Chapter Text
Robards made Harry take a day off after he’d only been back for five days. Harry had objected – he was used to working ten or sometimes even twelve days straight – but Robards had glared at him and muttered something Harry couldn’t quite hear, about interfering fake husbands and want to strangle him with my bare hands, and he thought it best not to inquire any further. It was true that he did feel tired. He’d worked very long days, mostly staring at paperwork for hours on end, although he’d been sent out a couple of times on minor cases when they’d been too short-staffed to cope. And he still wasn’t sleeping very well, either, of course. He mostly managed to get to sleep OK, curled up to Draco and drifting off almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, but he was up for at least an hour every night after one of Draco’s dreams, and it always took him much longer to fall back to sleep after that.
When he woke up on Saturday, then, given Robards’ mutterings, he wasn’t entirely surprised that Draco was already up and dressed, sitting on the end of the bed and staring at him. “Chop chop,” Draco said, in the most irritating manner known to man. “We haven’t got all day. I want to go out.”
Harry wondered if he should ask where to, but he decided it would be better off as a terrible surprise, so he just nodded, yawning, and rolled out of bed and into the bathroom to shower and get ready.
They ended up in the West End. In Muggle London. In a bookshop. Harry was simultaneously the most, and least, surprised he’d ever been. “You should have been a Ravenclaw,” he said as Draco walked a bit closer to him, clearly nervous, when they opened the shop’s main door and went in.
“Wash your mouth out with soap,” Draco objected, looking round, interest and anxiety mixed in his expression. It seemed fairly standard to Harry, who’d spent some time in bookshops hiding from the Dursleys over the years: rows of book-stacked shelves, tables stacked with books, and lots and lots of people, some milling around aimlessly, and some powering through the crowds with determination in their eyes. “It’s busy,” Draco said, stating the obvious.
“It’s a Saturday,” Harry said, and shrugged. What else had Draco expected? Even Diagon Alley was more crowded on a Saturday, although the shops were smaller and more eccentric. “Do you want to browse, or is there something specific you were after?”
Draco pulled a scroll out of the pocket of his trousers. “I feel naked without a robe,” he said as he did so, and wrinkled his nose.
He didn’t look naked, but Harry immediately pictured him as such, and blushed. They hadn’t been intimate since Harry had been back at work, and even though Harry knew it was stupid, and he’d only end up getting bruised by his desires, he really fucking wanted to.
Draco shot him a delighted look, appearing to see right through him, and then turned back to the scroll. “Let’s see . . .” he said, and then shoved the scroll at Harry. “You’re the Muggle expert,” he said, nose in the air. “You find them.”
Harry looked at the scroll. It was . . . Hermione’s handwriting. “You . . . you’ve been corresponding with Hermione?” he asked.
“No, I stole her reading list when she was asleep and vulnerable,” Draco said sweetly. “It was the perfect revenge for her kissing me when I was asleep.” He gave a deep shudder. “I may never be clean again,” he said. And then, when Harry narrowed his eyes at that, added: “For fuck’s sake! Because it’s Granger. Not because she’s . . . you know.” He took a deep breath. “A witch of Muggle heritage,” he said pompously, and then shot an anxious look at Harry, as if to point out that, see, he wasn’t a racist shit all the time now. Just on special occasions.
All this talk of kissing was making Harry feel uncomfortable. He . . . wanted to kiss Draco. A bit. And he didn’t like, very much, that anyone else had kissed him, especially while he was asleep. It was weird, and wrong, to think about anyone kissing Draco while he was asleep, even Harry himself. The whole situation was weird and wrong, to be fair, but it struck Harry that Draco had had a pretty raw deal there.
“I – I’m sorry,” Harry said, and Draco shot him a strange look.
“What for?” he asked suspiciously.
“For, you know,” Harry said, feeling a bit of a fool. “Kissing you, without your permission. I only did it to wake you up!” he protested as Draco raised his eyebrows sky high. “I won’t do it again!” he added, meaning without your permission, because for fuck’s sake, who would do that sort of thing?
“I should think not,” Draco said freezingly. “You’re hardly my boyfriend, are you, Potter?”
Potter again. Harry wished he’d never brought the sodding kissing thing up in the first place. “Yes, sorry,” he said apologetically, not sure what he was apologising for but doing it anyway. “Really!” he said, when this failed to melt Draco’s ice. “Draco, don’t be like that.”
Draco pulled a face, and clearly decided that since he already knew Harry was an idiot, he’d let this fresh idiocy go. “Right, books,” he said, and Harry turned his attention back to the list. The list that Hermione had sent Draco.
“I asked her to recommend some,” Draco said, out of nowhere, as they searched for the poetry section. “I wanted to . . .” He shrugged. “Learn more, I suppose. I haven’t the faintest idea about some aspects of Muggle culture.”
“It’s not that different from wizarding culture, really,” Harry said, thinking he’d get a lesson in.
Draco took it gracefully. “You know, I did some reading up on Malfoy history over the last couple of years, and in the past we used to be quite integrated with Muggle high society. Royalty, and suchlike. This is before the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, you know. Apparently, my ancestors were very opposed to the bill, because they had to give up their connections.” He appeared to vanish into his thoughts for a moment as they reached the correct floor. “I . . . That’s quite different from what I was taught, as a child. Some of the Muggle royal bloodlines are very ancient and respected, you know.”
“Yes,” Harry said diplomatically, because everything else he could think of to say would be decidedly rude. Inbred was a word that sprang to mind. Even when it came to Muggles, he thought, the Malfoy family had been blood purists. It wasn’t exactly a surprise.
“Hermione was going to tell you about our correspondence, you know,” Draco said as they began to search the stacks for the books on the list. “She said she’d do it the next time you stopped by her office to say hello.”
Harry winced. He’d meant to stop by Hermione’s office and say hello, he really had. He just . . . hadn’t.
Draco dropped the subject, to Harry’s relief. They picked up several poetry books – anthologies, by the look of it – and moved on to the next section, and then the next, tossing books on history, politics and culture into the basket Harry picked up from a pile by a staircase, remembering just in time that it probably wasn’t a good idea to levitate the books to follow behind them. There were some novels on the list too. One of them looked decidedly romantic, with a smiling couple clutching at each other, and Draco wrinkled his nose at it before tossing it in the basket. “There’s no accounting for taste,” he said.
Finally, they had everything on the list – which was a miracle, as far as Harry was concerned. It was a big shop, but then it was also a long list. Draco forced Harry to walk around a bit more, browsing through the sections with interest, until he finally ended up in front of a section on health. Harry wondered, for a moment, if he was looking up cures for nightmares, before he saw that Draco was smirking, his eyes widening as he picked up a thick book with bright pink writing on the cover reading Gay Sex: A Manual. “I see Muggles treat the sacred rites of the bedroom as a step-by-step exercise,” Draco said lightly, and then, rather than putting the book back on the shelf where it belonged, he slung it into the basket with the others.
“What?” Draco said, when Harry stared at him, trying very hard to think of unarousing things before he got a hard-on in a bookshop. Maybe he should have been sorted Ravenclaw, after all, if this was the effect books had on him. “I’m researching Muggles. Are you trying to hold me back?”
Harry absolutely wasn’t trying to hold him back. Right now, he was trying to hold himself back. Happily, Draco made him pay for all the books, and the embarrassment of the middle-aged woman at the checkout scanning the sex guide, giving the cover a good read as she did so, was enough to kill his incipient boner stone dead.
^^^^^^
After they’d returned home and had lunch, Draco spent what felt to Harry like the whole of the afternoon following him around the house, reading poetry at him. By the time Draco had got through nearly half of a whole anthology, Harry was actively trying to hide from him, and they spent the next hour or so laughing, as Harry hid behind things and Draco sprang out at him, declaiming with an arm flung out.
“I wouldn’t say I liked any of this,” Draco said cheerfully when they’d finally called a truce and sat down to an early dinner. “But it’s no worse than the old wizard stuff my mother used to make me learn by heart when I was a child, so I suppose that counts for something.”
“Why did your mother make you learn poetry by heart?” Harry asked, and shoved a potato in his mouth.
“Your table manners are a scandal and a disgrace,” Draco said as he watched, fascinated.
“So are yours,” Harry said indignantly, after he’d swallowed his mouthful.
“True, but I mangle my food with style,” Draco demurred, wiping gravy off his chin. He took another mouthful and then swallowed. “I performed poetry for my father’s important guests,” he said, and stuck his nose in the air. “In formal robes. When I was five.” His lips twitched. “I am informed it was a sight to behold.”
“I’ll bet it was,” Harry said, trying not to laugh.
“Did your Muggle family not embarrass you in similar ways?” Draco asked, spearing a potato and pausing with it close to his mouth. “Or were the rumours about them being, well, Muggles, true?” He shrugged, and put the food-loaded fork in his mouth.
“Muggle isn’t a shorthand for horrible,” Harry said, trying not to feel weary. “But, er, yes, they were pretty horrible.”
Draco shot him a look, and then glanced away immediately. “Sorry,” he mumbled through his mouthful of food.
“I slept in a cupboard when I was a kid,” Harry said slowly, and then didn’t like the way Draco’s eyes widened in horror. “And they beat me with bananas, and only fed me spiders, and made me wash in ketchup,” he amended.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Poor you. My heart bleeds.”
“I really did sleep in a cupboard though,” Harry said apologetically, changing his mind again about telling Draco the truth. “I mean, they weren’t monsters, but they didn’t love me very much. I think they were scared of me, mostly.” He shrugged.
“Did – did I tell you how my father wouldn’t let me have a dragon?” Draco said slowly. “You think you had it bad!” He shook his head. “Honestly, Harry. Think of other people’s problems before you try to boast about your own.”
Harry grinned. “You better’ve baked a bloody good cake before I woke up today, shithead,” he said.
Draco grinned back, but there was something warm and sympathetic in his smile. “You should be so lucky, Potter,” he said, but he said it so nicely, it made Harry feel all tingly and odd inside.
^^^^^^
After dinner, they sat in the living room for a while, in what had become their evening routine: Harry at one end of the sofa, and Draco stretched out along it, his feet in Harry’s lap. When it was only ten or so though, Draco stretched widely and got to his feet. “Just going to take a shower. Won’t be long.”
“Sure,” Harry said, wondering why Draco was getting ready for bed so early, and feeling something hot coil inside him.
Draco returned barely ten minutes later, his hair damp, wearing fresh, loose pyjamas, his feet bare. He was holding a book in his hand, and he looked up at Harry from under his eyelashes as he sat back down on the sofa, prodding Harry with a toe. “You should take a shower too, before your fetid air puts me off my reading,” he said snootily, and opened the book at the beginning, snapping the spine back.
He was, of course, reading Gay Sex: A Manual.
Harry shot up to the bathroom, showered in record time, scrubbed his teeth, and then shot back down again, taking the last two steps slowly, so he didn’t give the erroneous impression he was keen, or anything.
Draco, eyes fixed on the book, sniggered.
Harry sat down, and Draco slid his feet on to Harry’s lap again, exploring with his toes. “Getting started without me, I see,” he said, like a wanker, as he pushed his foot over Harry’s semi. “Pick a number,” he said, before Harry could complain at this unfair treatment. And then, when Harry tried to think of anything other than Draco’s foot, pressing against his cock, added: “Think of it like divination or something. I predict the future, and the ending is happy.” He sniggered. “Number, Harry!” he said, removing his feet and tucking them up towards him.
“Oh, er, one hundred and twenty-two,” Harry said, and then considered that he should maybe have just said ‘one’. It was a thick book. He hoped it had a long introduction and lots of pictures. He was going to have picked something embarrassing and kinky, he thought gloomily as Draco flicked through, pursing his lips.
Draco seemed to expect this too, by the look of mild panic on his face, but it cleared when he reached the page. “That’ll do,” he said, and passed the book over, raising one eyebrow. “Do you want to do it, or shall I?”
Harry looked down at the page. Sensual massage. Well, that didn’t sound that bad, he thought, and then considered whether or not he wanted to be naked while Draco rubbed oil on him and laughed. “I’ll do it,” he said firmly. “This is your Muggle fantasy, remember.”
Draco smirked at this, but he went pink round the edges. “All right then,” he said with a shrug. “I suppose I can put up with lying still while you do all the work. Go on then, scarhead, lead the way. Where do you want me?”
“Shhh, I’m reading,” Harry said severely, thinking if he was going to do this, he might as well actually do it.
“I knew you could do it!” Draco said and clapped his hands. “Seven—” He faltered. “Six years of schooling didn’t go to waste!” he continued brightly.
“Don’t rub it in that I’m a drop-out,” Harry said, not looking up. “I don’t recall you getting any NEWTs either.”
“Oh, I, er, sat them privately later,” Draco said, and now he sounded genuinely embarrassed. “Father got me a private tutor.”
“How did you do?” Harry asked, looking up at that.
“Five Os and, er, one A,” Draco said.
“What was the A in?” Harry asked, because Draco was clearly irritated at this dreadful ‘Acceptable’ passing grade.
“Muggle Studies,” Draco mumbled. “I found it hard to do the fieldwork, OK! I would have done better, otherwise!” he protested.
Harry found himself rendered speechless by this unexpected revelation.
“This is not a very sexy conversation,” Draco complained, folding his arms.
Harry took the hint and looked back at the book. “Right,” he said. “I need to do some unsexy spells first.”
“Muggle, Harry, think Muggle.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “All right, all right, keep your hair on.”
“I will,” Draco said smugly, and tossed his head a bit so his hair fell in front of his face, sweeping across his forehead in soft strands. “You like it this way.”
Harry blushed and hot-footed it out of the room before Draco could tease him any more. He looked at the book. Right, he needed a warm room with enough floor space, and a duvet and pillow for Draco to lie on, and some massage oil. The white drawing room would do, he thought, and gathered what he needed, spelling the fire on low when he got in there and spreading out the duvet on the ornate rug in the centre of the room. It was late spring and the days were warming up, but the nights had a chill to them still, so he thought the fire would help. Besides, if Draco was too much of a dick, Harry could threaten to roast him over it, he thought. Harry opened up the massage oil and gave it a quick sniff, before closing it again. It smelled warm and woody. It had been a present from someone who didn’t know him very well, he thought vaguely, along with some other Quidditch-related health stuff – a muscle-relaxer of some kind, and some warm, post-match socks.
“I’m in the white room,” he yelled down the stairs, and soon Draco came up the stairs, already complaining as he entered the room.
“What an attractive way to summon someone,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Are all Muggles so suave?”
Harry took from this that Draco was nervous. “I don’t know,” he said. “Is anyone as suave as me?” And as Draco spluttered, he added: “Go on then, get your kit off.”
Draco went an appealing red, but did as asked, shucking off his top without finesse, and yanking down his loose pyjama bottoms to reveal he was already hard, his cock springing to attention.
“All right, lie down, then,” Harry said, trying to distract himself with the instructions. “On the duvet, face down.”
Draco did so, stretching out with a sigh, before folding his elbows and resting the side of his head on his hands. Harry took a moment to enjoy the sight of Draco stretched out, completely naked apart from the gold watch, before looking back at the book. He swallowed hard. Right. Oil first. Harry picked up the oil and the book, and went to kneel beside Draco. He undid the lid of the bottle and poured some into his palm, rubbing it between his palms to warm it up, then went back to check the book, feeling oddly nervous.
“I hope you’re not getting greasy fingerprints on my book,” Draco said, craning his neck to watch him.
“Watch it you, or I’ll put my greasy fingers round your neck,” Harry muttered, trying to remember the steps to the massage so he didn’t have to keep checking back once he’d got going.
“Kinky,” Draco said, his voice warm. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Harry snorted, and shuffled down to Draco’s feet, taking the bottle with him. He started stroking his fingers over first Draco’s left foot, and then his calf, spreading the oil over his skin before applying more pressure, pushing harder with the balls of his hands. He worked his way further up Draco’s leg, as Draco breathed slow and soft, applying oil liberally. Draco held his breath as Harry worked his way up to the top of his thigh, kneading harder, and let it out with a whoosh when Harry shuffled back to his feet to start again, this time with his right leg.
By the time Harry reached Draco’s upper thigh again, Draco was breathing hard and fast, and Harry could feel his own cock twitch, trapped uncomfortably in his trousers. He took a quick look at the book again, and tipped the bottle into his hand again, slicking up his hands before placing one on each of Draco’s thighs and sliding them up his arse, kneading his cheeks in firm circles. Everything was so slick, and warm – the room, Draco’s skin – and the smell of the oil mixed with that of Draco’s sweat cut with an undertone of his arousal. Harry was feeling hot and almost shivery with the anticipation of what he was about to do to Draco. Draco shifted restlessly on the duvet, and as Harry slid his hands firmly back down his arse, thumbs pressing into his inner thighs, he let his legs slide apart, revealing the swell of his balls.
Harry pressed his lips together hard at the sight, his heart pounding like a drum. He poured more oil on his hands, paying slow, firm attention to Draco’s inner thighs as Draco started to gasp beneath him. The book suggested parting your partner’s arse cheeks, and drizzling oil between them, and who was Harry to ignore the instructions of a book? So he parted with one hand, and drizzled with the other. The oil ran down Draco’s arse, dripping over his balls, and Harry followed it with his fingers, running them down Draco’s crack with smooth strokes, and then gently rolling Draco’s balls between his oily palms.
Draco was making amazing noises now, grunts and groans, and little ohs that zinged straight through to Harry’s cock. Harry drizzled more oil, his head feeling light and almost dizzy with arousal, and circled Draco’s arsehole with his index finger, not pushing in but letting the tip dip into the hollow each time Draco’s muscles relaxed. Harry found the sight of it – Draco spread out beneath him – almost mesmerising. It was hot like burning.
Draco let out a noise of displeasure when Harry removed his finger, pouring more oil on Draco’s lower back and continuing upwards with the massage, but his breaths were still fast and deep as Harry massaged his back, pushing up and into his shoulders, digging away at the knots of tension in his neck until he was soft, and relaxed, and moaning with every stroke of Harry’s hands.
Harry looked at the book again, pushing his glasses up his nose with a greasy thumb, and tugged on Draco’s shoulder to get him to roll over. Draco did so, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cock standing up rigid and so swollen it almost looked painful. Harry licked his lips, mouth dry, unable to stop staring, until Draco made a noise of protest and Harry tried to pull himself together. What was he meant to be doing? Right. Hands first. Harry paid some attention to Draco’s left hand for a while, as Draco groaned, his eyes tight shut, and then, trying not to wince, slid his hand up to massage Draco’s inner arm, where the Dark Mark sat.
As soon as Harry touched it, however, Draco’s eyes snapped open, and there was a look of terror in his face that Harry couldn’t remember ever having seen before outside of one of his nightmares. It was like Harry had stabbed him, and Harry froze, unsure what he’d done wrong. This seemed an extreme reaction. For a moment Draco was frozen, too, and then he jumped to his feet, pulling away from Harry as if he was scared of him, his erection wilting. “I— I’m sorry,” he stammered, and then bolted from the room, as if a Dementor of Azkaban was after him.
Harry sat there for a moment in complete shock. He’d clearly done something terrible to Draco, but he had no real idea what. He’d . . . touched Draco’s Dark Mark. Was that really such a disgusting thing to Draco, that it had killed the mood stone dead like that? But it hadn’t just killed the mood. It had looked like it had nearly killed Draco.
Harry cleaned up first the room and then himself, before nervously going in search of Draco. He suspected he was in for another conversation where he asked what was wrong, and Draco refused to talk to him, and he wasn’t looking forward to it very much. Still, it had to be done.
He found Draco in their bedroom – his bedroom he amended, shocked by his own brain. He was wearing Harry’s bathrobe, curled up on the bed. “I . . .” Draco started, and Harry braced himself for I don’t want to talk about it, even as he sat on the edge of bed, close to Draco but not in his space. Draco sighed. “I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to do that,” he said bitterly.
Harry didn’t think it was his fault, really. He also didn’t think Draco thought it was his fault, either, and so he didn’t speak. Just left a gap, in the hopes that Draco might feel able to fill it.
“I know it doesn’t work any more,” Draco said, his voice still suffused with acid. “But it feels like it might still work. When he was alive, if you wanted to call him to you, all you had to do was press on the Mark. I . . .” He took a deep, jagged breath. “I was always terrified I might press it accidentally. Call him to me, and that he’d punish my parents for my mistake. Or punish me,” he mumbled. “I suppose I never was that brave.”
Harry felt terrible. A small, awful part of him wanted to point out that Draco had chosen to take the Mark, so he deserved what he’d got, but . . . he still felt terrible.
“I didn’t think,” Harry said, feeling unable to say he was sorry because he wouldn’t entirely mean it, and feeling like a complete shit about that too.
“No,” Draco said, as if he loathed himself. He uncurled slightly and flung his left arm out in front of him, glaring at it. “Potter, a monster is still a monster, even if you’re fool enough to invite it into your home.” He snorted, even as Harry processed this self-pitying nonsense. “I’ve never been as sexy as I am right now, eh?”
“Draco . . .” Harry said, not sure what to say, and then suddenly he did know what to say. It was something he could say with complete honesty. “I fancy the pants off you, you know that.”
Draco blinked at that, looking everywhere but Harry, before turning a pale, intense stare at him, finally meeting his eyes. “Oh?” he said, and made an unsuccessful attempt at a smile. “I’m not wearing any pants right now.”
Harry tried to smile back.
Draco wet his lips and shut his eyes tight for a moment, before opening them again, his gaze more composed. “You are though,” he said thoughtfully. “Where’s my greasy book?”
Harry frowned at that, but Draco just rolled his eyes and Accioed the sex guide, letting it fall open at a fresh page. It was close to the start of the book, and Draco frowned down at the page, before sitting back up with a determined expression. “All right, take your repellent Muggle trousers off and lie down,” he said.
Harry wasn’t sure about that. “Um, are you sure?” he asked gingerly, not really feeling in the mood, even though his cock did a little throb that suggested it could be in the mood, if given some encouragement. “Don’t you think it would be better to—”
Draco shot him a sidelong look. “You don’t want me to suck your cock?”
Fucking God.
“Well, then,” Draco said, sounding smug. “Lie down, and let me learn how to do it the Muggle way.”
Harry still wasn’t sure, though. He dithered, and—
“Harry, I want to,” Draco said. “Please let me.”
Harry felt the roar of his blood in his ears. He ripped his T-shirt over his head, then dragged his joggers off, before getting on the bed and lying back, head on the pillow.
Malfoy shuffled to sit between Harry’s legs, nudging them wide. The sight of him there, sitting between his thighs, made Harry instantly harder with anticipation of what was to come. Draco read a section of text, his lips moving, and then he bent his head down, flattening his tongue and licking Harry from the bottom of his balls, all the way up to the head of his cock. Harry tried not to moan at the feeling: Draco’s tongue was wet, and hot, and wonderful. Draco leaned back in and pressed a wet, hot kiss to the inside of Harry’s thigh, and then another, before switching sides. His face brushed Harry’s cock as he did so, and Harry moaned, trying not to buck against the feather-light sensation.
Draco then dipped his head lower, opening his mouth wide and taking one of Harry’s balls into his mouth. It was exquisitely sensitive, and Harry felt vulnerable and amazing. He couldn’t stop gasping as Draco curved his tongue around his ball, and sucked very gently, before letting it slide out of his mouth and doing the same to his other ball.
“Good?” Draco mumbled, wiping his chin.
“Y-y-yes,” Harry said, heart pounding. He still felt vaguely like they shouldn’t be doing this, should instead be talking about Draco’s freak-out, but it was hard to think of anything else when Draco was looking at him like that.
Draco was smiling properly now, but it was a smug smile. He spat into his palm, and then ducked his head back down to take a ball into his mouth again. As he curled his tongue around it, though, making Harry shiver with pleasure, he reached up with his wet palm and gently rubbed the head of Harry’s cock, slicking it up so his palm slid easily against it.
Harry nearly bucked off the bed it felt so good, and Draco carried on, switching between his balls, his hand slipping around the head of Harry’s cock in a way that was sensitive, and hugely arousing, and yet not nearly enough pressure to be satisfying.
Harry tried to buck into Draco’s hand, and Draco pulled away, breathing heavily, to read the book again, the absolute fucker. He spat, once more, into his hand, and fastened it around the base of Harry’s cock, giving it a long, slow pump that slicked his whole shaft up. Then he bent his head down and, eyes locked on Harry’s, reached out with his tongue to lick his cock all over. The sight, the feeling . . . it was all amazing. Harry felt like nothing in this world existed except his cock, aching and hard, and Draco – his mouth, his face, his hot, wet hand.
Draco, eyes still locked on Harry’s, opened his mouth wider and slid Harry’s cock into his mouth, then sucked. Harry groaned, and then again, his moans coming faster as Draco began to bob his head up and down, sucking hard. His mouth was wet, his hand on Harry’s shaft was wet, and Harry couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and where his hand began. It was all one long, hot, intimate slide. The heat. The wet pressure. He could feel his orgasm coil in his stomach, his thighs trembling.
Harry could hear himself swearing, and he couldn’t stop looking – at Draco, chin wet, Harry’s cock in his mouth. He seemed so into it that it made it all the more intense.
Draco kept up his slow, steady pace, and Harry had to clench all his muscles to stop himself from pounding up into his willing mouth. “I – I – I’m close,” he managed, in case Draco wanted to stop and finish him off with his hand, but he didn’t. He just carried on, same steady pace, and Harry found he was close for a while longer, his world fading into nothing but tight, prickling coils of pleasure.
Harry came hard, right in Draco’s mouth, and Draco swallowed it down, continuing to suck gently until Harry pushed at him gently, too sensitive to bear it any more. Draco sat up, Harry’s cock sliding out of his mouth, and swallowed again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking smug. “I’ll admit that maybe the Muggles have some good things to offer us,” Draco said as Harry tried to catch his breath.
“That was . . .” Harry managed, dazed. He was so turned on, still, despite his orgasm, he almost thought he could come again. He didn’t think he could move though, he was so blissed out.
Draco’s smile widened, and he pushed the book off the bed, moving to curl up next to Harry. “Yes?” he prompted.
“Amazing,” Harry said, through gasps. His heart was still pounding a mile a minute. “You’re amazing.”
Draco made a pleased noise and curled in even closer.
They lay there like that for a while, until Harry’s breathing had stabilised. He was close to falling asleep, he thought, reaching over to stroke a hand through Draco’s hair.
“Oh,” Draco said softly, “oh,” as if this was something he’d never considered Harry might do, and now Harry had started he hoped it might never stop.
Harry felt very warm inside, and tender. “You all right?” he said through a yawn.
“My jaw aches a bit, but I think I’ll survive,” Draco murmured, only a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He stretched his head towards Harry, and Harry reached out to stroke down the side of his neck, before reaching back up to his hair.
“No, I meant—” Harry started.
“I know,” Draco interrupted. “And . . . yes. I feel a bit stupid,” he said quietly, “but I’ll get over it. It’s the strangest thing,” he said, sounding pretty strange himself.
“What is?” Harry asked, when Draco didn’t continue.
“Oh,” Draco said, now just sounding embarrassed. “It’s just – I never expected I’d talk to anyone about this kind of stuff. Not even my mother. And here I am, talking to you. Harry bloody Potter.”
Draco’s hair was so soft beneath Harry’s fingers. “I’m not ‘Harry bloody Potter’,” he objected. “I’m just Harry.”
“And I’m just Draco,” Draco said softly, and let out an embarrassed laugh. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, and he reached out a hand towards Harry.
Harry took it, and squeezed it. Draco’s skin was soft, too, and warm. And Harry felt, again, that odd disconnect, between the Draco he thought he knew, and the one who was in the room with him right now. The old Draco – Malfoy – was nothing to him. Was a distant acquaintance, who could safely be pitied for his suffering. This Draco, on the other hand. Harry didn’t want to pity him. His heart turned over in his chest.
This Draco wasn’t someone to be pitied. He was someone to be loved. And Harry thought he was already halfway there.