Disclaimer: Still not mine. Still Rowling's.

Warnings: And here is the smut. Explicit smut. Slashy smut. Enjoy or go back.

Parce que Potter

Now that he's made the first move, so to speak, you're free to retaliate. You've always been slyer than him, prone to wild-hair plans that derail, turn physical, once Harry's involved. Kissing you in public, fumbling his words before blatant attack, that's Potter straight through.

Apparating you both to your bedroom, pinning him to a wall to snog the breath from him, that's all you.

He leans back. Lets you do as you please, and you know what's behind his submission because, Merlin, isn't it behind yours as well? Though if you're both submissive — and isn't that an odd state of affairs for you both? — you don't imagine you'll get far. You take control because someone has to.

Hit him with a half-dozen surreptitious Sobrietuses, which might be overkill but you're not having him crawl out of bed in morning blaming bottled anything for what's happened and Salazar, wasn't he already blaming food items for his inanity?

And if you choose to distract him from the rapid-firing casting sparking your wand by rubbing at his, well, that's just Slytherin sleight of hand, isn't it?

He moans so pretty when you suck at his throat, you raise your hands to his waist to rip at his shirt. He dresses a right nightmare and tonight's no exception, so you've no remorse at all for tearing it from him, stripping him bare.

You think you might have been doing the wizarding world a favour. Glance at his naked chest and know you've done one for yourself.

He doesn't look overtly bulky, which is good, you like the way his strength hides itself under lacklustre attire because you know it's there and no one else needs to. You run your hands over his chest, feel warm silk skin flecked with dark hair grain. Discover his dips and ridges through tactile exploration, and he melts under your hands.

"Malfoy," he says. "Draco."

You bite at his mouth. A nip, really, but you love the husk in his voice, the way it breaks his gasp at the contact.

"Belt up, Potty," you say, and take what sting he'll find from the words with a swipe of your tongue. It's sour and liquored, not something you'd ordinarily consider consuming, but it's Potter's mouth and it tastes as it does because he's driven himself to nausea at the thought of you leaving, so it's all right, it's all right.\

His hand's at your back, fingers splayed to press you close like you've need of encouragement now, but it's warm through your clothing, real and solid and male, and you like it near as much as you like how his heavy breath rushes against your cheek when you turn to lap his ear.

"Draco, please," he says, and arches into you like a trollopy cat, so you wind your hips against him, rub your chest against his in what you hope feels like all-encompassing tease.

There's something addictive about his throat. Once you start in on it, you don't want to leave, want to just suck and taste and bite there until he's as Marked as you are, only he's restless and shirtless and pulling at yours, too Gryffindor-noble to rend.

"Just rip it," you say, words pushed from behind gritted teeth when his erection rubs up your fly. He does. Palms what he finds, charting you like you're charting him, and you think you've both been far too sedate thus far.

You have to guide him to bed. Have to lay him back, and he's so uncommonly pliant you cast another Sobrietus just to be sure. When you try to look — just look at him, dark hair on your pillow, long fingers clenching to nervous fists by his ears, tanned and honed and miraculously waiting for you to strip off and join him — when you try to appreciate all that as clearly you were meant to, he flutters those dark lashes. Peeks up over the rim of his horrid glasses, telling you silently you're taking too long.

Seems it takes forever to kick off your trainers, shimmy down the tiny, impossible zip on your trousers. You can't ever remember it taking this long, never so long as to irritate the body waiting, but at the same time, you're loath to lose the view.

Potter, you think, had best like lounging naked.

You tell him in French how it feels, kissing his chest, biting his nipples, licking his throat. You tell him in French because the words in English, they don't sound right. English seduction's a right laugh when there's choice, and you're dead sexy in French and you know it. Want to melt him with it, and you seem to be succeeding.

That's a lie. You tell him in French because he won't understand. You go Hufflepuff over him, go undeniably sappy, and he'd never understand if you said it in a language he understood, you're only just starting, s'not meant to feel like this already, you can't scare him off again, it'll break you if he runs now, you'll fucking go to Canada by choice if he does. So you tell him in the most eloquent French you have how good he feels, how much you adore this, each burning brush over heated skin, each fumbling collision of mouths.

He keens a bit and plays into your hands.

You settle in over him like you belong there, poised over perfectly-made Potty, who's a bit ridiculous in his mangled hair and mangled mouth and speccy-git glasses. Undeniably yours, though, inescapablyhimself.

You tongue his navel, push in to rim it. He whimper-moans, squirms deliciously and frots your chest so delightfully, you say That Which You Should Not.

"Je t'aime, Potty," you murmur into warm, smooth belly and he stiffens a bit and you think, Fuck, he speaks French? Because maybe it's dead simple translation, sodding basic this, but it's Harry, who's a Hippogriff in clover with language, even his own.

His fingers curl in your hair and when he tugs just right, you risk a flushed look up. Find him open-mouthed and panting, eyes bright and deliciously baffled. "Sorry?"

You can't say it again, so you say, "Erm, the Thames," even though that's bloody ludicrous. Fantastic, now you've picked up his mangled English, too. "Je Thames." And you can't quite believe you say that with a straight face.

"Je Thames, yes," he mangles oddly, like this is a perfectly rational time to be talking rivers, and you have to hide your laughter in his belly or risk offence. "Like the River Thames?"

"S'French," you correct. Bite your lip to hide the snicker because you can read what he's thinking on his pretty face. Is this some sort of Slytherin sex thing? Well, they did dorm under the lake, maybe…

"Oh. What's it mean, then?"

You can't resist. "Big river. Mid-London."

"Don't have that in Canada," he mutters, and you're smirking when you dip your head back down.

His French is atrocious, quelle surprise, look what he does to English and that's his native tongue. You strongly suspect him the sole sot in recorded history to hiss "erm" in Parseltongue.

His horrid foray into a second language seems to inspire him, though, because he wants to give the words back, even if he's no clue what they mean. You lay your hand on his shaft through his trousers, give a light, affectionate squeeze of pride in his attempt.

"No French for you, Potty. S'awful."

"Sorry," he says, voice soft and crisp like fresh-picked apple. "Don't really speak it, yeah? But, erm, you sound so…and…" And his voice breaks when you flutter your fingers over him. He twitches to your touch. "S'nice, s'nice," he slurs.

"Lovely," you say, and you feel like diamonds. "A kink."

He flushes. You gnaw his hip to distract him from the fingers working his button and that tiny, particular zip at his fly. Every time you fumble even slightly, you brush his shaft again in feather-light touch and he squirms.

There's something unspeakably erotic about his eyes when your hand slides inside, lifts hard Potter cock from his pants with the Malfoy discerning eye for the pricelessly sublime.

"Draco," he says again, he's picked it up as prayer, you think. You spare a glance at the blushing flesh in your hand, long and pink and veiny, curve swooping left when you give leeway enough to allow. You watch Harry's prick, absorb yourself in this moment because…because Canada, you think. Parce que Potter.

He twitches. His hand feels incredibly right in your hair, possessively non-threatening, and you breathe deep, content. Let wafting tang of musky sweat man Harry linger a moment before you kiss him hello right there, just there on his swollen head.

He shivers so hard you think maybe it's a shudder in disguise. The way he says your name's like honey, the way his grip tightens on your hair in reflex, all the permission you'll ever need.

You lick the veiny underside, wide swipes of broad tongue, root to tip and again and again until he's leaking, and when you stroke in counterpoint, you have to lean hard on his hips to keep them still. Touchy git, you think fond as you can, then you swirl your tongue over his glans, smearing Harry-leak over his head, over your tongue.

That's not French he's babbling, not even English, you don't think. Parseltongue, maybe, but mostly you think it's nonsense and you like that you've brought him that far on so very, very little. And because you can't take the waiting anymore and neither, apparently, can he, you swallow him deep in one neat bob of your head.

He arches up. Slams his hips high in hard thrust, hits back of your throat and stretches you wider than you expect and you love it. Fellatio you'll feel for ages.

"Sorry," he babbles, lowering his hips back in submission, all apologetic Potter. "Sorry, Draco, didn't mean…sorry, sorry, I'll…" and somehow, you understand that to mean, "don't stop, I'm a git, you've killed my self control, your mouth feels fucking brilliant," and because you like that, what he's almost-saying, you suck hard. Stroke his shaft with your inner cheeks as you pull back, lips a tight-ringed O, tongue flicking back over underside and head as you can.

Sucking Harry Potter goes precisely as you thought it would once he settles himself down again, and you rather miss the endearing lack of restraint when he slammed up into you. Leave it to Potter to find a new way of deep-throating…from the top.

You have no clue how long you suck him, just know that your jaw hurts and you've stretched your lips dry by the time he says, "Gon' come," his words broken on breathless syllables you don't piece together until he pulls you off him.

You look up at him, wait until you have his attention before you hike a brow.

"So do it," you say, and you have no clue what language you've used but he's flushed and absolutely breathtaking, baffled as ever and trying so hard to be good. You dip back down, engulf him again. Suck him like you're aiming for marrow.

He's in so deep, you don't taste it, just feel him pulse on your tongue, feel him shudder deliciously around you, muscles bunching as he does.

You swallow. Keep him in your mouth, gentle presses of tongue and quiet murmured hums until he's small and soft and limp. You kiss his body then, graze a nip at his hipbone and nuzzle into the hollow between them.

"Merlin, Malfoy," he says, dazed and sleepy. Yawns. You bite harder.

"Tsk, Potty, knackered already? Don't be this easy."

He stretches feline. Stifles a second yawn with the back of a fist but not, you notice, the one he's had in your hair. Like he doesn't want to let go, either. "That was…" And you think words are going to fail him again, they always do, until he says, "incredible."

His smile's fucking brilliant.

"Not done with you yet," you counter, but he waves you off with a harsh suck at your collarbone and Sweet Christ on a Nimbus, you think he's trying to eat you.

You are incredibly okay with that.

"Belt up, Malfoy," he counter-counters. Bites the hollow of your throat, which proves alarmingly more sensitive than you'd thought. "My turn for a go, yeah?"

"How utterly, fantastically romantic," you mutter and obviously he hears you, because he snickers a bit, but his mouth turns soft and careful as he works his way up.

When those pretty bitten lips are at your ear, he says, "S'that what you want, then? Romance?"

"Eventually." He licks the shell of your ear, which is astonishingly sensitive, too. Touches your jaw with fingers all disarmingly warm contact. Turns your face to his so you meet his eyes in what passes for steady, level stare. You highly doubt there's anything steady or level about either one of you but that's all right. "For now, I'd just like m'shag, thanks," you say to break the tension building again. He's pants with emotional anything and just now, you think, so are you.

He nods once, twice. "Good. Give me time to brush up on m'French."

His grin is absolutely ridiculous. You have no clue why you need to taste it, but you do.

He likes French like you like Parseltongue, and when he figures this out, he's insufferable. Hisses deep in your ear while he palms your cock and you've no clue what he's saying but you'll hex him if he stops.

You frot his hand. Love the way he feels, trapping you in a firm flesh cage, squeezing stroking twisting just so…yeah, maybe it's a wank, but it's one you couldn't give yourself in a million years, and you bury your face in his throat and do your best to drown in Harry.

Hiss hiss hiss, he goes on in your ear, pitched like it's a question, and when he stops to look wordless query at you, you whimper your complaint.

"Keep going," you say, gritted teeth again, something about Harry provokes it.

"Well?" he asks. First thing he's said in English in…you don't even know how long. You tell him so. Watch a flush bloom over his face again. "What do you want, Dra — Malfoy? Just there?" His grip tightens, a wicked blissful squeeze. "D'you want my hand?" Your breath catches. His hand's a marvel, far more coordinated than you'd thought possible of him. "My mouth?" His lips are so, so close to yours it's shameful there's not been more kissing. "My — " For the sake of your sanity, you cut him off.

"Arse," you tell his mouth on a ragged breath. "I want your arse."

His eyes widen. Fucking gleam with something, glassy bits of sparkle in his overheated face. "Yeah," he says and then he's kissing you again, open-mouthed everywhere he can reach without loosing that demanding grip on your shaft.

He feeds you three fingers, gnaws your shoulder and pulls at you harsh, no pattern or rhythm to the working of that hand but his own impatience. You suck his fingers like you sucked his prick but the shape's different so your seal is, too. It's both sloppier and less fulfilling to work his hand in your mouth, but he claws his fingers helplessly when you grind up into his grip and you break suction to smile.

You can't avoid his eyes, not when they're so big and open and bloody expressive. All the words that let him down, everything he fumbles through or stumbles over burns bright green when he looks up at you. You meant your hand to fist his hair, spur him on like he's spurred you, but you can't be rough with that face, just don't have it in you, so you stroke his manic hair and push him out with your tongue to brush a kiss on his knuckles.

When you pictured yourself shagging Harry Potter, it was always through the mattress. Hard and rough and violent on some level, the obvious evolution of your childhoods. Weren't you supposed to rip into each other? Wasn't this supposed to be some shoving match on the pitch that miraculously goes right? For all the pigtail pulling, all those scorching looks and mental-making tension, you're both ridiculously careful with each other and it's all rather like you've stepped out of your lives for this.

Like neither one of you can quite believe it's happening. Like you're both secretly terrified one wrong move will put you back at each other's throats in all the wrong ways.

You can't half believe he's stopped running, but even the dreams don't feel this good, nothing does but Harry.

He latches on to your left nipple, plays like it's his new favourite toy. You pull his fingers back into your mouth, tongue at his pinky because it's a late addition. Something about all that makes him lift his head. One dark brow hikes.

"All four, Malfoy?" He sounds so tremendously entertained, bone-deep happy and Rictusempra giddy. His grip shifts on your erection, measuring more than pleasuring, and before you can frown your confusion, he says, "Well, it's maybe a bit of ambitious, but if you don't want me tight, who am I to argue?"

You bite his hand. Tell him that by your measure, he's a tight-arse and always will be, great Gryffindor git. He laughs. Mouths your nipple, breath broken in a pattern it takes a moment for you to place. "Je River Thames you Ferret," he tells your chest and you're still laughing when he bites you back.

He hisses when you rim him, but it's nothing to do with Parseltongue. Tries to prepare himself, but you bat his hands away because frankly, you're looking forward to having Harry Potter's arse at long bloody last and you need no interference, thanks.

"Then what…the fingers…sucking…" He waves the hand you sucked, but your Harry's pretty good, you don't need the gesture for translation.

"Foreplay," you say, then tell him to belt up again or you'll gag him. You've better things to do with your tongue than set him straight and you're only too keen to prove it.

Fucking him with your tongue's fascinating. He makes these little noises you can't describe for all the vaults in Gringotts and you think you're addicted to them, really, because when he bites into his pillow and stops them, you miss them. Crave them. Snag your wand and Vanish the pillow just to hear them again.

Smooth muscle clamps on your tongue as you push in, and you think, "Fuck me, he's not a virgin, he can't be," but he's so impossibly tight and tense it takes ages to lick him relaxed.

He smells a little like warming potion you half-remember brewing. Giddy as you're feeling, you think maybe it's liquid Rictusempra, which would be just like him, wouldn't it, to have an arse that tastes like a bottled laughing hex? Really, it is. Speccy git.

It's musky and earthy and familiar, not so different from when you sucked him, only this is obviously not his cock you're working now. Different suction, different sounds, incredibly sensitive pucker to lap, and a whole new range of squirmy Harry when you do.

You don't kiss his arse. Maybe you're fucking him — at long bloody last, and with your tongue no less — but you're still Draco Malfoy and he's still Harry Bloody Potter, and there's nothing in the world that'll let you, Draco Malfoy, kiss Harry Bloody Potter's arse.

At least, not until he's kissed yours first.

About the time he's gone right proper potty, fisting sheets and finding new religions and such, you pull back. He protests in English and hissing and what you think might be French were it not incoherent babbling.

When you were sixteen and stupid, you thought you wanted Harry Potter like this, face down and waiting. You had so many stupid fantasies, spent so many wanks picturing Potter at your mercy, how you'd have him someday, and you've long since outgrown them, but seeing him like this calls them back and you hate the boy you were for everything he didn't understand.

You say, "Over, Potty, I want you on your back," because what you want to say is, "I want to watch you, I need to know it's you, I need to know this is real, I need to know you want this," and that's too sappy for words.

Even with the rimming, with everything you've done to relax him, he's tense when your head finds his hole. There's been lube and fingers working slow, careful, he should be stretched enough to take you, but you exert the slightest pressure and his eyes widen. Salazar on toast, he's got amazing eyes. See everything he's thinking, can't you? And oh, how addictive that is, too. Hooked on Harry, you think, and smile foolishly.

He smiles back. Tentative, but you'll take it. Bites his lip and nods you on, and as you slide in, you bite for him to catch the lovely little sounds he makes.

Fucking Harry Potter's nothing like you thought. Wordless, just ragged breaths and unspeakably erotic nonsensical sounds. Fluid, and you've no clue where this grace came from, he's a tremendous clod usually, but he rolls into you and now you've got a rhythm going, it's not awkward at all. Careful — tender, your inner Hufflepuff says, but you're Slytherin, so it's "careful" — like you've spent your lives hurting each other and you're both doing all you can not to let it happen again.

It's exquisite. It's…it's flushed cheeks and green eyes blown wide, tangled hair on your pillow and mangled mouth under yours, slow and steady rock until Harry urges you on. It's innocence and earnestness and trust and affection and Harry leaking into your hand.

It's a little holy, actually, and you're so caught up in making Harry make those little sounds you like, seeing he doesn't over-torment his mouth, your orgasm sneaks up on you. Floods. When Harry comes in your hand, it cements the image and you think you just developed a serious kink for water, as well, what with rivers muttered into your chest and Harry flooding your hand.

"Jesus, Draco, Jesus," he says when you collapse on him. You'd roll off him, you're both sticky and hot and it can't be comfortable, but he wraps his arms around you like you held his knees over your forearms, with intractable strength and devotion to the cause. "Did you know?"

"I hoped," you say.

"River Thames, Ferret," he mumbles, half asleep already. You close your eyes. Think, "Well, it beats the one in Egypt."

And then you're asleep on naked Harry Potter and not in Canada, just exactly where you belong.

He's watching you sleep. Smiles a bit when you blink yourself awake. Touches you because he can, and you don't mind, you do the same to prove he's really there.

"Sorry," he says, and you can't for the life of you sort why. Well, you can, but if he means that, you'll hex him senseless yourself.

"Did you mean it? This?" If he didn't, you'll make Dark Git look innocent.

But he can't mean that, not when he's all smiling sweet and staring and touching gentle. Weren't you supposed to rip each other apart in furious lust? Odd, you'd always expected…

"The bit about keeping you, yeah. The bit about bollocksing up your trip? No." His grin turns rueful.

"Git," you murmur, and kiss him until he remembers where his tongue belongs.

He can't hide the sap when you pull back, but he blinks it clear fast. Says, "I'm not stupid, you know." You bite down on a smirk. You've seen him in Potions. "Canada." And he's laughing quietly as he shakes his head. You think you hear him snort, "TheRiver Thames, honestly, m'French s'not that bad, git," but you don't want to go there just yet.

"Canada's a free and glorious country," you say, only slightly miffed he's joined Blaise in the plan mocking. Your current position's rather proof of success, you think. "French and all."

"M'sure it is," he says, lips twitching. Your hormones forget sometimes, the innate gitness of Harry James Potter, but you never will. "Might even get there someday. When, erm, you've nothing tying you to England, yeah? No particular fascination with its rivers or anything."

Oh, oh, the leer that accompanies that verb does such wonderfully wicked things to your imagination. As does that entirely innocent expression that proceeds it.

"Permanently tied, am I?"

He thinks that over. "For the foreseeable future. Not done with you just yet, thanks."

You're still working up a suitable protest when he covers you with warm Harry blanket and snogs you breathless.

Your mother wants to know about the ring. Granger wants to know about the plans. Pansy wants to know about the proposal — Girl Weasley's put a tenner it was awkward, but she's wrong; it was Parseltongue and a mangled lip, and it was possibly the most brilliant sex you'll ever have in your life, none of which you plan to tell her, jealous witch — and Blaise wants to know about the shagging because as he says, now that it's started, it never seems to stop.

Longbottom's on about the flowers and Weasley's on about the food and Lovegood, she's still on about Nargles.

Harry shares your smirk. Only one wedding plan matters, really…

"S'going to be in Canada," you say, because it's legal there, no "partnerships", proper marriage, and Harry snickers a bit when you rest your head on his shoulder. Murmurs, "Not the Thames?" into your hair.

And because he's daft, because he's nine times of ten off in his own little world now he's no Dark Git to top, Harry caps your perfectly reasonable statement with some new irrationality of his own.

Looks at Weasley to pull his attention back from the catering question and says, "Just, erm, no salad, mate."

fin