Work Text:
Harry guides his truck into the parking space and slams the gear into park. Morning light angles through the windshield, a bright veil beyond which he can barely make out the yard lines striping the practice football field.
Ron sighs from the passenger seat. “Isn’t that just gorgeous?”
Harry yanks the keys from the ignition. The plush snowy owl keychain squishes into his palm.
“I haven’t seen the sun glinting off a dew-drenched field since summer two-a-days.”
“Yeah, I know, I know!”
“Ten minutes, Harry. Ten fucking minutes and we wouldn’t be parked in Outer Darkness with the”—Ron squints at a gaggle of tiny students passing in front of the truck’s hood—“sophomores.”
The students clutch notebooks to their chests and, averting their eyes, hurry toward the school buildings.
“Teddy fucked up my phone alarm yesterday. I’m sorry, ok?” Harry slouches back against the seat and pouts. “I was so rushed I didn’t even have time to make a deposit in the wank bank.”
“A pity and a… penance.” Ron’s voice trails off, attention caught by someone headed towards them, away from the school. “Hello. What have we here? Not even first bell and ditching already?"
Harry recognizes the blond head approaching and his stomach swoops. Draco Malfoy—Hogwarts High salutatorian, debate god, and the recent star of Harry’s fantasies—trots along the sidewalk, springing off his toes.
“And speaking of morning wo-od,” Ron sings. “It’s your tu-tor.”
Draco jogs in front of the truck. He’s bathed in a soft glow, the royal blue of his letterman jacket contrasting beautifully against his alabaster skin. His ridiculous bouncy gait makes his hair flop and Harry’s heart along with it.
“He’s so pretty,” Harry whines.
“If you say so. Oh, wait.” Ron smirks. “You have. A lot. A lot a lot. A laahhh—”
Ron grabs Harry’s bicep, bunching his hoodie and a bit of his skin into his clenched fist. Harry barely notices the pinching sting because the yellow chenille varsity font emblazoned on the back of Draco’s jacket spells out… Potter. His heart pulses a throb straight to his dick.
“Dude!” Ron howls into his fist. He tugs and pulls Harry’s arm, jostling him against the car door. “Dude, oh my gawd yas! Git ya some!”
“No, I…” Harry lets his head rattle around against the headrest, shaking memories loose in his brain. “I must have forgotten it in the library at our last study session.”
Ron’s raised eyebrows fold his freckles into wrinkles on his forehead. “Uh huh.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Harry watches Draco wearing his fucking letterman approach an old Oldsmobile Delta 88 parked in the next row a few cars down. “I was… distracted.”
They watch Draco wrestle a wire hanger into a lopsided shape and jimmy it between the driver’s side window and the door.
Ron snorts. “All that money and he drives a piece of shit.”
“He’s saving to pay his own way abroad,” Harry says absently. “His dad is a dick.”
Draco tugs the hanger loose and bends it again. The hanger springs open and smacks him in the face.
“Uh boy,” Ron sighs. “You’d better go help him before he gouges out one of those ‘gorgeous eyes the color of thunderclouds.'"
Harry hops out of the truck. The door slams shut, sealing his vow to never, ever, neverever drink keg beer again. And especially with Ron’s encouraging and evil older brothers.
The car engine is running as they walk up, doors and windows locked up tight. Draco is smacking the hood with the hanger, cheeks flushed with the effort. He’s having a little fit and it’s cute as fuck. Harry grins.
Ron squints an eye closed against the sun. “Need help?”
Draco stands tall. Papers, books and pens litter the ground around him. He blows his fringe out of his eyes with an exasperated huff. “No, thank you. I am fine.”
“Sure, sure,” Ron says. “I’m curious, though. How does a first-place decathlete lock their keys in a running car?”
Draco scowls.
“No, really, I’m fucking fascinated.”
“If you mustknow, my fucking backpack dumped out and as I went to pick it up, the fucking door closed while I was putting on…” He pauses, ears pinking.
“Harry’s fucking jacket?” Ron finishes.
Draco glances at Harry, the flush bleeding down his neck. Harry gives him a little wave. “Hi-lo,” he says, voice cracking. He blanches and scrubs the back of his head. “I mean, hi. And hello. You know, hi-lo. Like, er, blended—”
“Stop talking,” Ron mutters.
Draco’s lips twitch. Harry presses his mouth closed and dies a little.
The bell rings, reverberating through the parking lot, announcing the beginning of the school day.
“Ok, well!” Ron claps his hands. “On that note, I gotta run. If I’m tardy again, McGonagall will skin me alive and make a football from my freckled hide. I’ll leave you”—he points at Draco—“in our star quarterback’s capable and rather large hands.” He grabs Harry’s wrist and waves his arm about. “Span of ten inches. Good for palming footballs… and other things.” He winks and departs, answering his ringing phone. “Hi babe! I’m walking in the doors right now…”
Harry picks up Draco’s phone from the pavement and exchanges it for the wire hanger.
“You’ll be late, too,” Draco says. “And you have a test.”
“I’m prepared.” Harry slips the hanger into the door. “I have an excellent tutor.” He grins at Draco’s eye roll and snags the lock’s innards. “Besides, McG likes me.”
“Of course,” Draco scoffs. “Star treatment for the star athlete.”
“Oh, come on, teacher’s pet.” The lock pops open with a satisfying click, and Harry opens the door with a dramatic arm sweep. “Mrs Gregory always chose you to hand out the worksheets.”
Draco steps into the open door and pauses. “That was second grade,” he says quietly.
He’s almost a half inch taller than Harry and perfectly lean, somewhere between Jack Skellington and that wicked hot white-haired guy from Rise of the Guardians, Jack Frost, or whatever.
Fuck, he needs to cut back on watching Disney with Teddy.
“You can remember that…” Draco’s eyes narrow. “But can't recall Newton's Second Law?”
“Force equals mass times acceleration.” Harry bares his teeth.
Draco lifts a dark approving brow and reaches into the car to turn off the ignition. Harry sneaks a peek at his arse in his trousers as he stretches. The letterman jacket rides up, taking Draco’s shirt with it. Sunlight glints off the fine pale hairs dusting Draco’s lower back. Harry’s skin tingles and he adjusts himself in his jeans, remembering too late that he isn’t wearing underwear. The button-fly seam catches the edge of his cock just right. Harry bites his tongue to keep from moaning.
Draco straightens and frowns. “Are you humming the school song?”
“Blue and gold for loyalty,” Harry grimaces, crouching to pick up the contents of Draco’s backpack, willing himself to not pop a chubby here in the parking lot in front of his crush. His stiffening length nestles into his hip crease as he stands and hands Draco his notebooks.
Draco shoves everything inside his backpack. A green dragon figure hangs from the zipper.
“Cute,” Harry says, only half-meaning the figurine. He holds up his own fluffy owl keychain.
Draco smirks and shuts the car door. He turns and there it is again—Potter.
Harry’s mind crackles, static clouding his vision. He must have blindly followed Draco into the main building because suddenly they’re inside. Draco’s talking about his dragon collection or something. Whatever it is, it’s hella cute because his hands are gesturing and his lips are curling in that pretentious way that makes Harry’s brain melt. Harry tries to focus, but his mind is crowded with his name stretched between Draco’s shoulder blades like a claim, like an announcement of ownership.
Like he belongs to Harry.
Mine.
Harry trips up the stairs and catches himself before he slams into Draco.
Hermione would be rightfully appalled. People are not property, Harry, she would say, and a berating lecture would ensue. With discussions about consent and respect. And of course, he doesn’t want to own Draco. He wants to date him (respectfully), to woo him (publicly), to hold his hand and snuggle his face into his neck (softly).
To do all the schmoopy things boyfriends do (consensually).
But somewhere, buried deep in his amygdala, his neanderthal brain awakens and beats its chest. So yes, Harry wants to own Draco. To kiss him, to mark him, to hump him (just a little).
To do all the sexy things boyfriends do (consensually).
Heat quivers through him, pushing blood to his groin. By the time they stop in front of Draco’s classroom, Harry’s light-headed, his dick is fully hard…
And he is completely mortified.
He nods his head at words coming out of Draco’s mouth, willing Draco to keep his eyes up. Behind Draco, down the hall, a guy exits a bathroom. Relief loosens Harry's tight chest.
“Harry,” Draco says sharply.
“What?”
Draco holds out Harry’s jacket. The blush high on his cheekbones matches the reddening splotches dotting his neck. “Your jacket… ?”
“Oh, thanks.” Harry grabs the jacket and bolts, shielding his crotch with the garment. “I’ll see you sixth period, yeah?”
Draco’s voice follows him, but all Harry hears is the blood roaring in his ears. He stumbles into the bathroom and quickly scans the stalls. The room is empty. He presses his palm against his erection, drops his backpack, and is about to throw down the jacket when he catches a whiff of something clean and spicy. He buries his nose in the wool and inhales deeply. Draco.
His first mistake is sliding his arms into the sleeves.
The leather is still warm, surrounding him in Draco’s residual body heat and scent. Harry’s head spins. Draco’s all over him. His cock throbs.
His second mistake is unbuttoning his jeans.
It’s bold and fucking risky standing in the boys’ bathroom with his cock out. And while he’s not the first to pull himself off in a school bathroom, this will be his first time indulging. A virgin wank. A maniacal giggle bubbles out of his throat as he steadies himself against the wall with one hand, and licks the palm of the other. He takes hold of his stiff cock, a thrill cascading through him, breath hiccupping in his throat, hips juddering forward. Soft skin burns hot, and he thumbs his weeping slit on the delicious upstroke, smearing precome over his length, imagining sliding into the wet heat of a pretty, pretentious mouth. The squelching sound of his pumping fist echos off the tiles and all he can think is grey eyes and creamy skin and fuck and yes and fuck yes, Harry is coming apart at the seams, he’s coming…
He groans, Draco’s name rolling sweetly on his tongue, and comes so hard, his ejaculate paints the wall.
Spots dot his vision and he gulps air, taking a moment to listen to his heartbeat calm. He tucks himself away, buttons up, and washes his hands.
“Holy shit,” he says to his red-faced reflection in the mirror. “That just happened.”
He’s collecting paper towels to dry his hands and clean up the evidence of his climax when he hears it—a crackle and a pop. On the wall, a glob of his come slides down the tiles and drips into the electrical socket.
Sparks jump and sizzle, as if there’s a tiny dragon hidden within. Draco would love that, Harry thinks madly. Smoke puffs out, a thin trail wafting up and up and up toward a contraption fixed to the ceiling.
“Son of a bi—”
The fire alarm blares.
* * *
By the time Harry exits the building, the entire school is outside. Students gather on the lawn and in the senior parking lot, laughing and talking. A select few have spread out beneath an oak with their laptops and notebooks, working diligently. Harry’s not surprised to spy Hermione’s bushy hair amongst the group. She smiles and waves. Seated beside her, Draco pecks away on his laptop.
Guilt blazes through Harry. He buries his chin into his jacket collar and quickly turns away.
He finds Pansy perched on the high ledge surrounding the statue of Hedwig, Hogwarts High’s owl mascot. Ron has draped himself against Pansy’s legs and is tossing around her cheerleading poms.
Pansy cracks her gum and drags a nail file across her thumbnail. “Ron tells me a certain stormy-eyed nerd was decked out in blue and gold team spirit this morning.”
“It was nothing.”
“Says the blushing jock.”
“Hey, you’re wearing your jacket,” Ron says. “Did you exchange it for a kiss?” He makes kissy noises and Pansy leans down and pecks his pucker.
Harry digs the toe of his Vans into a tuft of grass sprouting up through a crack in the pavement. “Of course not.”
“What’s up with you?” Ron narrows his eyes. “You’re all splotchy.”
Pansy grins. “Maybe they swapped more than spit.”
“Oh ho ho!” Ron rah rahs the poms, punctuating his words like a cheer. “Bodies in motion. Generating heat. Setting off alarms—”
“Oh my god, I had nothing to do with the alarm!” Harry’s raised voice attracts the attention of students nearby. He hisses, “And we didn’t kiss!
“Ok, Twitchy, stand down.” Ron’s eyes are still narrowed when Ginny comes over.
“Fire Marshall just left,” she says, smirking. “You’ll never guess what caused the alarm.”
“Jizz shorting the socket in the boys’ bathroom.” Pansy tosses the nail file into her Louis Vuitton tote triumphantly, and Harry chokes on his own spit.
Ginny slaps him on the back, mouth cinching into a pout. “Damn, woman. You got a crystal ball in that tote, too?”
“Gossip feed.” Pansy holds up her phone, and Harry leans in with the others to read.
“Lewd news travels fast,” Ginny says, impressed.
“Four twenty likes.” Ron sniggers. “Wicked.”
Harry can’t even appreciate the sixty-nine retweets, he’s so overcome with a skin-pricking panic. “Are there comments about, er, who it was?”
Ginny shakes her head, scrolling and skimming. “Only like 50 comments about Finnegan beating off.” She snorts. “Posted by Finnegan.”
Pansy dives her fingers into Ron’s hair. “Neanderthals, the lot of you.”
Ron hums and snuggles his head into her hands. “Boners are a way of life, babe, as you well know—Ow!” Pansy loosens her grip and Ron continues. “They’ll happen anywhere, anytime. In the shower, boner. Gassing up the car, boner. In the grocery, boner—”
“If you’d quit feeling up the melons, it wouldn’t be a problem,” Ginny says.
Ron makes a face and calls out to a group nearby, “Yo, Finnegan! Hashtag masturbation madness.”
Seamus grins and grabs his crotch. “Fuck, dude, I’ve rubbed one off as we’ve been standing here!”
Ron shakes the poms. “Yee yee, bro!”
Ginny rolls her eyes. “This is why I’m gay. Well, that and… " She outlines the sinuous curves of an invisible female with a roll of her hands. “Girls.” Her hungry eyes track Luna skipping across the parking lot. “And speaking of… Later, losers.”
Ron watches his sister pursue Luna, a pensive pinch to his face. Pansy scratches his scalp. “I can feel the wheels cranking in there.”
“I’m just thinking about the logistics of ejaculating into an outlet,” he says.
“It is impressive,” Pansy concedes. “Disgusting, but impressive.”
“An accident, surely,” Harry mutters.
“Yea, but the precision. The control.” Ron sits up. “Not many could thread that needle.” He looks at Harry with that same squinty thoughtfulness, and Harry’s skin again prickles alarmingly. Ron opens his mouth to speak, but Harry is spared by the gruff monotone of Assistant Principal Snape demanding students return to class.
* * *
By the time Harry enters the library for sixth period study hall, the school has been abuzz with ejaculation speculation all day, and Harry has a headache. The library offers quiet respite away from heated physics debates about the force and angle required to jettison semen into an outlet, and Mrs Pomfrey’s health lectures on the advantages of masturbation and self-care.
To his immense relief, the identity of HHS’ masturbatory miscreant remains A Great Mystery.
Harry rests his aching temple on the table. Beside him, his phone displays comments on the twitter post he’s checked for the thousandth time.
He’s running his thumbnail along the groove of a marijuana leaf carved into the wood when Draco arrives. He sits beside Harry and arranges his books and pens into alignment on the table. “You’re early.”
“The student council meeting was annoying.” Harry rests his chin on his bicep and fiddles with one of Draco’s pens. “If you ask me, protective socket covers for all the bathrooms is a shit graduating class school gift.”
“Ah.” Draco takes his pen from Harry and places it exactly parallel with the others. “Wankgate 2021. Our legacy.” He chews on his lip. “Twitter is still blowing up.
Harry’s phone pings, validating Draco’s comment. Draco peeks at Harry’s notification. “Another proposition for the elusive bathroom masturbator.”
Harry silences the phone and stuffs it into his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. “Girls are scary.”
“Romilda Vane is scary. But that one was from a guy.”
Harry chuckles. “Nice."
Draco shifts the order of his pens. “That doesn’t… bother you?”
“I’m bisexual.”
“I’m gay,” Draco blurts, cheeks flushing a baby pink.
Harry smiles. “I know.” Draco’s eyes bulge. Fuck, he’s adorable. “Hermione told me.”
“She…?”
“I asked. And, you know, so what if a guy jerked off? Big deal. Nobody was hurt.”
“Bold, though.” Draco uncaps a pen and doodles on the corner of his notepaper, five swipes of his Papermate. One, two, three, four, five, star. “And the school could have burned down.”
“Pfft, it was just a spark. Probably,” Harry hastily adds, ears flaming. “And besides, like Ron says, stiffies happen. Sexy, romantical thoughts happen.”
One, two, three, four, five, star. “Romantical isn’t a word.”
“It is when you think about your crush.”
Draco’s eyes dart up and Harry glances away. “Anyway, you can’t just walk around rock hard all day—”
“So you polish your rock in the second floor bathroom of the math wing.”
An icy trickle of dread slides down Harry’s neck and stalls his breath in his lungs.
Draco glides his pen over the paper. One, two, three, four, five, star. “This morning, I wanted to thank you again for helping me with my car.” Star, star star. “And to wish you luck on the test.”
Harry swallows hard.
Star, star star. “So I, er, followed you into the bathroom… ”
“Oh god.” Harry buries his face in the crook of his elbow, realization percolating through him.
“And you were—”
“Oh god!”
A tsunami of hot shame drowns him, and he chokes back a mortified sob. From the direction of the front desk, Mrs Pince’s shush confirms that he is not—repeat, not—asleep in Coach Binns world history class. This nightmare is real. Harry Potter—Hogwarts High All-American Varsity quarterback and homecoming king—now exists in a world where his ultimate crush has seen him flog his log in the bathroom at school.
He knocks his forehead on the table, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Harry James Potter, quiet down!”
A nudge to his shoe opens Harry’s eyes. Underneath the table and into his lap, a piece of notebook paper edged with a galaxy of inky stars slides into view. A note written in Draco’s slanting script says, check your texts.
Face still buried in his arm, Harry slips his phone from his jacket pocket. A text message pings.
Draco snorts. Under the table, his knee bounces.
A bit of tension drains from Harry’s limbs, and he relaxes his grip on his jeans. Keeping his head down, he swipes his thumb over the keyboard.
Harry blinks at his phone, and blinks again, eyes scanning the messages once, twice, heart racing as if he’s outrun a defensive line.
Romantical thoughts do happen
“Meet me in the stacks,” Draco whispers. “Section 550.” A movement and a rustle and Harry’s jacket slides off the back of his chair.
Laying in bed...
Draco’s soft footsteps retreat.
And wearing a letterman jacket.
* * *
Section 550 of the library houses books about Geology.
Harry finds Draco leaning against the shelves, casually leafing through a technical book about how to polish rocks and minerals.
And he’s wearing the jacket.
“I know a little something about polishing rocks,” Harry quips. Draco’s lips curl, and Harry’s going to kiss them later. “I could tutor you.”
Draco ignores him, eyes focused on turning a page, the paper trembling in his fingers. Harry’s going to kiss those, too. He leans back against the shelf opposite Draco and looks, from his polished loafers, up the crisp seam of his trousers, to the jacket.
Mine.
“I like you wearing my jacket.”
Draco lifts his gaze to stare over the top of the book.
“Did you really wear it in bed and think about me?”
Draco shakes his head no and says, “Yes.”
Harry’s heart soars like a Hail Mary pass in the last seconds of a fourth quarter. In one stride he’s crowding Draco against the books. He gently presses a fingertip to the pulse leaping in Draco’s throat.
Draco wields the book like a shield between them. “Just to be clear,” he says, piercing Harry with those stormy eyes, that sweet pink blush creeping up his neck. “When you wanked in the boys’ bathroom—”
“I was thinking about you.” Harry says, far too eagerly, but he’s too happy to care. “And in bed. And in the shower—”
Draco leans in and presses his lips against Harry’s mouth, timid yet bold. It’s off center, more cheek than lips. Draco’s tooth knocks against Harry’s canine, and it’s so fucking perfect Harry might just die right here amongst the stacks. He tilts his head, and melts into a proper kiss, licking into Draco’s mouth, tongue velvety hot against Draco’s upper lip. A sweet little moan has Harry pressing his face into Draco’s neck (softly).
“You’ll wear my jacket to the game tonight,” Harry says. He takes the book from Draco and sets it on the shelf. Clutching his jacket into his fists, he crowds in closer. “And you’ll wear it to school tomorrow.” He dives back into Draco’s neck, trailing the tip of his nose along Draco’s jaw. “And the day after that—”
Draco shakes his head no.
Harry pauses, heart sinking, waiting for the verbal yes that doesn’t come. He retreats to look Draco in the eyes. “No?”
“No,” Draco repeats. He tangles his fingers into Harry’s hair, eyes sparking hope into Harry’s chest. “The day after that we will prove Weasley’s theory about handspan.”
“Fuck yes.”
Draco grins and Harry leans in, only to pause at a strangled sound.
A gaggle of tiny sophomores stand at the end of the aisle, mouths agape, eyes wide, books clutched to their chests.
One of them holds up their phone.
