HD 'Harry's Tea'

Author: Tigersilver

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 4,000

Warnings: Schmoop? This has little to do with tea and a lot to do with Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Tis is a gift, not cookies, sorry. But specifically: demicus, Phoenix_acid, vaysh11, nenne, enchanted_jae. Marie! And dyson_rules. This is an exercise only. I've not written in ages, so forgive me. I think that I fail, really. Also, capitu? Thanks for the recs. You make me happy!

Harry's tea is particular especial; Draco takes very little care for anyone else's. Not the Slytherin's, 'specially.

Not Pansy. Not Blaise. Not Nott.

Harry, who's invited back to his room. Harry, who's invited into Draco's bed. And doesn't seem to mind water walls and odd creatures, pressing up against the glass. Doesn't seem to mind lapsang souchong and slightly stale biscuits.

"Draco. Draco?" he says, all innocent and complacent, after. Laying back, on Draco's bed. Seems that way, at least, when Draco's got him laid flat and panting. Crawling over. "Draco?" he says, half gasping, red-faced. Accepting the pressure of another body as is if there's no never-mind. "Draco. All right?"

It is. "Yes!" Really, really all right. Draco grunts, low and guttural. This isn't something he can give up to speech easily. "Ha! Harry!"

"I'm…I'm here."

"Yes, yes, I know! Ha-Harry!"

Tea's sitting and stewing and the Elves would have a bloody fit, likely. Doesn't matter. Fuck the tea. Fuck the tea! His hands move and lips as well. All on Harry, all about Harry, but?

"Malfoy." It seems to take Harry a bloody long time to relax. "…Dra…co?"

Draco babbles, just a little bit; can't seen to stop it? "Love you; perfect, Gods you're arse is marv—ah—ah! May I please…oh, please let me?"

It takes Draco no time a'tall. He's already hard, desperately so, and Harry's squirming. Draco pulls back, unwilling, peers down. Frightened, maybe…just a bit?

"…Yes, oh yes." Harry's perfect lips, rounded in an 'O'. Reassuring. "D-Draco!"

"Harry!" (Draco rolls his eyes, unwilling to be so obviously amazed.) "Mmmm, Harry…May I?"

"Yes, do!" (Harry blinks. Great green eyes, defenseless without specs. Gorgeous! Draco marvels, just a little.)

"…'Love'? (He breathes, just barely, mostly into Harry's one ear.) "…Can I call you that? 'Love'. My Harry. Mine." Draco reaches for bolder; there's no reason why not, is there? "Harry, Harry! My love!"

"…Yes. (There's no obvious objection, rejection.) "Yes," Harry pants. "Please, now?"

"Mine. My Harry. Mine!"

And it's done.

So quick and so small, this act of love. This act of love.

Doesn't take long, the act. Quick hands, slick fingers. In, out, repeatedly. And then they lay back and breathe. For long moments. Until Harry says…

Harry says…

"…Well. That's—"

"Please don't—"

"I meant—"

"No! No, please don't-"

"I've just—just come in your arse—oh, but it was perfect, don't mind me, Boy Wonder, but you're—you!"

"Draco? Draco…" Harry sounds just as enraptured; Draco blinks, trying to clear his ears. Is…Is this true?

It might be.

There's deep breaths all 'round. It's dark in Slytherin and Eighth Year's not all that. Little kids and crying and the ghosts—some of them a bit too new, now, like Goyle—and it's not the best environment, perhaps, to foster a relationship between old enemies. He worries. Has worried. About too many things, and now Potter.

Potter?

"Harry? Harry." And Draco's cold tip of a nose is up against Harry's ear. "Harry? Are you with me?" (What he means is and can't say is 'Are you here?' With me?)

"Yeah," Harry says, after a pause; swallows, because this is real and he knows it. "Um. Yes?" he says, obviously trying to be a real person. "I am. Please. Draco?" (And the pause implies 'Kiss me again, just like before; I beg you?')

Draco complies instantly; it's very hard to resist an insistent Potter.

"Do you-?" And it's hard; very difficult. "I would like, very much—" Draco stalls; it's up to Harry to hear the rest of it. "To—to—Ha- Harry?"

It's a long pause. A cold one. A frozen moment. 'Real person' doesn't equate to 'someone willing to toss his chances in with a freaking Pureblood of recent Turn'. (Excepting Draco seems to mean it, his Turn. And Harry…Harry would like to believe?)

But they're two breathing (hopeful?) individuals. Two sentient ones, even.

"Um." Draco remarks, a moment later, after a careful space of breathing. "Um? I like London Town? Flamel. Is in London." (He means, though he doesn't say it, that he'd like to go there, and have Harry with him.)

"Ah," Harry smiles, into Draco's armpit. Implications are not entirely lost on him. "London. London's nice."

"Ah, right, then." Draco swallows, not easily. There's a lump in his throat. There's pressure behind his eyes. He's looking at the one idiot who makes him crazy, all these years. The one that matters.

All these years.

"Potter," he says, sitting up, bolt-up, "Potter!" Because there's more.

"Malfoy!" And Harry sits up and he's grinning, grinning madly. "Malfoy!" he exclaims and for a moment Draco actually gets their programme.

"Harry…um?" For a moment. Urrr, um? Mentally? As this is bit much, more than he expected. "Potter? Ur…Harry?"

"H'urm?" Harry spares him a smile. Dark and low. "Draco. You were saying?"

"P-Potter? C-Come to—" Bed with me, he means, and really means it, because it's late and Slytherin's dark and Potter's bright, for all his Darkness. And Draco wants, and wants him, in particular. "P—"

"Yes."

"And then?" There's a wealth of meaning in Draco's look. Come to life with me? "And then also—also?"

That.

"Find the flat; I'm in it. The perfect one." Harry smiles. "I'm your man."

"And that's it?" Draco feels as though he's allowed sound aghast, should he choose it. "…P-Potter?"

Harry smiles; no…Harry smirks. He's brilliant.

Draco loves him. How can he not?

"I am," he says, and he says it to Draco's left nipple, red and ripe. Very seriously. And smiling. "Your man."

END. Merry Christmas! And a Happy New Year! Tis nothing much but I'm trying. (So very trying, per my beloveds. Hah!)