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More Than Nothing	By : Qestral Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8583 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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More Than Nothing ch 3: Lies and Memories

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter Three: Lies
and Memories

The next few weeks
were frustrating at best, and volatile at worst.

It
was the end of term at Hogwarts, and all the students were itching to
go home for the summer holidays. The classrooms were muggy, the
students were distracted, and even a few of the teachers seemed
impatient to leave. And yet, for the first time ever, Draco found
himself wishing the school year were longer.

Summer
break meant no chance of seeing Harry at all.

The
thought weighed on his mind, a grim shadow that took up his attention
when he was supposed to be doing schoolwork. It bothered Draco to
know that, soon, Harry wouldn't be always be nearby. Then it bothered
him that he should care; after all, he was still unreasonably upset
with the other boy, though he couldn't imagine why he was upset. That
was how he knew it was unreasonable; he couldn't think of a reason
for it. This thought always made him angrier, because it was Harry's
influence that taught him to pay attention to where his emotions were
coming from. At least he understood the source of that
problem; he resented Harry for being right, even if that wasn't a
very logical thing to feel.

After
taking Harry's advice on managing anger, he'd learned on his own that
emotions and logic don't always work together.

Draco's
mind wandered away from his Divination homework (Harry had once told
him the “write nothing but doom and get an A” trick, and
he'd been in the middle of writing something about a deadly Herbology
experiment). He settled instead into thoughts of Potions class that
day.

True
to form, Professor Snape had interrupted his own lecture to berate
Harry for not taking notes. Harry's elbow had been resting on the
table, propping his head up on his hand. It looked, from Draco's
vantage point, like the other boy had been writing in a particularly
bored fashion, but his hand was stalled on the page, and the ink from
his quill had been pooling on the parchment.

“Mr.
Potter,” Snape had seethed, “I see you don't find my
class important enough to keep up with the notes.”

There
was a pause, one which had intensified when Harry said nothing in
response. It was only when Snape slammed his hand down on the table
and Harry jumped in his seat that Draco had realized Harry had
fallen asleep in class. In Potions, of all the stupid--!

“I
apologise for waking you, as you so obviously need your rest,”
Snape said, his voice deadly low, “But this information will be
on the exam next week. Perhaps you should consider sleeping at night?
Or is my class too early in the day for your delicate constitution?”

“Sorry,
sir,” Harry had managed in response. Though he couldn't see
Harry's face well, Draco had seen the blush creeping across his
cheeks to the tips of his ears.

In
the pause before Snape turned his attention back to his lecture
(knocking ten points from Gryffindor as he lifted his hand from the
desk), Draco was blindsided by the memory of the last time he'd seen
Harry's face that flushed—laid flat on his back on the floor,
chest heaving with ragged breaths, his hands clutching at the robe
beneath him, his hips switching back and forth in response to Draco's
hands massaging his cock. Draco felt his breathing and his thought
process stop, and for a moment felt like he couldn't even see the
classroom around him; his mind was back in one of the disused
classrooms, and he felt his groin respond accordingly.

Draco
had been endlessly grateful, over the next several minutes, that he
was in Potions class behind a desk instead of standing in the
hallway, surrounded by other students.

Returning
to the present, Draco glowered at his Divination homework. There was
still two weeks of misery he had to divine, and quite honestly he was
miserable enough without predicting his own death-by-everything. He
rolled it up and tucked it into his bag, which he then slung over his
shoulder and walked to his room. He dropped the bag near the foot of
his bed and flopped down on the covers, sighing and staring into
space.

Draco
spent more time thinking these days than he had in any of the years
before, philosophizing about his own mental and emotional processes.
The more he thought about his feelings, the more he realized he
wasn't angry with Harry. This was a consideration that some
scared—yes, scared—part of him didn't want to admit to or
even acknowledge; anger had been his immediate response to everything
he didn't understand, to every bad situation. He'd been angry when
his father was arrested, he'd been angry when 'Moody' turned him into
a ferret, he'd been angry when Potter turned down his hand of
friendship on the train six (Almost seven, he marvelled) years
ago. Anger, as he was now realizing, was a cover. He was scared when
he found out what happened to his father. He was embarrassed at the
indignity of being turned into a ferret. And when Potter turned down
his friendship, he'd been genuinely hurt.

Draco,
of course, had been raised too proud to react in any way other than
outrage to all those situations. He was a Malfoy, and a Malfoy
slighted was a Malfoy out for revenge.

As
all this thinking was teaching him, however, pride could be a
deceitful thing. Not only to others, though it certainly was a wall
against them. Pride, indeed, had often meant lying to himself.

As
frustrated as Draco was at Potter for changing his views and taking
away what he now recognized as a sort of naivety, he wouldn't go back
to that way of thinking, even if he were given the choice.

Draco
hated being lied to. He especially hated realizing he'd been lying to
himself.

*

It
was late. Harry had had a long day. After being rudely awakened in
Potions by a very displeased Professor Snape, he was granted some
slack in Divination when Trelawney either didn't notice he'd fallen
asleep or had written it off as a 'vision-induced trance' (he figured
that, of all his teachers, she would be the most likely to let him
sleep under the pretenses of having a prophetic dream). But now,
tired though he was, Harry couldn't sleep.

Harry
had spent several minutes practicing turning a book into a picture
frame, then the picture frame into a spool of thread, then back into
a book—compound transfigurations were on the exams, as Hermione
had so practically reminded him—and when he lost interest in
that he hazarded his Defense Against The Dark Arts essay on resisting
the Imperius curse (an idea their latest, though very twitchy and
skittish, DADA teacher had decided was necessary, inspite having gone
over the implications of the curse in their fourth year).

That
lost his interest soon enough, and he found himself glancing at the
clock every few minutes, as if it might have a suggestion of
something more gripping to do.

“You
really should go to bed,” Hermione said. “You aren't
getting any work done anyway, and if you fall asleep in class again
Snape will pick a random potion from his cabinet and make you drink
it."

Harry
couldn't help but chuckle at Hermione's humor. “I know, but I
can't sit still. I think I'm nervous about the exams.”

“You
should be.” It never ceased to amaze him how Hermione could say
something that threatening and make it sound perfectly
matter-of-fact. “You haven't been paying very close attention
in any of your classes, and you've been very lucky in that Professor
Snape only caught you sleeping today. You've fallen asleep in his
class at least twice over the last week alone!”

“I
know...” Harry sighed. “And then I stress over not doing
well, and stressing makes it harder to focus on studying.”

He
was telling only part of the truth. The rest of it was something
along the lines of '...And would you believe, on top of all that, I
fancy Draco Malfoy? Of all the people in the entire school, I pick
the one with the least interest in me!'

It
was the situation with Draco—or lack of one, as the matter
stood—that was causing the most grief. In all likelihood, if
Harry wasn't paying attention to his surroundings be they classroom
or otherwise, he was thinking about Draco. This was making him feel
just short of mad; he'd ended the game in order to get Draco off
his mind, not have him in it constantly. For whatever reason, never
interacting with him only made Harry think about him more. When he
told Draco they needed to stop, this had not been part of his
reasoning.

That's
right, Harry affirmed. I stopped it because I needed more than
what was there. I needed more than just hand jobs, and Draco couldn't
have given me that. His heart stung as he thought those words,
but he didn't try to take them back.

Harry
stood up and packed his things away into his bag.

“Going
to bed?” asked Hermione.

“Going
to bathe,” Harry replied. “Maybe if I go take a
late-night bath, I'll relax enough to sleep.”

Hermione
pursed her lips disapprovingly. “You really shouldn't be using
the Prefect's bathroom. One of these days, you're going to get
caught.”

She
knew him too well.

“I
promise to be careful,” he assured her. I'll keep the
invisibility cloak close by. Besides, it's not like I use their bath
often.”

“Using
it at all is too often,” she snipped before turning back to her
work. “Go on. Just be careful.”

Harry
hauled his bag upto his room as quietly as he could, careful not to
wake Ron, Neville, or Seamus in their beds. He winced when the lid of
his trunk hit the floor heavier than he intended, but when none of
them seemed to notice he quietly shuffled through his things and
pulled out the cloak, wrapping it around his shoulders and tucking
the Marauder's Map into a pocket before leaving the room again.

Hermione
jumped and glared when the portrait hole opened. “You watch
out!” she hissed.

“Yeah...”

Harry
unfolded the Marauder's Map and checked it quickly before leaving.
Mrs. Norris was wandering the halls over near the Ravenclaw
dormitories, and Filch was lurking about near the Astronomy Tower—the
way to the Prefect's bathroom was clear, but he hurried along the
halls anyway.

Once
inside, and certain he was the only one present, Harry cast off the
cloak and set it near the bath tub, twisting on the tap and letting
it fill while he undressed, piling his clothes in a corner away from
the door. The mermaid statue yawned, but otherwise seemed unperturbed
by his presence. All the better; he'd gone to use the bath to wank
once and had gotten a stern, disapproving look from her that ruined
the 'mood'.

Harry
tried not to think about that as he sank into the water, leaning back
against the basin and sighing. The water felt good, and was hot
enough to turn his skin pink. He didn't bother waiting for the tub to
finish filling before brushing his hand idly along his shaft. His
dick began to stiffen slowly, waking up under his almost non-commital
administrations.

You'd
think, his inner voice began, That after not getting any
attention for weeks, it would rise to the occasion faster than this.

That
inner voice had a point; he hadn't gotten off since the last time
he'd been with Draco. He had thought about it, of course, and almost
tried a few times, but every time he started he thought of the look
on Draco's face when Harry had said
“I can't do this.” Surprise and confusion and then
annoyance and disappointment. The whole scenario went better than he
expected; he'd thought for sure that Draco was going to swing a fist
at him, or make him do it anyway, the latter of which he found a
little exciting.

Maybe
if he'd done that, Harry thought, I would've changed my mind.

It
wasn't very fair of him to say it like that, as if it were Draco's
fault things were what they were now. It was definitely Harry who had
let his emotions get loose and wander in places they didn't belong,
and he had taken responsibility for it as tactfully as possible. He
had very briefly considered explaining the situation in full to
Draco, and was very glad when he didn't. Somehow, he didn't imagine
Draco would've taken it much better if Harry was calling off their
game on account of an illegal play of emotion.

Harry
shook off the imaginary scene he suspected would've followed. It
involved a lot of screaming and violence, and that wasn't a thought
he wanted to entertain.

He
turned his attention back to his groin, and tried to think of every
possible erotic thing he could that didn't involve Draco. It didn't
take long for him to realize how implausible that was. Draco was all
the experience he had, and his imagination towards the girls in their
class was limited.

This
was what happened the last time he had tried and failed to jerk off
successfully; he'd eventually given up under the pretense that he
couldn't do this without Draco being in some way involved.

But
now, at midnight of the third and a half week or so of nothing, Harry
finally caved in. If I just think about the sex and not that last
night, I can make this work, he assured. Just think of all
those other times...

Floodgates
opened in his mind, and he realized just how much he'd been trying to
suppress and forget. With his eyes closed, he could see Draco leaning
over him, grey eyes glowering with an unfamiliar heat while his hand
worked at an increasing pace over Harry's cock. Draco eye level with
Harry's hips, teasing the head of his cock with his tongue—oh,
so many different occasions for that one, and none of them the
same—just to take it in his mouth a few moments later.
Sometimes he moved his head faster than others; it depended on how
much he felt like teasing, how much he wanted to torture Harry. In
the moments where he had still felt sensible enough to watch, Harry
had absorbed every detail of what Draco did specifically for times
like now, when he was on his own.

The
first night back from Christmas break had proven to him exactly why
he needed to memorize the little things. That had been weeks of
nothing. He'd gotten so used to company when he got off that he
hadn't been able to go it alone, a dependency that scared him a
little when he realized it, and one he swore to fight off.

Fine
job you did of that, he thought, reflecting on the last few weeks
and feeling sincerely like he'd failed. He pushed it aside. Returning
from Christmas break, he reminded. Remember that.

They
had met in a storage room in the Astronomy tower. It was cold, being
early January, and he'd brought several blankets up with him, not
trusting their activities to keep either of them warm enough. When he
arrived, though, he found the room to be bearably warm, even with his
shirt off. Harry looked down to the blankets in his arms, momentarily
at a loss for what to do. In the end, he decided to lay them on the
floor, folded over enough to provide a thin cushion against the cold
stone.

It
was as he was standing, admiring his makeshift bed, that he'd felt a
hand grip his groin firmly. Harry made a noise of surprise and
grabbed the offender's wrist, but his hold relaxed and his head had
tipped back of its own accord when he felt the familiar teeth of
Draco Malfoy nip the sensitive spot on his neck.

“Potter,”
Draco greeted, as per their custom, but his voice held a growl that
curled up Harry's spine like incense smoke, tendrils tickling the
hairs on the back of his neck. It took a lot of effort not to shiver.

“Malfoy.”
Harry's voice didn't carry the same effect, still too startled by the
very sudden intrusion on his personal space to have gathered his
thoughts, and it wasn't helping that Draco was fondling him at a very
deliberate pace and biting at his earlobe.

“I
had the foresight to set up a heating spell earlier,” he
murmured, “Though I see you thought enough to bring blankets.”
Draco twirled the tip of his tongue at the base of Harry's neck, at
the point on his spine where Harry's shoulders were level, and Harry
only shuddered in response. Then Draco bit the spot on the other side
of Harry's neck, the one that, without fail, would make his knees
give out. Draco chuckled lowly, as if he hadn't really expected it to
work this time and was pleasantly surprised that it did, and he sank
to the floor with Harry in his arms.

Harry
recovered himself enough to pull away from Draco and turn around to
face him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him onto the
blankets before kissing him roughly. He only fumbled a little with
the Draco's buttons, distracted by the feel of Draco's hands on his
bare back, sliding down slowly to the top of his pants. Harry pushed
the shirt open, forcing Draco's arms back so he could pull it off
completely and throw it at the door. As soon as Draco had his free
range of motion again, his fingers went straight for the button at
the top of Harry's trousers. He deftly flicked it open and unzipped
the fly, and in a move so sudden it surprised them both, he had
flipped Harry back onto the blankets and yanked both trousers and
boxers down, catching only momentarily at the before they, too, were
thrown at the door, sliding sadly down to land on top of Draco's
shirt.

Then
his hands were wandering all over Harry's skin, tweaking his nipples
and teasing the sensitive spots on his lower abdomen, arse, and
thighs, with a desperation that sent Harry's mind reeling. Draco
kissed and nibbled along Harry's neck and collarbone and shoulders
and chest, and as hard as Harry tried to do something in response, he
couldn't gather his focus enough to act.

It
was only when Draco stopped that he opened his eyes, vision swirling
to attention, squeaking in protest before he could stop himself.

Draco
was drawing his hand out of his pocket, a vial of something between
his thumb, index, and middle finger. He uncorked it with his teeth
and poured some of it onto the fingers of his right hand, then
stopped it up again before setting it aside on the floor. Harry's
gaze flicked from the hand to Draco's face: the expression there was
one of wicked delight, and he felt immediately frightened and
thrilled.

Draco
leaned over Harry again, his body close enough to feel the heat
radiating off of him, and his lips brushed against Harry's as he
whispered “Are you ready?”

Draco
was kissing him before he could answer, and Harry's senses were able
to register grey eyes looking victorious and Draco's left hand on his
shoulder, Draco's right hand just behind his balls and then—

Harry's
body went rigid and he cried out sharply, tried to breathe then cried
again as Draco crooked his finger inside of him.

“Ohgodohmygod”
was about all he managed, and he grasped at Draco's torso with
frantic energy, digging in with his fingers as Draco slid the finger
in and out a few times. Distantly, Harry heard that same chuckle from
earlier but with an attitude of delight, like having discovered a new
toy.

Then
he let out a shuddering sob as Draco pressed a second finger in and
scissored them back and forth. The sensation was indescribably
intense; Harry shot his load with a previously unknown force, his
sticky come slicking across his stomach and Draco's.

In
reality, now—outside the memories—Harry shuddered in
orgasm, his chest heaving in short, ragged breaths.

But
it was the memory of Draco murmuring in his ear “I missed this”
a few minutes later that made Harry's breath catch in his throat and
force out a final moan of pleasure.
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