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It’d be great if Malfoy had become less of an ass after Harry had started shagging him regularly, but alas, he’s still as much of a bastard as he’s always been.
If anything, shagging him’s had the opposite effect on his bastardness. This year, before their first encounter in the Prefect’s bath, Malfoy had mostly kept his head down, and if he still acted like an ass – which Harry’s pretty sure he did because leopards, spots and all that – he saved it for the privacy of his dorm or the more intimate audiences of his Slytherin friends. But now he’s started it up in public again, and while he mostly doesn’t mock people to their faces, he certainly has no reservations about doing it within their earshot. It’s like pre-War Malfoy all over again.
But that’s not the worst part.
No, the worst part is that there’s a part of Harry that’s sort of starting to like it.
Transfiguration has just let out for the afternoon, and Malfoy’s up near the front of the classroom talking to Zabini and Parkinson, and Harry can tell from his exaggerated gestures and the way his voice tips up into an almost-falsetto that he’s mocking someone, probably their Professor. Harry knows he should ignore him. He should roll his eyes at Malfoy’s childish behavior and turn his back and walk away. But all he can do is stare, half-aroused by Malfoy’s blatant arseholeishness and vaguely hating himself for it.
This has been happening more and more often lately.
After that first encounter, Harry had thought that maybe Malfoy might really be different. But no, Malfoy’s just like this, same as he’s always been, perfectly put together, his hair slicked back, his robes neatly pressed and buttoned up to his throat, and he still looks down his nose and arches his eyebrows and sneers, and he still mocks his classmates and teachers, and he’s still cruel and hurtful when he does it.
Except Harry’s seen another side of Malfoy now, seen him with his hair mussed and damp with sweat, and his face flushed a delicate pink, and his eyes dark with desire or squeezed shut in bliss or soft and dazed after he’s just come his brains out. It’s getting increasingly harder to reconcile the two sides of him. It’s hard to see one without thinking of the other, and Harry spends a lot of time trying to figure out which one is the real Malfoy.
Malfoy and his friends are drawing near, and they come within earshot just in time for Harry to catch what Malfoy’s saying as he thrusts one hand into the air and simpers, “Excuse me, Professor, but I believe you’ve gotten the pronunciation wrong. It’s ‘chrysolina herbacea,’ not—“
So it’s not the Professor. Hermione, then. For a moment, Harry’s captivated by Malfoy’s smirking mouth and expressive eyebrows, but he recovers himself just in time to reach out and latch onto Ron’s arm.
“You slimy little—“ Ron begins, his hands curling into fists like he’d enjoy nothing more than slamming one of them into Malfoy’s pointy face. Frankly, Harry can sympathize.
“Is she like that in bed too, do you think?” Malfoy wonders aloud to Parkinson, talking over Ron as if he’s not even there. His voice skips up into an almost-falsetto again as he goes on, “Excuse me, Weasley, but I do believe you’ve—“
Malfoy breaks off with a laugh as Ron growls and lunges forward, and Harry’s barely able to hold him back. He feels that maybe he should be more upset on his friends’ behalf, but Malfoy’s impression of Hermione really is very accurate. He wishes he didn’t know that, but sharing a tent for most of a year with his two best friends left them all with a lot of unwanted information about each other. Like just how much Ron likes it when Hermione gets like that in bed.
“Leave it, Ron, he’s not worth it,” Hermione snaps with a frigid glare at Malfoy. She turns pointedly away and begins packing her books into her bag.
“She’s certainly got him well-trained, I’ll give her that much,” Parkinson sniffs and reaches up to give Malfoy’s cheek a little pat. “I can never get you to listen to me even half so well, darling.”
The ease of her gesture and her sly little smile give an impression of intimacy between the pair of them that Harry can’t stand. The idea of Malfoy and Parkinson together like that makes something hot and sour roil in the depths of Harry’s gut, and he glares at her as she brushes past him, and Malfoy smirks at him and mouths, ‘Leave it, Potter.’ Harry wants to punch him in his stupid smirking mouth.
Instead, Harry leans close as Malfoy goes past and mutters, “I’m going to make you pay for that later.”
Malfoy’s smile isn’t quite a smirk anymore as he glances over his shoulder. “I’m counting on it.”
****
Four hours later, Harry’s got him bent over a desk in the empty Transfiguration classroom. The Professor’s desk, no less, and it’s entirely Malfoy’s fault, the kinky sod. Harry had walked in to find him perched up on it, one long leg hooked over the other, munching away on an apple as if he hadn’t a care in the world. When he caught sight of Harry, one of his eyebrows had lifted into a perfect arch as he drawled, “I’ve already prepared myself, I do hope that’s all right,” and how could Harry be expected to take it slow after that?
That’s probably what Malfoy was after all along, Harry thinks. The needling at Ron and Hermione earlier today, followed up by presenting himself to Harry like he did. It was all building up to this, and Harry had gone right for it.
In his eagerness to get inside Malfoy as soon as possible, they hadn’t even bothered to get properly naked; Malfoy’s still wearing his shoes and socks, and Harry’s trousers are around his ankles. He’s pounding into Malfoy’s arse as hard as he can, and Malfoy’s just fucking taking it, whimpering and moaning, his short nails skidding across the polished wood desktop as his legs tremble so hard that he’d probably fall over if he weren’t already half-lying on the desk, and Harry might feel bad about it if he didn’t know for a fact how much Malfoy likes this. How much he likes Harry like this, half out of control and almost desperate with wanting. He’s constantly provoking Harry, trying to get exactly this sort of reaction, and Harry knows this but can never quite stop himself from snapping at the bait Malfoy dangles in front of him. He reaches down and knots one hand in Malfoy’s hair and pulls on it, and Malfoy obediently bends up, exposing his throat, his spine arching beautifully.
“Don’t you dare come, don’t you fucking dare,” Harry growls when Malfoy’s arsehole spasms around his prick in that way that means that he’s close. A distant corner of his mind wonders when exactly he’d learned Malfoy’s body well enough to know its little tells. “Your come’s mine.”
“I ought to make you lick it off the desk,” Malfoy sneers, breathless and defiant.
He probably would, too. Harry yanks harder on Malfoy’s hair, and Malfoy lets out a pained grunt and jabs back with one elbow, catching Harry in the ribs. Harry lets go of Malfoy’s hair and clamps his fingers around Malfoy’s arm, wrestling it down. He splays his other hand between Malfoy’s shoulder blades and shoves him back down against the desk, and Malfoy struggles for a moment before relaxing against the hard surface, canting his arse up at Harry in unspoken surrender.
“Brute,” he pants.
“Bastard,” Harry shoots back, barely resisting the urge to point out that Malfoy obviously loves this. That’d only have Malfoy fighting against him on principle alone, which is stupid because by fighting Harry he’d only further prove just how much he likes it. It’d all be a big waste of time, and Harry really would like to come soon.
He resumes thrusting hard, and Malfoy goes back to whimpering and moaning. Harry can feel his orgasm building up again, and when Malfoy reaches up with his left hand to touch his hair, slender fingertips threading through the fine blond strands where Harry had grabbed him earlier, he exposes his left forearm and Harry comes while staring at his Mark.
Even before the last ripples of his orgasm have faded, Harry pulls out of Malfoy, the last small spurt of come dribbling against the inside of Malfoy’s thigh. He yanks Malfoy around so his arse is only just perched on the edge of the desk and Harry drops to his knees, capturing Malfoy’s prick in his mouth. The tip is slick, and Harry eagerly sucks it clean, savoring the thin, salty fluid before pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside of Malfoy’s prick and sliding down, taking in as much of it as he can, the tip of his nose pressed to the gold curls at the base of Malfoy’s cock, and he drags in a deep breath, inhaling the dark, sharp scents of arousal and sweat. Malfoy groans and spreads his legs apart a little more, and Harry puts one palm on Malfoy’s hip to hold him in place while he strokes Malfoy’s leg with his other hand. The muscles of Malfoy’s thigh are quivering beneath his fingers. Harry’s thumb rubs across the sticky smear of come on the inside of Malfoy’s thigh, and Harry pulls off his prick just long enough to slide his thumb into his mouth, sucking it clean and looking up to hold Malfoy’s gaze while he does so.
Predictably, Malfoy’s eyes darken and his lips part on a shaky inhale. “Oh fuck,” he says, because he knows what’s coming next.
Harry lets his eyes flutter closed as he rubs his tongue over the pad of his thumb, letting the bitter taste of his own release dissipate over his taste buds. His mouth waters, and he’s eager for more, and he knows he can have it just as soon as he can get it out of Malfoy. He attacks Malfoy’s erection with renewed enthusiasm, and Malfoy lets out a sharp cry, and Harry has to hold his hips down with both hands to keep Malfoy from gagging him with his cock. Harry doesn’t want to take him deep.
Malfoy’s been close for a while, and now Harry’s fierce sucking sends him hurtling over the edge. Draco’s hips jerk once, twice, and Harry hurriedly pulls back so his lips are wrapped firmly around the head and he moans as the first gush of come splashes over his tongue. He swallows eagerly as Malfoy’s cock empties itself, and he licks the tip clean, his tongue pressing firmly over the slit until Malfoy’s hands in his hair tug him away.
Harry stands. One of Malfoy’s hands is still tangled in his hair, and his face is flushed and sweaty, and there’s a darker pink mark where his forehead was pressed against the surface of the desk, and his eyes are soft and a little dazed. He’s breathing heavily, and each warm puff of breath smells like apples. It’s sharp and intoxicating, and Harry can’t help but sway a little closer as his mind catches on the idea of kissing him.
He’s been thinking of kissing Malfoy for a while now, at first just idly wondering what it’d be like, but more and more lately it’s become something of an obsession. It’s worst when they’re like this, just after they’ve had sex. Malfoy’s always softer then, sated and usually a bit drowsy, and Harry finds this gentler version of him every bit as hard to resist as the smirking, aggravating, provoking one, just in an entirely different way.
Instead of making Harry want to jump on him and tear all his clothes off, this Malfoy makes him want to hold him close for no other reason than to feel the warmth of his body against his own skin, or to slide his hand into Malfoy’s to feel those clever fingers curled around his own, or touch his lips to Malfoy’s and find out for sure whether they’re as soft and warm in reality as they always are in Harry’s fantasies. But it never lasts long, because it never takes Malfoy more than a minute or so before he opens up his mouth and says something that makes Harry want to punch him in it rather than kiss him on it.
Harry leans a bit closer, and right on cue Malfoy wrinkles up his nose. “Ugh, Potter, your breath smells like something that crawled up a hippogriff’s arse and died in there.” He gives Harry a light shove, and Harry stumbles over the trousers still crumpled around his ankles.
Harry jerks them back up and fumbles with his fly. “Interesting choice of words. I’m not sure I’d describe your cock quite like that, personally,” he says, and Malfoy scowls at him. Harry shrugs carelessly because he knows it’ll irritate Malfoy. “But it’s your cock; I suppose you’d know best.”
For a moment, Harry thinks that Malfoy might try to hex him. Harry’s pulse quickens at the idea of a duel with Malfoy, especially since he’s got the advantage of trousers while Malfoy’s naked from the ankles up. But Malfoy just sneers and turns away, casting a series of cleaning charms over himself before reaching for his pants. Harry takes the opportunity to cast a discreet breath freshening charm on himself, then drags his shirt on. He and Malfoy finish dressing in silence.
“So,” Malfoy says, brushing the wrinkles from his robes. “Tomorrow night?”
“Can’t,” Harry says, still looking around for his other shoe. “I’ll be at the party.” He frowns and glances over at Malfoy. “Won’t you?”
He senses he’s maybe made a mistake when Malfoy draws himself up stiffly. “I don’t know anything about a party,” he says, his voice clipped and sharp.
“Er, it’s in the Hufflepuff basement. House unity thing,” Harry says awkwardly.
“I see,” Malfoy says with a faint sneer. “House unity. Of course.”
Obviously no one bothered to tell Slytherin about it. Harry thinks maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut, maybe just agreed to meet Malfoy anyhow and sneaked away from the party for long enough to make it happen. At least that way he’d get a shag out of it. Instead, now Malfoy’s gone all prickly, and this is probably the last time Harry’s going to see him until after the New Year.
“Hey,” he says gently, then hesitates. “Malfoy…”
But Malfoy turns and scowls at him. “Don’t strain yourself, Potter,” he snaps, and then he’s stomping toward the door.
Harry watches him go, then sighs and resumes looking for his shoe. He finds it on the other side of the desk, and Malfoy’s apple is nestled in it, bitten side up. It must have rolled off the desk at some point, because Harry distinctly remembers Malfoy setting it aside as he approached. He picks it up. There’s only one perfect bite taken out of it, white flesh already edging to brown, and Harry can’t help but wonder if it’s a coincidence that Malfoy only managed a single bite from it before Harry showed up or if he was only using the apple as a prop. For a moment he imagines sealing his lips over the bite where Malfoy’s lips pressed against the bright green peel, scraping his teeth through the crisp, firm flesh and feeling the tart juices flood over his tongue. It strikes him a moment later how ridiculous he’s being, and he tosses the apple into the rubbish bin, jams his foot into his shoe, and stalks out of the classroom.
Out in the hall, Malfoy’s nowhere in sight, but Harry can’t get the image of him out of his head. Malfoy with his arse slick and loose and ready, impeccably dressed and perched up on the Professor’s desk in a deliberately casual pose, eagerly waiting with an apple cradled against his palm, poised and ready to take a bite.
Harry sighs and shakes his head. He’s pretty sure he’s lost his mind.
****
Friday passes with agonizing slowness. Even the Professors don’t seem immune from it, glancing at the clock just as often as the students. But Harry makes it through, and as he steps out of the greenhouse after Herbology, it’s with a spring in his step. Classes are done for two whole weeks, and tomorrow morning he’ll be on a train, speeding toward Christmas at the Burrow.
The evening flies past, and shortly before eight he’s making his way down to the basement with Ron and Hermione, smuggling bottles of butterbeer under his robes. Even though it’s early, the party is in full swing when they step inside. They leave their offering of butterbeer on a table set up on the far side of the room, and it’s loaded with a stunning variety of bottles. Harry avoids the ones without labels and takes a bottle of butterbeer for himself, twisting the cap off while Ron pours himself a tumbler of firewhisky as Hermione drifts off to talk to one of the Patil twins. Harry can never keep them straight when they’re not wearing house colors.
Harry falls into a conversation with Ron and Ernie Macmillan and Terry Boot about their plans for the holidays, and his bottle of butterbeer is empty before he knows it. He excuses himself to fetch a second bottle and he’s just taken a swig from it when conversation falters. Harry looks over to find that the Slytherins have arrived.
“What are you lot doing here?” Zacharias Smith demands.
“Heard there was a party,” Malfoy says, and Harry’s glad no one’s watching him to see his wince. “Some sort of ‘house unity’ thing, I was told.”
“No one invited you,” Smith says.
Malfoy shrugs. “I don’t see why I need an invitation. Last I checked, Slytherin is indeed a house.”
They stare at each other for several long seconds, and their standoff is broken when Goyle muscles to the front, hauling a large crate that clinks as he moves. “We brought booze. Where do you want it?”
“That depends what you brought,” Seamus says, pushing his way up to peek into the crate. He breaks into a wide grin. “Ah, yes, you’re definitely invited.” He takes a bottle from the crate and uses it to gesture to the table. “Rest of it can go over there.”
Gradually, conversation starts up again as it becomes clear that the Slytherins seem disinclined to do much more than talk and drink, just like anyone else here tonight. Harry goes back over to where Ron’s talking excitedly about George’s plans for expanding the newest line of products at his shop.
Some time later, Harry’s on his fourth butterbeer and Ron’s abandoned him for the dance floor in favor of publicly groping Hermione’s bum under the guise of dancing while she scolds him and bats his hands away and tries to pretend she doesn’t like it. Harry’s drifting aimlessly, smiling at anyone who meets his eye but not making any attempt at conversation, and just enjoying the festive atmosphere, and the music, and the fact that this is the first Christmas he’s had in years where there’s no maniac trying to kill him.
“Harry,” someone murmurs from just behind him, and Harry turns to find Goldstein.
Harry draws himself up and tries to channel Malfoy’s icy condescendence. “What do you want?” he asks as stiffly as he can manage.
Goldstein smiles at him and sways closer. “You, of course,” he says, and it’s then that Harry realizes that his Malfoy-impression is probably wasted because Goldstein is really very drunk. “You’re kind of a prat, but the sex was good.”
“The sex was brilliant, according to gossip,” Harry snaps at him. What was it that Malfoy said after their first time? “I’m a brilliant fuck, isn’t that right?”
Goldstein entirely misses, or chooses to ignore, the irritation in Harry’s voice. “Exactly,” he says, reaching out to slide his arm around Harry’s waist, and Harry tries to pull back but Goldstein just moves with him. “So, what do you say?”
“I say you’re mental,” Harry tells him. God, he can’t believe he actually had sex with this wanker.
“Oh, come on,” Goldstein says leaning closer even as Harry tries to push him away. “You can’t tell me you…” He trails off suddenly, blinking dazedly, and Harry disentangles himself easily.
“Er,” he says, and it takes a few seconds for him to recognize the effects of a Confundus. A really bloody strong Confundus, judging by the way Goldstein’s still staring idly off into space. He looks around, and Malfoy meets his eyes from where he’s lounging on a sofa across the room. He raises his bottle to Harry in a silent toast, and Harry grins as he raises his bottle in return. “I think Terry’s looking for you,” he tells Goldstein, giving him a nudge.
“Terry,” Goldstein says, obediently wandering off.
Harry makes his way to Malfoy’s sofa and sits down on the other side. “Thanks,” he says.
“Don’t mention it,” Malfoy says. “He looked like he was bothering you.” He pauses and shifts a bit closer on the cushions. “He had his chance with you.”
Malfoy takes a sip from his bottle of firewhisky. There’s something almost possessive in his eyes as he casts a sidelong glance at Harry, and Harry frowns at him.
“Are you jealous?” It feels ridiculous even as he says it, and yet…
“Hardly,” Malfoy scoffs and takes another swig. He sighs, exhaling a cloud of steam. “I just think he’s a tosser, and you can do better than that.”
“Oh yes,” Harry says dryly. “Goldstein’s a tosser. You’re arrogant and obnoxious and sort of an arsehole. So, yay, you’ve got more adjectives than he does. That’s certainly a step up for me.” He drains the last of his butterbeer and leans forward to sit the bottle on the floor as he waits for Malfoy to lash out at him.
“But you’re not shagging my charming personality,” Malfoy points out in a surprisingly mild tone of voice. He offers his bottle to Harry.
Harry takes it without thinking. By its small size and unfamiliar gold label with pretentiously curling script, he guesses this is a much more expensive whisky than Ogdens. He takes a swallow and feels it burn a path to his belly where it spreads through his chest in a dull burst of warmth.
“No,” Harry says and exhales steam on a little sigh. He hands the bottle back. “You’re brilliant in bed.”
“Hm,” Malfoy says with a considering light in his eyes. “You haven’t had me in a bed. Yet.” He takes another sip from his bottle before holding it out to Harry again.
“Yet?” Harry echoes, his fingers closing around the smooth glass.
Malfoy leans a little closer. “The night is young,” he says.
Harry doesn’t get a chance to respond to that.
Goyle lumbers over just then and squeezes onto the sofa even though it’s not really big enough for three people, especially when one of those three people is someone as large as Goyle. Harry ends up crammed against the arm with Malfoy crowded up against him. Harry can feel the heat of his body through his robes, and he’s close enough to smell the spicy herbal scent of his soap. He must have just showered before coming here tonight, and Harry shoves the thought of Malfoy wet and naked and slippery with soap forcibly from his mind. He takes another gulp of firewhisky, even though he’s already feeling the effects of it, and that doesn’t do anything to help his current predicament as Goyle and Malfoy chatter on about History of Magic, of all the bloody things, and all Harry can think of is getting Malfoy naked later tonight. His trousers are growing uncomfortably tight and he tries to adjust them as subtly as he can. Which doesn’t really work with Malfoy pressed against him from shoulder to knee. Harry feels himself flush at the knowing smirk Malfoy shoots his way. He takes another gulp of firewhisky.
Eventually Goyle wanders off to harass someone else, but Malfoy doesn’t move back to his side of the sofa. He plucks the bottle of firewhisky from Harry’s nerveless fingers and takes a swig. The bottle’s nearly empty and he has to tilt it all the way back which exposes the long line of his throat, and Harry can’t look away from how his lips seal around the mouth of the bottle, the slight twitch of his jaw as he takes a mouthful, the quick bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. He turns to Harry.
“So how do you think you did on your History of Magic essay?”
Harry gapes at him. “You really want to talk about History of Magic essays?” Too late, he catches the amused sparkle in Malfoy’s eyes that means he’s being fucked with. Again.
“Not really,” Malfoy says and leans close, and his breath tickles Harry’s ear as he whispers, “Let’s get out of here.”
Harry wobbles as he stands up, and Malfoy steadies him with a hand to his elbow. No one pays them any mind as they make their way across the crowded room and slip out into the hall. Malfoy passes the bottle of firewhisky to Harry, who takes a sip, then takes it back and downs the remaining swallow before Vanishing the bottle.
“Come on,” he says, and Harry follows.
Making his way into the Slytherin dorms a half-step behind Malfoy feels far more forbidden than meeting him in the Prefect’s bath or sneaking into an empty classroom after curfew. It’s late, and the common room is deserted, the fire burned down to embers. Malfoy doesn’t linger, instead leading Harry through a doorway on the other side of the room and down to the end of a long hall. He bursts into a room with four identical beds. Harry feels pretty sure he can guess which one belongs to Malfoy; it’s probably the one made up with emerald silk.
“Get naked, Potter,” Malfoy tells him, and Harry’s tempted to argue with him on principle.
But Malfoy then turns his attention to getting off his own clothes, leaving Harry to strip down on his own, and Harry decides that shagging Malfoy sooner is worth more than the foreplay of an argument. By the time he finishes undressing, Malfoy is already naked and stretched out on his bed. Harry was right. Malfoy’s is the one with green silk sheets. For a moment, Harry lingers at the bedside, taking in the picture Malfoy makes. His fair skin and bright hair make a striking contrast against the deep emerald green of the sheets, and his eyes darken as he lets them sweep over Harry, lingering at his groin.
“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” he murmurs, looking up at Harry with half-lidded eyes and a faint smirk.
Harry wants to give him a hard time, but Malfoy’s not aroused yet, and the appeal of suckling his soft prick as it swells into an erection against his tongue is too great to ignore. He clambers up onto the bed and swallows him down. It doesn’t take long to get him up, and Harry takes that as a compliment.
“Lube,” Harry murmurs against Malfoy bollocks, and mouths leisurely at them as Malfoy’s body shifts and there’s the sound of him rummaging around in the drawer of his bedside table. Harry reaches out a hand, and a moment later Malfoy slaps a small glass jar against his fingers.
Harry sits back and unscrews the lid, scooping a dollop of slick gel onto his fingers. It smells sharply of peppermint and makes his mouth water. Harry’s always liked peppermint. “Festive,” he comments dryly, and Malfoy snorts.
“I felt it was appropriate,” he says with a strangely avid smile.
Harry had no idea that Malfoy had such strong feelings about Christmas, but he lets it go in favor of nudging Malfoy’s thighs a little farther apart and settling between them. He licks his way up the shaft of Malfoy’s cock while he reaches back and rubs his slippery fingers along the cleft of Malfoy’s arse, and Malfoy hisses and spreads his legs wider. Harry sucks the tip of his prick into his mouth and flicks his tongue over the slit as he presses one finger inside and Malfoy’s back arches slightly as he tries to push himself both back at Harry’s finger and up at Harry’s mouth at the same time. Harry lets him struggle for a while, enjoying the small sounds of discontent Malfoy makes. At first, Harry could never tell whether it’s Malfoy’s pride that keeps him from asking for more, or if the exquisite torment of not quite enough is just another part of foreplay for him. But after weeks of this, Harry’s pretty sure it’s the latter.
He pauses to scoop more lube from the jar before he reaches back again and works two fingers into Malfoy, crooking his fingers just so as he swallows Malfoy’s cock down as far as he can, and now Malfoy cries out. Harry smiles around his mouthful and strokes his fingers in and out until Malfoy pushes him off his cock.
Harry takes his fingers out of Malfoy’s arse. “How do you want me?”
“On your back,” Malfoy tells him. “I want to ride you.”
They change positions, and when Harry’s stretched out on his back, Malfoy swings one leg over him and straddles his hips. Harry reaches between them to steady his cock, and Malfoy rubs against him, slippery and warm, until the head catches on the loosened rim of his arsehole. He tilts his hips and sinks down inch by inch, intently watching Harry’s face as he does so.
He’s halfway in when the faint tingling sensation really registers. “What…?”
“Peppermint,” Malfoy says. “Like it?”
It’s the most brilliant thing Harry’s ever felt, but fuck if he’s going to tell that to Malfoy, the smug bastard. “Yeah, it’s nice,” he says even as he fights to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head as Malfoy fully seats himself. “I guess I wouldn’t be too upset if you want to use it again.”
“Hm,” Malfoy says with another oddly eager smile. “I’m not adverse to that, as long as it gets me what I want.”
And before Harry can ask him what the hell he means by that, Malfoy rocks hard against him and Harry forgets about everything except his own impending orgasm. He digs his heels into the mattress and grips Malfoy’s hips hard enough to bruise as he sets up a rhythm of quick, sharp thrusts that have Malfoy’s head lolling back and those wonderfully captivating little sounds he makes echoing through the room.
His hands clench in the bed sheets, pale against the deep green silk, and Harry can’t wait until those long, elegant fingers are dripping with come. Harry moans at the thought and fucks Malfoy a little harder. He’s lost in a fantasy of sucking Malfoy’s fingers clean one by one when Malfoy interrupts.
“Stop,” Malfoy says, slapping one hand down onto Harry’s chest. “Potter, stop.”
It’s agonizing to force himself to go still. “What is it?” he grinds out.
“I’ve got a proposal for you. A…” He pauses for a moment, breathing hard. “A mutually beneficial arrangement.”
The businesslike phrase ‘mutually beneficial arrangement’ throws Harry. “Oh?”
Malfoy throws him even further when he abandons the stuffy diction in favor of a much more crude, “I want you to suck your come out of my arse.”
“What?”
Malfoy shrugs. “You like spunk, I like being rimmed.” He shrugs again and this time the motion is slightly stiff. “As I said, mutually beneficial.”
The peppermint lube suddenly makes a lot more sense. Harry wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. You want me to put my mouth on your arsehole?”
“Why not? You rather seem to like putting your fingers and your cock there.” Malfoy clenches around Harry’s cock as if to prove his point, and Harry can’t contain a groan. It’s more than worth the self-satisfied look Malfoy gives him as he does it again.
He studies Malfoy closely, and there’s something anxious in Malfoy’s eyes that Harry thinks he understands. It could just as easily have been Harry sitting there anxiously waiting for Malfoy to tell him how fucked up he is for wanting to lick come off his fingers, and rimming isn’t that strange on the scale of things. It’s common enough that it’s got a name, at least. A part of Harry is intrigued by the idea, though he’s never considered it before. The idea of licking Malfoy’s arse feels naughty and deliciously forbidden the same way that the idea of eating his own come had felt when he was thirteen and just figuring out what he liked. And Malfoy really has been very agreeable about the whole come-eating thing.
Still, Harry thinks he might be able to get something out of this. “What’ll you give me if I do?” he asks.
Malfoy raises one eyebrow, and Harry can see some of the tension drain away. “What do you want?”
Harry doesn’t think before he answers. “Let me touch your Mark.”
For a moment Harry thinks he’s gone too far and he’s fully prepared to blame it on the firewhisky. But then Malfoy nods once and offers his left arm to Harry.
Gently, Harry reaches out and takes Malfoy’s forearm in his hand, his fingers sliding over the fine blond hair on the outside, and his thumb carefully stroking over the tender flesh of the inside. Harry didn’t know what he expected Malfoy’s Dark Mark to feel like, whether it’d be cold or scaly or rough under his fingers, but he doesn’t expect it to feel like this, warm and soft and utterly indistinguishable from the rest of Malfoy’s skin.
“You look surprised,” Malfoy says.
Harry just shakes his head. “I thought it’d feel different.” He lets his thumb stroke down it again, from the crease of Malfoy’s elbow down to his wrist where Harry presses the pad of his thumb just to the inside of his radius and feels Malfoy’s pulse, strong and even and alive. Harry’s arousal spikes because Malfoy seems so fragile in that instant, flesh and blood and a beating heart inside a cage of smashable bones, but strong because he’s here, even after all the shit he’s been through, he’s here. And Harry’s here, and Harry can have him.
“Well it doesn’t,” Malfoy says softly, tugging free of Harry’s loose grasp. He jerks his hips. “Can we get on with it?”
“Okay,” Harry says. “You first, though.”
Malfoy nods and braces one hand on the mattress as Harry resumes thrusting. He tilts himself a little this way, a little that way, searching for the right angle that’ll have him coming hard. Harry can tell when he finds it because he sighs and his eyes flutter closed, and he reaches for his cock, wraps his fingers around it and strokes in time with Harry’s thrusts as Harry tries his best to fuck him without jostling him overmuch. He watches, enraptured, as the reddened tip peeps through Malfoy’s clenched fist at the end of every stroke down.
“Oh,” Malfoy says, sounding strained and desperate and a little broken and so fucking beautiful that it makes Harry’s toes curl. “Oh, fuck. Here, here…”
He clamps his hand around the head of his prick without Harry prompting him to as his body hunches forward, his hips jerking and his inner muscles tightening around Harry’s cock in rhythmic flutters, his face scrunched up and his eyes squeezed shut as he rides out his orgasm. With a slow, shuddering sigh, he relaxes and sits up and blinks sleepily at Harry for a few moments, and Harry lets himself stare back. Harry always likes Malfoy best in the bare minute or so just after his orgasm. He looks almost like an entirely different person, a perfect stranger. There’s something warmer about him, something looser and open and sometimes a little vulnerable. Sometimes he smiles, and something warm and fluttery twists through Harry’s chest when that happens.
But it always fades quickly, as Malfoy gathers his defenses around himself and pulls his walls back into place. It’s sort of amazing how even with Harry’s prick buried in his arse as far as it’ll go, Malfoy’s still able to hold him at arm’s length.
Malfoy slowly opens his hand, and Harry can’t help but reach for it eagerly. It’s been a while since he licked Malfoy’s fingers clean. But Malfoy pulls back just out of reach. Harry frowns. He reaches for Malfoy’s hand again, and again Malfoy pulls back just out of Harry’s reach. He watches Harry for a moment, his gaze steady and intent, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
And then, very deliberately, he extends his left arm and slides his right hand down it from elbow to wrist, smearing his come all over the Mark.
Harry’s breath catches as Malfoy offers his arm, the skull and snake glistening faintly under a thin layer of semen. “You bastard,” he breathes, unable to tear his eyes away from the Dark Mark. “You wonderful bastard.”
And then he fastens his mouth where the head of the snake curves over the tendons of Malfoy wrist and lets out a quiet moan as he licks the come from his arm in long, greedy swipes of his tongue, the dark and musky flavor mingling faintly with the barest hint of soap and salt from Malfoy’s skin, and even though it doesn’t actually taste any different from any other time he’s licked Malfoy clean, this time he can see the dark shape of the Mark stretching up toward Malfoy’s elbow and god, that makes all the difference in the world.
“Thought you’d like that,” Malfoy says, and Harry doesn’t even care that he sounds insufferably smug because just then he also starts to move, fucking Harry in the slow, rolling thrusts that he knows Harry likes best.
Harry gets Malfoy’s arm licked clean far too soon for his liking, but it doesn’t matter because there’s still the Mark, and god, he’s so close, and then Malfoy does that thing with his hips, where he rolls them while grinding down and clenching his arse, and it’s too much. Harry comes hard, the low whines he can’t help but make muffled by where he’s still sucking on Malfoy’s forearm.
He comes back to himself when Malfoy gently tugs his arm free. Harry’s still got his mouth latched onto it, and he releases Malfoy’s skin with a small wet sound only to find, to his mingled excitement and horror, that he’s left a lovebite layered over the snake’s coils, the redpurple bruise barely visible against the blackened skin of the Mark.
Harry has no idea how Malfoy’s going to react to that, and he looks up in dread only to find Malfoy smiling at him, a small smile, to be sure, but shockingly warm. It’s the sort that Malfoy gets on his face sometimes after he comes, but he came ages ago, and Harry doesn’t know what to do with it now. He’s terrified of saying something wrong.
Malfoy rubs a fingertip over the lovebite. “You marked my Mark,” he says, amused.
“Er,” Harry says. “Yeah.” He wishes he’d stuck with butterbeer, because he’s still a little tipsy and this feels a little like navigating a minefield, except nothing’s exploded yet and he has no idea why. He feels a little sick in the aftermath of what they just did. In the moment it'd felt like taking something back; in the aftermath, Harry remembers all too well what the Dark Mark is symbolic of, and his stomach turns over.
He’s saved by any further verbal fumbling by Malfoy taking matters into his own hands. He lifts himself off Harry and props himself on his knees and forearms. “Well, Potter. Get on with it,” he says. He gives his arse an impatient little wiggle.
Despite his bravado, Malfoy’s trembling slightly, the picture of wantonness with his head pressed against his pillow, his spine curved sharply to offer his arse to Harry. Slowly, Harry strokes his hands up Malfoy’s thighs and cups his buttocks briefly before gently spreading them to expose his arsehole. It’s reddened and obviously loosened from being fucked, and it’s wet and messy, and there’s really no delicate way to go about this, is there?
His famed Gryffindor courage isn’t quite enough to get him to put his mouth on Malfoy’s arse, but the firewhisky in his belly gives Harry that last little push. He tries not to think too hard about what he’s doing as he pushes his face between Malfoy’s arse cheeks and licks a firm stripe from cleft to tailbone. Malfoy cries out, and Harry laughs.
“Your arse tastes like a candy cane,” he says, and dives back in before Malfoy can say anything to spoil this.
The taste of peppermint overpowers the taste of anything else, and Harry is surprised to find that he’s disappointed by that. He wants to taste his own semen mingling with the salty taste of sweat and the darker, hidden taste of Malfoy. He drags the flat of his tongue over Malfoy’s arsehole again, then carefully laps his way around the puckered rim before pushing the tip of his tongue inside as that ring of muscle flutters and twitches against his lips. Still peppermint. Malfoy’s writhing on the sheets by now, making shamelessly obscene noises that Harry thinks he’d do just about anything to keep hearing. Malfoy sounds like he’s about to fall apart entirely, and Harry’s thrilled to be the one making him lose it like this. He presses his tongue in further, straining until the underside scrapes painfully over his bottom teeth, but still there’s nothing but peppermint. He licks until Malfoy’s cries have blended into an almost-continuous wail, and at that point he figures they’ve both had as much as they can take.
He flips Malfoy onto his back in one smooth motion and in another moment he’s got his mouth fastened over Malfoy’s cock, and Malfoy whimpers low in his throat as Harry sucks. He can still taste peppermint and he wonders if Malfoy can feel it tingling. Malfoy burrows his fingers into Harry’s hair, fingertips pressing against his scalp, and then he comes. Harry’s caught off guard, but there’s not much and he swallows it down easily. He’s sort of surprised that Malfoy came so soon after his first time. He must really like being rimmed, and Harry files that information away for future use. He may not be a Slytherin, but he’s certainly not above bribery when it suits his purposes. He sits back and wipes at his chin with the back of one hand.
“Mmm,” Malfoy says muzzily. His eyes are closed and he turns onto his side and snuggles his face against his pillow. “What’d you think?”
“I think…” Harry says, and pauses before he carefully chooses his next words. “I think that as much as I like peppermint, next time I’d rather just have you.”
“Mmm,” Malfoy says again, and now he’s smiling. “Was hoping you’d say that.” He reaches down and yanks a corner of the sheets over his bare arse.
Harry slides out of bed and gets dressed, and by the time he finishes and turns back to the bed to say goodbye, Malfoy’s asleep. Harry sighs a little as he looks down at him. He’s never seen Malfoy this loose and relaxed, his face smooth and peaceful. Without a scowl or sneer pinching his features, he looks his age, a boy just barely edging into adulthood, and Harry smiles fondly down at him, ridiculously and inexplicably affectionate. And hell, there’s no one here to see it so he lets it be.
He murmurs a few charms to clean Malfoy up, then tugs his duvet up from the foot of the bed and tucks it around him, and Malfoy hums softly and snuggles up beneath it. His lips are pink and slightly parted, and Harry’s sorely tempted to kiss him now, when Malfoy won’t do anything to stop him.
But he doesn’t. Just brushes Malfoy’s hair back from his forehead and traces the arch of one eyebrow with a gentle fingertip, then turns and leaves the dorm.
****
The next morning, Harry forces himself out of bed, bleary-eyed and a little hungover. He sort of regrets going back to the party after leaving Malfoy’s bed, especially since Ron and Hermione had disappeared by that point and Harry hadn’t done much more than sit by himself and drink. He’s glad that Hermione insisted that he pack up his bag and lay out his clothing before they went out last night, because he’s pretty sure he couldn’t handle any of that now. He shucks off his pajamas and tosses them in the general direction of his bed before dressing quickly, and aiming a couple of cleaning spells at his face and teeth. He picks up the bag and can’t help but smile – it’d been an early Christmas gift from Hermione, layered with Undetectable Extension Charms, and it comfortably holds everything he’ll need for two weeks away from Hogwarts while still being small and light enough to sling over one shoulder – and heads downstairs.
He finds Ron slumped over in a chair near the fireplace, his own charmed bag sitting on the rug at his feet. Harry drops down into the sofa sitting kitty-corner to Ron’s chair, and Ron looks up.
“You look about like I feel,” Ron mutters, and Harry grunts in response. “Don’t worry, I talked Hermione into getting us something for it.”
Harry glances over at Ron. “Hermione just happens to keep hangover potions in her room?”
Ron shrugs a shoulder. “You know Hermione. Always prepared for anything.”
“I could kiss her,” Harry sighs.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Ron says mildly. “By the way, I noticed you and Malfoy disappeared during the party.”
Ron’s abrupt segue from kissing to Malfoy has a shiver of apprehension spiraling through Harry’s stomach. He aims for casual. “Oh?”
Ron sees through Harry’s forced nonchalance in an instant, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Were you dueling?”
So he doesn’t know after all, and Harry’s surprised to find that that instead of relief, he only feels mildly disappointed. He’s tired of keeping secrets from his best friend and making up excuses to sneak off and meet with Malfoy. It’d be easier if Ron had worked it out on his own, but he hasn’t, and Harry’s gripped by the sudden urge to set him straight.
“Er…” Harry says, buying time to figure out the best way to drop this on his closest friend.
Ron mistakes his evasiveness for the obvious answer. “Better not let Hermione know you were fighting with the Ferret again,” he says with a glance over his shoulder, as if Hermione might be lurking right behind him, then turns back to Harry and grins. “But I’m not Hermione. I hope you hexed his bollocks off.”
“Um, right. About that,” Harry says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “There, uh, may have been less hexing and more bollocks.” Ron just stares at him, and Harry adds, “And also more cocks.”
Ron continues to stare blankly, and Harry can’t tell whether Ron genuinely doesn’t understand, or if he does understand and is desperately trying to work out how he’s wrong. “What.”
“Well…” Harry begins, trying to figure out the most sensitive way to elaborate. “Malfoy and I…”
Ron actually flinches back. “No, no. Don’t tell me this. Please don’t tell me this.”
Harry slouches in his seat. “Sorry.”
“At least it was just a drunken one-off?” Ron asks eagerly, leaning forward again. “Right?”
Ron looks so hopeful about it that Harry almost hates to burst his fantasy. He sighs. “Um. Right. About that.”
“Oh no, Harry. You’re really going to do it again?” He looks appalled.
Harry sucks in a slow breath. In for a knut and all that. “We’ve been doing it for a while, actually.”
Ron goes very still. “A while?” he repeats like he hopes he misheard.
Harry hesitates. This is going to be the worst part, telling Ron that this whole thing with Malfoy is actually his fault. “Er, remember a while ago there was that whole thing with Goldstein and you gave me the password to the Prefect’s bath? Well Malfoy was in there that first night and things just sort of… happened, er, after that.” It’s for the best that he skips the weeks of spying on Malfoy that came before anything happening. Harry doesn’t think Ron can take much more right now.
Ron looks horrified. “You’ve been doing Malfoy in there? I bathe in there!” he exclaims.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Gay’s not catching, you know.”
“Yeah, but whatever insanity’s possessed you to shag Malfoy might be. Ugh, imagine if I suddenly wanted to shag Parkinson.” Ron pauses to give a theatrical shiver. “Or Bulstrode.”
And just like that, they’re past the worst of it. Harry laughs as relief floods through him. “Bulstrode’s not attractive.”
Ron gives him a comical look of disbelief. “And Malfoy is?”
Harry thinks of Malfoy, stretched out naked on emerald sheets, his eyes intent and his customary smirk turned come-hither. He can feel his cheeks heating. “Well, I think so.”
“He’s a skinny, pointy git,” Ron says slowly, like it’s entirely possible that Harry hasn’t realized this yet.
“Well I guess I like skinny, pointy gits.” It comes out a little defensive and it’s all Harry can do to keep from folding his arms over his chest like a pouting child.
Ron pulls a face and then sighs. “Feel free to keep him all to yourself.”
There’s something deeper in Ron’s words. Not quite approval, but a reluctant sort of consent. Harry smiles at Ron. “I pretty much plan to.”
****
Harry can’t tell if it’s Hermione’s potion or Ron’s acceptance of this whatever-it-is with Malfoy that has him feeling so good. They make their way between groups of talking and laughing students and even though a thick blanket of ominously dark clouds swathe the sky, Harry can’t help but think how bright the day seems.
Shortly, Harry’s going to be bundled up in a warm compartment of the Hogwarts Express, and even though they missed breakfast, Hermione assured him that she packed up generous portions of muffins and pastries for them along with a big thermos of steaming hot tea. And then Mr. and Mrs. Weasley will pick them up at the station, and--
The sudden pain of a mild Stinging Hex explodes across Harry’s back, and he whips around with a small cry just in time to see a flash of blond hair disappearing back into the castle.
“What is it?” Hermione asks. She and Ron have come to a stop a few paces on and are looking back at him in concern.
“I, er, forgot something,” Harry says. “You two go on, I’ll catch up.”
He turns and hurries back up the steps before they can offer to come with him. He dodges a giggling group of first year Ravenclaws and scans the entryway for Malfoy. Another mild Stinging Hex calls his attention to the doorway of the room just off the Great Hall where the first years are sent to wait before they’re sorted. He catches another glimpse of blond hair.
As casually as he can, Harry makes his way over, and when he’s sure no one’s watching him, he slips inside, easing the door closed behind him.
“What’s with the Stinging Hexes, you arsehole,” he demands.
“I was getting your attention,” Malfoy says from where he’s slouched against the wall beside the door.
“There’s other ways of getting my attention,” Harry says, rubbing at the ache where Malfoy’s second hex had caught him across the shoulder.
Malfoy’s smile is more of a leer. “Oh, I’m well aware of that,” he says. “But I was being subtle. Or would you rather I had—“
Harry sighs. “What do you want, Malfoy,” he says flatly, cutting in before Malfoy can finish off that sentence with some outlandish proposition. Like ‘suck your come out of my arse,’ Harry’s brain supplies, and Harry pushes the memory away, along with the strong surge of arousal it elicits.
“What do I want?” Malfoy repeats, affronted, like he’s wrongly accused or a swooning damsel or some other such rot. “I only wanted to give you your Christmas present. But if you’re not interested…” He waves one hand toward the door as if inviting Harry to leave.
Harry blinks at him. “You got me a gift?” he asks, uncertain, and Malfoy nods solemnly. “Er, I didn’t get you anything.”
Because he hadn’t even entertained the possibility that Malfoy might want to get him something for Christmas. Exchanging gifts seems way too boyfriendy for what they’ve currently got going, and Harry’s not sure he’s entirely comfortable with their arrangement edging that way. Yeah, he still intends for them to have their promised talk after the Christmas hols because he very much wants exclusive shagging rights, as far as Malfoy’s body goes. But the rest of Malfoy can go lie down in front of the Hogwarts Express for all Harry cares. Except not really, because his body the one bit of him Harry actually likes. Or feels comfortable liking. He thinks it’ll be a while before he fully comes to terms with the fact that he finds Malfoy being an arrogant arsehole nearly as much of a turn-on as his bare bum or his gorgeous cock. Harry’s not sure what that says about himself, but he’s pretty sure that he won’t like it when he figures it out.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Malfoy says, and flicks open his robes like a curtain and cants his hips forward just a bit, and it’s a moment before Harry’s eyes catch on the outline of Malfoy’s half-hard prick, only just visible against the fabric of his trousers.
At first, Harry doesn’t think he’s serious. Or maybe Harry’s missed something somewhere. But a glance at Malfoy’s face and the smugly amused smile playing over his mouth confirms it. And for a moment Harry wonders what the hell possessed him to get involved with this arrogant, obnoxious, cocky git. He glances down at Malfoy’s prick, which seems to be filling out a little more under his gaze.
Oh.
Right.
Still, no reason to make it easy for the bastard.
Harry raises his eyebrows and tries out his best scathing look. “Seriously, Malfoy? You’re seriously giving me your cock for Christmas?”
Malfoy smirks at him. “Why not? It’s the gift that keeps on giving, after all.”
“You’re insufferable,” Harry tells him.
“Hm,” Malfoy says as he unbuttons his trousers and pushes them down his narrow hips. “I think you like it.”
He’s probably right, but Harry rolls his eyes and tells him, “I could list the things I actually like about you on one hand.” He begins to tick off points on his fingers. “Your arse, your cock, the fact that occasionally you shut your fucking mouth—“
“Ah!” Malfoy interrupts triumphantly. “You like my cock, and what a coincidence. Here it is.” He grips it by the base and gives it a little waggle of invitation, and Harry rolls his eyes again even as he sinks to his knees.
Harry leans closer, his mouth opened wide, and exhales a warm rush of air over the head of Malfoy’s prick before he draws back and looks up “What if someone catches us?”
Malfoy makes a low noise of frustration. “No one’s going to come in here.”
“We’re in here, aren’t we?” Harry says. Anyone else looking for a private space for a lingering goodbye could come right in. A shiver sweeps up his spine at the thought, and it’s not altogether unpleasant.
“Point,” Malfoy allows, and falls silent as someone laughs loudly just outside the door. They both look toward it, and still neither of them suggests locking it. Malfoy looks back down at Harry and his mouth curls up into a small, amused smile. “Well. If someone does come in, you can just pull out your wand and pretend we’re fighting.”
Harry wraps his hand around Malfoy’s cock and gives it a rough stroke. “And that’s going to explain the fact you’ve got your prick out how…?”
“We can say you Imperiused me.” Malfoy’s eyes light up at that and his prick throbs against Harry’s palm. “Actually…”
For a moment, Harry can only stare at him. “Are you mental? You seriously want me to use an Unforgivable on you during sex?”
“Well I hardly think it’s unforgivable if I’m asking you to do it,” Malfoy sniffs.
“You’re mad,” Harry tells him, and then just to be perfectly clear, “I’m not going to Imperius you.”
“We’ll see about that.” Malfoy says it like a challenge.
Harry sighs. “I’m not going to do it, Malfoy,” he insists, though a part of him feels like he might have better luck arguing with the wall.
“We’ll discuss this after you get back,” Malfoy says airily. “Now, we don’t have much time. Suck my cock.”
And because the train leaves soon – and only because the train leaves soon – Harry does as he’s told.