Chapter Text
His eyes feel heavy when he wakes up. His head is spinning and he can feel the taste of his foul smell on his tongue. He groans, turning on his back and throwing his arms on his mattress, spreading on his bed like a starfish.
Except that his left hand doesn't land on the soft and cushiony surface he expected it to, but instead knocks on something hard and bony and warm which twitches and whines. A sound all too deep to be Ginny's, however.
Harry abruptly jerks into a sitting position, eyes wide open and heart drumming against his ribcage, and regrets it instantly when he starts feeling queazy with the dizziness. He blinks a few times, afraid to look sideways. After a moment, and when his heart settles, he lets his fingers creep tentatively on his left side, trying to check if the thing on his bed was a product of his drunken imagination or if there really was a living body in his bed right now.
His splayed hand lands on what definitely is warm skin and a flat chest and very probably a fine set of protuberant ribs. Harry freezes and jerks his hand away, letting it hover over the warm expanse of skin, feeling the heat radiate from it on the palm of his hand.
The body twitches and groans and Harry's feels their skin goosebump at his touch.
Yep, there's definitely someone in his bed and that someone is definitely not Ginny and most certainly not a woman either. Fuck!
Should he start freaking out now or should he save it for later. Harry takes the edge of the comforter in his lap and pulls it up enough to look at the state of him. Yep, he's naked. Aaaaaaand that's some very suspicious stain there. Let's save the freaking out for later then. He needs a shower first.
Very carefully, Harry slips out of bed and trips up when his right ankle gets stuck into the comforter and almost falls flat on the fluffy bedside rug but manage to catch himself just before and only stumbles inelegantly, and quite noisily, against the armchair on the corner, definitely placed right here on the purpose to make Harry's life hell.
Fuck damn it!
His right toe hits the foot of the armchair and Harry swears and groans in pain, taking with him half of the comforter. The man is his bed moves, Harry can hear the sheets ruffling behind him, but apparently doesn't wake up. At least, he doesn't make his wakeful state known to Harry and Harry doesn't have the balls to check. He's rather keep his head buried in the sand at the moment, thank you very much.
Speaking of head, his is still very much spinning and his brain is pounding against his skull. The world, or at least his bedroom, starts wavering and another fit of nausea catches him.
Harry hurries to the bathroom, trying to run while keeping his back bent to avoid the worst of the queasiness. The spray of hot water on his face feels reinvigorating and slowly but surely some memories of last night resurface.
There was a pub. Not a pub, their pub. Their Saturday Night hang-out.
Everybody was there, weren't they? And there was this guy... the man with the hat.
He was all long legs and skinny bones. Dark Brown hair cut under his chin and wavy curls peaking out of a Black fedora. He had a cigarette in his right hand and a pint in his left. Harry remembers how his eyes were drawn to his delicate wrists and the posh way he was holding himself which clashed with his casual outfit.
And the hat, highlighting the paleness of his skin.
The man had caught his eyes as soon as Harry entered the pub.
How this man ended up in Harry's bed though, that was still a mystery. Everything else is a bit fuzzy in Harry's mind. He remembers a warm laugh and the movement of his throat as he threw his head back. He remembers being flirty. He remembers the man flirting back. He remembers the delicate touch of the cigarette butt against his soft and shapely lips. He remembers wanting to lick those lips. Fuck, but he was completely out of his fucking mind!
Harry wipes his face with his hands, combing his fingers through his wet hair under the running water, and sputters the excess of water dripping into his mouth. He feels better after his shower but his mind is still blurry and there are huge gaps of memories from last night.
He curls his towel around his hips and leaves the bathroom, hair dripping down his back and hairy chest. Before he opens the door his bedroom, he hesitates. There is a huge part of him that strongly wishes for the man to have disappeared while he was in the shower, saving him from the awkwardness of the morning after and the discussion in which he will have as he gently escorts him out of his house and turns him down. Another part of him, very deeply buried at the back of his mind, is curious and excited about this unexpected discovery.
Something constricts in his throat. He tries to swallow around it. There is no point in delaying the inevitable. He finally grabs the knob with strength and turns it open.
The first things he sees as he opens the door makes his heart lurch. A tuft of white-blond spread on his bedsheet and long lanky limbs of pale skin sprawled out underneath his comforter. The first thought that comes to his mind isn't, as one might think, that this man isn't the one Harry met in the pub last night, but his stream of consciousness instantly wanders towards restricted of minds, one of a disturbed past and unhealed wounds and a former archenemy he hasn't seen in almost seven fucking years.
He huffs out as if he had just been punched in the guts and his heart starts racing like crazy. The towel slips from his hips and he manages to catch it before it falls onto the floor only by the sheer spontaneity of his seeker reflexes, making a ball of damp sponge that he presses onto his crotch to hide his modesty.
The man moves and the blond hair falls on the side, revealing indeed — Harry could recognize it anywhere, even without his glasses and even after seven years of not seeing him — the pointy face of a certain someone that Harry's mind is too befuddled at this very moment to process the signification of their presence in his bed or the circumstances of such an occurrence.
His life is now officially a complete wreck.
It takes him a moment before he can move again. Before that he just stares, lips parted and heart pounding, at the man sprawled out, very likely naked, on his bed and wonders how the fuck something as fucked up could have ever happened and far from him the thought of trying to ignore and deny that it has, indeed, very obviously happened. His head hurts again and he slowly brings the palm of his right hand to his forehead and presses it against his skull, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing very strongly for it all to just be a fucking dream.
It doesn't work obviously but flashes of memories come back to him and oh, yes, he remembers. Well, he remembers about Malfoy, and his long skinny legs and his smiles and his dark brown hair cut chin-length and his fedora and the smoke of his cigarette dancing around him as he blew the smoke out sensually.
Right, there was no denying it. Malfoy was there. And there was no denying either that Harry had been obsessing over him all night long. He does not exactly remembers how Malfoy precisely ended up in this very room, without his glamour on and very obviously naked, in Harry's bed but he does remember the excitement he felt upon seeing him. Something he hadn't felt in years.
~
There was Ginny on his right side, Hermione on his left. Their usual table and his third pint half empty on the sticky wood. Ron snickering loudly and the sing song voice of Luna explaining excitedly our her distant cousin had come back to England after sending the last six years, doing in France. Harry had been distracted, barely listening to them. His eyes kept wandering to the bar, where the man with the hat was nursing his beer slowly, taking something out of his back pocket from time to time that looked suspiciously like those pocket phones that are starting to spread in the muggle world as the smoke of his second cigarette danced around him. He was one of Luna's acquaintances because Harry saw her give him a kiss when she came in and she chatted him up for a moment, although, that hardly meant they were close, or even that they actually knew each other.
Harry was slightly frustrated because from where he was sitting, he could barely outline his profile and then the words "ferret" and "that git" and "Malfoy" were uttered several times, pulling Harry's attention back to the conversation.
"What!? He's here?"
"Oh, yes." Luna's candid voice answered. "He's just over there, on that stool by the counter."
"Right," his friend replied in a blasé tone. "That guy over there, with the flannel and the dark hair and black hat, looking like some depressive indie rockstar...? That's Malfoy?"
"He's trying to keep a low profile..."
"Why did he even come back? Wizarding Britain was doing fine without him."
Harry stopped listening to their blabbering as his eyes were immediately drawn back to the man with the hat. He was sat on a high stool at the bar. His long slender legs were bent, clad in black skinny jeans that highlighted their interminableness and dragonhide black boots with a bit of a heel and a slight pointy end. They were shaking, jerking nervously against the footrest. His hands too were showing signs of nervousness as if unoccupied by a drink or a cigarette, their thin fingers tapped on the counter, rapping quickly one after the other and repeating the dance indefinitely.
His shoulders, which were bony but large, were hugged into a flannel made of shades of greys and ochres. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and revealed thin and pale forearms. Those were masculine and veiny but there was a delicateness to them, a certain elegance to their movement that Harry found utterly entrancing.
He wanted to touch them, run the tip of his finger along his pale creamy limbs, see how they would react to his touch. He wanted to splay his hand across the man's thigh, palm it and assess their softness and width. He wanted to see if under the fedora, behind the curtain of wavy brown hair, he would see familiar almond-shape eyes staring back at him with the same devastation in the depth of their grey.
Suddenly, overcome by the urge to see it for himself and talk to this new, older hype version of Malfoy, Harry stood up without a word or even a look of consideration at his group of friend — and girlfriend — and made a beeline for the bar where an empty stool stood right beside the man with the hat's.
~
Harry puts on some clothes, accioes his glasses and puts them on, clearing his throat. The worst git of all times, currently lounging under Harry's sheets, stirs slowly awake at the sound of him sloppily getting dressed and starts stretching his long limbs, showing off a very visible Dark Mark on his left forearm that Harry is most definitely sure wasn't there yesterday. He barely flinches, the sight of it no longer holding as much significance as it used to in his current life.
Malfoy moans, eyes fluttering open, barely aware of Harry's internal crisis.
"Malfoy!" He calls, voice hoarse and cracking at the end. The blond startles and sits up, looking straight into Harry's eyes with an insecure expression. His hair is shorter than last night and not styled into a bob—the back of his head is definitely cut shorter than the top—but it is long enough that his bangs are falling onto his eyes, soft-looking and baby-fine.
Harry loses his countenance, unable to access his memories from last night beyond their first encounter at the bar. Malfoy is sitting on his bed, crossed-legged, shoulders hunched and looking up at him hesitantly. Harry notices the fine silvery scars on his chest and shivers. He's not afraid of scars or even disgusted by them, generally, he has a few on his own that bears the ugly memories of a dark past. He had never seen scars that were most likely inflicted by himself before though and the knowledge makes him feel nauseous again.
He brings his hand to his face and ponders what to say to the man now. What is there to say in situations like this? This isn't everyday that Harry wakes up with some bloke in his bed with no memories of what the both of them have been up to. Harry isn't even gay. He has a girlfriend, long time, and they are in love and going to get married at some point when they are he is ready. He has no memory of the sex, if sex there was, and he doesn't do sex with men anyway. At least, not until now. Although Harry is rather confused by his utter lack of mortification at this very moment. It should definitely feel more awkward than this but it weirdly isn't. Not about the gay thing at least, though maybe a bit about the Malfoy thing.
He scratches his stubble. "Did we have sex last night?"
Harry is much too hangover to process the whole range of emotions he can decipher on Malfoy's face then. The blond parts his lips in a surprise at first and then he furrows his brows into a frown, mouth curled into a pout. "You don't remember?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.
Harry stammers, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. "Um, well, uh.... No."
The blond stills, straightening his back in a semblance of keeping his face. His frowning faces turns right and left, eyes darting around in search of his clothes probably. "Well, I reckon this sounds the death knell of our beautiful relationship, I suppose this is my cue? It was nice catching up with you, Potter, but I think I'm gonna go now. See you... never, I guess."
Suddenly, Malfoy's no longer on the bed but next to it, staggering on the rug while he tries to slide his long legs back into his skinny jeans hurriedly. Harry stares at him helplessly, realizing that hurting Malfoy's feelings matter more to him than the fact that he has a girlfriend on whom he obviously cheated on last night. Possibly with witnesses, he realizes, as flashes of memories come back to him in small bits. The softness of lips on his, hints of the woodsy scent of a man cologne mixed with cigarettes, the warm sound of a drunken laugh that isn't his own, kisses that taste of cheap beer on his tongue. Harry snogged him in the pub, he is almost sure, and Merlin's fucking beard he wasn't ready for the rush of excitement those memories provoke inside him.
~
Harry slid on the empty stool next to the man with the hat. "Hey, Malfoy!" He said as he propped his elbow on the counter. "Didn't think I'd see your pointy ferret face again around here. Did you miss the British weather that much? Or is it that you had an unpleasant stay on the continent? Nice hat, by the way." He added, holding his pint up in a toast. Although, he was rather thinking 'nice and pretty legs' when he said it, left hand on own thigh, sinking his nails in the fabric of his trousers to try and control the urge of touching them to feel how nicely Malfoy's slender legs filled those skinny slacks.
The dark-brown-haired man chuckled beside him and answered in a tone of voice that Harry recognized all too well. "Potter," he acknowledged. "Thank for the compliment, although one thing I didn't miss for sure is your dreadful sense of fashion therefore I'm not really sure I should actually consider your cheesy pick-up line as a compliment yet."
As he said that with his usual sneer in his voice, he turned his face slowly toward Harry, tilting his head on the side. The long strands of wavy hair fell in sensual elegance with the movement and his grey eyes, burning with intensity, met his own behind a haze of fluttering lashes. He smiled in a soft and cheerful way, pressing his lips together and licking them discreetly as his slid his left forearm on the counter and rested his chin on the palm of his hand. It was utterly devoid of all the nastiness and animosity he usually reserved for Harry, back when they were still Hogwarts students.
Harry laughed, throwing his head back, and Malfoy's smile stretched. He was blushing and averted his eyes, casting discreet glances now and then.
When Harry recovered and opened his eyes again, he was leaning dangerously towards the other wizard and his free hand was on his knee, stilling the staccato jerking of Malfoy's leg. He felt the blond freeze under his touch but he didn't try to push him away. It was just a friendly pat, it meant nothing, but it lingered and neither of them did anything about it.
"I'm not trying to pick you up, Malfoy," he said in an unusually low and husky voice. His hand still on his knee and his face much too close for him to be entirely honest. That was the alcohol's doing, though. Harry was already three pints in. He tended to drink a bit too much on weekends, especially when the previous week had been harsh. The last few days had been particular harsh and he needed to let it go and chill out a bit. "Although it's nice to see your unfriendly face back. Feels nostalgic. You look good, though," he said and then realized at Malfoy's parting of lips and pinking cheeks what he had just said and felt his own cheeks warm before adding, waving a clumsy hand in the air. "I mean, you look... better, like healthy and, like, generally... good. What have you been up to in France?"
Malfoy stared at him, inching back a little so he could try and study Harry's expression. His eyes were bright and piercing but he looked a bit confused about Harry's intention. He smiled again, glancing at Harry's hand still on his knee, when he decided that Harry might be genuine in his will to catch up with him, which he was, and decided not to get offended because Harry was very probably drunk already. As a reply, he let his own gaze trail down Harry's body in turn.
"Eloquent, as usual," he snarked. "And I suppose I could return the sentiment," he added, taking a sip of his pint. "You've filled out nicely since the war. Training must do you some good. You're not as pitiful looking as you were in seventh year, despite the birds nest on your head," he felt the need to add, grinning self-satisfiedly. "So you finally made it to the Aurors?" He asked, eyes lingering on Harry's shoulders and arms which were stretching his scarlet robes. "A dream finally coming true?"
Harry ignored the sarcasm imbued in the tone but he finally took his hand from Draco's knee on which it was propped and straightened up on his stool, using his own lap instead, as a steadying prop for his wobbly arm to support his drunkenly tipping upper body. Although he wasn't that drunk, in reality.
Harry nodded. "Yep," he said jovially. "Me and Ron both. On our way to senior Aurors already," he said proudly, turning his face and chest in the direction of his table where his friends were chatting livelily and showing his pint to his best friend in a mutual acknowledgement. It lacked conviction, however. Ron answered back with a similar gesture, an awkward smile on his frowning face.
Ginny glared at him but it didn't really matter at the moment. Harry was oh so content and excited to see Malfoy again and start a relatively friendly conversation with him. Something that had never happened before.
"Congratulations, then." Malfoy said, lifting his pint off the counter as well, without much conviction either.
Harry hummed and turned to the blond again, who wasn't currently blond but a pale-skinned brunet with a sexy hat on the top of his head. At least Harry found him sexy dressed like that. He looked relaxed and laid back and it was a good look on him.
"So you and the Weaselette are still together, I can see..." Malfoy stated after the silence stretched between them, Harry being lost in his thoughts. It isn't even a question, it is so evident for them to be together. Him and her, the Saviour and his girl, Wizarding Britain's favorite high school sweethearts.
Harry nodded, looking at his girlfriend again. She rolled her eyes in annoyance and ignored him sulkily. "Yes, seven years of living in bliss. We're still totally in love and so very happy together," Harry said. That was what they always said when being asked that question. It had become a habit but saying it sounded less and less true at years went by and Harry felt something uncomfortable settling at the bottom of his stomach when the words left his mouth, like a hint of profound unhappiness and growing frustration.
Malfoy wasn't fooled and he took a sip of his drink with a sardonic smile. "I see..."
"But enough about me," Harry said, attempting to divert the conversation away from his dysfunctioning relationship with his girlfriend. "What about you? What's with the Jack White look? Are you planning to launch into musical career?" He teased, grinning up to his ears.
The other wizard laughed, his eyes crinkled and his mouth wide open. Harry realized he had never heard him laugh before. "I'm just testing the waters," he said, readjusting his hat on his head.
"You're laughing as if you knew who Jack White was..."
Malfoy frowned but his grey eyes were still sparkling with mirth and he was barely hiding a smile. "I know who Jack White is," he said flatly. "I know the White Stripes... Well, at least one song of them," he added, looking embarrassed as if there was something shameful about having this kind of knowledge. Harry found it very hot that prim and proper stuck-up Draco Malfoy knew of the White Stripes, a very muggle music band, or duo whatever.
He stared at him, playing with his bottom lip, speechless. Malfoy played with the wooden counter, nervously tracing circles on it with his index finger.
"Who the fuck are you? And what have you done with my arch nemesis?" Harry asked after a long moment of silence. A silence that was soft and comfortable.
Malfoy chuckled, without looking at him. "People change, I guess," he whispered softly. "In my case, I had to."
Harry hummed, sliding his hand over the bar to reach Malfoy's cigarette pack. "Mmh yeah, I guess so..." He agreed taking a cigarette out without really asking. Malfoy glanced at him from the corner of his eye but said nothing.
"I have to thank you for that, though," he declared after a short while. Harry raised an eyebrow, the tip of a cigarette hanging on his bottom lip. "For giving me that chance. I owe you, Potter," he said, his grey eyes suddenly on him, bored into his own. "I could never truly repay you for what you did." His eyes were intense and bright like two burning fires, the sincerity of his words was humbling. Malfoy's gaze never quite left his own as he held him a lighter. "Do you even smoke?"
"Occasionally," Harry answered in a cough while Malfoy lit his cigarette and he inhaled the smoke. The blond raised a skeptical eyebrow under his hat, lips twitching up.
Harry coughed again, almost chuckling, as he exhaled the first puff of his cigarette. Malfoy rolled his eyes and turned his face away, hiding an amused smile that held a certain fondness in it, and then they both laughed. it was both relaxing and exhilarating. Like the end of something and the beginning of something new.
"Don't," Harry said in between two fits of laughter. "Don't distract me," he demanded, although it almost sounded like a plea. "I haven't forgotten that you didn't answer my question."
His eyes set themselves on his pale face, trailing them along his thin straight nose and across his parted lips and down his neck, following the movements of his throat as he swallowed and then back up into his grey eyes, fixing his look on his hazy gaze until he looked away, embarrassed.
He did look like the Draco Malfoy he had known, even despite the longish dark hair, but he was older, more confident and less dramatic. His jaw had filled out and his features had softened, erasing a bit of his sharpness. His eyes however had kept their wild intensity and extreme focus and they sent shivers down Harry's spine.
"So, what have you been doing in France? Apart from the singing and guitar playing, obviously?" He asked again, teasing Malfoy a bit more for his peculiar choice of style.
"You love my hat," the Slytherin answered.
"I love your hat," Harry admitted, taking a drag of his cigarette and drowning the bad taste in his mouth with a large gulp of beer. "Though, if I may offer you a suggestion..."
The fake brunet looked up into Harry's eyes, questioning.
"I think blond suits you better," Harry answered. And there it was, Malfoy's pretty blush. Merlin, how he had missed this. Teasing Malfoy may have been one of the highlights of his school years after all, in hindsight. "It is the essence of your identity. It's posh and delicate and unmistakable. It goes so well with the whole pale and slender prissy attitude, you know?"
Malfoy grimaced, raising a distant eyebrow. The corner of his mouth quirked into a very familiar smirk that gives Harry butterflies in his stomach. He felt some sort of rose-tinted nostalgia surging up inside him and suddenly he was back in Hogwarts, the imminent war only barely noticeable in the background, and he was reconsidering all the choices he had made since then. Since they won, since the trials and the ghost of Malfoy, scrawny and death-pale and barely standing up as he was giving his testimony. The glint of silent gratitude in his eyes. His empty gaze that followed Harry, haunting, even years later.
They had passed by in a flash, the last seven years. Harry had seen his life move forward without him, wearing away, too slowly and too quickly at the same time. He wanted something else.
"Are you sure you're not trying to pick me up?" Malfoy asked sarcastically, interrupting Harry's train of thoughts.
"So what if I am?" He replied without thinking.
The Slytherin widened his eyes, staring at Harry with a stunned expression for a second, white as a sheet and then his eyes darted away, looking right and left and everywhere but Harry. His knee started shaking again and he looked at his nails, a weak smile spreading on his lips.
He decided to ignore Harry's words though and drank from his pint. "Time just flew by, didn't it?" He said, looking up shyly. His nose and cheekbones were nicely colored and a soft smile was dancing on his lips.
"That they did," Harry replied, sipping on his drink.
"I haven't been up to much, though," Harry took another sip, staring studiously into his eyes. Malfoy was avoiding his gaze, looking into space somewhere on Harry's left. He was nipping on his nails again. "Apart from, you know, piecing myself back together and such. I've started over, I guess. Completed my Potions mastery, built a life over there, in Paris."
"Oh," Harry exclaimed in surprise, "wow. Congrats!" He hadn't expected Malfoy to be so serious about his studies. He had actually never imagined Malfoy would ever have to work. The war changed many things. Or maybe not, maybe he had never really tried to know him and had just made stupid assumptions based on his own prejudices.
He finished his pint and smacked the glass on the counter, asking for another one. He nodded at Malfoy and gestured for the same thing. Malfoy smiled by way of a thank you.
"So what, you're visiting then? How long are you planning to stay?"
~
"Whoaaa!" He exclaims, bringing his hand his pounding forehead. "Wait, just, wait! Okay?" He asks. It sounds more like a demand than a request but his head hurts like hell. "You don't need to be so dramatic! I'm sorry, alright? I'm just... " Malfoy stops mid air, his legs halfway into his skinny jeans. "I'm just a little bit confused. My head hurts and I don't know what happened and it's all a bit fuzzy in my head right now. It's—" He dares a glance at the blond's face. He looks as confused and embarrassed and awkward as Harry feels. "Weird, okay? It's weird. I just woke up next to a bloke and I've never, before... And that bloke is, you know, you. And I have very fuzzy memories from last night and it's all very much confusing but... Just.... stay, alright? Please? I mean... have a shower, at least. Some coffee perhaps? I don't know..."
The blond drops his trousers and straightened up, hiding his modesty. Harry stares, befuddled, at his nakedness, admiring the way the first rays of light illuminated his alabaster skin. He can see the soft fuzz covering his body standing straight in the fresh morning light.
He swallows. They did have sex, didn't they?
Malfoy is pouting, silent, looking everywhere but at him.
"Bathroom's that way," Harry whispers and then flicks his wand and mumbles something and a bunch of clean towels land haphazardly in Malfoy's arms. The man staggers in surprise but nods gratefully when he managed to stay up without dropping anything. "Just rummage about in the cabinet if you need anything, like, you know, for the hangover or..." Harry says waving about in the direction of the bathroom.
Malfoy nods again.
"Just help yourself, alright?" Harry finally says as he gets out of the room and heads downstairs.
~
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the novelty, or something, the excitement of catching up with an old acquaintance and reminiscing the good old times, he didn't know... But talking was so easy with Malfoy. It flowed naturally between them, like old time friends who don't need words to understand each other. It never felt distant just like it did sometimes with his old friends from school when Harry realized they had taken completely different paths and their lives were so different now that they felt increasingly estranged when they met up, leading to awkward silences and uncomfortable conversations.
Malfoy was fun, he realized. They were having so much fun. It was easy and smooth and lighthearted and fucking relaxing.
Even with Ron he seemed to have lost that, that frivolity, that casualness. Work seemed to hijack every one of their conversations and going out for a pint with his best mate almost inevitably ended with talks about their current cases and complaints about their increasing workload and annoying co-workers and demanding boss, etc. And it felt more and more like a work meeting. It was slowly and nauseously becoming the only thing they shared.
Malfoy and him had bonded in the course of exchanging a few words and a couple of pints. Their troubled past and heavy history wasn't an impediment, on the contrary, it was an impulsion, something that connected them in a way nothing else did and Harry kept feeling this sense of excitement that had him ask more and taunt more and push more to get to know that man he actually knew only snippets of whom he really was.
It was refreshing.
"Hey, Harry?" He felt a hand on his shoulder and snapped his head back, met his girlfriend's sad and distant gaze. He lifted his head questioningly. "We're leaving," she said.
Harry stared at her for a moment, hesitating. Merlin, was it that late already? Had he and Malfoy been talking all this time?
The Slytherin looked at his girlfriend and offered her an apologetic smile. "Ginevra," he greeted with a nod. "Long time no see. How are you doing?"
"Malfoy," she replied coldly, with a disgusted pout on her face, and then turned away from him, her eyes shifting haughtily to Harry, expectant. Harry looked at her and then at Malfoy who nodded understandingly, hiding his embarrassment and shame behind a soft smile.
Ginny pulled on his shoulder, growing impatient as Harry didn't seem to budge. He kept his eyes on Malfoy and the latter finally dropped the smile and swallowed, Harry could see his breathing sharpen and his jaw throbbed as he was clenching his teeth.
He sipped a swallow of his pint. How many had he had already? Five? Six?
"Malfoy came back to get married," Harry slurred. "Did you know that, Gin?" Malfoy gave a kick to his stool and they both looked at each other, laughing. Malfoy was pink on the cheeks and it clashed with his hair, much too dark for his complexion, in Harry's opinion. "His mother is insisting," Harry added repeating what the Slytherin had confided in him earlier. "She wants him to fulfill his duty as the sole pureblood heir of the great House of black and Malfoy dynasty. Now, he's in need of a well-bred Pureblood wife. Interested?"
Ginny blinked, unimpressed. She crossed her arms on her chest annoyedly. She was the one constantly nagging him about marriage though.
Harry ignored her show of irritated exasperation and he looked at Malfoy, instead. The latter was sipping his drink, hiding his embarrassment behind a drunken smile. "I don't think he should get married," he continued, boring his eyes into Malfoy's. The wizard's lips slightly parted at he gazed back, a hazy glow in the grey of his eyes. "We're way too young to get married, don't you think?" Harry rasped, his voice hoarse with alcohol. The question wasn't specially addressed to either one of them. He was talking to his girlfriend but his eyes had never left Malfoy's face, lingering on his pretty pink lips that glistened in the artificial light.
Ginny sighed, growing increasingly annoyed. Her face was flushed in anger when she pulled on his arm again. "Just settle your bill and come home with me, Harry. You're wasted."
Harry turned to her and realized her whole demeanor annoyed him to the highest degree. He wanted to tell her to piss off very badly.
There was no 'home.' There was her bedroom at the Burrow, where Ginny still lived with her parents and Ron and Hermione. And there was Harry's house at Grimmauld place in which she stayed, most of the time. Less and less these days, because they kept fighting. She wanted him to sell the house: too old, too big, too ramshackle. Holding too many memories. They needed to get over the past and start afresh, start a family, she said.
He couldn't let go of those memories yet.
Harry shrugged her hold off and took another sip, eyes wandering back to the uncomfortable-looking Slytherin, propped against the bar. "No, I'm fine," he said, fixing his eyes on his pale face, searching the depths of his shifty gaze.
Beside him, Ginny opened her mouth in shock and started at them both. Whatever she saw between them she didn't like because her face twisted into an expression of vileness and utter outrage. She glared at Malfoy, accusing him of this terrible state of play. He looked back at her, apologetic, raising the palms of his hands in a peaceful attempt at declining all responsibility in Harry's sudden decision.
"What the fuck, Harry!"
He turned to her and pinned her with an intransigeant stare. "I think I'm gonna stay here some more," he said. "You go ahead."
They started on a staring contest but before she was able to make a scene, her brother came from behind her and clasped his two big hands on her frail shoulders. "Come on, Gin," he said softly. He knew they weren't doing fine. They had had that conversation countless times before. They could barely control their tempers when they went out unless someone else was there to act as a buffer between them. Ron knew that and he knew there was no point in trying to make Harry change his mind. He was a stubborn arse and even more of a stubborn drunk. "Let's get you home." He ushered her away from them, casting a hateful glare at Harry that foresaw nothing good for Harry's future but he didn't say anything. Some part of Harry knew he was going to pay for this later but at present, he couldn't care less.
"So Malfoy," Harry said as his group of friend had finally left, sending him quiet and uncomfortable goodbyes. He put his hand on Malfoy's thigh as soon as they were gone, leaning against him and grinning evilly. "You're in for something stronger?"
The other wizard gasped and swallowed and stared into his eyes, lips parted. "Yeah," he said in rough and raspy voice.
~
Harry cooks him breakfast.
He does because for one, this is the least he can do. And because he had never had a one-night-stand before, so he doesn't know the ins and outs of the morning after. And because Malfoy is not a stranger. They're not friends and they're not enemies anymore, apparently, but they'll never be strangers.
He is frying sausages when Malfoy joins him in the kitchen. He turns the gas off and discards the pan on the stove, slowly turning around to meet him. The blond is leaning against the doorframe, looking downward, hands buried deep in his pockets, hiding his embarrassed face behind a too long fringe of blond hair. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up to his elbows and the Dark Mark on his left forearm is taunting him.
He is tall and lanky awkward in his body and as stark contrast with the man with the hat from yesterday that exuded confidence. Suddenly, Harry has flashes of memories hijacking his brain. Memories of clumsy snogging and lumbering fingers trying to unbutton trousers. Of staggering walks and uncoordinated movements. Of Malfoy's laughter, soft and happy and lighthearted, that Harry swallowed. Of the taste of cigarette and strong whisky and the woody scent of his cologne. Of swallowed breaths and muffled moans. Of his own hand, grabbing the back of Malfoy's head, and his fingers, running up into his fine hair. Of pushing him onto his bed and fits of giggling laughter and gasping moans.
Of something new and exciting and overwhelming.
Malfoy swallows and straightens up. "I'm gonna g—" he says as Harry tells him to "take a sit, have some coffee."
They both stop and look at each other. There is a tremor in Malfoy's jaw, his grey eyes are pale and questioning.
"Please," Harry reiterates. "Take a sit. I've made some breakfast."
Harry isn't a particularly good cook. He is decent when he wants to but rarely takes the time and his kitchen is sadly empty of healthy nutrients. It's not much but it is something and, at this point, Harry's pretty sure that if Malfoy stays, it won't be for the food.
The blond hesitates and then nods. Harry shows him the chair opposite him and Malfoy sits, sighing heavily. He props his elbow on the table and rests his head on the palm of his hand. Harry drops a mug of coffee in front of him.
"Thanks," he says with a croaky voice.
Harry nods and then turns around in a movement of panic. "I've made coffee but would you prefer some tea, perhaps? I can make you some tea..."
The blond slightly raises his head and his mouth quirks up into a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Coffee's fine," he says while grabbing the steamy mug abruptly, in order to make a point. He blows on the surface before taking a hesitant sip and putting the mug back on the table when it is decidedly too hot.
Harry makes two plates and puts them unceremoniously on the table.
There is an uneasy lingering silence when they both start eating. The only thing that can be heard is the clinking of silverware and the unenthusiastic chewing with the occasionally swallowing.
Harry casts a few obsessive glances, heart pounding in his chest. Malfoy puts his mug on the table and reclines against the back of his chair, plate barely touched.
"This is extremely awkward," he finally says.
Harry stops in the middle of shoving a mouthful of food down his throat, huffing amusedly. He abandons his fork and wipes his mouth with a cloth before straightening up and meeting his gaze, arm lying beside his half-empty plate of food.
"Yeah, um. Sorry, I just... You don't have to eat it, you know? If you don't like it..."
The blond smiles. "It's not that I don't like it," he confesses. "It's more like I'm a bit groggy and my stomach—"
"Yeah, I get it. I'm not particularly hungry either, to be honest."
Too happy to discard the passable food, both of them push their plates on the side and squirm on their sit to find a more comfortable position. Malfoy drinks his coffee. "Coffee's good, though. I feel better, already."
Harry hums in reply, taking a sip himself. His is black and strong but he put cream and sugar in Malfoy's. He didn't ask, he just knew.
"So," he says after another awkward silence. "What's gonna happen now?"
Malfoy's fingers twitch and he taps them nervously on the table. "What do you mean?"
The thing is... Harry doesn't really know what he means. So in lieu of a response, he asks, instead. "Do you remember about last night?"
The blond averts his eyes and licks his lips very slowly, unintentionally sensuous. "Most of it," he finally answers in a croaky whisper, his words seemingly stuck behind a huge lump in his throat.
They stare at each other in silence. Melancholic flames are dancing in Malfoy's eyes and Harry is entranced, his fingers itch with the need to reach out and take his hand.
"I remember," he blurts, "I think." It's not entirely true. It's just fragments of memories, shards of glass scattered all over his mind, glimpses of something, a taste, a smell, a flashing picture, a sensation. "Some of it," he clarifies.
Malfoy shoots him an intense stare and then he averts his eyes again.
"I've never done this before," he admits in a half-whisper. "With a man."
"I haven't either," Harry replies. "I've only ever been with Ginny."
~
"You what?" He exclaimed, a laugh creeping up his throat that he was way too drunk to try and hold back.
"Salazar Potter! You don't have to get your knickers in a twist about it! I'm just looking at my future prospects. Which are pathetically low these days, by the way... I'm hardly married yet."
"Merlin's holey old socks! That's not the nineteenth century anymore! Malfoy, come on!"
"That's how it is done in Pureblood circles. How it's been done for centuries."
"Nope, that was how it was before the war," Harry said, taking a gulp of his beer. "We're currently living in the twenty-first century! You don't have to abide to those outdated and barbarous practices anymore."
"Barbarous is slightly exaggerated, Potter."
"Right," Harry responded unenthusiastically. He drank some more and felt the rush of alcohol spread in his limbs. He started to feel dizzy, in a good, pleasurable way.
"This isn't the first war the Malfoys have lived through, nor the last," Malfoy explained. "My family's first records date back to the ninth century when we still lived in France. This is just an inconvenient setback but certainly not the end of such an incumbent tradition amongst our families. This is how we survived through much direr times. Things haven't changed as much as you wish they had. Believe me."
Harry snapped out of his daze and fixed his hazy gaze on the other wizard. "Wow," he exclaimed slightly bitterly. "You're taking this really seriously."
Malfoy huffed indignantly. "I don't think you'll ever be able to understand the weight of expectations that rest on my shoulders. The future of my family depends on me."
Harry hummed. "That's not fair," he said pensively. "Your parents should have been more far-sighted if that were the case. What if you hadn't survived the war? What if you're infertile or impotent or something? They should have begotten more than one child. One heir, one spare, isn't that right?"
Malfoy grunted his indignation and shot him a glare, one eyebrow raised unimpressedly. "Your point, Potter?"
"My point, Malfoy, is that this is all stupid shite!" Harry almost shouted, smacking his drink on the table and spilling half of it on the counter and all over his hand. "That's my point!" He added, laying it on thick.
Malfoy's started and widened his eyes in surprise. "Thank you for your astute insight, Potter," he said after a moment.
They both laughed, surreptitiously glancing at each other.
"Anyway," Harry started on a more relaxed tone. "Why did you come back here if your prospects are that low? Aren't there any Pureblood witches in France? I bet they were all fawning over you with your snobbish British accent and pretty porcelain face."
Malfoy huffed out a startled laugh, going pink on the cheeks and averting his eyes while repressing a grin. "Well, actually," he said evasively. "No." He let out a soft and bitter chuckle. "Not really, no." At Harry's curious frown, he explained. "Sorry to disappoint you..." he continued. "But the pale blond English boy that can't take the sun without looking like a crayfish afterwards is really not on back in France."
"Oh," Harry just said, feeling a bit like an arse, now. "So you didn't..."
"I had a couple of relationships, yes," Malfoy interrupted, answering Harry's implied question. "Nothing serious, though. I'm just... I don't know. But that's not exactly the reason why I came back here either. Mother insisted, actually. She'd prefer if I were to marry someone from our home country."
"What's wrong with the non-British witches?" Harry snickered, sarcasm bleeding through his words. "Not distinguished enough for the Malfoy's lineage?
"Haha," the blond retorted, taking it rather well, given the circumstances. His smile softened and he looked away, pensive. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I think she's afraid of the competition," he said, half as a joke. "Or she'd like me to come back here, maybe. Eventually."
Harry nodded, that he could understand. "And you'll come back, you think?"
Malfoy raised his head and looked at the pub around him, as if the old rusty place was going to give him the existential answers he was looking for. "No," he finally said in a sigh. "I don't think so.... If I ever find a nice witch willing to marry me, which, as for now, seems rather unlikely, I'll probably ask her to follow me in France."
Harry wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the sadness and the resignation in Malfoy's tone. But the idea that he would never come back left something unpleasant at the bottom of his stomach. In fact, Harry had no idea why, but the thought of Malfoy marrying some random pureblood just for the sake of his family lineage and then fleeing sneakily to back to France didn't sit right with him at all.
"Why?" he asked, voice particularly rough and croaky.
"I have my life there."
"You have your friends, here. You have your family."
"Do I?" The blond retorted and the desperation that lingered in the depth of his grey eyes made Harry want to hug him.
"My father is Azkaban," he explained looking away, pensive. "My mother is a recluse, withering away in the Manor. My friends, if they ever were such, have moved abroad, for the most part, or are in hiding. I have no job prospect. What's there for me here?" He suddenly asked, turning back his grey eyes on Harry. "Except misery?"
~
"Let's just forget about this, yeah?"
Harry finds that he doesn't want to forget. No, he wants to remember. "Yeah," he says despite his own feelings. It is still a relief because this new thing is scary and unsettling and part of Harry wishes he had never unveiled it, never started to scratch the sting... That he could go back to how things were before. Simple, planned, safe. "I think that's what's best for everyone involved," he says without conviction. He can't shake off the disappointment that plagues him right now though. "So, are you gonna get through with the marriage thing then?"
Malfoy laughs but it sounds bitter.
"Ultimately?" Harry specifies.
"Ultimately? Yeah, I suppose," Malfoy answers. "Though, I hardly see how it is any of your concern."
Harry ignores the bitter jibe. Instead, he bores his eyes in Malfoy's pale grey ones. "Why?" He asks, accusatorially.
"What do you mean 'why'?"
"Why would you go through with it?" Harry repeats. "You're gay."
Malfoy lets out an awkward laugh. "Wow," he says avoiding Harry's intent gaze. Annoyance pervading in his voice. "One drunken wanking session with you doesn't exactly make me gay, does it? What the fuck, anyway? Do I question your relationship with Weasley? I don't think so... What's it to you?"
Harry watches him spew his anger out, eyes riveted on him, studying every movements of his eyes and his mouth and the way his chiseled jaw throbs in carefully repressed frustration. 'He is beautiful' is what he thinks, mainly. And that he wants him spread out on his bed again. He wants to brush his fingertips on his alabaster skin more, map his entire body with his lips, nip the soft skin above his hip and lick across his ribs, follow the lines of his scar with the tip of his tongue. He wants to take his time, for that one. He wants to kiss him senseless and see every version of his face as he orgasms.
Perhaps he'd like that with other men as well, he isn't sure. He suddenly remembers the sensation of Malfoy's hard cock in his hand, the soft skin, burning his palm when he curled his fingers around it, the precome he smudged all over the head and the way Malfoy gasped and shivered and jerked in his touch.
Merlin, that felt so fucking good. He wants that. He wants that again. He wants to have Malfoy's cock in his hand again, wants to caress his balls, wants to grab his hips and steady him, put him wherever he wants and make him shake and moan. He wants to sink his own in his mouth, make him shut up, make him gag, ruin those pretty lips of his and spatter his come all over his pretty face.
His own prick starts throbbing in his own pants.
"So I'm the only one who felt it?" He asked, sounding much more hurt than he had intended to. "Is that it?
Malfoy stills and lifts his eyes to him, lips parted and confusion straining his features.
"Because I don't think I was out of my way to believe you were at least as much into it as I was," Harry continues, feeling his raw emotions boil inside him, ready to explode out of him at any moment. "For my part, I don't think I can discard it as some drunken sex. I think it was more. To me, at least, it was definitely something more. Last night was... I don't really remember it but I can grasp how I felt about it and it was eye-opening. Like, in a life-changing way. I want to know. I want to know, Malfoy! Because it feels like I've found something I've been looking for my whole fucking life without ever knowing I was and I don't think I can go back to the way things were before and ignore this, with or without a girlfriend..."
Malfoy gasps and his expression softens. He stares at Harry no longer in confusion but with the full understanding of a shared experience.
He swallows and the silence lingers between them, heavy with unsaid words and newly discovered feelings.
"I never said I didn't feel it," Malfoy finally says in a shuddery whispers. His eyes are on Harry, burning with an unsettling intensity. "I just... "
"Don't you want to explore it?" Harry suggests. "That part of you, I mean."
Malfoy shakes his head, his beautiful hair floats in the air around him like a farandole and falls back onto his face like a delicate feather. He laughs mirthlessly. "I don't think I have the luxury."
"You do," Harry says, breathily. "You just have to make the choice. It's just a matter of choice."
Malfoy doesn't answer, he looks away. They are both quiet, both panting heavily, listening to the hard thrumming of their hearts.
"I just think this is unfair," Harry eventually says, in a pensive whisper. "It's unfair to you and it's unfair to the poor witch you're planning to marry. And it's unfair to the children you'll engender, because they'll never be born out of love. And they'll know it."
Malfoy sneers, an ugly bitter thing that reminds Harry of who the wizard was before, leaving a trace on his poor beaten heart."You such an idealist, Potter. It's frankly sickening."
Harry grins in response but he doesn't feel like it. Something like regrets is settling in his chest. The sensation that this is a momentous change in his life and yet something possibly marvelous and beautiful is escaping him, elusive and ungraspable.
"Right," Malfoy says, standing up. "I think I've extended my stay long enough. Thank you, for your hospitality and your terrible coffee and your entirely self-serving and utterly foolish suggestions."
His entire body seems to vibrate with an entrancing energy and Harry watches him gather his things with trembling hands.
~
He burst out laughing, head thrown back and a generous throaty sound giggled out of his mouth. His hat was still stuck on his head and Harry wondered if he was using some kind of charm to keep it in place because it was still perfectly laid on his head, slightly tilted on one side as if it had just been put.
Harry was laughing too, guffawing drunkenly, his hand was splayed high on his thigh and he was dangerously leaning into the other man, their faces suddenly close.
There were tears in the brunet's eyes and his face was beautiful when he laughed. "Fuck me, Harry!" He blurted, his pretty lips stretched sensually across his face. Yes, Harry had become 'Harry' in the course of their long drunken conversation, apparently. He wasn't exactly sure when that had happened but he could only rejoice about it.
Malfoy was still giggling. Harry honestly didn't remember what about, something he had just said, something utterly stupid most likely, but he didn't give a toss at this point, completely entranced and utterly charmed by Malfoy's beautiful laugh.
His hand was on his slender shoulder when the man was finally recovering his senses, sliding unashamedly up his delicate alabaster neck until the tips of his fingers reached the back of his head, tangling in the longish brown and wavy hair. Harry stroked his thumb softly along his collarbone. Malfoy shivered at the touch, lips parting confusedly. In a soft gasp, his grey eyes pinned him in place glowing with something new. Something which possibly mirrored what Harry felt at the pit of his stomach. At least, he hoped it fiercely.
Lust.
Sheer unabashed lust.
One thing was sure in that hazy moment, apart from the ten or so drinks they had both had at this point and the relative lateness and quietness around them, and it was that Malfoy didn't do anything to move Harry's hand away.
"If I can be of service," Harry surprised himself to say, his voice gruff and hoarse, referring to the last thing Malfoy had said. The man snorted but a pretty blush spread on his face and his eyes darted away before turning back on him, studying him fixedly, pupils blown.
He gasped when he saw what he was looking for in Harry's open face. "You're being serious," he just said.
Harry grinned, feeling his own face burn. His left hand was still on Malfoy's neck, thumb caressing his skin softly, earning him shivers from the other wizard. His right hand was supporting his head, elbow propped on the counter. Harry leant forward, his hair brushing the other man's face. He could feel his warm breath on his skin.
"What if I am?" He whispered against his ear.
Past the shock, Malfoy's eyes narrowed on him. "Don't you have a girlfriend?" He pesteringly reminded Harry.
"Do you care?"
Malfoy's breathing hitched, his skin goose-bumped under Harry's hand. He was now cupping his face, their mouths close. Their gazes, half-lidded and intoxicated, were lost into one another.
Harry's fingers tensed around Malfoy's neck, tightening his grip around his nape. His other hand left the counter to clench around his slender hip. "Can I kiss you?" He whispered over his lips. Malfoy's breathing hitched again. "I really want to kiss you right now."
Malfoy didn't reply but the way his eyes fluttered shut and how his teeth raked slowly over his bottom lip were answer enough. He leant further into him and caught his lips into a hot tentative kiss.
Malfoy moaned and responded eagerly, opening his mouth to let Harry deepen the kiss. He was entrancingly delicious. He tasted of man, of cigarette and the burning tang of firewhisky on his tongue. Harry licked it, grabbing his face in a desperate clutch, feeling the man shiver and respond at the demonstration of raw and possessive power. He finally took Malfoy's hat off his head and put it away so he could tangle his fingers in his long wavy hair. Leaning even closer, he cupped Malfoy's face with both hands, feeling the rough stubble on his square jaw and not caring one bit about the burn of it. He just wanted to eat him, swallow him, suck his soul out of his mouth. His cock was already tensing his trousers.
Malfoy melted into it, turning into putty in Harry's hands.
When they were both out of breath, Harry released him and rubbed his forehead against his, hands tangled in his hair, still.
"I've been thinking about this," Malfoy admitted in a breathy, panting whisper.
"About me?" Harry asked, heart leaping hopefully.
"No, I—not you," he said. "Or maybe yes, maybe you. Maybe it's always been you, I don't know. I just meant... this. Doing this, with another man."
Harry had inched back to have a better look of him and how flushed and disheveled and beautiful and honest he looked. He couldn't explain the way those words made him waver, his stomach in knot and and heat pooling at the pit. He was shaking and burning with want.
"I've been thinking about it for as long as I remember thinking about sex."
Fuck, he was driving him crazy.
"I haven't," Harry confessed, in turn, and then he couldn't help kissing him again, the scent of him so heady and alluring. The wizard let escape a soft whimper when Harry released his lips again, a thread of saliva still joining them together. He grabbed his face again, with strength and a possessiveness he didn't know he had. "I'm thinking about it now, though."
Malfoy's grey eyes flickered with want, pupils blown wide. He huffed. "I've never done this before," he whispered.
"Me neither," Harry replied. "But maybe you should," he added teasingly, grinning against his heady lips. "Before you get married to the wrong wix."
~
"I'd better go," Malfoy says dryly.
His heart starts bolting in panic. It couldn't be the end of this, already. Not before anything has really started. The more Harry remembers and the less he wants the other man to leave.
He reaches a hand and grabs his wrist. "Draco," he whispers pleadingly.
The blond stills and stops in his tracks. Harry tugs on his hand slightly and makes him turn back. Malfoy raises his head slowly, revealing his flushed face underneath a curtain of white-blond hair. Their eyes meet. His are hazy, half-lidded and those wide-blown pupils of his are covering the grey.
Harry feels a bolt of lightning running through his body. It awakes slowly, remembering the feelings and sensation of Malfoy's mouth on him, of his grazing stubble and the silky touch of cock in his hand, of his heady, delicious manly scent.
Harry fucking wants him and he doesn't care anymore, about fucking anything.
Like a couple of magnets, their bodies slot into each each other's and Draco's mouth is on Harry's in an instant. The kiss is brutal, raw and needy, and so delicious that Harry is losing his mind. He grabs the blond's face in both hands and Draco does the same, moaning into Harry's mouth and swallowing his groans into his.
This time the blond is much bolder than he was yesterday and Harry loves it. He relishes in the grinding of his hips against his crotch and the clacking of their teeth together as the kiss turns hot and filthy.
Draco pushes him into the table, pressing him against the wood. His nimble, capable hands start exploring Harry's body, feeling the muscles through the soft fabric of his clothes. Harry bucks into him, holding his hips possessively. Using his superior strength, he swirls them around and presses the blond onto the table, lifting him up so he sits on the edge. The remains of their breakfast scatter and spill around, Harry swiped them off the table with a need and an urgency he hasn't felt in years.
Their hands are clumsy and tentative but greedy. He slides his fingers up Draco's chest, sneaking underneath his shirt and feeling the burning trembling skin underneath. Draco rests his arms around Harry's neck and steals another filthy moany kiss. They are both shaking with want.
"Harry," the blond breathes when Harry sucks on his neck, making him gasp and shiver and buck into him.
"I wanna fuck you," Harry responds. "So bad."
Draco shudders from head to toe at the words, his eyes are glazed, burning with lust. He doesn't say yes but he sags in Harry's arms. Harry kisses him and hovers his lips against his temple and his ear.
"You're so fucking sexy," he whispers and then his mouth trails down his neck and sucks on his collarbone. "I want to see all of you."
Draco whimpers, throwing his head back, giving Harry all the access he desperately needed. He pushes back down on the table, struggling with his t-shirt, incapable of tearing it off his chest in his haste. A deep want and his growing frustration combined, Harry blinks and when he opens his eyes again, he realizes he's just performed wandless magic, as Draco is stark suddenly naked on his kitchen table, his flannel still hanging from his elbow on which he is propped and his boots and long black socks still on.
His erect cock stands proudly on his stomach, the head glistening, smudged with precum. Harry has the pleasure of discovering that Draco apparently takes as much care of his appearance underneath his clothes as he does with his outside look. He definitely trims himself and only half an inch of fine fair hair covers his body between his thighs. Fucking beautiful!
Harry is rock-hard and his breath catches in his throat at the sight of the blond, all white creamy skin and those scars thrashing across his chest, shivering on Harry's kitchen table, his two legs dangling on each side of him. Harry splays his hand on him and touch, earning a gasp and a long humming groan from the man at his mercy.
He isn't gentle or soft when he manhandles Draco into the position he wants him to be. He grabs his hips with strength, sinking his fingers in his flesh, and yanks him hard, dragging him to the edge of the table where he gets easy access to his nicely twitching puckering hole. He throws one of his leg over his arm and unbuttons his trousers with his free hand, freeing his weeping prick from its prison of fabric. He strokes it a bit before spitting on it and smearing his saliva between the crack of Draco's pert arse. Another gasp, another breathless moan. Draco's eyes roll back at the back of his head as he writhes on the table. Harry directs his cock and pushes in without fussing. He knows it's not going to work. He hasn't done much anal with Ginny but he tried enough times to know this, at least, but still. Part of him wants to make him hurt, a vile, revengeful part of him has forgotten who it is that is spread on his table. It's fucking Malfoy and as much as Harry wants him, there's also a little part of him that hates Draco for making him feel that way, needy and helpless and desperate to fill him. He doesn't forget either, that he has cheated and is cheating again, on his girlfriend, with fucking Malfoy, of all people.
The blond cries and winces, presses his hand on Harry's stomach. "Stop, please wait."
Harry does but keep pressing against his entrance, unrelenting. He watches the jerky rise and fall of his ribcage while Malfoy mumbles something and catches his wand in flight. With a quick flick of his wand he casts a lubricating spell and now warm slick covers Harry's dick and Malfoy's arse, dripping down his balls like a wet pussy. Harry's eyes flashes with hunger and Malfoy looks up at him through half-lidded lashes, his eyes glazed and enrapturing, driving him insane.
He wants to thrust hard into him, split him open, make him scream. But he doesn't, he pushes in slowly, forgoing any kind of preparation because neither of them can wait. It might be his first time but Draco looks like he'll will himself open for Harry if he has two and when Harry splays his free hand on his chest and tells him to relax, holding his gaze with all his intent, Draco opens up for him, beautifully, his cloudy grey eyes locked into Harry's, lewd and filled with unabashed lust.
His entire body is quivering, muscles taut and sweat pearling out of his pores as he clutches the edges of the table with white-skinned knuckles. His face is strained with the effort but flushed down to his chest. Harry pushes in deeper. It tight and wet and silky soft, sucking him in perfectly. Only the head is in but he's already overwhelmed with the sensations. He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath.When he opens them the sight is still as delicious and he takes a moment to take it all in before sinking deeper into the smooth tight channel.
Malfoy keens, wincing, and Harry notices he going soft. He pauses, sliding his right hand, the free one, up his chest and pinch a nipple which earns him a beautiful whimper. His slides his hand further up and cups Malfoy's face, thumb slipping into his mouth. Malfoy closes his eyes and suckle on it instinctively. Harry's cocks twitches and grows harder in his arse, Malfoy hums and moans around his thumb.
Harry finally decides to make it easier for him. As he leans over, he catches his mouth in a filthy kiss and with Malfoy's wand, the familiar magic of it instantly enveloping him into a protective warmth, he mutters a soft cushioning charm and a levitating spell so the latter doesn't have to keep his legs up. He still does, curling the slender length of them around Harry's waist, but it helps.
Harry can focus on caressing his body and with a last lubricating spell on his right hand, he grabs Malfoy's softening shaft and strokes him softly.
He is fully inside now and he thrusts in frantically, pounding hard and relentlessly into the blond's arse and it's so hot that his orgasm hits him by surprise and before he can make sense of it, he's spilling his cum deep inside Draco in a long groan.
The blond pushes his lazy hand away and grabs his own cock, wanking himself furiously as Harry rides the aftershocks of his orgasm in his arse, pounding deep and slow into him. He comes too, crying out and throwing his head back, back arching beautifully on the table amongst the spilt coffee and scattered plates and mugs and cutlery, the cold sausages and melting butter.
This is all a right mess and Malfoy, with his blond hair sweaty and sticking up on one side, his skin palsied pink and his chest heaving jerkily as he catches his breath, is so gorgeous in the midst of all that mess.
Harry bends over him and grabs his breathless, panting mouth into a loving kiss. It was amazing. This is all amazing and beautiful and exhilarating. Harry feels butterflies in his stomach and he's entirely dizzy with giddiness.
He is sprawled all over the blond, cock slippery and softening, but still buried inside him. He mouthes kisses over the top of his chest, tracing his finger along his collarbone, giggly, euphoric.
"Does that answer your questions," he says, wondering how long he has until the bubble pops. He wants to enjoy the moment, take as much as of it as he can. They both laugh.
"Fuck you, Potter!"
Harry straightens up, grinning to his ears and thrusting his half-hard cock in the man's arse in retaliation. The blond gasps and hisses at the drying friction. "Maybe next time," he croaks and then plants a hot sloppy kiss on his mouth before he can protest. Harry hasn't missed how his grey eyes flared in angry disbelief, with barely disguised hope, when he said it.
The kiss is soft and languorous but it doesn't last long because Harry soon realizes the cushioning charm is wearing off, as is the levitating spell, and he helps Malfoy up instead.
They both clean up and get dressed, in quick and clumsy and awkward. The blond looks confused, lost in his dreams. Harry doesn't know what to say, how to feel or what to do about it. He just wants to take Malfoy in his arms and tell him that everything will be okay and kiss his doubts away.
He does that, running a hand in his soft hair, touching the silkiness of it between his fingers. The other wizard indulges him, leaning into the touch, eyes fluttering shut and breathing softly against Harry's lips.
Harry kisses him, again and again. He can't seem to stop and Malfoy lets him, moaning into his mouth and slipping his arms onto his shoulders.
"It was nice," Harry thinks he hears him whisper but he can't be sure. The blond is smiling though, something shy and soft and filled with fondness and sadness alike.
It makes his heart clench.
~
"You should marry me."
Malfoy let out a surprised laugh, coughing the smoke of his cigarette out, and giggled. "You're a silly drunk, Potter," he said, eyes twinkling with mirth.
"I'm serious," Harry says, half-heartedly, inching away from the sudden cloud of smoke between them.
Malfoy takes moves the burning cigarette away and takes a sip of his drink. "Wizard can't get married. What would be the point in marrying anyway?"
"Muggle can though," Harry remarked with a shrug. "Like, they've been discussing it. Some sort of civil partnership was voted this winter, I think."
The blond raised an eyebrow, fascinated. "Really?"
"Really."
"How nice," he muttered noncommittally turning his eyes away and focusing them on his half-empty glass of firewhisky, looking pensive. "How do they have children though?" He suddenly asked zooming his intent gaze on Harry.
Harry shrugged. "I suppose they don't..."
Malfoy turned away again and nodded, let out another noncommittal noise.
~
The Floo chimes in the parlor and Harry barely has the time to push Malfoy away and straighten his clothes before he can hear his girlfriend's voice inquiring about him in the different rooms of the house.
"Harry?"
Fuck!
Ginny...
He had completely forgotten her existence. Not her existence, per say. He was well aware of the fact that he had a girlfriend all the time he was fucking Malfoy into his kitchen table and when he was cuddling him afterwards, too. It was the concept that he remembered but the real person, the fact that she could be there at any time because she practically lived there, has very conveniently skipped his mind. And while cheating on your theoretical girlfriend didn't bother him much the sudden reality of it is a completely different matter.
Especially when he finally meets her in the living room, looking tired and insecure. Her eyes red-rimmed and dark shadows under them. She looked pretty small in the huge cannon hoodie she's wearing that she most likely borrowed from her brother.
"I've been trying to call you! I was worried..."
"I'm fine," Harry says, burying his hands in his pockets. He feels awful. Her presence and the way she looks and her pitiful demeanor makes him want to vomit. The guilt churning his stomach. He doesn't regret what happened with Malfoy, he realizes, but he does regret his poor behavior regarding her and the way he treated her. She deserved better, she didn't deserve any of what he put her through.
He feels a lump growing in his throat.
"Can you explain yourself, Harry?" She asks, her voice is croaky too.
Honestly, he doesn't even know what is there to explain. How can he say this? How can he justify this? The answer is simple. He can't. He remains quiet and perhaps she can read it in his eyes because hers have tears welling up at their corners.
Harry wishes he could comfort her, take her in his arms and tell her that everything is going to be fine. He can't though because he's fucking lost and he doesn't think it's true and because he lost that right anyway.
The silence lingers and it's heavy. It's been this way for months already. Quiet, uncomfortable and putrefying. Ginny sucks in a shuddery breath and then her eyes are drawn to something behind Harry's back. For a split second she looks surprised and then she looks horrified, staring at Harry with a mix of disgust and pure hatred.
Harry hears a soft ruffling noise and swirls around very slowly, heart taking a leap.
Draco is there, tall and lithe silhouette elegantly leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest and legs crossed at his ankles. His too long fringe is falling over his eyes that Harry knows are a deep grey, intense and focused. His face looks impassive but Harry knows from the way he holds himself, the fake nonchalance and the haughty way he holds his head that inside the other man feels a turmoil probably as earth-shattering as Harry's.
He's biting his lips nervously, hiding it behind a stern expression. Harry's heart skips a beat, his chest constricts and his heart starts racing. 'Fuck, he's beautiful' is what Harry thinks. He's beautiful.
And Harry wants.
He wants more than he ever wanted before, more than he ever wanted Ginny. He aches for it. His gaze flicks from him to her and her to him, hesitant.
Ginny breaks the heavy silence that weighs on all of them. "Harry?" She asks in a shivery voice. "Please tell me this is not is what I think it is," she pleads, her voice faltering at the end, almost a whisper. She looks livid.
Harry wants to take it back, to undo what he did, rewind and start all over again. He wants to do this the right way. He wants to deny everything. No, Ginny, this isn't what it looks like. Malfoy was too drunk to Apparate last night and I didn't know where he lived so he crashed on my couch.
After all, there is nothing comprising about this scene, nothing at all. Except for, maybe, the look of guilt on Harry's face and the deep longing in his eyes.
Harry wants to say that, to remove the agony from her face, take her in his arms and reassure her, but he can't. The words won't get out. One glance at Malfoy — at Draco for Merlin's sake. He was balls deep inside him just a few minutes ago — and Harry's heart wavers, his thoughts going haywire.
"I'm sorry, Gin. I'm so sorry," is all Harry can say in the end.
She doesn't try to hold her tears back and they run down her cheeks. "How could you do this?" She says, breathless, almost choking on the words. "How could you, Harry? With him?"
Those words are daggers sent right through his heart, each one of them. His knees almost give away and his heart beats way too fast, the world around him starts spinning. How could they come back from this? How will they move past this?
Millions of thoughts are crossing his mind. He thinks of hundreds of ways to repair his mistake, make amend and ask for forgiveness. He almost drops to his knees and begs but the blond disaster is leaving, telling Harry so and this can't be happening. Harry can't let him go like this. He can't.
"Ginny, please. We need to talk. Let me show him out and I'll tell you everything. Just let me show him out, please. I'll explain everything. I'm so sorry, please. I'll just need a minute."
In the entrance hall, Harry presses Malfoy against the front door and grabs his face with desperate urgency. Draco lets him kiss, doesn't shy away, doesn't try to push. His body responds to Harry so beautifully, going pliant for him.
"Harry," he breathes, between two hot and sloppy kisses. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—" Harry wants him to shut up. He doesn't want to hear it, he wants this to last, as long as it can. Because he knows that the moment Malfoy steps through the threshold, they are over. So he kisses him, again and again, assaulting his mouth with his tongue, bucking into him, pressing the entire bulk of his body against him. "I—" Malfoy starts, breathless. "Thank you, I—" Harry would swallow every breath he takes if he could. "Thank you for everything I didn't mean—I—I—I can tell her that nothing happened. I'll tell her—"
Harry slips his tongue inside and bites his lips until he can feel the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. "Shut up," he says and then he licks over the wound he's just caused. "Promise me," he demands, eyes bored into his and holding his face firmly in his rough hands. "Promise me, Draco. That you won't get married."
There is a moment of hesitation and confusion in Malfoy's eyes. "You know I can't promise that, Harry. You know I have to. I'm twenty-four I need to get married. I need an heir."
"You're gay, Malfoy. You're gay! Don't get married. Promise me."
There is a tremor in his jaw, and he lets out a shuddery sigh, looking away. "I can't."
"'course you can," Harry whispers, breathless, into his mouth. He sounds almost pleading. Maybe he is.
"Don't ask me to turn my back on my family just because of this trifling fling with you."
Of course. Of course. Right. Of course.
Harry collects himself, finally. Obviously Malfoy would never turn his back on his family. Just like he won't turn his back on Ginny. He won't throw away years of a relationship for a meaningless encounter with a former enemy. What a stupid thought it was to even consider it.
Harry steps away and straightens Malfoy's clothes. He gives him one last kiss on the lips and Accios his black fedora, only for the pleasure of putting it himself on Malfoy's head. It looks even better on him when he is blond.
"I've loved fucking you," he says against his lips, for good measure. Malfoy's breathing hitches and the top of his nose blushes prettily.
"I liked it too," the blond answers. Harry winks and finally lets go of the lapels of his flannel. "I know," he whispers as he walks back toward the living room where his girlfriend awaits.
Malfoy turns away and opens the door. It slams behind him when Harry enters the living room. Ginny looks devastated, tears still running down her cheeks and Harry's heart sinks in his chest, twinging painfully to the point it became hard to breathe.