BY : mcee
Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 13746
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

It'd been a handful of years, but Oliver could tell, from where he stood in the changing room, that the seasons had been good to Harry Potter.

Oliver didn't need to do the simple math; he'd never lost track of Harry in his mind, had always known how old he was, what he must be learning at Hogwarts by now, just how good he must be at Quidditch nowadays, that little boy who had been gifted from the start. That hunch had proven right during tonight's match, but what Oliver hadn't foreseen from all those miles, all this time away, is how time had still changed Harry.

He was still small, smaller than the other boys his age, but seven years of the demanding sport he excelled at had toned the lean muscles into a decidedly manly shape, perfectly proportioned. His skin had strangely remained as pale as if he'd spent all his time within the castle's walls rather than out on
the sunny pitch. His hair, as disheveled as always, stuck to the nape of the boy's neck as he stepped under the shower's spray.

However thrilling, the match had been a frustrating ordeal for Oliver, sitting high up in the bleachers, still unable to have a good look at who he'd come here to see. But now the play was over; the team, victorious, had blown through noisily and gone to celebrate in the Great Hall, and Oliver had known here to find him, always a little apart from everyone while remaining the unwitting centre of their attention.

Some things never change.

Perhaps Harry had grown complacent over the years, but he did not notice Oliver's presence as the older boy leaned against the doorway, taking in the view with no reservation. He could feel the start of the tell-tale tug in the front of his trousers. Oliver crossed his arms over his chest and remained silent.

Harry had propped both hands on the aging tiled wall before him, letting the steaming jet pummel the muscles of his shoulders and back, allowing the hot current to scald its way down his spine. Oliver's eyes followed the defined curve of Harry's buttocks, the lithe thighs, the strong calves. He pretended not to notice--for now--the promising beginning of an erection, where wet curls glistened darkly against moving skin.

Oliver hadn't realised he was holding his breath until Harry moved, straightening to face the spray. The boy's eyes were squeezed shut and his lips parted slightly. He looked different without the ever-present glasses, which Oliver could spy resting on top of Harry's school uniform, on a nearby bench. The familiar wire-frame was unmistakable; Harry hadn't changed glasses since the day Oliver had first laid eyes on his new Seeker. Oliver realised he very much wanted to see him put them on again, absently brushing aside the unruly dark fringe with the back of his fingers. Conjuring up the image of bright green eyes looking up at him through the specs proved almost too much to Oliver, who banished the memory in favour of the current view offering itself to him.

Oliver hadn't spied the smallest sliver of soap, yet suddenly as Harry trailed his hand over his chest and shoulder, a thin sheen of suds mixed with the rushing water in its wake, washing away almost immediately, down his lean form and swirling down the drain at his feet. Harry's fingers ran over his arms and neck, his back, his stomach, to finally wrap themselves around the hardening cock begging for attention. Oliver licked his lips and Harry sighed, closing his eyes and propping a forearm against the tiles again. Oliver shifted against the doorjamb.

The boy's rhythm was slow and deliberate, his hand stroking almost absently. Oliver imagined a lover doing the same--Harry on his back amidst the dark sheets of a four-poster bed, mouth open, gasping, calling softly, eyes shut and hair everywhere, in his eyes, his neck, spread on the pillow, skin a whitish blue from the moonlight, or glowing warmly in the light of a nearby lamp. Surely a boy this splendid had known someone's touch by now. His friends', perhaps, or an enemy's. It did not seem fair for this body to stay hidden, undiscovered under its thick robes, while it so obviously craved to be touched.

Harry's rhythm had increased, and Oliver wondered who he was thinking about, there at the edge where one doesn't choose one's fantasies. He knew by experience that no matter who laid between his sheets back in his bedroom, there was only ever one person whose voice/smell/touch he imagined before spilling into his own hand in his own shower.

Harry gave a small gasp and came, shuddering. His arm still hid most of his face, but Oliver could see the reddened mouth part under shallow breaths, pink tongue darting briefly over his teeth and lips. Oliver barely noticed his own discomfort as he watched Harry push away from the wall, holding out his hand to the hot stream before twisting the faucets off completely. The room was suddenly too quiet and Oliver could hear his own panting breath, threatening to reveal his presence.

With a last look towards the boy--who wasn't really a boy anymore--Oliver turned and left to join the rest of Gryffindor in the Great Hall, where his former house celebrated grandly its most recent victory.

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