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The House That Lovers Built	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 14853 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

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Chapter Eight—Sometimes

            “Tonight?”

            Malfoy was breathing it into his ear, his hands wrapped around Harry’s waist, his leg slung over his hips when they got into bed. Harry honestly hadn’t been thinking about it; he’d been thinking about the tear that had appeared in his robe for some reason, and whether that was a hopeful sign. It might mean that the house was getting sick of them or sick of tending to them and wanted to let them go.

            But then Malfoy was there, and his erection was there, and Harry rolled his head over and kissed him and said, “Yeah. But let me be in control this time.”

            Immediately Malfoy’s eyebrows bristled and he retreated to the far side of the bed, which still only meant a few finger-lengths separated them, his body coiled as if he was a snake about to strike. “If you found it distasteful, you could have asked me to stop,” he said, and even his voice was a hiss. “I don’t fuck the unwilling.”

            Harry shook his head. Well, he knew how to talk to snakes, didn’t he? “Not that,” he said. “I just want to do what you did last night. It looked—it looked like it felt good.” He reached out and traced the curve of Malfoy’s hip.

            Malfoy immediately smirked. “It did. But that means that you should do all of what I did last night, Potter.” He parted his lips and licked at the air as if he was tasting Harry’s cock all over again.

            Harry rolled his eyes. “Only you would try to negotiate with someone in bed, Malfoy.”

            “There speaks a virgin.”

            Harry was tired of arguing about that, too. He settled the issue by pulling Malfoy back, rolling him over, and kissing him soundly, then reaching down and pushing aside the folds of the robe Malfoy had worn to bed so he could reach his cock. No point in being a coward if he had already decided to do it.

            Malfoy almost stopped breathing when Harry took his cock in hand, and Harry smiled at him and bent his head down so that he could lick the tip. It didn’t taste as bad as he’d been fearing, or maybe Malfoy tasted better than Harry did. Always a possibility, Harry thought, and lay down fully so that he could really get his mouth to work.

            Not so horrible, not so hard. Harry had to stop and keep breathing, had to keep his teeth back and listen to Malfoy’s sarcastic comments about his inexperience, and had to remind himself that he would probably choke when Malfoy came and that was okay, but in some ways, he liked it.

            Especially the way that Malfoy kept writhing and parting his legs and giving these little whines in the back of his throat that he would undoubtedly deny if Harry asked him about them, and they sounded like the snores Harry had sometimes woken in the night to hear. This was powerful, and it gave him something to tease Malfoy about later, if Malfoy insisted on teasing him. Harry sucked and hummed and pulled, and Malfoy gave it up with a shake of his head and a flex of his hips.

            Harry didn’t manage to swallow all of it, either, but even when he choked, Malfoy continued to look at him as if his face was a revelation, so Harry didn’t think he had done too poorly. He leaned back and looked Malfoy in the eyes, waiting. The throb from his groin was distant, and he really thought that he could wait hours, until Malfoy yielded and admitted that that had been at least okay.

            “Brilliant.”

            Harry blinked in surprise, both at how fast the word had come and how the sound of it made his cheeks and chest sting, and then didn’t have any more time to say anything, because Malfoy had yanked Harry on top of him and was kissing him, hard, cutting Harry’s lips with his teeth and stabbing his tongue into Harry’s throat, which was still sore. Harry wrestled back, narrowing the kiss down to what he could comfortably handle, but he couldn’t withdraw; Malfoy’s grasping hands were still there, and he held Harry, and he wrestled with him, and his touch was worshipful and his eyes huge and gaping. Harry finally found himself in the position he’d wanted to be, seated upright between Malfoy’s legs, their groins aligned, and Malfoy was the one who rocked back and forth to start the rubbing before Harry got his wits back and took over.

            And Malfoy was right. It felt good. It felt brilliant.

            Malfoy’s slick skin and limp cock kept bumping up against Harry in ways that he’d never thought of before, but which made him hunch and hump and thrust back in desperation. He never wanted it to stop. He didn’t think it would be as good with anyone else. Malfoy had to give this to him.

            He’d never wanted anything so much, and the skin-hunger increased until he was scratching at Malfoy’s chest and twisting his nipples and leaning over to kiss him, the way Malfoy had done to him when he was on top. He felt the swell of his orgasm beginning, and was almost sorry. He wanted to go on doing this.

            He couldn’t. He came, and enjoyed himself, shuddering and aching and groaning aloud, but knelt there shaking his head and still wishing that the rocking could have continued.

            He opened his eyes, and Malfoy was kissing him. Malfoy rolled until they were lying side-by-side, and continued kissing him, playing with Harry’s hair and moving his tongue lazily from place to place in Harry’s mouth.

            Harry never knew when he fell out of the kiss and into sleep.

*

            The next morning, there was no way Harry could get up early, because Malfoy was on top of him in a snoring cascade of weight, and the moment he shifted, Malfoy woke. He didn’t say anything, though. He just looked at Harry and stroked his hair, touched his chin, touched his eyelids, as if he was considering all the different parts of Harry and the way that they might work or not work.

            Harry would have been better off with insults, he thought. He knew that the warmth and light in Malfoy’s eyes came from desire—because what other reason would Malfoy have to look at him that way?—but the continual gaze straight at him felt dangerous.

            “Let’s go take a shower,” Harry said, when he found his own hands straying to Malfoy’s face and back and he knew that they would probably only lie here touching each other forever if this continued.

            Malfoy smiled, but still didn’t speak, and didn’t smirk. He rose with his hand held out, and waited until Harry accepted it and stood. Harry could have pointed out that the bed was sinking under him and softening, and he probably couldn’t have risen without Malfoy’s help, but he didn’t want to. Malfoy would do something to the words, he would destroy them with his silence, and Harry still wasn’t in the mood to let him win.

            Hasn’t he already? Harry had to wonder when Malfoy pulled off the robe that Harry had worn into the bathroom and dropped it on the floor, and Harry let him.

            He led Harry into the bathroom and started the water, letting Harry step into the shower before him. Harry reached out, meaning to be business-like, and picked up the shampoo that he knew Malfoy preferred.

            Malfoy made a small sound. Harry turned around, wondering what new mischief the house had come up with now.

            He discovered that Malfoy stood there with his eyes fastened on the bottle of shampoo. When they rose to Harry’s face, they burned with the same kind of brightness and warmth that Harry had thought was dangerous in the bedroom.

            He…likes it that I picked it up?

            No, Harry answered himself as Malfoy pinned him against the wall of the shower and kissed him. He likes it that I remembered.

*

            At least Malfoy spoke at breakfast, which meant he didn’t intend to preserve that creepy silence all day long. “When are you going to send a Patronus to your friends and reassure them that they don’t need to destroy the whole dimension the house is in to find us?” he asked.

            Harry started. “Shit.” He’d honestly forgotten about it. It had washed out of his mind, and the past few days in the house had made him—not think about it.

            He shook his head and drew his wand. The silver swirl of his stag had scarcely started to form in the air (and it came very fast this time, for reasons that Harry didn’t want to think about) when Malfoy reached out and clasped Harry’s wrist, pressing down with his fingers on tendon and bone until Harry winced.

            “I didn’t mean that you should do it right now,” Malfoy said quietly. “I don’t think the house would approve, anyway.”

            Harry blinked at him, then looked back at the bowl of fruit and bread that the house had set out in front of them this morning, without forks, because it doubtless meant them to feed each other with their fingers. Yes, it was smaller than before, and some of the grapes had started to turn into clusters of purple mist.

            “What now?” Harry muttered, withdrawing his concentration from the spell and letting it disperse into nothing. “Is it that offended that we’re talking about leaving, even though we’ve been talking about leaving all along?”

            “It’s that offended that you aren’t focusing on me,” Malfoy said, and leaned across the table with a strawberry between his fingers, and touched Harry on the forehead with his free hand, fingers sliding across the scar.

            And that pretty much ensured Harry couldn’t focus on anything else for the duration of the breakfast. He had to lean in to Malfoy and bow his head as he listened, and laugh in spite of himself when Malfoy imitated some of the Aurors who had gawked at him during the failed raid, and answer questions that Malfoy was asking about his Patronus and how he had mastered it so easily. It was the most pleasant conversation they’d ever had.

            It was one of the most pleasant conversations Harry had ever had.

            He shuddered when he thought about that, when he realized that he was looking at the scars on Malfoy’s chest—he still hadn’t put on a shirt—and wondering what they would feel like if he reached out and carefully slid a nail down them, and at Malfoy’s hair and wondering what it looked like when he was in the lab after a long day of brewing.

            He was in trouble. He could only hope that a lot of it came from being confined in the house together, and would wear off when they got outside.

            If they ever did.

*

            The stupid feelings didn’t stop in the lab, either. There, Harry found himself watching from the corner of his eye as Malfoy’s fingers flashed between the knives and chopped leaves with skill and precision. Harry knew he would never match that skill, or the precision, either.

            “Keep your eyes on your own work, Potter.” But Malfoy’s mouth curved up when he said it, and he only gently pushed Harry’s hands back into work on the stirring rods for the small cups of thick milkweed extract that Harry was mixing up today.

            Harry snorted weakly and turned back to his work without bothering to come up with a retort. Personally, he was amazed that Malfoy had decided to trust him with something so complicated, and he concentrated hard, blinking when drops of the extract sprang up and hit him in the face.

            “You’re doing fine.”

            That was Malfoy from the side, and Harry relaxed more than he had known was possible when he was around Potions. Instead of flinging the small bowls away and yelling, which he knew he would have done if he was with Snape or most of the Potions masters in the Ministry who had tried to tutor him, he slowed down and learned to stir so that no more drops would come flying out.

            By noon, Malfoy announced that they were comfortably past the preliminary steps for the potion, and the main brewing was all that remained. Harry handed him the bowls of milkweed and watched as Malfoy stirred them into the potion, with the same soft and slender movements of his hands that he used to cut.

            “What exactly does the potion do?” Harry asked. He had only known that it would let them escape, up to this point, and not questioned Malfoy about the theory or the effects. Which was a weird, deep kind of trust, when he thought about it.

            “It convinces the house that we aren’t here anymore.” Malfoy flicked his hair out of his eyes and watched Harry with a smile that came more from the edges of his face than his mouth, which only moved to speak his words. “That it should reconnect to the outside world, because there’s no one to keep prisoner.”

            Harry shivered a little. “And you’re sure that the house won’t just fade and take us with it?” It sounded like a gamble to him, even if Malfoy had invented the potion that produced the house in the first place.

            Malfoy reached out and grazed his fingers down the middle of Harry’s chest, while his other hand kept moving steadily, stirring in the milkweed. Harry wondered where he had learned to do that, and then cut off that thought when it began to move in distracting directions.

            “I know it won’t,” Malfoy said. “It’s to do with the potion that produced it, and the way that that potion embraced both of us. If I was here by myself, then the house would open the door the moment I felt safe. But with both of us, it’s more complicated. As your little stint in the meditation room showed us.”

            Harry winced. “Yeah, yeah, I failed at that. You don’t have to rub it in.”

            Malfoy’s laughter was as warm and thick as the steam now rising from the cauldron. “It’s not your failures that I’m interested in rubbing in.” His hand on Harry’s chest grew heavier, and he released the stirring rod he’d used to mash the milkweed in with a flourish. “We have time, you know, before I have to begin the next stage of the potion.”

            “Time for what?” Harry asked, but he knew the answer before Malfoy leaned across the table and kissed him.

            Harry lost himself in the kiss for longer than he wanted to, the weight of Malfoy’s tongue and the way it could dart and change direction more rapidly than he would have believed, the clamp of his hands on Harry’s shoulders that grew more insistent—

            And then the heat on his elbow from the cauldron.

            Harry pulled back, gasping and shaking his head. “I—I don’t think we should do this here,” he said, looking at the cauldron, because looking at Malfoy took more courage than he had right now. “If we knock the potion over, then we’re right back at having no option to escape the house again.”

            “You want to leave the house,” Malfoy said, stepping back from him. Harry found it hard to read his face or his voice, but Malfoy’s jaw was set like stone as he began to unbutton his shirt. “You want to abandon me here.”

            “I don’t mean that, you ridiculous wanker,” Harry said, shutting his eyes and raking his fingers through his hair until it turned into the offended, ruffled clumps of a pine tree battered by wind. This was good. Through the insides of his eyelids, he couldn’t see Malfoy, though he was sure that telling him that would result in Malfoy inventing a potion to cure it. “I mean that—this potion is the only sure means we have of getting away, and it doesn’t matter how much I’m enjoying the sex, I don’t want to be trapped here for the rest of my life.”

            There was the wave of a wand and a few whispered incantations. When nothing happened to knock Harry from his feet and ravish him, however, he opened his eyes cautiously.

            A shimmering shield arched around the cauldron, protecting it in every direction but from the bottom, so that the fire could still heat the inside. The floor of the lab had also become a mess of blankets and sheets, and a mattress so thick that Harry shuddered at the sight of it before he could stop himself. It looked better, tamer, than the bed upstairs, which kept changing size and shape at the house’s whim.

            “Stop arguing, and come here,” Malfoy ordered softly, and had stripped himself more than half-naked when Harry looked up. He was working on his pants.

            Harry shut his eyes and took off his clothes, because his desire was stronger than the silent arguments inside his head that things would only get more complicated if they did this.

            Malfoy dropped onto the mattress with a plumping sound and beckoned Harry to join him. His hands and lips were strong and hot, drawing Harry down and into him more effectively than the mattress itself could have done. Harry kissed him helplessly, bowing his head, mouthing at Malfoy’s hair, wondering with half his brain if the house could have done this to them by itself.

            Malfoy’s hands tightened as if he’d heard the thought and found it insulting, and then he rolled Harry beneath him and spread his knees with one leg. His eyes shone, and his hair swirled around him like the ends of flames. His breath panted in and out of his lungs as he rested his hand above Harry’s heart.

            “Let me do what I’ve always wanted to do,” he said.

            Harry snorted and shook his head. “And what would that be?” His throat was too dry from longing, making his voice sound strange. He licked his lips, cleared his throat, and tried again. “You know a lot more about this than I do. You’re the one who fucks men.”

            Malfoy just grinned. Either Harry hadn’t managed to insult him or he didn’t consider it an insult. “And that’s what I want.”

            “To fuck me,” Harry said. He thought about it, while his blood rushed through his veins and to the surface of his skin. He was sure that he probably looked like a cooked lobster to Malfoy, and wondered why Malfoy would find that attractive.

            Then again, someone should ask him why he wanted to sleep with Malfoy, when he’d been so frantic not to before. Harry didn’t want to ask questions right now. He wanted to take hold of what Malfoy was offering him—if he only had the courage to grasp it.

            He looked up, and let his questions wither away in the heat crackling between them. “All right,” he said, and spread his legs of his own free will.

            Malfoy nearly fell over, staring at him.

            “Is the house going to provide lube, too?” Harry asked, staring at the table beside the mattress, where he thought it might have appeared. “Or do you brew your own?”

            Malfoy staggered up and over to the shelf where he had put some of the ingredients back. Harry watched him snatch up a little cauldron of what smelled like flowers, and then saw the way his legs trembled and shut his own open mouth.

            Malfoy slid to a kneeling position beside Harry, his eyes so intense that Harry squirmed. Malfoy’s fingers dipped into the cauldron, and then shot out and matched Harry’s squirming pace, inside his arse. Harry groan-squeaked.

            “You should hear yourself,” Malfoy whispered. He didn’t look up from Harry’s arse, which was apparently the subject of so much rapt contemplation that maybe this was the thing he’d wanted for years.

            “I can,” Harry said, and then clamped his mouth shut, determined not to make another sound.

            Malfoy glanced up and lit his tongue spill out from his mouth in what looked like a savage pant. “Not the way I can,” he said. “Or you wouldn’t look that way about it.”

            And his fingers dug in, and dipped, and scraped, and Harry reckoned that it was all right to make a few other noises. Noises that Malfoy squeezed out of him, the way he was digging, but that was all right. Harry’s head rocked back and forth, and he held on. He was clutching the sides of the mattress, but that was all right, too. He had to grab something, and Malfoy’s hair wasn’t available.

            Malfoy bent down, his neck turning so far Harry thought he would snap it, and opened his mouth. Somehow, his tongue found Harry’s cock. That made the heat come back, and weakened Harry’s hands, so they fell open and he floated in the middle of the pile of softness as though drowning.

            “Turn over,” Malfoy whispered.

            Harry nodded—maybe that would give him his body back again, make him feel less like this, if he couldn’t see Malfoy’s face—and turned and sprawled and clawed his way into position. Malfoy’s fingers never left his body, twisting now as though Malfoy had lost control of them. Harry tossed his head back and clenched his eyes, locking his teeth on his lip. Some noises were all right, but not the one he felt building in him now.

            Malfoy’s fingers pressed deeper, and a third joined them, and Harry lost the battle.

            “Yes, give it to me,” Malfoy whispered, and before Harry could snap back that that sounded like something he should say to Malfoy instead of the other way around—at least if Malfoy was honestly any good—he was pulling back, and Harry had only a moment to brace himself before Malfoy pushed into him.

            It itched and burned. Harry made another noise, and Malfoy kept pushing in. Harry bowed his head and locked his hands on the edges of the mattress again. He thought Malfoy would keep thrusting and drag him forwards, but he would fight back the only way he could, since he had been mad enough to let Malfoy into his body.

            Instead, Malfoy paused, and panted into Harry’s ear. Harry turned his head away, wondering what the house would think of that, and deciding that he didn’t fucking care. He hurt right now.

            “So good,” Malfoy told him. “Get on your knees, though, Harry. All the way beneath you, not like this.” He tugged at the sides of Harry’s arse, at his hips, as if he could force him up that way, when his weight was part of the forces holding Harry down.

            Harry snarled and refused to move. When Malfoy kept pulling, he finally said, “Get bent, Malfoy. Take what you want and get out.”

            Malfoy paused. Long moments passed in rocking stillness—rocking because Malfoy was still thrusting, unable to control his hips. Harry lowered his head and shut his eyes and told himself that desire wasn’t a good reason to do things after all.

            Then Malfoy whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it hurt that much,” and kissed his ear, and the back of his neck, and reached around the edge of Harry’s hip for his cock.

            Harry surged upright at the touch of Malfoy’s hand. Incredible, that his stupid, sick body still wanted this. Maybe it was good, though. He would let Malfoy fuck him, and they would get the fuck out of here, and then Harry could find someone to fuck that would teach him how good it could be and make him forget all about this.

            “Fast and hard is the way to do it,” Malfoy whispered, and thrust again.

            The pace was so brutal that it jarred Harry’s bones and jaw. He felt Malfoy’s fingers curling and rubbing on his cock, and the cock inside him moving constantly, and he whined, caught between two kinds of sensation so sharp that he didn’t know whether he was hurting or feeling good at any particular moment—

            Then Malfoy hit something inside him, and Harry would have melted back into the mattress again if he hadn’t locked his knees. Malfoy kissed his ear again and hit it, and hit it, and hit it.

            “Yes,” Harry said, the word ripped from him in spite of himself. “Shit, fuck me.”

            “That’s what I like to hear,” Malfoy said, and went to work before Harry could find the breath to tell him that he was still a bastard.

            Malfoy never stopped, never paused, always thrust. Or at least it felt like that, and at the moment, Harry wasn’t inclined to quarrel with what he was feeling. Sensation ripped and roared and spiraled through him, from his belly up to his chest, linking his ears to his elbows, his jaw to his cock. He gave out sharp noises that he didn’t have a name for, and Malfoy whispered to encourage every one of them.

            The orgasm consumed him completely, and Harry lay limp after it was over, his body still resonating with pleasure, and thought, So that’s why it can be good when someone’s inside you.

            Malfoy didn’t seem to mind that Harry was lying flat now, even though his hand was trapped under him. He just collapsed forwards and kept his hand in the same place and used his hips harder than ever. Harry could hear him wheezing, feel the sweat dripping on his back from above. He did the only thing he could, and lay down on Malfoy’s hand more heavily.

            A groan, a shake, and Malfoy was done. Harry reckoned he looked a right mess, that both of them did, because Malfoy was lying on him still sweating and shaking as though someone had tried to poison him.

            Pleasure can be a poison, in its own way.

            Because of that, and because Harry’s Auror training had taught him to be sympathetic to people who were recovering from physical wounds, Harry waited until Malfoy had slid off him and was lying on the mattress in a tangle of exhausted limbs. When Harry fought his way up onto his elbows and glanced over at him, Malfoy’s lips were parted and shone with a sticky sheen. His hair clung to his cheeks. Harry’s chest still ached even when he looked like that, though.

            This is stupid.

            Harry shook Malfoy harder than he’d meant to on the heels of that thought. Malfoy’s eyes opened, but he didn’t turn his head. He seemed too exhausted even for that.

            Harry sighed. “Look, Malfoy, I think we ought to stay and sleep here for a while. The lab doesn’t seem to think that it ought to alter the size of the blankets, not like the bed upstairs.”

            “Very good idea,” Malfoy whispered, rolling his neck towards Harry this time. “And not only because I don’t think I could move.” He began to grin as Harry watched him. “I can’t believe how good you were.”

            “Yeah, it was pretty good,” Harry said, thinking about the potion and how he didn’t want to hurt Malfoy’s feelings and how many different things would have to change the minute they were out of this stupid house.

            Malfoy gave a grumble that mixed a lot of different words into it and rolled over, his arm slinging over Harry’s back. Harry didn’t let that stand, but rolled and rocked Malfoy back and forth until they were in a position that was comfortable for both of them. Malfoy was snoring softly by then, and Harry thought that he could have got up and walked out of the lab and Malfoy would never have heard him.

            Or maybe not, he had to admit, when Malfoy’s hands tightened on Harry the instant he shifted to the side.

            Harry reckoned it was all right to close his eyes for a little while and doze, since they were so tired and limp and sated. Just for a moment.

*

            delia cerrano: Even if Harry was being more open, the house would probably confuse matters.

            SP777: Oh, but there are stories around with music! Where they’re in bands and so on. I think they’re mostly AUs, though.

            Unneeded: Draco is enjoying the sex more, but that’s partially because Harry is confused by his own virginity and doesn’t really know if sex would feel good all the time or if this is a unique circumstance. But simply being decadent isn’t going to persuade the house to let them out, either.

            NeuroticNeko: Thanks for reviewing.
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The House That Lovers Built