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Magnetism	By : Queenie_Mab Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4595 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations from Harry Potter, created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended

Chapter List
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Harry woke up in the morning, warm and sticky with perspiration. Draco was a hot sleeper and apparently a cuddler. He could tell by the hot breath in his ear that Draco was not yet awake, but his morning erection was poking Harry in the arse and Draco would press against him every so often. Harry's arse was sore and throbbed, but it felt good. It was evidence that Draco had been there.

Harry had to piss, and he tried to move Draco's arm, but it just tightened around his waist and his hand wandered down to find Harry's half-mast cock, gripping it lightly. Draco moaned in his ear and then woke up and hurriedly scooted away from Harry to the opposite side of the bed, covering himself with the sheet.

"What the fuck happened last night?" Draco asked, fear in his voice.

Harry was afraid he'd get such a reaction and his cock was now fully erect. He rolled over to face Draco. He sighed. "What do you remember?"

Draco's face blanched. "I thought that was a dream," he said quietly.

"Well, it wasn't. We were both drunk on that spiked Firewhiskey of yours." Harry stretched himself underneath the sheet, cat-like, erection tenting the sheet.

Draco looked at it angrily. "You get off on my humiliation, do you?" he shouted.

Harry groaned and blinked his sleepy eyes. He reached backwards to the bedside table, retrieved his glasses and put them on his face, making Draco's blotchy red face visible. "Hey, it was just a one-time thing if you want it to be, all right?"

Draco stared at him blankly. "Why does it always have to be you? It's like I can never get away from you, no matter how far I go."

"Why do you want to get away from me so badly?" Harry asked. "I'm not that bad, am I?" He scooted up in the bed so he was sitting, leaning back against the headboard. He turned his head and stared at Draco, waiting for an answer.

Draco drew his knees up to his chest, still covered by the white sheet. "This is really uncool, Potter. I can't even sleep in the same bed as you without fucking you. What's up with that? I can't stand you."

"Look," said Harry. "How about we make a bargain? Whatever happens in this room, stays in here and we don't talk about it outside this room."

"What will that accomplish, Potter?" Draco asked. "You mean you want me to fuck you rotten every night and then pretend it didn't happen all day, right?"

"No," Harry said, frustrated. "I mean whatever is said or done in here will reach nobody else. It'll just be between the two of us, so we can say exactly how we feel while we're in here."

"I feel I may vomit," Draco said, face still pale.

"Can you wait until after I have a piss and a shower?" Harry asked. "I'm a bit sticky." He moved to pull the sheet down and Draco covered his eyes.

"What do you think you're doing, Potter?" he asked. "I'm still in the room!"

Harry chuckled. "And you're just as naked as I am. Don't tell me you're a prude when you're not drinking."

"I'm not a prude," Draco said defensively, pulling his hands away from his face. "Fine, get up and shower for all I care. You're leaving me alone to write for a bit today, aren't you?"

Harry flung back the sheet revealing his tanned, Quidditch-toned body, lithe and sleek-muscled. His cock still stood half-hard, but he didn't act ashamed in any way. He walked to the bathroom, keenly aware of Draco's eyes on his body. He smiled as he relieved his bladder and climbed into the Muggle bathtub/shower. The fact that Draco Malfoy lived as a Muggle further endeared him to Harry, and more than ever, Harry wanted to know the man he'd hated blindly for so many years.

When Harry came back into the room wearing a towel, Draco had left. He pulled on yesterday's clothes and walked to the dining room to find Draco madly typing on his keyboard, a fresh bottle of Ogden's Old and a glass full of it, beside the computer.

"Right then," Harry said, knocking on the wood of the table. "I'm off. I'll be back in time for dinner. I'll cook something."

Draco scoffed and said nothing. Harry got the gist that he was being ignored and it hurt, but he turned and left the house, on his way to the Apparation point. Hermione would be waiting for him at the Ministry and he'd have to stop by Grimmauld Place for some clothes at some point during the day.

~*~

Harry stopped by the Ministry of Magic after putting together a small trunk of clothes to cover him for the week at Draco's. He met Hermione on the second floor where she was in the Magical Law Enforcement's Hall of Records, sitting at a circular table that was covered in stacks of papers.

Hermione was busy scratching something out on a piece of parchment and then double-checking a figure when Harry cleared his throat. She looked up and smiled brightly, adjusting her bushy-haired ponytail, so it hung down her back and out of her face.

"Harry, I'm so glad you're here to help me sort through this mess," she said, relieved.

"What exactly is it that we're doing?" Harry asked. He walked up to the table, picked up a sheaf of parchment and shuffled through it. Everything looked the same to him. He didn't know how Hermione always talked him into going along with her cockamamie schemes.

Hermione lifted a stack of papers and set it upon another stack. She blew a loose strand of hair out of her face. "We're looking into suspicious Muggle deaths that occurred during the war to see if we can match them up to Death Eater activity. The Muggles deserve some restitution."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It was five years ago, Hermione, almost six. You can't solve these crimes and then go up to Muggles and tell them, 'Oh, by the way. Your father who died of a heart attack was actually a victim of war,' they'd never believe it. I think it's best to leave well enough alone."

Hermione huffed. "You said you'd help me, Harry James Potter! So stop whining and help me."

"Fine," Harry said, picking up another sheaf of papers and looking through it. He sorted it into Hermione's supposed 'heart attack' pile and picked up the next one.

"So, what have you been up to, Harry?" Hermione asked. "You didn't make it to Saturday breakfast this week." She filed Muggle police reports quickly, shuffling stacks and colour coding her checklist.

"I've been a bit busy," Harry said noncommittally. "Please don't ask me what I'm doing, I don't want to lie to you. I just want some life to myself for a week or so." Harry tossed his fringe nervously, trying to gauge Hermione's reaction to what he'd said.

"Okay, that sounds reasonable," said Hermione in her no-nonsense voice.

"Really?" Harry asked. "You're not going to fight me on this or demand to know what I'm doing? You're not going to sic Ron and the other Aurors on my tail, are you?" Harry asked, disbelieving her. She just had such a habit of sticking her nose into Harry's business, he was paranoid that she might find out about Draco.

"Really," Hermione reiterated. "I know that you value your privacy and you don't get much because of the reporters from the Prophet following you around all the time. I will let you have a week to yourself and I promise I won't bug you about it." She adjusted her piles so they were stacked neatly and began to count them, checking off marks on her master list.

While Hermione was double-checking everything, Harry opened a sheaf of papers and the name caught his eye. —Francis McDougall, Bludgeoning— read the police transcript. Harry looked up, confused. He read through the report in silence, growing more and more unnerved.

Apparently McDougall was bludgeoned to death with a leg of his own coffee table. There was no sign of forced entry, the door was bolted from the inside and there were traces of a Severing Charm on the table leg.

"Hermione, how old are these documents?" Harry asked, curious.

Hermione pulled the tie from her bushy hair and shook her head. "Ah, that feels much better. These are unsolved Muggle deaths that took place during the last war. A lot of them may have been committed by the Death Eaters."

"Did you know Francis McDougall was a Muggle?" Harry asked.

Hermione looked at him, confused. "Of course he's a Muggle, Harry. For goodness sake, you just went over to his house the other day, didn't you?"

"No, that's not what I mean," Harry said, on edge. "I mean look at this report here, it says Francis McDougall was killed under suspicious magical circumstances. This happened six years ago, right before I defeated Voldemort."

"You mean to say," Hermione said, gathering her hair up once again and tying it back, "that you don't think the novelist is who he says he is?"

"I know he's not who he says he is," said Harry. "I just thought McDougall was his pen-name."

"Do you know who he really is?" asked Hermione, excitedly. She pulled out her tablet of parchment and quill to begin taking notes.

"Not just yet, Hermione," Harry said, looking over the police report again. "I want to give him a chance to explain himself first."

"Harry," Hermione said, bringing her tablet down on her lap angrily. She blew a stray strand of hair out of her face. "I know you idolise this writer, but if he's somehow involved with the real McDougall's death, it could be dangerous for you to—"

"Hermione. I spent two years in Auror training with Ron. I think I can handle myself. Just—just let me look into this on my own first." Harry folded up the police report, shrunk it down and slipped it into his jeans pocket.

"Harry, you aren't listening to me. This could be a big break for us. Let Ron or one of the other Aurors handle the questioning. You didn't finish training, I think it's a mistake for you to—"

"I'm sleeping with him, Hermione," Harry said sharply.

Hermione dropped her tablet. It thudded to the floor and spilled out like a fan against the concrete. "What?" she asked, aghast.

"You heard. Now let me do this. There has to be an explanation. It could be that he doesn't even know there was another Francis McDougall, and it really could just be a pen-name," Harry pleaded. He stood up and walked to the door.

"How long, Harry?" Hermione asked, her voice quiet and sad.

"How long what?" Harry asked, turning around to face her.

"How long have you fancied blokes? Here I've been foolish enough to think that you might be spending time with me because… but never matter. How long have you known you were gay?"

"Er..." Harry stammered. Had Hermione just admitted that she liked him more than a normal friend? "Well, I guess I'm just bi. I like women just fine, but this guy… It's like I can't help but be drawn to him. It's almost like it's against my will. I'm uh, sorry I never told you." He shuffled his weight from one foot to the next, nervous.

"This is why you wanted a week to yourself then?" asked Hermione. "You want to spend a week with this Muggle writer." She bent down to retrieve her tablet and smooth out the pages.

"Look Hermione, I—"

"Just go, Harry. I can do the rest of this by myself," Hermione said, growing hysterical. "Deal with whatever you want. We'll talk about it later."

"Er—yeah," Harry mumbled. He fetched his small trunk. "Later, 'Mione," he said, and shut the door to the Hall of Records, letting it thud behind him. He packed his trunk under his arm and headed for the Atrium, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

Chapter Mana
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- 6
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Magnetism

Chapter Mana