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
- 35
- 36
- 37
SUMMARY: Quidditch: a game of precision and planning, skill and teamwork... and Harry Potter being an idiot, rushing into things without thinking. Again.

WARNINGS: sexual content: French Language fetish, Parseltongue fetish, fellatio, D/s, T&D, scratching/bruising, mild bondage, major predicament sex, exhibitionism, rimming, anal, consensual Imperius sex, Dark Mark/Death Eater fetish

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So... sex on a broomstick. As in: two gay men fucking each other while riding a broomstick. I've never read it. So, being innately out of my bloody mind, I gave it a go.

CONSCIENCE:

QUIDDITCH

They met Granger in the foyer that morning. She stalked up to them, frizzy hair secured in a tilting bun atop her head, a red Gryffindor jumper doing nothing for her complexion. The girl took little care in her appearance beyond basic hygiene; a pity, as a little could go a long way with a good set of bristols. Too bad she was a Mudblood.

Her little hand came out of no where, cracking across Harry's face.

“Gah!” The Chosen One shouted, a hand flying up to cradle his cheek even as he reeled backwards, bumping against Draco in his hasty retreat.

The sting was uncomfortable, to be sure—Draco would know, the bitch had smacked him back in third year with enough force to make his ears ring—but he was lost as to the meaning of her slap. What had they done to set her off this time? Exist? Love each other? Immediately, Draco had a wand to hand. Oddly enough, it was Harry's wand. He reasoned that his boyfriend's pocket had simply been closer. The wand cut through the air with a whoosh, stopping a scant half inch from Granger's throat.

“Ever heard of a Privacy Ward?” she snapped, fiery eyes flicking between their faces and the wand threatening her. It seemed like she expected The Golden Boy to put a stop to this. Draco was exceedingly pleased when Harry didn't move a muscle.

“Touch him again,” Draco vituperated in a low hiss, “and I'll kill you with my bare fucking hands. Understand me, Granger?”

“Draco,” Harry mumbled, now blushing behind his hand; it wasn't every day that his boyfriend defended him. In any other situation, that color on his cheeks would have been adorable—but Draco's wrath was firmly settled on Granger. He couldn't be bothered with how cute Harry looked, how big and shocked his eyes were behind those round, freshly cleaned lenses.

“You are aware,” the witch continued primly, “that our chambers are directly above Gryffindor Common Room? Your rooms share a wall with the girl's dormitory. Third years, if I'm not mistaken.” She waited, presumably for the old Gryffindor guilt to kick in. Harry looked clueless and Malfoys were immune to guilt trips—the trait had woven itself into their DNA centuries ago. It was practically bred-in, nothing Draco could do about it. He was blissfully unaffected. “If I heard you, the third years certainly did, too.”

“Free show,” Draco shrugged. “Do inform them—we charge after that.”

“Draco,” Harry whispered, in warning this time. His hand slipped down to Draco's forearm, silently asking him to lower the wand at the girl's throat. Draco heaved a mighty harrumph before dropping his arm. Harry's hand immediately closed over his, thumb stroking the tendons of his pulse point in a reassuring manner.

“I'm only asking you boys for a modicum of discretion,” Granger announced in that typical Gryffindor tone of self-righteousness. The woman was always ten times worse when Harry was around, as though The Chosen One's presence spurred her on, an assurance that she would get away with it. “Here I thought you wanted to remain a secret! Good luck with that, Harry.”

And the witch stalked off to breakfast.

“She has a bit of a point, there,” Harry sighed, easing his wand from Draco's taut fingers and slipping it back into the pocket of his track bottoms. He carried his Firebolt in his other hand.

“I did have a Privacy Ward set up. Must've broken down,” Draco shrugged off any worry. “Besides—even if all a' Gryffindor starts spreadin' rumors about us—who in their right mind would believe tha' Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are an item? And tha' McGonagall condones our playin' How's Your Father under her roof? No,” he shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning up despite his best efforts. He looked stupid when he smiled. Harry didn't seem to mind, grinning widely back at him. “I don't think we'll have any problems.”

“You're right,” Harry kissed his cheek.

“Damn right I am,” Draco couldn't help the full-on grin blooming across his face. He smiled an awful lot when Harry was around. “Breakfast, then?”

Their trip down to the Great Hall wasn't without incident. At first there were stares from the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws in the upper hallways—expressions warped with mingled incredulity and disbelief that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were walking side by side, having an amiable conversation, trussed up in Harry's Quidditch gear. Harry had insisted Draco take his Gryffindor sweatshirt while Harry wore an old muggle track suit and bracers, Seeker's gloves tucked in Draco's back pocket. Younger students gaped, the older years doing double takes before they began whispering behind their hands.

“Just ignore it,” Harry said casually, throwing an arm around Draco's shoulders and leading him down a lesser-used side staircase.

“I'm learning,” muttered Draco.

Approaching the Great Hall, they heard voices singing a jaunty little tune. Harry didn't recognize the melody but Draco physically cringed, throwing Harry's arm off and surging down the stairs, wand drawn. Harry rushed after him, catching the tail end of the song. Ginny was easy to spot with her head of flaming red hair. Harry wasn't surprised to see Peeves the Poltergeist floating at the front of the little assembly, waving his stumpy arms like grand a conductor.

In the lap of luxury he was born,

Now from true love, he's torn!

Shall we see him wed?

Or just taken to bed?

The Dragon comes, he comes!

On the back of Longbottom's toad,

The Dragon will blow his load.

With a bottle of rum!

And a bucket of—

“Peeves!” Draco bellowed, wand raised as he vaulted the last six steps, landing with cat-like grace and a frightening scowl. He waved his hawthorn instrument in a practiced swish and flick, aiming his non-verbal spell in the old style above his head, wand resting lightly in the palm of his hand. The position reminded Harry of a hundred Death Eaters pouring into the courtyard at Ravenwood—he swallowed back the bile. It was only the pureblood way of showing power, asserting dominance. Nejobsa fought that way, too—so did Yuri, Dušan and Chereshko. They weren't like the Death Eaters and neither was Draco. He wasn't. He was different... special.

Harry couldn't tell what spell his boyfriend had shot off but it appeared to have little or no effect. The poltergeist just cackled, turning upside-down and sticking his tongue out at Draco even as the little bastard zoomed away, tossing a dung bomb in his wake for good measure. The bomb caught several young Hufflepuffs coming up the stairs, engulfing them in a puff of purple and yellow smoke. The kids emerged unharmed, coughing and holding jumper sleeves over their mouths at the smell.

The singing students had scattered in the commotion, some ducking into the Great Hall while others escaped to the grounds through the castle's looming front doors. Harry watched Ginny and her friends slink off down the classroom corridor.

“Run!” Draco shouted heatedly at their backs, wand hovering threateningly over his head as he spun around, glaring after the red head. Harry made his way down the stairs as fast as he could, stopping at the blonde's side. “Before I take points! You vapid, soul-less, feral, feckless cow!”

“Easy, there,” Harry cautioned. Draco huffed. “What's with the song?” he asked nervously, fearing the blonde's sometimes irascible tendencies.

Draco rolled his eyes, stowing his wand now that the ruckus was over. Curious faces still peeked out from the Great Hall each time the doors opened.

“S'nothin'.”

Harry lifted a reassuring arm to once again rest over Draco's shoulders. The gesture was casual enough—something he might do with Ron or Neville and nothing to arouse suspicion—but it was really just an excuse to be closer to Draco. The few stragglers in the entrance hall now sported raised eyebrows in the pair's direction. Draco met his gaze with a sigh, leaning ever-so-minutely into the embrace.

“Peeves can't keep on with 'Oh Potter, You Rotter,' now can he? I mean, five years an' nearly fifty verses—the tune has seen better days. I'm his new entertainment.”

“The Dragon,” Harry repeated from the song. “I see Hogwarts entertainment hasn't changed much.”

“My fall from grace, retold in shoddy rhymes,” the blonde gestured grandly across the empty entry hall.

Harry gave Draco's shoulder a squeeze. “Peeves is... well, he's Peeves. That last verse was really inappropriate, though. Can't you do something as Head Boy?”

“I've filed incident reports; until I can prove the source is a student, there's not much tha' can be done,” Draco slurred with an agitated frown.

“So you're sure it's a student and not Peeves?” Harry fought the urge to lean forward, the urge to kiss the worried wrinkle from Draco's soft, smooth brow.

Draco snorted. “Peeves started it, to be sure. But the recent content....” He let his eyes slide from the Great Hall doors to the corridor that lead to the Slytherin dungeons.

“Someone who knows about... us?” Harry hissed the last word, making Draco shiver the slightest bit. A quick little breath escaped his lips before he nodded, once, haltingly. “Who?”

“Your dearest ex-bint, fer starters. Daphne Greengrass, though on second thought, she was so shocked I doubt she actually believed me. And Professor Slughorn—tha' was yer mate Granger's doin', not mine,” Draco huffed.

Harry's brows drew down, dark fringe tickling the frames of his glasses. Daphne Greengrass? Draco had probably been trying to shock the shit out of his former Slytherin cohorts. It probably worked. “Why would Slughorn contribute to some stupid song about us?” he asked.

“Thick!” Draco teased, slapping Harry's stomach with the back of his pale hand, black stone ring swishing against the nylon of his jacket. “The man's a filthy gossip! He'd probably think he was 'increasing my celebrity' by telling anyone who would listen. I tell you, tha' Granger has a very odd sense of secrecy.”

“So... Slughorn's the one spreading the rumor. You think people believe it?” Harry's gaze dropped to the floor in worry. Draco wanted very much to take that chin in hand and lift his kind face, kiss him senseless, kiss away the worry and the fear until it was just the two of them again, world be damned.

Draco was sour instead. “Oh, they keep running up and asking me,” he snipped sarcastically. “Asking if we've set a bloody date.”

“I... I'm sorry,” Harry spoke to the worn stone floor, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “I didn't really think it through—I mean sending you here, not... you know. I just wanted you to be safe. I never even thought of the risk, the secrecy I'd be asking of you.”

“Shhh.” Draco closed his eyes, fighting the urge to reach out and touch Harry. They were already standing so close. It was torture. “Don't talk like tha'. The decision's already been made. An' I'll do as yeh say,” he smiled weakly, caught by the plump line of Harry's bottom lip, the shine of spit on that forgiving pink flesh he very much wanted to kiss, to sink teeth into and suckle and bite until their knees went weak. “You know why,” he added in a serious tone.

“I do,” said Harry, so softly. Already he was inching forward, mouth enticingly parted and eyelids heavy. Through swelling lips, he hissed, “fuck, I want to kiss you.”

“I-I know,” the blonde stuttered. “Me, too.”

An involuntary shiver trilled up Draco's spine, Harry's warm hand shifting to rest between his shoulder blades, pulling Draco to him. In another second he was going to do it.

“Harry, no.”

“But... I love you.” Already, their foreheads were touching, breath mingling in a hot cloud between wanting mouths. “How can I not kiss you?”

“Don't,” Draco insisted rather weakly. The sweaty palm he had put to Harry's chest in an effort to get away wasn't doing him any good. All he could feel was the hardness of Harry's muscles and the faint, fleeting thump of the Chosen One's gentle, foolish heart. He pushed but Harry was stronger—stronger than he remembered. A good shove did absolutely nothing. “Stop,” he begged. “People will see us.”

“What if I don't care?”

“Wha's gotten into you? You do care,” Draco insisted, turning his face away before Harry could claim his lips. He twisted, working his shoulder against Harry's chest, an elbow to his tender diaphragm. The man was being so stupid! They would be caught any second, standing in the middle of the hall like a couple of love-sick ninnies. “You need to stop this before we're—”

“Draco, I want—”

Whatever Harry wanted was cut off by a friendly shout. Longbottom, Thomas and Weasley were tromping down the main stairs, the last two wearing house colors and carrying broomsticks for the Quidditch trials in an hour's time. Draco used the distraction to duck out of Harry's embrace, stealing the git's glasses and casting a quick Cleaning Charm on them. If anyone asked, he'd say they were only standing so close because he'd spotted a smudge on Golden Boy's spectacles. He cast the charm very poorly, indeed: he blamed Harry's proximity and the subsequent tightness in his trousers, barely concealed by the baggy borrowed sweatshirt he wore. Gryffindor red was not his color but he'd have to get used to it; after all, he'd be sporting it in his first match against Ravenclaw come the end of November.

Flanked by Gryffindors, he and Harry were escorted into the Great Hall. Whispering filled the room, sounding like the beat of tiny owl wings as it bounced off so many hard surfaces. Heads turned, trying to catch a glimpse of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, walking side by side. By the time they passed the Ravenclaw table, the room had erupted in applause. The only group not clapping was the Slytherin table—even a few of the professors joined in, Slughorn notable among them, an over-enthusiastic smile plastered on his fat, joweled face. Even Percy Weasley put his hands together, though primly, as though he were observing a cricket match rather than the savior of the universe come down to breakfast. The adoring gazes were rather sickening. Draco was happy to take the seat Harry offered beside him, wedged in tight thanks to all the students wanting their chance to greet the long-absent boy hero. Harry patted Draco's knee beneath the table, wise enough not to look at his boyfriend as he sent smiles around the table, reaching for a nearby platter of toast.

Draco slipped his wand from his pocket, casting the charm to prepare his coffee. He chewed the inside of his cheek as the spell poured far too much cream into the cup—just the way Harry liked. He floated the cup to Harry's place setting, borrowing his boyfriend's cup in order to prepare his own coffee by hand. When it seemed that everyone was done accosting Harry, Draco leaned close.

“Did you use my wand, by chance?” If Harry had accidentally claimed his wand in the night, it would explain why his spells were so ineffectual now. Even his ruddy wand wanted to be with Harry.

Wonder Boy was busy dishing extra sausage and eggs onto Draco's plate. He was quite serious in his quest to get the blonde to eat more.

“I might've,” he shrugged. “Couldn't tell, it was dark. Why?”

“Never mind,” Draco shook his head, spearing a strawberry with his fork and munching on it. He was never one for heavy breakfasts. Harry pulled out his own wand, summoning a little tureen of preserves from further down the table. Two third year girls looked up—apparently it had been their jam Harry borrowed. One of the girls looked wistfully at Harry, sighing and batting her dark lashes. Good luck with that, Draco thought with a toe-curling smirk. The other girl was blonde with very tanned skin; she looked right at the pair of them, eying the porcelain container as it landed in Harry's outstretched hand.

The Chosen One proceeded to spread jam on no less than six pieces of already buttered toast, slipping three of the slices onto Draco's plate. He could smell the preserves: blackberry. It was his favorite. Harry remembered.

Quidditch talk was rampant as they ate. Hufflepuff and Slytherin had already held their house trials and looked to have decent line-ups for the year. Slytherin, of course, was hurting for older, skilled students; still, there were several Durmstrang transfers on the roster as well as a sixth year girl. It had been at least twelve years since Slytherin had female representation on the pitch. Their captain was in his sixth year, a not-quite pureblood named Maldon Rees. He was a bright boy, intelligent but rather hot-tempered. Draco already had an inkling how Rees would run his team—hard, unquestioning and brutal. The man would be best thrown off by surprise. And Gryffindor was nothing if not full of surprises these days.

Draco cut into his ample helping of sausages, letting the conversation wash over him without participating much. Harry's hand stroked slow circles along his thigh beneath the table. Granger kept to herself at Weasley's right, avoiding eye contact with either Draco or Harry. Presumably the girl was still miffed over last night.

Luna Lovegood came over to say hello... to Draco.

“Good morning, Malfoy,” she said brightly. Harry suspected her jumper was on backwards but didn't say anything. Maybe the buttons were supposed to be in the back—what did he know?

“Morning, Lovegood,” Draco replied, setting down his fork. “How's the, uh...” he cocked his brows meaningfully. She grinned rather mischievously at the pair of them, all but bouncing on the balls of her feet, little hands folded behind her back like a child with a secret to tell.

“Still broken,” she chirped. “The Grey Lady's guarding the Common Room until Professor Flitwick can see to it.”

Draco didn't quite look guilty—more like embarrassed. Harry could read the emotion on his face as plain as day, the way one brow dropped as he cocked his head, lips pressing into a thin pink line. It was how he looked every time he kicked Harry out of the bathroom so he could shave without accidentally slitting his throat.

“It was an accident,” the blond mumbled. “Didn't think it would react that way.”

“Please don't trouble yourself,” Luna waved away his almost-apology. True Draco apologies were quite rare, really—few and decades in between. “The Grey Lady's questions are actually much easier. I suppose I'll see you at the prefect's meeting tomorrow. Ta.”

Harry looked out across the room as he chewed, leaning into Draco at shoulder and hip, warm points of contact in the drafty hall.

“There are so few...” he muttered.

“So few wot?” Ron asked, mouth stuffed to breaking with greasy buttered toast.

“Students,” Harry finished. “I think we passed twelve people in the halls. I didn't realize the other houses were worse off.”

“I know,” said Granger. “It's odd, but... I rather like it this way.”

“Why's that?” Draco asked, tone light as he set down his coffee. “Because there are two dozen Slytherins left? Or because the lines in the library are so much shorter?”

Harry couldn't help cackling, jostling his boyfriend with a quick, playful shoulder. Granger fixed Wonder Boy with a dirty look, ignoring Draco; from the ex-Slytherin Prince and Usurper of Chosen Cock, she didn't expect any better.

“What?” Harry begged, still laughing. “Hermione, it was a joke! A pretty cracking one, too.”

Even Weasley laughed; so did the eves dropping pair of Finch-Fletchly and Macmillan at the Hufflepuff table.

“The lines are shorter in the library,” the witch announced primly, turning her face away as her temper heated.

“I know,” Draco preened happily, spearing another strawberry with his fork and munching. “I love it.”

“Well, I just meant that the corridors are less congested,” Granger observed. “Makes getting from one class to the next much easier.”

“The halls are so empty yeh could swing a second year by her pigtails,” Draco muttered, loud enough for the other men to hear. Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley got another good snicker from his sideways commentary.

“And library books aren't out nearly as long,” continued Granger. “Plus, there's something to be said for the reduced class sizes! Third year double Defense Against the Dark Arts has fourteen students—can you imagine?”

“Sure,” Harry nodded, elbowing Dean Thomas at his other side for support as he built up for a joke himself. “Fewer bodies to hide behind when Percy rats you out for not doing the reading.”

Between Harry and Draco, the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were kept in stitches for the remainder of breakfast. It all felt very normal, Gryffindor's Golden Boy holding court. No one objected to Draco's presence, though he was certainly shot more than one confused look over the course of the meal. He and Harry sat close enough that even from behind, no one could spot their constant contact beneath the wooden table. At one point, Harry even held his hand, squeezing tightly as their palms pressed. Draco was forced to drink his coffee left handed; he found himself not caring.

He kept an eye on Harry throughout the meal, that casual elbow on the table reminding him of waking up in the man's arms not an hour ago. And his easy smile was made up of the same coy lips which had pleasured Draco in the shower until he was a pudding-boned mess. It was good to be able to look at Harry like this, to be together in public and not have to pick a fight for appearance's sake. Perhaps he'd overdone it last night. So long as their fearless leader was here, the Gryffindors appeared willing to accept that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were on amiable terms—perhaps even “friendly” ones, at that. Still, he covered their joined hands with his napkin... just in case anyone with more curiosity than was good for them walked by.

All too soon it was time to head out to the pitch. The previous night's storm had taken its toll on the grounds. There were downed trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the Whomping Willow scooping up its fallen branches and flinging them at passers by. He and Harry were surrounded by a crowd of Gryffindors the entire muddy trip. Harry wore that pensive expression that meant he had something to say—something which he'd wanted to say in private. Draco could only offer him a shrug. This was how things had to be.

A good number of students had turned out for trials. Draco recognized much of last year's team milling about along with a few prefects. Off to the side of the group was the blonde third year girl who had stared them down at breakfast; reading the pinched, piercing look on her pretty face, Draco began to seriously wonder how much the third year girls had heard of last night's rather enthusiastic reunion buggery. Surely they hadn't been that loud... had they? Back at Grimmauld Place, it had been just the two of them. Volume was never a concern. He liked that Harry was so vocal in bed—it was a major turn-on. Stronger warding, then. Maybe a Silencing Charm on the windows. The castle's stone walls were thick but there was no harm in being a bit more cautious. Besides, it made Wonder Boyfriend uncomfortable thinking that his friend had overheard their activities last night. He'd probably die of shame if a few dozen girls started asking nosy questions. Draco began to wish he was more skilled at mass memory modification.

There were quite a few bodies in the stands—certainly more than had turned out for the Slytherin trials, though Draco had been there with parchment in hand. Slytherin's captain, Rees, was tucked up high in the stands, bundled in a thick woolen jumper and cap. There were a number of girls from other houses there for the sight of Potter more so than the Quidditch. Draco took note of their faces as he and Harry entered the pitch, mud squelching beneath their trainers—Harry had insisted Draco take the new trainers while he wore a pair of very faded and beaten up running sneakers. Those who had come to audition for the team waited off at the long, grass-less side of the pitch where team benches normally sat during games. Thinking on his feet, Draco conjured a few sheets of plywood leading out onto the pitch. The clump of students took the hint, clomping out to meet the approaching seventh years. Draco slowed his pace to catch Harry's attention.

“Did yeh wanna say somethin'?” he asked in a low voice.

“Er, yeah,” Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

Standing before the knot of shifting Gryffindors, Draco took up a place just behind Harry, slipping on a pair of sunglasses as the sun emerged from behind the last of dense gray clouds. Weasley and Thomas joined the group awaiting Harry's instructions. They were in for a rather rude awakening.

“Alright!” Harry shouted to get everyone's attention. Conversation ceased as at least four dozen heads swiveled the Chosen One's way. Harry stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets as he spoke. “As most of you have seen, I haven't been around much this term. Expecting that to continue, I've talked it over with Headmaster McGonagall and Professor Firenze and we all felt the best candidate for my replacement would be our Head Boy, Draco Malfoy. I understand he's an unorthodox choice,” Harry yelled over audible grumbles, “but you've got to admit, this little bastard's cleaned the pitch with us quite a few times over the years. We're lucky to have him.” That statement received just a few nods from the small crowd. “From here on out, Draco is captain—even if I'm here to play. If anyone has a problem flying under him, you'd better speak up now.”

From the back of the clutch, Weasel chit gave a humungous snort.

“Yes?” Harry looked right at her, singling the girl out. The crowd parted until the shorter girl was visible to all.

“I don't know about flying 'under' him—maybe you do,” the bitch simpered, “but I sure as hell have a problem with you calling him 'Draco.' Do we all have to kiss his arse, or is that just you?”

Harry stared her down, not moving a muscle. Draco watched the girl pale; indeed, the whole crowd lost their coloring at the stony expression on their former leader's face.

“Right,” Harry said evenly. “My last act as captain. Gin, you're off the team.”

She began to protest but the cold expression on Harry's face shut her down a few incoherent words in. She snatched up her broom and made for the locker room. No one followed her.

“Would anyone else like to make a gay joke?” Draco said loudly into the hard silence, voice ringing out with authority. He watched Harry's head move as he too scanned the crowd, observing as the assembly's eyes bugged out of their heads, color draining from shocked and scandalized faces. Confused, Harry peered back at Draco from under his dark fringe.

The blonde was absently rolling up his sleeves for practice—though nothing about the gesture suggested he was unaware of its meaning. The Gryffindors all got a good, up-close look at his Dark Marked forearm. He didn't think anyone in Gryffindor would be making a joke, gay or otherwise, about him and Harry ever again.

“Right,” Draco said crisply. He stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with Harry, worming the Firebolt out of the man's loose grip and setting it to hover at mounting height between them. “A spot on Potter's team does not guarantee a place on mine—quite the opposite.” He paused a moment until the purely evil smirk on his face set in. Most eyes were still glued, wide and terrified to the sight of his bare, tattooed arm. “After me, I think yeh'll find Harry was overly lenient. I plan on beatin' Slytherin ter a bloody pulp this year, so show me wha' ya can do. I want you lot broken into teams; keepers, chasers and beaters—I'm pitting team on team, first ta three points. Seekers grab a bench an' sweat it out, 'cause yer flyin' against me.” The crowd began to separate at a snail's pace. “I dunno 'bout you lot,” Draco barked, half-shouting to make himself heard over the griping, “but I'm only here til noon. Don't waste my time.”

At that, the group of hopefuls began a legitimate scramble. Draco was already airborne, two meters off the ground when Harry reached up, snagging a few tail twigs to get his attention.

“Like riding my broomstick, then?” Harry smiled up at him, toothy and bright. There were at least a dozen students lingering close enough to overhear. Stupid, stupid git. It was like he wanted to be found out.

Draco schooled his face not to show any reaction to the sweet sight of Harry's face in the sunlight, the dusting of caramel freckles practically glowing on his cheeks, morning light glinting in his eyes. For a man who wanted to keep secrets, Harry was doing a very poor job of it. Everything was written plain-as-day across his handsome face. There was love there—so strong it took Draco a moment to find his voice again.

“Gay jokes will not be tolera'ed, Potter,” Draco said swiftly, accent blazing strong despite his best efforts. Everyone but Harry believed he was truly angry. He watched as comprehension dawned across Harry's face faster and harder than an International Bludger.

“Cor, I'm sorry,” the man blushed, releasing the tail of Draco's broom as though it had shocked him. “I didn't mean it that way, honest. I was gonna ask if I should borrow a broom for the Seeker trials later.”

“You of all people should be more sensitive,” Draco articulated for show. He was observing the students as they separated out into teams, eves dropping on the pair's conversation like the pack of vultures they were. Harry seemed to take the hint and kept his expression impassive, looking up at Draco and only biting his fat bottom lip a little. “Laps, Wonder Boy. Twenty. Let's go!”

“What?” Harry almost yelled, forgetting 'impassive' in a heartbeat.

“You,” Draco pointed at him as he rose further into the air. “Laps,” he showed Harry two fingers pointed towards the dirt and moving to suggest running. “Twenteh.” He held up those two fingers followed by a zero, shouting as a gust of wind swept up around him. “Betta get a move on or yeh'll miss flyin' 'gainst me fer Seeker!” With that, Draco turned his attention to the assembled teams and began barking orders, moving bodies around as he saw fit. If they wanted to play, they'd best show a willingness to play by his rules.

He wouldn't tell Draco—another ego-boost and the wizard's pretty white-blonde head might very well explode—but jogging had been a ruddy brilliant idea. Running was Harry's time to think, and thinking only solidified the seemingly disconnected strands careening through the back of his mind since Philippe Didier had shown up on his doorstep two days ago. The immediate danger and stunning violence had blinded him to the implications of all he'd seen and heard. If Didier was with Voldemort, then Voldemort knew about Harry and Draco. There was no way around it. Didier wouldn't keep information like that to himself. Perhaps it had been the cunning cunt's bargaining chip; after all, he'd been the one charged with capturing Harry Potter. Didier wasn't an idiot. The man knew how to use his money, influence and information to his advantage. He was a master manipulator; yet he'd shown his hand when he mentioned Draco that terrible night outside Grimmauld Place. He'd accidentally given Harry something to work with. Granted, it wasn't much, but information was precious and critical this early in the fight.

Assuming Voldemort already knew... what would change? Certainly the Dark Lord would be more eager than ever to strike at Hogwarts. He would want to shake Harry and the Order to their core—and soon. With the Ministry in shambles, there would be no one to come to Professor McGonagall and the students' aid. Voldemort would hold no qualms about attacking a fortress full of children; in fact, it was just the evil bastard's style. Nothing stood in the Dark Lord's way—not Harry's parents, not the Order, not even Albus Dumbledore, in the end. Voldemort would want to get into the castle, get to Draco and use him to lure Harry into the open. Whether or not Harry liked it, Draco was a part of this now. He'd become a part of it the day that Dark brand had been hammered into his skin and Harry couldn't change that. Even as a traitor, Draco could still serve his old master.

The difference this time was that Harry wasn't eleven and desperate. It wasn't just him and Dumbledore's Army against a looming dark mass of Death Eaters. There were people who believed in the cause rather than simply believing in him—people who were ready to fight. He would make sure Hogwarts and Hogsmeade were well fortified before leaving to find Leon Harper and deliver Moody's last letter. Professor McGonagall had provided Harry with Harper's business address in America. That's where Harry would start. As soon as he was fully recuperated and Hogwarts seen to, he would go see what the man knew that could aid in the fight. Everyone had a part to play. It's wasn't just about fighting. He hadn't understood that before. In a battle, lines of information were vital, as was having a safe place to fall back to. Maybe Draco, Ron and Hermione felt they were wasting their time sitting safe at Hogwarts. The truth was, they were his hold on reality, a last stronghold that he could always draw from, always run back to. It wasn't just about fighting. He'd tell Draco that after practice. The blonde probably needed to hear it. As good as Draco was at putting up a front, Harry could still tell when he was hurting.

Draco was running a great trial—better than Harry ever could have. Teams were pitted against one another with carefully calculated disadvantages, forcing the potential players to think outside the box and work around their handicaps. Demelza Robins, the best scorer of last year's team, was saddled with the slowest broom on the pitch. Two fourth year girls, best mates Samantha Young and Natalie MacDonald, were made to fly against one another. Rocks-for-brains sixth year Patrick Byrne was getting the up on Harry's top Beater, Jimmy Peakes. It was like Draco knew everyone's weakness and systematically set about exploiting them, forcing the players to take a good hard look at themselves, accept their faults and play around them... or be thoroughly embarrassed. Harry took it as a quiet statement about that ruddy song of Peeves'—that the more they called Draco out for his failings, the harder he would strike back at them. And they wouldn't like what Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, threw back in their faces. That was for damn sure.

Harry was drenched in sweat by the time he finished his last lap. He'd run hard, testing his speed and endurance, pushing himself through several sprints down the longer ends of the pitch. It was a good feeling, one that he'd missed over the last few days. He paced the side of the pitch to catch his breath, spelling the worst of the splattered mud off his trousers. He'd already stripped down to his tshirt and the soaked cotton clung to his back. Though he'd slapped on an old stick of deodorant that morning, he was probably still a bit ripe. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he watched Draco run a last drill for potential Keepers. The man soared through the air, a crimson and blonde streak with Quaffle in hand, scoring against a very surprised Ron Weasley. Several people cheered, and rightly so. It had been a pretty brilliant shot. Harry wasn't surprised Ron missed, the Quaffle sailing through his center hoop. He hadn't known Draco was such a decent Chaser—just as good as himself, or perhaps a bit better. Draco drifted down to the plywood at the end of the pitch, humming the unmistakable tune of “Weasley Is Our King.” Harry wiped the sweat from his brow and jogged over, joining the much smaller huddle of Gryffindors Draco had kept on as the new team.

Draco had found a gem in third year Angelika Whipple. Harry wondered why the girl hadn't come to compete last year. She was just as good a Keeper as Ron, and only thirteen. Her long blonde hair was secured in a loose pony tail, ends whipping out as she landed. The girl was nimble and quite small—the top of her head barely reaching Draco's shoulder as she shook the Head Boy's hand. Several other girls rushed forward to congratulate her. Apparently Draco had just made her his first string Keeper.

Ron was livid. “Second?!” he shouted, surging forward through the clutch of gibbering girls. “Malfoy—”

“Save it,” Draco snapped, tightening a strap on his gloves with an air of disinterest. “You present the same absentee-ism as Potter. You're lucky to be offered a position at all. Keep complaining and your spot on the bench will find itself vacant. Understood, Woolenby?”

“Woolenby” only served to cheese Ron off even more. He blushed to his ears, big hands taking up fists at his sides. Harry stepped up behind Draco, a silent and menacing enforcer of the blonde's authority. Ron looked to Harry, a moment passing between them before the Keeper very wisely let it go. For a bigger man, Ron was finally starting to act like one.

“Right,” Draco nodded. “Practice box, if you would be so kind,” he waved a hand toward the school's supply carton of Quidditch balls. Together, Dean Thomas and Patrick Byrne dragged it through the mud to Draco, flipping open the lid with a muffled bump. The blonde reached into the box, pulling out a practice Snitch. Practice equipment lacked Anti-tampering Enchantments of official game balls so that captains could modify them, making them a little slower for new players or changing the color or size to present a challenge to more advanced players wanting to hone their skills. Draco drew his wand, spelling the Snitch a vivid, double-decker bus red.

“An easy target,” he shrugged, releasing the snitch into the air. It took off in a whirl of wings, swooping down the pitch. “Don't bother bringing that back unless you're a first year.” He pulled out a second practice Snitch and cast a non-verbal spell. He held the little gold ball aloft, wings beating manically against his slender fingers. “This is now one hundred fifty percent regulation speed. First person to catch it is guaranteed a seat on the bench.” The golden Snitch was tossed casually into the air, zooming between the legs of the waiting players with mind-boggling speed before disappearing into the sunny sky. You'd need at least a Nimbus series to have any hope of catching it.

Draco smirked to himself, throwing several silent spells at a third Snitch. It shrunk in his hand, reducing down to half its regular size and turning a murky, rain-cloud gray. Up in the sky, it would be near-impossible to see until you were nearly on top of it.

“Three hundred percent regulation speed,” the blonde announced, eliciting a few gasps. He twisted to look at Harry, eyes turned up in an impossibly handsome and devious smile. “Get a good look,” he teased. Most people were shaking their heads, thinking this to be the Harry Houdini of Snitches. For Seekers of Harry's level, it would still be a challenge... but one he was more than up to. Draco released the gray Snitch, playfully tossing it in Harry's face. The brunet took a swipe at it as it flew by, missing by centimeters. A challenge, for sure.

Most of the Gryffindors were tromping off to the stands to watch. Angelika Whipple approached Harry, offering her Nimbus 2001 with a shy smile. Hers was one of the better brooms on the pitch and kept in excellent condition. Harry accepted her offer with thanks. Before he had a chance to mount up, Draco swapped the Nimbus for his Firebolt.

“I won't have anyone claiming unfair advantage,” he simpered, mounting the older model with a wink.

“Oh, it's on, Malfoy,” Harry shot back. “Prepare to lose.”

“Likewise,” the blonde favored him with a dazzling smile from behind his sunglasses.

And then they were off.

It was almost like flying in an actual game, there were so many witches and wizards in the air. But everyone was a Seeker, all swerving about on edge, hoping to catch a glimpse of golden or gray wings. Two second year boys who hadn't made the cut could be seen streaking after the red Snitch; laughing, blagging and blurting all the way. They were obviously enjoying themselves, the fouls little more than jokes between mates. They kept themselves low to the grass, staying out of everyone's way.

Harry scanned the pitch, catching sight of the golden Snitch. He wanted to leave that one for players who were certain to be around for the matches to come. The gray Snitch was for him and Draco, that much was clear. He flew a little lower to the ground while Draco went higher, each of them stalking their prey. Within five minutes, the speedy gold Snitch was caught by big-eared Euan Abercrombie and re-released for another round. The Gryffindors were enjoying themselves on and off the pitch. It was quite a sight to see four or five Seekers diving after a single Snitch. Harry had to work not to be distracted by the antics of his housemates, scanning the ground and sky for any sign of his and Draco's God-Snitch. It wasn't Hogwarts without Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy desperate to one-up each other.

Draco's posture shifted and then he was rocketing upward into the sky, nothing but a messy blur of Gryffindor sweatshirt, dark denims and wildly whipping blonde hair. Harry knew he'd spotted the Snitch and raced after him, dodging bodies mid-air in an effort to beat Draco to the prize. Harry put on an extra burst of speed, willing his Firebolt to rocket faster into the sky. Draco burst through a low cloud, Harry seconds behind. The Snitch swerved—left, right, left again—before resuming its upward climb. As fast as his Firebolt was, the Nimbus series had superior turn handling and Draco gained a few meters on Harry. The blonde was going to reach the Snitch first. Harry couldn't have that.

He snagged the tail of Draco's broomstick—a clear foul but, this far up in the air and surrounded by clouds, there was no one to catch him at it. Draco tried to shake him off, growling something about Wonder Boyfriend being a filthy cheat. That gave Harry an idea. One hand on his Firebolt, he took hold of Draco with the other and began hauling himself up by the blonde's pant leg... then his narrow thighs, followed by the worn leather belt holding up his denims. Harry was sure to cop a feel.

“Wot the—” spluttered Draco, taking his eyes off the Snitch when Harry groped his pert little bum.

“No one can see us up here,” Harry cooed, his nose brushing Draco's crotch as he hauled himself up one inch at a time. The blonde was interested. Very interested, bulge apparent even through his denims, loose-fitting because they had once been Harry's. He'd commandeered them at the end of August. Harry couldn't complain—he loved those trousers, but loved even more the wonderful things they did for his boyfriend's curvy arse.

Draco's gaze shot back to the gray Snitch, fluttering just out of his reach as they continued to climb, Harry scratching his way up the blonde's bare back beneath the borrowed sweatshirt.

“F-wuh-fuck,” Draco squirmed. “Harry!”

He nipped at the other boy's neck—hard, dragging his teeth in a painful, stinging press. Draco hissed, arching into him involuntarily. At that wan, insistent sound, Harry couldn't hold himself back anymore. He kissed Draco, open-mouthed and wet, tongue tracing pink lips and gums, vaulting off his sharp teeth and caressing the slick roof of his mouth. Draco felt amazing and tasted even better—coffee with sugar, strawberries, poached egg and that spark that was just Draco, pure and simple. The blonde released his borrowed Nimbus to take Harry around the waist, crushing their bodies together, handles of broomsticks pressing their cheeks as wanting mouths worked hotly, opening again and again for tongues to slide, twirling together.

Draco groaned, bucking against him. Either the air was getting thin or they'd both forgotten to breathe.

Harry took his chance, then, putting a hand to Draco's shoulder and pushing himself up. He used the superior speed of his broom along with the blonde's aroused distraction to slip ahead, laying hands on the fluttering silvery God-Snitch.

Draco made a sound in the back of his throat—half-way between a snort of disgust and choking on incredulity. He swerved away, ripping out of Harry's airborne embrace.

“Shoud've been in Slytherin!” he shouted, pretty pointed face contorting. He flipped Harry the bird before streaking for the far-away muddy ground. The pitch was little more than a thumb-sized smudge, they'd flown so high.

Snitch in hand, Harry slumped over the familiar handle of his Firebolt. He'd just been trying for a little fun and it managed to blow up in his face like one of Neville's cauldrons. Harry took off after Draco, knowing the wizard would be in a righteous, raging snit by the time he reached the ground; on the bright side, maybe he'd still be horny. The prospect of make up sex got Harry smiling as he landed with a spectacular squelch, mud flying everywhere. Much of the team was on the field, waiting at the make-shift staging area Draco had created, hands shielding their upturned eyes against the sun. Maybe his and Draco's aerial stunts had been more visible than Harry first thought. He blushed a little, ignoring those who tried to congratulate him on a spectacular catch and charging single-mindedly after Draco. The blonde had returned Whipple's Nimbus 2001 and was stomping through the mud toward the stadium's exit.

“Draco, wait!” hollered Harry, a plaintive hand outstretched even as he ran to catch up. “Come on! Haven't you heard of a Boyfriend Feint?”

Draco stopped in his muddy tracks. He turned around, back as stiff as stone, ripping off his sunglasses and positively glaring at Harry, stopping The Chosen One in his tracks with the intensity of that look. His eyes were so narrowed their color was impossible to make out. A bit of the goofy smile faded from Harry's face.

“Apologize,” Draco hissed. If he were a Speaker, it might well have come out in Parseltongue. His anger was apparent—Harry didn't need the dark look or deepening voice, though they did make him worry about his chances for make up buggery. Did you buy your secret gay boyfriend “I'm Sorry” flowers?

“And then what?” Harry laughed nervously. They were speaking across a distance, voices raised. “More laps?”

“Members of this team show respect when spoken to,” Draco vituperated in lofty tones, trying to mask his inner feelings. “Right now you barely qualify as a replacement Seeker. Change yer attitude or I'll change my mind, Potter.”

An “ooooh” came up from the team. Harry flinched at the sincere venom packed into the statement. Even though he was just being cheeky—and fuck if he didn't need the release after the week he'd had—he had cheated. Draco had every right to call him out for it. Some paragon of Gryffindor morality Harry was turning out to be! He could feel genuine anger coming from Draco, the way the wizard enunciated Harry's surname sounding uncomfortably too much like the Draco Malfoy of years past. The blonde turned, storming off.

“Draco!” Harry called after him, unsticking his feet from the mud and running after him. He intended to dig his way out of this fight if it killed him. He slipped and nearly fell as he took off at a sprint. The wizard didn't even turn at the sound of his name, pleaded from Harry's lips. “Draco!” he begged loudly. “Sweetheart, please!”

Draco stopped short—he seemed to freeze in place, hands balled in white fists and clutching the Firebolt like a broadsword across the front of his body. He positively seethed with rage. Back to Harry and the little congregation, his voice trembled, fury barely concealed beneath the bubbling surface. Harry was suddenly afraid to see the man's face.

“What. Did. You. Say?”

“I...” Harry blanked, realizing the enormity of what he'd let slip. He could feel everyone staring at his back—he imagined Draco felt it too, eyes boring into them both. He heard the whispers drifting past him on the wind. “I....”

“Don't just stand there like a slobbering Mountain Troll, poilu,” Draco whispered in a thin hiss. He gestured to his side with the broomstick. “Fucking get over here.”

Harry closed the distance between them but Draco didn't turn—wouldn't even look at him. Harry wasn't sure if it would be appropriate to touch the man. He was afraid of getting his bits hexed off at that moment. He hadn't seen Draco this mad since their last night at Grimmauld Place over a month ago. He hated seeing Draco upset—it tore him up, that one or two stupid things said or unsaid could do this to someone he cared for so deeply, someone who was like a part of him. Draco was more than a part of him, more than a hand or a foot or an eye. Draco was sacred, priceless. Draco was his heart, his soul.

Perhaps there was such a thing called “I'm Sorry for Outing Us” flowers? Harry would be purchasing several hundred galleons worth.

“Have you lost your mind?” Draco enunciated at last, each syllable so clearly and ringingly announced by Draco Malfoy, pureblood heir and Slytherin—even though he was no longer either of those things, they still hung around him like nobility clings to a king. “Well?” One dirty blonde brow picked up. He smacked Harry in the shins with his Firebolt, polished wood connecting with bone not quite hard enough to bruise.

“Could you... maybe do that a little harder?” said Harry weakly, sounding ill. His guts had Disapparated, leaving his belly oddly void and twitchy. “I bloody deserve it.”

Draco snorted loudly, shoulders and chest jumping as the almost-laugh shook his lissome, bony body. “Goodbye, respect,” he sighed wistfully, staring off as the castle's tall spires. “It was nice knowin' ya. They actually saw me as their captain 'til a minute ago. Then Harry Potter had to stick his ruddy Chosen foot in it. Now I'm lucky ta be Wonder Boy's Bitch the rest a' the season.”

Harry shook his head wildly. “Slytherin's bollocks! I'm such a fucking arsehole. Merlin—fuck!” He'd just irrevocably outed them both to all of Hogwarts. There was no possible way he could explain calling another man “sweetheart” in a non-sexual way. Harry kicked at a ball of mud. It went squelching and bumping across the grass, rolling away. Draco brought the broom handle up the side of Harry's leg, caressing the back of his strong thigh before landing a gentle swat on his ass.

“Yeah, but yer my fuckin' arsehole,” the blonde shrugged, smacking him a bit harder for good measure. It felt sort of nice, Draco saying relatively sweet things to him while taking increasingly wicked shots at his bum. It was as though; with each tap, things got a little more right between them... something about the physicality of it, the carnal and cathartic nature. Draco landed another broomstick spank, spelling out his displeasure even as a smile creased his eyes, lighting up the paleness of his face with bright eyes and a familiar pink blush. He looked good in the sunshine, the light catching on his lashes each time he blinked. Harry was looking at him like a goopy sap, grinning broadly as he was put over Draco's proverbial knee and punished—quite literally spanked—in front of his entire house. He didn't bloody care. Things were okay between them. Everything else would work itself out.

Draco's chest dropped as he exhaled. “Na how do we fix this bollocks?” He peered back at their audience. Harry couldn't manage to look. Just the weight of those watchful, speculating, rumor-mongering eyes was enough to make him squirm in his trainers. Draco shifted his weight just as uncomfortably. “Think any of 'em can read lips?” Draco sounded a smidge paranoid.

“How should I know?” Harry swallowed heavily. The Firebolt tapped the tops of his arse cheeks, sort of bouncing there, rolling along the swishy nylon of his trousers as though Draco were feeling the firmness his muscles through the broomstick. It was vaguely sexual and comforting at the same time. Harry relaxed into it, relaxed into Draco.“I'm sorry I fucked this up for you. You were doing brilliant; really, bang up job. You don't need me here messing with everything. I'll mind out.”

“Apology accepted,” Draco said, looking over at him with a simple little smile. “Six laps.”

“Why six?”

“'Cause you were sweaty an' winded after five, so any more than six is superfluous. I want ya sweatin' when we go upstairs, not dead.”

“Oh?” Harry raised an eyebrow. Draco rubbed the broom handle along his bum—openly suggestive, now. With a quick flick, he jabbed the end into the dimple at the side of Harry's ass. His aim was so good, he could only have done it from memory. He twisted the Firebolt like he was twisting a knife into Harry's back—or rather, the divot at the side of his rump. Draco might as well have taken up a hand full of his aroused bits, for all it did to Harry's rising blood.

“Get on then, mon petit enculé,” Draco flushed, almost giggling. He waved Harry away with an imperious flick of his hand, black stone ring glinting in the light. Then he spoke much louder for the benefit of their eves dropping audience. “I've got a team ter run.”

Why-oh-why did he always slur himself like a country bumpkin around Harry? He'd slipped up at least five times just this morning. His team would be wondering why Draco Malfoy was suddenly speaking like a West Country booby. He grimaced, taking his leave from Harry... and hopefully bringing his bloody self-control with him.

When Draco turned to go, Harry ducked forward to plant a fluttering kiss on the blonde's cheek.

“I love that filthy mouth of yours,” he hissed happily against lemon and sage skin before pulling away.

“...then sprint,” Draco whispered, catching Harry's bespectacled gaze and holding it without hesitation. His silver eyes were lovely and bright, full of crimson from his clothes and the sweetest sugary pink of his cheeks. He simpered under his breath. “An' you'll have it spewing filth stuffed full of yer cock.”

“Whatever you say,” Harry agreed loudly, all obliging practicality and good sense, starting to jog backwards—but his green-eyed gaze was that of a mad man. He couldn't stop the insane grin from cracking his face. Wonder Boy had dimples. “You're the captain!”

“And don't you forget it!” Draco yelled back. He walked himself back to the waiting crowd as Harry tore off around the pitch. Draco had no idea Scarhead The Bumbling could move that bloody fast on his own two legs. Those muscles were good for more than fucking, it would seem. He schooled his features, struggling to keep the dangerous smile off his face as he addressed his new team.

“As you can see, there will be no favorites on my team. This may be a new concept for some of you—but I expect you'll wrap yer heads 'round it right now or get off my fucking pitch. The rules apply to everyone, 'Chosen Twit' or not.” There was a bit of twittering at this. Harry blew by on his first lap. People gaped, he was running so fast. “Everyone pulls their weight. Everyone participates. We play as a team; we win as a team.”

Whipple and Byrne were nodding soberly. Coote looked wary while Thomas and Weasley schooled their features to neutrality—the effect left them looking mildly constipated. Peakes was too busy ogling Whipple to notice anything else and the rest of the team was far too knackered to care much what their captain said. Draco recognized the point of exhaustion. There were days to push past that point but this was not one of them. Harry passed by on his second lap.

“Back to the castle, the lot of you!” Draco waved an arm in dismissal. “Mandatory practices will be posted in the Common Room on Monday. Should you have conflicts... see me and I'll make them disappear.” A few of the girls looked frightened but the older boys got a chuckle. The team began to disperse, feet thumping over the plywood as they took their leave to the showers or back to the house commons.

Demelza Robins hung back, looking appraisingly between Draco and Gryffindor's Golden Boy still hauling ass around the pitch. She flipped her pony tail over her shoulder, petting it, combing the knots out with her fingers as she chewed her words carefully.

“Malfoy... aren't you coming back to the castle?”

“No,” he shook his head, mounting Harry's broom. “I'm gonna go heckle my boyfriend.”

And he took off after Harry, calling something about “move that sweet arse” and “I haven't got all day.”

- - -

They flew on the Firebolt back to their room—Draco didn't want Harry's legs to be too tired from all those stairs leading up to Gryffindor Tower. And there was the smell of Harry's sweat rolling off him in waves, all nutmeg and rum and heat. Harry leaned into Draco, resting his cheek against the blonde's as they flew up to their room. Draco removed the complicated Locking Charm he had on the windows before spelling them open and drifting inside.

“We could've used the terrace,” Harry muttered, dismounting after Draco.

“Sure,” drawled the blonde. He tossed the broomstick onto the bed, Seekers gloves still covering his palms, milky digits protruding from the leather finger holes. “I thought we might be adventurous.”

“Adventurous?” Harry repeated smugly, Quidditch arm bracers creaking as he reached for the hem of Draco's borrowed sweatshirt. “Well, as long as there's cock sucking involved.” Bold, he yanked the Gryffindor hoodie without warning, tangling Draco's head and arms in the fabric as he pulled it up and off. Draco emerged worse for the wear, his white-blonde hair sticking up crazily, aided by sweat and a hint of gritty mud from outside. Reflexively, Harry licked his palm and pressed the worst of it down. His other arm circled Draco's slender waist, pulling him close.

“Maybe I don't feel like gagging on yer cock,” Draco teased. “Git.”

“That's bollocks, love,” Harry simpered right back, grabbing the other man's ass and pressing their groins together. “You haven't choked on my prick in, what? Two hours? Nearly three. I think it's about time. You must be dying for it.”

“You think so?” Draco backed Harry against the open window. The breeze felt heavenly-cool against his skin, not to mention it brought the scent of Harry flowing over him, all power and man, sweat, musk and magic.

Harry's hand tightened in platinum locks, bringing Draco forward for a single hard kiss on the mouth. Harry broke it off before Draco could do much, twisting his head to take a savage bite at that long pillar of neck. The blonde pressed into it, moaning and arching his spine to be closer, to feel more of Harry against him. But Harry pulled away, leaning back against the windowsill to regard Draco. Green eyes were swollen over with black lust, lids drooping heavily as his lips parted.

“Suck me,” he demanded in Parseltongue.

“Suce ma bite,” Draco corrected, still vainly trying to teach Harry French.

“Suce moi, Draco. Mon salop,” Harry drawled, ad-lib. His accent wasn't bad when he was horny as fuck.

Draco rolled his eyes grandly, pushing at the sweat-drenched material covering Harry's chest. “Qu'est-ce que tu veux que ça me fasse?” he drawled quickly, wanting to see if Harry could understand his meaning just by the tone of his voice.

Harry's hand tightened in his hair, forcing Draco to look into his eyes.

“You get on your knees,” he said in a harsh hiss that left no room for argument, “and suck my fucking dick, you hear me?”

Draco snorted, pulling at Harry's shirt, stroking the hairs that grew high on his stomach through the fabric; he could feel everything through that thin layer of sweat-soaked cotton. He just wanted the smell of Harry on his fingertips—wanted to roll in it, inhaling him on the breeze that swept in from the window. Jasmine and lavender danced at the back of his throat with each breath, rum and salt and pheromones embedded beneath his fingernails as he scratched through Harry's shirt. He wanted it off, their bodies rolling together in that perfect press that was almost too much. But he wanted to tease Harry more.

“Je ne crois—” he began.

A jolt of magic hit him hard in the chest, stealing his breath away. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he'd taken a step back and all but fallen to one knee. Harry menaced over him, chin jutting forward and teeth gritted, his jaw set in a hard, stubble-strewn line. His eyes were wild behind his spectacles, white and green and glaring. The air seemed to vibrate around him, the scent of his magic overpowering even the mud and wet grass of the rain-drenched castle grounds. He was heavy, like a smoke—the tang of incense, the warmth of wood, bergamot and cloves, sweetness that went down smooth as honey and a metallic hit that finished almost like blood. Draco bit back the taste, choking on it as his eyes watered. Harry still had him by the hair, his other hand braced against the window frame with his strong fingers digging into the ancient, crackled wood. He leaned, gripping Draco's hair until it hurt. Nothing had ever hurt so good in his entire sodding miserable life. Trembling, he reached for the tie on Harry's trousers, working the knot until it came loose and he could ease trousers and pants down. He pulled at the laces of Harry's trainers, the brunet quickly stepping out of them as he shoved at his pants, kicking everything aside to present his stone hard prick right in Draco's face.

“Suce ma bite,” Harry recited perfectly.

“Oui,” Draco agreed, taking Harry by the hips and diving forward. “Mon coeur, mon amour.” He swallowed Harry right down, nearly to the base, relaxing his throat and swallowing continuously so he wouldn't gag himself on the very first pass—as much as Harry loved him spluttering and coughing, he wasn't ready for that yet. He couldn't hold it for long and had to pull back, bobbing up and down the shaft in a steady rhythm. Harry hissed and moaned his pleasure, head tilted back as he thrust his hips forward. Draco hummed around him, feeling the magic under his tongue and between his gums. It felt like his jaw was about to break from the pressure.

Harry let go of his hair, tugging his sopping shirt off over his head and throwing it across the room. The garment landed on the stone floor with a wet splat. Draco hummed his amusement, making Harry shudder and buck his hips. The blonde was good at this—and smug about it, pulling out every last trick to make the brunet's brain turn to mush. Harry was so into it that he didn't notice Draco covertly drawing his wand from a denim pocket. If Harry wasn't going to play by the rules—wandless magic just to get his boyfriend on his knees, bloody show-off—then neither would Draco.

When Harry took up twin fists of his precious platinum hair, Draco reacted. He swished his wand, thinking the incantation with all his might. A thick leather band appeared, securing Harry's wrists together. He still had his hands full of Draco's hair, guiding the blonde's mouth to do his bidding... but there wasn't much persuasion necessary in that act. Draco cast another charm to relax his throat, getting up a steady rhythm that was sure to throw Harry over the edge.

“Fuck yes,” Harry groaned, yanking at Draco's hair as he pounded away. “You're so good at this. Suck it.” And he moaned in snake tongue: it was nothing but a solid hiss that sent ripples through every nerve in Draco's body. He redoubled his pace, nostrils flaring as he struggled to breathe. There was drool running from the corner of his mouth and he couldn't be arsed. Harry Potter made him drool. Harry Potter broke him, took him to his fucking knees. Harry slowed down enough to get his own breath. It was hard for him to move his hands—between the leather bands binding his wrists and the buckles of his Quidditch bracers, his brawny arms were well trapped. He wriggled his fingers and wrists. Warm, calloused thumbs brushed over Draco's eyelids, fingers cradling his head and face—the tenderness so incongruous to the words falling from those thick lips bitten red and wet, mouth hanging open as he hissed. “That's right. Take my dick so far down your throat you'll taste me for a week.”

Draco choked at that, throat closing around Harry's cock. His eyes bugged out of his skull, desperate for air. It was the most delicate burn, racing up his lungs to prick at his eyes, setting off wildfires along every inch of his skin. His throat closed completely, forcing Harry back in a great heave. He struggled to keep his breakfast down. Looked up at Harry, silver eyes wet, the back of his neck tweaked, seizing as he strained to look up.

“Guh,” the brunet grunted. Harry was so eloquent in English—even more so when he was coming apart at the seams like this. Draco had done that with nothing but his mouth. “Fuck me. Gods Draco, let's fuck.”

The blonde took one last swipe at the head of Harry's prick—and it proved the man's undoing. He convulsed, growling as he gripped Draco's head and forced his curvy hips forward, coming in great bursts Draco had no chance of holding. He swallowed as much as he could. The rest joined the line of spittle leaking from the side of his mouth. Harry's thrusts became more and more shallow but he clearly wasn't stopping. Draco sucked him clean—but not spent. Still hard, Harry pulled his sensitive prick from Draco's now very-much-wanting mouth. The blonde may have made a little whimper of protest right there on his knees; supplicating, following that delectable red member as it pulled away from him. He reached out, stroking it with a reverent hand, swirling his spit in the thatch of dark curls that decorated the base.

“Untie me,” Harry ground out, sounding a little hoarse. “I want you to fuck me. Baise-moi.”

Disentangling himself from Harry's slackened grip, Draco pushed himself up off his knees, sore from kneeling on the unforgiving stone floor. They needed another rug for this side of the room. He threw down a Cushioning Charm before running hands up Harry's sides, fingertips counting the ridge of each rib, each muscle and bump as he glided up to hold his lover by the shoulders. Harry was a furnace, hot as a July heatwave even in the cool breeze that pricked Draco's nipples and gave him goose bumps. He huddled close, enjoying Harry's heat.

“No,” he whispered very softly in Harry's ear. “I don't think I'll untie ya just yet. Yer magic's gone mad.” Harry snorted against him. “But I will fuck yer ruddy lights out.”

With gloved hands to Harry's shoulders and the element of surprise, it was easy enough to flip him over the windowsill. Harry's messy head hung out the window for all to see. Draco bent down, licking the slope of Harry's spine as he cast silent charms. Harry jerked under him—whether from the spells or because Draco was twisting his nipple, who was to say? Draco slipped his wand back in his pocket before admiring Harry's bum.

“Gods,” Draco whispered, ripping off his gloves and dropping to his knees to take two firm handfuls of those perky round cheeks. Harry's skin was surprisingly soft beneath his bare hands, yielding in all the right ways. He leaned forward and took a bite, burying his face in the musky crevice. Harry smelled like dick and come and sweat—it got Draco drooling, desperately wanting another afternoon treat. “Fucking gorgeous,” he mumbled, licking. With a deep groan, Harry pushed back against his face, using the windowsill for leverage. He didn't appear to care that any Gryffindor or Ravenclaw looking out their dormitory window could probably see the shirtless top half of Harry Potter leaning out the Head Boy's bedroom window.

He went limp when Draco suckled at his entrance, collapsing with a satisfied purr. Draco worked his tongue alongside the magic, stretching, leaving just enough spit. Harry liked a minimal amount of lubricant—he liked to really feel it, the slag.

“Mmm, agh,” the brunet spluttered. He was running fingers over his shaft as he fucked himself on Draco's tongue. “Draco—cock.”

With a smirk, Draco pulled back enough to speak, running a finger over Harry's damp, loosened muscle. “You want my cock in you, baby?” He felt Harry nod, too busy slurping at the drool in his mouth to bother with words. Draco smiled, slipping a finger inside. “Filthy boy.”

Harry snorted and moaned in tandem: Draco was one to talk about filth, licking another man's arsehole without a Cleaning Charm and then sticking his lovely fingers up there. Harry squirmed at the second and then third. He really didn't need them. Draco had prepared him with magic. He growled as the blonde scissored his fingers, testing just how relaxed and stretched he was. A teasing fingertip brushed his prostate again and again, setting stars dancing across his vision but not quite enough to make him come.

“Fuck me,” he insisted between jerks and gasps. “Draco... now.”

Draco reached up, putting his wand in Harry's flexing fingers. He whispered against the man's hip, “Make me.”

Harry didn't think about what he was doing—he just cast the Imperius Curse, dropping the wand as Draco dragged him to his hands and knees. At least there was a Cushioning Charm on the floor. He didn't fancy bloodying his knees on an unforgiving stone floor when there was a perfectly good bed two meters away.

He gave the order. Fuck me silly, Draco. Right now.

Draco was still kicking his denims off as his prick slid home of its own accord. He had no control over his body, hips slamming into Harry with the hard, wet slap of skin on skin. Droplets of sweat were flung into the air; others kept right on flowing over Harry's back, making him glisten in the afternoon light. Harry gave a yelp as Draco pounded him mercilessly—he was so fucking deep and the position so foreign and new. Harry fell to his elbows at the third thrust, pressing into Draco as he arched his back, demanding more even as he spasmed around the thick piece buried inside him. Draco's body kept hammering, pushing, punishing. It was animal and wild. With only spit for lube, he could feel everything, those little bumps and ridges clinging to him as he abused Harry, gripping his muscled hips with bruising force. He could feel the injury about to happen, feel Harry's walls protesting, about to tear.

“Can't—” he panted. “Harry....”

“Don't stop!” Harry growled, biting down on leather straps of his Quidditch bracers. There would be permanent teeth marks in his Seeker's gear. “So fucking good.”

Draco's hips snapped forward again and again, the magic of Harry's curse overpowering him. Harry was moaning with each terrible thrust, hard prick slapping his stomach with every blow. Draco's scrawny legs shook, thighs practically vibrating as he tried to hold himself back. It was no use. His fingers curled into Harry's hips, digging in with blunt nails and scratching as hard as he could.

I'm about to hurt you, idiot! Draco screamed in his head, praying Harry would pay attention. Even in his mind, his voice was high-pitched, scared and panicked as a child. You'll bleed! We won't be able to fuck for days! Please Harry, please!

“Stop,” Harry ordered around a mouthful of worn-out bracer straps.

Draco breathed a sigh, collapsing over Harry's back. He pulled out by a few inches in order to reach his mouth between the brunet's shoulder blades, licking at the pool of sweat gathering in the valley of those protruding bones. He drank greedily, circling his hips to give pressure to Harry's prostate, his dick sliding gently in a much softer rhythm.

Harry ripped at his unruly hair. An unhappy growl resonated in his throat. In their link, it echoed, more like a roar of frustration.

“Doesn't this feel good, though?” Draco pleaded. He couldn't stop licking Harry, licking his own lips. Everything tasted like the magic that oozed from Harry's skin. He was giving off power like one of those muggle ekalectric generators. It was almost a humming in Draco's ears, mingling with the sound of Harry's blood, his heartbeat, his vexation and boundless sexual energy. Draco wanted so badly to please him, sate him, satisfy his every want and need. “This feels so good fer me, baby. Can't we do it like this?”

Harry caught his breath, relaxing into Draco's gentler rhythm. He arched back, feeling the sour, stinging pain already blooming through his kidneys and the base of his spine. He tightened, pulsed, wanting the burn of it. “Deeper,” he managed.

The blonde had no choice but to comply, propping himself up on Harry's back in order to sheath the length of him into his demanding partner.

“Harder,” Harry told him next, bucking. Draco was so long, sometimes Harry really thought he could taste precome at the back of his throat like the blonde always teased. He pressed until he felt it, the head of Draco's prick breaching the very end of his channel, forcing through tight muscle that had never been violated before. “Yes,” he hissed, inhaling through gritted teeth.

This was a bad idea, Draco whined into their link. Such a bad, terrible, fucking stupid idea. No more... his thoughts went numb as he thrust forward, hard, rattling Harry's bones with the surprising strength of his lissome, bony body... Imperius sex—so wrong. Never again, never, never never gonna hurt you, baby, about to tear....

Draco fought the curse with everything he had. He stopped working his hips and the pain took over, blinding him. He trembled, teeth chattering. Harry dove into action, pushing himself up with his bound arms to sit back—nearly in Draco's lap, his sweaty back pressed to a shivering scarred chest. He twisted, bringing their lips together in a simple kiss.

You're right, he thought desperately, licking at Draco's lips like a dying man. You're so absolutely right. This was a dumb idea. I release you a thousand times over. Please, Draco, just... kiss me. Kiss me.

It took a moment for Draco to respond. The first thing was his needy grip on Harry's hips loosening, fingernails releasing so that the pads of his hands could soothe the irritated red marks left behind. Then he started to kiss back, sucking at Harry's lips in lethargy. Harry wanted to reach up and take hold of Draco's face but that was impossible with his hands still bound. Whatever spell Draco had used, Harry couldn't get out of it to save his life. Instead, he took up a pale hand from his hip, closing his fingers over Draco's narrow ones, rubbing gently, reassuring.

“Sorry,” he mumbled against Draco's sodden mouth. “Sorry, sorry.”

“S'okay,” replied the blonde, nuzzling into Harry's neck. “I'm fine now.”

Quack like a duck, Harry thought. It was the most insane and unlikely command he could think of. When Draco just kept laying feathery kisses to his neck, that confirmed it. Draco pulled Harry into his lap, sitting back on his heels and rocking just-so. He rubbed inside Harry just right, sending little shivers up his spine.

“Uh, we're not... finished, then?” Harry managed. After pain and a near torture flashback, Harry was shocked Draco was coherent let alone still horny. The blonde squeezed his hands, the other running up Harry's chest, gathering sweat as it went. He wound his fingers through Harry's messy hair, leveraging for an upward thrust that made pink and gold sparks shoot across Harry's eyelids. Words obliterated, he moaned.

“I always want yeh,” Draco murmured into his neck. “So lemme get this right: ya want deep.” He dropped his hand to Harry's shoulder, holding him still. Draco leaned back on his other hand, thrusting up as he forced Harry down. The brunet gasped through his nose, gritting his teeth as Draco pushed against that painful, thought-searingly-good spot.

“There,” Harry gulped, trying to wet his throat. He sounded less shagged out and more beaten to a pulp. He wailed, “gods, there.”

“M'kay,” Draco sighed, squeezing his shoulder. “All yeh had ta do was say so, luv.”

Harry sighed back, warmth mingling through his core. Sure it hurt but the pain was only a small part of it. The pain felt good, the same way it sometimes hurt to hear the truth. It was present and real. Draco didn't seem afraid now he understood what Harry wanted. He was breathing deeply now, working strong and steady.

“Idea,” the blonde said suddenly, holding Harry's shoulder for leverage as he sat up on his knees. He kissed the back of Harry's neck, sucking at the wet strands of hair that lay over his skin. With a hand out, he summoned the Firebolt.

Harry froze beneath his hand, eying the broomstick warily.

Draco snorted. “Gryffindor's Gout. I'm not gonna violate yeh with it.”

Harry remembered how to breathe.

“Dinna trust me?” the blonde teased.

“Oh, I trust you,” Harry muttered, shaking his head—mostly to get his sopping hair out of his eyes. He let his hands dangle in front of him, brushing the hair around his shaft. “I trust you're as twisted and freaky as I am.”

Draco laughed, a high-pitched twittering as he slid the broom along the floor, the handle appearing between Harry's legs. Next Draco Summoned his wand with a little flip of his hand. He cast a few silent spells—Cushioning Charms. Harry felt the magic billow out around his thighs and arse; warm and pleasantly squashy, as though several worn old throw pillows had been stuffed between his legs. Draco Summoned the Invisibility Cloak, slinging it around his shoulders and tucking his wand in one of its pockets, just in case.

Excitement welled up in Harry's throat, making it hard to breathe. “Are we going flying?” he asked. If so, that had better be the world's strongest Cushioning Charm on their asses and bits.

“Bet yer sweet arse,” Draco quipped. He was leaning back, a hand gripping the Firebolt's sleek tail. With a pleasant shove, Harry found himself bent over his broomstick, Draco's prick buried up his arse. He scrambled to get some sort of grip on the handle, shins clamping down around Draco's. “Care to see if this works?”

“I'm gonna laugh so hard if we fall....” Harry chuckled.

Draco giggled, prick jumping. It made Harry groan. “Moment a' truth,” the blonde shrugged. “Up.”

When the Firebolt left the ground, Harry slipped his bound wrists around under the handle, circling his hands around the wood and gripping it with his palms. Draco teetered behind him but managed to stay on, gripping Harry's hip to keep his balance, stomach muscles flexing in a delicious wave that Harry felt against his bum.

“Somehow I doubt this is an intended use of a broomstick, professional grade or otherwise,” quipped Harry. His prick was leaking, gobs dripping down his shaft, beading up on the broomstick's wax coating and dribbling down to the floor with little wet splats. Were they actually going to fuck and fly at the same time? He couldn't think of anything more fantastic.

“If my piano can serve as a sex toy,” Draco snorted, “don't think your racing broom is immune.”

Harry shook with laughter at that, forehead resting against the broom handle as he rode out the chuckles. Draco groaned at the feel of Harry's body shuddering and pulsing around him. He pushed himself forward, leaning over Harry's back and working the Invisibility Cloak around them both. He pulled his wand and secured the ends under them with a few quick Sticking Charms. Draco's Sticking Charms were brill—if they could hold Harry to his bed by a scrap of silk, they'd certainly hold the cloak closed, no problem.

“Yer two favorite things,” Draco whispered in his ear, bumping his hips forward in a suggestive grind. “Sex and flying. Tell me I'm a God.”

“My three favorite things,” Harry corrected with a wonton hiss. “Sex, flying, and you.”

Unsure what to say to such open pap, Draco gave a forceful thrust. Harry re-tucked his legs, twining his shins around Draco's. The blonde thrust again, pushing Harry's face into the broom while twiddling his nipple until he whined quite loudly.

“Draco,” he panted, biting his lip in a failing effort to keep quiet. “Did you put a Privacy Ward on the room?”

“Nope,” Draco smiled deviously. It was a good thing Harry couldn't see the excitement lighting up his own face. He probably looked like a muggle child in Honeydukes.

“Fu-uck,” Harry groaned. It was such a pain to have to be quiet. Draco made him want to screech his bloody head off.

“Can you steer?” Draco mouthed teasingly against his shoulder; licking him, knowing how mad these things made Harry and doing them anyway. The brunet let out a groan beneath him, pressing back with the Firebolt for leverage. “While I'm fucking you, Potter? Are yeh a good enough Seeker ta perform with my Death Eater cock up that tight arse?”

Harry gasped so he wouldn't scream. Everything Draco did and said felt so good, he thought he might come right there, hovering barely a meter off their bedroom floor. “Time we found out, Malfoy.”

With a twist of Harry's wrists and a squeeze from Draco's thighs, they were shooting out the open window, cloak flapping in the wind as they flew. They left Gryffindor Tower behind them, soaring out over the grounds with impossible speed. You'd think a broomstick would be slowed down by two riders but that wasn't the case; granted, together they weighed maybe nineteen stone... it was more like the broom's enchantments sensed their excitement, the magic practically rolling off their skin and was as spurred on by the power as its riders. Harry closed his eyes a moment, letting Draco steer with warm hands on his body.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered, overwhelmed.

“Perfect,” Draco said back, just as quietly. The feeling really was amazing, the two of them whipping through the air, skin against skin as ground and sky flew by. They rolled, swooped and dived, each angle changing the weight and pressure between them. They hung upside-down until most of their blood rushed to their heads and pricks; dizzying, breath-stealingly good was what that feeling was. Harry turned the Firebolt toward the grass before he passed out.

“Ground, Wonder Boy,” Draco pleaded, watching the dirt come at them with gathering speed. “Pull up, you idiot. Fuc—Harry!” The blonde grabbed the broomstick at the last possible second, pulling them out of a perfectly executed Wronski Feint.

“Mmm,” Harry purred. “Love that move.”

“If I didn't love fucking you so much,” Draco seethed, “I'd bloody kill you, cunt.”

“You mean if you didn't fucking love me so much,” Harry corrected cheekily.

“That's it, I'm steering before your quest to thrill yourself to orgasm gets us both killed,” Draco growled, closing a hand over the handle just above Harry's bound ones. Draco's silky thumb stroked his fingertips briefly, checking that he still had circulation and feeling. Harry just sighed, relaxing into the caress, the feel of Draco pressed flush against him and grinding through his frustration.

By the time they looped the Whomping Willow, Harry was treated to getting his brains rammed out; tasting dick at the back of his throat, Draco was pounding him so hard. They'd flown together before but never like this—so clearly how it should be, flying together in every sense.

One hand on the Firebolt and the other wrapping Harry's torso, Draco landed on the perfect angle, driving into Harry's sweet spot with every thrust. Trapped between Draco and the waxy broom handle, Harry tensed, feeling himself about to come. Draco felt it, too. He pulled sharply on the handle, sending them into an upward race just like their battle for the Snitch. Draco leaned back, dragging Harry with him until their torsos lay at a ninety degree angle from the broom, hitting Harry with wind resistance that drove Draco's cock deep inside him, pressure holding it there as they accelerated higher and higher. They came together, screaming in the clouds.

Drifting slowly back to earth, literally and figuratively, Harry pressed his face against the broom handle and closed his eyes, letting Draco steer from on top of him. He managed a knackered mutter. “How'd you dream this this up?”

“When we were chasing the Snitch,” Draco told his shoulder, guiding them back toward the dark blob that was the castle so far below. “I couldn't decide whether yeh moved better on a broom or on my cock. I realized I didn't wanna choose.”

Harry nuzzled the Dark Mark beside his face, tracing his tongue along the coiling snake until Draco shivered in delight. He could have sworn the inky snake shivered, too. “Good choice, dragon.”

- - -

They skipped lunch, preferring to lie naked in bed and hold each other. It wasn't a spoken consensus—they simply fell into bed, mushy and sated, and there they stayed for the better part of the afternoon.

Draco pushed Harry's filthy wet hair out of his eyes. “Ya sure it was such a good idea lettin' them know we're together?” he mused. “Won't it get out—an' get back to the Dark Lord?”

Harry rolled onto his side to face Draco, stroking a hand up his bony hip.

“I had to think about it before I realized—Voldemort knows about us. Since the end of August.”

“Wot?” Draco spluttered, eyes going wide. “How?”

“Didier,” Harry sighed, his hand winding higher. Calloused fingers walked along Draco's ribs, thumb trailing behind to stroke the coral skin of his biggest scar. Harry liked to map them with his fingers, the shape and feel of each one already written across his mind, embedded in his heart. Draco felt amazing—he dreamed of the blonde, this shagged-out vision lying before him now. “That cunt wouldn't keep information like up his sleeve for long. This way I can at least hug you in the common room. Or kiss you,” Harry winked.

“Ya think tha's wise? Kissin' Draco Malfoy, scourge of Gryffindor?” Draco wrinkled his nose in mock-disgust. “Yeh may lose a few fans.

Harry took Draco's hand, looking at the ring on his hand before going up to meet his eyes. He knew the man was scared and making jokes to cover his worries.

“Fuck the fans,” Harry said firmly. “You know I don't care what anybody thinks.”

“An' wot if someone comes after me?”

“You're not made of glass,” Harry smiled. “And you're at Hogwarts. No one can touch you here.”

Draco laid back against the mattress, white-blonde head nearly disappearing in a mound of pillows. “I'm not so sure, poilu. Ya know somebody slipped Veritaserum in my pumpkin juice the first day a' term.”

“But you don't drink pumpkin juice....”

“Gods, yer thick!” Draco huffed, half playful but half angry because deep down, he was scared and afraid to admit it.

“No, no, I get it. I understand the danger,” Harry asserted, rolling after Draco and propping himself up on an elbow to hover over him. He used his free hand to trace the lines of Draco's chest without looking, eyes trained on the boy's pointed, handsome face. “And I guess... I should've talked to you before blurting about us in front of everyone. I should've made sure it was okay with you before I stuck my foot in it. It's your life, too. I'm sorry. I reckon I'm getting used to doing things my way and having everyone follow. But that's no reason to trample over you. I value your input, especially about this kind of stuff. I promise I'll pay more attention and talk to you about it in the future. Can you forgive me?”

Draco lay stunned, blinking up at the caring face above him. Since when had Harry Potter learned to consider others in his Chosen decision-making process? Draco swallowed down his pride. If Harry was prepared to act like an adult, he could return the consideration.

“There's nothing ter forgive,” he reached out, stroking a thumb over Harry's cheek. “Yer Wonder Boyfriend. As hard as it is, I leave these decisions to you. But I'd appreciate it if you'd inform me before changin' yer mind, okay?”

Harry's brows rose. “Wonder Boyfriend, huh?”

“Oh, shove off!” Draco pushed his muscled shoulder, blushing. “Tha's wha' I call ya in my head.”

Harry pushed closer, pressing his tight body flush with Draco's side. He kissed a warm path over the blonde's shoulder, whispering, “In your head or in your fantasies?”

Draco smirked into black, sweat-matted hair. “Can't it be both?”

“Come 'ere, you,” Harry purred, slinging an arm around Draco's middle for a tighter embrace. “I don't think I've thanked you properly for that little escapade.” He jutted his chin to the broomstick and Invisibility Cloak piled at the opposite end of the mahogany sleigh frame.

Draco kicked the Firebolt away. Its tail twigs had been tickling the undersides of his feet for the last twenty minutes, anyway. He relaxed into Harry's arms, letting everything else go.

“No thanks necessary,” he sighed. “An' it was more of an indulgence, really.”

“Then let me indulge you back,” Harry kissed Draco, forcing him deep into the blankets until they both dissolved. Draco felt so right, so perfect in his arms. The man's lips were soft. He pulled one into his mouth and sucked, savoring the taste and feel of him. He grazed its tenderness with his teeth. Kissing Draco was still the most erotic sensation of his entire life. He would never get tired of this. Tonguing Draco Malfoy would never get old. Every press of lips, every slide of spit-slicked tongue was perfection. And the world be damned, he'd never want or need anything more than this: Draco, his Draco, melting in his arms.

For The Curious: Translation of Draco's French

mon petit enculé – my little cocksucker/faggot/bastard/asshole

Suce ma bite – of course, the classic “suck my cock”

Qu'est-ce que tu veux que ça me fasse? – “Do you really think I care?” or “What do you want me to do about it?” Essentially, an expression of utter indifference.
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