Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Building With Worn-Out Tools	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 54266 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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
- 14
- 15
- 16
Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Fifteen—On Tenterhooks

            Harry had decided it would be best if he could simply avoid Malfoy’s attention, and his presence, for the time being. He wrote a letter to Hermione, as quietly and unobtrusively as possible—he didn’t even send the house-elves for ink or parchment—asking her what she knew about Lucius Malfoy’s location in the years immediately following the war, and demanding old copies of the Daily Prophet if she could get them. She’d paid much more attention to that kind of thing than Harry had, caught up as he was in fighting for a life of his own between the heroic ceremonies and courting Ginny.

            That done, he briefly considered prying into Malfoy’s library to see if he could locate the old copies of the Daily Prophet on his own, or perhaps find an address Malfoy might have sent money to, but he rejected the idea. His simple, quiet room was enough for him right now. Besides, he didn’t want—

            He just preferred to be by himself, that was all. Maybe having some distance from him would let Draco escape the effects of his magic.

            He curled up in his bed and dozed for a short time. Perhaps his problems would have the good grace to vanish before he woke up.

*

            Draco was not quite sure what Potter thought he was doing, but knowing him, it was something stupid.

            The tightened wards around the house had meant he caught Potter’s owl the moment she tried to depart with his letter. He’d read it, and started at the mention of his father’s name. Did Potter consider it his personal duty to rid the world of Lucius now?

            Probably not. Probably he simply thinks that the sooner he reveals Lucius’s location and whether the bastard has lived or died, the sooner he can leave, and the sooner he can be away from me.

            In the end, Draco grumpily let the owl depart, but then he found himself with nothing to do. His preparations for the next step in the process of making Blaise sorry he’d been born would take some time to complete, and he’d set in motion as much as he could right now, until he heard back from the investigators he’d set on the trail of Blaise’s past mistakes. He could always sit down with legal documents, perhaps read his correspondence and choose what client to take on when Potter’s case was done, or visit with his mother, but neither choice appealed to him.

            He set out down the hall, to wander the Manor the way he had when he was a boy. He found his footsteps leading him near Potter’s room quite soon, and he scowled for a moment, then shrugged. What he’d said to Potter the other day—that he owned the house and everything in it—was only accurate. Why shouldn’t he wander where he wanted? Why shouldn’t he do what he wanted?

            He opened Potter’s door. There were locking spells on it, but since they’d been cast without Draco’s permission, they dissolved the moment his hand touched the knob. Draco stepped inside, and ground his teeth when he found Potter curled in an innocently slumbering heap.

            How could he? Why wasn’t he humming with the aftereffect of hormones from that kiss this morning, the way Draco was?

            His thoughts were so busy that he didn’t realize, for long moments, that Potter had rolled over and aimed his wand at him. Then he realized it, and gave Potter the most unimpressed look he could muster.

            Potter just looked weary, and not because he’d been asleep. He scrubbed his face with a hand for a long moment, then sighed and said, in a gentle voice as though talking to a house-elf on the verge of punishing itself, “Listen, Malfoy, I know you can’t help it. I just wish you’d stay away from me so you’d heal faster, that’s all.”

            Draco stared at him. “What are you talking about?” he asked at last.

            “My magic.” Potter sat up, his hair further mussed from the pillows, his green eyes shaded with sorrow and returning alertness. The power he was talking about idled and stirred around him like an eddy of wind or water, sharply increasing Draco’s hunger. “What you said about wizards and witches being drawn to power told me the truth. The reason you’re attracted to me is my magic. Once I leave the Manor, that will fade, but—“

            Draco felt his control abruptly give way.

            He just couldn’t take this anymore. No matter what he did to show that his attraction was real, Potter made inane assumptions about it. He ignored his own obvious sexual tension with Draco to pretend that he was straight and nothing had changed. He tried to reason himself out of the most elementary conclusions that Draco induced him to come to. In other words, he acted as though the only relationship between them was the professional one.

            When had that ever been true?

            Draco strode forwards, thrust his hands out, captured Potter’s cheeks between his palms, and bit his lips savagely. When Potter opened his mouth to gasp out a denial or another one of his self-righteous platitudes, Draco thrust his tongue in instead.

            Then he climbed onto the bed and knocked Potter flat, straddling him. The blood roared in his ears, so that he couldn’t hear any of Potter’s complaints, and he felt a satisfaction as harsh and strong as the desire itself.

            If Potter wouldn’t listen—and by now it was absolutely clear that he wouldn’t—then Draco would make him feel the truth.

*



            Harry was a mass of blood.

            He could taste the coppery tang gathering in his mouth, and feel the frantic pounding of his heart as it drove blood through his veins at a great pace, and sense the hardening of his cock long before it actually began to be uncomfortable, trapped as it was between Malfoy’s belly and his trousers. He thrashed and twisted, trying to throw Malfoy off, but the tongue and the hands and the hips holding him prisoner were not to be denied. He couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t pretend he wasn’t a mass of blood, and couldn’t ignore Malfoy’s obvious desire, the way he rocked on top of Harry.

            Harry groaned shakily. Longing was a physical presence as painful as his trapped erection. It had been so long, with anyone, and memories of the way Malfoy had looked at him in the library the first night he stayed in the Manor made his hips rise and hump back.

            He told himself it was wrong. That it was no better than taking advantage of someone under a lust spell. That he had to calm down, had to ignore the sweet nausea in his belly, and remove himself from the bedroom for Malfoy’s own good.

            His body ignored him.

            His traitor hands rose up and twined in Malfoy’s hair, holding him to the kiss. The sensation of blood lessened, and pure pleasure took over its place. Kissing Ginny had never been a competition, a battle, like this. He twined his legs around Malfoy’s and did his best to throw the bastard to the bed, with himself on top.

            Malfoy resisted. Then he reared back, and Harry wondered for a terrified, dizzying moment if he would depart. That was what he should be hoping for, but he didn’t want it to happen. He would start thinking then, and he would drop from lust into the shame that spiraled just under it, waiting for him.

            But Malfoy merely spelled their clothes off, giving immediate and gratifying freedom to Harry’s erection, and then dropped on top of him and started fighting him again.

            Harry licked and gnawed at his lips, uncaring of the saliva that spilled everywhere. His voice might have called Malfoy Draco, might have begged him to fuck him. The memories tried to form, and then splintered apart under his desperate need and flew elsewhere. His legs opened wider, welcoming the full contact of Malfoy’s body and reducing his own range of movement as he was pinned to the bed. God, so full, so welcomed, so necessary, yes.

*

            Draco couldn’t stop the heady surge of triumph that surged through him as he stared down at Potter’s sprawled body. Finally, those clenched fists had spread into relaxed hands for him, and he no longer shut his mouth and turned away as if the very idea of receiving a kiss from Draco were distasteful. The sight of Potter—Harry—turned into someone who wanted nothing more than sex pleased Draco very much indeed.

            He clamped him down, pinning Harry’s wrists to the bed with his fingers and his hips with his, and set a brutal pace. He hadn’t forgotten his anger, or his determination that Harry feel this instead of thinking or talking himself away from it, or around it, or out of it. He rocked and thrust until he thought Harry would probably have bruises on his spine. He didn’t care. Even the pleasure sliding through him whenever their cocks brushed together was secondary to him. Primary was winning. He had been right, and Harry would see—

            He would see—

            Draco’s back arched, and abruptly the pleasure did take first place. He pushed his tongue into Harry’s mouth and bit the insides of his cheeks and thrust his hips in forceful, uncontrolled motions.

            All the intense emotions raced together, coiled in one small place, and then expanded and exploded. Draco came with the sound of his own smug cry ringing in his ears.

            He drew back to look down at Harry. His eyes were tightly closed, his chest heaving, and the expression on his face was somewhere between pain and pleasure. Perhaps he was trying to hold back even now, some remnant sense of ethics destroying his passion.

            Draco released Harry’s hands, bent, and gave a swift lick to the head of his cock.

            Harry wailed, a sound of surrender, and his head twisted wildly on the pillow as he gave in. Draco drew back just in time not to be splashed with the rush of Harry’s orgasm. It looked to be an incredibly expressive and drawn-out process, and Harry relaxed with an exhausted little whimper when he was done. Draco waited, but he kept his eyes shut, though his breath came fast enough to show that he wasn’t asleep. Probably he just didn’t want to open his eyes and face the consequences of what he’d done.

            “Wakey, wakey, Potter,” Draco breathed to him, and ran a hand through his hair, admiring the sleek naked expanse of skin that he’d been in too much of a hurry to notice before. “We need to talk.”

*

            Harry was conscious now. He could feel Malfoy’s presence behind him, and he knew exactly what he had done, and who he had done it with.

            And now a new sense of awfulness had intruded on him.

            Malfoy might or might not be under some sort of spell created by Harry’s magic. If he said he wasn’t, then Harry might have to trust him.

            But the fact remained that Harry was still technically married to Ginny, and he’d just done the same thing she’d done.

            “Wakey, wakey, Potter,” Malfoy murmured, and then a hand was traveling through his hair, fingers massaging his scalp in a way that Harry had done his best to prevent Ginny from finding out he enjoyed, because the strength of his own reaction embarrassed him. As if by malicious magic, Malfoy found every spot that made him arch his back, and he responded, again before he could stop it. Malfoy made a soft contented sound, like a child with a new toy. “We need to talk.”

            “Yes, we do,” said Harry, and marshaled all the strength he could in his voice. “For one thing, this is never, ever happening again.”

            Malfoy bit the side of his neck, hard.

            Harry cried out and slammed a hand up, instinctively aiming to hit Malfoy in the jaw, but the other man rolled fluidly away from him, and then tried to pin him to the bed. Harry, remembering the humiliating ease with which he’d done it last time, tried to kick and get away, but all that did was trap him in an awkward pose with his head half-hanging off the bed and his legs firmly trapped beneath Malfoy’s weight.

            And they were both naked. Somehow, Harry had forgotten that, and now was a bad time to remember it. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his skin flush with heat, and hoping that it didn’t make any difference in the sensations Malfoy felt.



            “This is the way things are,” Malfoy said calmly. “We’re both attracted to each other. Ignoring it doesn’t work. So we’ll be adults and acknowledge it, and sometimes ease it, so that it doesn’t build up between us.”

            “Like hell, Malfoy.” Harry counted to three beneath his breath, then bucked and twisted like an angled fish. That still didn’t manage to throw Malfoy off, and the clamp of his hands down on Harry’s hips might even have been a little contemptuous. Harry ground his teeth and tried not to cry with frustration. He could have done this easily enough in school. Had he really grown that flabby in five years? “The objections I raised the first time you proposed this still stand, even assuming that you really aren’t being manipulated by my magic—“

            “I’m not,” Malfoy whispered into his ear. “I know what that feels like. It isn’t happening this time.”

            Harry decided to keep his objections—that Malfoy couldn’t possibly be sure, for one thing, and that his magic and Voldemort’s might be different, for another—firmly to himself for right now. Malfoy would probably bite him again if he tried to protest. “It’s not professional,” he said. “It constitutes cheating on my wife. And I’m not gay.”

            “The lack of sex is making us act more unprofessional than having it does,” Malfoy said, without hesitation. Harry felt a prickle of unease and more intense frustration slide up his spine as he realized that he was trying to argue with someone who made his living debating people who’d like nothing better than to win fights against him. “She cheated first, and soon enough she won’t even be your wife. And either there are things you don’t know about yourself, Harry, or your body knows what it wants more than you do, and gender doesn’t really enter into its calculations, any more than it enters into mine.” He ran a hand down Harry’s hip. “Do you have anything else stupid to say now, or can I get on with telling you that you’re rather handsome and asking about that scar on your right leg?”

            “For fuck’s sake,” Harry hissed. “I don’t want to do this. I’m not comfortable with it.”

            Malfoy laughed into his ear. Harry hated the way it made him shiver. “I would never have guessed either of those things from the way you responded to me just now.”

            “It’s wrong,” Harry repeated. He knew he was being stubborn, but surely stubbornness was in order for the sake of defending one’s ethics, if not at any other time.

            Malfoy was silent for a time, and Harry began to hope that he’d give up in sheer frustration. Then Malfoy pulled his shoulder, and Harry rolled over. Perhaps Malfoy would get off him and storm from the room now.

            What he got instead was a kiss, deep and thorough and searching. This time, the brush of their tongues was less a battle and more a question, as though Malfoy had certain very specific answers he wanted.

            Harry tried not to be aroused or exhilarated by it, but it was impossible. This was like nothing he’d done with Ginny, and that alone lessened the feeling of cheating. His hands twitched like crabs, and then crept up and into Malfoy’s hair, exactly as they had before.

            Malfoy pulled back the moment they did, and gazed at him from so close that Harry’s eyes blurred trying to make out his features. His hand stroked Harry’s cheek. The one thing he was sure of, now, was that Malfoy wasn’t smiling.

            “I don’t think that whatever is meant to happen between us really cares about rules, or laws, or ethics, or your supposed sexual orientation,” Malfoy whispered.

            Harry licked his lips, and tried to restrain a moan at the way their closeness made his tongue scrape against Malfoy’s mouth. The differences from Ginny were prominent if he concentrated on them—Malfoy’s lips were rougher, for example, and not as curved—but that only intensified his excitement. “So it’s just sex, then,” he summed up.

            “It’s not ‘just’ anything.” Malfoy kissed him again, this time on the neck, and Harry liked and tried not to like the way the tongue scraped the tendons of his throat. “When was the last time you had sex like that?”

            Harry bit his lip. He would have dearly liked to say, “Last year,” but even that answer was a bit pathetic. Besides, it wasn’t true that his last sexual encounter with Ginny had been anything like that. He tried to turn his head away.

            “Ah, ah, Harry.” Malfoy’s hand curved under his chin and turned his head back. “Really, even if it’s ‘just’ passion, as you put it, I rather like it. I certainly wouldn’t mind doing it again.” His voice dipped and softened. “Would you?”

            “My objections—“

            “Obviously don’t mean much,” and Malfoy’s voice was smug enough that Harry wanted to punch him, “since you did it anyway.”

            Harry closed his eyes and tried as best as he could to weigh his scruples when Malfoy had begun to rock back and forth, softly and temptingly, on top of him. Perhaps the fear that it would make them both unprofessional was weak, after all. There was no proof that Malfoy couldn’t function in the courtroom like this. He must have had an active sex life at some points in the past during a case.

            But was it ever with his client?

            Harry opened his eyes and asked.

            Malfoy chuckled. “No.”

            “Then how can you—“

            “Because I have faith in myself.” Malfoy rolled against his chest, tickling Harry’s nipples with his hair and making him jump as little shocks of delight struck him. “Besides, sexual frustration has been making me more tense these last few days than sex with you will.”

            “We can’t let Zabini and Ginny find out.”

            “Of course not.” Malfoy looked at Harry upside-down, as if to ask whether he thought he was stupid.

            “I am still married to Ginny—“

            “Does she deserve any consideration from you?” Malfoy ran an absently admiring hand up Harry’s flank, and really, Harry wished he wouldn’t do that, because his treating this like meaningless sex would have convinced Harry he was not making a mistake more easily. “Who you share your body and your bed with is your business.”

            “She isn’t the important person. My conscience is.”

“And do you consider this really wrong?” Malfoy looked up at him upside-down again. “Or do you just think you should?” He persisted when Harry hesitated. “Come on, let’s hear some of that Gryffindor honesty.”

            Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “I can’t answer that yet.”

            “Then why should it stand in the way?”

            Harry couldn’t answer that, either, so he slid onto the next objection. “And I’m not gay.”

            “Obviously not, since you once found her attractive.” Malfoy shuddered lightly. “But you might be bisexual, which is the term that Pansy tends to apply to me. Or you might be someone like I consider myself, someone who finds people attractive instead of any single gender. Or maybe Weasley turned you gay.” He snickered. “If you like the sex and you enjoy it, Potter, does it matter?”

            And Harry couldn’t answer that, either.

            He was rather distressed to find all his rock-solid good reasons for rejecting a liaison with Malfoy melting into thin air.

            He chewed his lip and lay thinking a moment longer. Maybe—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He didn’t intend to make a future with Malfoy. They could barely stand one another, and once they no longer had the case bonding them together, they’d go their separate ways. Perhaps it wasn’t so wrong to indulge in a bit of sex that might, as Malfoy had said, ease their frustration with one another and improve their presence in the courtroom.

            Maybe.

            Just for a little while.



            Because Harry did know what he wanted now, and while he didn’t think he should want it, he couldn’t really find any reason to reject it.

*

            Draco could read the decision in Harry’s eyes so easily. He had to restrain a fit of laughter. Of course, that was much better than restraining homicidal urges, the way he’d been before he rode Harry.

            The great fool really thought that nothing would happen as a result of this, and they could part ways happily at the end. It was in the assessing gaze he gave Draco, as if he were measuring up a potential sex partner and not a potential lover. Draco had seen that look many times, in the eyes of Slytherins far more often than Gryffindors.

            And if that was all this led to, a bit of fun, Draco didn’t really mind. He got to relieve his frustrations, have great sex, and discover an excellent substitute for fighting with Harry all at once.

            He didn’t think it would stay that tame, though. The intensity between them was more than Draco had sometimes had even with people he’d fucked twenty times. No, things would deepen and probably whirl them both into a great bloody mess, because that was the way things happened between him and Harry.

            Whichever one it led to, Draco could easily live with it.

            Harry smiled then, or at least gave him a challenging grin. “All right,” he said, and kissed Draco casually, as if this had been all his decision.

            Draco laughed inwardly and rolled Potter back over, more than eager to go again.
- 14
- 15
- 16
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Building With Worn-Out Tools