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Harry is so fucking done with this.
He’s been on his best behavior for all of the Hogwarts rebuild. He’s too tired to get in trouble—there’s no reason to act out anymore in the first place, what with Voldemort dead and buried. Harry’s days of teenage rebellion have reached their end.
He’s been staying quiet, trying not to draw more attention to himself than is already on him, talking with Ron and Hermione about nothing of consequence at meals and working wherever the project managers put him. It had almost seemed—not peaceful, per se, but he’d felt less tense over the first few weeks of the rebuild than he’d felt in a very long time.
But then it had all gone to shite a month ago because he’d been put on this stupid project with fucking Malfoy. Harry had tried, really tried not to antagonize him, but Malfoy’s been nitpicking at Harry all month—so of course it’s only a matter of time before Harry snaps, splinters into pieces like the fragile walls they’re rebuilding.
It turns out that his breaking point is right now, with Malfoy nagging at him yet again for not placing a piece of stone exactly the way Malfoy wants it to be. “It’s too lopsided, Potter! Fix it.”
And Harry whirls on him. “Would you shut the fuck up?” he growls, his levitation charm failing mid-sentence as he loses focus. The stone falls to the ground with a sharp cracking noise, but neither of them turn to look at it.
“Excuse me?” Malfoy crosses his arms. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“You—Shut. Up!” Harry’s hands clench into fists. He doesn’t even care about rebuilding the dungeons; they’re taking too bloody long anyway. They’d spent the first half of the month soaked in lake-water as they’d tried to siphon it all out from where several walls had broken down. But the Common Rooms are fine, despite being a little musty, and barely any of the classrooms down here are used anyway—and he’s completely done with seeing these same damp walls and having nothing except Malfoy’s smug face for company every fucking day.
“I’ll do what I want, Potter,” says Malfoy, but he looks visibly off-kilter.
Good. Let him flounder.
“That didn’t turn out so well for your father, did it?” Harry mutters under his breath.
He knows he’s made a mistake almost as soon as the words have left his mouth. He tries to turn back around, to avoid seeing the repercussions in Malfoy’s eyes, but he’s too late.
Malfoy’s body slams into him like the Hogwarts Express at full speed and they both tumble downwards. Pain radiates in Harry’s back as he hits the floor, knocking the breath out of him. He tries to scramble away but Malfoy’s fingers are digging into his shoulders, holding him there, and he braces himself for a punch.
It doesn’t come. He looks up, catching sight of Malfoy’s eyes, and the danger in them makes Harry want to shudder. “Do not. Insult my father to my face. Ever again,” Malfoy spits.
Harry says nothing, stubbornly looking away.
“Potter!” Malfoy says, and Harry wonders why he hasn’t hit him yet. It’s not that he wants to get hit, it’s just that it would feel more normal than the stilted awkwardness that’s simmered between them for the past few weeks when Malfoy hadn’t been busy yelling at him.
“What?” Harry mutters, and now he knows he’s egging Malfoy on but he can’t bring himself to stop.
“Fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy’s fingers dig deeper, and Harry realizes that Malfoy’s shaking.
“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes, but now his heart is racing because—Malfoy hadn’t meant it sexually. It was a fucking insult. He knows that. He also knows that he cannot start thinking about sex with Malfoy on top of him like this, because Malfoy is—
No. He’s not going to say it. He’s going to stop those thoughts about Malfoy in their tracks right now.
“Potter?” Malfoy says, and it’s only then that Harry realizes he’d been clenching his teeth.
And Harry wants to retort, he really does, but then he looks at Malfoy again and fuck. Fuck. Malfoy’s panting with exertion and his hand is hot on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry feels the flush blooming on his face like a brush fire spreading, fast and without warning.
Malfoy notices. Harry can see the noticing in his eyes, can see the exact moment his face snaps from angry to perplexed, and Harry wants nothing more than to run and hide. He’s never been so embarrassed in his life, because everyone knows he likes men but no one knows that he likes Malfoy. Because he doesn’t. Not really. He just likes how emotions form on Malfoy’s face and how Malfoy expresses everything with his hands and how, when he thinks no one’s watching, Malfoy looks almost sad. Not that Harry’s noticed, or thought about trying to comfort him. Much.
“Potter,” Malfoy says again, his eyes widening, and Harry shakes his head desperately.
“Shut up,” he whispers, because his voice feels like it’s stuck in his throat. He wishes Malfoy would hit him, would break the fresh tension stretching between them, but he doesn’t think that’s going to happen.
Malfoy bites his lip, but it’s a vicious moment, anger pulsing anew in his eyes. Harry wonders why, wonders if he actually is going to get hit—one of Malfoy’s hands slowly unclenches from Harry’s shoulder, and Harry flinches again.
But Malfoy’s not hitting him; he’s doing much, much worse, because he’s sliding that hand down Harry’s chest so slowly that it tears him apart.
“Malfoy!” he chokes out, and fuck, it sounds more like a moan than anything.
Malfoy’s hand ghosts over the bare skin of Harry’s stomach where his shirt’s ridden up, and he’s hard before Malfoy reaches his trousers.
He doesn’t want to stop.
He wants—
The warm pressure of Malfoy’s hand is suddenly there against his trousers, against the line of Harry’s cock, and Harry can’t withhold a strangled gasp. Malfoy’s not meeting his eyes anymore. He still looks angry, and Harry’s stomach twists itself into a knot—he could get hurt. Malfoy could hurt him like this, could rip him open and leave him alone and bleeding. “Oh,” Malfoy says, and then “You like this.” His voice is rough, and it’s almost a growl but not quite, so intense that Harry can’t tell whether it’s from lust or pure disgust.
He squeezes his eyes shut and nods. More than anything, he doesn’t want to see disapproval on Malfoy’s face, because he’d wager a bet that Malfoy’s never thought about wanting boys like Harry has. There’s silence, during which Harry briefly wonders whether or not it’s possible that anyone will walk in on them—not likely, as no one’s come to visit them the whole month they’ve been working down here. A quiet moment, filled only with the sound of their breathing, and then Malfoy starts fumbling at Harry’s zip.
A burning sensation fills his body, dipping into his throat and joints and jumbling his thoughts. Fuck, Malfoy’s going to touch him, and Harry—Harry wants it, but he hasn’t messed around since before the war had ended, and not yet with a boy either. It’s been a while, so long that it feels just like the first time, except that now there’s an edge of desperation, rough and harsh and so so hot and Harry can’t remember ever having felt like this before.
Malfoy sits up, his other hand uncurling from Harry’s shoulder, and he almost misses the warmth. But then Malfoy’s peeling Harry’s pants and trousers down all at once, and Harry’s heart is in his mouth as the bare skin of his arse hits the cold stone floor.
He can’t help himself—he opens his eyes. Malfoy’s staring at him, staring at his cock with an intensity that Harry can’t even begin to describe, and his hand is hovering at Harry’s hip as if he can’t decide what he wants to do—but then Malfoy’s gaze hardens. He slides his fingertips so slowly that Harry almost begs for it (but he stops himself, because fuck, he doesn’t know what Malfoy’s doing to him)—closer and closer until Malfoy’s fingers are just barely running up and down the side of his erection.
“Potter,” Malfoy says, and then he palms Harry’s cock like it’s nothing. Harry’s head snaps back of its own accord, the pain from knocking it against the floor almost but not quite distracting him from the feel of Malfoy’s hand. Suddenly he can feel everything, the heaviness of the air and the damp floor and the thumpthumpthumping of his own petrified heart. Malfoy twists his fist up and down, his other hand gripping Harry’s hip, and Harry can barely breathe.
“Potter—don’t look,” Malfoy says, and Harry furrows his brow.
“Why not?”
“Just don’t, okay?” Malfoy snaps, his lips pursing, and so Harry yields and lets his eyes drift shut.
He feels Malfoy shifting immediately afterwards, but he doesn’t put it all together until he feels Malfoy breathing hot and steady against his cock.
Harry almost screams as Malfoy swallows him down. As it is, a high keening noise rips itself out of his throat, and he has to bite down on his knuckles so he doesn’t moan too loudly. Malfoy has to have done this before, must have, because his movements are practiced and steady and he’s pulling Harry to the edge way too quickly. Harry wants to look, wants to see Malfoy, but Malfoy had told him not to look down and so he can only stare at the ceiling and whimper.
He’s not going to last long, and so he says so, face burning hotly when he hears Malfoy snort from around his cock.
“Hey!” he protests, and Malfoy pulls off for a moment and leans over him.
“It’s all right, Potter. I’m good at this,” he says, and then he smirks. Malfoy’s pupils are dilated and his lips are swollen, and if it weren’t for his insufferable expression then Harry wouldn’t have been sure that this was real. But then Malfoy leans down again and licks a long, slow line up Harry’s cock, and it’s suddenly the most real thing Harry’s ever felt.
“If you want, you can watch now,” Malfoy’s voice has lost its growl, is softer even than usual, but it sends a jolt up Harry’s spine nonetheless.
“Okay,” Harry breathes, because Merlin it’s so easy to acquiesce to one’s rival when their mouth is so slick and warm and persuasive on one’s cock. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and then he can’t stop himself from groaning because now he can see Malfoy’s mouth wrapped so tightly around him, can see Malfoy’s eyes as they flicker up to meet his own—and all of a sudden it’s too much.
The world crashes down around him as he comes, and he’s almost sure he’s said Malfoy’s name but he can’t bring himself to care about pretenses, not while Malfoy’s still suckling at him, wringing spasms out of him until he almost can’t breathe.
Malfoy sits up, swiping the back of his wrist over his mouth and looking distinctly unsure of himself. His shoulders rise up and down with the quickness of his breath, and as Harry pulls his trousers up he can see that Malfoy’s still hard.
“Do you want…?” he asks, and Malfoy’s jaw clamps shut as he averts his eyes and nods.
“Anything,” Malfoy says, and Harry’s heart almost stops. Fuck, Malfoy’s going to kill him. They’d been fighting and Malfoy had sucked him off and now there’s this thing between them, and it feels like the warm pulsing of his heartbeat, feels like the danger signs in Malfoy’s eyes as he’d hovered over him not long before.
Harry sits up next to Malfoy, and he wants to touch him but he’s not sure how, because Malfoy’s done all the touching up until this point. An idea falls into his head, landing so softly that he’s sure that it’d always been there, hiding away in the eaves of his mind—he almost disregards it because it’s too raw, too absurd.
It terrifies him. He wants it anyway.
“Do you—“ His voice catches, and he has to clear his throat, wrapping his arms around his legs as if that’ll help him hold himself together. “Do you want to fuck me?”
Malfoy breathes in sharply. “Potter.”
“You’ve called me Potter an awful lot tonight, haven’t you?” Harry imitates Malfoy’s own drawl. He’s starting to think that Malfoy will say no, that he’ll stand up and walk away and avoid Harry forever after.
“Harry,” Malfoy murmurs, and Harry’s chest seizes.
“That’s not what I meant,” he protests, but he’s stunned at how much he likes it, the softness of the syllables as they come from Malfoy’s mouth when everything before had been so harsh.
“So? It doesn’t mean I like you,” Malfoy looks away, and somehow the truth feels rougher than Harry would have thought.
“Of course it doesn’t!” he mutters.
He doesn’t think either of them is sure of that particular truth, but he’s not idiotic enough to question it.
“Come to my room,” Malfoy says after a quiet moment.
Harry’s heartbeat speeds erratically as he realizes that Malfoy’s saying yes in not as many words. He stands up, his limbs feeling like they’re filled with lead as he follows Malfoy down the corridor to the entrance of the Slytherin common room. He’d wondered where Malfoy had been staying—he’d never seen him set as much as a foot into the volunteer quarters with the rest of them.
“No one bothers me down here,” Malfoy says, as if reading Harry’s mind, and Harry understands.
They walk into a hallway that looks like it leads into the separate dormitories. Harry can feel his hands start to sweat as Malfoy stops at a door halfway down the corridor, swinging it open and walking in. Harry follows him all the way to the bed at the end of the row, almost walking into him as Malfoy stops in his tracks and turns around.
“Listen—I don’t want to hurt you,” Malfoy says.
“Really, now,” Harry raises an eyebrow, because he can’t help it.
“I sort of wanted to, at the beginning,” Malfoy admits, brushing a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes briefly shut.
“And now?” Harry asks, trembling on the edge of an unknown discovery, one that threatens to undo them both.
“No,” Malfoy whispers, looking him straight in the eyes. They’re too far away from each other; Harry wants to be closer, so he steps forward and takes Malfoy’s wrists lightly into his hands. Malfoy shifts his arms so that Harry’s holding his hands instead, and then they both squeeze and Harry has to stop and breathe from the force of the tension between them.
“You look funny when you’re nervous,” Malfoy says, but there’s no malice to his words, just vulnerability. Harry takes a deep breath and yanks Malfoy toward him, feels like his heart’s going to explode as their lips finally meet. Malfoy groans low against his mouth, pressing closer and opening to Harry’s tongue, pressing back with slow, crackling electricity that burns Harry to his fingertips.
Then they’re falling, tumbling down in a mess of limbs against the bed, falling away from safety and into the crevice of unknown emotion. Harry’s fingers scrabble at Malfoy’s clothes. He needs it all off and away, because Malfoy’s seen him bare and open and Harry wants nothing more to reciprocate, to strip Malfoy down and crack him open so he can see what really lies underneath that snarky exterior. So he tugs at Malfoy’s shirt and trousers and pants until there’s nothing left except Malfoy’s skin, pale and almost luminescent in the torchlight. He’s briefly made aware that Malfoy’s done the same to him, stripped him so quickly it almost didn’t register, but that’s not important right now because—he can see the scars. They crisscross over Malfoy’s chest like several bursts of lightning, and Malfoy just sits and looks away until they’re both trembling from the weight of their insecurities.
“Don’t think about it,” Malfoy says finally, and Harry knows he means not only the scars but also their entire bloody past. Harry nods and leans forward and kisses him again, letting himself be swept away because it would hurt way too much otherwise. He’s not surprised to find that he’s hard again. He hasn’t looked yet, but he can feel the length of Malfoy’s cock jutting against his own as they meet chest to chest, temptation tangible and waiting. And he wants to look, but Malfoy’s mouth is intoxicating; he can’t bring himself to pull away just yet. He can taste Malfoy and also the remnants of himself on Malfoy’s tongue—it’s heady and warm and he wants to devour Malfoy down to the bone.
Malfoy pulls away with a breathy little gasp, slipping his hand around Harry’s cock and tugging once, twice. “You recover fast,” he murmurs.
Harry flushes. “Be quiet,” he says, and then he looks down and flushes even more. Malfoy’s cock is hard and leaking between them, not overly long but thick and pale and lovely. He wants to touch and so he does, wrapping his hand around it in a move that makes Malfoy’s body shake.
“Fuck,” Malfoy groans, but he only lets Harry continue for a few moments before batting his hand away. “I want to last, unlike you,” he grumbles, but he’s flushing just as much as Harry is.
“Fine,” Harry says, and turns himself so he can flop back against the pillows. “You have lube?”
“We’re wizards, you know,” Malfoy rolls his eyes, but his hands are shaking as he pulls his wand from the arm holster that’s lying on the floor, discarded amongst all of their other clothes. He spells lube into his hand and Harry gulps for air, wondering if this maybe isn’t the best decision but also not truly caring. He’s touched himself, is no stranger to putting fingers up his arse, but having someone else do it to him seems like a world of difference.
Malfoy casts lubrication and protection charms, then leans over him and kisses him hard. Harry can feel a slick hand at his thigh, sliding slowly up the inside of his leg, fuck. He tries his best to breathe, to calm himself, but he still jumps as Malfoy’s finger grazes his arsehole.
“Hold still, would you?” Malfoy drawls, then narrows his eyes even as he uses that finger to circle Harry’s entrance, getting it slick and ready. “You have done this before, right?”
“Of course I have,” Harry lies, turning his head so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. Malfoy pushes his finger in then and Harry lets out an embarrassing squeak, trying his best not to clench up.
“With another person, yes?” Malfoy raises an eyebrow.
“Well, no,” Harry says, and maybe if he pretends it’s not a problem then it won’t be—
“Harry!” Malfoy pulls his finger out, and Harry whines at the loss.
“It’s not a big deal,” he mutters, feeling all too vulnerable.
Malfoy sighs. “Fine, just—don’t cry or anything like that, all right?”
“I won’t!” Harry assures him. “I mean, this doesn’t mean I like you, all right? So it doesn’t matter.” He’s pretty sure he’s lying to himself.
“No,” Malfoy says, and the hard line of his mouth softens. “It doesn’t.” Harry doesn’t have time to wonder what Malfoy’s feeling because then Malfoy’s finger is pressing into his arse, going deeper this time, in in in and Harry whimpers at the wanting that expands to fill his body. Malfoy fucks him with his finger, and just as one becomes easy he adds another, then a third, until Harry’s feeling so full he wonders how it’s possible for Malfoy’s cock to fit.
And then he’s thinking about how Malfoy will be inside him soon and his heartbeat speeds faster, thumping so hard it threatens to crack his chest. “I want—“ he whines, then clamps his mouth shut. He won’t beg for it, he won’t.
But Malfoy looks at him, smirks, and pulls his fingers out, using that hand to slick up his own cock instead. “You want what, Harry?”
There’s his name again, and there’s the shock of electricity, blazing in his throat. But he won’t say it. He’s not going to beg Malfoy, of all people. Fuck.
“I could come right now, you know,” Malfoy murmurs, stroking himself faster. “I could turn you over and come all over your pretty arse, just leave you here open and wanting. Is that what you want?”
“Malfoy!” Harry whimpers, his hips lifting off the bed of their own accord. Malfoy had called his arse pretty, and Harry never would have used that word but he likes it (so so much) from Malfoy’s mouth.
“Hmm?” Malfoy slows his stroking, licking his lips (and all Harry can think of is those lips around him, sucking him down deep).
He opens his mouth to speak, trying not to think of it as humiliating, and spreads his legs just the slightest bit wider. “Fuck me, okay?” he says as softly as he can manage.
He’s pleased to see that Malfoy at least looks flustered as he climbs overtop of Harry, lining himself up. Harry can feel the tip against him, has to grab at Malfoy’s waist because otherwise he feels like he’d drown. It works to anchor him, works to keep him steady as the pressure slowly increases until the head of Malfoy’s cock slides in.
“Mmph!” he chokes out a noise as Malfoy starts working his way deeper with tiny thrusts, shifting back and forth, and his eyes are so dark over Harry that he can’t look away. He feels full, so full, and how did he not realize how thick Malfoy’s cock is? It hurts, but it’s not unbearable, nowhere near it. He thinks he likes it.
And then Malfoy closes his eyes and lets out a high-pitched moan, and Harry decides that this is most definitely worth it. Malfoy’s pale eyelashes flutter open again as he finally slides all the way in, holding steady, filling him irrevocably. “Touch yourself,” Malfoy instructs, mouth trembling, so Harry nods and reaches down to palm his cock.
It’s even better after that, especially when Malfoy shifts and the angle until is perfect, and fuck Harry’s close. He focuses on how Malfoy’s panting above him, focuses of the feel of slick tight movement and the warmth of Malfoy’s body, and then Malfoy cries out and he can feel Malfoy spilling into him—
“Fuck, fuck, Draco,” he cries out, coming in spurts between their bodies even as Malfoy collapses on top of him. Then it’s just heavy breathing and silence and the slickness of sweat and semen cooling on Harry’s body.
“You’re not a bad lay,” Malfoy mutters, tucking his head into the curve of Harry’s neck and setting his pulse racing again.
“Thanks,” Harry whispers. Malfoy’s statement implies that he’s had worse experiences, and Harry realizes that he feels distinctly jealous at the thought of Malfoy with anyone else.
He’s suddenly angry with himself. They’d fucked, yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything. Harry shouldn’t be feeling jealousy seeping into his skin, shouldn’t want to keep holding Malfoy until they’ve drifted off to sleep. And they’re nowhere near done fixing the dungeon walls—he’s going to have to be around Malfoy for weeks.
And he knows that every time he looks at Malfoy, he’s going to think about this, about Malfoy’s hands and mouth all over him. And it’s going to bloody hurt.
It’s too much. He needs to get out. He shifts out from where he’s half under Malfoy, sliding out of the bed and wincing at the touch of freezing stone to his feet.
Malfoy says nothing as Harry cleans himself off and dresses, just watches him silently, all the way until he walks out the door.
xXx
When Harry leaves, Draco doesn’t collapse. He doesn’t. Really.
Instead he gets out of bed, picks up his wand, and spells himself clean (and his hands aren’t shaking. They aren’t.) He dresses in his bedclothes, because suddenly he doesn’t have an appetite—and it was definitely because he’d just had a wonderful lay. Excitement, that’s all it is.
He moves to get back into bed, then stops, wonders if maybe he should sleep in a different bed tonight. But that’s silly. This is his bed, has been his bed for seven years now. He’s not going to avoid it just because it’s had Harry fucking Potter in it.
So he climbs into bed and tries not to think of how Harry’s smell is lingering on the pillow, definitely doesn’t think about the tightness in Harry’s face as he’d fled. Because Draco won’t allow himself to be miserable about this. He’s dealt with men dropping him after casual sex as if they’re ashamed of what they’ve done; he can deal with it again.
Of course, this would be a lot easier if it wasn’t for the fact that there’s never been anything casual at all about his relationship with Harry.
The next morning, he can almost breathe again. He goes up to breakfast, eating quickly and ignoring everyone else in the hall, just as he’d done for the past month and a half. Then he heads down to the dungeons. Routines keep him sane, and he clings to them more fiercely than usual today.
He stops when he sees the rock Harry had lost control over yesterday. There’s a big crack down the middle now, and he could easily cast a Reparo and move on with his life.
But it’s just as easy to turn around, head down a different hallway, and start working on one of the multitudes of other shattered walls. So that’s what he does, letting the repetition of spellwork and the shifting of rock and stone erode his thoughts about Harry until they’re nothing but a trickle, steadily shifting under the surface of his consciousness.
It’s not even an hour later when he hears footsteps shuffling down the corridor toward him. “There you are,” Harry says.
Draco doesn’t turn, just keeps on with the part of the wall he’s moving. “Mhmm,” he hums noncommittally.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” Harry mumbles, and Draco has to try very hard not to let his arm shake. It’s just because this part is tricky, of course; the stones are sloped in a way that if he loses too much focus, they’ll all fall and he’ll have to start over again.
“Of course I did. We have a job to do.”
“Right,” Harry says, and then clears his throat because the word had come out more as a whisper than anything. He stands there for a moment, watching Draco, and Draco ignores him until he’s done with his section of the wall.
He finally lets himself glance at Potter. He looks perfectly normal, and Draco doesn’t know what he’d been expecting to see. But there are differences. Draco’s never been so keenly aware of the way Harry’s collarbones are visible, jutting cleanly over the edge of his T-shirt. He’s never paid attention to the way Harry stands with his arms casually crossed, as if he’s always ready for a confrontation but at the same time isn’t sure he’s ready for it at all.
Or maybe Draco has noticed these things, but this is the first time he’s allowed himself to really think about them.
Anger rises in his throat for no reason other than the fact that Draco has always dealt with his feelings about Harry with anger, whether they’re good or bad. Clenching his jaw, he waves his wand and positions a rock in a new section of downed wall. Anger isn’t useful right now. He has no reason to make this more complicated than necessary.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” he mutters after a while, when Harry still hasn’t moved.
“Why are you being so difficult?” Harry shoots back.
“I’m not?” Draco arches his eyebrows, resisting the scowl that wants to form on his face.
“You’re being insufferable,” Harry grumbles, and Draco rolls his eyes.
“Oh, learned that word from your Mu—“ Draco starts, and then he stops himself, because anger is no excuse for racism (something he truly wishes his younger self had known). “From Granger, did you?”
“You were going to something nasty about her, weren’t you,” says Harry, his voice pinched.
“I didn’t,” Draco defends. He lowers his wand, turns to see Harry stalking toward him. He wonders if this will come to blows, wonders if he deserves that after all.
Harry reaches out and pushes him. But it’s only a slight push, only so that Draco takes a step back, and then Harry keeps pushing him, backing him into the opposite wall. It’s one of the walls that had made it through the battle unscathed, and the stone feels cool on his back, even through his clothes.
“Don’t call her that,” Harry says, and it’s a strange expression that emanates from his face—something like confusion shines through his eyes, though his jaw is tight.
“I didn’t,” Draco says again.
“Don’t do it ever,” Harry revises.
“Okay,” Draco agrees, because he hasn’t let his anger get the better of himself this time, even though Harry had left—
And normally he isn’t so torn up about this sort of thing. Normally he doesn’t expect men to stick around anyway, because he’s nothing to most people he fucks, just a blond twink from Britain there to have a good time. (Because he always goes to France to pull. He’s never fancied the idea of the rest of his classmates finding out about his preferences, because everyone he actually cares about already knows and he’s not fond of the thought of being bullied for it.)
But Harry leaving had felt like being denied friendship all over again, like the handshake unreturned almost eight years prior. Like a punch in the gut.
He’d wanted Harry to stay, and the thought terrifies him.
If Draco had his way, he could just avoid thinking about this altogether. But he can’t, because Harry’s standing right in front of him, staring at him as though he’s trying to will some sort of a confession from Draco.
It’s not until Harry steps forward and presses his forehead against Draco’s that Draco realizes that stare had been one of hesitation. Harry’s shorter than he is, but he’s still tall enough that their positions aren’t awkward. All Draco can see are Harry’s glasses and the green of his eyes, blurred by double vision. Harry leans against him, unmoving, and Draco can barely think—he wants something to happen, but the feeling of Harry’s breath on his face is making him too dizzy to act.
And then Harry shifts closer so that their hips are pressed together, and Draco feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. It’s then that it registers that this is going to happen again, that Harry still wants him, because Harry’s definitely hard and Draco isn’t complaining. Draco shivers, realizing that his hands are clenched into fists against the wall and making an effort to relax them. He reaches up tentatively and splays his fingers against Harry’s waist, and Harry’s eyes drift close, a soft sigh falling from his mouth.
Draco can’t take the waiting any longer, so he kisses Harry, reveling in the smooth feeling of pleasure seeping into his bones. Harry starts rutting against him then, shallow thrusts of his hips, and then they’re making out and this is nothing like last time. Draco had been careful before, wanting to prove it to Harry that it was worth it, if only for the fact that Draco knows he’s good at sex, that he’s better than Harry at least at this. But now it’s sloppy and uncontrolled, rhythm unsteady, their kisses growing increasingly wet as Draco starts losing focus.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and Harry gasps as Draco moves to lick at his jaw, unable to keep his lips pressed properly against Harry’s when they’re moving like this. The friction isn’t good enough with their trousers in the mix, so Draco reaches down past where Harry’s shirt has rucked up and undoes both of their zips.
Then Harry’s hand snakes down to join Draco’s, and pants are shoved clumsily out of the way so that they can finally wank each other off. Harry’s panting warm in his face as their knuckles clumsily bump against each other, and fuck, fuck. This is what he’d wanted, needed—this closeness, the shifting of Harry’s muscles warm under his other hand, the slow fire burning in his belly.
“Ahh—“ Harry finishes first, voice breaking into a shattered moan and dissolving into the air. A smirk threatens to pull at Draco’s lips as Harry nearly collapses against him because he’s made Harry feel so good that he can’t even stand up straight, ha-bloody-ha. But then Harry really does fall, and Draco doesn’t know what’s happening until he realizes that Harry’s done it on purpose so he can suck Draco’s cock into his mouth and fuck. It’s sloppy, yes, and there’s a little more teeth than Draco usually likes, but also it’s Harry and Draco had already been much too close anyway.
He shoves Harry off with a groan, pulling him up for a messy kiss as Harry’s hand finds his cock again, jerking him until he comes with a shudder.
He can’t believe they’ve done this again. He wants to keep doing it anyway.
Harry leans against him, then surprises him by pressing his wet lips to Draco’s neck. It feels somehow more intimate than what they’d just done, the steady pressure of Harry’s body trapping him against the wall, holding down Draco’s emotions no matter how they try to squirm away.
“You’re fucking heavy,” Draco complains, but he’s glad when Harry refuses to move. He wonders if this is the last time they’ll do this, or if they’re going to do it again, over and over until Draco’s ruined for other men. Already all he can think of is how good it feels to be with Harry, to have the approval he hadn’t known he’d craved for so long.
Harry nips at his neck, lower, and Draco grumbles even though it feels good. “You better not be leaving a mark.”
“I won’t,” Harry murmurs, voice muffled in Draco’s skin, and fuck he just wants to stay like this forever.
It’s a dangerous mindset to be in.
xXx
It happens again, then again, heated glances leading to closed doors, to rough kisses and scrabbling hands and hot, wet heat.
They still haven’t talked about it, even though they’ve been fucking almost every day for two weeks now. They haven’t talked, but Draco’s stopped nagging him as much and their teamwork has improved and Harry’s falling in love with Draco fucking Malfoy.
With anyone else, he’d be elated. But Draco only speaks to him when they’re alone, only kisses him in the dungeons, and Harry’s sure that Draco’s only in this for the sex. Not that it’s a bad thing—the sex is fucking brilliant. But the state of the dungeon walls is steadily improving. Soon they’ll be done, and then they’ll have no excuses to stay anymore. Maybe they’ll be assigned somewhere else together, but Harry doubts it.
Maybe Draco will leave. Maybe he won’t look back.
Harry wonders what would happen if he told Draco he loved him. He can imagine the disappointment in his face, the murmured “This wasn’t supposed to mean anything, Potter,” even though Draco hasn’t actually called him Potter since they started this mess.
(The first time Harry had called Draco by his given name outside of sex, Draco had looked like he wanted to run. Harry thinks that’s probably a bad thing.)
And then one night, Harry tries to slip out of bed and Draco grabs his wrist and holds him back.
“What?” Harry says, even though his heart’s just started pounding so hard that he doesn’t doubt Draco can feel it in his pulse. Draco doesn’t say anything, but he flushes more brightly than Harry’s ever seen and that’s more than enough to convince Harry to stay.
So he slips back underneath the covers, and Draco pulls him close until their heads are on the same pillow. Draco gazes at him steadily for a few brief moments, as if he can’t believe Harry’s still there, as if maybe this means more to him than Harry’d thought it had.
And then, apparently satisfied, Draco closes his eyes. Harry pulls his glasses off and joins him in sleep.
xXx
Draco had expected everything to change, but somehow it hasn’t. They’d finished the dungeons, and it’d felt more frantic in those last couple days, stolen kisses and heated glances that they both denied sharing after the fact.
The last day, Draco’s eyes follow Harry’s wand as he slides the very last stone into the wall. They’re done.
Draco gets the urge to cast a Reducto at one of the walls, because maybe if the dungeons flood again they can stay there forever and Harry won’t leave. And that’s ridiculous—at the very least it would get Draco in trouble.
He expects Harry to start heading upstairs so they can report back. Instead, Harry grabs his hand, sends electricity zig-zagging up Draco’s fingers. “I guess we have the rest of the day off now,” Harry says, surveying the completed hallway.
Draco wants to stare. “But what about reporting—“
“That can wait, right?” Harry cuts him off, already starting to pull him toward Draco’s room.
Draco swallows. “Yeah. You’re right,” he says, his voice accidentally coming out all husky, and to cover it up he pushes Harry up against the wall and kisses him.
Harry smiles against his lips. Moments like these almost make Draco forget the Mark on his arm, the scars on his chest, the danger that pervades his past and degrades his worth as a person.
What he doesn’t forget is the very real way that Harry could break him right now, just by leaving.
But Harry doesn’t leave. Instead they fall into bed together, and Harry fucks him so slowly he’s reduced to a shivery mess of moans and sweaty limbs, and when Draco comes he nearly sobs Harry’s name. (When Harry comes, he buries his mouth into Draco’s shoulder to stifle his cry, and then he actually bites down. Draco thinks it’s an accident. Draco hadn’t known he liked biting until that moment.)
He’s ready for it all to end when they go to report their progress. But the head witch only gives them an approving nod and assigns them to work on the smashed Quidditch stands.
And it’s somehow still just the two of them, since the amount of volunteers has dwindled in recent weeks. This work is trickier, and it’s hot and sticky out; they snap at one another about as often as they kiss.
But sometimes Harry flashes a smile at him, and it warms Draco’s skin like the first flush of sunburn. They sit together in the shade during breaks and Draco spells splinters out of Harry’s hands, because apparently Harry’s first instinct when working with wood is just to try and pick it up rather than going for his wand. Idiot. (Ridiculously sexy idiot, but what can you do?)
And Harry sleeps in Draco’s bed at night, curled up against Draco beneath the sheets. He stays every night even though Draco knows Weasley’s been nagging Harry about where he goes after dinner for at least a week now. It doesn’t seem to bother Harry. Maybe it’s even worth it.
Someday, maybe, Draco will ask him exactly what the hell they’re doing. But for now, this is okay—he can live with the uncertainty, if only because the way Harry looks at him makes him sure that they’ll be okay. He can live with the weight of their pasts hidden away, with the pleasant fullness of Harry slick inside him and the warm pressure of Harry’s hand on his waist as they lie together in bed.
Someday Draco will tell Harry that he’s happy like this. He thinks that Harry will agree, mostly because Harry’s already said so—not with words, but with soft touches to his hip and warm, private smiles. And then Harry will have to tell his friends, and they’ll probably have to deal with a whole lot of shite on multiple fronts, for being gay and for being the Chosen One and a Death Eater, for being rivals for most of their lives.
But for now, they’re no longer rivals; he thinks they might even be lovers. For now there’s only warmth and kisses, sex and quiet conversations—just he and Harry, stumbling into each other's paths, shattering each other’s walls yet again.