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The Book of How to Move	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2849 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Book of How to Move
- 1
Title: The Book of How to Move

Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.

Pairing: Harry/Draco (mentions of Ron/Hermione)

Warnings: "Eighth-year" fic, sex, fluff, much merry ignoring of the epilogue. Present tense. Episodic.

Rating: R

Wordcount: 4500

Summary: Flying, fighting, fucking...This is Draco and Harry's book of how to move.

Author's Notes: This is a birthday fic for jtsbbsps_dk, who has left me many long and lovely comments on my fics. Happy birthday, sweetie! This fic uses your prompts of Harry between 17-19 years of age, bottom!Harry, secrecy, powerful!Harry, and someone watching Harry sleep. Thanks to nursedarry for getting the prompts to me.

The Book of How to Move

1. Ascending

            Potter ascends in a sweet, subtle, smooth curve, up and up to the height of the skies, which spread themselves above him with a color that steals Draco's breath. Or maybe that's Potter himself, flying with his head hanging back, his smile on his face--Draco knows it's there, although it's invisible from this distance and this angle--his hands wrapped lightly, so lightly, around the shaft of the broom, as if he could spread them and fly without it, using his fingers like feathers.

            Draco watches Potter, waiting for the moment when he'll level off, because he has to, because there's only so high he can fly before the air starts stinging his lungs.

            But he doesn't, as long as Draco can see. Up he lifts like a lark, flying and flying and flying, and then he vanishes into the blue. Draco closes one hand into a fist and turns his head away.

            "You all right, Draco?"

            That's Gregory, who keeps closer and more silent this year, all the time, really, since the Room of Requirement. Draco gives him a half-smile and nods. "Yeah. Just watching Potter. He'll be even harder to beat if I don't know how he flies."

            That's the lie he gives. Everything about it is a lie, from how he feels to the reason he's watching to the name he uses.

            But he'll have time that evening to cry the right name out, in soft puffs of breath that vanish into the air surrounding them like Harry vanishing into the sky.

2. Swaggering

            Harry can't remember now if he thought that Draco Malfoy swaggered the first time he saw him.

            Then he remembers that the first time he saw Draco, he was standing still being fitted for robes, so it's not like he got the chance to see him swaggering anyway.

            But there's no doubt he does it now, walking through the corridors of Hogwarts with his head in the air, his nose up, tilted back so that it exposes the line of his throat. Harry watches his throat a lot. Ron made an approving noise when he noticed for the first time and patted him on the back.

            "That's the way of it, mate," he said. "Learn exactly where the jugular is, so you can go for it when he turns into a Death Eater."

            Hermione had been close enough to hear Ron say that, and she hadn't been pleased at all. But Harry leaves them to work that out. He's got quite expert at everything to do with that lately, from melting away with a shrug and a smile when they try to use him as a mediator in arguments, to pulling a pillow over his head when Ron's bed makes noises at nights that can't be due to the springs.

            Harry practically has permission, then, to watch Draco swaggering around.

            And yes, he's swaggering. What else, Harry thinks, can you call that roll of his hips, the way he turns his head to look over one shoulder when he thinks someone is watching him, the radiation of his smirk from his face through various other parts of his body? His hands are always in motion or just stopped out of motion: calling attention to his cheekbones, cupping his delicate jaw, spread along the hip that's quivering on the edge of motion itself.

            Harry watches a lot. He has reason to.

            It was a swagger that first carried him and Draco into each other, after all, one evening when Harry was on his way to the kitchens for some food after a busy day of sulking because there'd been another false story in the papers and Draco had been going...somewhere. Draco still doesn't tell him half of what he's up to, and because it doesn't lead to any broken laws or his friends bruised and bleeding that Harry can see, Harry's inclined to let it go.

            Draco hit him hard enough to make him sit down and drop the cloak. Harry spluttered and grabbed for it, but by then, Draco had stepped on the trailing edge and got it away from him. He looked up and saw Draco clutching a handful of what looked like silken grey darkness, staring down at him with big eyes.

            "The rumors are true," Draco murmured, in a voice that teased the edges of Harry's awareness. He tried to remember if it had always done that or only since they came back to Hogwarts to repeat their seventh year, but Draco was continuing, and Harry had to focus on the sense of his words, not the sound of them. "You do still act like a child in spite of being a hero."

            "Oi!" Harry bounced to his feet, reaching out for the cloak. Draco swirled it away from him without thought and without effort. Harry folded his arms across his stomach and exhaled hard, biting his lip to keep down the outrage he wanted to shout. There were patrolling prefects not too far away.

            "Okay, what do you want for it?" he asked, when they'd stood there for several seconds and Draco showed no sign of either returning the cloak or running away to chuckle maniacally about having it.

            "Figure out something for me to want." Draco swaggered forwards a step and leaned against the wall.

            Harry glared at him.

            "Can't be money, I have that," Draco said, beginning to count things off on his fingertips. "Thanks to your interference, by the way, so you've practically given permission not to accept it from you. Can't be freedom for my parents, I have that. Gryffindor is trailing Slytherin in House points at the moment, and we both know that asking you to throw the Quidditch match isn't something you'll do anyway." He smiled at Harry and lifted his hand in one of those gestures that framed his face, as if asking the world how it lived with this handsomeness looking at it every day. "Figure it out, Potter."

            Harry felt his frustration rearing up inside him, scraping its claws against his ribs the way his chest monster had done with Ginny a few years ago.

            Maybe it was that which gave him the idea, or the story in the paper that morning, which had insinuated that the Weasleys were his secret harem of lovers, including the male ones. Maybe it was the simple desire to see some expression on Draco's face other than smugness or the blank fear Harry had seen during most of his trial.

            Either way, he stepped forwards and pressed his lips to Draco's, holding out one hand so that he could catch the cloak when the bastard dropped it.

            Draco choked, which was more or less ideal. His mouth opened, which wasn't, but Harry kept his lips pressed firmly to the outside of his mouth, working around it, now and then tapping his tongue here and there so that he could distract Draco from any thoughts forming in his head. Draco kept making these little gasping sounds, which made Harry want to laugh.

            He pulled back before the impulse could overcome him and he could stick his tongue inside. Then he pulled on the cloak, still caught in Draco's unmoving fingers. It seemed that he became more possessive and clutchy when surprised. That didn't surprise Harry at all, when he thought about it.

            Draco stared at him, eyes crossed and face flushed. Harry tipped him a wink and started to drag the cloak back over his head. Once he darted into the shadows, he defied even someone who'd been staring at him to see the shimmer of the cloak anymore.

            But then Draco moved--he probably swaggered, although Harry wasn't looking directly at him, so he can't swear to that now--and was dragging him close, hands in his shirt and robes, pulling him to a body as firm as a wall. Harry dropped the cloak again, and Draco kicked it away from him instead of picking it up this time.

            "Malfoy, what the hell--"

            And then Draco shut him up with another kiss, one in which his tongue definitely swaggered back and forth across the expanse of Harry's mouth, conquering the palate, soothing the savage tongue, thoughtfully sampling the teeth, and in general dominating the battlefield. Harry was breathless by the time he finished, although all "finished" really meant was that he'd pulled back far enough to let Harry breathe.

            "What--" Harry began again.

            "You figured out what I wanted," Draco said. "So you get the cloak back. Though I'd be amazed if you could think of that right now." And he curved one hand around Harry's hip and one around his face and kissed him again, this time more strongly, more softly, more insistently.

            Harry did remember the cloak, but only in time to fling it over them so they could sneak to another room before someone else came to visit the kitchens and found them there.

            Watching Draco now, as he walks from Potions to Transfiguration with his eyes on the ceiling, leaving his feet to take care of themselves among the peasants, Harry nods. It's a swagger.

            And it means that no one notices the way Draco's eyes move, in a swift dart from the ceiling to Harry, or the way they linger and brighten and burn.

3. Breathing

            "Sorry I'm late--"

            Draco's voice strangles in his throat and stops him. He stands there with one hand on the door of the Room of Requirement, or the small and costly bedroom that it becomes when they're there together, staring.

            Harry is asleep on a couch in the center of the room, his robes flung back and dropped on the floor, along with his shirt and Invisibility Cloak. His back rises and falls with his breathing. His head is cradled on the crooked elbow beneath his cheek, his eyelashes locked in the calmness of sleep.

            Draco closes the door, softly. No one else deserves to see this.

            He doesn't make his way over to Harry for long moments, reveling in the stillness that occupies the air between them, the way that Harry didn't wake up when he came in. When he finally does move, he does it while stripping his own shirt off, aware of the motions his lungs make beneath his hands.

            He reaches Harry and stands there, looking down.

            Harry's back dips between his prominent shoulder blades, sticking up like the wings that Draco imagines him having when he flies. Here and there Draco can see a cut, a bruise from Quidditch, a pimple, a small and miscellaneous mark. He watches them rise and fall, stirred by the way Harry breathes.

            He reaches down and brushes his fingertips gingerly over a scar in the middle of Harry's back. Harry never stirs. The heat of him seeps upwards, and Draco closes his eyes and listens.

            Harry's breathing is pure, smooth, uninterrupted. Draco imagines his lungs flexing in and out, drawing in the air with the strength of youth, releasing it again and grasping the next lungful greedily. Harry's greedy without knowing it, drawing everything in, all those who yearn for the light in him like moths without being aware of what they want.

            And then there's Draco, who does know it and is grateful that he's the one who shares this private, wild specialness with Harry, this love affair that, for the moment, is theirs and theirs alone, because Harry had wanted something private for once.

            His hand flattens out, fingers pressing down in separate places, and Harry wakes. He rolls over and takes Draco's hand between his before Draco can pull it away. His smile is slumberous, satisfied, marvelous.

            "Glad that you're here, finally," he murmurs, and drags him down.

            Draco tries to make an excuse, but his mouth is full of Harry's tongue, and that, just like his lungs, knows how to move.

4. Thrusting

            Draco is beautiful when he fucks.

            Harry's thought that before, but he doesn't get to think it all that often. They can meet, but most of the time, their meetings are brief, long enough for a kiss, a fumble, a squeeze, and that's all. Harry is actually grateful that Ron and Hermione are still busy discovering all the wonders of sex; he knows that he wouldn't be able to get away even once a week if not for those private "study sessions."

            He wonders for a moment if Hermione thinks he's still ignorant of the real meaning of those words. Then he lets the thought go, because why would he want to concentrate on his friends when he’s having sex with Draco?

            Draco shifts above him, head tossing back the way it does when he swaggers through the corridors. Harry's on the bed that they usually conjure up in the Room of Requirement, his legs splayed out to either side, his muscles already loose with his first orgasm of the evening, and Draco is between his thighs, kneeling as he thrusts.

            His hair sways. His chest billows in and out with each breath. His eyes fix on Harry, shining grey and white and blue in the corona of the fire, like the edges of waves. He is gold and white on the chest, silver in the face, and alive everywhere else.

            "Good?" he murmurs, in a voice that has a motion Harry knows no one else would ever notice--a tremor. He smiles and wraps his legs around Draco's hips, shifting up so that Draco can feel his hardening cock rubbing against both their bellies.

            "Does this feel like bad?"

            Draco smiles at him, a brilliant smile like the trailing of a comet, and thrusts again. Harry grunts happily, letting himself focus on that for a moment. The thrusts are most powerful inside him, of course, but they would mean nothing if they weren't coming from Draco's body.

            He does let his head fall back and his eyes close as Draco continues to fuck him, now and then muttering something he would probably be embarrassed to let Harry hear. Draco's hands smooth across his stomach and his chest, try to play with his nipples, and then can't make the distance or keep up the coordination, and fall away. His arse flexes, and Harry moans quietly in appreciation.

            But his hips are the seat of all that power, all that motion, and they finally relax, start, stutter, jerk, and then stop. Harry sighs aloud, opening his eyes in time to see the pleasure sweep across Draco's face, bright as his smile.

            Draco's hand is in motion before Harry can think of requesting anything, tightening around his cock and rubbing the tiniest bit with his thumb near the head. Harry sails blissfully over the edge, tight and shuddering and then loose and silken again, groaning with the warmth.

            He doesn't have to feel empty, though. Draco stays inside him as he shifts to the side, rubbing at his throat and then tickling it with his stubble, thrusting lazily now so that he can roll them both over.

            Harry exhales, and feels all his troubles flowing out of him: the Potions essay he hasn't written yet, the suspicious way Hermione had looked at the bruise Draco had left on his neck, the reminder that he'll have to leave Draco again in a few hours. He sails over the edge of sleep as he'd sailed over the edge of orgasm, and Draco hums over and within and around him, gentle, sated, still moving in dreams.

5. Falling

            It happens in the middle of a Quidditch match, of course. Because where else would both of them be on brooms at the same time, surrounded by friends who are convinced they still hate each other?

            Draco's circling, eyes locked on the cloud that he saw the Snitch dart behind just a minute ago. He's not actually watching Harry. After several months together now, he can feel him with his body, feel it when Harry turns in a different direction or when he's recovering from a difficult maneuver or when Harry's looking at him.

            Especially that last.

            The Snitch moves into view, drifting lazily again, acting for all the world like a child trying to sneak away from a family party. Draco bends down across his broom and tenses, not alerting anyone yet. He will move when it does, and cut across its path, and put his hand out. He can already feel the solid smack of the ball against his palm, complemented by the frantic fluttering of the tiny wings.

            Then his awareness of Harry changes, and Draco whips to the side, half-trying to watch the Snitch from the corner of one eye still, but much more focused on what in the world is happening to Harry.

            A Bludger is at fault. A Bludger has hit Harry, that's what. And from the limp way he dangles from his broom, Draco knows he's unconscious. They're shouting across the field, starting towards him, and some of them are close enough that they might be able to stop him from tumbling to the ground in time.

            But might isn't good enough.

            Draco unleashes the coiled speed waiting in his belly and thighs, but he isn't aiming for the Snitch this time. He dives after Harry, who falls as gracefully as he flies, his hands still locked around the shaft of his broom. Draco notes that and hopes that he doesn't have to break them to get Harry free. But he will, before he lets Harry die.

            He will do anything, before he lets Harry die.

            The broom begins to spin, end-over-end. The trailing bristles hit Weasley as he races up beside Harry and knock him away. Draco doesn't look around, but he assumes that someone catches the plonker before he hits the ground. Good. Harry would be devastated if he lost him. Draco's already had to listen to more than enough whinging about how Harry had thought he lost him on the Horcrux hunt.

            Harry is right beneath him. Draco spreads his arms and swings out from the broom, aiming sideways and down while he spins his broom expertly, bringing it around in a corkscrew pattern.

            Harry's broom hits him under the jaw. Draco grunts in pain and shifts so that it will fall past him. But he has Harry, whose hands have loosened from the impact, and Draco gathers him close and flattens himself to the broom again, this time upside-down. Sky and earth flip places so rapidly he doesn't have a chance to lose his lunch.

            He keeps his eyes locked on Harry's pale face and the bruise blooming at his temple, and that helps, too.

            He straightens, and they're swooping around in a long circle with what he thinks at first is an ocean roaring in their ears. Then he realizes that everyone in the stands is shrieking themselves hoarse, and only some of it sounds like relief. He rolls his eyes. Of course there will be people on either side of the divide who think he should have let Harry fall rather than touch him.

            He glances down and sees Madam Hooch bending over Weasley. He swoops down, detachedly admiring the line of his flight, and then makes sure that his feet touch ground first, so that he can cradle Harry from that particular impact, too.

            "Mr. Malfoy!"

            There's McGonagall, storming towards him as though she thinks he's the one responsible for hurling the Bludger. Draco steps away from Harry, his hands harmlessly high. He has more important things to do than claim credit for the rescue that they can't deny him, anyway, since it happened in front of several thousand eyes.

            He's looking at Harry, and he sees his chest rise and fall with his breathing. He nearly drops to the ground to rest beside him.

            "Mr. Malfoy." McGonagall is there now, and Draco looks up, prepared for a scolding. He isn't prepared to see her looking at him as though he's made the sun rise again.

            "Thank you," McGonagall says quietly, tightening her hand on his shoulder for an instant before turning away.

            Draco nods, though he doesn't think she sees it, and lets his hand rest on Harry's wrist, feeling the motion of his pulse, until they carry him away to the infirmary.

6. Flying

            "All those years of Quidditch games, and you wait to be knocked unconscious until our first game after we started dating. Admit it, you wanted to worry me."

            Harry grins at Draco over his shoulder as he leads him towards the Quidditch pitch. Draco's face is still pale, and he looks at the ground in front of Harry's feet as though a stone will leap up and trip him.

            He's been that way since Harry's fall. Harry doesn't really know why, since Draco saved him and he only spent a few days in the hospital wing for a concussion. He's had so much worse. Hell, he died to save everyone from Voldemort, and he did it here, too. Well, not here exactly, a little farther into the Forbidden Forest, but still. Hogwarts. And Hogwarts hadn't exactly been a safe haven for him even before that.

            But for Draco, it's probably different, Harry has to acknowledge. At the very least, he didn't care about Harry the same way when all the other accidents happened, so he doesn't have the experience of waiting for him to recover with the same breathless intensity.

            Well. Enough of that. Harry's brought Draco here tonight to cure the feeling.

            And if Draco wants to think that they'll do it by going up on brooms and showing him that Harry can still fly, he can go on thinking that for now.

            "I always want to get you bothered over me, oh yeah," Harry says, and lowers his voice deliberately to watch Draco twitch. Draco attempts to suppress it, but it's there, in the darkening of his eyes and the lines around his mouth that suddenly writhe to life.

            Harry turns around to face him in the center of the pitch. Draco looks at him with a raised eyebrow, then looks around. He's already almost mastered the reaction that Harry roused in him a moment ago. "Where are the brooms? You usually need them to fly."

            "Usually," Harry says, and, closing his eyes, quietly repeats the spell he's been studying since he realized the way Draco stares at him now.

            Ascensio imaginaria. Ascensio imaginaria. Ascensio imaginaria.

            The spell pulls out of him like an unrolling spool of thread, and Harry feels his bones shudder and grow lighter, hollow. When he opens his eyes, he sees Draco through a veil of gauzy blue--the wings of light that have sprung from the hollows of his shoulder blades. They fold back as he thinks about it, and then straighten behind him, spreading out until the night is filled with a dazzle of dim moonlight. Harry lifts and extends his hands.

            Draco's pupils are blown. Harry's magic always does that to him, and he always denies it, until it gets to the point where his mouth is too busy to deny it. He steps forwards, hands reaching out in response, and Harry draws him close, looping him hard with one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders.

            He thinks about flight.

            The wings flex and beat, once, and hurl them up into the domes of the sky.

            Harry laughs, turning past stars and globes of light, the visions that he knows the spell will bring him. Draco kisses him, tilting back his head the way he does when he swaggers, but this time it's to get a better hold and grip on Harry. Harry turns them sideways and kisses right back.

            The world rings around them, singing with the echo of the wings. Borne and carried on magic, Harry experiences a momentary qualm: all this wonder, and their main thought is getting off?

            But Draco's leg slips between his, and he's reminded that it's a very good thought.

            After a bit of jostling, they find a rhythm, while the wings carry them up and down and around in ellipses like the orbits of a planet. Draco's leg is locked between Harry's, and Harry rubs himself off against it. Draco sometimes humps his own thigh, sometimes Harry's. The sky opens and closes between and behind them, and Harry laughs now and then--though the sound is usually devoured immediately by Draco's mouth--because his magic is the thing doing this, the thing lifting them from the earth, the thing giving Draco so much pleasure.

            His cock swells. He feels the wet patch gathering. He watches the sky swing around them, black and silver and, this high, still blue with the remnants of sunset.

            He watches Draco's eyes widen and close, his head droop, his chest stutter with his breath, his hips move in lazy thrusts. He comes, and Harry drinks in his cry of pleasure, winding his fingers into Draco's shirt to secure another grip as he shakes himself apart.

            Then Harry comes, and the wings vanish for a few seconds as the orgasm roars through him.

            They fall, the stars splintering around them, but Harry calls up the wings again, and the fall becomes a gentle spin. Draco is still swearing when Harry sets them back on the ground. On the other hand, he doesn't move away, and that's an excellent sign. He leans his head on Harry's shoulder and sighs into his ear instead.

            "There," Harry whispers, and stops imagining the wings, the key to this spell, so that they vanish completely. "That worth it?"

            Draco lifts his head and stares into his eyes. Then he kisses him, and knocks Harry to the ground with the force of the kiss.

            Harry has imagined, sometimes, dancing with Draco. He has wondered if he'll have the courage--or the desire--to invite him to another Yule Ball if the school has one this year. McGonagall has threatened something similar for the night they leave Hogwarts, at least.

            But here and now, with Draco above him, moving between his legs, casting Cleaning Charms with one hand while reaching for the buckle of Harry's belt with the other...

            Harry smiles and gives himself up to all the sweetness of motion.

            The End.
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The Book of How to Move