HD 'Bed, Knobs & Broomsticks'

by tigersilver

AU; EWE; as of June, 1998, Draco Malfoy is on probation and has community service owed. Harry happens to have a belated birthday present for the git and a huge helping of curiosity. That suits Draco just fine, don't you know?

2. Chapter 2

HD 'Bed, Knobs & Broomsticks' Part 2

000ooo000

Draco was relishing this moment. He basked in every second and the anticipation of every next second, and knew it. He had Harry where he wanted him, with no one rambling 'round to intrude, and the distinct possibility of yet more Harry in the offing, and a decent vintage was the perfect oil for social niceties—and seduction.

Not that he'd jump Harry's bones unless he was sure it was mutual. He wasn't a villain—had just gone to great lengths to prove that to all and sundry. But this…this was so perfect. Everything he'd dreamt of and more.

He whacked Harry sharply on the back; the idjit git had a Galleon or five of Jouët up his nose and was hacking up a lung in reaction. "Twat!" he scolded. "That's worth more than liquid gold, by the ounce—don't waste it, Harry!"

"S-Sorry!" Harry gasped. "It's just I'm not used to—to drinking! This early, I mean."

"I know," Draco grinned. "Which is why it's best to savour it, yes? And it's not as though I drink this stuff all the time, either, Harry. It's Jouët—not your average, run-of-the-mill house swill."

"Oh—oh, yes." Harry nodded as if he'd known that already and took a tiny, careful sip for his next one.

"Sit, please," Draco commanded, and grabbed his arm, herding him. Harry came along nicely and Draco pulled him down on the sofa right next to his own cushion, casting the parcels on the low table that sat slightly off-center before it. "And do take it slowly, Harry; enjoy the taste. Tell me what's up with Hogwarts in the meantime, will you? My parents Owl me constantly, but not much detail, really."

"Well…" Harry started slowly, ticking over in his mind all they'd done and still had to do. The list was immense and daunting. The Malfoys Senior had been—amazingly—very helpful. "We've got the Great Hall mostly back in order and we're working on securing the foundations and underlying structure. We think Dumbledore himself likely held some of the towers together, they're so crumbly—especially the Astronomy one—oh! Sorry!" He caught himself at Draco's wince and winced himself, remembering.

"It's alright," Draco hastened to assure him. Then they were both very conscious of his hand, resting on the brocade next to Harry's thigh. "I—I'd like to have a go at tackling that one, actually. If you don't mind, that is."

"Oh, no-I'm not in charge," Harry rushed to say. "Professor—Headmistress McGonagall is. There's a lot of us, you know. People with no place to go just yet and the—the ex-Death Eaters, all the ones acquitted, um, who're doing their service work, and then there's some volunteers from overseas. Viktor's come, too, to help us."

"Has he?" Draco's eyebrows went up; he didn't much fancy Harry and Viktor in the same location for any length of time. Krum was a known playboy and Harry—Harry was ripe for the plucking, as it were. His plucking, not stupid Krum's. "Fancy that. I'll be there shortly," he stated, to make it clear Harry would have him to contend with, perhaps sooner than he'd ever expected. "This next week, I should think. I'll be wrapped up with the Ministry by then, and everyone's assignments will be sorted."

Harry blushed, and Draco edged his hand closer, till it lay heavy on Harry's leg; how could he not, then, when it was right there? This couldn't be this easy, could it? No—nothing was ever particularly easy, not with Potter. Made it all the more worthwhile, really.

"Brill!" Harry beamed, and then caught himself, and backed his smile down a notch. "I mean—that's great, Draco. We could definitely use the help," he gabbled, "since there's only just two months left to us to have it all cleared out and put back to rights. That's what I meant to say." Draco watched his every change of expression like a hawk: Harry apparently hadn't known he'd be coming to Hogwarts—hadn't bothered to enquire of anyone as to his plans, even. That was not so good to hear; why hadn't the git wondered what he'd be getting up to? Was his old school rival so removed from Harry's thoughts?

"So much yet to do if it's to be open by term," Harry was still going on about Hogwarts, jabbering away a mile a minute, "and we're all run off our heels just with sorting out the classrooms and laying by supplies, and then there's the Library and grounds yet and the greenhouses—"

"Harry," Draco interrupted calmly, "shut it. We'll sort it, believe me. We've resources yet." He casually deposited his glass and shifted his other hand—the entire arm, actually—so that it lay across the back of the sofa, just brushing Harry's shoulders. Harry squirmed instantly at the heat of it, and Draco wondered if he'd the innate good sense to glance over Draco's buttoned-down fly, which was bulging, and perhaps draw a few intelligent conclusions.

Likely not, given it was Harry. Speccy git; blind as the proverbial bat in a belfry. Draco took a deep breath and opened his mouth to say something rather more…incendiary—stir up the waters a bit. It seemed well past time to get his oar firmly in, as it were, especially if Krum was possibly tacking in for an assault from the lee.

"More Jouët, Harry?"

000ooo000

Harry was, er…Harry was extremely hot-and-bothered. Not what he'd quite expected to be, trapped as he was in the loathsome bowels of Malfoy Manor (Draco's personal parlour, actually), with his, ah, well, 'nemesis' (and secret cohort in the tricksy business of influencing the Wizengamot to do the right thing, for the want of a better way of putting what they'd managed to pull off together) pressed up snug against his side, as he pinched a fragile glass of fine golden French wine between his fingers. Electrically-charged jolts shot through him with every exhalation (were those Draco's ribs? He was so thin, Malfoy, but then there was a nice layer of muscle, too. Harry could feel it, sliding against his elbow—and he was so warm, almost feverishly hot, and smelt excellent. Harry liked the feel of that arm behind him-felt safe, rather) and his fingers were not trembling only through a great mustering of willpower.

"Yeah—er," Harry pulled himself together with some effort. He'd a purpose in coming here; he'd do well to remember it before Malfoy kicked him out. "You'll be wanting your wand back, right? I, um, brought it, and also a br—and, and, well…something else."

"And what, Harry? What else did you bring me?"

Merlin, but Draco's habitual high-class drawl could be very—very exciting, when it wasn't tainted foul by derision, Harry realized. He swallowed hard. Sipped, and swallowed again. Draco's hand, the one that had been hovering just off his collarbone, the one attached the length of warm flesh just behind his head, curled and flexed, the fingers wrapping possessively 'round the smooth curve of Harry's shoulder as it sloped into his arm. He leaned into it, helplessly, unable to resist.

"And a present," he croaked, shuddering just a bit. The hand was, er...very comforting. He was so hard. That was bloody embarrassing. "For your birthday," he forged on, bravely, not stopping now for the life of him. "Just past, right? I mean, you've just had it and I've brought a present for you—for it; it's not much, really; I mean, I know you have—you've probably lots of them already, right? But this one—this-I just saw it in the shop, y'see, and it was—it was so."

"Thank you," Draco slid in smoothly and Harry stilled his traitorous tongue, terribly grateful to be halted before he made a total arse of himself. "It's wonderful, Harry—just what I wanted."

"What?" Harry blinked at his champagne flute, then turned his head and blinked at Draco, who was—without doubt—physically closer than he'd been a moment ago. Altogether. As in, they were aligned all down one side, at hip, thigh and shoulder, with Draco's hand rubbing slow circles against his upper arm, the heat of his palm sinking through Harry's thin T-shirt sleeve and permeating his skin. Harry could feel the motions Draco made breathing and even the puffs of individual breaths on his cheek. It smelt of mint and citrus.

"My present. It's absolutely perfect." Draco murmured, those uppity tones of his just deliciously enticing. Harry took a rather large drink of his champagne, shutting his eyes in desperate hopes of blocking out temptation. In fact, he knocked the remainder of his Jouët back like a trooper, and then—then he remembered.

"You—you haven't opened it yet! It's still on the table!"

"No…." Draco smiled like a Nile crocodile, eyeing an unwary marsh bird for supper. "But I plan to, very soon." He topped up Harry's flute with a careless wave of the hand not gripping Harry's shoulder and then, oh, so casually, pressed that same hand flat against Harry's diaphragm, spreading his fingers wide. "Do drink up, Harry. There's more where that came from."

Dangerous! Harry's good sense shrieked. His eyes widened in automatic response; his breath quickened. This was very dangerous! He could land himself in some serious hot water and the day was already steamy and close and, and why, exactly, was Draco being so very? Very…seductive?

"What gives?" Harry demanded, mustering up a scowl through the melt. He scooted away from the hands—as far as he could manage, that is, as the hands weren't letting go. "What's going on with you, Malfoy? Why're you plying me with alcohol at ten in the morning and why the hell are you being so—so?"

"Welcoming?" Draco suggested. His brows arched and that antediluvian smile stayed firmly in place. "Eager? Interested? Why do you think, Harry?"

"I—I don't know," Harry frowned. He stared at Draco, openly puzzled. "That's why I'm asking, git."

000ooo000

"Well, Harry," Draco began—and stopped. "It's like this, actually," he tried again. And couldn't get past that, either. Harry stared at him, his features reflecting a most curious cross betwixt and between a raptor and rabbit, as he was both visibly quivering with pent-up tension—indeed, practically twitching his nose in agitation and just as equallynarrow-eyed and tight-jawed, his eagle-eyed gaze downright bloodthirsty, ready to tear into whatever reasoning Draco might trot out for his examination. Say 'hullo' to Animagus Harry, Draco thought wryly to himself—lagomorph-peregrine mix of doom, ready to swoop down and rend him to pieces with painful disbelief the moment he opened his mouth to confess his…long-nurtured wishes.

Draco hesitated. The words simply weren't flowing, for once.

"You know," he attempted once more, "Harry, I've always…"

"Always?" Harry prompted. "Always what, Malfoy?" Draco could almost hear the snap of a gryphon's razored beak. He could envision the quiver of imaginary whiskers.

"Er," Draco went on, not at all eloquently. "I've always wanted...to…er."

Suddenly, it seemed a bit risky—not to mention risqué—to be telling Harry flat-out he'd plans for his cock, and those plans involved a visit to his bedroom (just a short stroll across the Aubusson), where that appendage could be put to excellent use and also, possibly, if Harry was so inclined, there might be the later involvement of his largish selection of old school ties (he'd be purchasing new, of course, come August) and the oversized knobs on his huge four-poster. For he'd this reoccurring fantasy…well. But right now—this very minute, in fact-he'd this deep need to strip Harry starkers and climb all over him, so their cocks rubbed together, and there was just simply skin on skin, and he could snog that lower lip Harry kept nibbling on so deliciously and stick his tongue up Harry's—well! Perhaps it was more to the point to show Harry. Draco had learnt the value of his actions as well as his words, this last year, and was the better man for it.

Besides, the twat, being a Gryffindor and therefore presumably not a terribly deep thinker, would likely get that, far more easily than he'd understand—or accept-Draco's longwinded explanation of opposites attracting, animal magnetism and so forth. Also, there'd be much less opportunity for Harry to bolt, should he get the wind up his magnificent arse.

"Look, come with me, will you?" Disentangling himself enough to do so, Draco sprang to his feet. He kept a hand always on his captive, though, and let it slide casually enough to Harry's wrist, which he then latched onto like a bear trap and tugged at, impatiently.

"What? Why?" Harry resisted him, digging his heels in, possibly for the sheer, bloody principle of the thing.

"Because I need to show you something," Draco frowned and yanked a little harder. "And time's wasting here, so prise your bum off my couch, will you? Come on. I'm not planning on hexing you, prat."

"What d'you have to show me, anyway?" Harry ignored the slight but was clearly still suspicious, though he did stand up. "Is it something Dark?" he frowned, '"cause you'll have to call Kingsley and the Aurors for that—I'm not touching that stuff, Malfoy, not if I don't have to. I get enough as it is at Hogwarts—"

"No, you arse!" Draco snorted impatiently and slipped 'round Harry, so he could herd him in the right direction. "All the nasty shite's been carted away already…well, all that they could find, that is. I'm sure Father's got a few more, er, 'antiquities' stashed here and there, but that's not it. Just come with me, alright?"

"And-and you're not going to hex me?" On the verge of stumbling forward, Harry apparently needed to be clear on this one important point. Given their history, Draco could understand.

"No, Harry, I'm not. Far from it," Draco murmured, his voice dipping to low and soothing as he brought his head in close to Harry's. Greatly daring—for this could tip Harry off before he was ready to deal with the immediate consequences and the doorway was too damned close in here—he leaned in nearer yet and licked Harry's ear. "It's good; trust me," he whispered.

That was the winning ticket, apparently. Harry, with one last brief, regretful glance back at his abandoned glass of champagne, obediently went where Draco led him.

This turned out to be an absolutely outsize room—as Harry expected-with a matching outsize four-poster bed set dead-center, hung with—surprise, surprise!—pure white draperies and dressed with a satiny, tufted coverlet. There were easily twenty pillows piled and plumped at one end of the bed, and it, and indeed all the furniture, was crafted of dark, heavily inlaid, carven and scrolled woods. There was a sizeable hearth and two doors set in the wall opposing the French windows, which opened onto a largish balustraded balcony. Arranged before the windows was a divan and several easy chairs, including one which Harry (had Draco been interested in quizzing him, which he wasn't) would've sworn was a Muggle Barca-Lounger, done up in blood-red leather, one of the very few blobs of colour in the cavernous and brilliantly white-upon-white space Draco called his bedroom. The various bureaux, whatnot tables, desk and so forth all stood upon realistically carved talons, each clutching great round balls of smooth wood, which Harry—again, if asked—would've remarked was yet another oddity in the series encountered thus far. He continued to glance around him with great curiosity, even as Draco grasped his shoulder and edged him toward the wide expanse of his bed.

"What're those?" Harry queried, joggling 'round on his toes to peer over Draco's blocking shoulder and apparently finally giving into his visibly overpowering sense of curiosity. He pointed to the doors, outlines barely discernable grey shadows—as in Draco's sitting room, there was no colour present but Harry's own vivid colouring and the flush feathering Draco's high cheekbones and throat. "Where do they go?"

Draco indulged him, though he was patently uninterested in giving a tour, and replied, "En suite and dressing room, Harry. Obviously. I'm hardly going to traipse down the corridor to have a whiz, am I now?" He grasped Harry's arms and jiggled him gently. "Um…eyes on me, please? You'll notice I'm attempting to seduce you."

He'd not once lifted hands from Harry; with the warning delivered, he put his fingers to a different use, sliding them easily 'round the buttons of Harry's Muggle Levis.

"'Obviously', huh?" Harry muttered darkly, shaking his head. "Oh—what? Seduce? What, 'seduce'?" Harry demanded, peering up with renewed suspicion. "Seduce says I'm not willing to play, Malfoy, and I never said that, but you've not exactly asked, either, have—"

"Are you, Harry? Willing?"

Harry went red as a cherry and bobbed his windswept head. "B-But."

"But?"

Harry's Levis were gaping—sagging, too, as Harry hadn't bothered to replace his ancient belt and he'd a trim waist-and no briefs to prevent Draco from gathering Harry's half-erect dick up eagerly and palming it. Draco grinned: there was an eloquent subtext here, if ever there was such a thing: having Harry arrive unannounced and half-clothed for a visit—and Harry had a nice heft to him as he grew rigid and hot between Draco's caressing fingers. He murmured his approval of that, shifting clinging fabric with the other hand and watching happily as the denims fell another short distance, leaving Harry throttled at the knees and teetering.

"Oy! Watch it, Malfoy!" Harry grabbed at Draco's upper arm for balance and Draco decided—finally—that enough was enough: slow, sweet seduction was vastly overrated. He snogged the ungainly prat, swooping down that last inch or two and easing his tongue sinuously past the partly opened lips, dry and salty-sweet from the Jouët and windburn, plunging deep, so that Harry half-murmured and half-gargled in pleased response.

"But?" Draco asked, some moments later, when he'd shed his own drawstring sleep pants and they'd both engaged in a flurry of shirt removal. "You never finished what—"

"I don't bottom," Harry stated pugnaciously, his saliva smeared chin resolving into granite. "Won't do it, so don't even bother asking, Malfoy."

Draco raised his eyebrows in pained surprise. "I wasn't actually planning to, but why, as a matter of interest? Bad experience, Harry?"

"That fucking bastard MacMillan," Harry was fair on his way to snarling, his eyes snapping with ill temper. "Had the nerve to back me—me!—into a broom closet and try and bend me over! I hexed his bollocks off, the prick, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat!"

"Ah, well," Draco patted him soothingly on the small of his back and drifted his lips across Harry's furrowed brow. "No fear here—I like it; prefer it, even." He jerked his chin toward the bed, patiently waiting, and asked, "Er, speaking of—shall we? I'm not getting any younger here, Harry."

Harry snorted and stepped backwards, taking Draco with him. "No, you're not, which is why I'm here, incidentally. Question is—"

"Yes?" Draco took advantage of landing squarely on top of Harry to do a few things he'd been fantasizing about these last few months: nipple twisting and the like, and some pointed gnawing on Harry's delineated ribcage.

"Why haven't you opened your present yet? Or your wand—you should check it; make sure it still works properly," Harry asked, puzzled, but still arching his back up under the humid caress of Draco's mouth.

"Don't the elves ever feed you, Harry?" Draco ignored him, focusing instead on the ridges of bone floating beneath skin only lightly haired and stretched thin over Harry's ribcage. "If they do, it's not enough. You're all skin and bones. Practically transparent."

"I've—been—busy, Malfoy!" The nip Draco gave Harry's hipbone accounted for his sudden gasp; when Draco glanced up his eyes had fallen shut and his features relaxed into a study of pleasurable anticipation. Not bad work for a morning that had begun well before a civilized hour, Draco decided, and sent his tongue off exploring the intriguing crease between Harry's bollocks and his thigh.

Hmmm. Sweat and male—writhing male. Harry twitched, his cock slapping Draco's cheekbone and Draco took it, lips stretching thin to swallow it down, as Nagini had engulfed her victims. But Harry was no 'victim'; he was food for the soul. Wet and sloppy, pretzel rod salty, gagging Draco as the blood came rushing pell-mell to bulk up cartilage. Draco budged his shoulders between Harry's knees and knocked him completely backwards off his propping elbows, flat onto the mattress, following that with nary a nip or a worrisome tooth misplaced as he swarmed to pin Harry's befurred legs to the bed. He sucked hard as blazes, his cheeks hollowed out with effort.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Harry yelped, and grabbed Draco's head with punishing fingers. Draco groaned and thought madly of doubling Harry's cock; tripling it and taking it in every hole he had, slithering its slimy trail across his skin endlessly, till he would come from the anticipation alone.

He was forcibly and abruptly rolled arse over tea kettle instead; Harry grimly parting his mouth from its prize and manhandling him over and wide open—shoving hard hands behind kneecaps, slamming an already sucking, salacious set of lips over and against Draco's puckered anus.

"Annnghh!"

Fucking Merlin on a shitting stick—it was brilliant; ever so brilliant. Blinding lights dancing behind his eyelids and sparks shooting up his spine brilliant.

Draco sagged into the tongue breaching him and drooled instantly, listing brain in stasis. And Harry—the clean-cut, Golden Boy, Saviour wunderkind—tongue-fucked him into the bouncing mattress with no halt for breath and no sign of ceasefire.

"Good, yeah?" Harry smacked his lips during a break for air years later; Draco hadn't the wherewithal left to even open his eyes. He only wriggled his bum in eager invitation, shivers racking him.

"Nnnn," he managed, and even that was an effort.

Shag me, shag me; come on, shag me, he willed silently, and then forgot even to pray for it when Harry whispered, "Lubricious!" and slapped them both haphazardly with viscous goo, patting it into Draco's wet hole with careful raggedy fingertips, smearing his dick with much too much.

"Ready for me?" Harry asked, but he didn't seem to expect an answer. "Draco?"

There was cock dancing at his hole, poking insistently at him, and Draco rocked back on his knees to get to it sooner, gilt-blond hair tangling into his lashes. Anticipation—oh, it would bloody murder him one day, along with his own deep-seated curiosity. His want.

Draco blinked rapidly to clear his vision of stray sweat droplets and begged Salazar silently that he be taken at just that moment, on the cusp of—of absolutely everything he'd ever hung on for.

"Hell, yes, you git! Give it to me! Give it to me now, Harry!"

Draco pressed his face into the corner of a pillow, whimpering, when it came. It felt like Harry was bloody stuffing one of Hogwarts marbled pillars up his innards—too tight, too hot, too much. He was overtaken, consumed by the weight of this fierce thing forcing its way inside him, so unlike any other prick he'd felt. Blaise had been light and slick and elegant; the Ravenclaw he'd experimented with in 6th year had been bigger maybe than Harry, but he'd finesse, which Harry apparently lacked. This pried into his gut and hurt like the bloody dickens and trailed salt and lube like acid.

He fumbled himself against it, moaning weakly. So good.

"You alright?" Draco could hear the frown colouring Harry's question. Didn't have to look at him to know he was biting his lip in consternation.

"Yeah, yeah," he groaned. "Keep going, Harry—it's perfect".

Wasn't perfect. Was hot and horridly uncomfortable and Harry hadn't a clue, clearly. Draco wasn't stretched enough—it had been so long since his arse had seen any action other than his own fingers and Harry was thick for his length. He was jabbing at Draco, too, as if Draco were some sort of target, and he'd evidently forgotten about Draco's prick altogether and—

"I can stop, you know," Harry offered. He was definitely concerned—Draco could hear it.

"No! Don't stop—don't stop," he moaned. "Don' ever stop—please, Harry."

Draco winced at himself—he'd known what he'd been doing, all along. Yes, Harry was fairly new at this (and what did he expect, given Harry's recent past?) and yes, it was evident Harry was a total bleeding innocent when it came to pleasing a bloke (all the things he'd done so far, nice as they were, were still too soft, too gentle—even the rimming-like he was going at the Weasleyette and not realizing it was man's body underneath him), but it didn't matter. Didn't matter—they could get past all that shite if they had to. Draco just needed it so—needed it now-and he was so afraid it would stop; idjiit Harry would come to his senses or something stupid and remember what they'd been to each other all these years and—and he'd realize just exactly who it was he fucking.

"Are you sure, Draco—gods! So tight! You're all twitchy—I look like I'm hurting you," the git in question muttered, and ceased the infernal push forward abruptly. Draco took deep shuddery breaths and concentrated on relaxing his muscles. He could accommodate this; it wasn't nonconsensual, far from it—he was just so anxious.

"Draco…"

It was right there—right there, hovering just out of reach—and Draco was going mad without it.

"Draco."

Please, he mouthed silently, and closed his eyes against the ramifications of Harry's hesitation.

Harry leaned in gingerly, his hands clasping Draco's hips, and bent forward enough so that Draco could feel his welcome heat—since when did he have goosebumps?—all down his back. He pressed feather-light kisses at the points of Draco's shoulder blades and inched his way ever so slowly, like treacle flowing sullenly in January.

"Draco," he whispered, "Draco. Like this, yeah? I think I've got it." And another tiny nipping snog laid on the flinching muscles of Draco's back; light as down, soft as breezes. "Draco, please! Show me—talk to me. I want to make you feel good, prat. Tell me what to do. I'm pants at this yet."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut harder; they were oddly damp and misty. "S'okay," he muttered, "just keep going, Harry. Move."

"No," Harry said simply and stilled altogether, frozen into inaction. "No—tell me what you need, first. I want to give it to you."

Draco smiled; couldn't help himself. Harry Potter asking his advice on how to shag him—how could there anything more perfectly comical? How could he restrain himself from AK'ing the bastard for asking questions now?

Fucking Hades, Draco swore, internally. He felt himself loosening up a little even as he grinned madly—stupid silly with inappropriate glee—into the pillowcase. It'd be alright—everything would be alright. Harry clearly cared enough for him to fret over it—and not assume he was a bloody expert or anything just because he'd done some half-arsed shite before—with that git Krum, likely.

That assumption added an acid edge to Draco's tongue.

"Well, there's this thing men have…" he murmured, wriggling his hips a bit and inching farther up on his knees so he could spread himself wider. "Inside, er—you have to find it, Harry." How he was being so collected whilst tutoring a noob, Draco couldn't fathom. Was it blasted maturity, creeping up on him, all unexpected?

"Yeah?" Harry was all agog; blinking like a berk. Draco risked a glance over his shoulder and saw him, gilded in sunlight, a messy-headed angel who'd alighted on Draco's bed perhaps by mere serendipity. "Go on, then," Harry urged him, waving a random hand. "Where is it, exactly?" He peered down at Draco's skin, frowning, as if he needed to see through and had only just realized he couldn't.

"Um, it's ah, a little further in, actually." Draco blushed. This was fucking ridiculous, giving lessons mid-shag. He'd hex Harry after, for sure. "You should keep going—and stroke my dick while you're doing it. That'll make it easier-for both of us."

Harry's hand left Draco's hip and made its way fumbling across his belly, briefly caressing his navel, the indented lines of tensed-up muscle and ribcage. It slid down, leaving a trail of warmth behind it. Draco sighed, relaxing into the feel of Harry's fingerprints marking him; maybe gentlemanliness wasn't totally overrated. Then Harry wrapped his hand firmly 'round Draco's flagging prick and squeezed. He knew his way around one of those at least, Draco decided, as Harry began to pump him, nice and easy, and then—grip tightening like a tourniquet—harder and faster with every stroke.

Draco closed his eyes again—that was fucking perfect. It was bloody Muggle Heaven and Harry the Saint of Wankers. "Yeah, that's it," he encouraged eagerly, panting. "Now, keep going, Harry. Push. Just a little further."

Harry did, and he wasn't twitchy at all anymore. It was as if the act of knowing he was giving Draco what he wanted had relieved him of any residual nervousness. The remainder of the invasion of Draco's arse was smooth as tissue silk. Draco inhaled and exhaled harshly, biting his lower lip to the point of bloody seepage, tasting salt—and loved it.

It was still filling, but not—not bad; not at all, not in any way. And then Draco saw sparks, almost literally, for there was Harry's magic surging into him, at last.

It poked and prodded his prostate, and found its curling, slithery way 'round his 'nads and flinching gut: incandescent bright, as if he'd swallowed a ball of heat lightning. It pulsed, and he cradled it within him and saw the expanse of eternity before him for the first time ever.

It was not Dark.

"Ah!" he cried out. "Harry! Oh, Harry!"

He sounded like a bloody girl—he didn't care one whit, one dram. Let anyone be shagged by Harry Potter and not want to speak his name; croon his name, wrap his tongue 'round those two marvelous syllables (Haar-reee!) and clutch the sound of it to him like a talisman. It was not possible to remain silent. The git's cock was locking into him, the perfect key to pry open all his internal ridges and dark, secret valleys, and Draco shifted his knees again in a desperate reach for harmony and shoved his whole body back, rocking like a mad thing, whinging wordlessly through his nose. Harry pushed and jerkily withdrew, gasping 'Draco!'—and then was forward again, gaining momentum, learning rhythm as he went; Draco muttering 'Harry, Harry,' over and over, and it was finally all exceeding mere brilliant. It was his.

000ooo000

"D'you want to open your present now?" Harry prodded him, eager and apparently completely recovered from his earlier lassitude. "It's great, Draco! It's perfect for you! I can't wait to see you flying on it!"

"Um…thought I had," Draco grunted. Shagging, he thought, must leave Harry manic after. He himself was all ooze and goo, and pleased enough to simply loll about, waiting for his knees to check in and report for duty.

He rolled over, flinging out a lazy arm, whacking Harry accidently on the jaw with it. "Just now."

"No…" Harry smirked at him, catching Draco's fingers easily and nibbling on the tips. "That was just me. I got to open mine early this year. Very nice it was, too. I, er, like all the knobs and widgets."

"You're a prick—knobs, is it? Widgets?"

"Mmm-hmm," Harry smiled, watching how Draco's hand curled 'round his convulsively. "That's next on my schedule: experimenting with knobs and widgets. But first, git, I need a bath—I'm all sweaty."

"Really? Dibs washing your back, then," Draco twitched his own lips, releasing just a smidge of the huge bubble of bonhomie inflating him. He'd plans for it, that back. There was Harry's spine, which was singularly beautiful; all ridges and small hollows and sinuous like a serpent skeleton under thin, sun-browned skin. There were Harry's shoulders, nice and wide above a nipped-in waist—oh, and those muscled thighs that had clamped him tight and hot between. There was Harry's nape, which was terribly sensitive—how the git flinched when Draco bit it!—and Harry's arse. He'd definite plans for that. It was his, that arse, whether Harry realized it or not.

Harry grinned at him, eyes alight. Draco hadn't seen him smile this much—ever. He couldn't help but grin in return, for absolutely no good reason. They were idiots, the two of them. "Dibs on all of you, git. Especially the front," Harry countered, leering, all narrow-eyed and lip-licking.

Draco laughed aloud; Harry Potter waggling his brows and stretching his mobile mouth like that was fucking comical, too—and then sobered abruptly. There was still Viktor Krum. Harry experimenting with knobs and Krum was not on. Harry—Harry was his, now, demonstrably. He'd come gift-wrapped and Draco was keeping him.

He swallowed hard, and struck out. No flinching away from what could be hurtful—never again. Not for him.

"For how long?" he demanded of Harry, rising up on his elbows. "Till you're bored, Harry? Novelty's worn off? 'Cause that's not my game, you know. I don't play for anything less than keeps." He sneered—the first real one all morning. And then waited, which was the hardest thing, ever.

"And I don't bother with seeking anything less than the best, just so you know, prat," Harry shrugged at him sulkily, as if Draco were making too much of it. He, too, turned abruptly serious-till another snorting laugh got past prissily thinned lips, sunbeams driving through banked clouds and brilliant with it. His eyes glittered green-gold; Draco caught his breath in wonder. "And just since I found it a little sooner than I thought I would doesn't mean I'm fool enough to throw it away. A little credit here, Malfoy."

"Better not, then," Draco replied grumpily and settled back into the bounteous pillows. He closed his eyes and smacked his lips, satisfied with life and ready to nap for a few more hours.

Harry snorted in loud exasperation.

"Gods!" he exclaimed, demonstrably impatient. He jogged Draco's shoulder sharply. "You really are bone lazy, you git. Come on, heave your arse out of bed—get up! There's a whole day ahead of us yet, pissant, and you're bloody well wasting it."

Draco cracked open one grey eye and regarded his assailant. "You're a morning person, aren't you?" he asked Harry blandly. "I abhor morning people. I abhor mornings."

"Well, I wouldn't have said so, but maybe I am," Harry admitted. He shrugged, jerking his bared shoulders up to his still-blushing ears. "I mean, there's always work to do and I like to get out early and make a start on it—which is what you'll be doing, too, come Monday next, berk, so you should practice it some. So you won't go into shock."

Draco opened the alternate eye—he'd rolled over again and now regarded Harry from a yard or so away (with room to spare: the mattress was massive)—and stared at him calmly. "Exactly when was it, Harry, that you last took a holiday?"

"…Er? I dunno—um," Harry clearly had to think. Draco eyed him; the man was an open book, every passing thought and memory writ clear on his expressive face, now the spectacles were shed. There'd been the war, and then the funerals and speeches—there was the painful little frown, the wince. Then the business of the Trials, and then Hogwarts and—Harry'd not stopped for months now. "Last year, maybe?"

Draco huffed and roused himself enough to gain his knees and settle cross-legged on the sea of bed. He reached out and took Harry's chin between a gentle finger and thumb and held it steady as he pecked Harry's still swollen lips.

"Look, you," he said. "It's my birthday—it isn't, but you know what I mean—and I want you here. Now. With me. Going nowhere else; doing nothing else, but being exactly where I can reach you. Capiche?"

Harry smiled and lifted a careful hand, covering Draco's; pressing them both against the swallow of his long, lean throat, the ridge of his jaw.

"You didn't really need anything, did you?" he asked rhetorically, quirking his mobile brows and peering. He did suspicious so well, Harry did, even when he was joking about. "I mean, I could've saved my wasted Galleons, right?"

Draco chuckled. Snogged Harry's fingers; the corner of his merrily curling mouth. "Wrong, Potter. Presents are a necessity, even belated. But you—you are all I ever wanted, from the start."

"Yeah?" Like blooming stars, Harry's eyes were; brilliant in the white light of noon. It poured all around them, and filled their senses. "You mean that?"

Draco budged closer yet, wrapping long shanks 'round Harry's body as it twisted toward him. He snogged him again, for emphasis, just before he pushed him over. "I mean that. Remember it always."

FINITE