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Quite the Education	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2920 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Quite the Education
- 1
Title: Quite an Education
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Content Notes: Voyeurism, exhibitionism, object insertion, some humiliation
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5200
Summary: Draco knew that Potter had promised him something that would go beyond anything else they’d done together. He just wonders, as the moment gets closer and closer for Potter’s surprise to spring, if he should regret agreeing.
Author’s Notes: This is the sixth (and last) story in my Eighth-Year Professors series, and comes after “Kinesthetic Learners,” “Lessons Returned,” “Speaking Lessons,” “Teacher by Example,” and “Schooled.” It would be best to read all those stories first, so as to be familiar with the characters and situations.
And thanks for waiting and asking for this story, everyone. I know you waited a long time.
Quite the Education
Draco could feel the eyes on him.
No one else could. No one knew for certain—although Potter’s friends might suspect—that it was Draco who had caused Potter’s little demonstration in the Great Hall the other day. They could stare and mutter darkly among themselves, but that wasn’t the same as confronting Draco about it and demanding an explanation.
The eyes were Potter’s alone.
His friends surrounded and crowded him everywhere he went, either demanding to know why he’d come in front of everyone in the Great Hall the other day or maybe attempting to protect him from whatever evil outside influence was responsible for those public orgasms. Draco didn’t know which. He didn’t care which. He only cared that their guardianship wasn’t strict enough to stop Potter’s eyes from finding him.
Draco could feel Potter’s gaze burning on the back of his neck when they walked along the corridors between classes and Draco was ahead of him. He could feel Potter looking at him during meals in the Great Hall, never steadily, because that would probably attract attention, but with little darts of burning glances like being scattered with leaping embers. He could feel Potter’s eyes when they were outside during Quidditch practice or because one of them had wanted to seek the fresh air at night.
All of that told Draco that it wasn’t over, even more clearly than their conversation in the hospital wing had.
And he agreed silently, as he had agreed then. He made no attempt to resist or hide. He could have. All he would have had to do was tell their professors that he and Potter were playing a game of revenge that had got out of hand, and they would have intervened to protect him, he knew. Professor McGonagall in particular had made several loud references to “rivalries with no purpose” and “childish conflicts that should have been set aside after the war.”
Potter’s friends didn’t confront Draco, either, and Draco knew they probably wanted to. Which meant Potter had held them back, just as he had held back from spinning a tale to the professors that could have made him look good.
Instead, they orbited each other in a silent, private game, waiting for the moment when the promised culmination would come.
When the game, Draco knew without a doubt, even though he didn’t know what Potter would do exactly yet, would cease to be either silent or private.
And when Draco, at the very least, would come.
*
“I don’t know, right now, if it would be more fun to tell you what I plan or leave you to guess.”
Draco closed his eyes. The words rolled over the back of his neck and slid into the small hair there, which stood straight up. A second later, it did the same thing under the touch of the slow hand that slid down his nape until it reached the join with his shoulders.
“You have no idea how wonderful you look right now.”
Draco let himself slump backwards, until he was resting with his head dangling on Potter’s own shoulder. Potter pushed Draco’s hair away from the side of his neck and leaned in, reminding Draco of some of the vampire games he had played when he was a child.
But none of his playmates had ever made his skin sweat like this, or stand straight up, yearning for the bite he was sure would come.
“I still don’t know the answer to my question, though,” Potter whispered, a second later. “I think you’re the one who’s going to have to tell me.”
Draco made an attempt to pull his thundering pulse back under control, and swallowed. Potter caught his breath.
The thrill of the pleasure turned sharper, slicing. Before, Draco had been more than half afraid of what Potter was going to do to him, fearing as much as he craved the pleasure. But now, he knew that he could affect Potter the same way.
This was going to end, but only in the way a phoenix ended.
Draco put up one hand and clenched it around Potter’s. “I want to know,” he said. “I just don’t want to be able to stop it.”
Potter simply quit breathing this time. Then he grabbed Draco and practically flung him into the wall of the little corridor of the dungeons where Draco had stopped him on his way back from detention. Draco let his head dangle and droop on the stone this time, and only opened his eyes languidly when Potter hissed a command to do so.
Potter stood there and stared at him. His eyes shone in the faint light of his Lumos Charm like the eyes of a predator. Draco remembered Fenrir Greyback lying by the fire and looking like that.
But his desire transformed even that monstrous memory into one that ached and sparked, instead of frightened. He reached up and placed a hand on Potter’s shoulder.
“That’s good, then,” Potter said, and Draco knew what he was saying as much by the shapes of his lips as by the sound of his voice. There was barely any sound there at all. “Because I don’t plan to stop.”
Draco nodded, and leaned in until only hot air separated their mouths. “What are you going to do?”
Potter traced the shape of Draco’s lips without touching them. Draco let his tongue lap out, but didn’t touch Potter’s fingers, either. This was what made it all the better, the desire beating between them like wings until it was forced down and made to blaze.
“I’m going to cast a spell that means your body does whatever it desires at that particular point in time,” whispered Potter, as easy as a lover. “Regardless of what your mind thinks about things. What your body needs, it’ll take.”
Draco shook, and his hands clamped into place on Potter’s shoulders for a second as he thrust against him. Potter hissed, but didn’t move, just standing there until Draco came back to some semblance of his senses.
“Yes,” Draco whispered. “Yes, I want that. When?”
“Tomorrow.” Potter’s lips brushed past his ear. “Do you think you can handle it?”
“That doesn’t matter. I want it.”
There was silence and motionlessness for a second between them, and Draco thought Potter might snap and take him early after all. But then Potter let out a fleeting little breath and stepped back.
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said, and left, and Draco made his way as fast as he could to the Slytherin dungeons, and wanked hard in his bed, and fell asleep to dream.
*
Draco knew it was going to happen in History of Magic when he saw the way Potter avoided looking at him as he and his merry little band of Gryffindors walked through the door. He hadn’t avoided looking at Draco in the Great Hall at lunch, or even during Potions. But now he turned his eyes away as if he thought something bad would happen if he so much as sneaked a glance.
Draco leaned his elbows on the table in front of him and tried to keep them from trembling. Pansy, beside him, gave him an unsympathetic glance. She didn’t like the way he had disrupted McGonagall’s class once when Potter made himself invisible and wanked in front of Draco, and while Draco hadn’t admitted he was the one who’d made Potter orgasm at lunch the other day, he knew Pansy suspected.
“What game are you playing now?” Pansy demanded in a fierce whisper.
Draco opened his mouth to answer—the day he couldn’t come up with a good deflecting reply for a friend was the day that he gave up on being a Slytherin at all—but he felt a twitch deep in his stomach and simply shut his mouth and shrugged.
The twitch grew, becoming a warm swirl that bore its way up his throat to his mouth. Draco wondered if it would make him shout out his pleasure once the spell began to affect him.
But it didn’t. Apparently Draco’s body didn’t desire that sort of expression. Instead, Draco felt his legs part under the table, and the warmth in his belly grew and puddled. He was hard now, his bollocks full. Draco didn’t dare look at Pansy or lick his lips. It was like feeling a stranger manipulate him, kind of, but it was also springing from no one but him.
It was strange, and wonderful.
“Draco? Did you hear me?”
But Binns floated into the classroom then and began to lecture about one of the interminable goblin wars, and Pansy had to shut up. Draco sighed and lowered his head onto his folded arms, as if he was going to escape into sleep the way that so many students still did in History of Magic.
Really, though, it was a good means to hide his expressions. And the hand that had snaked down between his legs to slowly take himself in hand, stroking.
The motions were so minute that Draco thought they would probably be hard to see from a distance. Especially under the table. But his hand was pulling more strongly in seconds, pausing near the tip so he could rub down the way he liked. Or his body liked. Draco hadn’t actually known he preferred that kind of almost painful pressure.
In scant seconds, it wasn’t enough anymore. Draco whimpered a little as his fingers probed and squeezed at him, pausing as though they didn’t know where they would go next. The anticipation of where they would go next was enough to make his mouth water.
And so was the sensation of Potter’s eyes on him, burning steadily, and the thought of what Potter’s hand was probably doing. Of course Draco didn’t turn to look; he didn’t know if he could. That wasn’t what his body wanted at the moment.
His hand began to move.
“Draco, I am warning you.”
Pansy’s voice made Draco’s head jerk sideways, and he opened his mouth, meaning to reassure her. He never got the chance, as his fingers seized his nipple and tweaked it violently, and the other hand rose and covered his mouth.
Binns noticed nothing, of course; he was rambling on about something that had to do with a vault. Draco tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The sound of rushing water, rushing blood, in his ears fought with the heat in his face.
His body liked that. He tweaked his nipple again, and again, and if people were laughing at him, he couldn’t hear them. There was only one person whose approval or touch mattered to him, and right now, Draco was satisfied to know that he was putting on a show for him.
His legs spread, his hips bouncing as he thought about the picture he was probably presenting, even if most of him was under the table. His mouth opened, and the hand that had been covering it slid inside, his fingers delving curiously into the places behind his teeth as though he’d never touched them before.
“Draco.”
Maybe Pansy was trying to warn him that Binns had noticed or McGonagall had entered the classroom, but it didn’t matter. All sound except the sound of his own heartbeat disappeared as Draco felt the inside of his mouth, as he felt his taut nipples, as he spread his legs until they ached against the sides of his chair and his other hand slid down his chest and disappeared between his thighs.
This time, he didn’t bother wanking. What he wanted was a light touch, and he ran his fingers up and down, back and forth, sparking his skin to excitement even through the cloth of his robes. Then he decided that wasn’t enough, his body needed more, and began to unfasten his trousers.
“Draco,” Pansy hissed at him, and her hand clamped on his, halting the progress of the spell. Draco opened dazed eyes and saw her staring at him in what looked like horror. “Can’t you see how he’s trying to ruin you? Don’t you care?”
Draco stared at her and wondered how he was supposed to answer that. What he cared about had changed so radically.
His other hand had gone on exploring while she lectured him. It slipped past his trousers, past the pants that brushed softly across his fingers, and then onto his naked cock. Draco sucked in a breath at the heat of his own knuckles.
Pansy’s eyes darted around, collecting glances and information that Draco simply wasn’t interested in. “Everyone is beginning to suspect,” she whispered. She looked at the front of the classroom. “Even Binns might take an interest.”
Draco’s mouth was too filled with saliva to answer. He arched and arched and arched against his own hand, which kept hovering with no hard touch after all, and trapped groans vibrated in his throat.
He could feel the climbing heat, the coming heat. He would come, and—
But it wasn’t enough, was it, said his twitching arse and his vibrating legs. No, not even the increased pressure of his hand was enough. He wanted something inside him when he came, and there was no chance of getting that here.
He pulled his hand back and laid it on his lap, simmering with frustration. A second ago, that pressure had been enough. What had changed?
But then he thought, he thought again, of the way that something thick and hard would fill him, and he shuddered and squeezed down on air. He thought of drawing his wand and conjuring the kind of toy he had used on Potter when he made Potter orgasm in front of the Great Hall, a fake cock that would cause Potter more pleasure every time someone tried to remove it. But it had taken him time to make that toy, and he knew he couldn’t conjure the equivalent with a casual spell.
If he could wish for it hard enough, maybe the spell Potter had cast—
And then it was there. Something invisible and blunt, sliding into him, the sensation so immediate that Draco lowered his head into his arms on the table and cried aloud. He didn’t want to share the cry with anyone else. It was private, it had to be, and so was the tearing pleasure that welled up through his body.
He’d never had anything this big inside him before. That didn’t really matter. This was what his body needed.
And he found out why a moment later, as his arse began to rock with the pushes inside him. Hard shoves, harder than the kind that Gryffindor players had given him when they were trying to knock him off his broom, harder than anything but the light in Potter’s eyes. Draco muffled his whimper with another hand across his mouth, for the sheer pleasure of feeling everything contained inside him.
He wanted it like this, here in the middle of the classroom. All the pleasure he could take, all the taking he could take, and the warmth coiled inside him and built higher, and the orgasm was coming, he didn’t care any more about Pansy or Potter or who was watching, it would burst out of him and leave him there shaken and exhausted and wet.
The only thing better would be having Potter inside me.
Draco moaned a little as the invisible intruder inside him abruptly disappeared. He sat up, disheveled and blinking. Binns was still droning on, and Draco knew, with the part of his brain that wasn’t utterly consumed with his body’s need, that Potter had been wise to cast this spell during History of Magic.
But he didn’t care enough to sit there appreciating it, or even to attend to Pansy’s urgent hisses. Instead, he turned his head and met Potter’s eyes, his own wide and appealing in a way that he knew he needed.
Potter caught his breath abruptly and stood up. His friends tried to restrain him with hands on his shoulders and hips. Draco moaned a little, a sound so soft that he didn’t think anyone except Potter could hear it. He wanted hands like that on his own hips, his own shoulders, but he wanted them to be Potter’s hands.
And, best of all, Potter looked like he needed them to be his hands, too.
“Go on, then. Since you won’t listen to reason.”
Draco staggered. Pansy had pushed him from behind in something that felt like disgust. He was sorry if he’d upset her, but relieved when her hands were gone from his arse. There was no way that he could just sit there and endure someone else touching him.
Only Potter. Only Potter.
His need was urgent enough now that he would have stood there and told Potter all about it, but Potter finally lunged forwards and caught his wrist. Draco leaned his head on his shoulder and said something wordless. Potter understood, and his arms tightened around Draco. The air seemed to vibrate.
Draco wished they could Apparate inside the castle, but they couldn’t, and so they had to stumble out of the classroom. Murmurs rose from behind them, and calls of “Harry!”, neither of which they paid any heed to. Binns kept on droning along the entire time.
*
Potter kept dragging Draco until he lost track of where they were. Finally, when Potter slammed him against a rough wall and then covered Draco’s mouth with his, Draco decided it was somewhere in the dungeons. They were the only walls that had that kind of rough stone—
But then his thoughts fled and scattered, before the insistent need of his body and the way that Potter’s hand was slipping down between his legs, squeezing him so hard that it was almost enough. Draco seized Potter’s wrist and pulled it against him. If he had the right combination of knuckles and fingers and nails, he thought, he could come.
But he didn’t want to come until Potter was inside him. But he did. He whined against Potter’s mouth, torn between the two needs, the spell battering at him with thoughts of pleasure and the actual pleasure.
“I’m going to do this,” Potter whispered, breaking away. His face gleamed with his own wild need, which at least made Draco sure that neither one of them was going to go away unsatisfied. They only had to choose what they desired. “But I need to Transfigure a bed. Are you going to be okay while I do that?”
It would take a minute, Draco knew, and more than that, a minute of concentration. Potter would have to pull away from him and think to do it. It meant they would have a more comfortable place to sate each other. Draco would have been perfectly happy granting Potter permission to pull away in a more rational state of mind.
But the spell didn’t make him rational. The spell made him want. Draco moaned and lifted his head from its resting place near Potter’s shoulder, feeling heavy and clogged. “Make it quick,” he whispered. “And hold me while you do it.”
“Hold—”
But Potter got it quickly. His eyes shone as he gripped Draco’s cock with his left hand and turned to cast the spell with his right hand, Transfiguring a chair with a broken seat that someone had left here.
Draco rubbed against Potter’s palm. The surging, crashing need inside him was incredibly distracting, but he managed to content himself with that for a moment, until the image of Potter casting him on the ground got too much. He reached out to catch Potter’s wand, not caring if he was interrupting something.
Potter must have got far enough. He whirled around, caught Draco again, and cast him down on the bed, then crawled on top of him. For a second, Draco was stupefied senseless by the rightness of having pressure on his shoulders and chest and groin all at once.
By the time he recovered, Potter was kissing his way down his throat, worrying and tearing at his shirt like a wild dog. Draco helped him take it off, mostly in a reverie, unable to remove his eyes from Potter’s face. Potter wasn’t looking at him right now, but that didn’t make the enchantment any less powerful. What the spell was telling him he needed was Potter.
Potter got his shirt off, and then reared back and shrugged off his own—shirt and robes and tie, all at once, before pulling off his pants. Draco sobbed when Potter shredded Draco’s clothes off with a wave of his wand, then leaned down and pressed their bare chests together.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
That was Potter’s soft frantic voice, pulling away, pulling himself away, from Draco as if he thought that he would hurt him. Draco shook his head and reached up to tug him back down. “No, no, stay,” Draco whispered. His voice rattled and scraped in his throat. “I need you to—I need you to touch me.”
“How?” Potter demanded, but Draco couldn’t say more than that. The need was streaking through him again, and he thrust with his arse back against Potter’s cock and heard him grunt, soft and startled. Draco reached up and grabbed the back of his neck, keeping his eyes shut. Yes, he could do this, he really could. He could just thrust this way against Potter, and he would be brought to the same shattering, sweet oblivion that his body demanded.
But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that wouldn’t work. His arse still ached with its emptiness, and having what he wanted just outside it wasn’t enough.
“Want you to get inside me,” Draco said, and opened his legs and humped up towards Potter so that he would get the idea.
Potter swallowed, and then said, “There’s—there’s preparation, and lube, and—and things—”
“You can cast spells that will take their place,” Draco said. He ought to know, he’d done it often enough. Not that the need cared. In fact, those past memories just made it more imperative that Potter take him as soon as he could. “Come on, I know the incantation if you don’t.”
He reached for his own wand, but Potter touched his wrist with a shaking hand, and made him halt. It wasn’t Draco’s idea, any more than it was to have his eyes cross and then fall shut. The mere brush of Potter’s fingers against his skin was simply too good to be resisted.
“No, let me,” Potter whispered. “Tell me what the incantations are.”
Draco gave them to him, though he had to repeat himself twice, his voice was so hoarse. Luckily, Potter cast them right the first time, when he did cast them. Draco hissed at the remembered feeling of his muscles loosening, the slickness at his entrance, and the further slickness that decorated the inside.
“Should there be some on my cock, too?” Potter sounded doubtful, pulling back—and making Draco’s skin scream—to look down at himself.
Draco couldn’t believe he had forgotten that. He reached out with one tired hand and grasped his wand after all, and muttered the right spell. It would just be quicker that way, and right now, he was all about quick.
From the way Potter arched his back and presented his cock to Draco, it was pleasurable for him, too. Draco was glad. He reached out and guided Potter in towards him, flinging his legs open so that Potter could go where they both wanted.
And it seemed Potter wanted. By now, he was clawing at Draco’s chest as if he was the one under the spell, and he couldn’t keep his hands away from Draco for a second. Draco moaned and opened his legs further, tilting his arse encouragingly. Potter hadn’t done this before, he was certain, but if he couldn’t figure it out from here, he was fucked.
Him, and not Draco. Which Draco thought was unfair, but he supposed he could push Potter onto his back and just sink down on his cock if necessary.
It was taking long enough that Draco was thinking about doing just that when Potter let out a huge, huffing breath and lurched his hips and slid his cock in. Draco felt the slickening spells letting him in, and then his spell-relaxed muscles, and then other things that had nothing to do with spells grasping Potter and drawing him further in.
Like want, and desire, and the satisfaction burning in his throat.
Draco cocked his head up and kissed Potter hard enough that he made a little protesting sound. Draco didn’t care. He simply wrapped his arms around Potter and kissed him even harder, and in leaning forwards to return the kiss, Potter accidentally made his first thrust.
It was such a tease that Draco immediately backed and bucked as hard as he could onto Potter’s cock. Potter uttered a tearing groan of his own and thrust forwards again. His eyes were as wide as though he’d just had a revelation.
A revelation of how fit I am, Draco thought smugly, but he honestly couldn’t keep up the smugness for long enough to taunt Potter with it. He hooked his fingers into Potter’s hair instead, and nipped his throat. “Fuck me.”
His body was burning with so much need now that Potter’s first three thrusts didn’t do anything to sate it, but the fourth helped a little. And with the fifth, Draco could feel the languid satisfaction settling into his bones even though barely anything had happened yet. He fell back onto the bed, needing to lie there with his arms sprawled out and let Potter do all the work.
He did. His eyes were fixed on Draco’s face, and his body never slowed down. Draco stared back at him between strands of his own pale hair. Potter’s face softened for a second.
Then he picked up pace and ferocity, and Draco began to cry out, steadily, from the pressure against the best place in his arse. He tried to wrap his legs around Potter’s waist, to urge him on, but honestly, they were too limp. He just had to lie there and moan.
His body shifted across the bed, pliant and fucked and used. Draco now and then felt bursts of pleasure from his cock, but he could almost ignore them. They weren’t what he wanted right now.
He forced his eyes open from where they had shut, and saw Potter bent above him, huffing, sweat dripping down his forehead that looked like it was almost ready to fall on Draco’s body. Draco watched with brewing anticipation. He did manage to lift a hand and cup Potter’s cheek for a second.
Then Potter picked up the pace again, which Draco didn’t know how he could, but then he didn’t know how Potter accomplished half the things he did, on a broom or off it or defeating Voldemort or enticing Draco into this game or—
Draco spasmed, his entire body deciding that what it really needed was to come now, and he did, drumming his heels and fucking himself as hard as he could on Potter’s cock, delighting that he had something in his body, screaming from the goodness. His arse clamped down again, and he came harder and with a strength that made him moan harshly.
Potter’s eyes fluttered, and he followed. The soaking he gave Draco’s insides was everything Draco hadn’t known he wanted.
The crawling languor in Draco’s muscles stopped a bit when Potter reached out and picked up his wand, waving it, apparently canceling the spell that made Draco’s body do whatever it needed. But honestly, not that much, Draco thought, as he managed to flop and spin himself around, get Potter out of his arse, and then turn back and stare into Potter’s eyes.
Potter grinned. “Hi,” he whispered.
“Hi,” Draco said, and swallowed. With his need no longer broiling his brain, he realized he didn’t have any idea how the next steps in their dance would go. The game was done. What was left?
Potter only lay there quietly for a time, caressing his shoulder. Draco looked around and discovered that they were in some sort of classroom—in the dungeons, by the look of the stone in the walls. He relaxed. At least they didn’t have to worry about someone opening the door on a whim and finding them.
He still had to worry about what Pansy and Potter’s friends would think, when he returned to class. But he didn’t care that much about that.
No, what he cared about was the five little points of contact that were Potter’s fingers sliding down his shoulder.
Potter cleared his throat. Draco tensed. This is the point where he tells me that we’ve had sex and it’s been fun and all, but the game is over.
“Would you like to go on a date with me to Hogsmeade next weekend?”
Draco sure hoped his tonsils were attractive, because he was displaying them to Potter right now. “I—you’re joking?”
“No, I’m not.” Potter traced his fingers over Draco’s forehead, apparently using that as a substitute to keep from looking into his eyes. “I know this has been mostly sex and humiliating each other so far, but—I don’t think it would have been this intense with anyone else. I want to feel that intensity again.”
Finally, he looked Draco in the eye.
Draco hated himself for asking the question, but he had to. “And if it turns out that we never get the intensity we had back?”
Potter smiled in response, so radiant that Draco felt a soft clench in his stomach as if the spell was still affecting him. “Oh, come on, Mal—Draco. It’s us. We’re pretty bloody intense.”
Draco, still feeling the soft clench, reached up and echoed it with the hold of his fingers on Potter’s hand. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to call you Harry next,” he drawled.
Potter smiled even more broadly. “That would be nice, yeah.”
Draco leaned up and kissed him, and felt Harry’s hand come around the back of his neck. He thought he felt that hand shuddering with inexplicable relief.
Well, not so inexplicable. Draco had been afraid of losing this, too.
“You know,” Draco said conversationally when he pulled back from the kiss, “it’ll probably be harder to explain to our friends that we’re dating than to explain to them what was really going on back there.”
Harry grinned. “And you’re not up for the challenge?”
“Oh,” Draco said, and returned the grin in a way that he hoped made Harry understand what he was getting into, “give me a little while, and I will be.”
The End.
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Quite the Education