not use proper spells—he's caring and careful, but he just isn't patient enough to ever stretch Harry right, and they need lube anyway. When he pulls back, Gregory looks like the wait was killing him, even at only a couple seconds. It's more desperate like this. It's comfort sex. Harry leans up to peck him on the cheek and repeat softly, "It's okay."