Draco follows up on that promise; he's a thorough chap. Slips his tongue and pokes around for a split-second, letting the bitter tang of swallowed snot and the underlying smooth and indescribable taste of Potter soak his taste buds. Yes, everything is as he's left it: the clean teeth, slippery, the wet inner walls and ridges, and Harry's own tongue, twining up. Draco wedges an arm below Harry's head to keep him from shifting and goes deeper, fluidly imprinting his ownership.
Feels like the act of taking back—feels brilliant. As it did when he wrested back control of his House, by wiles and by show of superior ability and via innate charm he's always had about him. He could make them laugh, he could tell what to do and they'd listen—he could keep them safe and out of trouble, this time if not then. And, though McGonagall seemed to have rethought her momentary rashness in summary dealings with House Slytherin, Draco couldn't trust her anymore than he'd trusted the previous Headmaster. It was better to have him in place, that was all.
It's but a fleeting thought; what he's doing now with Potter is better even than most anything.
"Mmm," he hums, happily, and still tongue-tangled with his quasi-grudging lover he eases his body up and forward, using long thighs to push at Potter's, bending and shoving two shorter ones apart as far as they'll stretch until he's crouched fully over him, Potter's groin wide open to access and his bum cheeks flush with the thrust of Draco's scooting, flexing kneecaps. "Yes, good."
"Mnph," Potter regards him out of slitted green and behind the cover of glinting specs lenses for an instant before bowing to the inevitable and ceasing all resistance.
Draco draws back for an instant to enjoy the view and spies an impediment.
"These go," he informs Potter and sweeps away the specs, casting them off-sides their magical bedding, where they clatter metallically on the chilled stone. "I said I wanted to see you, didn't I?"
Potter makes no reply to that—his lips again occupied—but Draco smiles into them all the same.
He very much likes knowing Potter's open to him once more—he's careful to keep his weight up and off him, however. There've been times when it's been just too delicious to squash Potter flat beneath him, rendering him as immobile as a jarred beetle in their old bed, but this is different again. He's the Malfoy pup growing in Potter to think of and he must—must—take all proper care.
He gropes for his own wand and finds Potter's instead, carelessly wedged into the Transfigured mattress. "Oil, now. Almond."
His palm gushes immediately with a pool of it, warm and sliding down his inner wrist, where his pulse beats madly, and it's only a second's work to grasp at both their cocks where they budge together down below. A bit like crossed swords, their respective pricks are, tips blunted and poking. One careful gather- and-squeeze has the both of them gasping.
Draco ceases his oral exploration of Potter's hastily relaxing features to press a single burning kiss to the old scar on the man's brow, swooping down to do it.
"Don't move," he tells him, lifting up on all fours. "Stay." He's been anticipating this next bit for ages.
He trails a hand down Potter's pinkened, perspiration-dampened torso ever so slowly, twisting both nipples as he goes and then caresses the hump. There is one: smallish, as befits Potter's stature, but completely in evidence and very different from the firm trim definition he's been used to from Potter before all this recent spot of trouble they've had. His other hand keeps up the slow pump and squeeze and Potter does move; flinches and can't seem to help it, as his bared eyes clench shut, crinkling at the corners, and he groans heavily at Draco, clawing a hand up.
"Come on," he demands, a little breathlessly, chest heaving helplessly as Draco twiddles one teat again just for the pleasure of watching the inevitable result. "Do it if you're doing it, Malfoy."
"Oh, I'm doing it," Draco is quick to counter, low and gravelly. His free hand takes a sudden dizzying dip all down the length of Potter, stem to stern, and grasps wide at his wonderfully available bare bum. Draco angles it just so one finger ends up tapping against the fluttering pink of Potter's pretty little arsehole. He squeezes what he can reach there as well, intently, and is vastly pleased when Potter's jaw drops like a ten-tonne stone on his jutting collarbone. "But…"
"Ahh!"
"I'm not going to pain if you if I do this, am I?" he demands quickly, teasing the interior ring of sphincter with that one well-placed fingertip. "Or the babe—"
"No!" Potter grunts and shoves his pelvis wildly at Draco's straining thighs. "God, no—please just—can't you?"
"Because I'll hold back this one time if you're at all unsure, Po—"
"Get on with it, you!" The green eyes are wild and blazing at him suddenly; Potter's practically spitting, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle to glare down the length of his own body. "Just—do!"
"Huh."
Draco, perverse and contrary, abruptly leaves go of Potter altogether, releasing both his hands from their teasing grips, and grins evilly up at Potter's instantaneous chesty growl. He rears back, balancing carefully upon his kneecaps on the uneven soft surface, and looms over his flushed and slightly irate quarry, but it's only for as long as it requires to charm more oil, and he's sliding knowing fingers around and in before Potter can fling out another rasping command, hunkering down comfortably to do it.
He rests his pointy chin on the smooth sweep of one of Harry's stretched-taut thighs and grins a bit wickedly at the face peering squinty-eyed back at him, making sure to involve that slight curl to his own upper lip he knows for certain sends all manner of prickles of irritation all through his lover. He arches both his eyebrows for good measure.
"Oh, now. None of that."
He's the one driving the bus here, thanks, and he'll be taking his time with it. Been too long a dry spell not to milk this golden opportunity to the fullest.
"Patience, Potter," he teases, eyes alight and gleefully unholy. "You'll be bloody coming soon enough, don't fret."
"I'd better!"
"Mmm, yes."
Thing with Potter is that he's the same…but then he's not. He seems subtly softer, a little less angular and driven, and a bit more…ripe. Draco slurps a trail right around that little rise of belly because he likes it, really very much likes that it's there, and Potter tastes as good as he ever did—and smells fantastic. Smells of Draco, already, as he should do, considering he's been downing a daily dose of his potion for weeks now.
He firms his grip on the base of that quite erect prick, the one Potter's waggling at him in jerky little thrusts of hip, and dives down, head and shoulders, spreading apart Potter's thighs to the utmost with the pressure of face.
"All right?" It's not quite perfunctory, but close. He blinks, squints, and sees Potter's caught on fast.
"Yes!"
The fingertips he's been twiddling so fancifully round the edges of Potter's arsehole all this short while slide away, and he uses them to keep Potter as open as possible, grasping one firm buttock and prying gently. It's his tongue Draco employs again, not for talking, and to a fine pace: first pokey and jabbing, then sliding deeper and deeper till Potter's thrashing feebly under Draco's hands and moaning full out. He ensures to circle the agile, tensile muscles of it, to curl it and to lunge in close and plunge it full to the root, plundering his path into Harry's blossoming, sopping arse like a Barbary pirate. And he knows Harry adores this; is totally certain, and wants to give it him, and make him forget, a bit, by bending his squirmy little Potter-brain to somewhere else entirely, so far gone away from this barren cold room Potter will be freed up from whatever mental snarl he's likely in the midst of. Git broods too much, always has, and it's up to Draco to put a halt to it. He can do that, yes, he can. Oh, and t'is a filthy act, an intimacy he feels his due, and Draco revels in it, too, because no one else alive will ever taste 'Harry Potter', nor will ever drip nor force his hot saliva into this man's hole, and have him utterly wrought and dependent upon the knowing twist of oral muscle. No one else.
He cannot begin to express the satisfaction there is to that idea. Can't even begin.
"Hah! Yes!" Harry exclaims softly, panting harshly between short syllables, and heaves his bum as close up to Draco's nose as he can possibly manage, pinned in place at prick and hip. Draco increases the pressure at the base of Harry's cock just a little, enough to send his green eyes popping wide. "Please. Yes. More."
There was never any question as to 'more' for Draco; it was more a matter of 'how much?' Did he want Potter coming now or did he desire the infinite pleasure of drawing this out a little longer, till Potter lost his tiny mind skewered on Draco's dick and they both howled out release? Truly, Draco's not so certain he's got the marbles together to make this important decision—Potter tastes headier than Elven wine and magical cannabis tokes combined.
"Fuck," he huffs, pulling out and heaving his way erect. His prick's decided for him , may—or maybe it's something else. Requirement, again—damn it! He straightens his shoulders, rolling his head on his neck to ease a cramp; his jaws dripping down with his own spit. And Harry's arse is wet and red and shiny, the most inviting thing in existence. "Fuck."
No—he wants inside Potter and that's final. "Wait!"
"I—can't—'Mmmuh—try—ing! Bast—ah!" Harry clamps a hard fist 'round his own cock, wincing like mad. He's so almost there, it's not amusing. Draco can't bear that, either.
"Just—yeah." Draco shrugs and gropes blindly for a wand—any—and commands "More oil!"
"Fin—ally—you—git—" Harry's doing his best meanwhile to make his legs go wider apart, to tilt up his bum so Draco can have at it, to give, as he needs to, or perhaps it's Draco will go 'round the twist, for once and for all, if he doesn't. Potter does. Sighs and relaxes himself into it, and it's all that it ever was and then so much more.
Oh, bloody Merlin on high, the relief.
Draco doesn't slam—he glides. Doesn't pinch at Potter's flesh the way he wants to bring him that one impossible inch closer, doesn't bite down on Harry's shoulder and leave a great purpling mark for later. No.
No. No pain. His goal is no pain—only pleasure. They've always had that, 'midst the spats and the rows and the bickering, the intense competition on the Quidditch field lately, and the shared lessons they've been paired up at till Potter' deep-freeze treatment began a month or so ago. It's been a bit fun. Potter's a decent little runt, if a loony one, and Draco still can't bear to recall fully the look in his eyes that one day, in his own damned parlour.
He can't bear not to be where he needs to be—and the feeling is mutual, for Harry's all about taking him in.
There's…there's a certain base satisfaction in that. No, no—Draco knows full well it's not over; this is but a fimsy bandage on an open wound. But still—still.