Standard Disclaimer: We do not own Harry or Draco, which – in our opinions – is a damned shame. We're not making any money from writing this story (another shame). Everything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. The dirty parts belong to us!
A/N: Special thanks to Albe-chan who helped brainstorm through an awkward transition in this chapter.
Chapter Four: Fallen
Kissing Potter was strange, no doubt about it, but far from unpleasant. Now that they were alone – really alone, with no chance of anyone walking in on them – Draco found that he was better able to stop judging himself for desiring Potter. It didn't matter so much that they had been enemies in school. It didn't matter that Potter was a Gryffindor, that his blood wasn't pure. I didn't even matter that he was… well… a "he."
What mattered was that Potter was warm and hard and kissing him back enthusiastically. He had been dreaming about the black-haired youth for months, and now he was here, in the flesh, moaning softly as Draco pulled him closer.
"Oh, God," Potter gasped, as their bodies made contact, and it became immediately evident that they were both aroused beyond reason.
Draco could feel Potter's cock through the fabric of his black suit trousers, and it inflamed his curiosity. Potter had seen (and felt, and tasted) Draco's cock at the Ministry, but the experience had been rather one-sided. And now Draco wanted – no, needed – to explore Potter's body.
His fingers flew to the buttons on Potter's silk shirt, fumbled with them. Potter grabbed at his own clothing and tore the shirt open, buttons flying, and then shrugged it off into a green puddle on the floor. Then Potter reached for the buttons on Draco's shirt, baring his chest as well.
Potter's torso was lean and chiseled, and slightly hairier than Draco's. His nipples were small and dusky, and Draco ran his thumbs across them, making Potter shiver. Potter responded to Draco's every touch with quivers and moans, and Draco found himself getting high on the power. He may have saved the Wizarding world, but at the moment, Potter was completely at Draco's mercy. Suddenly, Draco wanted him naked.
Potter didn't put up any resistance, and had soon stepped out of the rest of his clothing to stand before Draco, utterly vulnerable, his hard prick jutting out from dark curls atop muscular thighs. His pupils were wide and his breath came in ragged gasps.
"Now you," Potter rasped.
Draco laughed. "I don't think so, Potter. I'm not drunk enough yet for the full monty." He eyed the firewhiskey. He could get drunk enough. It probably wouldn't take much.
"Then keep it all on." Potter sighed heavily, and raked his eyes down Draco's still mostly clothed body. "I don't want it if it's not real," he repeated. "I don't want it if it's some sort of repayment for a debt you think you owe me, and I don't want it if it's because you're drunk."
"But you DO want it."
"God yes," Potter groaned.
"I'm not in the habit of giving you what you want, Potter."
"I know that," Potter said, stepping closer, naked, hard. "Do you think you could get in the habit of letting me give you what you want?"
Draco was so hard he was afraid if he moved too quickly he'd break it off. He swallowed, nodded. "It's the Malfoy way," he said, his voice tight.
"And tonight, you wanted me out of my clothes," Potter continued. "And here I am." He stepped closer still. "What else do you want?"
Draco was at an uncharacteristic loss for words – or, more precisely, he was at a loss for words he could actually speak aloud and maintain any dignity.
"I wanted some goddamned firewhiskey," he said, finally. "That is the reason I came up here in the first place, if you recall."
"What else, Draco? I was getting the firewhiskey, and you… touched me." Potter closed his eyes, took a deep shuddering breath. "You kissed me," he said, more softly. He took a final step to close the distance between them, pressing his hard nakedness into Draco. "You… undressed me." He pressed his palm against Draco's tented trousers, and raised his face to whisper into Draco's ear. "What else do you want, Draco?"
Draco felt lightheaded at Potter's nearness, his nakedness, and his apparent willingness to do whatever Draco wanted. If only he knew what he wanted! It was all so overwhelming, and his lust-clouded brain felt incapable of making any decisions. A big part of him wanted to throw Potter onto the floor and fuck him senseless. Another part of him realized there would be repercussions of such an act. He was unable to weigh the consequences. He couldn't think past the next five minutes, because surely, if he were to have sex with Potter, the world would end anyway.
"I want to go slowly, Potter," he managed. He pulled Potter into another kiss – a hot, needy kiss. A kiss that said anything but "let's take it slowly."
Draco trailed a hand down Potter's chest, stopping for a moment to rub across his nipple once more before continuing south to his navel, brushing against his erection. Potter whimpered and swiped a tongue over Draco's exposed nipple, further igniting Draco's lust. Potter's hands stroked their way down Draco's body, teasing the sensitive flesh of his lower abdomen.
"God, Draco," moaned Potter against Draco's chest. "Can I at least…" His hands moved to Draco's belt.
Draco held his breath, nodded slightly. Potter opened Draco's trousers, slid his hand into his pants. Almost simultaneously they reached for each other's straining cocks, and both gasped at the sensation.
When his hand closed around the Chosen One's prick, Draco thought he might just explode. But this was not the time to lose control. He wanted to be in control – of Harry Potter.
But control was going to be difficult to maintain. Potter was looking up at him, green eyes dark with need, and begging, "Please, Draco. Take them off. I know you want it as bad as I do."
God, it was true. Even if Potter had never saved his life, never kept him from Azkaban. Even with the firewhiskey still in the fucking glasses on the table. He wanted to get out of his clothes. Wanted nothing between him and Potter.
Draco toed off his shoes. Removing his shirt would mean releasing Potter's cock, and Draco wasn't letting go. It would have to stay. With his free hand, he pushed his trousers and pants down his thighs. Potter made a gurgling sound in the back of his throat as he used his spare hand to help him slide them down far enough to step out of them.
Now clad only in his socks and his unbuttoned shirt, Draco was able to feel the heat of Potter's flesh pressed hard against him.
"So much better," Potter mumbled against Draco's chest, his tongue and teeth seeking nipple again.
Draco had been a passive participant, for the most part, in the incident at the Ministry. But as always when it came to Potter, Draco wanted the upper hand. The time had come to show Potter who was in charge. He redoubled his focus on what he was doing, rather than on what was being done to him, and began stroking Potter's cock in a torturously slow rhythm.
"Holy fucking mother of god," Potter groaned, his eyes fluttering shut again.
Draco was both amused and enormously turned on to learn that the noble Gryffindor had such profanity in his vocabulary.
"Shit," Potter said, "Draco, oh shit, I'm going to…" And he did.
Draco had been watching Potter's face, but looked down just in time to see the milky spurt of Potter's semen, and Potter's hand clamped tight over Draco's own cock. That was all it took to send Draco over the edge right along with him. "Fuck, Potter," he cried, coating Potter's hand and belly in hot fluid.
"Damn," Potter said a moment later, with a sheepish grin. "That didn't take long." He took a short, unsteady step backward, dug his wand out of the pile of his clothing, and cleaned them both up.
Draco stayed silent, and attempted to stop his body from shaking with aftershocks of his orgasm.
"Jesus," Potter said, eyes sliding up and down Draco's nearly naked body. "I always knew you'd be perfect under those clothes."
Always knew it? How long had The Chosen One been imagining Draco naked, anyway?
Leaving that issue aside for the moment, Draco attempted to regain a modicum of cool. He shrugged, as if he hadn't just cried Potter's name and come all over him, and gestured toward the firewhiskey. "So you dragged me all the way up here just to give you a handjob? Or are we going to get on with those drinks?"
Potter turned toward the table, and chuckled. "I suppose…." He lifted the two glasses, handed one to Draco.
"You suppose what?" Draco took a sip. It burned pleasantly on the way down.
"I suppose," Potter said, taking an enormous chug from his own glass, "that I can let you have your drink now."
"Let me?"
"Yeah. Now that I know… now that we've… without it."
Draco tossed back the rest of his firewhiskey in one gulp. God, he had been sober. A little wine with dinner, true. A little brandy with dessert. But he hadn't felt even a slight buzz when they'd arrived at Grimmauld Place. He'd stroked off Harry Potter – sober. Voluntarily.
He needed another drink. He extended his glass and Potter refilled it with a rather Malfoy-esque smirk.
Potter cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "Now that we've taken the, er, scenic route… shall we carry on with looking at the house?"
Two options presented themselves immediately to Draco. To his left was an enormous bed, and in front of him, a naked Potter. And he'd just downed a fair quantity of firewhiskey, which absolved him of some responsibility. He could always blame his actions on the alcohol, later. To his right was the door, and the rest of the house beyond.
Draco's lust was sated, at least for the moment, and he was not desirous of making Potter feel irresistible. He turned away from the bed. "Yes," he said. "Show it to me now – while we're both still able to walk." His knees were a still a little wobbly, even now.
Potter's jaw dropped open quite satisfactorily. Draco loved that he was able to shock the Gryffindor.
"I thought you wanted to take it slow," said Potter, when he'd recovered himself. "Not that I'm complaining."
"So let's take the tour," said Draco, heading for the door. "That'll slow things down, unless you were planning to molest me in every room along the way."
Potter laughed. "The thought had occurred to me," he said. "But hold up a minute, okay?"
He conjured two silken robes, and handed Draco the forest green one. "You might want to wear this," he said. "This house had a lot of dark items in it when I inherited it. I've tried to take care of all the dangerous hexes but there may still be some nasty ones hanging about that could do a number on... sensitive areas." He slipped a ruby red robe over his own shoulders, tied it at his waist, and led the way into the hall. "Since we're up here already, maybe we should start at the top and work our way down?"
"Either way," said Draco. Potter could start anywhere he wanted, so long as he worked his way toward the middle.
"Well, unless you want to see the attic, which I don't really recommend, this is the top floor."
"What's in the attic?" asked Draco, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Not much," said Potter. "A big empty room that still smells of hippogriff no matter how many cleaning charms I use on it, and a storage room where I've been shoving things if I can't remove the curses on them."
"Why does the one room smell like…?" Draco shook his head. "Never mind. Perhaps it's better if I don't know." He had once suffered a heinous and unprovoked attack in which a hippogriff tried to violently remove his arm. The same hippogriff, of course, had treated Potter like a god, taken him for a soar around the school grounds. Yet another example of how Potter had figured into everything bad that had happened to him. He scowled, and stroked the arm he nearly lost to the beast.
Potter laughed. "Yes, perhaps it is better if you don't. We'll just avoid the attic, yeah?" He opened a door across the landing. "This used to be the room of Sirius's younger brother, Regulus. I haven't done much with this one, yet."
"Hideously dusty, but nicer than the room we were just in," said Draco, entering the room and casting a critical eye over the antique furniture.
"I knew you'd like this one better," chuckled Potter. "The color scheme is far more your style. Regulus was a proper Black, sorted into Slytherin."
Draco turned back to his tour guide, eyebrow raised in a challenge. "I'm a bit surprised you haven't moved into this room instead, Potter. And that you conjured a red robe for yourself instead of a green one."
Potter stiffened; Draco had apparently touched a nerve. "What the hell are you talking about? You think just because I'm spending time with you I must have chucked my house loyalty?"
"You've been wearing green every time I've seen you lately." Draco leaned against one of the bedposts, and fingered the rich green hangings. "It's too much to be coincidental. I assumed that now you're out of school and can dress how you want, you've been showing your true colors. I've always said you were more Slytherin than you let on, Potter."
Potter went slightly paler. Draco waited, brushing a green tassel from the four-poster across his palm. He was in no hurry.
"The Sorting Hat tried to put me in Slytherin," he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "But I told it I didn't want that, so it put me in Gryffindor."
He told it? And it listened? Even objects treat Harry Potter as though he is special?
"Dumbledore said that when I pulled Gryffindor's sword out of the hat in the Chamber of Secrets it proved I was a Gryffindor at heart," Potter continued, speaking more to himself than to Draco. "But there was that whole Parselmouth thing…"
That "whole Parselmouth thing" had been fucking weird. When Draco had shot a snake out of his wand at Potter in the dueling club, and he'd SPOKEN to the thing, Draco had nearly fallen over in surprise.
"I think it was just because I was carrying around a bit of Voldemort's soul, without knowing about it. So now that bit of him is gone from me, maybe I'm less Slytherin than I used to be, and more of the Gryffindor I always felt like I was pretending to be."
"You were carrying a bit of his soul?" Disgusting. Draco sat on the bed, too. "When did you find out?"
"That night… Snape told me just before he died. Dumbledore had figured it out, and Snape was in on it. They didn't tell me. They both thought I'd have to be killed to make Voldemort mortal again, and they didn't want me to know."
"Holy shit," said Draco. Dumbledore always acted like he loved Potter. Apparently, their relationship was complicated. Maybe he favored Potter to ease his guilt about having to sacrifice him down the road.
They were silent for a while, while Draco tried to absorb all he'd just heard.
"But you didn't have to die," Draco said finally. "They had it wrong." If Draco could trust his senses, Potter was very much alive, his warm body right next to Draco's.
"Yeah, I think actually that bit of Voldemort's soul saved me. I went into the Forbidden Forest to let him kill me, once I knew it was in me and that it had to be destroyed. Somehow, when he fired Avada Kedavra at me it was just the bit of his soul in me that was killed. It knocked me out. He thought I was dead, and your mother covered for me. If he'd hit me again, I probably would have died."
Potter had walked into the Forest to sacrifice himself so that the Dark Lord could be killed. Draco couldn't imagine that kind of bravery. It was typical Potter, though, to intend to sacrifice himself and somehow come out of it alive.
"So he didn't know it was in you, I guess, or he wouldn't have been trying to kill you, right?"
"He didn't know," said Potter, shaking his head, and looking again into Draco's eyes. "Somehow he'd transferred some of it to me the first time he tried to kill me, and his soul was already so damaged from killing that he didn't even realize another piece of it had gone missing. But somehow I'd always known there was something wrong with me. I hoped no one in Gryffindor could tell. I pretended to be just like them."
"I don't think they knew," Draco said. "You acted like a typical Gryffindor most of the time." He paused, considering. "I didn't know that you almost wound up in Slytherin," he added. "That would have been… different." Would they have been friends? Salazar's shorts, they'd have been sleeping in the same dorm for seven years. Sharing a Quidditch pitch locker room. God only knows what would have happened.
"No one knew," said Potter. "I never told anybody." He stared into space again. "Well, I told Dumbledore, but I know he kept my secret. He was really good at keeping secrets." He shook his head, as if shaking away cobwebs. "I think maybe that's one reason you bothered me so much," he continued. "You represented everything Slytherin to me, and I wanted to prove to myself, and everyone else, that I had nothing in common with you. So whatever you did, or said, I did the opposite. Every time you insulted a Weasley, for instance, it just bound me tighter to them."
Perfect. Draco was responsible for sending Potter into the arms of the Weaslette? He deserved better than her. "If I'm to blame for that," he said with a sneer, "I'm truly sorry."
"No," said Potter. "I liked them from the start for all kinds of reasons, and still do. They're like the family I never had. Still, all your digs made me even more fiercely protective of them."
They sat in silence once more. So Potter had Dark Lord soul in him, had nearly been sorted into Slytherin, and had denied the Slytherin in him by actively opposing Draco. And now the bit of darkness had been destroyed, and Potter wasn't sure what was left.
"Well, have you tried speaking Parseltongue since the Dark Lord fell? That might give you some clue as to how much Slytherin is still in you."
Crap. Draco usually edited himself before he spoke, and he wished he'd not let his guard down. As his unfortunate phrasing echoed in the silence, Draco's brain created an image of himself trying to find out just how much Slytherin could fit into Potter. He felt himself heat up.
"Yeah," said Potter, his eyes on his bare feet. "I've tried it. I can still do it, but it doesn't come as easily now."
"Show me," said Draco.
He wished he'd been the Parselmouth. His father would have been so proud. But no – of course. It was Potter. Draco didn't want to have to carry around a bit of Dark Lord soul for the privilege of communicating with snakes, but it was a pretty fucking awesome skill.
"I need a snake," said Potter. "I can't just do it. I need a snake to speak to."
Holy shit, if that didn't make Draco half-hard again. The words, "I've got your snake right here," formed in his head, but Draco clamped his lips together and remained silent.
"There's got to be one around here, somewhere," said Potter. "Find something with a Slytherin crest on it."
There would be no hiding half a woody in the flimsy silk robe, so Draco folded his arms in his lap and searched the room from his seated position. "Check the closet," he said. "Maybe some of his school things are still in there."
Potter crossed the room, and then returned with a Hogwarts-issue Slytherin robe in his hands. He sat on the bed next to Draco again, and raised the green and silver house crest stitched over the robe's left breast to eye level. He took a deep breath. And then he did it. His eyes went sort of unfocused, and his voice came in soft, hissing syllables that rolled off his supple tongue.
It was dead sexy. Draco's flag went from half-mast to fully flying.
Potter dropped the robe onto the floor, and dropped his head into his hands. "I don't know why I can still do it," he said. "It shouldn't be in me anymore."
"It's okay, Potter," Draco said, not sure at all why he was comforting Potter, except that maybe someone who'd tried to die to save others deserved some comfort. "It's just… residue or something. A little reminder of the past, like a… like a…"
"Like a what?" Potter raised his head from his hands to look at Draco – and his eyes fell on Draco's lap.
The robe had slipped as his erection grew, and Draco was suddenly aware that he was exposed.
"Like a… scar," Draco murmured. "As if you didn't already have one."
"You liked that?" Potter's hand strayed to Draco's upper arm, followed it down to where it was doing a lousy job of hiding Draco's reaction to the Parseltongue demonstration.
Draco wanted to deny it, but knew he'd look like a fool if he lied so obviously. "Maybe you don't want to lose the Parseltongue entirely, Potter," he admitted.
"Maybe I don't," Potter repeated, sliding off the bed and getting on his knees between Draco's legs. He slipped his hand up Draco's thigh until he was once again holding Draco's cock.
Draco moved his arms, giving Potter better access, and, having nowhere else to put them, rested them on Potter's shoulders.
Potter lowered his face, his breath warm on Draco's cock, sending shivers down Draco's spine. And then he did it again – the low, soft hissing rising and falling as Potter's hand began to stroke slowly up and down.
Draco closed his eyes and shuddered. Dear fucking Merlin, Potter was actually doing it. He was charming Draco's snake. And then, oh fuck, the noises stopped – because Potter's mouth was on him, hot and wet, and sliding up and down his swollen prick.
"Fuck, Potter," Draco groaned. "Oh my fucking god, yes." His hands found their way somehow to Potter's head, and his fingers knotted into Potter's hair. He urged the Parselmouth down further, and gasped as Potter took practically his entire cock into his mouth. "Take it all, Potter," he said, his voice thick with lust. And Potter complied, with a possessive growl that shook Draco to his core. And soon, too soon, because he wanted the feeling to go on forever, Draco couldn't contain himself any longer. He came hard, deep into Potter's throat. Potter greedily swallowed it, and then licked Draco's softening shaft clean as Draco fell back, panting, on the bed.
"Thank you," Potter said.
Draco opened his eyes, stared at the green hanging over him. "Thank me?" Shouldn't he be the one…?
"Yeah," said Potter. "I've never felt anything positive about being a Parselmouth until just now. It was just one more thing that made me different from everyone else, and not in a good way. But now…"
Draco propped himself up on his elbows to look at Potter, and nearly laughed when he saw what could only be described as a naughty grin on that previously hated face.
"Now that I see it's got some value," Potter said, straightening his red robes over his own now-visible erection. "Now that I see it's got a practical application…."
"Yes?" prompted Draco, grinning as well.
"Well, perhaps I'll just have to practice it now and then to make sure I don't lose it."
"Excellent plan," said Draco. "You'll just have to keep a snake handy to practice on."
Potter raised an eyebrow. "Volunteering for duty?"
"All for a good cause," said Draco. "What… When you were speaking Parseltongue just then, what were you saying, anyway?"
"When I was talking to the snake on the robe," said Potter, blushing, "I was telling it to look at my beautiful new friend."
"Friend? Me?" The night could scarcely get any weirder. Potter had gotten him off twice in the space of twenty minutes, and was now calling him a friend. And a beautiful one, at that.
"Well, I thought I might be jumping the gun just a bit to call you my lover."
Draco groaned. If it were possible to get hard again just then, he would have. He stood. "You're killing me, Potter."
Potter smirked, as though he knew a particularly juicy secret.
"What?" said Draco.
"When I was talking to… the other snake," Potter said, "I said…"
"What?" Draco repeated.
"Well," said Potter, turning toward the door, "perhaps some things are better left unsaid."
Draco knew he shouldn't do it, but he couldn't stop himself. He grabbed Potter by the hand and spun him back around. "You said what, Potter: tell me."
"I said," said Potter, his face crimson – almost as red as the robe, "You look delicious and I want to eat you. I'm going to lick you and suck you until you can't take it anymore."
"Fuck," said Draco, and he sat back on the bed, as his knees had just given out on him.
"You asked," said Potter. He pulled on Draco's hand and led him out of the room.
Draco was in a daze for most of the rest of the tour. He vaguely registered that the house actually didn't look too bad. It was neither decorated in Late Twentieth-Century Muggle, nor in High Gryffindor.
Speaking of which… They'd made it down to the first floor landing when Draco realized he'd never gotten an answer.
"So why is it that you're wearing so much green lately?" he asked. "Are you doing it for me?"
Potter laughed as he headed down the stairs toward the ground floor. "No," he said. "Sorry, it's not for you. Well, not exactly."
"What does that mean?" Draco stood at the top of the staircase.
"Well, I did wear them for you because they're fairly new, and some of the nicest things I own. But not because they're green and you're a Slytherin." He was halfway down the stairs.
"Hey," Draco called, "What happened to the house-elf heads?"
Potter stopped mid-step. He turned around. "How did you know about the house-elf heads?"
"I came here a couple of times as a boy," Draco explained. "Family gatherings, while I had some aunts and uncles still living here. I always hated those damned creepy heads mounted on this staircase."
"Me, too," said Potter. "I put them in storage in the attic. I didn't know you'd been here before. I hope the tour hasn't been too boring."
Draco walked down to join Potter, and they took the remaining steps together. "Totally boring," said Draco. "You're the worst tour guide ever." He kissed Potter again when they reached the ground floor.
Potter kissed him back, reaching up to run his fingers through Draco's hair.
After a minute or two or ten, Draco pulled away. "So why is it that all your nice, new things are green, exactly?"
"Not going to let it go, are you?"
Draco grinned. "No."
"They're gifts."
"From your admiring public?"
"Just one admirer, actually."
"And who might that one admirer be?" Draco heard the note of jealousy in his own voice, and hated it. What did he care if some anonymous person was sending Potter emerald green dress shirts, forest green tee shirts, and mossy button-downs?
Potter sighed, and sank onto a settee in the foyer. "Ginny Weasley," he said.
"The Weaslette?" What the fuck? "Where did she find the galleons to buy you a new wardrobe? And why the hell does she keep buying you green clothing?"
As soon as he'd asked the question, Draco knew the answer.
"Because she says they bring out my eyes," said Potter. "And not that it's any of your business, but she helped out George and Ron in the joke shop all summer, and George paid her well. I do fear she spent it all on me, though."
Awkward. Draco took the seat next to Potter. They sat, naked under their silk robes, having gotten rather intimate with each other's bodies, while the echo of Potter's girlfriend's name hung in the air between them.
"You're still seeing her, then?"
"Not at the moment," Potter said. "She went back to Hogwarts on the Express with everyone else. I haven't seen her for over a month."
That was not what Draco meant, and he felt sure that Potter knew it. He wanted to know if the Weaslette still thought of Potter as her boyfriend, and, more importantly, if Potter still thought of her as his girlfriend. He could not bring himself to ask. It would almost definitely come out sounding needy, and a Malfoy should never sound needy. It was unbecoming.
"She owls quite a bit, I expect."
"A few times a week, generally."
"I see." It was all Draco could think of to say. He knew he had absolutely no business being jealous or possessive. So why was he feeling that way? He glanced around the foyer, because he could not meet Potter's eyes.
"Potter?" he asked, after several seconds.
"What?"
"Why is my Great Aunt Walburga gagged in that portrait? And shaking her fist at us?"
Potter laughed uproariously. When he recovered enough to speak, he explained. "The gag was Hermione's suggestion. Your Great Aunt's portrait used to shriek the most awful things at anyone she didn't like – including me, but especially Hermione, because she's Muggle-born. It got pretty tiresome, and one day, I just yelled back at the portrait, 'Put a sock in it, Walburga!' Hermione thought it was a great idea. She found a very skilled artist to add the gag. Apparently, as long as it was done in the same kind of paints and the same style as the original painting, she can't take it off. So she's still pissed as hell that I own the house now, but at least I don't have to listen to her anymore."
Draco raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Want to give her something to really be upset about?"
"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"
"Could be." Draco rose and pulled Potter to his feet. He took him by the hand and led him over to the portrait.
"Look, Great Aunt Walburga," he said. "I'm kissing a half-blood." And he did. The old broad looked like she was going to burst a blood vessel.
Potter giggled at first, but when Draco slipped his tongue between Potter's open lips, he stopped laughing and gave a very gratifying moan.
A/N: Will Draco move into Grimmauld Place with Harry? Will Blaise Zabini become America's Next Top Model? Will Ginny Weasley be elected Hogwarts's first ever Homecoming Queen? The answers to these and many more questions on the next episode of Soap! I mean, SoC!