Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Old School	By : Mephistedes Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2963 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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.

Chapter List
- 1-Old School
- 1
Old School

Disclaimer —This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling and the Funky Bunch (Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books,
Warner Bros., Inc., etc). If I’m making money off of this, then I need to be put in prison.
As it is, I’m not, so ... ha. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: When he was younger, Draco Malfoy used to say sex was dead after 65. Of course, at the time, he wasn't talking about himself.

Special thanks to Ellen for helping me with the stereotypes, the makers of Fixodent, and
our elderly mentors in general. Here’s to bringing sexyback to 65!

Warning: Tons of elderly stereotypes and jokes. Elderly folks will hate me, and other readers
might think I’ve got something against the older folks. I don’t, and I’m not trying to slight or
offend anyone. I understand that there are just stereotypes and there’s no real truth to
[many of] them. I’m just taking everything I’ve learned from my grandmothers and the panics
that my parents get from realizing they’re closer to 65 than 40 and compiling it all into our
two favorite guilty pleasures.

.:.

          “We never have sex anymore.”

          Draco frowned, glancing at Harry over the rim of his bifocals as he slowly set down
the latest issue of the Golden Folks periodical. It had taken him an hour to get past the first
paragraph on the wonder of prunes, but he found his mind wandering to everything but. Plus,
the fact that he stopped and squinted at every word wasn’t helping much, either.

          Harry scowled at him, his wrinkles deepening in his weathered face. His spotted hand
was pensively clenched in the graying fur of their eldest Persian, Louis.

          With a drawn sigh, Draco Malfoy shifted the magazine off his lap, startled when Ringo,
their six-year-old Chartreux, leapt in its place. “Harry, be serious.”

          The Gryffindor gave him a disbelieving look. “I am! The last time you went down on
me Dumbledore was still alive!”

          Draco paused, his bony fingers buried in Ringo’s downy fur as the rickety wheels of his
mind oiled themselves into a slow turn. “Dumbledore’s dead?”

          “Yeah,” Harry gave him a weird look behind his roped spectacles, shifting Louis to
make room for Helene. “Oh,” his creased face blanked in realization. “Did you forget again?
Cor, these bloody memory lapses.” He pushed the miffed felines to the foot of the bed and
set one knobbly leg out of the bed as he reached for his walking stick. “Here, I’ll get the
picture book again. Hermione was right, they do come in quite handy...”

          Draco’s expression cleared and he shook his head slightly, scratching at his silver hair.
“Oh, yes, don’t bother; I remember now.” He nodded slowly, gracing his partner with a
crooked grin as he licked his teeth. “One lemon drop too many.”

          Harry sat back in bed with a laugh that quickly turned into a hacking wheeze, which
caused the cats to scramble. As he coughed into his fist, his other hand grappled at the
bedside table, his fingers brushing against the starchy cloth of his handkerchief.

          While all this happened, Draco sat back with a dismayed expression, watching as
Harry’s coughing fit came to an end as he spat a large gob into the cloth. As Harry’s lips
smacked as he chewed, Draco pulled off his bifocals and deadpanned, “That’s the reason we
don’t fuck. The foreplay sucks. ‘Is that Ben-Gay in your pants or has your E.D. dissipated?’ I
mean, honestly...”

          Harry glared as he forced himself to calm down, his frail chest rising and falling
rapidly with a stitch. “That’s another reason we don’t have sex: our lungs would probably
give out.”

          “Nonsense.” Harry shrugged off, dabbing his face with the duvet as he sunk back into
his orthopedic pillows. “I’m as...” he sniffed and panted, stifling the urge to yawn as it was
barely eight o’clock, “... fit as ... an ox, my boy.”

          “An ox whose been nearly flogged to death. And I hate it when you say that, ‘my
boy’.” The Slytherin studied the buttons of his striped pajamas. “It makes me feel so ... ” he
shrugged, his tongue rolling over the folds at the corners of his mouth. “So ... old.”

          “Poppycock,” Harry sputtered, struggling to sit straight. “Why, Dumbledore used to
call me ‘his boy’ all the time.”

          Draco threw him a wry look. “And where is he now?”

          “Oh ... right. Rest his soul, the poor lad.”

          “God, we even talk like old people!”

          “What’s with your ‘old’ hang ups?” Harry posed, running his fingers through his
unmanageable gray and white hair. “You’re a bit late to be dreading it; we’re practically six
feet under as it is.”

          “Christ, don’t talk like that!” Draco growled, crossing his arms. “I hate this. It seems
like it was ages ago that we were poking fun at my parents while they were waltzing at the
thirtieth anniversary Ministry Ball,” Draco mournfully brought up. “Their bones were popping
so loud I could’ve sworn the floor was covered with bubble wrap.”

          “Hmph,” Harry coughed. “Now look at us.”

          Draco shook his head, sweeping his limp, silver-white locks from his eyes and back
over the bald spot on the back of his head. “I used to look forward to growing old in my
twenties. Seemed like a world away.”

          “And then once again, we were screwed over by time.” Harry dryly replied.

          “Remember when I found my first gray hair?” He slid his gray eyes over to his
husband. Harry paused, squinting at the wall opposite their bed as if the answer was painted
among the paisley.

          “No. It escapes me.”

          “Exactly! I don’t even remember!”

          “Draco, be serious. It’s not that bad.”

          “You’re right,” the former Slytherin mirthlessly chuckled as Alphonse, Biscuit, and
Buttons sauntered into the bedroom. “It’s much, much worse!”

          “Draco,” Harry warningly began, “We never have sex anymore.”

          His face pulling a frown, the gray-eyed wizard stared at his husband intently. “I heard
you the first time.”

          “I...” Harry paused, a look of bemusement washing over his features. “I did?”

          Draco tiredly sighed as Louis brushed against his soles.

          Harry blinked as if realizing where he was and continued, “We used to fuck any time,
anywhere. Now I feel like a dirty old man when I say ‘fuck’.”

          “Can we still be considered ‘dirty old men’ if we haven’t?”

          “Hard ons weren’t in short supply.” Draco pitifully nodded, frowning at his lap. “Now
I take gingko balboa—”

          “Gingko biloba,” he corrected.

          “Right.” Harry acknowledged, pausing to chew on his tongue. “I take gingko balboa so
I can remember what it’s like to have a hard on.”

          Draco rolled his eyes and scratched behind Benedict the Russian Blue’s ears. Of
course, Harry was right. They hadn’t had sex in years. He wasn’t aware when it had stopped;
their marriage had been a blur of sex and Quidditch, sex and society, sex and peaceful living.
Draco Malfoy wasn’t one to reminisce about sex. He did. And boy, did he do. When he’d
heard about the Muggle and Wizarding drugs for elder wizards to enjoy sex, he’d laughed,
saying sex was dead after forty, let alone sixty-nine. Then he proceeded to chuckle at the
connotation of his words.

          He’d never once thought that sex would be a problem when they’d got older. Harry
had often joked that if he’d been buried alive at eighty, his dick could drill a hole through
the coffin and find its way back to Harry’s arse. And Draco had believed him. His cock was
better than any alarm clock: 6:30 AM without fail, it’d be at attention and burrowing
between the warm barracks of Harry’s mouth or arse. And Harry wouldn’t protest. Sex and
love, that’s what their relationship was all about.

          Then out of the blue, they’d just stopped. No sex. They’d never even talked about it,
or agreed, or written down, ‘sex stops at sixty-five’. Never once had Harry put him off one
night, or did he not feel the urge to stick his throbbing dick in Harry’s mouth or arse (he
wasn’t particular about which hole of Harry’s he desired). Fucking after dinner with
chocolate sauce had become the evening stroll; telly shows they found racy and exotic were
replaced with quiz games and Coronation Street and repeats of Are You Being Served?; wee-hour club hopping was exchanged for staying at home and feeding the cats, reminiscing on
the ‘old days’ when hearing of drunken promiscuity in their youth had been hilarious; and
now in their latter years, they frowned on it disapprovingly.

          And since when had his cock quit its job? He couldn’t remember the last time it had
awoken him and nestled itself between Harry’s cheeks, eager to start the day.

          When had they settled? When had the flame of their lust, their marriage, their lives
... died down into a amply satisfied vanilla scented candle? Draco Malfoy never thought he’d
see the day when he’d forget sex. And he couldn’t even remember when he’d forgotten!

          He and Harry vowed they’d never get old. When had that oath been broken?

          “When was the last time you gave me a blow job?” Harry questioned, giving the
Slytherin a sideways glance.

          “Depends,” Draco wryly answered as he ran his tongue over his teeth. “When’s the
last time my back went out?” He narrowly avoided the slap Harry sent his way. Defeated,
Harry slumped back into his pillows, accepting the comfort from both Draco and his favorite
feline, Patches.

          “I’m old and I’m horny,” he miserably stated. “It’s a vicious cycle.”

          Draco huffed a world-weary sigh. “Fine. You’re horny? We’ll do something about it,
you doddery old fool.” He groaned as he set Annaliese down at his feet and stood. He
hummed as he peeled off his pajamas, idly remembering it had never taken him this long to
undress for sex, and primly folded them, setting them on the wingback near the bed. When
he spun toward the bed he froze, hum dying in his throat as he eyed Harry’s unamused look.
“What?”

          “Are you quite finished?” He slowly inquired as Draco scoffed, descending ever so
slowly onto the bed. “You’d better hurry up; we don’t know how long this’ll last.” He
motioned to the tent in his pajama bottoms.

          Draco grumbled as his bones made an unattractive popping noise. “When you get the
lotion,” he groaned as he kneeled to drag Harry’s bottoms off and settle between his legs,
“save some for my joints. After this, I fear my arthritis’ll start acting up again.”

          A befuddled expression scrunched up Harry’s heavily-lined face. “You’ve still got
that? Didn’t you get the potion from Snape last week?”

          Draco ran his tongue along his teeth. “Snape’s dead, remember?”

          “You don’t say!”

          Draco stared at Harry as his knobby fingers danced along his legs in some semblance
of foreplay. “Been dead over thirty years now.”

          “When did that happen?” He asked, picking his wand up from his night table and
shoving the cats out with a gentle spell (many of them did not look pleased). He locked the
door with a nonverbal spell, ignoring the insistent pawing at their door.

          With a thwarted groan, Draco budged toward his side of the bed where his cane sat.
“Hang on, I’ll get the damned picture book...”

          “No, no,” Harry decided, pulling Draco back toward him with some effort. “Don’t
bother. All this talk of Snape is making my willy wilt, and that volume is bound to make me
hate sex forever. Honestly, who dies from explosive diarrhea?” He stifled a yawn as Draco
once again sat between his knees. “Well? Do you need a running start or are you gonna do
this, Malfoy?”

          “Patience was never your strong point, Potter,” Draco returned, his hands tremulously
running up the Gryffindor’s legs. “And do something about these veins on your legs. I don’t
want to look down at a bloody map of the London Underground every time I suck your cock.”

          “So you promise this will be a regular occurrence, then?” Harry joked, propping
himself up on the pillows. He laced his fingers in Draco’s hair as he felt the first tentative
swipes of his tongue.

          It felt like heaven; he remembered Draco’s mouth often did. He felt the Slytherin’s
slimy tongue coasting up and down his nowadays rare erection, rediscovering dips and
grooves and corners as he explored.

          Draco sniffed as he worked past the head and down the shaft, his tongue sliding along
the vein on the underside of Harry’s dick. He groaned as Harry’s erection seemed to fill his
mouth far sooner than he expected; he hadn’t read about cocks stretching in old age.

          Harry throatily moaned as Draco continued to suck him into oblivion. Gone were the
concerns of time, appearance, what was right and wrong: he didn’t care that his body was
covered in liver spots and wrinkles, or that his chest and stomach weren’t as tight as they
were twenty years ago. He smiled through half-lidded eyes at how the lights played off of
Draco’s bald spot, and the scratch of Draco’s whiskers (from his chin and his thick eyebrows)
on his groin.

          He didn’t care that Draco was sloppy, his saliva dripping all over his groin from being
out of practice for so long. He didn’t care that he heard the bones in his feet cry in protest
as his toes curled and his feet arched. He didn’t care that this was the most unsightly view
ever, of two old codgers in bed sucking dick. For Harry, it was fantastic. It was amazing. It
was ... it was ...

          “Poh...”

          Draco perked at the sound, his brow furrowing as he felt Harry wither in his mouth.
He gave a particularly hard suck and was floored that Harry’s dick remained the same.

          “Poh...”

          Annoyed, Draco glanced up only to find Harry catching forty winks with his glasses
skewed over his face. “POTTER!” He shouted around his cock.

          Harry jerked awake, his hands flying to straighten his glasses and his wand already in
hand. “WHA—! Stupefy!” A jet of scarlet erupted from his wand and slammed into the door,
blackening it. He heard their cats screech and scramble across the hardwood floors in all
directions on the other side of the door. Green eyes blinking awake behind his eyeglasses,
Harry chewed, staring around the room and finally settling on the moist warmth enveloping
his groin.

          He came upon a very annoyed Draco Malfoy, arms crossed and face marred in a black
look. “Sorry if I was boring you.”

          Harry grimaced, setting his wand down and slumping into his pillows. “Sorry. By all
means: continue.”

          With a dark look, Draco fell back on his dick with fervor, intent on keeping him
awake. Harry sat back to enjoy Draco’s mouth once again, and it was fantastic. Only one
slight problem.

          “Draco?” Harry quietly called as he opened his eyes. Draco continued to mouth his
cock and balls and Harry couldn’t help the moan that escaped his throat. “Oh ... Malfoy,” he
moaned, but the excessive wetness on his cock was distracting. “Malfoy are you—are you ...
crying?”

          Harry was alarmed as Draco pulled off with an audible ‘smack!’ and sniffled, wiping at
his eyes. “No,” he replied, rubbing at his gray eyes. “The Ben-Gay’s a little strong. It’s
making my eyes burn.”

          Harry sheepishly grinned. “Oh, sorry. I forgot to mention I pulled something while I
was working in the garden.”

          “I told you to be careful!”

          “Right,” Harry guiltily replied, budging up against his pillows as Draco sucked his cock
back in. His hips jerked and he threaded his fingers in Draco’s hair, his hands shaking from
either tugging to hard or straining his muscles. He felt his cock wilt and harden and
desperately tried to focus on keeping his prick up.

          “Leggo of my ears, I know what I’m doing,” Draco spoke around the cock in his mouth.

          “Sorry,” Harry apologized, instead pulling at the duvet. After several more minutes of
Draco’s sucking, Harry felt he was losing the battle with his wilting erection. “Draco stop,”
he ordered as he yanked on his white hair. “You’re working twice as hard as I am to keep it
up.”

          The Slytherin obliged, pulling back from his dick with a wet pop. He graced Harry with
a toothy grin. “How was it?”

          “Er...” Harry fished, deciding to honestly reply, “...wet.” As Draco prepared to
respond, Harry cried in horror when the most incredible thing happened.

          Draco’s dentures fell onto his groin with a loud, ‘CLACK!’

          “God, no! No! NO!” Harry yelled, squeezing his sunken eyes shut and pulling at his
hair. “That did not just happen!”

          The gray-eyed Slytherin winced, offering his husband an apologetic smile. “Shah-wee.”

          “Did you forget the Sticking Charm?”

          “Well,” Draco began as he seized the dentures from Harry’s groin before the
Gryffindor could roll over and crush them, “itch not ahzif we planned dish,” he defended.
There was a loud clattering sound as Draco popped his teeth back in and clicked them
together to adjust. He ran his tongue over his teeth and pushed it hard against them, finally
beaming at his disgusted husband. “There!”

          Harry graced him with an unamused scowl. “That was not funny.” Draco had the
audacity to look ashamed as he sat back up and avoided Harry’s angry elbowing. “Just for
that, we’re doing doggy style.”

          “You know I have bad knees,” Draco complained, his brow creased in displeasure.
“Can’t we spoon? It’s been a while...”

          “No. Besides, we need a bit of excitement.”

          “Harry,” Draco couldn’t believe he was whining. A Malfoy—whining? Inconceivable!
“Do you want me to break this hip?” Harry threw him a dirty look as he shrugged off his top.
“I just got the bones in this one reset.”

          Harry thoughtfully paused from wrestling with his shirt. “Pomfrey?”

          The white-haired wizard rolled his eyes. “She’s—”

          “Dead, I remember.” He nodded, frowning.

          “At any rate, if I break this one, I’m killing you,” Draco darkly promised as he
scrubbed his fingers over his gaunt cheeks. “Anyway, why the change? Does my face revolt
you that much?” He teased, grabbing Harry’s shirt and folding it. Harry avoided his eyes and
mumbled. “What’s that?” Draco asked, placing the shirt a ways away from them.

          Harry muttered something behind his wrinkled palm, a bit louder. Draco’s brow
lowered and he twisted a finger in his ear, cursing the tufts of white blocking it. Huh. So
that’s where the hair from his head went. “Say again?” Harry glared at him, and repeated
himself, a tad bit louder. Draco groaned and slapped his thighs in frustration. “Blast it, I
don’t hear a word you’re saying!”

          “Use the bloody Hearing Charm, damn it!” Harry growled, leaning over to seize
Draco’s cane.

          “Oh,” the elder wizard replied, twisting his wand from his snake’s head cane.
Sometimes ridiculous customs did come in handy (at least he didn’t have to remember where
he put his wand). He tapped the hawthorn wand against each ear and quietly muttered the
charm to adjust his hearing. “All right, what were you saying?” He asked again, storing his
wand away.

          He could see the tinge of color painting each of Harry’s cheeks beneath the lines in
his face. “I said,” the Gryffindor quietly started, “I’m afraid.”

          Draco frowned, confused. “Well, why?”

          Harry sighed, a heavy sigh, as they all seemed to be these past few years. “I’m afraid
if I lie down—and don’t laugh,” he pointed a gnarled finger in Draco’s direction, “if I lie
down, I ... I might not be able to ... get back up.”

          “Oh.” Came Draco’s soft response. “Garden. Right. Good point. Well, better my knees
than your back, eh?” He shrugged, already pushing down on Harry’s back. Harry protested,
groaning as his back cracked.

          “Oh! All that Quidditch,” he grunted, slowly rolling onto his front.

          “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

          “Yeah,” Harry replied, shifting his knees beneath him and climbing to his elbows. He
winced as he heard his bones popping in succession a cacophonic symphony chock-full of
forewarning. “Who knew all those injuries and mid-air collisions we walked off and ignored
would come back to bite us in the ass?” He paused, leaning heavily on one elbow as his other
arm froze in place. “Wait, why do I have to bottom?”

          Draco smiled charmingly and replied, “Because I bottomed last time.”

          Harry raised an eyebrow, casting him a suspicious glance. “How do you know?”

          Draco gave him a half-scandalized look. “Don’t you remember?”

          “No.”

          “Good.” He smiled, pulling Harry’s other arm into place. “Prop yourself up, I don’t
want to hurt my back this time around. Should we use a condom?”

          Harry glared at him over his shoulder. “If you get me pregnant at this age, I’ll kill you
with my bare hands.” The underlying promise in his witty tone hit Draco like a ton of bricks.

          “Right.” He acknowledged, Summoning the lotion from their bathroom. He squeezed a
generous amount on his cock (it had finally woken up) and slicked it up with a pleasant sigh.
He felt at home.

          “Don’t get started without me,” Harry taunted. “It was my idea, after all. You’re not
going to prepare me?”

          “No,” Draco scoffed, pumping into his warm hand. “Why bother? You could fit the
broad end of a Firebolt up your bum.”

          “Could not!” Harry argued, affronted.

          “You know,” Draco casually began as he wrapped an arm around Harry’s middle.
“Knuckles is still missing,” He poked a finger through Harry’s entrance and replied, “I
wonder if he’s in there ... now, where’s that damn cat?”

          “Draco, stop it,” Harry struggled to be affronted. But how could he when he thought
of what they were about to do? He used to cringe when the twins or Seamus Finnigan joked
about McGonagall and Dumbledore shagging atop the headmaster’s desk or the head table at
nights. Hell, he even felt nauseous now just thinking about them going at it! But now, it was
him; it was them, Harry and Draco, barely a decade past their hundredth year, and now they
were the ones shagging. Strangely enough, his erection didn’t flag.

          “All right, here goes,” Draco warned as he molded his aged body to Harry’s equally
creased form, running a quivering hand down his lover’s flank. He uttered a strained grunt as
he pressed into Harry’s warmth easily, sheathing himself fully in one sitting. Harry shuddered
beneath him, his limbs quaking and his breath coming out in a shivering gasp. After all these
years, it warmed his heart to know Draco still made him feel this way.

          “Ready?” Draco replied after he let the gray-haired Gryffindor adjust.

          Harry’s lips thinned as he sucked in a breath and nodded. “Born ready. But
remember,” he quickly added as Draco began to pull back, “One wrong move and I may
never walk again.”

          “S’not funny,” Draco strained, thrusting back in slowly. “Oh, fuck Viagra and the
Weasleys’ Prick-in-a-Box,” he shook, withdrawing slowly from Harry’s body. “All that’s
needed is your arse!”

          “Well,” Harry swallowed, raising up from his elbows to card a hand through Draco’s
hair, “you’ll forgive me if I don’t bend over for the rest of the elder wizarding population.”
Draco huffed a wheezy sort of laugh as he straightened Harry’s posture, forming his body to
Harry’s. He couldn’t for the life of him remember when they’d stopped having sex. Or why:
God! This was brilliant!

          He didn’t mind that Harry’s dick drooped and stiffened, drooped and stiffened, every
other minute, nor did he mind the feel of weathered skin against his. The fact that he’d
groped a handful of sagging breast than nipple on Harry didn’t phase him in the least, neither
did the wheezing, sputtering breaths puffing out of their mouths as he pushed in and out, his
pace quickening. If he dislodged his hip or ruined his knees, Draco Malfoy couldn’t care in the
least. All the bitterness that he’d felt with age had completely gone from his mind: all that
was left, was him and Harry.

          And that was all he needed.

          His breath hitched and he felt a slight stitch in his side as he pumped faster and more
wildly. His fingers squeezed at his panting husband’s sides and he reveled in Harry’s moan as
he leaned down to nip his shoulder.

          “Oh, finally,” Harry gasped, sounding as if he’d been forced to run the length of the
pitch. “My dick’s gone fully hard. Be glad my prostate’s not the size of a—shit, do that
again!—a cantaloupe!”

          Draco gruffly chuckled, lathing his tongue over Harry’s leathery neck and shoulder and
placing small bites between licks. Harry’s hand fisted in his hair—his thumb brushing against
the hairless patch—and as Draco clawed at the slight flab in his belly, he laced their fingers
together. He was close, so close, and excited that time hadn’t stolen away his ability to
come deeply in his Gryffindor. He’d vaguely remembered reading that loads were
particularly large after a long period of celibacy; Draco couldn’t wait to test that theory.

          “I’m close,” Harry quaked, palming his erection. Draco batted his hand aside and
twisted him roughly, clamping his teeth down on Harry’s shoulder as his hips jerked wildly.
He could feel his impending climax, he was on the edge of a knife, teetering, he was there,
he was—

          CRACK!

          Draco’s eyes widened as pain lanced through his body and he stiffened.

          Harry breathed heavily, his brow furrowing when he felt Draco jerk to a complete
halt. “Draco?” he called, swaying from being on his knees for so long. No answer. “Draco,
why’d you stop?” A strange gurgling noise was all the answer he received. Worried, Harry’s
hands darted behind him to feel out his lover. Draco was still breathing, which was a good
sign, his dick was still rock hard, and he could hear the whine coming from his throat.
“Draco, what’s wrong?”

          Draco’s body throbbed painfully, objecting to any and all movement as it shook with
hurt.

          “Draco,” he could hear the panic in his husband’s voice and sympathized as he hadn’t
answered or moved an inch. “What’s—what’s wrong? Draco, answer me!”

          Swallowing around the shoulder lodged in his mouth, Draco tensely replied, “I’ng
schtuck. I ... rew out ... ngy wack.”

          “You—you threw out your back?”

          “Ung-huh.”

          Harry sharply sighed, half relieved and half alarmed. “Okay, let’s not panic,” he
began, taking deep breaths to swallow his heart back into his chest. “I’ll just summon my
wand and we’ll sort you out, okay?”

          Draco swallowed and mumbled, “Ung-huh.”

          “Good,” Harry replied, nodding to himself. “Then I’ll call up Pomfrey—”

          “Ponkrey’s dead!”

          “Oh, right,” Harry slapped his palm against his forehead. “Just—just hang tight and
I’ll get you off.” He rolled his eyes as Draco chuckled, slopping spit down his shoulder and
chest and down the mini rivulets made by the creases in his skin. “Not like that. I’ll bet
you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

          Draco guffawed. He was just happy that he’d got back into shagging. Gods, though
this was a complete disaster, he wouldn’t have given it up for anything. Just to be here, in
Harry’s arse, was chance enough.

          Harry chuckled with him, knowing exactly what Draco was thinking. Though this was
terrible, it was perfect. It was like they were seventeen again, fumbling around in bed and
shagging so badly all they could do was laugh about it afterward.

          And then he heard the dreaded clacking noise as Draco’s teeth once again came loose,
clattering to the bedclothes.

          “DRACO!”

          “Shah-wee!”

.:.

          “AAH!” Draco jolted awake with a yell. “AAH! AAAAH!” His hands flew out into the
darkness to inspect his body. His young skin had no wrinkles; his ears were clear of hair; oh,
his hair wasn’t receding; yes! His teeth were still real! And oh, thank God! His dick could drill
a hole through steel!

          “Ow!” He hissed as he yanked on his twenty-something bollocks. “They’re real!
They’re real! Harry, they’re real!”

          “Whazzit?” Harry sleepily asked as he turned over, moonlight beaming across his
befuddled face.

          Draco glanced at him and happily chuckled, pulling him back down on the bed. “Shit,”
he whispered in awe, panting and running a hand through his hair. He heard Harry smack his
lips as he yawned and watched him wipe at his bleary eyes.

          “Draco?” He said in concern.

          But Draco merely shook his head and waved him off. “Just—just a nightmare. Bloody
nightmare.”

          Harry sniffed, nodding in the darkness and upsetting his already unruly head of hair.
“Mm-kay,” he drowsily replied, his head snuggling into his pillow. They lay in silence for a
while, Harry drifting back to sleep and Draco staring up at the ceiling. He had to admit, it
was exceptionally daunting, growing old. He didn’t know how others did it, and without a
whisper of complaint in their direction, especially from the solitary elders, with no one to
face the harshness of time with.

          Glancing at his black-haired lover, Draco quietly beckoned, “Harry?”

          “Mmm?” Came his sleepy response.

          “Would you do me a favor?”

          Harry tiredly sighed. “Sure.”

          Draco spooned behind him, resting a hand on his young, smooth, taut stomach.
Leaning close, Draco murmured beseechingly, “Promise me we’ll never grow old, Harry.”

          Even in slumber, the Gryffindor snorted. “Why, that’s a silly thing to promise.”

          The gray-eyed wizard pressed his nose behind Harry’s ear and inhaled, succumbing to
exhaustion by that masculine scent. “Harry?”

          “Draco?” He teasingly mimed.

          “Even though I’m terrified of getting older...”

          “Mm ... yeah?”

          Draco stifled a yawn and nestled closer to Harry’s warmth, beneath the covers.
“...I’m glad I’m growing old and horny with you.”

          Harry yawned, lacing his fingers with Draco’s. “Me, too. G’night, Draco.”

          “And Harry?”

          “Yeah?”

          “Do me a favor.”

          Harry sighed and turned around in Draco’s embrace, groggily grinning at him in the
darkness. “As you wish.”

          “Go easy on the Ben-Gay,” Draco pleaded, shutting his eyes at Harry’s snort. “And the
cats.” He drowsily continued. “We’re definitely not getting any cats....”

          Harry chuckled, fitting his body to Draco’s to finally rest. “Whatever you say, Malfoy.
Whatever you say.”

END.

A/N: This idea came to me when my mother called me Friday afternoon and casually
mentioned, “Oh, I forgot my teeth today,” followed by a snicker. And for some reason, I just
pictured Draco Malfoy, 100+ years old, fresh from giving Harry Potter a blow job ... and his
teeth popping out. I hope you’re proud, mom and dad. ^.^

Also, I gotta cite the ‘gingko biloba/hard on quote’. It came from Ron White’s comedy
special. But my old anatomy teacher used to call gingko biloba ‘gingko balboa’. I’m guessing
he thought it was Rocky’s third cousin twice removed or something...
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Old School