Archive of Our Own

“All right,” Slughorn announced cheerfully. “It’s time to split up into pairs.”

Harry looked around with a sinking feeling. Since he had insisted on pulling up a stool to sit with Ron and Hermione, all of the other tables consisted of paired groups, who seemed perfectly content to work with each other. All except one.

Malfoy sat alone at the back table, the same appalled expression on his face that Harry was sure was on his own. Harry turned to his friends.

“Hermione, I’m in love with you,” he whispered hurriedly. “Leave Ron and be with me.”

Hermione’s peal of laughter drowned out Ron’s snort. Ron covered her hand with his. “Sorry, mate, looks like you’re stuck with the ferret.”

Harry scowled. He gathered up his things and walked to the back of the class, dropping his bookbag on the table next to Malfoy. Malfoy glared at him.

“I’m not going to spend this entire class trying to teach you what a first year should know,” he sneered.

“Whatever.” Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know why we need to partner anymore. I’ll get the ingredients.”

Malfoy shoved over a piece of parchment. “You’d better not ruin this for me, Potter,” he hissed. Harry ignored him and took the list, walking over to the potions cabinet.

He waited until everyone else was finished and grabbed a tray, checking the list and filling it with items before heading back over to Malfoy, who using his wand to fiddle with the fire beneath their cauldron. “Here.”

Malfoy glanced up. He opened his mouth as if to say something and then shut it immediately, pressing his lips together and exhaling hard through his flaring nostrils. With what sounded like a controlled voice, he said, “The wet and fresh ingredients are tetchier. Why don’t you measure and mix the dry ingredients; they don’t have to be added until the last minute.”

Surprised at the almost polite tone, Harry gave a curt nod. He spent the next half hour crushing and dicing and measuring, adding each item to a stone bowl and stirring it carefully until everything was combined. He sat, feeling useless, as Malfoy stirred the potion with a tapered silver rod and added liquids at regular intervals.

“Can I help?”

Malfoy’s unsettling grey eyes flicked over to him. “Everyone except for Slughorn is perfectly aware of how incompetent you are with potions. Just settle down. I’ll get us a good grade.”

Harry grimaced. “I’m not incompetent,” he objected defensively, longing for Snape’s book. “I got through sixth year, didn’t I?”

“I don’t even want to know how you managed that,” Malfoy muttered. “I certainly didn’t expect you to be the type to exchange sexual favors with Slughorn for a good grade.” He grinned and continued stirring, then added loftily, “I guess you never know.”

“Gross.” Harry flushed. “Fuck off, Malfoy.”

Malfoy smirked, looking down at the potion. “This looks right. Go ahead and pour the dry ingredients in slowly.”

Harry sighed. He tipped the bowl over the potion carefully, letting the powders settle on top as Malfoy continued stirring until everything was mixed. The potion thickened up as he stirred, and Harry pointed his wand under the cauldron to turn off the heat. Malfoy pulled the rod out and cast a cooling charm, nodding at the large crystal phial off to Harry’s left. Harry picked it up and held it steady as Malfoy ladled some of the potion out of the cauldron and poured it in to the phial. A small purple-gray cloud of smoke made a hissing sound as the potion made contact with the crystal.

Malfoy’s eyebrows knitted. “That’s wrong.”

“What?” Harry scanned his notes. “It’s supposed to create a vapor. We did it right.”

“It’s supposed to create a blue vapor, not purple smoke,” Malfoy grit out with irritation. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised that you managed to cock this up too, Potter. Fuck.”

He started hunting through the dry ingredients on the table. Harry glared at him. The potion looked right to him; it glimmered a bright, mustardy yellow. He glanced back down at the instructions.

“It’s fine, Malfoy. Look, just smell it. It’s supposed to bring up your best memory.”

“Don’t do that, Potter,” Malfoy ordered, still sifting through ingredients. He made a choking noise and stared up at Harry with hard eyes, frozen. “Seriously, don’t do that.”

Anger swamped him. Since the beginning of term, Malfoy had either ignored him completely or sneered at him when Harry had attempted to say hello. Fuck Malfoy. Fuck this. He brought the phial up to his face. Malfoy’s fingers, hard and surprisingly strong on his wrist, halted him. He pulled. Harry’s face tightened and he yanked the container back. Malfoy stood up, gave a quick, sharp kick to Harry’s shin and tried to wrestle the phial away from Harry.

“What are you, twelve?” Harry growled. The liquid inside sloshed around dangerously, and he looked around. “You’re going to spill it.”

“I’m going to Vanish it, you fool,” Malfoy snarled.

He gave one last, hard pull on Harry’s wrist, twisting the bones, and Harry’s fingers went nerveless. The phial toppled, bouncing off his chest upside down and spilling, drenching the groin of his trousers. Harry scrambled for it with his free hand and succeeded only in knocking it with the backs of his knuckles, so that it turned and the bit of remaining liquid splashed onto Malfoy’s crotch as well.

“Great,” Harry huffed angrily. “Now it looks like we’ve both pissed ourselves.”

Malfoy didn’t respond. He was staring down at his trousers in horror. Baffled, Harry watched him. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but I’m not taking the fall for this,” Harry muttered.

Malfoy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his slender throat. “Professor Slughorn?” he called out after a moment, his voice high and reedy.

Slughorn waddled over. “Yes? Oh, you spilled it. Well, no marks today, but I’m sure you’ll be able to make them up with no problem, Harry.” He patted Harry’s hand gently and turned away.

“Professor!” Now Malfoy sounded panicked. For the first time, Harry’s irritation ebbed, and he began to feel worried. What the hell was wrong with him? “We added crushed moonseed instead of moonstone powder.”

Slughorn turned back so abruptly, Harry was startled. He’d never seen the professor move that fast—he hadn’t known it was possible. His face was etched in worry. “Dear me. Neither of you ingested it?” “No.” Malfoy waved his hand toward his trousers. “But…”

“I see, I see.” Slughorn thought for a moment and then nodded decisively. He cast a careful drying charm over their clothes. “I’ll send a Patronus to the hospital wing. Please get there as quickly as you can; Madam Pomfrey has the antidote on hand, I believe; thank goodness. She’ll prepare the solution for you.”

Harry looked around. The rest of the class was staring at them with varying expressions of confusion, curiosity and fear. Hermione was half standing, and Ron mouthed, What happened? Harry shook his head with a helpless shrug. He followed Malfoy out.

When they were in the corridor, he leaned a bit closer to Malfoy. “Care to explain this to me?”

“I’m not ever trying to explain anything to you again, Potter,” Malfoy ground out, not looking over. “As witnessed, you won’t even try to listen when I do.”

***

“No. Absolutely not. No fucking way.” Harry shot panicked eyes to Madam Pomfrey, not bothering to apologise for his language.

Malfoy’s objections were louder. “What! No! No, no, no, no, no!"

The tub was small, barely five feet in length, and filled with vaguely aromatic, gently steaming water. In any other situation, Harry would be happy to slide into it for a bit of relaxation.

Except.

In this case, she wanted him to share it with Malfoy.

She raised her eyebrows. “Then you’ll have an interesting time tomorrow explaining why your bits have fallen off or have become irrevocably petrified.”

“My whats doing what?” Harry swallowed hard.

He looked across the tiny room where Malfoy’s face was rapidly draining of color at her words. Malfoy turned away wordlessly and began unbuttoning his robes, divesting himself of them carefully before beginning to work on his shirt.

“That potion you two were brawling over had properties used in Mummification, the control of Inferi, and the Draught of Living Death,” she snapped out archly, still staring at him. “If my diagnostics are correct, you should be feeling quite dry in the—ah—area right now. Rather itchy?”

Harry squirmed a little, not wanting to acknowledge the truth of it. His whole groin and the top of his upper right thigh were covered in a low-level burning that seemed to get more irritated every second.

“Why do we have to share?” he asked stubbornly.

She held up a small phial with a sparkling liquid swirling inside. “We have never had cause to use this before, which is fortunate for the two of you as it’s extremely rare and incredibly difficult to make, and can only be brewed in very small amounts. It takes four lunar cycles, and we only have enough for one bathtub for the eight days you’ll need it administered.”

Malfoy’s shirt was off now, laid carefully across the stool on his side of the tub. His back was pale and slender—Harry could see the knobs of his spine—but looked surprisingly sturdy for all that. He was working on his belt.

“Well, I can go and then he can!” Harry suggested, looking away.

Malfoy snorted without turning around. “I’m not bathing in your dirty water, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. He can go first.”

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. Damn it all if she didn’t look a little amused. “The potency lasts for thirty minutes after skin contact, which is the full length of time you need to soak each day to ensure proper blood flow to the area and to counter the effects of the potion.”

Harry heard the zip like a rushing in his ears. He shot another glance at Malfoy, who was sliding his trousers down past his hips, and looked over to the nurse desperately. “What about the Prefect’s tubs? They’re bigger. We wouldn’t have to be so… close.”

She clucked her tongue at him and Harry wanted to throttle her. And Malfoy. Why the hell was he being so bloody blasé about this? “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter, that would dilute the solution too much. The content of the water needs to be perfectly measured, and must cover the area in full.” She paused. “Now, please. Mr. Malfoy is nearly disrobed and, as I said, the full potency lasts for only thirty minutes after the first initial contact with skin. You’ll need to get in together.”

Miserable, face burning, Harry jerkily began undoing his buttons. The nurse politely glanced at the ceiling as he got undressed, shedding his clothes at his feet without bothering to fold or drape them over something the way Malfoy had. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his hips when he got down to his pants, then awkwardly removed them from underneath the cloth. His socks went last, and he turned around and padded over to the tub, where Malfoy was staring down into the water.

“Full skin contact,” she reminded them from the corner.

Harry gulped. He’d seen boys walking around naked before. Ron, in particular, had the weirdest habit of throwing on a t-shirt after his shower and walking back to his trunk bottomless to search for the rest of his clothes. He claimed it was natural to ‘let it all breathe while it dried.’ Harry had even showered with other boys, more than once, when one or more of the showers in the Quidditch locker rooms weren’t working and someone was in a hurry; someone was always ordering someone else to budge over and let them take a second under the spray. It was irritating, but never a big deal. But to sit in the bath for a half an hour with Draco Malfoy…

This was going to be a problem.

Malfoy removed his towel, eyes still on the water. Perhaps he’d had the same idea as Harry, that they could just sit in the tub with terrycloth over their laps. The thought that Malfoy might be a little nervous too, despite his demeanor, gave Harry the courage to drop his towel and step into the water, curling his knees up high in front of him. Malfoy followed suit directly after. The water sloshed and rose with their combined weight until it was almost to Harry’s chest. Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat. Harry looked up at her with a feeling of dread.

“You boys need to have your legs out so that the water can work on the affected area,” she explained seriously. “I understand that this is uncomfortable, but there’s nothing to be done for it.” Her mouth quirked to the side and she shifted her eyes away again in a way that made Harry suspicious. “The solution will help primarily with blood flow and pulling toxins from the surface of the skin, so there may be—ah, it may cause… Um. Well, it may not.” She looked down uncomfortably, then twirled her wand. A small, glowing clock appeared on the wall near the bath. “You are free to come out when the timer chimes, and then I will need you to apply the topical cream for an additional two minutes afterward, without drying off beforehand. Another timer will sound when you can finish. Please come to my office afterward so that I may take another diagnostic and make sure that the solution has started working.” She left in a swirl of blue and white robes, shutting the door of the tiny room behind her.

Harry sucked in a breath and then slowly began straightening his legs out in front of him, keeping his feet flat so as to not brush against Malfoy’s gently bobbing prick in the water. Malfoy caught him looking and curled his lips into a bitter smirk as he unbent his own knees and bracketed his legs outside of Harry’s. The relief was immediate; though the water was hot, there was an instantaneous cooling along the skin of Harry’s cock and thigh where the potion had slopped over his trousers. The itching went away and Harry gave a sigh of relief, closing his eyes.

Malfoy’s angry voice broke through his reverie. “I suppose I should thank you. Do you think up new ways to humiliate me, or are you just that lucky?” he sneered.

“I knew it.” Harry glared at him. “I wondered how you were managing not to be the shittiest of wankers about this whole thing. Just waiting for Pomfrey to leave? It was an honest fucking mistake, Malfoy.”

“Of course I was waiting for her to leave,” Malfoy scoffed, as if Harry were just so very stupid. “The professors would be happy to find a way to blame me for this, you arsehole. I’m not going to make waves just because you’re a fool.”

“I’m not a fool,” Harry objected sullenly, feeling very much like one. “It was a mistake.”

“Yes. Mine. I should have known to double-check you,” he said snottily. His eyes dipped to the water and his lip curled again in disgust. “Or were you just looking for an opportunity to wank in front of me?”

Harry could no longer attribute his hot face to the temperature of the water. His blush spread rapidly down his neck and over his chest, and he hovered his open hands in the water over the area of his groin to shield it from Malfoy’s view, particularly as it was twitching in a rather alarming way. “What are you on about?”

“The topical cream?” Malfoy raised a smug, lazy eyebrow. “She basically told us to rub cream into our cocks after the bath.”

Harry’s brain shorted out. “I—I don’t think she meant… That.”

“Of course, she didn’t mean that.” Malfoy sniffed. Casually, but not so subtly that Harry didn’t notice, his hands skimmed through the water to settle over the region of his groin as well. “But are you honestly such a lost cause that you think you can rub lotion into your cock without coming? I’m not sure she understands eighteen-year-old boys.”

Harry’s heart thundered in his chest because, really, how had he not figured that out? He was going to have to wank in front of Draco sodding Malfoy. He swallowed hard, and was proud when his voice came out reasonably steady. “For two minutes. Maybe my control is just better than yours. I haven’t lasted only two minutes since I was twelve.”

Malfoy looked both amused and challenging. “I guess we’ll see then. Ever tried touching yourself after having a twenty-minute hard-on?”

Harry made a strange sound in his throat. “I do not! I mean, I wouldn’t—what—I don’t!” he denied, voice frantic. His cock seemed to respond by swelling further in the heat of the water, rising to the level where it brushed his palms. The brief, frightening image of walking around dickless made him pull away from the light touch instead of clamping down on it both out of modesty and a desire for relief.

“Relax, Potter.” Malfoy tipped his head back, exposing his throat as a long, white arch that made something twist in Harry’s stomach. He spoke to the ceiling. “It’s the solution. She said something about increased blood flow.”

“Oh.” Harry cleared his throat. He didn’t want to talk about this. He absolutely didn’t want to know. There was no way he was going to ask. “So, you too?”

Malfoy lifted his head to eye him. “Yes. But don’t get any ideas. Just because I’m bent doesn’t mean I attack random straight blokes whenever I happen to see them naked. Not that I’d ever touch you with a ten-foot pole, anyway. Or a nine-inch one,” he added with a snicker.

“You’re bent?” Harry asked in a low voice. (Nine inches, his arse.)

Malfoy’s gaze narrowed. “Is that a problem, Potter? Going to make an issue of it? I thought the Savior of the Wizarding World was supposed to be about unification and all that rot.”

Chills broke out over Harry’s arms; a strange contrast to the heat of the water. “No. It’s not a problem. I am. I mean, I am about that. Unification. Rot.”

“Mmmhmmm.” Malfoy shut his eyes and leaned his head back again. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk until you’re able to make sense. Which will be never, and is perfectly fine by me.”

“Great. Good. Yeah.” Malfoy made another little sound of affirmation.

Harry spent the next ten minutes picking out details from the room to ignore his increasingly noticeable erection. There was a small metal table in each corner of the room with a bottle of topical cream on it—Harry wondered if Madam Pomfrey did understand about teenage boys, considering how far apart the tables were positioned. There was also a stack of fluffy white towels on the two chairs near the tables, and a small, stuffed bookshelf on the long wall under the high window. His gaze drifted back. Malfoy’s chest was free of scars, so apparently the dittany Snape had applied to it in sixth year had worked. His body was also surprisingly muscled, all of it rangy and lean, and his stupid white-blond hair was starting to stick to his temples from sweat and steam. His hands had curled into tight fists floating over his crotch and—

The timer went off and Harry jerked himself back to reality, mouth dry, questioning his sanity. Had he actually been staring at Malfoy?

Malfoy was looking back at him with a confused, thoughtful expression. He reached one languid arm out to grab his towel from behind him and rose from the water, holding it out in front of him, although not before Harry got a glimpse of the pale roundness of his bottom. Harry reached down and grabbed his towel off the floor and stood just as the water began to drain. Careful not to allow the towel to rub against him, he turned and hooked it around his backside so that it was open in the front, and hurried over to the corner opposite Malfoy.

He faced the wall and plucked up the small bottle, opening it and squirting out the heavy cream onto his palm, then looked down in consternation. There was no way to hold the towel up if he had to work the lotion into his cock and his thigh all at once. Biting his lip, he dropped the towel. There was a muffled groan on the other side of the room. Harry jerked a little, darting an embarrassed look behind him to see Malfoy, buttocks clenched and head falling forward as his arm moved slowly. Harry took a deep, humiliated breath, and began the application. “Oh, God.”

The lotion created a sort of tingling sensation as he rubbed it slowly over the top of his aching cock. His other hand worked over the small, bright pink patch on his thigh, but he was unable to resist curling his fingers around the length of his shaft the way he did every morning, giving it a slow, silky stroke downward.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Harry heard Malfoy mutter, voice rough, from behind him.

He gave another pull, making sure to angle his fist entirely over the damaged tissue as he stroked, and tried unsuccessfully to hold back a whimper. He was so close, already. Firmly wrenching his mind away from the sensation, Harry tried to conjure the most disgusting things he could think of: Flobberworms, the taste of Hagrid’s rock cake, the idea of Slughorn without any clothes on. But his mind kept flitting to the image of Malfoy doing the exact same thing he was, just a few feet away, and without meaning to, his hand tightened. His balls drew close to his body.

Another tinkling sound broke through just as Malfoy gave a long, quiet groan. Harry stilled, breathing hard, and dug deep for control, slowly unwrapping his hand from his prick. He rubbed it roughly with a towel—even that was a tempting sensation—and tied it around his waist. He gathered his clothes and dressed quickly before turning around to face Malfoy, who was waiting near the door.

Harry lifted his chin. “Seems like we have a winner.”

Malfoy smiled in a lazy way and gave a snicker, entirely too relaxed and pleased with himself for Harry’s state of mind.

“Yes, Potter.” He glanced down at Harry’s erection, pressing persistently against his trousers and lifted his eyebrows. “And I’m pretty sure it was me.”

***

Harry cast a Muffliato charm. The common room was nowhere near empty, and people were beginning to look.

“Will you shut up?” he hissed, irritated. Ron shook his head wildly, laughing too hard to respond. Harry shot Hermione a pleading look and she bit her lip as though she, too, were trying not to find it amusing.

“Sorry, Harry,” she said, overly-serious. “It’s just…”

Ron clutched at his stomach, howling. “You—you’re sh-sh-sharing a bath with M-M-Malfoy,” he got out, then dissolved into guffaws.

Harry sat back against the cushions, depressed. He hadn’t even told them about the cream part. “Some supportive friends you are,” he grumbled.

Hermione’s eyes softened, but a smile still played around the corner of her mouth. She sat down next to him and touched his hand. “We don’t mean to tease,” she said gently. Ron’s newest round of hacking laughter made her roll her eyes. “Well, I don’t. We’re really glad you’re okay. I heard Malfoy say something about crushed moonseed, right?”

“Yeah.” Harry stared into the fire sullenly. “If he hadn’t grabbed it from me…”

“Yes, why did he?”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. I was trying to smell it to make sure it was right—he said it wasn’t. I wasn’t going to drink it or anything.”

Hermione was quiet for a minute as the sound of Ron’s laughter slowly wound down. Harry wasn’t sure if he had lost his voice or simply exhausted himself. “There was boomslang in that potion, too,” she said after a minute, considering.

“Even an inhale of boomslang mixed with moonseed could potentially kill you. At the very least, it probably would have made you incredibly ill.”

Harry stilled, thinking over Malfoy’s frantic voice as he’d reached for the potion. “So he stopped me from getting hurt.”

“I’d say so,” Hermione agreed. She sounded just as bewildered as Harry felt. “Maybe he didn’t know what kind of a reaction you would have had.”

“I think—I think he did,” Harry admitted quietly. “He seemed to. I was just being stubborn. He’s been a total prat this year.”

“When has he not been?” Ron interjected, voice still shaking.

“He’s not like before, though,” Hermione murmured, brow wrinkling. She tilted her head sideways and looked at Harry. “Even you must be able to see that.”

Harry frowned. It was true. Instead of picking on everyone weaker, Malfoy seemed to reserve his hatred solely for Harry these days. And he didn’t even actively attack him anymore; it was more about avoidance and dark, loathing glares. “I guess. But when I tried to talk to him—!”

“We know,” Ron said emphatically. “You wouldn’t shut up about it for a week. He didn’t want to talk to you. He gave you a dirty look. He thinks he’s too pretty for his own good. Blah blah blah.”

Harry slanted an annoyed look at him. “I never said he was too pretty.”

“No, but I bet you thought it.”  Harry’s frown deepened. So what if he had? Finding someone attractive didn’t mean you liked them. Ron snorted once, and then again, laughter bubbling out of him. “Honestly, it makes perfect sense, mate. Your obsession with him all these years; the way you watched him. You’ve barely realised you’re gay and now you have to—have to… sh-sh-share baths w-with…”

He started laughing again, his voice coming in sharp wheezes. Harry tried to stay annoyed, but felt a flicker of amusement. It was rather ridiculous. Not that he’d ever admit to thinking of Malfoy that way. Like Malfoy had pointed out, there were lines that some people would never cross, and Harry was pretty sure Malfoy was his, no matter how surprisingly fit Malfoy was.

Still, a faint snicker escaped his lips at the situation, which Hermione quickly echoed, and then all three of them were rolling with laughter, silent outside of their bubble, while everyone else in the common room watched on in confusion.

***

His reluctant amusement followed him through the rest of the next day, undeterred by the glares Malfoy kept giving him across the Great Hall at mealtimes, and during Potions. Harry surprised himself; he only had to think of the tears leaking from Ron’s eyes as he stuttered over the fact that Harry’s first private experience with a naked man occurred with Malfoy to ignore the bitterness that attempted to sweep through him every time Malfoy looked at him like he was slug juice on the bottom of his shoe.

Madam Pomfrey, whose diagnostic of them had shown some general improvement, had informed them that they could resume their baths at the end of the day instead, somehow managing to imply that they had done this just to get out of classes. It was actually better this way, Harry acknowledged as he began pulling off his clothes. No one would be asking them where they were disappearing to in the middle of the day, or making bets as to why they both came back to class damp and smelling of the spicy fragrance of the antidote.

Harry finished undressing and draped a towel over his lap, perusing the book selection. He couldn’t fathom why so many of her patients needed baths for some reason, but it seemed like a lot of them did: the books were in a wide variety of subjects from first-year charms texts to vampire thrillers and one—he assumed she had forgotten to remove it—that looked like an erotica about Aurors. He grabbed a couple (he left the Auror one on the shelf, tempting though it looked) and started flipping through them as he waited for Malfoy to arrive.

He did, a few minutes later, looking windswept and thoroughly put-out. He stabbed a finger in Harry’s direction. “You are responsible for ruining my life.”

Harry gaped. “What’d I do now?”

Malfoy glowered, but didn’t respond. He sidled to the opposite corner and started slipping off his clothing, pausing to look balefully behind him. “Planning on watching me, Potter?”

Harry flushed angrily. He deliberately removed his glasses and set them on the shelf. “There. I’m blind. Try not to cast a Cruciatus on me, okay?”

“I don’t wish to be sliced in half again, thanks,” Malfoy said snidely. His blurred figure was suddenly pale like milk; he didn’t even bother using a bath sheet as cover.

A hot, sudden rush of shame swamped Harry. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know what that spell would do.”

“Christ. And the whole of the Wizarding world put our lives in your inept hands,” Malfoy muttered, moving over to the bath.

Harry grabbed his books and headed over as well. He dropped his towel and slipped into the hot water quickly—Malfoy didn’t need glasses, after all—and settled into position, legs straight and together. After a moment of hesitation, Malfoy climbed in as well, stretching out his legs on the outside of his. Harry tried not to think of the firm length of muscle pressed against the outside of thighs, or the way the balls of Malfoy’s feet brushed against the sides of his buttocks. The water was silky and heated to the perfect temperature, and Harry resisted the urge to slink down in it until he was submerged to his shoulders; he couldn’t even contemplate the position he’d have to get into with Malfoy to do so. Instead, holding one hand over his blooming erection, he picked up the vampire thriller he had started on and tried to open it, holding it close to his face.

Malfoy chuckled. “Exactly how blind are you, Potter?”

“Enough that I need glasses to see,” Harry said stiffly. He fumbled with the paperback, quickly losing hope when he realised how difficult it would be to turn pages with one hand. Throwing down the book in disgust, he sent a furious look at the blob a few feet away. Malfoy made an indistinct gesture, startling him.

“Accio Potter’s glasses,” Malfoy muttered, then held them out for Harry to take.

Surprised, Harry slipped them on and the world snapped into view again as Malfoy placed his wand back on the rim of the tub. “Thanks.”

“You squinting is an even worse look on you than I’m used to,” Malfoy murmured dryly. “And it’s not like you didn’t get a good look yesterday.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” Harry closed his mouth, wondering what the end of that sentence would have been.

“You’re never trying to do much, are you?” Malfoy asked sarcastically. “Which is why we’re in this mess.”

“You didn’t want to let me help!” “The one thing I asked you to do, you did incorrectly,” Malfoy pointed out resentfully.

“It was an accident.”

“They don’t even keep the crushed moonseed on the same shelf as the moonstone powder; were you even looking up the celestial ingredients? Do you know how to read, Potter? Was that book you were holding just for show?”

“They’re one shelf away from each other, and they look exactly the same!” Harry growled. “It was an accident and as you can see I’m no better off from it than you are. Plus, if you hadn’t tried to yank the phial from my hands, we never would have spilled it.”

“You were trying to smell it,” Malfoy snapped. His face flattened out and he looked away, grey eyes stormy. “I should have let you.”

Harry paused, his anger fading. “Why didn’t you?”

This time the pause was longer. “Life-debt,” Malfoy said finally.

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t much cared for the idea that Malfoy had owed him one. For some reason, he felt even more bothered by the idea that Malfoy had saved his life just to pay him back. “So, then we’re even?”

Malfoy exhaled hard. “The potential risk to me was far less than the risk you incurred last year,” he admitted grudgingly. “And there was no expectation of near-certain death, it was merely a possibility.”

“Well. Thank you,” Harry said, just as reluctantly. “And, just for the record, I don’t believe in that whole life-debt thing. Half the wizarding world says they owe me one. What am I supposed to do, let everyone try to die for me?”

“Half the wizarding world are idiots,” Malfoy said with disdain, “who have no idea of the bonding magic that goes behind a true life-debt.”

Flummoxed, Harry stared at him. Malfoy’s quicksilver eyes avoided his for a long moment, and then looked up at him stubbornly. “What do you mean, bonding?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Salazar. Do some research. Better yet, have Granger do it for you; you might actually learn something, then.”

Harry smiled. “I’m going to tell Hermione you just said she was smart.”

“Don’t you dare,” Malfoy said, pointing his wand threateningly at Harry.

“Christ, you’re in a worse mood than yesterday,” Harry said, not remotely intimidated by the slender length of wood raised in his direction. “What’s got up your arse?”

Malfoy lowered his wand. “Certainly not Eddie Carmichael.” He sighed forlornly. “And I’ve been working on him for a month.”

Harry blinked against the sudden swamp of images of Malfoy on his knees, dark-haired Carmichael kneeling behind him. It was more than a little mentally uncomfortable, although his cock jerked in approval. “Er. Sorry?”

“You should be. It’s your fault. He informed me tonight that the only times he’s available to meet are after dinner,” Draco griped.

Harry tried not to smile. “If he really wanted to, he’d figure out a way to make it work. I always thought he was straight. Did you make it clear what you were looking for?”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then promptly closed it with a click of teeth. His eyes shifted warily. “In a way.”

“What way?” “I don’t know, Potter. Compliments. I helped him study. We had lunch at Hogsmeade.” He pinned Harry with a haughty look. “Why, how do you flirt?”

“I don’t,” Harry said honestly.

“Right. You don’t need to; the Weasel’s sister.” He pursed his lips. “Some of us don’t want to fall into marriage directly out of school. I prefer a spot of fun, myself.”

“I’m not with Ginny anymore,” Harry blurted. His eyes flicked to the pale swath of Draco’s chest, pale brown nipples pebbled and tight, then back down at his own hands, which were knotted in the water.

“Really.” Malfoy leaned back against the tub. He pulled his arms out of the water, resting them wide on either side of the porcelain rim, leaving Harry’s view into the water unobstructed. He resolutely did not look down. Malfoy shifted his legs gently, Harry felt the rasp of wet hair and skin against his calves, his thighs, and the gentle press of Malfoy’s toe pushing into him, just to the side of his right butt cheek. “I hadn’t heard. Trouble in paradise then?”

“Not for her,” Harry admitted, voice raw and low. He told his mouth to shut up before it got him into any more trouble. The center of his brain controlling his cock begged to differ. “For me. With her.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy leaned forward, face disturbingly intent. A light sheen of sweat made the planes and angles of it glisten attractively. “Couldn’t get it up, then?”

Harry let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Can we just—not? I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Au contraire,” Malfoy said in a sinfully smooth voice. “We’re just getting somewhere interesting.”

“Shut it, Malfoy. Seriously.”

“Spoilsport. It’s not as if I haven’t laid my secrets bare.” Malfoy made a little pouting face.

“I never asked you to,” Harry said, staring at Malfoy’s bottom lip. It was surprisingly full when he pushed it out like that, sucking his top lip in between his teeth.

“I’m offering,” Malfoy murmured in that same silky voice. “What would you like to know?”

Harry quickly discarded about a thousand questions that popped into his head for being too inappropriate and/or likely to get him hexed. “Why have you been such a prick to me since the start of term?”

Malfoy’s face shuttered and he leaned back again. “Have I been? I don’t recall that.”

“You didn’t even say hi to me when I came up to you on the first day,” Harry pointed out.

“And that’s being a prick?” Malfoy mused. “I suppose if you’re used to people catering to your every whim, it could be considered so…”

“You look at me like you hate me.”

“I suppose if you’re used to everyone loving you—”

“Come on, Malfoy,” Harry burst out. “Why?”

Malfoy’s mouth tightened and Harry’s whole body mourned the loss of that plump pink lip sticking out. “I don’t need your pity, Potter. I never needed that.”

“Who said that’s what I was offering?” Harry demanded, trying not to blush. It may have been true that he’d thought Malfoy had looked a little pathetic that first day as the only returning Slytherin of his year. But paired with that had been the realisation that Malfoy—despite his two week stint in Azkaban and how skinny he’d looked at his trial—had grown over the summer, topping Harry’s height by at least two inches, and that his arrogant swagger had become sort of elegant, all long, lean lines and hard angles and loose limbs. Even his face looked less pointy.

“What were you offering?” Malfoy said shrewdly.

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbled. “Friendship, maybe. A fresh start, at least.”

There was silence but for the vague, wet ripple of the water as Harry carefully wiggled his feet. They were starting to cramp from holding them so flat and angled away from Malfoy’s cock, which was really the only reason Harry had to look into the water: to make sure he didn’t touch the other boy. Malfoy’s erection looked wobbly and undefined through the water, but stood out proudly from a nest of pale gold curls; his balls rested against the bottom of the tub, wrinkled and strangely fascinating. Harry lifted his gaze to find Malfoy watching him, gray eyes clear.

“I see,” he said abruptly. “I accept.”

“You? Ah. Accept what?” Leaving a hand in place to cover his genitals, Harry reached up with the other to wipe at his face. “Has the water gotten hotter? We should check with Pomfrey.”

“I think it’s fine, Potter,” Malfoy said, richly amused. His eyebrows lifted. “Your friendship.”

“What about it?” Harry’s breath was coming too fast. The temperature of the water had definitely risen; his skin felt like it was on fire.

“I accept your friendship,” Malfoy said with that same frustrating smile. “Since you’re offering.”

“Oh. I—yeah. Yeah, we could do it. That,” Harry corrected. “Be friends, I mean.”

“I think I understand exactly what you mean,” Malfoy purred quietly. Harry shot him a panicked look, and his face softened. “So what do you talk about with your friends? Do you ask them questions? Tell them secrets?”

“Um. Ron and Hermione pretty much know all there is to know about me, for better or worse,” Harry admitted, feeling on safer ground now that the confusing, predatory look had been wiped clean off Malfoy’s face. “Who do you talk to?”

“You, I guess,” Malfoy said lightly. His eyes glinted at Harry; his lips curved up. “Potter, are you—”

The dinging of the timer interrupted. Relief swept through Harry, even as he noted the disappointment on Malfoy’s face. He was fairly certain that he wouldn’t have wanted to answer whatever Malfoy had been about to ask. Silently, Harry reached for his towel, but Malfoy had no such compunction. He rose from the water gracefully, fully nude, all ridiculously long, toned legs and fully hard cock springing out from his groin as if it had something to prove. It was as almost pale as the rest of him, except for the head which seemed to glow a rosy pink, and it dripped with water.

Malfoy stood there for a moment, on display, before turning and bending to pluck up his towel, arse in Harry’s face, muscles bunching, the faint shadow in the crevice making Harry’s hands itch to touch it, making his mouth flood with saliva. He made a distressed noise. Malfoy didn’t respond but for the faint, smug smile Harry caught in profile once he was able to pull his eyes upward.

Harry grabbed his towel and stood up quickly, practically running for the cream. Malfoy was already in his corner, making soft noises that were not remotely subtle. Harry applied the cream to his hand and squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to do something stupid. But his hands, slick on his prick and thigh, seemed to have a mind of their own. Instead of lightly rubbing in the cream, all of his fingers wound immediately around his cock in a tight grip. Harry hissed, the sound broken by Malfoy’s soft panting behind him.

“Will you shut up over there?” he grit out.

“Might as well—oooh—make the most of it, don’t you think, Potter?” Malfoy panted.

Harry reminded himself how humiliating it would be to get off with Malfoy just a few feet away. Still, his hand worked steadily over his shaft, rubbing the lotion over his foreskin in in a way that felt decidedly un-medicinal. Pleasure coiled in his belly; shocks of sensation jolted down his spine. His balls tightened and Harry tried to slow, he really did (he was almost sure), but then Malfoy made a long keening sound just over the noise of the timer going off and Harry grunted, shoving into his own hand, once, twice, and then he was coming hard, spilling over his own fingers, the thick fluid dripping off of his knuckles and onto the floor. He let his head fall forward as he shuddered with the force of it, cock throbbing, every inch of skin that was covered with the cream tingling and satisfied.

“You all right, there, Potter?”

Harry waited until he was sure his voice would come out steady. “Fine,” he said shortly, casting a quick cleaning charm.

He gathered up his clothes, trying not to trip in his haste to put them back on.

“Are you sure about that?” Malfoy’s voice was suddenly closer—much too close—and Harry nearly knocked into him turning around. Malfoy was looking down at him with such a calm expression that Harry suddenly and fiercely longed for the days when all he wanted to do to the git was hex him into next Sunday. He’d never been good with coping with complications of a different sort than those that could get him killed, and he was no better at it now than he was at fifteen.

“You sounded better than fine a couple of minutes ago,” Malfoy ventured with a smirk.

Harry stilled. He met Malfoy’s eyes, smoky and curious. “I was,” he admitted, somewhat breathlessly.

Malfoy’s lips curled into a slow smile; his white teeth peeked out and he looked softer from it, younger, his face creasing around his mouth and at the edges of his eyes in a way that made Harry feel dizzy and light. “Okay, then. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought. Goodnight.”

Harry sat down heavily as Malfoy swept from the room. He didn’t get up for a very long time.

***

Nearing the end of the week, Harry was pretty sure he was going insane. He’d managed to stonewall Malfoy’s attempts each night to broach the subject, holding up his book inches from his face whenever Malfoy mentioned the tingle of the topical cream or started listing the Quidditch players he’d be most interested in shagging.

Fortunately, when Harry refused to rise to the bait, he would drop that line of conversation and bring up something more mundane. Harry would put his book aside, then, glasses still off, and look at the blurry image of Malfoy while he talked about the summer in Wiltshire, and the time his mother had taken him to a Wizarding circus (he’d gotten to ride a Pegasus) and how he was fairly certain Professor Snape had had an affair with Professor Trelawney at one point. Harry listened to his voice, soothing and posh, as he talked about summers; he asked way too many questions about what they had at Wizarding circuses, and how it felt to ride a Pegasus; he snorted with laughter that he refused to explain at the idea of Snape and Trelawney. (Over Harry’s laughter, Malfoy had kept insisting he was right; he pointed out how much Snape had loathed her, and that the best sort of passion arose from true hate.)  Then Harry had a quick, despondent wank in the corner, forced to listen to Malfoy’s muffled moans behind him, ears blazing hot as he came, just from the desire to join him.

It almost made the whole thing worse, knowing Malfoy could be, well, human about things. Harry had assumed so, but he hadn’t really been faced with it until recently, and he was still unsure he wanted to actually like this person he had hated for so long. But there it was. Draco Malfoy had somehow become likable when no longer surrounded by his goons and his horrible father’s ideals.

Harry dithered over lunch with Ron and Hermione, unable to stop himself from looking over at Malfoy every other minute or so. Sighing, he leaned in.

“All right,” Harry whispered. “I need your help.”

Hermione glanced up at him and, reading something in his face, closed the giant tome in front of her and set it aside. Ron stuffed another whole pastry in his mouth and chewed slowly, waiting.

“What is it, Harry?”

“This Malfoy thing.” Harry darted a despairing glance over to the Slytherin table, where Malfoy sat. The blond was eating alone, casually flipping through a textbook. No one should look that pristine while eating. Harry looked down at his own robes, which had a small gravy stain at the chest.

“What about it?” Hermione asked. Ron started to chew faster, looking at Harry oddly.

“Um.” Harry sucked in a deep breath. “You—you might have been right about… I mean, I think what Ron said about… Well.”

Hermione’s face fell, and something small and shameful tightened in Harry’s midsection. She looked so disappointed. “Honestly, Harry.”

“I—”

Her brown frizz danced around her like a halo as she shook her head and began digging into the pocket of her robes. She pulled out a shining Galleon. Ron swallowed hard with a laugh and opened his flat hand; she slapped the coin into it with too much force.

“You couldn’t have waited a week?” she muttered, frowning.

“It was the baths,” Ron said, pocketing the Galleon smugly. “He had that same weird look on his face the first night as he did after I caught him snogging Charlie in the pantry this summer.”

Harry watched their exchange, amusement warring with aggravation. “Charlie snogged me. As an experiment. And I’m getting new friends.”

Hermione’s frown disappeared and she gazed at him affectionately. “You should. They’ll probably bet much higher sums, and we could start a pool.”

Ron snorted. “So what’s the problem, then? Because it’s Malfoy?”

Harry looked at him; he must be mad. “Of course, it’s because it’s Malfoy! Malfoy, who we’ve hated for years? Malfoy, who was a Death Eater?” He hesitated. Might as well tell the whole truth, despite how awful his friends were. “Malfoy, who’s only looking for a bit of fun.”

“The Malfoy bit is weird, I’ll grant you,” Ron said, taking another bite of Shepard’s pie. “But ‘Mione says he’s pretty good looking. I like brunettes, myself.” He smiled at Hermione. She blushed, and patted his hand. “Also, I was thinking about it. She’s right; he’s been a lot different this year. Eddie Carmichael told me this morning how Malfoy has been helping with his homework.”

“That’s not what Malfoy wants to help him with,” Harry muttered, ignoring a flare of jealousy as he made shapes out of his mashed potatoes with his fork.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Look,” Hermione said practically, “You’re attracted to someone you never thought you would be. It’s not the end of the world, Harry. But. I mean… You don’t even know if he’s gay.”

“He is,” Harry said with too much emphasis.

Hermione looked surprised. She looked over to the Slytherin table. “Oh. And you get the feeling that he’s interested in you?”

Harry nodded. “But just for—for, you know, something casual. I don’t… I don’t think I’m the casual type.”

“Seemed that way with Charlie,” Ron chuckled.

Harry glared at him. “That was a favour. He was just… He just wanted to help me see. And it was just once.”

Ron held up his hands. “Fine, fine. I won’t mention it again. Today, at least. Anyway, maybe you could be the fun type. It’s not as if you’re going to go off and marry the bloke, right? I mean, he is Malfoy.”

“I guess,” Harry acknowledged slowly, thinking of Malfoy’s supposition that he was bound to do just that.

“You should talk about this with him, Harry,” Hermione said, picking her book back up.

Harry groaned. “Because I have a history of being good at that sort of thing?”

Hermione grinned, nauseatingly perky, whereas Harry just felt depressed. “Well, no. But you have a history of being charming in your verbal ineptitude. See if that’s something he goes for.”

***

“So why were you and your friends staring at me over lunch this time, Potter?” Malfoy said carelessly as he came into the room.

Harry, flipping through the vampire book without reading a single word, jerked his head up. “Um.”

“You do tell them everything, right?” Malfoy slipped off his cloak and hung it on a wall hook.

“Not everything,” Harry hedged. Malfoy’s mouth drew down sharply for a moment before relaxing. “Not, like, details of some things.”

“Hmm. I see you’re ready?” He indicated Harry, who was starting to feel rather cold, sitting with a towel draped over his lap.

“Whenever you are.” Harry reached up to remove his glasses, then paused. He slowly slid them back up the bridge of his nose, firmly in place.

“You’re not going to take them off?” Malfoy coughed, two spots of pink high on his angled cheekbones. “I mean, you don’t have to.”

Harry looked back at him steadily. Malfoy seemed uncharacteristically sheepish, but rather pleased. He toed off his shoes carefully, then reached down to peel off his socks.

“So,” Harry said hoarsely. “Just one more night after this.”

“After this?” Malfoy unbuckled his belt with excruciating slowness.

“Of the baths, I mean.”

Malfoy gave a soft laugh. He reached up and pulled off his jumper in one smooth, practiced slide, leaving his fine, moonlight hair looking ruffled and messy. Harry stood up suddenly. Malfoy paused in the act of loosening his tie. “Yes?”

Harry took a faltering step forward, clutching the towel wrapped around his hips. Jesus, he could barely get through a bath without touching himself. It did not bode well for his control that he was almost ready to burst, and Malfoy didn’t even have his shirt off yet.

“Can I—” Shut up shut up shut up. “Help?”

Malfoy’s eyes flared triumphantly. “So, then I wasn’t wrong about you.”

Harry’s insides shook. “No.”

“Then yes, Potter,” Malfoy said huskily. “This is help from you I will accept.”

Ignoring the buried insult, Harry took three long steps over and stopped. Faced with Malfoy, who was waiting patiently for him to do something, he was at a complete loss. He reached up haltingly, hand straying in front of Malfoy, trying to decide.

“My tie, Potter,” Malfoy prompted, staring at him. Harry nodded. With his free hand, he pulled at the knot in Malfoy’s tie. Malfoy came with it, leaning forward, his warm breath ghosting over Harry’s face as he held one end of his tie tight to facilitate its loosening. Up close, Malfoy’s eyelashes, nearly invisible from a distance, were surprisingly long and thick, tiny fans the color of sunburnt cotton. The smooth band in Harry’s hand unraveled, and he pulled it completely free of Malfoy’s collar, letting it drop to the floor.

“That’s silk,” Malfoy complained, but he didn’t sound mad.

“I’ll get it cleaned for you,” Harry promised. The pink tip of Malfoy’s tongue darted out to drag across his bottom lip and Harry’s eyes strayed to it, pulse pounding. He took a step away, and then another.

“What is it?”

“Um.” Harry turned his face away. “I’m… Probably best to… Talk first. And I’m already too…” He waved his free hand in front of himself, hoping that would be enough explanation.

Malfoy snorted inelegantly. “Always so noble, you Gryffindors.” Harry heard him begin to undress quickly. The rustling sound of fabric was distracting, and did nothing for his self-control. He picked a spot on the floor to stare at until Malfoy said, “I’m done,” and then turned around.

“Fuck, Malfoy.”

Malfoy stood, naked, at the edge of the tub. He raised one shoulder lazily. “What? You can’t think me so daft that you think I don’t know you want a good, long look.” His voice got quieter. “I might, too.”

“This is such an unbelievably bad idea,” Harry said, but then again, that had never stopped him before. He dropped the towel.

He resisted the urge to cover himself as Malfoy’s eyes fell lower and lower, and let himself do some looking too. Malfoy’s cock was still mostly soft but grew as Harry watched, looking heavy and lazy and altogether delicious, rising from the bulge of his bollocks underneath. His thighs were pressed tightly together. Harry’s gaze traveled up, to the coarse hair surrounding the base, which narrowed and trailed all the way up his flat stomach to his belly-button. The ridges of his ribs were visible under a fine layer of muscle, but he didn’t look waifish. He looked… “God.”

“I agree,” Malfoy said, not raising his eyes. After a moment, he gestured to the water. “We should get in.”

Harry nodded, feeling like an idiot; it was clear Malfoy wasn’t looking at his face. “Okay.”

He stepped into the tub and sank down, feeling more exposed than he’d expected. After his conversation with Hermione and Ron, Harry had let his mind wander to too many places: Was Malfoy just taking the piss? Was he actually flirting, the way Harry thought? What would sex be like with a man? What would sex be like with Malfoy? What would sex be like, period?

Malfoy slid in after him, and it occurred to Harry that, if just standing there looking at each other had felt so good, making it so easy to ignore the embarrassment that felt like it lived in his marrow, sex would probably be a lot better. He wasn’t even particularly good looking, he knew. Just a lot of dark, floppy hair that never stayed in place, an average face and a too-thin body. His knees were never going to not be knobbly, no matter how much he flew. But it wasn’t like Malfoy’s body could lie.

“You don’t look comfortable,” Malfoy commented after a minute.

Startled, Harry laughed. “I’m not. You try sitting like this for thirty minutes every night for a week.” To say nothing of his thoughts. He gestured down to his legs, pressed tightly together between Malfoy’s, knees perfectly straight, toes up to keep his feet flat.

“You don’t have to sit like that, you know.”

“How am I supposed to sit? I don’t want to—y’know…”

“And here I was under the impression you did,” Malfoy said slyly. He reached down and hooked his hands around Harry’s ankles, lifting them and draping them over his legs. It spread him out a bit, exposing more of him to Malfoy’s gaze, but as Harry’s knees bent comfortably he felt okay with the tradeoff, particularly because Malfoy didn’t seem disgusted. His pupils dilated for a moment, looking down at Harry, and then looked back up.

“Better?”

“Much. Thanks.” Harry slid down a little further in the water, settling himself as it sloshed around them. “So, I guess we should talk.”

“I can think of plenty of things I’d rather do,” Malfoy murmured.  Harry’s heart stuttered. He was pretty sure the solution in the water wasn’t working yet, so his erection popping back up must be due to the insinuation.

“Right, but we can’t. We’re not even supposed to… let ourselves touch anything but the water.” A flicker of hope made him hesitate. “Am I wrong?”

Malfoy sighed. “Unfortunately, for once, no. All right, what do you want to talk about?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Well, this is a bit of a transition, isn’t it? From hating me to—to—flirting, or whatever it is you’ve been doing.” He smiled wryly. “You haven’t even offered to help with my homework or take me to Hogsmeade.”

“I thought you’d appreciate a bit more directness,” Malfoy muttered, looking surly.

“I do. That’s why…” Harry made a feeble gesture. “With the talking.” He took a deep breath. “That thing with Carmichael.”

“You were right, he’s unendingly straight,” Malfoy said. “I heard he’s seeing a girl in Ravenclaw. I’m less surprised about him than you, though.”

“Ginny was surprised, too,” Harry mumbled. Malfoy gave an open laugh, a bright sound the likes of which Harry had never heard from him before; it was unreserved and deep, from his chest, and held not a single spot of malice.

“I’d imagine not.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m not ashamed of it,” Harry said defiantly. “It’s just…”

“The press?” Malfoy guessed.

“Sort of,” Harry admitted. “That’s a lot of it. But it’s more about how everyone always talks. I just wanted a bit of time to—you know, figure things out.”

“You’ve got to be aware that you’d have your pick of wizards,” Malfoy pointed out, sounding only a little bitter.

“That want me because they know me? Or think I’m good looking?” Harry said incredulously.

“Potter, your hair looks like you comb it with spider legs and your fashion sense is atrocious, but you’re perfectly attractive,” Malfoy said, a bit angrily, under his breath. He looked away, swallowing convulsively. “I’m not… This isn’t just because you’re gay, you know,” he added.

Harry stared at him. “I didn’t. But thanks for clearing that up. I was wondering.”

“You think I’m such a slag for it that I’m going to proposition anything with a cock?” Malfoy asked archly.

“I don’t know what kind of a slag you are,” Harry said, grinning. “But I’m curious to find out.”

Malfoy gave that laugh again; the sound of it made Harry’s heart swerve and dip and clench.

“You probably shouldn’t say things like that,” he said ruefully after a moment. He glanced down at the water. “I’m pretty sure there was a drop of unicorn blood in the solution, and if it were compromised by another… fluid… the bath could end up being a waste.”

Harry felt delighted and strangely flattered. “One more question though.”

“What now, Potter?” Malfoy asked, his bored tone belied by the flush spreading down his throat.

“Carmichael.”

“I already said—”

“No. That thing you said about… What you wanted. With him.” Harry sucked in a fortifying breath. “Is that what you… What you like? Or do you ever think about. About the other way?”

Malfoy looked completely blank for a moment. Then his eyebrows shot up, completely hidden under his fringe; his eyes widened comically. His hands slid under the water again and skimmed over Harry’s shins lightly. “I think about the other way,” he said breathlessly. “I think I’d be okay with both. If you wanted to—”

Harry’s cock throbbed; his hole clenched tightly. “I-yeah. Yeah. I think about it a lot,” he whispered, adrenaline rushing through him. It felt dangerous and sexy to be confessing something like this to anyone, let alone Malfoy. “More than the other thing. But I don’t want to try it with someone who hates me. I don’t…”

“Are you still on about that?” Malfoy said, voice tight. “I don’t hate you anymore, Potter. I just… Didn’t think you were an option.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I am.” Harry pulled off his glasses for a second to run a hand over his face; he blinked off the droplets of water clinging to his lashes. “But this is only going to be casual, right?”

Malfoy’s hands tightened momentarily over the tops of Harry’s calves, then loosened. He pulled them away. “Of course,” he said coolly. “If that’s what you’re interested in.”

Feeling as though he’d said something wrong, Harry pinned Malfoy with a hard look. Malfoy looked vaguely hurt, but he was the one who’d made it clear he’d thought relationships were mad. Harry wanted to tell him That’s not what I meant, but his cock was aching, and he didn’t want to scare Malfoy off. Anyway, wanting to get to know someone a bit better, while maybe trying other things with them, didn’t amount to relationship, he rationalized.

“So then,” Harry ventured, “we’re sort of becoming friends, right? And maybe we can… try some—some other things.”

Malfoy ran a distracted hand through his hair. Wherever water touched it, it deepened the frosty color into something warmer, almost golden, and Harry found he liked the disheveled look on Malfoy.

“You’re awfully bold about this, for someone who’s been avoiding the subject.”

“Hermione told me to talk to you.”

Malfoy looked at him oddly. “You told her?”

Harry nodded. “Ron, too. I hope that’s okay.”

“I-I.” Malfoy exhaled hard. “It’s unexpected.”

“I told you I’m not ashamed of myself,” Harry said, tilting his chin up. “And that I talk to them about stuff.”

“Yes, but you’re mental. I didn’t think you’d want to associate your name with—”

“Well, it’s not as if I’m shouting the fact that I’m attracted to you from the rooftops, is it?” Harry pointed out wryly. “I like my privacy.”

Malfoy’s expression shuttered. “And you don’t think I’m going to run off to the Prophet about all this?”

“I dunno.” Harry shrugged. “I guess not. Worst case, you do and I’m embarrassed. I’d probably get a lot of sympathy cards in the mail or something. I’ve been embarrassed before. Seems like I always am, actually,” he added.

“You don’t seem too embarrassed now,” Malfoy said roughly.

Harry stalled, caught for a moment. “I’m really not.”

“Good. Talk to me about class. I’m really close, and I haven’t even snogged you yet,” Malfoy said in an abrasive sort of way that made Harry’s stomach flutter. He wasn’t sure if it was the thought of Malfoy coming or the idea that they were going to kiss soon, but it was definitely something.

Harry spent the next few minutes talking about his most boring class (History of Magic. He wasn’t even taking it this year), hoping it would give them enough control to make it to the chiming of the timer. Malfoy interjected with some dry tidbits about Professor Binns, contemplating how bored his wife must have been in bed, considering that he didn’t even notice that he’d died. When the timer chimed, Harry felt… oddly prepared. He was stiff and aching, but something about the mention of the kiss had settled his shaking nerves a bit.

“Come over to my side,” Malfoy whispered over the tinkling of the timer. He got out in a splash of water, clambering over the side of the tub, almost falling over in his haste. Harry pretended not to notice; it was only fair, he reasoned, considering how often he was tripping over his own feet. Plus, it was sort of charming.

He followed Malfoy out, not bothering with his towel. Dripping all over the floor, he held out his hand and Malfoy squirted some of the cream into it, then applied it to his own. His eyes met Harry’s, bright and steady. His words came out impossibly low. “Try not to finish.”

Not trusting his voice, Harry shot him a questioning look. Malfoy nodded once—a non-verbal do it—and then reached down, circling his long fingers around his erection. Harry followed suit with a groan, watching Malfoy’s hand rub the cream into the pale pink patch of skin on the top of his prick, pulling his foreskin up with a practiced stroke as he rubbed in the lotion. Harry dabbed some cream on his thigh, near the crease of his groin with one hand and moved his hand lightly over his erection.

For whatever reason, Malfoy didn’t want him to come, and he was curious as to the outcome, but Merlin, this was difficult. His body had gotten a bit too used to a quick release after so many minutes of tension, and as he rubbed the cream in with gentle strokes, all he wanted was to do it faster, to apply more pressure, to finish. It was so fucking hot watching Malfoy’s hand get tighter, practically flying over his own skin. The tip of his cock leaked out a pearly fluid, and Harry wanted to skim his fingers over it.

“I don’t think I can last,” he panted.

Malfoy bit his lip. “You’ll be glad if you can.”

He grunted, pulling faster, stroking his foreskin in a quick up-and-down movement, then swiping his thumb over the slit at the crown in exactly the same fashion Harry had wanted to. The muscles in his forearm twisted and bunched as his hand moved, and Harry caught little glimpses of Malfoy’s Dark Mark, a faded blur against his impossibly perfect skin.

The timer chimed, and Malfoy exhaled hard, still working his fist over his cock, but slowing it down. He picked up his wand and cast a cleaning charm over Harry, getting rid of the lotion. Then he dropped to his knees.

“Ah, Malfoy?” Harry squeaked. Malfoy reached up, stabilizing Harry’s bobbing prick with one loose hand. “I’m going to… If you do that, I’m going to…”

“So am I,” Malfoy muttered, and pressed his open lips around the head of Harry’s cock, sucking the tip inside. Harry gasped, bucking forward for more friction, but Malfoy pulled back, maintaining that light touch, his tongue swirling over the head. He gave a gentle suck and then a harder one, and that was all it took. Harry broke. His hand fell to Malfoy’s damp hair and he came, spikes of pleasure shooting up the length of his shaft, his balls throbbing with release as he spilled into the heat of Malfoy’s mouth. His vision dimmed around the edges, but he noticed that Malfoy’s shoulder was moving fast, and then Malfoy was groaning too, the noise making a vibration against the overstimulated head of Harry’s cock. Harry clutched at Malfoy’s hair helplessly, pushing forward, and this time Malfoy took him in deeper for a moment as the last remnants of Harry’s orgasm tore through him.

They stayed like that for a minute; Malfoy on his knees with Harry’s slowly softening cock in his mouth. Then Malfoy released him and clambered to his feet. His face had that same boneless relaxation it had every night before they left the room, but there was a hit of uncertainty, too. “Good?”

Harry stepped in until their chests were touching. Their groins brushed against each other as Harry leaned up and captured Malfoy’s mouth in a kiss. Malfoy made a small, confused noise, and then he was sliding his hands through Harry’s sweaty hair, winding an arm around his waist to pull him closer. His mouth opened over Harry’s, and Harry could taste himself on Malfoy’s tongue, a strange, bitter flavour that was somehow not at all off-putting. He rubbed his tongue against Malfoy’s, mouth hard and searching, and thought blankly that it was better than the best kiss he’d ever had. Better than with Ginny, or Charlie, or even those blokes he’d imagined kissing in the long hours of the night when he couldn’t sleep and there was nothing better to do.

He liked that he had to reach up to kiss him; liked the hard planes of Malfoy’s chest against his own, flat to allow for more closeness. Malfoy’s mouth with skillful and intent, lips moving against Harry’s insistently, tongue sweeping in to touch his and then away, to lick at the inside of his lower lip. After several blissful minutes, Harry pulled away. Malfoy looked flushed and ruffled and dazed; he followed Harry’s mouth with his own for a desperate second before his eyes cleared.

“What?”

“Pomfrey.”

“Shit.”

Malfoy let go of him. Harry noted with satisfaction that Malfoy was halfway to hard again.

They got dressed in a hurry, and were sitting in opposite corners putting on their shoes when Madam Pomfrey barged in, looking suspicious. “You boys should have been out of here twenty minutes ago.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. He pointed his wand at his trainers to lace them up. “We got to talking.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said with a straight face. “I never imagined Potter would ever have anything so interesting to say.”

***

“Potter.” Harry halted on the way to Ron and Hermione’s desk the next morning, shocked that Malfoy would call him out in public. Years of experience had him bracing himself for an insult, no matter what they got up to together in private, but Malfoy’s expression was mild; bored almost.

“Yes?”

Malfoy shifted on his stool. “You can sit here. We’re working on truth potions this week.”

Harry cast an uncertain glance at Ron and Hermione. Their heads were together, close, as though they were whispering. He sighed and walked over to the empty space next to Malfoy, dropping his bag and sitting down. He reached out and pinched Malfoy’s bicep hard through the thick material of his robes.

“Ouch!” Malfoy glared at him, rubbing his arm. “You defeat the Dark Lord and now you think violence is the answer to everything?”

“Just wanted to make sure you’re you,” Harry said with a shrug. “I’m pretty sure you said something about me being useless in potions and how you pitied anyone who thought they could teach me.” Malfoy’s mouth drew down, and Harry wanted to suck on it.

“I wasn’t wrong,” he huffed sullenly. “I do pity myself. Anyway, I had an idea.”

Harry repressed a smile. “About potions?”

“About…” Malfoy glanced around quickly, lowering his voice. “About tonight.”

“Oh. I thought…” Harry bit his lip. “I thought we could try the other way around tonight. I mean, I could. You know, do what you did. I mean, I want to.”

Malfoy’s face went pink in the time it took for Harry to blink. His hands came up to grip the table, thumbs turning white with the force of his grip. He made a tiny, whimpering sound. “Christ, Potter. Say things like that and I’ll drag you out of class right now.”

Harry pretended to look around. “Slughorn’s not here, yet.”

Malfoy chuckled, face relaxing a bit. “I thought we could meet beforehand.”

“Why?”

Looking at him like he was either mad or very stupid, Malfoy sighed, dropping his voice to a whisper. “To take the edge off. I’ve been wanking before dinner so that tub wasn’t such a misery. But I don’t have to do it alone anymore, do I?”

Flushing, Harry stared down at the desktop. Why hadn’t he thought of that? The last week had been awful; painful almost. To have an erection and not be able to even touch it for so long… “That’s a good idea.”

“You’ll have to skip part of dinner,” Malfoy pointed out. “I know how you like to inhale at least two platefuls of food.”

Amused, Harry grinned. “How do you know that?”

“I.” Malfoy scowled. “Well, I’m willing to bet you know every single thing I like to eat, too,” he finally said haughtily.

Ruefully, Harry glanced at him. Malfoy seemed edgy with the supposition. “No bet. You only take second helpings when they serve the Cornish game hen. You put pickled beets on top of your salads. You like the pumpkin cupcakes. I can eat fast.”

A sneaky smile stole over Malfoy’s features, softening them, making him look younger. Harry was reminded suddenly of Malfoy reaching out a hand to him as an eleven-year-old. “You still have that Cloak?”

Harry snorted. “Of course.”

“The password for the Slytherin dorms is Forgiveness. I’m in the first room on the left in the middle hallway,” he whispered, just as Slughorn swept in.

Blood made a rushing sound in Harry’s ears, but he ignored it to place a tentative hand on top of Malfoy’s wool-covered thigh. Malfoy’s muscles tensed. “People will see,” he muttered, moving away after a moment.

“Oh. Sorry.” Adrenaline fading into disappointment as fast as it had arrived, Harry reminded himself that this was a casual thing and tried not to feel angry about it.

“We wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, would we?” Malfoy added, staring at him with hard, glinting eyes.

“I guess not.” Especially not me.

***

Hermione looked at him with a gentle sort of disgust. “Why are you eating like Ron?”

Harry chewed a bit faster, nearly choking in his effort to swallow. “Need to be somewhere.”

“Oh, do you have a project or something?” Hermione said interestedly. “What’s it about? Do you need any help?”

“Already have some,” Harry informed her, smirking.

Ron gave a garbled groan. “Merlin. It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”

“What?” Harry asked innocently after taking a long, deep gulp from his pumpkin juice. “You guys told me to talk to him.”

“And you sat with him today, too,” Ron pointed out accusingly.

“You two were practically snogging at your desk,” Harry said mildly. He looked over; Malfoy was heading out. Hermione blushed. “Well, then it seems we’re all well-pleased with our choices.” Harry laughed, and she gave a surprisingly girlish giggle. When silence fell, she pinned him with a speculative look. “You’re not actually meeting him for a project, are you?”

“I am.” Harry grinned. “Of a sort.”

She turned to Ron triumphantly and held out her hand. Ron looked sulky, but pulled a Galleon out of his pocket—the same one, Harry was pretty sure, that he had won from her the previous day—and passed it over.

“Will you guys stop betting on my sex life?” Harry grumbled.

“Well, now that you finally have one, we find ourselves interested.” Ron paused, bemused. “We three are probably way too close, you know.”

Harry sighed. “I know. I’ve got to go.”

***

Harry had barely cleared Malfoy’s door when Malfoy yanked the Cloak off of him; he wasn’t exactly sure how Malfoy always seemed to see him when he was invisible, but at least he was no longer bothered by it. And he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be getting a broken nose this time for his efforts, so there was that.

Malfoy tossed the Invisibility Cloak onto the foot of his bed. The room was small, but rather luxurious in spite of its size. A fireplace crackled merrily in the corner; dark shadows moved through the green lake beyond the window that took up nearly a whole wall. The bed was piled with pillows. Its duvet was crisp and fluffy, a deep, satiny green embroidered with silver threading. The furnishings made up for the deep chill in the stone, which Harry could feel underneath the warmth from the fire.

He’d barely managed to catalogue the room when Malfoy shoved him up against the thick, wooden door and buried his face in the curve of Harry’s neck, raking blunt teeth over his skin. Harry gasped, letting his head fall in the other direction to give Malfoy better access.

“You’re late,” Malfoy growled against his throat, then began peppering it with small, sucking kisses.

“I left five minutes after you!” Harry objected breathlessly. His hand came up to cradle the back of Malfoy’s head, hair silky under his palm.

“We have less than an hour, now.” Malfoy lifted his head up and shifted his body, pressing Harry flush against the door and moving against him.

“We can probably do a lot in an hour, don’t you think?”

He could feel the hardness of Malfoy’s erection—tantalizing, thrilling, dirty—pressing against his hip. He put his hands on Malfoy’s waist to direct him and stood up higher on the balls of his feet, lining up their cocks. Malfoy stilled for a moment and then made a needy sound. He began rubbing against Harry in a slow, rolling sort of way that made Harry’s eyes fall shut. The friction was perfect, the wool of Malfoy’s trousers pressing against the Harry’s own; the press of their pricks together, tight, causing tingles of sensation to shoot through every one of Harry’s nerve endings.

Harry could feel Malfoy’s breath coming in ragged little puffs against his lips. His face was so close that it seemed only natural to kiss him, so Harry did, bringing his head closer and pressing his mouth against Malfoy’s without opening his eyes. Malfoy’s hands tightened against Harry’s ribcage—no doubt he’d have bruises there tomorrow—but he kissed Harry back, intense and focused, lips yielding, tongue tasting of pumpkin frosting. He released Harry’s ribs to reach down, pulling back enough to begin fumbling with Harry’s flies, and Harry copied him, reaching for Malfoy as though he’d done it a thousand times before, not letting him think of how this was the first time he’d get to touch him—or anyone.

Malfoy let go of a shuddering breath as Harry pulled his zipper down and reached inside his trousers; with surprise, Harry realised he wasn’t wearing any pants. Harry curled a tentative hand around Malfoy’s erection. His own cock throbbed in Malfoy’s halting grasp when he looked down and got the visual. Malfoy’s cock was rather normal; he’d seen it several times over the last week, so he knew that. It felt like a regular cock in his hand, even like his own, but for some minute differences in length and width. But to touch it, to see himself doing so. To hear Malfoy groan; to feel the press of his forehead against Harry’s shoulder as his head fell forward when Harry squeezed it lightly. Harry almost came on the spot.

Malfoy began slowly working his hand up and down Harry’s shaft, twisting in a slow stroke over the foreskin. His thumb traced the blunt crown, swiping over the slit. Harry panted hard, gripping Malfoy’s cock tightly and giving a lengthy pull downwards.

“I want to suck you,” Harry whispered, the words falling out of his mouth before he’d even fully realized that that was, exactly, why he’d come tonight. Malfoy inhaled, swift and sharp, and his hand paused. “Get undressed.”

Moving so fast that he’d probably be embarrassed about it later, and take it out on Harry, Malfoy did. He had been barefoot when Harry had arrived, so Harry worked on his own clothes as Malfoy shed his jumper, his tie and shirt, and his trousers in record time. Harry smiled approvingly, looking at Malfoy’s lanky body in the firelight. He removed the rest of his clothes, and said, “Get on the bed.”

Malfoy scurried to obey him, looking just slightly nervous; at his tone, at the idea of Harry’s mouth on his cock, Harry couldn’t be sure. But he lifted himself up onto the high mattress and scooted backwards until he was resting against the mountain of pillows, legs slightly splayed. Harry removed his glasses carefully, setting them on the small bedside table, and climbed up after him.

He situated himself on his belly between Malfoy’s thighs; the satin duvet pressed against his prick and he allowed himself to rut against its smoothness for a minute, staring at Malfoy’s cock. It rose out from its nest of thick, loosely coiled curls, leaning slightly to the left with its weight. The tip was flushed a rosy pink again, foreskin retracted slightly. Harry sucked in a deep, fortifying breath, and dove in.

He pressed a sucking kiss against the tip of it, flicking out his tongue to taste the fluid there. It was tangy and salty, and not at all unpleasant. He opened his mouth slowly, sucking just the crown in the way Malfoy had done last night, and flattened his tongue against the bottom of it, swishing it from side to side. Malfoy weakly grasped the back of Harry’s head, fingers splayed wide, and Harry opened his mouth to suck him deeper, pulling the length of his cock as far in as he could. When the tip of it brushed against the back of Harry’s throat, he gagged a little and pulled back, but Malfoy was making little, high grunting sounds above him and pressing his hips up, so Harry did it again, trying to relax his throat, which seemed to help.

Experimenting, he bobbed his head lightly, swirling his tongue around the strange feel of something so large in his mouth. Harry wrapped one of his hands around the root of Malfoy’s erection, holding it in place tightly, letting his other hand wander over Malfoy’s thighs, skimming nervous touches over the skin on his balls. Was he allowed to touch them? Screw it, he wanted to. He cupped them gently with one hand, the way he liked doing when he wanked, and gave them a loose roll. Malfoy gasped, arching up. His voice was blurry and strained as he grit out, “Potter, I’m going to—!”

Harry moved his head faster, wanting to taste him, wanting to get all of it. It seemed impossible, but Malfoy’s cock seemed to grow even more, hardening further, the skin so soft against his tongue, which he used to push back Malfoy’s foreskin even more, and focused his licks and sucks to the sensitive head. After a moment, Malfoy’s breath stuttered hard; he flexed upward once, twice, and then he was spilling into Harry’s mouth with force, flooding it with a strange new taste that had Harry pressing his cock into the mattress again. He swallowed as much as he could, letting the rest dribble down his chin.

When Malfoy seemed empty, Harry slowly pulled away to glance up at him. Even after the previous night, he had seemed more or less composed. Harry had thought that was his default look; perfect, elegant Malfoy, never mussed. But now, his perfect hair was sticking up at strange angles and sticking to his forehead with sweat; his face looked utterly wrecked; his skin was blotchy with pink from his chest up to his scalp.

“You bloody reckless Gryffindors,” Malfoy muttered hoarsely.

“Complaining?”

“Grateful.” With effort, Malfoy lifted his head. “Come up here. Get on your stomach.”

“Um.” Harry climbed up the bed and laid next to him, on his side. “We probably don’t have time to try that. Not that I don’t want to, and soon,” he rushed to add, quivering at the thought.

Malfoy snickered. “Just roll over.”

Harry did. He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under his chest, curling his arm over it, and rested his head against his forearms, feeling nervous. Unsure of what to expect, he flinched a little when Malfoy began stroking the skin on his back, fingers digging deep into the muscle near his waist, then moving lower to palm at Harry’s arse. Harry made a distressed sound at how good it felt, even when Malfoy gripped each cheek to spread them slightly. He closed his eyes, embarrassed.

“Look at you,” Malfoy breathed in a strange, reverent tone. “Up you get.”

He let go of Harry’s buttocks to tug at his hips, and Harry awkwardly scooted his backside upward, leveraging himself on his knees, still clutching at the pillow beneath him. Then Malfoy’s long fingers were spreading him again, with one hand, and he heard Malfoy murmur something just before the sharp, distinctive sensation of Scourgify blasted against him, all along the crevice of his arse and even—Merlin—dipping inside.

“Hey!”

“I’ve got you, Potter,” Malfoy mumbled, voice thick.

Then Harry felt something that could not—Could. Not.—be right: Malfoy’s light, shallow breath against his hole. Harry froze. “Um, Malfoy?”

“Shhh,” Malfoy whispered, and Harry could feel that too.

Then there was something wet and firm, licking around him there, and Harry bucked in appalled arousal, but one of Malfoy’s hands came up to grip his hip tightly in place, before Harry could cogently decide whether to squirm away or toward the sensation. It was so soft, so gentle. Oh, Christ, it felt good. Harry moaned, burying his face in the pillow, and pressed, just slightly into it.

Malfoy’s tongue circled his entrance, pressing flicking little licks against it, his pointy nose rubbing above it at the sensitive flesh of his crease. He lapped at him like a kitten, tongue firm and insistent, and Harry gasped. Without thinking, he tugged one arm loose from the pillow under him and reached around to his other cheek to hold it open, to help. Malfoy made a laughing sort of sound, tongue doing funny things against Harry, and Harry gasped, “More.”

Obligingly, Malfoy’s lips sealed around his hole and he started sucking, scraping his teeth gently. His tongue firmed up into a point, and prodded Harry’s rim until it loosened, then pushed inside. Harry’s body shook; his cock pulsed in warning as Malfoy stabbed into him over and over, that tiny point of contact wrenching a cry from him. He pushed back harder and reached underneath himself to grab hold of his cock, jerking at it frantically until he came all over Malfoy’s pristine duvet, shocks of pleasure snaking up his spine, his cry of “Draco!” muffled by the pillow. Malfoy kept licking him through it, gentling the suction, reaching around to put a hand over Harry’s shaking one, still clenching his slowly softening cock.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet, slurping sound and Harry sagged forward, too boneless and replete to pay much heed to the fact that Malfoy had just fucked his arse with his tongue.

When he had enough strength to lift his head several years later, he looked over his shoulder to see Malfoy sitting back on his heels, looking pleased with himself. His hair was still disordered—Harry rather liked it that way—and though his blush had lessened, his skin still held a faint, pink hue. He reached up and gave a surprisingly affectionate pat to Harry’s right arse cheek.

“Come on,” he muttered more gruffly than Harry would have thought him able. A smile flickered around the edges of his mouth; his lips were swollen and pink. “We’re going to be late for our last bath.”

***

“So,” Harry said when they were settled once again in their tub, “Where did you learn that? That thing you did?”

Malfoy looked sly. “Why, did you like it?”

“It was okay,” Harry said, striving for an off-hand tone as his cheeks heated. “Could’ve been worse.”

Malfoy laughed. The sound echoed off the tiles in their small room. “You’re such a knob, Potter.”

“Well, you seem to like my knob.” Harry grinned, unrepentant when Malfoy groaned at the joke. “I liked it, okay? Merlin. It just never occurred to me. Have you done that to a lot of other blokes?”

Suddenly defensive, Malfoy’s shoulders rounded. He looked away. “Well, how many times have you given a blow job, before?”

“None,” Harry answered flatly. “But it couldn’t have been that bad. You came.”

Malfoy looked at him again, grey eyes wide with shock. “None?” he echoed, aghast. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve never done anything, really. I kissed someone over the summer, after Ginny and I broke up. To see. You know, to make sure.”

“And were you?” Malfoy asked faintly.

Harry smiled. “Not as sure as I was when I had to share that first bath with you,” he admitted, then paused. Malfoy looked like he wanted to get out of the water and run. “Is this a problem?”

“I just—I just don’t know… Why you would let me, of all people—” he choked out. “Be your—be your…”

“First,” Harry supplied, relaxing. He looked curiously at Malfoy. “Well, you’re fit. You make me laugh when you’re not being a gigantic tool. We have, you know, stuff in common, if you think about it.”

Malfoy’s laugh was high-pitched this time. “Yes, I have so much in common with the Savior that they may as well pitch him into Azkaban with me at the end of year.”

Disturbed, Harry shook his head. “You were cleared of all charges.”

Malfoy sighed. His hands knotted in the water. “My mother warned me… She said they’re still looking for a reason. She didn’t do much, you know. She helped you. So it makes sense that she’s out. But my father and I…”

“Malfoy, you were sixteen when you took the Mark, and he was threatening your parents,” Harry said softly, voice shaking. It was harder than he would have thought, talking to him about this, exonerating him of such terrible things even though he’d testified at Malfoy’s trial. But for Malfoy to think that he was going to be shipped back to prison was unacceptable. “You did a lot of things wrong, but… I mean, you’re sorry for them, right? And I would never let them do that to you.”

“I said I didn’t want your fucking charity, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, eyes turning as hard and flinty as river stones.

“It’s not charity when you care,” Harry said softly. “I care what happens to you. And your mum. I think it’d kill her if you were sent back.”

Sighing deeply, looking sadder than Harry could ever remember him, Malfoy shook his head. “Could we not talk about this now?”

“Yeah, okay. Or ever, really. Best leave it all alone entirely, right? I’m not too chuffed to relive it, either.” Harry settled back against the tub again; he hadn’t even realized he’d started to lean forward. Malfoy’s eyebrows drew together oddly; he looked away. “You never told me about your, er, history.”

Malfoy’s lips quirked to one side guiltily. “I fooled around with Blaise a bit in sixth year.”

Intrigued, Harry ran over the statement in his mind. “How much is a bit?”

“Really? Must you?”

“I think Hermione would hex me to smithereens if we didn’t have the safe sex and previous partners talk,” Harry said with a shiver.  As soon as he’d told her he was gay, she’d sat him down for over an hour to discuss it with him, much to his horror. It was only her face when he’d pointed out how hypocritical it was that she hadn’t bothered to do that about Ginny, that had ended the lecture and made the whole thing worth it. He applied pressure to the side of Malfoy’s stomach with his toes. “Plus, I want to know.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You’re perfectly aware we don’t need Muggle prophylactics, aren’t you?”

“Hermione told me. She taught me some spells.”

“Of course she did,” Malfoy muttered under his breath. “Fine. Hand jobs, mainly. Some snogging. A few blowjobs between us.”

Stunned, Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat, and then again. “But then—how did you—where did you learn…?”

“I read, Potter,” Malfoy snipped, exasperated. “You should try it. Once you learn how.”

Harry ignored him. “So you’ve never…”

“Just because I want to get a leg over someone doesn’t mean I’ve done it. My opportunities are… different than yours. Is that a problem?” Malfoy asked back archly.

“No.”  In fact, it caused a little thrill to run through Harry, loathe though he was to admit it. Malfoy had never been with anyone, either. It made the whole thing slightly less intimidating, and made it feel a bit more, well, special. He was a bit confused at the idea that Malfoy wouldn’t be able to pull anyone he wanted—look at him—but decided not to press. “You seem to have a firm grasp on, er, what to do.”

“I do, at that,” Malfoy murmured. His slid down further into the tub, almost to his nipples. Harry readjusted his legs, draped over Malfoy’s, resting his feet on either side of Malfoy’s torso as Malfoy bent his knees, scooting down until their arses were almost touching. Harry looked down at the two of them in the water, blurred by the gentle rippling their movements had made, and swallowed hard.

“I wish I could touch you right now.”

“Mmm. Ten minutes or so,” Malfoy said with a lazy smile. “It’s better, isn’t it? Wanking first.”

Harry nodded. It was. While it was still frustrating, being hard for so long without any kind of relief, it was more of a sweet ache now, that he could count on being satisfied soon. Searching for a topic that wouldn’t make him more uncomfortable than he was, watching their pricks bob in the water, both hard and ready, Harry blurted, “What are you planning on doing? You know, after.”

Malfoy’s mouth turned down in a moue of disapproval. “Is there an end date to this, Potter? Is that one of your oh-so-important matters we should have discussed? Because I hear Anthony Goldstein is looking. He’s not too bad looking. A little stodgy.”

Vaguely hurt, Harry glowered at him. Malfoy glowered right back.

“I didn’t mean that. I meant after school,” Harry said in a hard voice. “But if you’re already sick of this, we can—”

“I meant for you. Goldstein for you,” Malfoy explained, looking inexplicably comforted by Harry’s anger. “If you were interested.”

“Well, I’m not,” Harry said irritably. “Do you have an end date in mind?”

Malfoy gestured languidly with a wet hand, splattering the floor with droplets of water. “At the beginning of winter hols? At the end of the year? Who knows?”

Harry faltered. This sounded less-than-casual, not that he had much experience with it. “You just don’t care?”

“Oh, really, Potter. When we’re done with each other, we’ll be done with each other. Isn’t that enough?”

“I guess.” Harry sighed. “Could you call me Harry while we’re not ‘done with each other’ though?”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, consideringly. “Why should I? We’ve never done. You don’t call me Draco.”

“I did once,” Harry pointed out, blushing.

“Fine, Harry.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “It sounds weird.”

“As I said.”

“Maybe we just need to practice it,” Harry suggested. “Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco.”

“It stops even sounding like a name when you do that,” Draco complained.

“To be fair, it never really sounded like one,” Harry replied.

Draco smirked. “And Harry is so much better? It’s base.”

“It’s normal,” Harry defended.

“Common,” Draco corrected superciliously.

“I am a man of the people,” Harry said grandly, spreading his arms as wide as he could in the tub. Draco laughed.

“To hear everyone tell it.” He inclined his head, eyes darkly amused. “But we know better, don’t we, Potter?”

“Harry.”

“Harry,” Draco granted, like it was a gift. Maybe it was. It felt like one.

The timer chimed. Their eyes locked, all amusement fading. Draco slowly unwrapped Harry’s legs from over his own and shoved up, climbing out of the water gracelessly. He held out a hand to Harry, who took it, and hauled him out.

By unspoken agreement, they moved together to Draco’s side of the room again.

“You know,” Draco said thoughtfully. “I’m rather glad I didn’t point out to Pomfrey the lack of privacy screens in here.”

Harry felt like he should be outraged, but it wouldn’t come. Instead, anticipation coiled like a snake in his gut as Draco opened the cream and slathered it all over his palm. Harry opened his palm as well. Draco shook his head. “No. Put your hands flat against the wall.”

Harry hesitated. “Pomfrey.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Harry sighed and put his hands flat against the wall.

Two fingers parted his arse. Harry held his breath as they coasted over the crevice, slicking it up with the lotion. Draco positioned himself behind him, and Harry could feel the length of Draco’s shaft, slippery with cream, lining up between his cheeks. Getting the idea, he waited until Draco’s cock was in place, and tightened his buttocks around it.

Draco breathed heavily against the back of his neck, his free hand coming around Harry’s hip to grip his erection firmly. Then Draco began to move. His hand, his rolling hips. Every half thrust brought his cock into brief, direct contact with Harry’s hole, sliding against it, making him tremble with need. Draco’s hand moved over his cock with educated ease, as though he’d been doing this to Harry for years and knew exactly what he liked. His other hand came down to rub lotion into the patch on his thigh, circling it slowly and rubbing deep. Harry wondered how even a touch on his thigh could feel sexy under Draco’s hands. Harry groaned lightly, pushing his hips back. Maybe the cream could be used internally, too.

As if he could hear Harry’s thoughts, Draco made a slight whimpering noise. He began to pump his hips faster; the slip and slide of him between Harry’s arse felt so good he wanted to cry from it. Instead, he bucked into Draco’s hand, which had gone a bit lax, to urge him on. Draco started moving his hand again, pulling at Harry’s foreskin gently and then jerking his fist down tightly, slipping his fingers over Harry’s leaking slit.

His thumb rubbed the moisture into Harry’s exposed head, and then Draco’s teeth were sinking solidly into the meat of his shoulder; his hips rutted erratically, and Harry could feel the spurt of warm fluid fill his crevice, spilling upward toward his lower back, and then dripping down, coating his skin in sticky warmth. Arching his body, thrusting in time with Malfoy’s hand, Harry came too, just as the timer went off, his head bouncing onto the tile wall in a hard way he was sure he would regret later.

But for now, splattering the wall with his spunk, coating Draco’s fist in it, felt like just the right thing; it felt like something he’d been waiting to do his whole life.

When Draco pulled away, slowly, like it caused him physical pain to do so, Harry leaned against the wall for a moment before turning around. Draco was smiling widely at him, delighted and open, satisfied with no hint of smug, beautiful in his sharpness, exhausted but looking like he’d just caught the Snitch, and it was then that Harry knew.

He was utterly and comprehensively fucked.

***

In the weeks that followed, it got more difficult to meet in private. Not impossible, due to Harry’s Cloak and map, but with schoolwork piling up as the term flew by, they spent as much of their time studying as they did exploring each other’s bodies.

Draco was surprisingly serious about his studies, claiming that Hermione was only number one in their class because he hadn’t devoted the proper time to homework, but Harry could usually distract him easily enough, hidden deep in the stacks of the library. He started categorizing the things that worked best.

An absent hand stroking his thigh (and Harry had to believably feign thoughtlessness about it, or Draco would huff and move away) was the best bet. After that, it was laying his head in Draco’s lap, followed by combing his fingers through all of that fine, pale hair. When he was really bored, Harry would just lean over and surprise Malfoy into a snog that he couldn’t pull away from, that ended up going for several minutes and usually resulted in one or more pieces of clothing being removed.

And yet.

For someone so intent on talking about penetrative sex (and really, Draco could make some serious money writing one of those erotic novels Harry had filched from the tub room on their last night in here, he was so creatively filthy), he was surprisingly reticent to take that final step. He never made a real excuse, instead choosing to divert Harry with a blowjob or a finger up the bum or a question or a not-wholly-insulting statement about Ron.  Harry felt like he was going out of his mind.

There was another thing that bothered him: Draco still insisted on sneaking around. He was fine with going about in public as friends—in fact, he seemed pleased whenever Harry sat with him at lunch or in study hall or at potions (he practically glowed when McGonagall caught them passing notes during Advanced Transfigurations and took them to task about it). Only he didn’t want to admit to anyone else that there was something more between them. But there was.

There were long, wet, dizzying kisses, and all sorts of sex (of the non-penetrative variety, of course), and falling asleep in Draco’s arms after sneaking into his dorm. There was the sort of laughter and teasing that Harry had only ever known to associate with Ron and Hermione before; the sort that made his heart shine warmly as though someone had cast it with Lumos. In the dark, silent hours of the night, those other things they had in common would arise through nightmares, and Harry was comforted that they never had to talk about it. Draco asked a few times about his dreams, but stopped pressing when Harry didn’t answer, and he never offered his own. Then they would hold each other until they were able to get back to sleep. And sometimes, Draco would look down at Harry with eyes so bright and filled with wonder, it seemed as if they were filled with whole galaxies of stars.

When winter break came and went with no comment on ending their arrangement, Harry began to panic. Draco never intimated he wanted anything more; if anything, he talked about other blokes with an annoying frequency that put Harry’s teeth on edge. Harry found himself babbling to Ron and Hermione about it so often that they began placing bets again (if they had ever stopped) on the outcome of his relationship. But it was Luna who finally convinced him to do something about it.

Harry sat alone in the library, working on his essay for Charms when he heard her dreamy voice at his shoulder. “Hello, Harry.”

Startled, he looked up. Luna always had a way of making her presence seem like an accident, as though her location was pure happenstance. Even when he knew to expect her, he found himself constantly surprised when she was there. Still, he smiled. He gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Hey, Luna.”

She sat, her brow furrowing in a vague way. “Draco’s not studying with you?”

“No, he’s got a private lesson with Slughorn right now.” He looked at her curiously. “Were you looking for him?”

“No,” she said placidly. She reached into her bag and pulled out what looked to be a mango, passing it back and forth between her hands. “It’s just rare to see you two apart since you began dating.”

“What!” Madam Pince’s angry ‘shhh!’ made Harry flush, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “What? We’re not dating. Why would you say that?”

Luna tilted her head, her pale-yellow hair glinting warmly in the shaft of sunlight she was caught in. “Because I assumed you knew you were, of course.”

“But, I mean, why would you think that we are?” Harry spluttered.

“Oh.” Luna brightened. “I heard from Astoria Greengrass—you know, she’s in Slytherin, but very kind for all of that; I really don’t think most of them are as bad as we’ve made out—who heard it from Anthony Goldstein—he has quite a crush on you, Harry—who heard from Kevin Whitby—who got quite jealous that Anthony turned him down for a date because he was going to ask you out—that he saw you two snogging over in in the Obsolete Texts section just before winter hols. Ever since then, people have been wandering by, trying to get a peek. I think a few of the fourth years saw something they probably shouldn’t have, because they couldn’t even get it out through all of their giggling. Besides which, Moaning Myrtle will tell anyone who wanders in to the third-floor bathroom on a Tuesday afternoon that they need to leave, because you two have a standing appointment. She’s very discreet about what you use the time for, though.”

Harry felt faint from the sheer amount of horrifying information he was expected to process from that. Several of her words stood out starkly to him: saw, snogging, peek, giggling, Myrtle (fucking Myrtle, it wasn’t even her bathroom!), discreet. His vision dimmed for a second before the world clicked back into place. He opened his mouth wordlessly.

“Of course, that’s not how I knew you were dating,” Luna added, almost kindly. “You’re always finding little ways to touch each other and you spend a lot of time together, so there’s that. Plus, Draco has that same soft look on his face when he talks to you that Hermione and Ron used to have when they were still pretending they didn’t love each other.”

“I see,” Harry said hoarsely. “And do I have that same look?”

“Of course not, Harry,” she informed him. “You’ve already admitted to yourself how much you like him.”

“Er.”

“Quite,” she said happily. She pressed the mango to her cheek and rubbed it there for a moment. Harry took off his glasses and pressed his fingers to his eyes; talking to Luna occasionally induced mental exhaustion, but this was the first time he’d ever gotten a headache from it.

“It was meant to be a secret.”

“Hmm. Your feelings? Or your relationship?”

“All of it, I guess,” Harry said dully. “He’s not interested in more from me.”

“Oh, that’s obviously not true,” Luna said, reaching out her free hand to pat his. “I’d wager that he just doesn’t know how you feel yet.”

Harry wondered how that was even possible. He practically begged to sleep with him; he’d inserted himself so wholly in Draco’s life that he was nearly reaching sixth-year levels of stalking. He kissed Malfoy until neither of them could breathe, laughed at his sly little jokes, and held him when he woke up shaking, assuring Draco that he didn’t have to talk about it.

But he’d never actually said it. Nor had he pushed the status quo, too afraid of losing what he didn’t think he could ever really have.

Harry sighed. “Luna, would you like to come to Hogsmeade with us tomorrow?”

If possible, her face got even brighter. “Oh, that’d be lovely! You haven’t invited me out yet, this year. Although I do get to see quite a bit of Hermione.”

Feeling suddenly awkward, Harry shook his head. He put his glasses back on. “I guess I just never think of you as someone who’d need an invitation to hang out with me; you’re always welcome.”

Luna smiled, pleased. “That’s even nicer. Yes, I’d love to. You’d probably best talk to Draco about it soon, though; no doubt you’ll need some time to convince him.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He wondered how someone who seemed so vague always seemed to know so much. But then, well, it was Luna.

He gathered up his things and stood to go, then hesitated. “Um, Luna?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you rubbing that mango?”

She looked down at it fondly. “Oh. Because it makes her feel nice, of course.”

Harry grinned. “Of course.”

***

“I want you to come to Hogsmeade with me,” Harry said.

He’d waited until Draco was sweaty and replete before asking, in hopes that it would garner a better reaction. It didn’t.

Draco snorted. “Yes, and let’s visit my father at Azkaban together over the summer.”

“I will if you will,” Harry said stubbornly. Draco lifted his head.

“Are you actually serious about this, Potter?”

Harry grimaced; Draco’s persistent use of his last name when he was irritated was a bit of a sticking point. He glared at Malfoy pointedly.

Draco huffed. “Why on earth would you want us to go to Hogsmeade, Harry?”

“To get out of the castle?” Harry suggested. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you hardly ever do. We could, you know, meet up with Ron and Hermione and Luna.”

“As a group?” He actually seemed to consider it. “Can I make fun of them?”

Harry swallowed. “As a date. And yes, as long as you’re not a total wanker. No Mudblood shit. Or talking about Ron’s family’s money.”

“I never do anymore,” Draco said, looking put-out that Harry hadn’t realised it. (He had, actually, but it was better to play safe.) “It’s tempting, but… Wait, date?”

“Well, yeah.” Harry made a weak gesture between them. “We haven’t, you know, called it quits yet. And I don’t know—I mean, I guess I haven’t made it clear yet that… Well, I wouldn’t be upset if we didn’t right away.”

Draco stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t rescue me, Harry.”

Annoyed, Harry looked away. How could he so extravagantly miss the point? “I’m not trying to.” But I would, if necessary.

“Then why…?”

Uncomfortably, Harry shrugged. He wasn’t even that good at figuring out the whys of his feelings, let alone explaining them to someone else. “Look, we’re basically a… a thing already. Let’s just go to Hogsmeade tomorrow and, and, try it out in public.”

“Okay,” Draco said abruptly. Hope flickered through Harry.

“Okay?”

“No, I mean, okay, I think we should have sex now,” Draco said on a rush. “We don’t have to go into town.”

“Um.” Ignoring the blood rushing to his groin in what was probably the fastest and most painful erection of his life, Harry shook his head rapidly to clear it. “Can’t we do both?”

“You’re just trying to prove something to yourself about me,” Draco murmured, sliding an insidious hand up Harry’s thigh. “You don’t have to do it publicly.”

Harry’s shocked laugh turned into an indignant splutter. He grabbed Draco’s hand, halting its exploration. “I don’t have to prove anything to myself about you,” he said in a hard tone. “I already know what I know about you. I want you to come to Hogsmeade with us.”

Draco scowled, looking too much like the Malfoy Harry had known in fifth year for comfort. “I don’t like going into Hogsmeade.  I've only been once this year.”

“I know.”

“I mean, I don’t…” Draco sucked in a breath. “I don’t think I’d be allowed into half the places there.”

Ah. “Well, I’m allowed pretty much everywhere, and you’ll be my date.”

“That’s you trying to save me,” Draco pointed out, sounding depressed.

“No, that’s me wanting to go on a date with you.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Come on, three of my mates will be there; it’s not even a proper date. But I want you to come with me. Please.”

“This will be a disaster,” Draco warned sulkily.

Harry beamed. “Great! I mean, of course it won’t be. We’ll have fun. Now, about that sex thing…”

Draco gave him a tired glare. “After tomorrow. If you still want,” he said. He gave Harry a shove on the shoulder. “Go away now. I want to sleep tonight, and I never do when you’re here.”

“Liar.” Harry gave him an affectionate kiss which Draco returned, after a moment. “But I’ll leave. Tomorrow at noon?”

“Fine.” Harry threw his Invisibility Cloak over his head, whistling, leaving Draco alone to his pout.

***

Harry slipped into his and Ron’s shared room and shut the door quietly behind him, whipping off his Cloak. He looked at his own bed, exhausted, and then at Ron’s closed bed-hangings, wondering if it was worth it to wake him up and tell him that he’d made plans for all of them without asking. Deciding that Draco was already too weird about the whole thing without having half of the invitees not show up, he walked over and snapped Ron’s curtains open.

“Gah!”

Harry turned too quickly, banging his nose into one of the bedposts as Hermione climbed off of Ron in one frantic jumping motion, rolling to the side and covering herself up with the sheet, leaving Ron entirely naked and, from the looks of it, quite frustrated, to boot.

“Harry!” Hermione gasped. “What are you doing here?”

Harry goggled at her. “What are you doing here! You have your own room this year!”

Ron was futilely trying to grab a bit of the blanket to cover himself up with. When Hermione refused to yield any portion of it, he leaned over and grabbed a towel off the floor, draping it over his lap before he looked at Harry with a plaintive expression.

“Well, really, Harry,” Hermione said, much too primly than the situation called for, if you asked him. “You know very well that the stairs to the girl’s tower don’t allow boys to come in. It was this, or nothing.”

“Nothing!” Harry shouted, traumatized. “Always nothing!”

Ron laughed. “Like you and Malfoy?”

“We don’t… flaunt… our sex life.” Well, not on purpose. “It’s like seeing my brother and sister have sex.”

Hermione cringed, glancing at Ron with pink cheeks. “Yes, I suppose that would make it worse…”

“Not a single regret,” Ron said smugly. “Except for your timing. I thought you’d be in Malfoy’s room all night again.”

Harry decided not to Obliviate himself, but it was a near thing. He took a deep breath. He’d needed to talk to them both, and Hermione was here, so that was good, right? Rubbing his hurt nose, he backed over to his own bed and perched on it, staring at anything in the room that wasn’t Hermione, wrapped in that thin sheet. Christ, this was weird.

“Um, yeah. I invited him out to Hogsmeade with all of us tomorrow, and he said he’ll go, so I need you guys to be there.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance. “Did we have one for the first date?”

“No, but the other pool might,” Hermione said, thinking.

“WHAT other pool?” Harry demanded. Hermione sniffed.

“I told you about that, Harry. Remember?”

“Not even a little,” Harry grumbled.

“Well, I did,” she insisted. “Right after potions last week? You couldn’t stay to talk about it because you had somewhere to be.”

Harry scrunched his face ruefully. He did, in fact, recall Hermione telling him something about making bets while he was on his way to the third floor bathroom. Harry had bent Draco over one of the benches near the toilets and licked his arsehole until Draco had come without even touching his cock, he remembered fondly.

“Right. Sorry. I was distracted.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “I guess.”

“So we’re not even a little bit of a secret anymore?” Harry asked warily.

“Nope.” Ron grinned cheerfully. He waved a hand at his lap. “Now, could you go back to Malfoy’s for a while?”

Harry stared at him, appalled. “No! This is my bloody room!”

“It’s fine, Harry,” Hermione said calmly. “I’ll head off to my room for the night.”

Ron gave Harry a frustrated glare. Harry shrugged.

“Come on,” Ron wheedled. “You love us, right?”

Harry did. He loved them with every fiber of his being, not that he was likely to admit such a thing when Hermione was visibly naked under that thin sheet.

“You’ll come to Hogsmeade tomorrow?” he asked, instead. Ron sighed as Hermione fitted the sheet around her tighter and walked off to the attached bathroom.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” he agreed glumly.

***

Harry showed up to Draco’s room three hours early, to forestall any last-minute changes of Draco's mind. As it happened, Draco was still asleep. Harry looked down at him; Draco had a habit of kicking off the covers in the middle of the night, and of course he hadn’t bothered to get dressed before falling asleep, so he was beautifully naked, his cock soft, firelight dancing over the smooth arches and dips of his body, dappling it with moving shadows.

Less fortunately, Draco also happened to sleep—when he was able—with wild abandon, so his legs were spread, oddly akimbo, one forearm was thrown over his eyes, and his mouth was open as he snored loudly.

Harry chuckled. He removed his own clothes and climbed up onto the mattress, feathering light touches up Draco’s thighs, sliding his fingers through his nest of pubic hair, gently tweaking his tight little nipples.

Draco woke up in stages. First, he made a soft, appreciative noise. Then his hand found his cock, drawn there by instinct. Finally, his eyes fluttered open, grey and slumberous with desire and the fading remnants of sleep. He looked up at Harry, giving him a warm, lazy smile.

“You may as well do something about it,” he mumbled, then yawned.

Harry pressed a soft kiss against Draco’s mouth, then worked his way back downwards, pausing to suckle at his neck gently, stringing wet little kisses like a necklace around it. Draco’s hand found his hair, almost cradling it, and Harry moved lower. He took sweet little nips out of Draco’s chest, the muscles on his belly, kissing and licking the spots his teeth had marked to soothe them as he slid down, until he had reached Draco’s cock.

He studied it for a moment; it leaned up and to the left, the foreskin partially retracted, liquid just barely beginning to seep from the tip. Harry leaned down and licked it off, then again, swiping his tongue over the slit for long minutes until Draco was writhing above him and arching up from the mattress, begging for Harry to do more. Harry moved away from the crown, mouthing at the side of the shaft, sliding his head sideways as he licked and sucked one portion of skin and then another, one hand coming up to grip the base pull downwards in tiny movements.

He flicked a glance at Draco, whose hand had come up to grasp at the headboard tightly; Draco was looking down at him, pupils blown wide with lust and need. Harry pulled away, going lower, to lick at Draco’s balls, soft and tight all at once. He widened his mouth and pulled one inside with a slow suck, moving his tongue in light circles around the skin, keeping the pressure soft and yielding as he began to move his hand faster, tighter, over Draco’s cock.

“Harry,” Draco said, voice hoarse. “Harry, stop.”

Harry looked up in surprise. “Did that hurt?”

“No… I want…” Draco said, voice constricted, hips still moving. “I want to fuck you. Let me. Let me fuck you.”

Harry groaned. “God. Yes.”

He climbed back up the length of Draco’s body and pulled him into a deep kiss, graceless and sloppy, all lips and teeth and searching tongues. Draco wrapped tight arms around Harry, pulling him up flush against his body, and rolled them so that he was on top, slotted between Harry’s thighs. He angled his body slightly until their cocks were lined up and rubbed himself against Harry roughly. Harry made a muffled sound into Draco’s mouth, hands reaching for his hips as he arched up into the sensation of Draco’s prick against his own.

Draco wrenched his mouth away, slowing the movements of his body. “I have… I have a spell that I read is good for the first time,” he whispered raggedly, breath warm on Harry’s face.

“Use it,” Harry growled.

Draco reached over and fumbled for his wand. He pulled away from Harry’s body, sliding the sculpted piece of birch down Harry’s body; he felt it trace over his stomach, drag lightly over his cock, and then Malfoy pulled it away, pointing it and muttering something under his breath. Harry gasped; he felt… strange. He was suddenly slick, almost dripping with moisture.

Draco looked at him uncertainly. “Okay?”

Harry shifted experimentally. “Yeah, it’s okay. Should I get on my—”

“No,” Draco whispered. He kissed Harry again, long and deep. “I want you like this.”

He pressed his hands against Harry’s thighs, and Harry let them fall lax as Draco settled himself in between them. Draco looked down between them for a moment, face pinched in confusion; he settled it by looping one arm under the crook of Harry’s knee, angling his arse up higher so that Harry was splayed wide, open and waiting. Draco took hold of his cock with his free hand, and lined himself up. Harry could feel the blunt head brush against his opening lightly, and then with more pressure.

“Harry,” Draco said softly. “Look at me, okay? Tell me if I…” He bit his lip. Harry hadn’t even realised he’d closed his eyes. He opened them, staring straight up at Draco, who was looking back at him with a fierce, burning expression—want and need and lust and fear all wrapped together as if Draco couldn’t decide which one he felt the most. Harry pushed his free foot against the mattress, arching up against Draco with what little leverage he had, and felt the head of his cock breach him, just a bit.

“Christ,” Draco muttered, eyes not moving away from Harry’s. He seemed almost shocked by his entry of Harry’s body and he rocked his hips forward slowly, pulling back a bit each time before sinking in further. Harry felt his hole stretch with an aching burn. He felt the strangeness of the penetration, writhing and uncomfortable like a fish caught on a hook, but with no fear of the fire. It seemed like his body was made for this, made for Draco’s cock to fill him up and it hurt, god yes, despite Draco’s spell, but it was everything he wanted.

When Draco was seated fully inside of him, he stilled and finally broke their eye contact. He looked down at where they were connected, at where Harry’s erection was flagging, just a little, and made a small, broken sound, nudging his hips back and snapping them forward with mild force.

“Does it… Does it hurt?” he whispered, watching himself go deeper inside Harry.

“Yes,” Harry told him through a gratified moan. “Don’t stop.”

Draco breathed deep, leaning down to catch Harry’s mouth with his, licking into it with a fervent tongue. Harry blinked, rocking his hips up into Draco’s groin as he began slowly driving in and out of him, increasing and then slowing his speed.

“It feels too good. You’re so… It’s so tight,” Draco groaned, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Harry lifted his arms around Draco’s waist, urging him forward, clasping him close. Draco filled him up, touching a sweet spot inside him on every deep stroke that made him yell out, his cock throbbing between them, trapped between their bodies. Then Draco started moving fast, thrusting his hips forward with unending intent and Harry’s embrace became clinging, as though he were holding onto the only steady thing in a storm as Draco rode him hard, making muffled noises into his neck.

“You can, please, I want you to,” Harry panted out.

Draco pounded into him relentlessly, and Harry could feel his own muscles tighten with impending release. Draco’s sweat dripped off his temples onto his glasses, onto his face, his body moving of its own accord, seeking release inside of Harry. Harry looked up into his face again. It was set; jaw clenched, eyes unfocused, pale hair sticking, smeared across his forehead. Harry reached up, touched him, brushing his hair out of his eyes and Draco’s hips ground against him hard, losing all rhythm as he started to come.

Harry could feel his cock pulse, feel the hot swell of fluid rushing deep inside and he nudged his hips up again to take as much as he could, clenching his muscles hard around his cock, holding on for dear life.

At last, Draco stilled. He lifted his head back up with effort, giving Harry an indecipherable look, and then reached down to gently disengage their bodies. Harry felt him pull out, sliding slowly as his arse battled to keep him in place, and then Draco was sliding down, brushing his nose and questing mouth over Harry’s aching cock. Draco licked him, once, and then swallowed him down, pulling hard with skillful suction, sliding down lower to envelop him in the slick heat of his mouth until Harry’s cock brushed the back of his throat. His hand slid down between Harry’s buttocks, long, blunt fingers stroking around his swollen rim lightly while his lips and tongue did sinful things above.

Harry thrust up into it and Draco moved faster, flicking his tongue in quick, firm motions under the head of Harry’s prick. Harry scrambled, clenching his hair, his shoulder, anything he could reach, and then he was coming, spilling hard into the depths of Draco’s mouth, his body arching like a bow as he raced after the sensation flooding him, as though he could keep it.

***

Afterglow, Harry discovered, didn’t last that long with Draco Malfoy when he was doing something he was uncomfortable with.

As much as he had protested getting dressed after sex, he had followed Harry willingly enough out of his room, out of Hogwarts, and down the road to Hogsmeade. However, with every step he took, he got more and more tense, until he looked like he was planning on hexing little children like a criminal; his eyes darkened to slate, he glanced around shiftily, his face as set as stone.

Harry marched through town steadily, holding Draco’s hand tightly if for no other reason than to make sure he didn’t run away. Draco paused outside of the Three Broomsticks, which Harry had deliberately chosen as their first stop to meet up with Ron and Hermione and Luna.

“I-I don’t…”

Harry stopped. He leaned close. “Listen, it’ll be fine. You wrote to Madam Rosmerta, right? And apologised?”

Draco nodded jerkily, complexion grey. “But I haven’t been…”

“We could go to Hog’s Head,” Harry suggested gently. “I could gather everyone up…”

Draco shook his head. “Dumbledore’s brother…”

“Okay. So, come on.” Harry gave a little tug, and Draco followed him in, shoulders slightly hunched.

Ron and Hermione were already waiting, at a wide booth in the corner. Hermione’s eyebrows rose as she studied them. “I honestly don’t think I’ve seen you with anything other than perfect hair, Malfoy. Well, maybe once,” she qualified with a wince, then smiled in a smug, speculative sort of way. “Yours is always messy, Harry, but it looks different now. Been busy?”

“I’m not answering that just so one of you can win a bet,” Harry said smoothly, sliding into the booth and pulling Draco along. Draco blanched; Harry had told them about the bets, but no doubt he’d managed to distance himself from the situation somehow.

After a moment, Draco’s chin came up. “If sex is the reason for awful hair, Granger, then one would assume you’ve been sleeping around since you were eleven.”

Ron’s jaw tightened, but Hermione just laughed. “I was too busy kicking your arse for first place in our year,” she snipped back.

Draco perked up, looking almost delighted by her sass. His finger-crushing grip on Harry’s hand loosened slightly. “Weasley, what’s your excuse?”

Ron took a long draw of his ale. “Genetics. My hair’s fine.”

Draco tut-tutted. “It’s red.”

“A lot of people like red hair,” Ron said mildly. “Harry, for instance, couldn’t get enough of Ginny’s. Always had to touch it.”

There was a heavy pause, then Draco grimaced and turned to him. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to bring that up, because I’m really hoping you’re not aware of how much she resembles your mother.”

Harry choked. He grabbed Ron’s glass from him and took a stalling swallow. “I… uh… No, I wasn’t. Thanks for those nightmares.”

Hermione looked sympathetically amused. “Mostly it’s just the same coloring, I think. But remember that the next time you give Ron and me a hard time if you catch us.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose with interest. He leaned in to Harry, opened his mouth, and abruptly shut it again, going as still as a sighted deer. Harry turned. Madam Rosmerta stood there, looking just as shocked as Draco. Recovering quickly, she took Ron’s empty glass and asked if they were eating, face impassive. Ron ordered another tankard of mulled mead and two plates of chips, ostensibly “for the table,” but that he would probably end up finishing on his own.

She nodded, meeting Draco’s eyes and dipping her chin in a brief acknowledgement. Draco did the same, warily watching her as she walked away.

“She’s going to spit in our drink,” he announced to the table. “Or poison it.”

“Um.” Ron shot an awkward look at Harry, who shrugged. “I really doubt that, Malfoy.”

“I would.”

Exasperated, Harry nudged him with his shoulder. “You would not.”

A silence fell around the table, broken by Luna, who had somehow appeared out of nowhere.

“Hello, Ron, Hermione. Draco,” she said breathlessly, slipping in next to Hermione. “Thank you for inviting me, Harry. I won the betting pool, by the way.”

“What betting pool?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh, the one about your first date,” she admitted guilelessly. “I feel a bit bad about it, actually, since I happened to know when it would be. Still, ten galleons is always welcome. You’re looking well, Draco. It’s so nice to socialize with you outside of the dungeon.”

Even Hermione sounded strained this time. “Outside of the dungeon?”

“Oh, yes,” Luna explained blithely. “Draco would often come down and talk to me about things, whenever they sent him down with food or something, and sometimes when it was particularly cold. He brought me a book or two, and once a pain potion, which was quite welcome.”

Draco was staring at the tabletop. He took a deep breath. “Lovegood,” he said carefully, “I know you’re quite batty, but would you mind if we didn’t discuss this in public? Or at all?”

She didn’t seem at all offended by the insult. “Of course, Draco. It was very upsetting for you; I understand. Let’s talk about nicer things.”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said, heart beating fast.

“Wait a minute,” Draco said suddenly. “What betting pool about our first date?”

Harry shifted, abashed. “Er, well, it seems more people might know about us than Ron and Hermione… And Luna.”

“Oh, loads more,” Luna assured Draco, who stared at her blankly.

“It seems we may have been… stumbled across in the library,” Harry said, cringing at the look on Draco’s face. “Once or twice.”

“You forgot the fourth years, Harry,” Luna reminded him. “And Moaning Myrtle.”

Draco looked aghast, and like he very much wanted to hex Harry. Harry took a precautionary measure in leaning away, and when Draco finally spoke, it was low and threatening. “And you knew about this?”

“I found out yesterday.”

Hermione cleared her throat in a meaningful way. “No one cares, Draco.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I mean, of course we care, but no one who matters to Harry is angry about it.”

Madam Rosmerta returned, thunking down their drinks and plates of chips, which Ron dived into. The silence was thick, and Harry desperately tried to figure out a way to fix this. Draco looked… almost betrayed.

“I’m, er, not sure what the big deal is, Draco.” Harry stumbled. “I mean, you came out with me today. So people were going to know anyway, right?”

Draco pinned him with dark eyes that evaluated and clearly found him wanting. Slowly, he unfolded himself from the booth and stood. "Excuse me. I need to go now.” He pulled a galleon out of the pocket of his cloak and tossed it on the table. Harry flinched.

“For my share,” he added, then walked out of the pub with long strides, not looking back.

Harry stared at his friends, who seemed just as shocked. “I… That was… I don’t know what he’s thinking. He didn’t really want to come today.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Luna said calmly, helping herself to a chip. “Things are hard for Draco in public. People don’t like him as much these days.”

Confused, Harry watched her eat. “Well, maybe some places will be harder than others,” he allowed in a shaky voice, “But he was cleared and released. And people at school have been…”

“Very cruel at times, yes,” Luna agreed, as though that’s what Harry had been about to say. “It’s why they gave him his own room; there was some question about his safety when rooming with others.”

“I thought it was because he was the only returning Slytherin in his year,” Hermione put in quietly, her face wretched. “I’ve seen him socializing. Everyone he talks to seems fine.

” “But he doesn’t talk to many people; only those who returned his owled apologies with kind responses, I think,” Luna said.

Harry felt sick. He stood. “I’m sorry. I need to go talk to him.”

“Sounds about right,” Ron said, looking at him perceptively.

***

Harry caught up with him just outside of Hogwarts gates. “Draco!” Draco paused, then resumed walking. Harry double-stepped to pull up alongside him. He grabbed at the fabric of Draco’s cloak and halted him with tug.

Draco exhaled with a sharp, swift sound, then turned and met Harry’s eyes bleakly. “What?”

“I just. I think we should talk.”

“Now?” Draco laughed with disbelief. “You spend the last couple of months telling me only those pieces of information that are beneficial to you, never asking me about anything important, never confiding in me the way you do with them and now you want to talk?”

Bewildered, Harry took a step back, shoes crunching in the snow, hand lingering on Draco’s cloak. “What do you mean? I’ve been telling you things. I ask you things. We… we know each other, now.”

“Oh, right,” Draco sneered. “I’m sure I must be mistaken when I say that we’ve been in a public relationship for far longer than I thought.”

“Draco, I found out about that yesterday,” Harry pointed out. “I was going to tell you, I just…”

“Wanted to get under me first. Yes, I got that.”

“No!” Frustrated, Harry drew a hand through his hair. “I’m not the best at… understanding how to do this. I didn’t know you would be upset. I thought, since you were willing to come into town with me, you were fine with the idea that people would know.”

Draco laughed again, hard and sharp. The sound echoed softly, then faded. “You don’t notice anything you don’t want to! I thought you were simply oblivious, but it borders on pathological, doesn’t it? I told you I didn’t want to come and you insisted! And I wasn’t planning on snogging you in full view of the population. Not that plenty of people haven’t seen us, I gather,” he added snidely.

“So, what?” Harry demanded, getting angry. “You were still going to pretend we weren’t in a-a relationship?”

“We’re not in a relationship, Potter,” Draco drew out coldly.

Harry glared at him. “We are.”

“You don’t even know me.” Draco tried to shake off Harry’s hand. “You just know the things you want to see.”

“Draco, no.” An upsurge of fear warred with his rising fury, and Harry held on tighter, pulling Draco closer. He wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist as he held himself stiffly. “I know about you. We… Look, we know each other in ways that most people never will. I know we don’t really talk about… about the war, and maybe we should sometimes. Is that what you want?”

Draco closed his eyes, face wiped clean of expression. He opened them after a moment and looked at Harry. “I’m not like you. You think everyone is, deep down, or you think you can make them like you through your sheer willpower and goodness. But people will never accept me, Harry, even on your arm. Maybe especially there. And a part of you never will, either. You think… You think you care about me. Maybe you do.” His lips curved in a humorless facsimile of a smile. “But you didn’t ask me to come to Hogsmeade, you told me to. You refuse to give over parts of yourself that Granger and Weasley own, and you give away parts of me that I’ve never given you permission to do. And you should have told me as soon as you found out that people knew about… what we were doing.”

His gaze fell; his eyes were wet, Harry noticed with horror. “I thought people were… I thought things were getting better. Maybe because we were friends, but now people think we’re only friends because… I never wanted you to be my Savior; not the first time, and certainly not now.

“I didn’t want to sleep with you because I knew all of this,” he admitted quietly. “I knew about you, and I knew that you didn’t know about me, and it was unfair.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Harry. It’s too… uneven. It always will be, between us.”

“No!” Harry objected loudly. “No! I… what can I do? What can I do to fix this? I… I think I—”

Draco held up a hand. “Don’t say it. And if I have to tell you what to do, it can’t be fixed.”

He moved gently away from Harry, tugging his cloak from Harry’s suddenly nerveless fingers. “It was only meant to be a bit of casual fun, anyway, right?”

“You were the one who wanted that,” Harry said dumbly.

“Was I?” Draco asked, not looking at Harry.

He turned and walked away, and this time, Harry let him go.

***

Ron and Hermione found him in his room. Tentative in a way they seldom were, they sat down at the foot of his bed and waited for him to say something. Harry didn’t. He wasn’t sure what he could say, because so much of what Draco had accused him of was true.

He had confided in Ron and Hermione about their relationship, multiple times, without asking what Draco thought. Whenever Draco brought up his nightmares, he had refused to talk about them; he never asked about Draco’s own, preferring to live in his stupid happy sex bubble than ruin it with thoughts of the things that made them scream in their sleep. And yes, he had practically forced Draco to go into Hogsmeade with him, knowing Draco was avoiding it, knowing he had good reason to not want to.

But he’d thought, because people liked him, it wouldn’t be a problem for them to see him with Draco. He hadn’t thought what it would be like for him. Because Harry had wanted it so badly. He thought of all of the times Draco had mentioned another boy, and all of the times Harry had laughed, feeling like he had glass in his throat, so that Draco knew he was okay with the casual thing, when he wasn’t.

He thought about the supposition that Ron and Hermione owned him, and the truth in those words.

He settled on the one thing he felt it was safe to say, that had little to do with Draco at all. “I don’t know how to be really close to anyone but you guys.”

Ron looked flummoxed. “Well, yeah. I mean, we all went through a bit together.”

Harry sighed heavily. “Yeah, but leaving someone you care about on the outs like that… Gin used to complain about it a bit, too. About how she couldn’t compete; how I wouldn’t even let her.”

Hesitantly, Hermione touched his arm. “And Malfoy feels the same way?”

Harry shrugged.

“Then you need to figure out a way for it not to be true,” she pointed out practically.

“I don’t know how,” Harry mumbled.  Hermione opened her mouth, and Harry shook his head. “And I’m not asking. I think I maybe… shouldn’t get your help on this one.”

Hermione looked disappointed, but nodded gamely. “Okay. But we’re here if you need us.”

Harry gave her a crooked smile. “I know. But I’m guessing I shouldn’t need you for so much, these days. Not when I have someone who maybe wants me to need him.”

***

Harry spent the rest of the weekend writing. He felt like he often had under Snape’s tutelage; woefully underprepared, on the verge of panic, and sure he was going to get punished for some small element he’d forgotten to add.

Over meals, he watched Draco—probably not as subtly as he’d meant, but, well. Draco sat by himself, isolated from the rest of the Slytherins, who largely ignored his presence. At one point, during dinner, a charmed paper airplane made its way over to him, and he opened it, looking down at it with a grimace before crumpling it in his hand and Vanishing it.

Harry looked around for the sender, anger thundering through him, but Draco caught his eyes and gave him a rueful, pointed shrug, then shook his head. Harry spent the rest of the day analyzing what that could have possibly meant. On Mondays, they didn’t share any classes, so Harry was only able to observe in the halls and at mealtimes. Again, Draco sat alone.

In the corridors, as they passed one another, Draco stumbled suddenly and Harry turned to see a fifth year with his wand out, a smirk on his face. Tripping Jinx. Draco righted himself and walked away, shaking his head. Harry watched the boy for a moment, and then approached.

“Hey.” His wand disappeared.

“Hey-uh, hey, Mr. Potter, um, Harry!”

Harry felt inexplicably tired as he realised the full scope of what Draco had been going through. The kid looked younger than he probably was, like a precocious thirteen-year-old. “Why’d you do that?”

“What?” The boy’s eyes shifted away.

“That jinx I just saw you hex Malfoy with,” Harry said pointedly, laying it on the line.

The boy swallowed hard, then tilted his chin up. “He tortured me last year. He and his lot tortured most of us, whenever the Carrows said to. I don’t even know why he’s back here.”

Harry sucked in a breath. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

The boy looked at him steadily. “I expect you were busy with other things.” He paused. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, sir, I mean, Harry, that people are talking about—about…”

Harry closed his eyes. “I do mind you saying, and I already know.”

“Well, you know, he knows how to cast Imperius. So if you were actually…”

“I can throw off Imperius,” Harry informed him tightly. “And it’s none of your business. Or anyone’s.”

“Right, I—ah. Sorry,” the boy mumbled, flushing.

Harry started to walk away, then turned back. “You know, Malfoy did a lot to hurt me, too. And the people I love. Did you not get an owl from him last summer?”

The boy bit his lip. His blush deepened. “I think most of us did. But, you know, his sort—”

“People change, um,” Harry paused.

“Elliot.”

“People change, Elliot. For better, for worse. You don’t have to forgive him; I get it. But try not to change for the worse just because you feel bitter, or superior.” He looked at Elliot seriously. “That’s part of how the whole war got started, you know.”

***

In Potions the following day, it seemed like Draco expected him to join Ron and Hermione again at the front of the class; his items were spread out over the free space on the desk they had shared for so many weeks. Harry sighed and shoved them indelicately out of the way, making room for himself before he sat down.

Draco looked up at him in surprise. “You should go sit with your friends.”

“You’re my friend,” Harry informed him quietly. “Even if I haven’t been the best of one. Even if you don’t want to be anything else.”

Draco was silent. Harry pulled out a sealed letter, and Draco took it as though on reflex, looking at him quizzically.

“Just read it,” Harry told him. “And in the interest of not keeping secrets—which I really never did on purpose, despite what you think—I had a talk with that boy, Elliot, who tripped you yesterday.”

Draco made an annoyed sound. “Because you don’t know what to do when you’re not—”

“Saving someone?” Harry nodded slowly. “Maybe. Partly. I’m used to it, you know. I like helping people, especially those ones I care about. I’ll try not to interfere as much as I can, but it’s really not about you. It’s just who I am, I think. And acting like that is as bad for that kid as it is for you.”

Slughorn came in, and Harry shut up. Draco cast a sideways look at him, and broke the seal on the letter. Harry looked toward the professor steadily, trying not to notice Draco reading; he had sort of hoped Draco would read it in private. He glanced down, and saw the first line: Snape couldn’t have been in love with Trelawney because he was in love with my mother.

The rest of the letter detailed everything Harry had seen of Snape’s past from the Pensieve that night; how he’d met Harry’s mother when they were children, the way his own father had picked on Snape, the way he’d passionately agreed to anything, anything if Dumbledore could save her. Draco read for a few minutes silently, then folded the letter back up and put it carefully into the inside pocket of his robes. They spent the rest of the lesson in silence.

***

The following day, sitting with Draco in Transfigurations, he passed another letter, this one detailing his life with the Dursley’s, which was harder than it should have been to write. It was mainly common knowledge, now, the mistreatment during his formative years, thanks to Rita Skeeter and her blasted nosy “undercover” work, but most people seemed not to believe what she had written because who would ever want to treat Harry Potter badly?

Malfoy read this letter with shocked intensity, licking his lips over and over as though they were dry, but when he was finished, he simply folded it back up like the first and placed it in his pocket.

Two days later, Harry handed over another one, which outlined his visions from Voldemort. Again, not so pleasant to write, especially having to admit that he’d seen Draco forced, on more than one occasion, to Crucio someone who had displeased the dark wizard. He wrote of knowing that Draco could identify him at the Manor, and how Hermione had said that he couldn’t watch her be tortured; basically, everything he’d said at Draco’s trial.

But he also wrote about how the thing he remembered the most from the Room of Requirement wasn’t feeling like he was saving Draco; it was the feeling of his chest pressed tightly against Harry’s back as they flew through clouds of smoke on Harry’s broom. It was the feeling of Draco’s arms wrapped around his waist as they escaped death, together.

In the fourth letter (given in the library, at a table, as Draco refused his suggestion that they study where it was quieter), Harry catalogued his flagging relationship with Ginny: how nothing seemed right with her anymore, after the war, and how he often wondered if it was that broom ride, surrounded by Fiendfyre, that had made him begin to question his sexuality seriously. He wrote about Ginny’s understanding, which was almost worse than her disappointment, and how he felt awful for months until Charlie had kissed him and told him it was nothing to be ashamed of—that love and desire never were, as long as you weren’t trying to hurt someone else.

The fifth letter listed all of the things about Muggles that annoyed him, like their fascination with magic and their absolute denial of its existence, their prejudices, so like Wizarding ones in different ways, and football, which Uncle Vernon used to love watching, but Harry still didn’t fully understand, and the way so many of them binned their trash with no regard for the environment.

Malfoy snorted reading that one, his mouth curling up into a telltale smile.

For the sixth letter, Harry wrote about the Deathly Hallows. In the seventh, Horcruxes.

It was something that, at this point, only Ron and Hermione knew the full scope of, and Harry debated for a long time whether to tell Draco about it. He explained in full what he had been so questioned about for months after the war: his comments on the Elder wand, and Draco’s role in his mastery of it. He told Draco why he had never given his wand back, why he couldn’t. He wrote of how frightened he was, walking to his death, aware that he was the last Horcrux, Voldemort’s last link to the world, sure he would never return to Hogwarts, the home he had so loved.

In the eighth letter, he detailed his death, and King’s Cross, and Dumbledore’s visit, and he handed all three of them to Draco at once, listed 1, 2, 3 on the top, followed by a note underneath on the first one: do not read this in public. Burn when finished.

Draco didn’t mention it the next day. He didn’t give any indication of having read them except for but a few moments, before Slughorn came in, when he took Harry’s wrist in his hand, positioning two fingers over Harry’s pulse, and sat like that, breathing deeply and not looking at him.

They began talking, more and more, in class and in the library, but they no longer snogged, no longer flirted, and Harry wondered if Draco was seeing anyone else. Screwing up his courage, he asked.

“No,” Draco said simply, and left it at that. “Do you have a letter for me today?”

Startled, Harry nodded, pulling it out of his book bag.

It was about the worst of his nightmares: being surrounded by flashes of green, being attacked by Nagini, and waking up as Voldemort, as though his Horcrux had survived. Draco slipped it into his pocket and pulled another one out, passing it over to Harry.

Harry took it with shaking fingers. With a quick glance up to make sure that Professor Vector was busy, he broke the seal and began to read.

I was proud to become a Death eater. I was afraid, but proud. I believed in blood purity; I still do, in some respects. And although I knew it was a punishment meant for my father, taking the Mark, I did so willingly. I was able to cast Crucio because I meant it, every time. I’d learnt how at the hands of my father and Aunt Bella. People will always hate me for what I’ve done, and I can’t blame them, and I find it offensive that you do; it’s incredibly arrogant and patronizing, making the assumption that because you care about something, everyone should.

As letters went, it was dark and even insulting, and Draco seemed surprised when Harry beamed at him after reading it, because it was also honest. And it was reciprocal. And it proved that Draco wasn’t a lost cause.

Draco’s next letter was in clear response to Harry’s one about dreams; he wrote about dreaming of first years writhing in pain while he pointed his wand and them, about the slithering sound Nagini made on his marble floors at the Manor, about Voldemort’s flat, red gaze and the painful, intrusive style of Legilimency he used as he trifled through Draco’s mind, picking out anything he found amusing and sharing it with his cronies.

He wrote of watching his mother get tortured, and being able to do nothing to stop it.

***

Things I dislike about you:

1. You’re arrogant. 2. You somehow manage to still be insecure. 3. You have almost no faith in other people, and don’t seem to realise that everyone has impulses as dark as the things you’ve done, and that every single thing is as grey as your eyes. 4. You never spill your food: it wouldn’t take much to make you seem a bit more human. 5. Your father (sorry). 6. The blood purity stuff, which is utterly stupid, no matter what you say (not really sorry).

Things I like about you:

1. You’re funny. 2. Your hair. 3. The way you fly. 4. The way you’ve been trying to make amends, but don’t get offended when people don’t accept your apologies. 5. The way you look in the bath. 6. Your mum. 7. The way you say Harry. 8. The way you call me on my shit. 9. The way you look in the bath. 10. That you’re a sarcastic arsehole. 11. Your cleverness with books. It’s like being with a sexy, male Hermione who I have no familial feelings toward. (Don’t be mad, it’s a compliment, really.) 12. The way you tease. 13. Your cock. 14. The way you look in the bath. And on the bed. And bent over a bench. And naked, just anywhere. When are you going to kiss me again?

Things about me that Ron and Hermione don’t know (mostly):

1. I get mad every time Ron takes food off my plate because Dudley used to do that, but I never say anything because first I wanted him to be my friend and then he’d been doing it for so long it seemed like too big a deal to make. 2. I thought about you a lot, in the Forest of Dean. I don’t know why. Just things about you, like how you were such a cheating little twat when we raced for the Snitch together. But I missed you, all the same. It was weird. 3. They don’t know that I still have nightmares; I don’t want to worry them. I don’t want to worry you either, but, well. 4. I really hate my knees. My legs always seem too skinny, and my knees always stick out. 5. I know you make fun of it, but I rather like my hair, even though it’s messy. It makes me think of my dad, who had the same hair. I don’t mind my glasses, either. 6. I have never felt casual about us, not even in the beginning. 7. I’m in love with you. (R and H know, I think, but I haven’t told them directly—I haven’t told them much since you said that thing about them, which I feel bad for.) Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. 8. I turned down a Reserve Seeker position for the Cannons over the summer. (Please don’t tell Ron, he’ll kill me.) 9. I think you love me, too. When are you going to kiss me again?

Draco closed the note slowly, a betraying flush on his cheekbones as he eyed Professor McGonagall. Harry watched him, heart in his throat. As it turned out, it was much less complicated fighting against dark wizards than it was laying your heart on the table and waiting to get rejected.

If putting his secrets on paper had been hard, the weeks of waiting had been harder. Draco had eventually unbent enough to ask small questions about some of the things he had read in Harry’s letters, and they had begun talking about the more difficult aspects of their history like Dumbledore, but in that time, Draco had been clear to maintain a distance, both physical and mental, from him. Harry, in turn, had done everything he could not to lay public claim to Draco as much as he wanted to. He’d also not talked to Hermione and Ron about it, even when they asked.

So the pink spreading over Draco’s face, like a quick-ripening fruit, made him both nervous and elated.

When McGonagall turned her back, Draco tore off a piece of parchment from the bottom of his scroll, scribbled on it briefly and passed it over to Harry.

Meet me on the sixth floor, next to the trophy room, at eight. I need to show you something.

I like your knees, you skinny git.

***

Harry stole up to the seventh floor, wearing his Invisibility Cloak to ensure he wouldn’t be followed by a curious student or professor. The halls had quieted down after dinner, most of the students retiring to their common rooms or using the last dregs of winter light to fly around the Quidditch pitch. Still, Harry passed a few of them, lingering in the corridors, and was glad he’d thought to hide himself.

When he reached the sixth floor, he paused in confusion for a moment, trying to recall the direction of the trophy room from his map; he’d never actually had classes on the sixth floor before, and had in fact only ever used it as a passing point to get to the portrait of the Fat Lady and the Room of Requirement.

He took a moment to wonder why it was so unused, then turned left and began walking, passing several closed doors until he’d reached the trophy room. He pulled off the Cloak and stood there for a minute, panicked; it was quarter after eight, and Draco was nowhere to be seen. Had he left? A noise made Harry turn sharply.

Draco rounded a corner at the end of the hall, striding toward him, eyes dark. His robes were off and his tie was loosened; his sleeves were rolled up near to his elbows, baring his Mark as his arms swung in time with his steps. Harry’s heart pounded at the resolved expression on Draco’s face, but just when he thought Draco would keep coming, he stopped, about a foot away.

Harry’s mouth ran dry. “What did you want to show me?”

Draco shifted. “I…” His throat worked.

“Draco,” Harry prompted gently. “What.”

“I think we should talk, first.”

Harry bit his lip. “Okay. Are you… are you going to tell me again that I can’t be in love with you?”

Draco snorted. “I never said that.”

Harry glared at him broodingly. “You wouldn’t let me say it.”

“Because it would have been disingenuous,” Draco insisted in a low voice. “To say it without knowing...More things about me.”

“Knowing hasn’t changed anything,” Harry said, drifting a little closer. Merlin, he could smell Draco’s spicy aftershave from this distance, and the clean scent of soap under that. “You know about me, too, now.”

Draco folded his hands tightly together. “It wasn’t all you, you know.” His mouth crooked up in a lopsided smile. “I blamed you, but I never asked, either. Not really. I never told you how I was… What I was thinking.”

“You were right, though,” Harry admitted in a raw voice. “About me. About how I didn’t notice. I’ve gotten too used to having the things I want.”

“Sod that,” Draco scoffed, interrupting him. “You spent years being used as a bait waiting to be trussed up like a turkey for Christmas. I… didn’t know that. You’re allowed to want things, Harry. Even if you’re oblivious about the rest of the world.”

Harry inhaled. “I want you.”

And then, Draco kissed him.

One moment he was still near a foot away; the next, his mouth was slanting over Harry’s, fierce and almost violent, tongue sweeping inside, lips slick with saliva. Harry froze at the onslaught of sensation and then gave as good as he got, sliding his hands into Draco’s hair to hold him in place, exploring Draco’s mouth with a fervent tongue. Draco pulled away to begin sucking on Harry’s earlobe and neck. He started talking into Harry’s skin.

“Your family invented hair products, you should use them,” he mumbled into the shell of Harry’s ear. “You need to start matching your socks,” he said into the curve of Harry’s neck. “Your handwriting is appalling,” he murmured, peppering Harry’s throat with tiny, nipping kisses. “You think you can fix everything,” he added into Harry’s mouth, licking deep. With dizzy shock, he realised Draco was listing all of the things he didn’t like about Harry, and he tried to be offended through the lust that swamped him, but his body revolted against the urge. He surged up against Draco, kissing him back hard, any piece of skin he could reach, as Draco changed tacks.

“You made me hard the first time I saw you fly; I was only eleven, and I hated you for being so good, but I used the image of you on a broom for years to wank over,” he whispered, pulling the tails of Harry’s shirt out of his trousers and gliding warm fingers over the base of his spine. “You never mention how you saved me, even though we both know you did,” he said as he palmed Harry’s arse tightly, rolling his hips against him. “You were kind to my mother,” he muttered, sucking hard on the skin just below Harry’s ear. “You make me laugh,” he admitted in a rough voice, as he started pulling at his own tie. “You’re rich,” he said, almost as an afterthought, resting his forehead against Harry’s and breathing shallowly.

Harry laughed breathlessly. “You like that I’m rich?”

“I won’t have to worry that you’re after me for my money,” Draco informed him.

“I don’t know.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “You probably have a bit more than I do.”

“I have a bit more than Midas did,” Draco huffed, pressing Harry’s mouth with another greedy kiss. Harry smiled into it, then pulled away reluctantly. Draco looked down at him, impatient, pupils blown wide.

“I don’t want to be a secret with you,” Harry said, then winced contritely. “An open secret or any other kind.” He took a deep breath. “I won’t make you go places you don’t want or even forget to ask you why you feel the way you do about things, but I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

“Mmm.” Draco sighed, a light, contented sound. “You asked why I was such a prick to you at the start of year.”

Distracted, Harry drew his brows together. “Yeah?”

“I fancied you,” Draco confessed, his face so close to Harry’s he could feel the soft puff of Draco’s words against his mouth. “I fancied you for years, even when I hated you. And when I saw you again in September, it was worse than ever. You looked at me, really looked at me, the way you had at my trial, not like you had these ideas of who I used to be. I was in over my head. I didn’t want to give anything away.”

Harry laughed delightedly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know you were an option, remember?” Draco growled.

“That didn’t last for long,” Harry reminded him, beginning to unbutton Draco’s shirt.

“I never wanted to be a secret, Harry,” Draco informed him seriously. “I was under the impression you did. And I didn’t know if your going public was a side-effect of your affection and hero complex.”

“No.” Harry ran his lips over Draco’s jaw. “I like my privacy plenty, but I like claiming the things that are mine, too. I’m a pretty selfish bastard at times. Are we going to fuck in the corridor? Because I’m okay with that, but it’s probably more public than you’re comfortable with at this point.”

Draco blinked slowly. “Come on.”

He led Harry around the corner he’d appeared from to a door with a light shining underneath. “No one uses this floor anymore; a couple of specialty classes. I discovered this sixth year when I was… You know, trying to find ways in and out of the castle,” he muttered. “I remembered it when I read your note today. It took me forever to work out the password back then, but it’s the same as it was.”

Turning to the door, he said, “Slippery-clean,” as though it were all one word, and to Harry’s astonishment, it opened to reveal a prefect’s bathroom, more lush and luxuriously appointed than any of the others he’d seen, lightly fogged with steam rising from the massive, spa tub that was filled with bubbles of all colors. The steam hit him in the face, fogging his glasses and smelling of citrus, Harry looked at Draco, who was watching him with a shark-like smile.

“Er,” Harry said.

Draco snorted. “Eloquent. I’d rather hoped for something more. You said something about those things you enjoy; perhaps we could start there.”

“Okay,” Harry said breathlessly, staring at the bath. His cock, already hard from kissing and anticipation, swelled further, pressing against the front of his trousers. “Take off your clothes.”

Draco grinned.

“Much better,” he approved, starting forward.  He grabbed Harry's hand and Harry, happily, let himself be pulled.

The End