Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 23
- 24
- 25
SUMMARY: Harry orchestrates one last surprise for Draco before he's packed off to school. Draco desperately needs to cut loose: Harry hands him the opportunity on a silver platter.

WARNINGS: very coarse language, underage drinking, smoking, smoking fetish, recreational drug use, emerging D/s power structure, rampant exhibitionism, sapiophilia, public sex, DarkArts!Harry, Dominant!Harry (sexual content spoilers: a shit-ton of R.A.C.K., debatable orgy, sex magic, fellatio, fingering, rimming, anal-oral sex, anal sex, unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, felching, forced orgasm, forced facial, erotic humiliation, Clothed Male/Nude Male, Dom!Harry, service-top!Draco, Bottom!Harry, Aggressive!Draco)

DISCLAIMERS:

- Rammstein is produced by Universal Music Group. The song mentioned is “Du Hast.

- I am a huge fan of Mindless Self Indulgence, have been for years, and went to a few shows back when my health allowed me to live in the city. MSI retains ownership of their music, leasing to record labels in a glorious and laudable effort to fight the man. The song mentioned is “Faggot.”

- The cigarettes mentioned are called cloves, the most common brand being Djarum Blacks. They are currently illegal in the US but are sold and enjoyed in many other very lucky parts of the world. Anyone living in said countries who feels like sending me some... infinite brownie points. I miss them so much I'm writing porn around them, for fuck's sake. Smoke one and think of me, will ya?

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

- 1 stone = 14 pounds. So a man who is pushing 17 stone would weigh roughly 230lbs

- This is a story about the development of a D/s relationship that does not follow SSC (Safe, Sane, Consensual) sex practices. Many lifestylers and fetishists privately practice Risk Aware Consensual Kink; often, R.A.C.K. develops naturally in couples with outstanding communication, compatible kinks and high sex drives—couples like our boys. I'm attempting to illustrate the steps of that process. They're vague and smutty steps. Stay tuned.

This chapter depicts recreational use of marijuana.

I am in no way saying that people who listen to MSI or Rammstein smoke marijuana. I'm not saying marijuana is good or bad; instead, like guns and alcohol, it's something which is there to be used in a healthy or destructive way. Much like magic, it's all about the way you use it. Casual drug use is utilized as a commentary about the boys' state of mind as well as an illustration of the very different paths by which these two individuals came into manhood.

CONSCIENCE:

INDULGENCE

Harry wouldn't answer questions all through dinner. He just sat there with that goofy, conniving grin on his face, bolting his pot roast, potatoes and summer salad. The Boy Who Screwed couldn't hide his excitement, though. It shone through his pores, through his eyes—the room practically vibrating with bubbling, vibrant green energy. Draco knew to his very core that something was up—something good—but Harry was determined not to spill the proverbial beans. Both men squirmed in their seats all through what could have been a lovely dinner.

When the dishes bore only crumbs and swipes of sauce and the bottle of wine was polished off, Draco directed the china to the sink where it began to suds and wash itself. He folded his wiry arms across his chest, catching the back of Harry's knee with his foot so the raven haired man couldn't worm away.

“Out with it, Potter,” he demanded. “I'm on ta yer scheming.”

Harry raised his dark brows, leaning back on the kitchen bench to stretch, contracting his stomach and rolling well-built shoulders. Harry always stretched those strong, coiled limbs when he was contented—typically after sex or a good meal. The shifting of muscles under his buttermilk skin was familiar and mesmerizing. The man was almost as white as the tshirt he wore and could do with some sun; between the dismal weather and their confinement by imperial decree of the Order, Draco didn't think that would happen before school started. It was just two days away, now. Harry must be plotting a last good romp before the iron bars of Hogwarts.

“Why don't you go upstairs and fix your hair?” Harry said with a Malfoy-worthy smirk.

Draco's eyes widened just enough to show his understanding... and delight. So they were going out. But where? They'd just finished eating. Dessert, perhaps? Gelati and a stroll in the park? Or maybe another of those muggle movies?

“Where are we goin'?” Draco asked, unable to take the suspense.

“Out,” Harry shrugged. He rose from the table, pulling Draco up and nudging the blonde toward the stairs.

“Yes, out,” Draco agreed, scampering in his excitement. He gripped the banister and slithered up the stairs backwards. “Out where?”

“A club,” Harry replied, hot in pursuit, driving his boyfriend up the staircase.

“Wha' kinda club?”

“There's a concert,” Harry explained, following Draco into their bedroom with unreadable eyes. “You remember that... that song the other day?”

Draco nodded, pulling off his shirt and tossing it in the hamper. He threw open the closet. How could he forget? Harry had flipped on the radio while they were kissing and it was like a thousand charms and hexes going off in his head. He had no idea muggles could make such fantastic noise. The cacophony was so intense, so boisterous, so... aggressive. He'd barely managed to get his clothes off before he came—embarrassing! Something came over him and he just wanted to move. And it was that moving, with Harry and yet against him, that animalistic tension which threw him over the edge. It was like a catapult. He'd flown! He was sure Harry had felt it, too. The man had snuck out to get him more of this drug.

“What's it called?” Draco asked. “Tha' music?”

“Metal,” Harry shrugged. “It's a punk metal band that's playing tonight. Bunch of yanks but they're supposed to be good.”

Draco nodded his understanding, pushing a few shirts around in the closet. “An' wha' does one wear?” he mused.

“You tell me.” Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair, eyes trained on the threadbare carpet. “It's at a gay club.”

“Oh.”

Draco's hands settled at his sides. Harry bleeding Potter was taking him to a bent muggle club to hear more of the angriest, most energetic and sexy stuff he'd ever heard? He shed his loose denims and made for the loo at a fast clip.

“I need ta shave!”

“Draco,” Harry whined, close on his heels. “We don't have a lot of time. And you look fine.”

“Harry,” he rolled his eyes, forcing enough seriousness into the name to make it an admonishment as much as an endearment. “I have a fuckin' beard. I need a shave.” Draco examined his reflection as he started the sink, picking up the conjured straight razor Harry always left lying about. They were getting comfortable, messy. He'd already let his face go from prickly to downright mangy. He wondered that Harry hadn't been repulsed. It wasn't as though Draco could grow a proper beard. His hair just wasn't thick enough. This half centimeter of sandpaper scuffle was as close as he got; Harry, on the other hand—if his long sideburns and heavily shadowed jaw were anything to go by, the man would generate a righteous beard. His inky hair was healthy and thick and grew in spades. The rest of his body harbored entire dark, mysterious forests of the stuff.

“Just... hurry up, okay?” said Harry, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He leaned against the door frame watching Draco lather up his pale neck. Draco made a noise of ascent before bringing the blade to his throat with a practiced flick, shearing off a layer of cream and white blonde fluff.

- - -

Harry had to admit it: he hardly recognized the man standing next to him as Draco Malfoy. Only... there, when he squeezed Harry's hand and smiled, the lights flashing over his pointed, handsome face. The curving apples of his cheeks, the way his brows rounded down at the sides, and the way the colored gel lights lingered in his eyes were all achingly familiar.

Draco wore his tight black trousers with Harry's old blue and green plaid shirt, unbuttoned half way down his pale, mangled chest and the sleeves lazily half-rolled. He'd conjured a charcoal pencil and rubbed it at the corners of his eyes. You could tell even with the glasses. It made his eyes black and smoky, sultry. The effect wasn't girly at all. It was like battle paint. Harry stuffed his other hand in the pocket of his new leather jacket, just to keep from reaching out. Draco was already holding his fucking hand—willingly. He promised himself he wouldn't ask for any more because that itself was enough.

Harry realized what was so different. Draco had darkened his hair plenty of times... but he'd purposefully left a swath of hair in his rushed shave-job, carving himself a thin mustache and goatee which was magically dyed a deep brown to match his hair. Draco shaved almost religiously. Judging by the rest of his body, he preferred himself smooth. Harry didn't know what to make of the facial hair. It was so masculine. He'd never thought about the fact that Draco was a man. So why shouldn't he be masculine? Draco had hairy legs and muscles and a cock, for crying out loud! How could a bit of facial hair make him so, so... manly? Rugged, even. And that stark maleness didn't detract from the attraction Harry felt. At all. And that was something to consider.

Harry looked around the industrial club with its low ceiling and walls, dance lights, swell of moving bodies and long, populated bar. The patrons were predominantly male. Then again, the music was blaring and vulgar. The band wasn't playing yet and a man's voice half growled, half screamed in what sounded like German through the floor-rattling, rib-vibrating speakers.

Harry scanned the crowd more closely as Draco led him to the bar. Lots of blokes who looked like the Weasley boys—either stocky with broad shoulders or tall with whippy muscles and gangly posture. There were a few women, most in punk, “naughty school girl” reminiscent get-ups of black and plaid. There was one woman clad in over-the-knee boots and a tube mini-dress apparently made from a scrap of black leather. Holding Harry's green-eyed, bespectacled gaze and sensuously rolling her hips, she winked at him. Harry watched her tiny white hand glide over the leather, ghosting over her breasts only to run down those undulating curves to her nearly exposed backside. Harry's thigh gave a powerful twitch. What did that mean? He couldn't be gay if he was drooling over this drunk, half dressed muggle woman... could he? He looked back at Draco. Draco, with his confined grace and languid limbs, fury, passion and bottled lust beneath angelic skin. The same muscle twitched, this time accompanied by a tightening in his denims and a wetness under his arms.

Harry unzipped his jacket and pulled out his wallet.

“Let me get you a drink,” he shouted over the music. Draco gave a little nod in time with the beat, his attention already swept away. “Whiskey?”

“Neat,” those pink lips mouthed, lost to the heart-hammering music. Harry pulled out a note and was able to signal the bartender for drinks. Draco took his as a shot, head jerking back to pound what was probably mid-quality liquor. Harry managed in two gulps, feeling the burn crawl up the back of his throat as he inhaled sharply through his nose. Draco crushed his lips to Harry's, mingling the sharp, sweet taste of whiskey with their own unique blend. He pulled back a fraction of an inch and laughed his real, tittering, squirrel laugh.

“Wha'?” Harry mumbled, catching a flushed lip between his teeth. It earned him another quick kiss.

“This song is funny,” Draco said, leaning forward to almost yell in Harry's ear, the music was that loud.

“It's German, yeah?”

That head of brown hair nodded against his, familiar outdoorsy smell flooding his nostrils along with the lemon and crab apple tang of his skin. Silky strands of auburn hair tickled his temple and cheek.

“Dance,” Draco demanded suddenly, hauling Harry forward by way of both hands in his front trouser pockets.

“What are they saying?” Harry asked, if only to distract himself from the fact that he wasn't nearly drunk enough for this sort of thing. He didn't dance. Then again, this looked more like sex standing up. And he and Draco did something like that before tea time, most days. How hard could it be? He let himself be dragged onto the dance floor by his crotch.

“Um, it's like a perversion,” Draco mused, still tugging Harry along in that cloying, intimate way. His hands were a fair ways in Harry's pockets, stroking his thighs. “They're messin' with the language. Du hasst mich is 'you hate me' and du hast mich gefragt is 'you have asked me.'”

“They sound the same except for the last word,” Harry shrugged. Draco bent slightly, rubbing his face between soft, creaking leather and the hot, hardened tendons of Harry's neck. He rolled his narrow hips against Harry's thigh and it was impossible not to reciprocate. This was everything they did in bed except standing up and with their clothes still on. Not hard at all.

“Tha's the idea,” Draco laughed, lips a wet slide from Harry's neck to the shell of his ear. He felt a blush creeping up his hairline, quickly suffusing his face as his breath caught in his throat. Okay, dancing with Draco was a different kind of hard. The man ground his hips in a slow, tantalizing circle, dragging Harry closer by his trousers. There was no escape. He laughed against Harry's flushed skin. “Now they're recitin' marriage vows, except instead of 'until death separates us' it's 'until the death of the pussy.'”

“If the sex goes, the relationship goes?” Harry forced out words to prove his brain still worked.

“Tha', or,” Draco mused right into his ear, draping an arm around Harry's shoulders and pressing so close their bodies were practically one. “A relationship's only as strong as the weaker partner—the cunt, yeah?”

“Pretty smart for a muggle bloke screaming,” Harry mused.

“Yeah,” Draco kissed his neck, his shoulder, leather and hair alike, whatever he could reach. “Not bad. I like it.” They danced the rest of the song, if it could be called dancing. Soon Draco was singing along, if it could be called singing. He pronounced the words under his breath, mouth always near Harry's ear, casting his hot breath over skin kissed and bitten red, wet with spit and gathering sweat. If French sounded beautiful on Draco's lips, German sounded vile... but no less sexy. Maybe it felt more real. It was all part of Draco, the milky French skin belying a hard, seething Aryan core.

“Do you want another drink?” Harry asked.

Draco gave a noncommittal shrug that Harry knew meant yes, please! I'm not nearly drunk enough. He disentangled himself from his boyfriend to make for the bar, earning himself a smack to the bum. Harry winked over his shoulder—they didn't have much longer to act this way. He couldn't blame Draco for taking advantage when that was exactly what he himself had intended for tonight.

People seemed to gather at the bar in groups, shouting and laughing over the music. Harry wedged himself between a clump of locals and several burly blokes speaking a Slavic language he couldn't place. Catching the attention of a bartender, he was given the signal for “just a minute.” The club was pulling good business and probably should've had another barkeep or two on duty. Weeknight or not, the place was packed.

One of the foreign blokes accidentally trod on Harry's foot. Big shoulders turned to apologize, giving Harry a good view of the little clique. They were all built like Charlie Weasley and Oliver Wood; heavy and broad, thick muscles filling out their tshirts, bulging at the sleeves. They could have easily been the second string of Bulgarian National. Their hairy arms and a few scruffy jaws made them almost menacing. Harry felt his feet wanting to take several steps back. Only the knowledge that he was a fully armed wizard allowed him to stand his ground. His head was level with the klutzy man's tree-trunk biceps.

All of the men had black hair save one; the shortest of them all and apparently the leader. His hair was sandy brown. He also had a short-trimmed beard and a tattoo of what looked suspiciously like a galloping Thestral around his upper arm. This brown-haired man slapped his clumsy companion upside the head.

“Koji ti je kurac?” he shouted at his mate, hazel eyes gone very wide. “Jebo te Bog na današnji dan! That's Harry Potter!”

Vehement strings of Slavic curses flew at that point. Most of them sounded like awed apologies and blaspheming oaths. The man with the brown hair put a meaty hand to his chest, right over his heart as though it threatened to burst from his barrel chest in shock. The gesture could have been girlish if the man hadn't been pushing seventeen stone. Quick as a flash, Harry was reaching for the wand in his front pocket.

“Gle kurtsa ti u slamnatome sheshiru!” the clumsy man spouted in a high, startled voice, holding up his hands.

“Zee Boy Who Lived!” exclaimed the brunet, hand still over his hammering heart. “It's an honor!”

“Please,” offered another man, “might ve have zee pleasure of buying you a drink?” They all very wisely kept their hands where Harry could see them. The gleam in every set of dark eyes was pure, jovial excitement. Harry relaxed his shoulders but kept a hand near his wand just in case.

“I'm... here with someone,” Harry said slowly.

“Your girlfriend or somezhing?” one of them asked. Harry realized the guy was wearing an ACDC tshirt. With their fancy trainers, expensive watches and a few body piercings, these guys knew how to blend in with muggles. Harry counted eight of them.

“Or something,” Harry shrugged.

“Vot's your poison?” asked the brunet leader. Their accents were light, indicating a good handle on the English language. They might be of mixed parentage or at least more in touch with the non-magical world than the average pureblood wizard.

“Whiskey, neat,” Harry shrugged. The tallest of them turned to the bar, casually rolling up the sleeves of his windbreaker as he signaled the bartender. Their leader's hazel eyes slid to Harry, making sure The Chosen One noted the lack of Dark Marks on any of their forearms. Harry gave a slow nod of recognition. These strange men were going out of their way to prove they were friendly—the tall man ordered a round of double whiskeys, top shelf liquor. The bartender added it to their tab, leaving the bottle. The men were apparently good patrons. Oh, Harry wanted to trust them! They parted, letting Harry into their midst to retrieve his glass.

Harry was expecting a lewd toast in their native tongue; therefore, the sound of his own name surprised him. Each man raised a glass and repeated quite solemnly, “Harry Potter.” They took their liberal double shots in a solid gulp. Not wanting to choke, Harry took a hefty mouth full and then sipped at the remainder.

“What brings you to London?” Harry asked, shooting for conversation. He still held his drink in his left hand, ready to draw if necessary.

“Vell... Dušan, Chern, Mishenka and I lost our families vhen Durmstrang fell,” the brunet explained, pointing out ACDC shirt, tall guy and a younger, clean-shaven man with a pierced eyebrow. “Ve took our inheritance and ran. Vadik, Vitya, and Yura found us and ve broke zhem out before zhey had to take zee Mark. Nebojsa ve rescued.” The skinniest of them—a man with several piercings and a large, black tattoo of a Catholic cross on the side of his neck—gave a curt nod.

“Ve've been following zee Rammstein tour,” said Chern, the tall man in the jacket. “Dima said zhey wouldn't look for us in zee muggle world.” Dima must have been the brunet leader. He wore a tshirt for the metal band Rammstein. The yank band playing the club that night was touring with Rammstein. Harry had tried for tickets to the German metal band's concert, too, but it was sold out weeks in advance.

“You should be careful,” Harry advised. “There's already been an attack on the Underground.” He neglected to mention that it was an attack on Draco for deserting. These guys looked worried enough. Mishenka, the one with the eyebrow piercing, came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Dima. Their hazel eyes were identical—with the way they calmly leaned against one another, they were probably brothers.

“Ve've been here almost a veek...” Nebojsa said nervously, also looking to Dima.

“Ve'll move soon,” Dima offered his little crew. “Rammstein goes to America next. It's not safe for us zhere.”

“I can only wish you luck,” Harry said sympathetically. “It's getting pretty bad out there.”

Chern poured another round, refilling Harry's half-full glass. Dima clinked glasses with Nebojsa, a sly wink passing between them. Vadik and Yura, quite coy for big fellows, asked Harry if they could have their picture taken with him. Chern snapped the shot, then took another of Dima. Harry thought the brunet looked like a warlord, his pierced and tattooed comrades under each arm and big grins on their faces despite the battles clearly nipping at their heels. Maybe Dima would like to take over as The Chosen One and Harry and Draco could run away? Dima had an air about him. He was the kind of man people would willingly follow into battle. Harry sighed, leaned against the bar and eyed the squirming, shadowy crowd to see where Draco had gotten off to.

Harry froze with his glass half-way to his parted lips, the world hitting him in a cliff-jumping rush. He was drinking whiskey with a couple of Durmstrangers on the run, listening to German death metal while Draco Malfoy apparently learned to head bang in the middle of a mosh pit of muggles while wearing skin tight trousers and Harry's old plaid button-down—which he'd surely called plebeian on more than one occasion, right? And life didn't get any fucking better than seeing Draco happy, his dark brown head a blur as his lithe, lean form was tossed around the thrumming dance floor; mouth hanging slightly open as his head rocked, glossy hair flying, licking his delicate pink lips and bumping, twisting, throwing his body around like a leaf in the wind... so sexy. Harry's shot slid down his throat, the burn unnoticed as he watched. A feral smile curled his fat, healthy mouth, his eyes darkening. He had to turn to face the bar immediately so the Durmstrang guys wouldn't see his boner and think it was for them.

Dušan, in his black ACDC tshirt, looked at the extra glass sitting on the bar before raising his eyebrows at Harry. “Viskey, eh? Some date yeh've got,” he shouted congenially, the song blaring especially loud. Harry drank so he wouldn't have to answer right away.

Harry slammed his glass down on the bar. A second later, the breath left his lungs. A familiar scent reached his nostrils, warm breath rustling the hair at the nape of his neck. Pale and scarred arms wormed under his jacket, wrapping his waist. Bony hips met the padding of his arse, pulling him close as a handsome, somewhat sweaty face nuzzled into his shoulder. Draco licked a hot path up his neck, biting his earlobe before rolling it between his lips, accenting all this with an intimate and telling thrust to Harry's arse.

“An' here I thought I was shoutin' the next round,” Draco joked, slipping his hand under Harry's tshirt to roam his chest. Every magical eye was now trained on the pair of them. Draco seemed to sense it; he froze just in time, one hand pinching Harry's nipple and the other dangerously close to the waistband of his denims.

Harry cleared his throat.

“Er... my boyfriend,” he shouted awkwardly in introduction. To his surprise, not a single heavy brow went up. Either eastern European muggles were very liberal or these guys were purebloods like Draco, sent to Durmstrang for a very specific purpose that wasn't the education or the Quidditch.

“Vait,” said the tall Chern. “I know you from zee tournament,” he offered vaguely. “It's Malfoy, da?”

Harry and Draco tensed simultaneously. First in Draco's mind was where this wizards' loyalties lay. If these men delivered news of Draco's whereabouts—let alone his relationship with Harry—to the Dark Lord, they'd both be done for. The frightening thought rocketing to the front of Harry's brain paralyzed him with emotion, jealousy and embarrassment chief among them. What if Chern had been one of the many blokes lusting after Draco fourth year? Had he and Draco...? Harry forced himself to swallow, suddenly filled with too much white hot anger to speak. Draco's hands were sliding from his skin, leaving little shivering trails that always missed his touch the second it left. Harry slid an arm around Draco, clamping his boyfriend tightly to his side. If his grip was iron, Draco didn't complain.

“Yes, Draco Malfoy. Pleasure.” Draco offered his hand and introductions were made all around. This time Dima and Mishenka were called Dmitry and Mikhail, which Harry assumed were their full names. They were, in fact, brothers. Harry bit his tongue when their last name was spoken: Ionescu. Maybe it was a really common surname like Smith or Brown. Draco's decided lack of blinking told another story.

“I thought you were...” Chern trailed off, either unwilling or unable to say “Death Eater” to Harry Potter's boyfriend.

“Blonde?” Draco finished the tall man's sentence with a hearty laugh. It was a Malfoy laugh, not a tittering Draco laugh. He was trying to put the Durmstrangers—refugees—at ease. “I'm tryin' somethin' new.”

This comment was met with silence, music blaring into the conversational rift. The band was setting up on stage and the concert would start soon. Dmitry and Mikhail both gave Draco knowing, up-and-down looks, focusing on the pale arm between him and Harry. If these guys were hiding one hundred percent in the muggle world, they wouldn't have seen the Daily Prophet article proclaiming Draco's change of allegiance. At best, they thought Draco was a runaway, like them; at worst, they suspected him of spying on Harry for Voldemort. Harry pressed the man closer to his side, offering silent reassurance in the form of his holly and phoenix feather wand the length of Draco's thigh.

“And yes,” Draco spoke up, his grey eyes blazing defiant. “I was.” He snatched his sleeve, yanking up the loose cuff to expose the Dark Mark. Every surly face paled perceptibly. Nebojsa stared, looking ill. Mikhail quickly looked away, closing his eyes as though it were something he refused to see again. Draco met their abhorrence with a fierceness and rebellious courage Harry had associated solely with Draco since he came to Grimmauld Place—that dangerous, coiled energy he'd gained from being tortured to the final thread of his mortal rope. He seethed, the air crackling electric around him. “But like I said—I'm trying something new.”

Harry reached out, settling his hand over the Mark to draw Draco's arm down. He stroked the tattoo gently with his thumb, letting Draco stare the foreign wizards down. Harry focused on the side of Draco's ghostly, pointed face with the calmest expression he could muster.

“Does that make me 'something new?'” Harry quipped. Tension diffused like a gasket. Dima breathed a sigh that slumped his chest, Mikhail would look at Draco again and Nebojsa smiled, visibly relieved. Chern went about refilling glasses. Harry passed his to Draco, taking up the remaining shot on the bar. They watched the crew set up the stage, checking microphones and wire connections. Draco took a swig of alcohol that was clearly for courage.

“Ya wouldn't happen ta know a Tihomir Vukasin Ionescu?” he called over the music.

“Vuk?” Mikhail sputtered, eyebrows shooting up.

“You knew Vuk?” asked Dušan, leaning forward. All the men pulled in, forming a tight circle.

Draco's face quickly comprehended the tense of that question. Harry didn't need to be a gifted Legilimens to discern what was going through his boyfriend's head. Harry knew who Vuk Ionescu had been and his relationship to Draco.

“We drank together durin' the tournament,” Draco offered, his voice distant. He didn't have to speak as loudly with everyone huddled so close. “He... was a good man, funny as hell. Everyone's favorite. How... how did he...?”

“He vos caught vith zee resistance,” Dima answered, equally far away. He threw a thick, comforting arm around Mikhail's shoulders, the other around Nebojsa's waist. “He fell vith Durmstrang. Our elder brother. He died... getting us out.”

Harry was about to offer his condolences when Draco all but stepped on his foot. He held his glass to the center of their huddle. Everyone followed a moment later, recognizing a toast. Draco blinked rapidly, schooling his breathing. He didn't summon the Malfoy mask; instead, he met Dima's gaze with big, silvery eyes reflecting every color in the dark room.

“Svaka ti dala.”

It was so short. Harry waited for the rest of it. If there was any more to be had, it was cut off by a roar of laughter from Dima, Mikhail and Chern. A split second later, the small group was hooting, snorting into their glasses, holding their stomachs and leaning against one another as gales of laughter shook their mighty shoulders. Harry smiled brightly at Draco before downing the generous double shot. It made his eyes water and his throat seize, but he managed. He was going to be D-R-U-N-K tonight! The Durmstrangers pulled Draco to the bar, all trying to talk to him at once. A flurry of languages flew at him. Someone clapped him on the back, someone complimented his shirt, someone poured him another shot. They settled into speaking German—apparently so Harry wouldn't understand them. Reformed offspring of Death Eaters bonding, as far as Harry could tell. Draco kept shooting Harry these secretive, alluring looks over his dark-rimmed glasses, always smiling with the apples of his cheeks and a lilt to his pleasant pink mouth before turning away.

- - -

If possible, the muggle band Mindless Self Indulgence was wilder than the Durmstrang boys. The lead singer had to have used magic to get his green hair to stand up in foot-long spikes like that. On the back of his jacket he'd arranged strips of reflective tape to spell out “Fuck My Hole.” The show only got crazier from there. Two of the band members were girls dressed in the most outlandish, punky outfits that left Harry feeling rather tame in his formerly bad ass motorcycle jacket. He and Draco spent every set as the valley inside a towering Slavic mountain range; even Dima, the shortest of the bunch, was a head and a half taller than them and twice as wide. Harry felt like he and Draco were little kids, the way they were tossed around the mosh pit. They'd be bruised for days. Harry broke his glasses twice before tucking them in his pocket, he and Draco clinging to each other for dear life, yelling and screaming with the crowd.

At one point the band struck up a song that drove Harry's eyebrows into his hairline despite getting bucked around by a bunch of sweaty, muscled foreign blokes. The tune alternated between a slow grind that sounded like the background music to a porno movie and a rollicking, pounding beat over which the spike-headed singer screamed about pretending to be straight all the while performing “favors” for all his male friends, hoping to see some reciprocity. The outrageous muggle topped it off by singing, in a high falsetto voice, the word “faggot” over and over again at the end of each refrain. Draco, bouncing happily beside Harry, was singing the words in his way—mouthing along animatedly, pronouncing the words with silent, aristocratic lips.

“I really don't think you should be saying that word,” Harry cautioned, halting his boyfriend's excitable jumping and holding him still enough to hear.

“Why?” Draco demanded. He spun Harry around, inserting plump arse to excited crotch and rotating suggestively. Harry nearly jumped when Mikhail joined them, backing his rear right up to Harry's parts and grinding as sensuously as Draco—though without the grabby hands, exploratory lips and other such flirty nonsense. Chern looked like he wanted to get in behind Draco but Harry shot the man a quick and by no means uncertain Death Glare. The tall man immediately backed off, humping up on Vadik and some girl, instead.

“It's really offensive,” Harry tried to explain about the nasty word in the song, his throat gone dry.

“Ter who?”

“Er,” Harry struggled, “it's derogatory toward men who like men.”

“So? It's only offensive if yeh let it be!” Draco shrugged. He leaned back, working his hips in a purely sexual crush. Sweat poured down Harry's face as his own hips were pushed against Mikhail's firm, waiting and willing posterior. He looked around. Vadik and Chern danced like this. So did Dima and Nebojsa. So did half the men in the club. It was a dirty, entirely male way of dancing. No one bothered to move their feet or arms. It was just bodies and heat, no pretense. And it was fine by Harry. Mikhail didn't do anything for him but Harry certainly pressed himself back into Draco. If that made him a faggot then so be it. Draco and all the butch Durmstrangers were faggots, too.

They finished their bottle of whiskey in no time. Mishenka was right pissed. Dima, for being the shortest of his group, fared pretty well. Yura and Dušan were sort of holding each other upright but they managed to mosh just fine—it was the walking that proved problematic. They all kept pulling at Draco's shirt, yelling things in German and gesturing toward Harry with their eyes. Harry waited for someone to get brave and ask him in English.

“Did you vant to go for a smoke?” There it was from Dmitry himself.

Harry looked to Draco who was practically bouncing up and down to convey that yes, he very much wanted to go for a smoke.

“Where?” Harry asked.

“Zee alley out back,” Nebojsa said, gesturing to a back door with his chin.

Harry bit his lip.

“I dunno,” he said carefully, making sure the men were paying attention to his words before speaking in a sort of improvised code. “I would need to pop out there, have a look around, if you know what I mean.” And he lightly touched the wand concealed in his front pocket. If anyone noticed he was hard, they mercifully kept any trace of reaction from their ruggedly handsome faces. All of these guys were handsome—terribly good-looking, in fact. Was it magic or a pleasant side effect of the traditional pureblood inbreeding? Harry wondered. Dima nodded before ushering their entire group to the lavatory. Ten full grown men locked in a double stall loo was an accomplishment sober. Eight out of ten men being small buildings unto themselves required quite a bit of creative maneuvering. When the door clicked shut—locked by someone's quick and heavily accented, slurred Colloportus—Harry found himself nose-to-nose with Draco, a mysterious hand coping a feel of some chosen ass. He let it slide. They probably thought he was someone else.

“Okay, I'm Apparating out to check the alley,” Harry announced. “Leave a space for me to get back.”

“Me, too!” Draco added, sidling up to Harry until their chests touched for a Side-Along.

“The hell you are!” Harry snorted, pushing Draco a safe distance away. They both bumped against other bodies—hard, warm bodies that smelt of whiskey and sweat and... cloves? “You're staying here, salop.”

Oh, sure, it was a dig. Draco never called him that. But Draco and the guys had been speaking bloody German behind his back all night: he felt entitled to a retort.

“Make me,” Draco snarled, teeth bared.

Harry didn't actually draw his wand. Like the most basic of spells, all it took was contact with his wand through the fabric of his jeans and the spell was off. He barely even thought the word, hardly visualized it or realized it in his mind before... Imperio. Well, shit. He didn't mean it—did that count for anything? Draco's perfect little mouth fell open in shock as the spell ran wild in his brain, tripping through liquor and lust, gathering everything in a jumbled pile and binning it. The last thing Harry saw before he Disapparated was Draco's goofy, lopsided, feckless grin.

The dirty London alleyway was quiet compared to the club, cold and deserted. Harry crouched against the stone wall, still in command of his magic through the wand in his trousers. He cast a few nonverbal spells and nothing unusual pinged back. He looked down to see he'd Apparated without his left trainer. Drunk and immeasurably horny, it was a miracle he hadn't Splinched himself. He could feel the link to Draco's mind, a calm connection resonating at a sub-level of consciousness. Draco was talking, answering a question about escaping his Death Eater father right under Voldemort's flat nose. Draco swelled with emotion, stating proudly that it was Harry who rescued him, whose magic protected him—that it was loyalty to Harry that made everything possible. He was trying to convince the Durmstrangers to join the Order without quite putting words to it. Harry watched through Draco's mind as Dmitry and his comrades agreed. They were between a rock and a hard place, the sons of Death Eaters running to escape their Dark Mark-ed fate.

Harry signaled Draco that the coast was clear. Oh, and can you bring my shoe?

I am not yer house-elf, came Draco's caustic reply. A second later, nine bodies appeared beside him with a resounding mutual crack. Draco held Harry's ratty trainer in one hand as though it were Scabbers, Ron's old rat, and would bite him at any moment. If only he knew the truth behind said rat. A dyed brown brow was raised, a hand on his bony hip.

“Ferget somethin', did we, Mouffi?” he drawled, tapping his toe.

Harry ignored the jab, taking his sneaker and slipping it back on. He reached out, speaking through their link. You're convinced they're good for the Order?

I think yer little social club needs the muscle as much as these boys need a place ta go was Draco's soundless reply. Dmitry's father was Durmstrang's Potions Master. The Ionescues are purebloods and Death Eaters, through and through. They've been with the Dark Lord since the very beginnin'. These men have defected. If they're found, they're worse than dead.

Harry and Draco stared into each other's eyes, Dark magic crackling like a burning rope connecting them from chest to chest, heart to heart.

You're right, Harry sighed mentally. They're dead if they keep running and they're dead if and when they're caught—it's only a matter of time. So it's settled, then. I'll have them contact Viktor. I think they'd be more comfortable working with him than McGonagall. Draco nodded his agreement. Now tell me, how the fuck are you coherent right now? How are we doing this?

Draco's response was to grab him by the sticky tshirt and drag him forward for a harsh, demanding kiss. Thanks to the link Harry was prepared for it, clamping down on the spell so Draco couldn't break free. Draco tried with his teeth, scraping Harry's fat bottom lip. He tried with his long tongue, stroking the roof of Harry's mouth, skimming his teeth and rolling languidly against his liquor-soaked gums. And he tried with his hands buried in thick raven hair, little moans escaping his mouth as he struggled in vain. Harry had learned enough about the Dark Arts not to be fooled by these wanton distractions. He held Draco as firmly with his magic as he did with his leather-clad arms. He could even hold the curse back enough that Draco behaved quite normally, unhindered by cloudiness or pain. Harry pulled back with a growling sigh. He smelled cloves again. And smoke. Like someone had thrown little pods of the cooking spice on a roaring fire. It was a warm, homey smell, reminding him of steaming mugs of tea and comfortable evenings in Gryffindor Tower. Harry separated himself from Draco's lips, his eyes sliding open to be stung by clouds of thick white smoke.

Dima stood next to them, lighting two black-papered cigarettes with the tip of a switch-thin birch wand. The cigarettes were the source of the lingering spicy scent. They crackled, filling the air with a lip-smackingly sweet aroma. He passed one to Harry, advising him not to breathe too deeply.

The first puff wasn't what he thought it would be. The smoke was thick and syrupy, tasting exactly as it smelled. He rolled it in his mouth, taking in the complex notes of clove, nutmeg, chalk and tobacco. Against his better judgment, he liked it very much. Eventually he exhaled, blowing his smoke away from Dima's chiseled face. The man was looking fixedly down the alley at Nebojsa—the expression on his stony face softened perceptibly, his hazel gaze lit up like a Lumos Spell had taken refuge in his eyes. That was exactly the way Draco looked at Harry. Everything fell into place—the dancing, the sly winks. We rescued Nebojsa. Of course. Dima and Nebojsa were together, a couple, and Dima refused to flee to safety without his other half.

Harry watched Draco walk up to Nebojsa. The Serb produced a flask from his pocket, offering it to the former Slytherin with a slow, knowing smile. The rest of the men were lighting up at the mouth of the alley, screening Harry and Dmitry from view, guarding them.

“I told zee dragon you could Imperius any of us,” Dima said suddenly. “He said you vouldn't take to zhat.”

Harry gave Dima a sideways glance. Draco was The Dragon, huh? His dragon, surely.

“How about Legilimens, instead?” Harry offered. He didn't think he could manage two Imperius Curses at once. Lord Voldemort probably could in his sleep. Dima gave a nod and Harry touched the hand with his cigarette to his trouser pocket, initiating the spell non-verbally.

Dima was thinking about his boyfriend. He didn't hide a thing, his mind opening like a scrapbook with Harry leafing through the pages. Dmitry and Nebojsa loved each other very much, having admitted their feelings at thirteen; five years later, they were still as inseparable as at their first kiss. Nebojsa's parents, like Harry's, had died fighting Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Dima's family—staunch Death Eaters, just as Draco mentioned—had not approved of their son's friendship. Their romantic connection remained a secret; only their closest friends knew, including Dima's two brothers. Nebojsa was raised by muggle-loving relatives and isolated from the wizarding world. Before he found out about Durmstrang, Nebojsa's dream had been to become a priest. The man was still devout in his faith. He prayed several times a day. He'd prayed when he was taken from his home in the dead of night by masked Death Eaters, prayed while he was kept in a cell and tortured for information on his friends' and lover's whereabouts. When Dima and his band of rebels rescued him, the first words from Nebojsa's cracked, bloodied lips had been thanks and praise to God. Dima was his shield, his protector, just as Harry was to Draco. In every battle, Dima had guarded him, fought for him, killed for him.

That was everything Harry needed to know. He pulled back from Dmitry's mind, breathless from the roller coaster of images and emotions. Dima offered him a weak smile, inhaling his cigarette held between thick, calloused fingers.

“So I guess there's only one question,” Harry said in an undertone. “Are you running or fighting? Either way, we can help you.”

Dima thought about this, blowing thick, sweet smoke out his nose. No wonder the man smelled like cloves. Harry wondered if he would smell like the spice, too. Would he taste different? He'd have to look in Draco's mind later.

“Misha is too young,” Dima said, indicating his brother. “I've tried to shield him from zee violence as best I can. He doesn't look it, but he's only fifteen.” Harry's eyebrows rose of their own accord. From his size alone, Mikhail looked at least eighteen. He could probably pass for a man in his twenties if he didn't shave. “Dušan is strong. He'll fight. Chern... he and Vuk vere best friends. Vith no family, he says he lives for us now. Vadik and Vitya—zhey go vhere I go. Yura vants to look for his girl—she vas taken. I think she's dead by now. But I can't tell him not to try.”

“What about you two?” Harry asked. “You and Nebojsa. I mean, you're their leader.”

“You think?” Dima laughed. Harry took another drag. The black paper crackled merrily like wrapping paper in a Christmas fire. He'd have to pick up some of these cigarettes. They were like Hogwarts you could light up and smoke.

“Nebojsa is zee head,” Dima said forcefully, his jaw set. “Zee heart. I am but his hand. I vould be nothzing vithout him. You know—his name means 'fearless' in Serbian. And he is,” Dima sighed smoke. “I don't think he likes zhis running. Vhere do ve go?”

“Can you disguise yourselves?”

“Ve have some Polyjuice,” the man shrugged. Harry couldn't help but be impressed at their little band's resourcefulness—few people even knew what Polyjuice Potion was. These guys were smart. And desperate.

“Good. Bulgarian National plays next week. Go to the stadium before the match and ask to speak to Viktor Krum—he's a friend of mine,” Harry smiled at Dima's raised eyebrows. Viktor was very famous, especially amongst the pureblood and Durmstrang communities. Harry could see a flare of excitement in Dima's hazel eyes that he was going to have a chance to actually talk to the great Viktor Krum. That Harry and Viktor were friends seemed to blow the man's mind. “Tell him that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter sent you to arrange the Seekers match he promised us. He'll know what you mean. Be sure to mention both of us,” Harry cautioned. Dima nodded vigorously, committing it all to memory.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “You have no idea vot zhis means to us.”

“I know,” Harry offered bracingly. “You just stay alive, alright?”

Dima smiled knowingly. He pulled a dark, square box from his pocket, pressing it into Harry's hands before stepping away. It was a pack of cigarettes, nearly full. Harry smiled—now he could offer Draco a cigarette the next time they had sex. Harry sighed calming smoke before tossing his spent clove, stubbing it out with the toe of his trainer. Perhaps he should learn the spell to produce a little flame from his wand, as Dima had done? Harry looked up, filter of a fresh smoke held between his curled-in lips, about to ask Dima the incantation. He froze.

No, he commanded through the link. Draco, don't you fucking dare!

Too late. His boyfriend was inhaling, sucking long and hard from the end of Chern's little glass pipe. Whatever he was smoking smelled stale, like asparagus gone off. Was that... pot? Wizard weed? Clearly Draco knew what it was. He was holding his breath, eyes closed, rolling his shoulders back. Draco's mind was a void, a wide and deserted expanse of calm; memories of chocolate, Quidditch, and the tang of salty sweat blowing in the breeze that rushed between the man's ears. Harry scanned his boyfriend's hazy, undulating memory—sweet Merlin, this was his fourth hit! Vitya and Vadik were applauding how long Draco could hold his breath in his cute little lungs. He was playing quite the convincing rebel for a pureblood pretty boy.

Come here.

Draco laughed smoke, all but ignoring Harry except for the tiniest shake of his head. He held the pipe out to Chern, asking for another hit. The tall man packed another pinch of herb in the bowl, so kind as to light it with his wand as Draco clenched the pipe in a row of perfect white teeth. He took a powerful drag before dutifully passing to Vadik.

Now, Draco. Or I swear to fucking God I will hurt you, Harry snarled.

That got Draco moving, though reluctantly. He retreated into the darkness of the inner alleyway, all but rolling his eyes as he dragged his feet. He was still holding his breath, the cheeky little shit. Harry couldn't contain his anger. What the bloody fuck did Draco think he was doing?

Draco stopped in front of Harry, who now leaned against the old brick wall. Removing the unlit cigarette from his mouth, he fixed Draco with a fierce expression. When Harry licked his lips, they were as sweet as the cigarette paper—sweeter. He liked his lips again, slower, contemplating Draco's punishment for such blatant disobedience. It came to him in a flash.

Blow me.

Draco sprung forward to kiss him, blowing the drug-laden smoke into Harry's mouth with a passion. It tasted like whiskey, staleness and Draco. Harry coughed, lungs heaving, pushing Draco's mouth away so he could breathe properly.

That's not what I meant and you know it, Harry growled through the link. He delivered the smallest zing of pain, focusing it on his boyfriend's feet and calves so he would get the idea.

Right there in the alley, Draco dropped to his knees without a care and began determinately working at Harry's belt. His fingers slipped awkwardly over the fastening, a combination of drugs, alcohol, curse, and lust. Harry was high from the adrenaline. And maybe the weed. Just a little bit. He returned his black cigarette to his lips, a wand tip appearing out of nowhere to light it.

Harry started, turning to the source of the flame now hovering before his face. Nebojsa smiled at him from beyond the wand's handle, Dima's arms around him as he was pressed to the wall beside Harry, bold and open-mouthed kisses laid to his Christo-tattooed neck. Harry was too drunk or horny to summon any higher level reaction than rapid blinking. Nebojsa kept smiling until Dima kissed him, their bodies flush together and grinding.

Draco managed the zip of Harry's denims. Face in sweat-dappled cotton pants, he breathed deep. Harry's hand shot out impulsively to cup Draco's cheek, turning his face up. His eyes were black, eclipsed by substance and desire. Harry realized with a jolt that his smoldering cigarette tip was scant centimeters from the flushed skin of Draco's cheek. He'd been tortured with a lit cigarette, burned as part of his punishment for disobeying Lord Voldemort. Harry sent calm, reassuring thoughts through the link before pulling his hand away. Draco caught a calloused, tobacco-flavored thumb in his mouth, sucking powerful and wet, drawing the digit into his mouth and the cigarette closer to his face. He didn't stop until the charcoal tip heated his skin from centimeters away. White ash dusted like freckles below his fierce dark eyes.

It's sexy, Draco asserted, his voice clear as a bell in Harry's mind. Would ya... keep smoking? While I ...?

Just those words—and the lusty images swirling in Draco's mind, the desire and anticipation that flowed unchecked through his unwound head—was enough to bring Harry painfully close to coming. He struggled for composure, to keep his face neutral. Staring into Draco's lust-lidded eyes helped.

You want me to be detached? he questioned. To pretend I don't care?

Draco shook his head, nose brushing Harry's straining erection through the thin, heated fabric of his boxers. I don't think yeh could even pretend, he teased before going low and serious, skimming between their minds. I want them ta see how much power ya have.

Nimble fingers drew his member out into the cool night air, making him shiver and tense. He could hear Yura and Dušan discussing Quidditch standings, Chereshko laughing, Dima grunting softly as he worked his boyfriend's body against the crumbling brick wall beside them, so close Harry could smell their sweat, feel the air rippling from their movements, hear their lips meeting, wet and passionate.

With a shaking hand, Harry returned the cigarette to his lips. Would the smoke calm his nerves? What the fuck was he doing? And what did Draco mean by “his power?”

One hot lick and he understood—right before the world faded away. Draco's mouth closed over him and the magic was gathering at his fingertips, along the edges of his teeth and between the buds of his tongue. He screwed his eyes shut, bottling the energy so it could rise up to a steady boil. Draco moaned, feeling the steady thrum like blood in the veins of their connections, physical and magic, lustful and Dark. He quickly performed his favorite little spell before taking Harry to the furthest reaches of his throat, all but goring himself. Harry felt the signature of magic allowing Draco to breath in ways only a wizard could draw breath. The back of Harry's head hit the wall with a dull thud, smoke billowing out his nostrils.

“Yes, Draco,” he groaned in Parseltongue, the roiling magic needing some type of vent like steam screeching from a tea kettle. “I think you hate it but I love you. Tough fucking shit, baby. I love you,” he babbled. “I love you, you devious, conniving, manipulative, genius-pot-smoking-cock-sucking-gorgeous-Voldemort-be-damned-pureblood-buggering-me-within-an-inch-of-my-bloody-life-bastard! I love you, I love you, love you....”

Draco's only response was to suck harder, to take more, his eyes trained on Harry's red, hissing lips through the clouds of smoke and haze of sex. He moaned again, gripping Harry's strong thighs. Harry fisted a hand in silky hair, riding so perilously close to the edge he could taste it.

“That isssss the only way,” replied an unfamiliar hiss beside him. Harry's head lolled, brilliant green eyes meeting Nebojsa's frank stare. The man had a piercing, ice blue gaze beneath deeply hooded black brows. His lips were parted, nostrils flaring softly as he panted with Dima kneeling before him. “Itssss the only thing that mattersssss.” His eyes dropped to Draco, sucking Harry off with his eyes half closed, completely focused. Harry could tell his boyfriend was blocking out the hissing conversation going on above him, ignoring what it did to his own cock in order to concentrate solely on Harry.

“He lovessss you,” Nebojsa commented. He watched Draco intently while cradling Dima's face at his own crotch. Blinking slowly, his icy eyes were darkening; strong, chiseled face going slack as the end approached at break-neck speed. Harry felt mindless, too. His skin was crawling with thousands of spiders running through his veins, the magic trying to get out. “And love isssss always worth fighting for.”

Nebojsa reached out, taking Harry's chin in his free hand and drawing him close. Their lips met in a chaste press, engorged and wet. It wasn't sexual so much as it was understanding—only that type of physical closeness could express everything the man was feeling in that moment, the intense bond of camaraderie and respect forged in their private exchange. There weren't that many Parselmouths out there, let alone ones that had been raised outside of the magical world only to fall in love with the son of a prominent Death Eater. And they were both fighting, though it sometimes felt like running blind. The kiss was only an outward sign of their pact, their determination to live in the face of it all.

Draco choked, throat clenching unbearably tight around him. It made the magic flex, like a muscle. He could feel it in his chest, burrowing deep and digging its in claws for leverage. It expanded until Harry couldn't breath. The magic burst from him in a hot rush of wind, sending a shock-wave rippling out through the alley. Brick dust fluttered down on their heads like snow, bits of garbage twitching on the ground. Every molecule of his body sparked with electricity. Nebojsa drew back with a smile of wonder, a hand brushing his thin lips. Draco gave a little yelp, unconsciously bringing his teeth down. Harry jerked at the sudden sensation, so different from warm, wet suction and lips and yet so achingly good. The sharpness seemed to accent his orgasm, dragging it out. He bit down on his lip to keep from screaming, breaking the skin. Coppery blood mixed with sugary sweetness. The air shimmered and danced, flecks of dust in the air glinting like pixies caught in magical moon light. Harry let it wash over him, felt his body shake, sensed Draco's gasp of pleasure as though from very far away.

Draco, sucking the head of his cock, was pulling a sort of poison from his veins. He got lighter and lighter, more and more free, the longer it went on. It was the polar opposite of casting Eptir Eldr, which left him lifeless and drained. He felt new, whole, sharp and fresh, ready for anything. Gods, it was magic! Maybe that's what Draco meant by his “power.” Some power! He'd never come so long in his life. A drop of blood tracked down his chin before Draco finished swallowing, still lapping up the last of it.

“Greedy,” Harry observed in a proud hiss. Draco nodded his agreement, nose buried in black pubic hair. “Get up here.”

He wasn't sure if Draco would understand his intention now; somewhere in the process of accidentally kissing another man and blowing his load while getting sucked off in a London back alley, he'd lost his hold on the Imperius Curse. Oh well. He must be stoned out of his mind right now because he really couldn't be arsed. Draco clawed his way up Harry's front, tucking him back in his trousers before brushing dirt and pebbles from his trouser legs. Wobbly, he fell into Harry, a puff of air driven from both their lungs with the impact. He swiped a long, pale finger up Harry's chin, gathering the little smear of blood on his fingertip before bringing it to his pretty mouth, sucking his finger clean.

“You're drinking my blood now? Tha's very intense,” Harry told his boyfriend teasingly—his boyfriend who was licking the Chosen One's dirty mixed blood off his delicate, purebred finger. It took a conscious effort to switch back to English. His brain was so far gone. “Odd, Draco. You're so odd, always licking things off me.”

“Yes,” the man agreed. “We're a trifle odd, the pair of us.” His eyes were still dilated nearly black and he leaned heavily against Harry. His silvery gaze was unfocused as he appeared to stare at Harry's lips, waiting for them to move again. With all the pot he'd smoked, he was probably hallucinating quite fantastically.

Harry swept forward to catch Draco's lips with his own, ignoring his cut-up lip. The sting became another dimension of their slow, languid kiss; a thrumming burn that joined with Draco's crisp taste and the musky flavor lingering at the backs of his teeth. Harry proceeded to lick the last of his come from the inside of Draco's mouth. Draco sighed, enjoying the tongue-lavishing of his tonsils.

A decided bit of throat clearing broke them apart. Nebojsa and Dima were cuddled close, fixing them with a hazel and ice blue daze. The strong men looked almost sweet, their bearded cheeks pressed tight, nose-tips almost touching. Dima let out a string of explicatives Harry was glad he'd never comprehend. “Jebo te Bog te jebo da te jebo te Bog da te jebo dabogda....” Nebojsa was clearly offended—there must've been something about God in there somewhere because he shoved his partner away, though an indulgent smile crossed his thin lips.

“Dunno wha' tha' means,” Draco sighed, “but we need ta get outta here. Quick.”

Dima and Nebojsa both nodded emphatically. Dima was staring at Harry with something resembling slack-jawed awe. Nebojsa's eyes were wide but his face was unreadable... until he fucking winked at Draco.

“He can Apparate after zhat?!” Dima spluttered at Draco, eyebrows becoming one with his dark hairline. Draco chuckled deep in his chest.

“I wouldn't even let him try,” Draco shrugged, wrapping his long arms around Harry in preparation to Side-Along him home. “I'd be scraping him off the floor fer weeks.”

“And zhen vere vould zee resistance be?” Dima snorted. Nebojsa called their men with a quick hand signal. They apparently Apparated as a group, which was smart. It was harder to attack an entire group moving swiftly. Dima stepped back, slinging an arm around his tanked baby brother to hold him up. Nebojsa caught Harry's attention.

“Ve vill meet again, da?”

“Da,” Harry nodded, smiling. He felt that familiar tug, the twisting sensation of Apparition in his chest, the squeezing of his eyeballs and churning of his liquor-filled stomach. A few sickening seconds later, he landed in bed with a very horny Draco Malfoy on top of him. And Gods, if there wasn't a wizard on Earth more fun to be drunk and horny with.

~ * ~

Harry stood at the foot of the bed, hating himself. Draco had packed their trunk, spelling the inside deeper to accommodate two sets of clothing, personal items, quills and parchment. He'd asked Harry where his schoolbooks were so he could pack those, too. Harry was forced to lie, saying he'd pack them himself later. Draco thought he was packing now.

The blonde hadn't separated their things at all; instead, the trunk contained tidy stacks of trousers, cloaks, socks and pants, his and Draco's possessions pleasantly mingled together, a quiet testament to their cohabitation. Draco didn't have much and clearly expected to borrow from Harry. It was an easy solution; after all, he thought they'd be sharing the Head Boy's quarters once they arrived at Hogwarts. Harry tasted bile at the back of his throat, fists jammed in his pockets. He couldn't look at the trunk anymore without hating himself. He had to tell Draco. Draco was leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow morning. This was their last night together. And Draco deserved to know—what he didn't deserve was his good-for-nothing boyfriend lying to him.

He'd invited Ron and Hermione for dinner that night, needing to establish peace between his two best friends and his boyfriend before sending them off to Scotland together. The rift between himself and his best friends grew wider every day. Something had to be done before he lost them. Draco seemed excited that they were having company, no matter that it was parts two and three of the Golden Trio. Harry suspected Draco was more of a social creature than he let on.

Harry closed the lid of their trunk, resigned to his fate. He had to tell Draco before Ron and Hermione got there. He shuddered to think how bad it would be if his boyfriend found out from anyone else. It was a minor miracle that hadn't already happened. Draco gave him privacy whenever he read correspondence from Headmistress McGonagall and tried not to ask too many questions. Draco had a certain way of being. He'd rather be reassured that everything was alright than know the details. If he knew details he tended to get involved, try to change things and nitpick. He understood that the last thing Harry needed was another person questioning him and so he placed faith in Harry a bit blindly at times. Now that faith was dogging Harry, making him feel like the lowest of the low. He had to tell Draco.

Plodding miserably down the stairs, he heard Draco playing piano in the front parlor. The scent of apples and a hint of caramel wafted up from the kitchen—Draco was preparing their dinner with magic. It was still almost two hours until Ron and Hermione were expected so the sweet smell could only be some type of dessert. Harry heaved a sigh. It was ridiculous to hope that everyone would just get along. His boyfriend was perfect. Well, perfect for him; wild, feisty, indecent and perfect, like a beautiful, unbroken stallion. Draco ran unbridled, natural and free. Maybe one day his friends would accept the deep admiration and affection he held for Draco. Until then, it was this awkward peace-keeping, this tension and mild discomfort, this worry that any comment might start a brawl across the dinner table. Gods, why couldn't everyone just put their shit aside and act like adults? Even The Boy Who Lived had grown up. He deserved some kind of fucking medal for that. Now he waited for his world to catch up.

Draco was seated at the piano in his blue silk shirt and a pair of grey trousers, looking good enough to eat. Harry started when he recognized the tune—“Don't Let Me Down” by the Beatles. Draco drew the melody out in this quiet, happy way, trilling on the higher keys, chord hand slow and patient. Where had Draco learned a muggle song? Harry remembered the tune had played over the speakers at the market a few days back. It was incredible that Draco could play the song having only heard it once. Maybe he liked the melody and it stuck.

“Ya watchin' me?” the blonde asked over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. He stepped into the big room, closing the door behind him as though to keep the music just for them. It wasn't like there was anyone else in the house—just Kreacher and Hedwig. Still, he liked being alone with his boyfriend. Really alone. They didn't have much time left. Harry hummed with the chorus, thinking the words. “So don't let me down, don't let me down....” Except he was letting Draco down, lying to him. His shoulders sagged.

“Draco?”

“Scar Head?”

“I, er, wanted to talk to you...”

“So talk,” Draco shrugged, continuing to play at a softer volume. He didn't look up at Harry; then again, he didn't look down at the keys when he played, either. Mostly his grey eyes fixed on the polished top of the piano or on the folds of the old curtains covering a nearby window. The lid of the piano was down and he was staring straight forward, unseeingly, out of the window. It was getting dark outside. The air felt a little thick, like it might rain that night. Draco's warm, pleasant melody went on.

Harry completely lost his nerve... at least the nerve to mention lying about Hogwarts. He quickly found something else to feel bad about.

“I'm sorry about last night,” Harry offered quietly, turning away and clasping his hands behind his back. “I hexed you. And that was absolutely out of line. I was really drunk—not as though that's any excuse. Everything is kinda hazy after that.” He could feel his face going red. Certain things were hazy while others remained perfectly clear. He'd floo-called Viktor to let him know the Durmstrang runaways would be approaching him next week. He'd floo-called McGonagall, too, telling her that the guys could even stay with him at Grimmauld Place if need be. Maybe they could continue teaching him about Dark magic in Draco's absence.

Draco was shaking his head slowly, smiling.

“Don't worry 'bout it. It was exactly wha' our new friends needed ta see.”

“Our new friends?” Harry questioned. He very much wanted those men to be his friends. Maybe Nebojsa and Dima already were, come to think of it.

Draco rolled his eyes launching into the chorus. “Wha' do yeh want me ter call 'em? 'Cause we did a little more than get drunk together.” He raised a delicate, returned-to-dirty-blonde brow.

So Draco remembered what they'd done—in front of an audience, no less.

“Are you okay with that?” Harry asked cryptically.

“Are you?” Draco shot back. He leaned to one side on the bench, turning to fix Harry with a cocky, lazy smile. It bordered on the old Malfoy sneer but was tipped with teasing, affection, and outright challenge. The man had better say something devious before he burst. “Here I was thinkin' threesomes were off the map an' yeh go startin' an orgy!”

Harry swallowed against his suddenly dry mouth. “I did no such thing,” he insisted, face red.

Draco chuckled, trilling the soprano keys with enthusiasm, the gentle music utterly incongruous to their conversation. “Wonder Boy, yer powers of denial never cease ter amaze an' astound. Last night was fun. Yeh didn't do anythin' wrong. In fact, I think we should do it again if yer game. Yeh really oughtta let go a' this stuffy Gryffindor bollocks an' have a good time now an' again.”

“So... we're okay?” Harry asked slowly. His face was still bright—he could feel the heat—but Draco seemed pleased instead of angry. And he still wanted Harry. That was what was important, after all.

“Yes, brill,” Draco shrugged, playing the melody straight and true. Harry sighed, coming to lay a hand on Draco's shoulder and watch his skinny fingers fly over the keys.

“How can you play a song after hearing it once? Is it magic?”

Draco laughed. “It's called talent!”

Harry snorted at his boyfriend's flippancy. “But you can still read sheet music, right? Or do you do everything by ear?”

“If it's very complex then yes, I prefer ta have the music in front a' me,” Draco admitted. “But simple rot like this I do by ear.”

“Would you like me to get you some sheet music?” Harry asked, smiling innocently. Draco's head whipped up to look at him.

“Wha'?” he spluttered. “This muggle tripe?” And he turned up his nose as much as one can turn up one's nose while looking upward to begin with. “No thank you.”

“There's some really good muggle music out there,” Harry protested. “Complicated stuff, even. Fancy classical stuff, like the wizard music you play. You might like it.”

“No thank you,” Draco insisted in his haughtiest Malfoy voice.

“Don't be an arsehole, Draco,” Harry said firmly. “I was offering to do something nice for you.”

“Don't make me bend yeh over the piano,” the blonde mumbled under his breath. The sentence wasn't lost on Harry's ears.

“For what? Being nice to you?” he couldn't help but snort in reply.

“Fer bein' bloody perfect, ya cunt.”

Draco pulled Harry down by the front of his shirt, kissing him upside down. The kiss was short and sweet; the hard meeting of lips, a quick sigh, the taste of those sweet pink folds and Draco was already pulling away. Harry hovered close, letting his hands slip down the vivid blue silk covering Draco's chest.

“I could be perfect some more—if you like,” Harry offered quietly, knowing how Draco felt about admitting what he wanted but forcing the issue none-the-less. Expressing wanting had been off-limits to the Malfoy heir; after all, Draco had wanted for nothing as a child... nothing but affection, anyway. And perhaps a bit of discipline. Now he had both in spades. Harry would only put out if Draco expressed his desire and the blonde bloody well knew it. The arrangement aggravated him to no end but served to keep him honest and upfront if nothing else.

“If yeh get any more perfect, I'll scream,” Draco uttered dejectedly.

Harry straightened, allowing the heat of his hands to permeate Draco's shirt before letting them slip away. Draco gazed off to the side, sullen and unwilling to meet Harry's eyes.

“I take it I won't be bent over the piano before my friends arrive, then,” Harry shrugged, stepping away. “Too bad.”

“Oh, it can be arranged,” Draco shot, swiveling around on the bench. He caught Harry's rear pocket, dragging him back. His hand tugged once at the denims, eyes bright. “Strip.”

“One condition,” Harry said, holding a staying hand over the white belt securing his jeans. Draco raised a questioning brow, so Harry supplied his requirement. It wasn't often, if ever, that he made stipulations on fucking so Draco was paying some attention. “Use magic,” Harry said quietly

“Yeah?” Draco rose from the bench, drawing close.

“Yeah,” Harry chuckled back, loosening his belt. The button on his jeans was the next to go. “I'd like to be able to sit comfortably during dinner, if that's alright.”

“Afraid I'm gonna fuck ya too hard?” Draco teased, watching Harry lower his zipper with an uncalculated and yet tantalizing air.

“I'm not afraid,” Harry said calmly, confidence making his voice smooth, rich and deep. “I know what I like. And you like it, too.”

Draco's eyes drifted closed for a second, his exhale shaky. The blonde smelled like lemons and that tan paste he conjured to style his hair. When he opened his eyes his pupils were dilating, taking over, leaving less and less silver at the edges. Harry found himself missing the color but looking forward to the crazy sex that look always brought about.

“Strip,” Draco commanded again. He pulled Harry's glasses from his face, carelessly tossing them to the nearby sofa cushion.

Harry dropped his arms to his sides, unwilling to give Draco the pleasure of watching him follow orders. It took a second for comprehension to dawn in Draco's lust-fogged brain.

“Bloody prat,” the blonde whispered, tugging the tails of Harry's oxford before working at the buttons. He started at the bottom and quickly made his way up, sliding the material from Harry's shoulders as an excuse to touch his warm, bare skin. Next, he unceremoniously pushed down Harry's denims and pants, letting them pool on the floor. Since he wasn't wearing shoes or socks, Harry simply stepped out of them. He reached out, grabbing a fist full of blonde hair to drag Draco into a kiss.

Draco smiled against his lips, a light hand wrapping Harry's shaft and giving a few teasingly slow tugs. Harry's tongue was sucked to the same rhythm, making his knees weak. Draco's other hand cupped the place where his ass met thigh, drawing their lower halves flush.

“Put yer hands on the piano,” he muttered into their kiss.

Harry pulled back, lifting his eyebrows in a silent laugh that blew out his nose in a huff.

“Please,” Draco quickly amended. “If I'm using magic, yer gonna need it.”

“That a promise?” Harry smiled, fingering the sleek fabric at the blonde's side. “If you plan to fuck me, love, you might wanna take your clothes off.”

“I think I'll leave 'em on,” Draco said with good humor, taking a step back so that their only point of contact was his hand still languidly pumping Harry's growing length.

Harry drew back with a grin, disentangling Draco's fingers and making for the deep curve at the instrument's side. He dropped his elbows to the piano behind him and leaned casually, going so far as to cross his ankles and really release his weight—as though he were early for Charms and waiting in the corridor instead of stark naked and leaning against a Black family heirloom. Draco watched him, perplexed.

“Yeh don't feel awkward?” the blonde questioned, looking Harry up and down.

“Why should I?”

“Yer... exposed,” Draco flicked a hand between them before taking a step closer. He didn't even bother to toe off his shoes or unbutton his shirt. Natural light receded quickly with the sun now set, leaving them with the bluish-white Lumos-triggered lamps that littered the old house. Draco looked especially pale in the weak, wavering light. Harry had been right: Draco's platinum hair made the shirt stand out more against his fair skin, reflecting the intense blue right up to his eerie, beautiful eyes.

“I'm not exposed,” Harry chided, adding the slightest swagger to his stance. Draco chose the strangest times to play these little power games. Their sex drives were equally insatiable. They'd blown each other while brewing a Hangover Potion that morning and then wanked in the shower only to take their clothes off again, frotting fast and messy on the kitchen table shortly after lunch; yet Harry stood with a full boner pointing at his chin, quite ready and waiting. And Draco chose this moment to tease? “You've seen me naked plenty of times,” Harry shrugged. “I'd have thought the novelty had worn off by now! I can only conclude that you want me to feel 'exposed,' as you say, vulnerable, weak,” he postured, gesturing idly with one hand. He brushed his hair out of his face, Draco's bright eyes following the little movements of his hand with rapt attention.

“Is that what you want?” Harry continued with sickening sweetness. He turned away, placing his forearms on the shiny piano and angling his rear to Draco. A part of his brain registered how slutty he must look with his naked arse on display in the front parlor but he couldn't rightly care. This would set Draco off like no other. Harry peeked over his shoulder, batting his eyelashes with the briefest modicum of sarcasm before trying to make it look real. “Like this? You want me powerless, all a-quiver and begging for you?”

He let the moment linger, leisurely boiling Draco's blood. Then Harry found he was the one who couldn't take it. He dropped his face into his arms, snorting hoots of laughter shaking his back. It was so fake he couldn't even fake it with a straight face. “Fat chance!”

Draco was on top of him in an instant, thin fingers gripping his hips with bruising force as he laid his fully-clad body into Harry's bare one. He nipped at the back of Harry's neck, growling, “Yer ass is mine, Potter. Don't yeh forget tha'.”

“And your dick is mine, Malfoy,” Harry replied smoothly, tucking his rear against the bulge in Draco's trousers. The blonde hissed as Harry ground against him. Aha! A few too many layers of fabric come back to haunt him! “Kinda hard to fuck with your clothes on, yeah?”

When Draco attempted to pull away with a snarl of fury, Harry hooked the man's ankle with his own foot, unbalancing him and knocking them both forward, hard. They slammed into the piano, pushing it a few centimeters with an audible scratching of floorboards.

“Who says I'm fucking you, bitch!” Draco hissed, haughty and conciliatory.

“Draco,” Harry intoned, sighing deeply for patience, “you're going to eat me out and then fuck me silly. With magic. And before Ron and Hermione get here—unless you plan on charging them for a second show which I'm sure neither of them want or could possibly afford. Your prices are probably the least outrageous thing they'd have to worry about. I suggest you use the next...” he glanced at the old clock, “ninety minutes to their full potential. Because after that it's going to be a delightful evening spent in the company of your two favorite individuals.”

“Potter, I didn't know you invited my parents!” Draco spat, making a rather bad taste joke in that trademark snide and irreverent manner. “Or is it dear Severus and The Dark Lord coming for dinner? I do hope I've made enough dessert.” He drove his hips forward as an accent, rubbing his fully clothed cock against the healthy roundness of Harry's backside. The piano slid forward some more, causing Harry to lean at a precarious angle.

“Forgive me. I was under the impression I was getting laid tonight,” Harry said boldly, hints of anger and impatience lacing his acerbic tone. “But if you'd rather dry hump me—or talk at me—”

Draco grunted, muscling Harry's legs apart with his own. He had the advantage with Harry's foot still wrapped tightly around his ankle. He wrestled Harry forward until his firm little body lay flush against the piano, leaving them both panting from the effort.

Why am I doing this, again? Harry mused. The answer hit him like a bag of bricks. Because I'm too chicken-shit to tell Draco the truth. This is just a sick, needy grab for power when everything's spinning out of control. And that's probably how Draco feels right now, like this squabbling is just fuel to keep us going so we don't go mental. Maybe he could use that shared mentality to gain the upper hand. Harry bit down on his manic grin—not like Draco could see his face.

“Does this make it fun? Get your dick hard?” Harry asked dryly, his own ignored erection bumping the underside of the grand piano. The wood underneath was raw and unfinished—he could easily get splinters. “You like feeling in control? Does that do it for you?” he teased, earning a savage bite to his shoulder. He breathed through it, noticing that Draco's free hand stroked the side of his thigh, fingertips mapping the contour of flesh and dark, rough hair. “Too bad. You'd better fuck me, Draco. Do me. I want you to take me. There's really no power in it for you, since you're just doing what I want. But I might be willing to pretend if it'll keep your dick up.”

Draco let out a muffled scream, his wand flying past Harry's ear. He threw a decent Sticking Charm at the piano followed by several sex charms at Harry's backside. From the feel of it, Draco had taken a good amount of hair from down there. Harry felt bare—he could feel the soft wool of Draco's trousers, feel a slight breeze from the Cooling Charms lazily circling the room. He couldn't let his discomfort show, even as Draco's magic scrubbed his intestines and worked at spreading him simultaneously. He kept any physical reaction from surfacing; inside, his brain protested quite vehemently at the indecent exposure but this was no time to be squeamish, to show weakness. This was a battle of wills like they'd never had before and Harry would be damned if he didn't win.

Draco cast one last spell—a specialized, non-verbal form of Incarcerus that left Harry's wrists bound together snugly with several wide strips of leather, the ends of which snaked along the top of the piano until dropping off the side like aerial acrobats, coiling around the instrument's legs and then hunkering down for leverage. Apparently Harry would be face down on the piano for the time being. He rested his forehead against the cool, lacquered wood, feeling beads of sweat rapidly building all along his body. His erect sex bobbed from inattention, scraping rough wood.

A hot mouth traveled down his back with more punishing teeth than adoring lips, narrow fingers working his ass cheeks with shocking strength. Draco's panting breath puffed out across his lower back. He felt the blonde drop to his knees, crumpling to the floor and craning his head to peer unabashed at the most private area of Harry's body. His examination was almost clinical, probing with dry fingers, trying to make Harry uncomfortable. But Harry wouldn't give Draco the satisfaction. He breathed slowly and evenly, listening to Draco swish his wand one last time before stowing it in his back pocket.

It was only a second before he leaned in, spreading Harry's cheeks with unforgiving hands before delivering a slow, hot lick

“Mmmm,” Harry voiced his approval, rubbing it in Draco's face—rubbing everything in Draco's face. He leaned into that nasty lick, taking more than Draco had intended to give. With a combination of luck and just the right angle, Draco's tongue slid right up his ass hole. And Draco went much farther than usual, having spelled his tongue to more than the length of a finger. Harry was unexpectedly speared on that wet muscle. “Exactly... what I wanted,” Harry reminded his boyfriend with a wicked, breathless chuckle.

“Uuuck yough,” was Draco's muffled reply.

“All in due time,” Harry managed, gasping at the sensation of Draco trying to speak with his slick tongue so far up his boyfriend's ass. Harry rotated his hips, fucking himself, soliciting any type of reaction to this unprecedentedly promiscuous and downright shallow behavior. Draco couldn't help a moan as Harry clenched. It took them both a second to recover. Draco's hands raced up and down his thighs, encouraging him to spread his legs as far as he could go. Harry obliged, leaning back into Draco's mouth as he sucked, swirling his magically elongated tongue.

He hit on that elusive spot that made white-hot sparks chase each other across Harry's vision. His eyes probably rolled into the back of his head, nothing short of a wet gurgle escaping his lungs. He grunted, indicating God damn it: there, there! Draco caught on, waggling his colorful, filthy tongue. That was its best use, after all.

Harry came, hard and deliciously drawn out; the type of intense, animal response only Draco could bring out in him. Harry clenched, tense and contracting, beating his forehead in a slow, steady rhythm against the piano. The pounding matched the rush of blood in his ears, the stream of come pulsing from his cock in a hot wave. Draco let out a wail that was... disappointed, withdrawing his deviant tongue. He darted forward, sliding between Harry's legs and bashing the top of his blonde head on the piano's undercarriage as he rushed to capture the head of Harry's cock in his mouth. He eagerly lapped up the rest, swallowing and breathing heavily through his nose, savoring the flavor as it filled his mouth and slid too soon down his throat. But that first spurt mocked him in the from of a puddle on the floor beside him. He was careful not to get any on his fancy trousers. And the stray dust bunnies could be spelled away later. He was busy, apparently.

“Task one of two,” Harry chided when he could manage words. Draco was forced to non-verbally spell his tongue back to normal in order to make his reply.

“Gonna fuck yeh 'til yer blue in yer ruddy face,” he mumble-threatened from his hands and knees between Harry's stretched out legs. Harry let the leather bands take some of his weight until the piano gave an ominous creak and he withdrew, owning his slightly shaky limbs.

“I welcome the challenge,” Harry shot back, gaining coherence by leaps and bounds. “Sixty five minutes,” Harry reminded him, thoroughly enjoying his new power. “Tick tock, love.”

“Fuck. You.” Draco panted, still regulating his breath with little success.

“That would be the idea, now you've gone and got me ready for it,” Harry suggested with mild flip, resting his flushed cheek against the cool wood. He didn't expect what came next.

Draco waved his wand, releasing the leather straps so that Harry's weight sagged to his silk-clad shoulders. Had Draco licked the come from his boyfriend's crotch just to keep it from staining his shirt? He hoisted an off-guard Harry with a deep grunt, throwing him bodily atop the grand piano and then pouncing after his sloppy, nude form. Fully clothed and on his knees between Harry's thighs, Draco cast rapid Sticking Charms to the piano's three legs before hastily unfastening his trousers.

“Not the intended use of a grand piano, magical or otherwise,” he gushed, yanking his trousers open to free his red veined cock. Harry fumbled with mother of pearl shirt buttons. He'd only released the first two before Draco was casting the Lubrication Charm directly at his hole, swiping at the wetness to coat himself. Getting inside as quickly as possible appeared to be his only objective and he pursued it with wild abandon, blowing his hair out of his eyes even as he leaned close, guiding himself with a pale, practiced hand. Harry knew he was held open by magic but reasoned with his body to relax just the same, huffing shallow breaths through his nose as Draco pressed forward, expensive fabrics clinging to his frame like a second skin. And then Harry was his skin, enveloping him. There was next to no burn this way... the wizarding way. Draco easily slid two thirds of the way before pulling back smoothly. It was amazing—he was already in, and then out. Harry wanted in again... quite desperately, but he wouldn't let it show.

Harry was so hot, so slick, so tight! Draco nearly came the second he was in. He couldn't even fully seat himself, rearing back to scrabble for his center and just fucking breathe. Slow, slow. The edge was right there, quivering, beckoning him to slip, to fall over into much-needed orgasm. He took a second to rearrange their bodies, situating Harry's legs over his shoulders and bending the dark haired sex fiend nearly in half. Gods, he was flexible! Draco breathed through his arousal, pushing back into that swelling, roiling press and heat.

Because he was a masochist who lived for over-stimulation—that was the only explanation available, after all—Draco rested his palms just inside Harry's hip bones, nestling his fingers in a bit of inky black body hair and then easing himself over his lover, transferring the weight of his own body into their physical connection. Every molecule of Harry's being seemed to hum and then vibrate, zooming to constrict so sweetly tight around his cock. He felt the universe converge there, all pushing against him, demanding he get the fuck out of The Straightest Boy Who Lived because he, Draco Malfoy, reformed Death Eater, so very clearly did not belong. Harry watched him with small wonder written across his strong, handsome face, one hand exploring the scars beneath his silk dress shirt and the other moving like water through his hair, thumb stroking his temple quite tenderly. He could count the number of times he'd been in Harry on one hand and already he wanted to own this heat, wanted it to be his more than he could ever express. Green eyes fixated on him from a background of cherry polished wood, a calloused hand brushing disobedient blonde strands that pricked at his eyes. Draco drove his hips forward and Harry growled his pleasure through gritted teeth, voice deep and crackling with the desire for more.

“Wha' do you call that?” Harry managed in a heavy purr, wild eyes indicating the hands pressing into his hips, creating that amazing tightness and tension.

The death of me, chimed a voice at the back of Draco's head. He beat it down, smirking.

“It's called nine inches a' pureblood bone in ya. Like it?”

“Really?” Harry arched up, pushing at Draco's hands with his hips using only the thick muscles of his thighs draped over Draco's shoulders, leveraging against his own taught upper body to take more, to absorb and devour. He smirked and it was bloody sexy. “I could've sworn it was ten.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, ignoring the compliment. “Ya sayin' ya want it?”

“I'm saying you're holding back on me, Draco,” Harry fixed him with a look that all but froze his breath in his lungs. Freezing... now there was a good idea. “All of you,” Harry insisted. “Now.”

With a quick wandless spell, Draco's cock went several degrees colder. Harry shivered and flinched involuntarily, clenching around him. He was so close it hurt, biting his lip to keep from gasping. Oddly enough, staring into Harry's eyes helped. Flecks of green flashed up at him through dark lashes, framed by skin turned snowy white in the lamplight.

“I haven't even started with ya,” Draco growled happily, slamming forward with all his might.

In retrospect, it would have been smart to put a Sticking Charm on Harry as well as the instrument: hindsight was always twenty twenty. And Draco's sense of practical foresight had always been royally fucked and not in a good way. The piano stayed firmly in place but his sweat-slicked lover was sliding all over the place. That tantalizing way he wiggled his hips certainly didn't help. As much as Draco wanted to pull out completely before pounding, ramming himself home, Harry proved a constantly moving target. Even with his hips pinned by at least half Draco's weight, he managed to clench his arse, to worm here and slip there, rolling his hips like nothing Draco had ever seen. Harry was teasing him, denying him what they both so clearly wanted.

“Get back here!” Draco snarled, curling his fingers around Harry's hip bones and dragging him closer, spearing him. The man's breath sang high and sharp through his clenched teeth. He was loving it, this pantomime of aggression.

“Harder,” Harry announced, pearly whites gritted and barred with his head thrown back, taking up fists of Draco's hair.

“Then hold still!” Draco shot back, beginning to sweat in earnest. He'd have to change shirts before dinner because this one would wreak of sweat and sex—their sweat, their sex. He slid himself balls deep only to stifle a moan. He ground his hips, too sensitive to do as Harry had ordered.

“What are you afraid of?” Harry demanded with ragged frustration. “Breaking the piano—or me?”

The stunningly witty comeback on Draco's lips was summarily aborted by a thin, harsh kiss. His lips burned.

“The piano's in far more danger than I am,” Harry spat against wet lips, sharing Draco's breath. “How long are you gonna fuck me like a girl?”

Finally, finally, Draco managed a decent thrust. And then another. Harry was pretending for him, letting him stick his hand in the proverbial cookie jar with the promise he wouldn't be scolded. He was only doing what Harry wanted but Gods if it didn't feel so damn good. The man made this wild noise in his throat, sounding rather like he were taking a punch low in his stomach. The sound rattled in Draco's chest, resonating with something in the pit of his own stomach. He pulled a hand from those undulating hips, slipping down healthy curves to that delicious bit of meat he was now bludgeoning with his cock. Draco really wound up, his hand rearing back like a snake about to strike. The flat of his palm landed on Harry's sweet ass with a resounding, soul-satisfying crack.

And he was coming, bursting apart in that endless tight. Mouth hanging open, he stared down at Harry. The raven-haired devil had ripped an orgasm from him, taken it right out of his balls and now it was bloody gone. Tears of frustration and rage pricked his eyes; he was too upset to enjoy the pleasure of blowing his load in Harry, too angry to savor the salt and tang of the man's delectable skin, too destroyed to process the hot tears that threatened the corners of his now screwed-shut eyes. He collapsed against Harry's chest, gasping his measly release like a fish out of water. It was a stolen orgasm and it held no pleasure.

Harry didn't say a word, giving him those much-needed seconds to collect himself.

He'd come too early. He'd lost control and blown it—quite literally—before Harry had gotten his fix. They could address it or ignore it. Draco was all-for calling it a fluke... except that he was having more and more of these hair-trigger releases with Harry. He was overloading, taking on too much. Surely Harry Potter wasn't too much for him to handle... or was he?

Harry's bits, hard as granite, lay trapped between their stomachs, the length of him encased between flesh and silk. There was a chance to salvage this. Ignoring his weak arms and painfully oversensitive cock, Draco mustered a shaky push-up to withdraw. Before Harry could catch his gaze he was sliding down that brawny, compact form, centering his weight as he drew back, guiding Harry's thighs to settle on his shoulders. He rose up to his knees, propping Harry up on his upper back, weight distributed to his neck and shoulders. The man's hands splayed out on the piano, bracing as his lower half was raised into the air.

“What're you doing?” Harry questioned, abdominal muscles crunching in a delicious display with his hard cock nestled on top like a big red cherry decorating the peak of his vanilla sundae skin. Draco would see to that gorgeous dick in just a minute. He summoned his most devious smile.

“Seconds,” he announced proudly before diving for Harry's come-slicked hole. Draco sucked powerfully, flinching slightly at the unsightly slurping that, while unavoidable, was also utterly disgusting and undeniably provocative. There was no etiquette to this. It was payback, pure and simple. He was taking his orgasm back whether the domineering Gryffindor sod was having it or not.

Harry liked it, though. He actually wailed, his back flush with Draco's chest, allowing himself to be supported in the crazy position. He wormed his feet up to rest on Draco's shoulders; leverage gained, he proceeded to grind and fuck himself further on Draco's more than willing tongue. You could count on Harry to turn any situation to his advantage, be it a task in the ruddy Triwizard Tournament or getting spunk sucked out of his arse hole. Draco stopped reaching for control and simply let it happen, let Harry fuck his face in this new, utterly lewd way. Draco gripped his meaty thighs so he wouldn't slip and fall, encouraging this display with soft sounds and the occasional nip. He reached one hand to palm Harry's cock, pushing against hot, flushed skin. It didn't take long to bring Harry over—the subtle Heating Charm on Draco's fingers may or may not have had something to do with it. Draco lapped at that puckering pink hole, an insane idea brewing at the back of his mind. There really was nothing like a dose of humiliation to top off one's revenge, after all.

His cheeky grin was hidden by Harry's clenching ass cheeks. With vindictive pride, Draco took careful aim of Harry's cock, plying the sensitive head with his thumb. Harry came with a loud, tensing cry, spraying himself in the face thanks to Draco's guiding hand. He barely had time to screw those sparkling green eyes shut. His mouth was a tight, hard line. A nasal groan escaped as his own come splattered across his flinching face. Draco managed to cackle while still suckling Harry's oversensitive entrance.

The Boy Who Loved To Be Fucked stared up at him with one intense emerald green eye, the other kept shut against dripping semen. The expression on his face demonstrated how not-funny Draco's little stunt was. It became increasingly obvious that some sweet talking would be necessary. Harry was glaring, managing to look frightfully angry even with strings of white liquid decorating his face.

Draco slowly wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, revealing his silly grin. He lowered Harry's twitching body to the piano, crawling up to hover a few inches from that irate, adorable face. Harry practically tapped his toe, expecting an explanation of just where the fuck Draco got off, thinking this was acceptable. Draco's grin was becoming rather manic.

“Dessert,” he whispered with conviction before licking a hot path up Harry's stubble-and-come-covered chin, kissing his eyelids, lavishing his seed-and-sweat-strewn scar. Harry slowly relaxed beneath him, allowing Draco to apologize with his mouth on warm, pleasantly tangy skin. Draco cleaned his lover dutifully, caring for every freckle, every hair and worried line and whisker. They breathed together, slow and steady, riding out tense muscles and the last of the post-orgasmic shivers. Harry let out a contented sigh as Draco kissed the corner of his mouth. Neither of them were hard anymore—it was a moment of mindless closeness; foggy, fucked-out bliss. And it could go on forever as far as Draco was concerned.

They were interrupted by a loud crack emanating from the center of the room. Draco lifted his head from the curve of Harry's neck, setting eyes on Wonder Boyfriend's disgusting little house elf. The thing seemed to worship him for being a Malfoy, which suited everyone well enough. From what Harry said the creature was unstable and Draco believed it. He was happy to exert a little well-placed discipline on Harry's behalf.

“Elf,” Draco snapped. “What is your business?”

Harry tensed. If the house elf was put off by the Golden Boy's state of markedly sexual undress, it was indecipherable. The elf bore a small kitchen timer in its grubby hands.

“This is going off, Master Malfoy,” it croaked, indicating the clock. “Kreacher is not knowing how to stops it, sir.” As if on cue, the clock emitted several peals like a hand bell, signaling that a portion of their dinner should be removed from the oven to cool.

“I will see to it,” Draco drawled. “Leave us.”

Once the elf had disappeared with another crack, Draco returned his attention to his boyfriend. “Tha' would be dinner,” he sighed. “I should take care of it.”

Harry nodded his understanding. “I think I'll go have a shower, then. Join me?”

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh, pushing up on his arms. His body immediately missed Harry's delightful, furnace-like heat, the roughness of his dark chest hair and salty thickness of his skin.

“I don't think I'll have time,” said Draco at last. “Bring me a clean shirt?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry smiled. Unfortunately, the happy creases of his smile didn't stay on his face for long. His expression became serious, his eyes more green as his pupils balanced, arousal leaving his system for the next few hours. He swallowed heavily. “Draco, there's something—”

Harry was going to comment about his... rather poor performance—the word 'pathetic' came to mind. He was going to have to work on that if he expected another invitation to fuck his boyfriend ever again. Draco cut him off with a distracted wave of his hand. He drew Harry's thighs around his waist, instead.

“It's important,” Harry insisted.

“I really don't care right na,” Draco shot back, bordering on stern to properly convey the vehemence of his opinion on the matter. “Can we drop it, Harry? Go take yer shower. I have ta keep tha' terror of a house elf away from the food or we'll all be poisoned.”

“Because what would the world do without Harry bleeding Potter?” Harry droned, his head lolling to one side in a fit of self-deprecating melancholy. “I'll be so fucking glad when this shit is over, Draco. You have no idea.”

“They'll jus' worship ya more,” Draco replied with a wince. There was no comfort to be offered on the subject. The masses were idiots when it came to Wonder Boy Chosen One and Draco said as much. “Ya know tha', right?”

Harry nodded, slipping strong arms around Draco's shoulders and pulling him down for a quick hug. He mumbled in the blonde's ear. “Thank the Founders I have you to keep my chosen feet on the ground.”

Draco smiled, worming an arm around Harry's neck to hug him back. “Yeh'd better believe it. No one takes the piss outta The Chosen One like I can.” And Draco sat up onto his knees, lifting Harry to sit straddled in his lap. The dark haired man eyed him very carefully.

“What's this about?” he questioned, indicating their embrace with a lilt of his messy head.

Draco pulled Harry closer, enjoying the weight bearing down on his thighs, the warm calves crossed at the smalls of his back and the angry red imprints of his teeth adorning Harry's broad shoulders. Harry smelled like sex, felt like sex—like heaven. Aware that tonight's chicken might turn out a little dry, Draco sat inhaling Harry's scent, pointed nose buried in dark hair as he stroked slowly up and down the man's spine, fingertips idly counting vertebrae after vertebrae.

“I'll Apparate ya ter the bathroom,” he offered after a time, not wanting to let go quite yet. Harry seemed to enjoy just sitting with him, completely naked and comfortable in his arms. Dinner could wait. For some reason, it felt like Harry needed him. He wanted to believe it. So he was sticking close.

“Draco,” said Harry slowly, more apprehensive than anything else. “I really—”

Draco shushed him, pushing Harry's head down against his shoulder. “I told yeh I dinna wanna hear it, mon coeur,” he scolded. In an absolutely knackered state, Harry let him get away with it. Or maybe he was too blown away by the rarely uttered endearment to muster a come back. Draco resisted the urge to rock Harry in his arms; just sitting silent and peaceful was enough. Words would spoil it. Harry gave in at last with a heavy, groaning sigh.

“We'll talk later,” he warned.

“Yes, later,” Draco agreed. The plan to Apparate to the bathroom was sounding far too convenient. Maybe he'd have to carry Harry up the stairs—that was, if the man would submit to being carted about like a child. Harry was heavy, a consolidated weight in his lap, but with a Lightening Charm... if he had a shot in hell, Draco was going for it. He eased off the piano. Whether tired, defeated, or simply beyond caring, Harry quietly allowed it.

For The Curious: Translations of Serbo-Croatian Explicatives

Koji ti je kurac?- What the fuck is wrong with you?

Jebo te Bog na današnji dan! - This goes down in history as the day God royally fucked you!

Gle kurtsa ti u slamnatome sheshiru! - “A dick wearing a straw hat!” A vulgar expression of surprise

Svaka ti dala – “May every [girl] put out for you.” It's a rather blasphemous way of saying “thank you” but rather fitting when considering Draco is toasting, essentially, his perverted dead lover. The phrase is fitting of Vuk's memory, to be sure.

Jebo te Bog te jebo da te jebo te Bog da te jebo dabogda... - “May God fuck you, may He fuck you, God, that's who, may He fuck you, and may God allow God to fuck you, by God....” The phrase (which can go on as long as the speaker has breath, really) is meant to convey a loss of words, typically in rage. Dima's a funny guy. He's muttering this in awe, knowing he'll get the shit kicked out of him by his super-Orthodox boyfriend but doing it anyway because he's just that gobsmacked.

- Serbo-Croatian cursing is a poetic art form in which anal sex and jibes about food, blood, necrophilia and your mother are liberally applied with Faulkner-like finesse. It's really a marvel. I hardly skim the surface nor do I do the language justice.

- FYI, “Ionescu” is the third most common surname in Romania, where Dima and Misha are from.

For The Curious: Translation of Malfoy's French Endearment

mon coeur – my heart
- 23
- 24
- 25
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

Conscience