Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Anarchy as Art	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 12617 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

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Chapter Ten—Shift in a Moment

            “Come dance with me.”

            Malfoy didn’t give Harry a lot of choice; he was already towing him in the direction of a crowd of people whose movements were a bit more rhythmic than the ones around them, suggesting dancing if you squinted. Harry let his mouth form a devilish smile, or one that he hoped was devilish—

            And walked where Malfoy pushed him.

            Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was the audacity that had overcome him the moment he saw the ward Malfoy had left on his door, and told him that no one else was going to control him, unless he chose to follow along. Part of it was the desire to throw Malfoy off and make him wonder what Harry was going to do next. From the way that Malfoy paused several times on the way there, if only for a second at a time, told Harry that that was working.

            And part of it was desire, pure and simple.

            Ron had been right, damn him. Harry’s mouth dried out when he watched Malfoy move, and only some of it came from thinking about caging him at last and denying him the ability to run off and train anyone else in the Dark Arts. More of it came from the smooth roll of Malfoy’s hips, from the length of his legs and his neck when he turned his head to the side and the Sarcophagus’s constantly shifting lights caught on his face, and the spark in his eyes when he at last turned to face Harry.

            Harry expected Malfoy to ask if he could dance, to taunt him about the disaster that had been the Yule Ball, to make some demand that would come out as an insult, given the fire that still burned in his eyes. But he did none of those things. He whisper-hissed, “Dance with me,” instead, and arched his head back to the music, his body pressing in until his hips were the leading portion of him and jabbed into Harry’s stomach.

            He was hard. Of course he was. And Harry, stepping further in and rubbing his groin against Malfoy’s as he arched higher on his toes, wasn’t even trying to pretend that he wasn’t, as well.

            Malfoy faltered in his smooth, twisting dance steps, to what music Harry wasn’t sure, because of all the many different kinds that dashed and clashed through the air around them. Then he leaned down and stared at Harry with his masks cracked to pieces and a surprisingly young face showing under them.

            I think it’s all his masks, Harry reminded himself, even as his heart bounded like a wild hare to meet Malfoy’s gaze. That doesn’t mean it is, and it doesn’t mean that he would let me see the real him, no matter what. The real him is a thief and a liar, a Dark Arts master and a Slytherin. I can’t trust him.

            “You do want me,” Malfoy said, the thick emotion in his voice soft as a spring breeze. For a moment, his fingers slid hesitantly up and down Harry’s cheek, down and back to the nape of his neck.

Then he seized him in a kiss wilder than any of the ones they had shared so far and whirled him to the side, making Harry laugh in spite of himself as they began a furious dance. Their cloaks and hips banged into and blinded the people around them, and those people moved to the side, complaining only a little. At the Cycling Celebration, most of those attending expected to be bumped eventually.

            “You could come with me, now,” Malfoy panted, breaking the kiss. His hair was mussed, some pieces standing on end, although Harry couldn’t imagine how, since both of their hands were locked considerably lower on each other’s bodies. Maybe it had picked up on the pure electric nervousness radiating from Malfoy and stood up on its own. “Come with me. I have a room near here—I have all these rooms, all these havens—Harry, I want to show them all to you, and show you me—”

            Harry pulled back with a sucking-in of air and a shake of his head, and thought, full of wonder himself but for a different reason, He’s forgotten what I am. He promises to show me his secrets, but he assumes nothing else can compare with himself. That must be the reason I danced with him, he thinks, that must be the reason that I’m here and nothing else—

            A whisper in the back of his mind arose then and dashed itself through his thoughts. Is that because I’m the only thing that matters to him, out of the Ministry and the Aurors and everything else I represent?

            It was a disturbing thought, and Harry shook his head again to deal with it. Malfoy’s hands tightened on his arms, and he moved in again. Too close this time, crush of cloth to skin, crush of erections, and Harry swayed and winced, somewhere on the line between pleasure and pain.

            “You want me,” Malfoy whispered. “I came here to seek you. Why should we wait? If you were still ignoring me or playing hard to get, that would be one thing, but I came for you, and you didn’t say no.”

            Harry met his eyes and gave him a mean little smile. He had to remind himself that the flirtation was only flirtation, and separate from what he felt. He couldn’t have sex with Malfoy not because he had to keep himself pure or anything like that, but because it would compromise the arrest he would otherwise need permission to wring out of Thorin.

            “You think that you’re worth giving everything up for?” Harry flicked his fingers at the air, delighted that he could tell the truth and not even have to make up a lie. “You think that I’ll compromise myself and my status as an Auror just like that, for a face , a body, a fuck I could find in anyone here?”

            Unexpectedly, Malfoy smiled, and there was a dark fire in his face that Harry had never seen before. Malfoy had sounded furious in the Howler, and delighted when he broke into Harry’s home to decorate it, but this was something deeper than either one of them, a combination of them that made Harry tighten his hands on Malfoy’s arms before he thought better of it.

            “Do I think that I’m better than them?” Malfoy breathed, bowing his head and blowing a stream of warm air along the side of Harry’s neck. “No. I know that I’m better than that. That there’s no one in here who can satisfy you like I do.”

            “Like you could, you mean,” Harry said, and tilted his head, meeting Malfoy’s eyes and holding them, refusing to allow them to move away. “Given that you’ve never been allowed to satisfy those needs yet.”

            Malfoy gave him a smile that curved up at the corners and said, “You are correct in your use of modal verbs. Allow me to substitute another one of them for could, however. That one is will.”

            Harry opened his mouth to correct that use to “would,” and then stopped and arched his back urgently, because Malfoy’s hand was down his pants, and it was a little hard to do anything else.

            It was—it wasn’t unpleasant, as the long, slender fingers slid along his cock and down, nails teasing at the insides of his thighs. Of course it wasn’t, and Harry didn’t need Ron to tell him that pretending it was would have been a lie.

            But he couldn’t catch his breath, either, and he couldn’t stop thinking that someone would see even with the press of bodies all around them, and he couldn’t stop thinking that it was unprofessional, and he couldn’t stop his cheeks from heating up and his breath from heating up and his body from heating up.

            He was hotter than the promised drink would have made him.

            He could have stopped it, the same way he could have stopped the kiss in the Leaky Cauldron. And there were the same excellent reasons to stop it. Thorin might hear of it—he might get in trouble—this was Malfoy, and he shouldn’t be letting Malfoy arouse him that way—

            But the reasons buzzed and hammered behind a closed door, and it was something else entirely that made Harry reach out and catch Malfoy’s wrist, shaking his head.

            “Why not?” Malfoy demanded, breathless. Harry looked up, and his heart bounded. Malfoy was looking at him with his eyes a blind, dazzling grey, and his hands trembling, and his hair trembling around him, too, with the force of his shaking head. Harry didn’t know whether he was denying the way Harry held his hand or his own thoughts, and it didn’t matter.

            “I’ve already been in trouble once for doing this in public,” Harry said, and that still wasn’t the reason for stopping, or the reason for the way he squeezed Malfoy’s hand, low and hard on the wrist, promising, tempting, teasing. “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll make sure that there’s no one else around to witness us?”

            Malfoy bowed his head and nibbled the edge of Harry’s ear. “I thought,” he breathed, while his tongue and his teeth drove Harry to distraction and somehow never interrupted or tangled his words, “that you would never let me do that. That you came here to be in public.”

            “I came here to see if you would follow me,” Harry said, pulling back and staring up into Malfoy’s face. Lies and truth mingled in his voice and his mind, and his tongue might have tripped over itself if he tried to clarify matters. He didn’t try. He squeezed both of Malfoy’s hands, which he held now, and murmured, “That part of it worked. Now I want to see your boast proved true.”

            Malfoy’s eyelashes flickered up and down—long pale eyelashes, Harry thought absently, but darker than he would have expected from the color of Malfoy’s hair. Malfoy cleared his throat roughly and then whispered, “I know that you want to catch me. I shouldn’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

            “That’s one way of looking at it,” Harry said, and leaned forwards to nuzzle up against Malfoy’s neck. He stuck his tongue out, the way he had never done before, and scraped it up the skin. Malfoy’s legs buckled, and a strong taste of salt filled Harry’s mouth. He wasn’t sure which result he liked better.

            “I shouldn’t trust you,” Malfoy said in a husky whisper, and his head hung sideways, baring the other side of his throat to Harry’s curious tongue. Harry tasted the salt, and his ears heard the buzz of Malfoy’s breathing, and his fingers bit into Malfoy’s hips and felt the slenderness of the bones there and the sway of his legs, and he smelled sweat and pre-come, and his eyes closed with blackness.

            “I know you shouldn’t,” Harry said. “But I tempt you anyway. You’re going to take me to bed anyway, because you can never resist a challenge, and you hope that you can turn me away from the Ministry at the same time as I’m trying to find an excuse to put you in prison.” His voice was clear, fluent, although he felt as close to drunk as he’d ever come without touching alcohol in the same evening. His legs kept up the steps of the dance, such as they were, and his chest drummed on emptiness. “You want me. And there’s nothing wrong with sleeping with an Auror, nothing criminal about it. Unless you’re trying to bribe me and I’m the Auror on the case.”

            Malfoy laughed, and his voice was thick as he stooped down to Harry. “Come with me.”

            He must have had a Portkey, because the Cycling Celebration had anti-Apparition wards up; there was too much chance, with the constant crowd, that someone Apparating in wouldn’t arrive in a clear space. Harry found himself in a room made dim with dark red tapestries on the wall, and thick with both their breathing, and crushed to Malfoy’s chest in the next moment, Malfoy’s tongue down his throat.

            But Harry kept his head this time; the jerking sensation of the Portkey in his stomach helped, and for once he was grateful that he hated that feeling. He pulled back from the kiss, and smiled at Malfoy, and dropped to one knee, reaching out with his hands to cradle Malfoy’s hips and hold him there, smoothing down the cloth that covered him.

            Malfoy looked at him once again with those drowning eyes, and a shiver traced through Harry’s body, the path that it had traced more than once before. To have such power over someone, why did Malfoy give it to him, it was ridiculous to think that he didn’t know what was going on…

            But they both knew what was going on, and this was about the edges of what they could get away with, and the moment that one of them would finally break and—

            And what? Harry didn’t think he knew, but it would be a grand shattering.

            He intended to be the one who did the breaking, not the one who broke.

            He looked up at Malfoy for a few moments in silence, and then he leaned forwards and rested the palm of his hand flat over the bulge at Malfoy’s groin.

            Malfoy tilted his head back and groaned urgently, his hips snapping forwards as though he was trying to control himself and failing. That was just what Harry had hoped for, of course, so he gave Malfoy a mysterious smile and rested his cheek against the erection when Malfoy had stopped moving.

            He shuddered himself at feeling the head of Malfoy’s cock dent his cheek, as if it was already inside his mouth. Then again, if he played this right, that last part wouldn’t be happening at all. He turned his head to the side and opened his mouth.

            Malfoy groaned brokenly and reached out with both hands, plunging his fingers into Harry’s tangled hair. He began to push, rubbing the head of his cock insistently against Harry’s lips and the tip of his extended tongue. Harry smiled up at him, and whatever Malfoy saw in his smile—which didn’t have that much promise, as far as Harry knew—made him groan again and jab his hips forcefully.

            “Don’t look at me like that, with all the world burning in your smile,” he whispered. “Suck me.”

            But Harry still didn’t intend for that to happen, just to give him his own cover of plausible lies in case Thorin should ask if he’d touched Malfoy with his mouth. Instead, he tugged Malfoy’s trousers gently down, revealing the fine cloth of his pants. Harry reached out and cupped his hands in the air around Malfoy’s cock. He kept looking at the wet spot on the front of the pants, and found it hard to take his eyes away.

            “Touch me,” Malfoy whispered, gasping at the end of the words as if it had taken all his breath to say them.

            Harry shook his head. His mouth was thick, full, dripping with wetness. He would find it hard to refuse anything that Malfoy might ask of him right now, he thought, but some things, he still could.

            Because he isn’t asking the right things.

            “Just a moment,” he said, and crooked his little fingers towards the sides of Malfoy’s shaft, opening his mouth wider and wider. He eased his head closer, closer, his tongue dipping out and forming a curve, his jaws parting until he knew Malfoy could see his lips folded over his teeth.

            Malfoy’s breath sounding as if he was on his deathbed, so quick, so sudden. Harry reached out with one little finger and skimmed the cloth over the head, murmuring, “And what would you do if you found yourself in me, all that heat you’ve dreamed of, able to shut me up just by thrusting your hips—”

            Malfoy cried out and tilted his head back. Harry got a good view of his chin, and the dusky flush along his throat, and knew that he was a moment away from coming.

            He blew, gently, along the soaked cloth, and this time let both his little fingers come to rest on Malfoy.

            Malfoy came in his pants, pumping, grabbing at Harry’s hair again. Harry let Malfoy drag his head towards him and rub and root some more, well-content. As long as Malfoy was the one who had succumbed this time and not Harry, there was the chance that he would trust against his will, give his secrets away not because he was choosing to but because he wanted so desperately to impress Harry, and—

            Harry became aware that his heart and his cock seemed to share one beat, and that his hand itched with the desire to reach down and stroke himself.

            But that didn’t matter. It couldn’t be allowed to matter.

            Instead, Harry caught Malfoy gracefully as he collapsed and laid him on the room’s bed, a large one covered with a red canopy and blankets. Harry wondered for a moment if the blankets were meant to be a compliment to him, Gryffindor colors, but it seemed impossible, and he put the thought aside a moment later.

            “Stay,” Malfoy said voicelessly, catching Harry’s wrist with one hand and appealing more with his eyes than anything else.

            Harry waited until Malfoy fell asleep, kissed his forehead, cast the spell that subdued his own erection, and then began to move around the room. He had already felt that Malfoy’s wards were tuned to him, and wouldn’t prevent him from Apparating out; he had to wonder how long that had been true.

            So none of them should snap at him if he did a little judicious snooping, either.

            And he ignored the memory of Malfoy’s skin and hands and eyes, because he couldn’t get any work done if he thought about them. His tactics had changed, and he had to thank Ron for the insight that had made them do so. But that still didn’t mean he was going to change other things.

*

            Molly: Thanks for reviewing!

            SP777: I'm sorry to hear about the bad days. I hope everything has improved since then!

            Well, Harry doesn't play that hard to get. But now, in a sense, he's made things worse for himself.

            AlterEquis: Ron is. Or, at least, he's smarter than Harry about this one particular thing.

            unneeded: Harry is angry that Malfoy dared to do that at all. He still doesn't think of himself as belonging to Malfoy, really.
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