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“You’re a real bastard, Draco.” Harry tossed away the quill damp with drool in disgust, vigorously smoothing out the creases left on his cheek from his nap on the desk. These were his first words upon waking.
Draco was in the midst of composing Professor Binns’ assigned essay, “Comparing the 14th-Century Legends of ‘Burning Witches’ to Historical Truths and Explaining the Necessity of the International Statute of Secrecy.” Hearing this, he looked up from the spread-out parchment and reference books, glaring fiercely. “Then you’re a troll, with a head bigger than a Cerberus.” His eyes swept over Harry’s own parchment, which held only a few crooked lines, and a sneer twisted his lips—one Harry had come to know well and privately dubbed the “like godfather, like godson” smirk, a prelude to venom. “And a dunce of a Potter who can’t even manage a twelve-inch essay,” he added.
Harry loosened his silver-and-green tie; the damned thing had tried to strangle him in his sleep. “I’m serious, Draco. You can’t keep being such a bastard to me.” Curling in on himself like a shrimp, Harry buried his head against his book, then turned just enough to fix Draco with a stare from those green eyes, infamous even within Slytherin. “Or I can’t promise what I might do.”
Draco dismissed him, attributing it to one too many Divination classes with that batty old woman. “Potter, I know this is difficult for your Blast-Ended Skrewt-sized brain to comprehend, but one of us actually intends to get top marks and outscore that Granger girl. If you’re bored, go bother Zabini with your disgusting topics, or go back to sleep. Don’t pester me.”
Harry was offended. His body, previously slumped in his chair like sludge, shot upright. “Hey, girls aren’t disgusting! You’re only saying that because I walked back to the dorm with Daphne instead of you yesterday. Don’t think I don’t know you and Blaise were bad-mouthing me. You even cursed me and Daphne to have a whole litter of lions! I already have a whole house full of lions at home!”
Draco’s mouth twisted in a guilty pout. “I couldn’t care less which girl you spawn brats with. You could find yourself a Hufflepuff and populate the castle with a horde of little, ginger-scarf-wearing, four-eyed trolls, for all I care.”
Having dispensed with what he knew was the weaker part of his argument, Draco’s indignation flared, his voice rising accordingly. “But you ditched me for a girl! Harry Potter, in your barren, dreary, and thoroughly unremarkable thirteen years of existence, I am the best thing that’s ever happened to you. A Greengrass? Are you serious? And Zabini, that traitor! See if I ever share any of the Ministry secrets Father tells me with him again.”
Draco’s shrill voice drew the attention of Madam Pince. A single, sharp glare from the librarian, her eyebrows bearing down like a hawk’s, was enough to make Draco’s golden head droop like a storm-battered cherry tomato.
Witnessing the entire scene, Harry was amused by Draco’s classic bully-turned-coward act. The insult he’d been about to retort with died on his tongue, replaced by a sudden urge to tease him further. “Oh, really? I don’t recall my life being so pathetic that it needs decorating by the Heir of Malfoy. ‘Harry Potter, lackey to the biggest bastard of an heir in history’? That’s not quite the legacy I’m after. If there’s any ‘best thing’ in my life, it really ought to be a girl, don’t you think?”
Draco was genuinely furious now. Ever since Severus first brought him and Harry together for tutoring when they were four, he had always considered himself Harry’s best friend. That sentiment, upon hitting adolescence, had condensed into an ambiguous haze of feelings he couldn't quite decipher. And now, before he could even make sense of it himself, he was being abruptly sidelined by a Greengrass he barely shared two connections with. The injustice of it was maddening.
"Suit yourself, Potter. By all means, go flirt with Greengrass. Shag her in some dusty broom cupboard. Marry her in a spring wedding when she's showing, even if you're both not even fifteen. Don't bother sending me an invitation. I won't celebrate the birth of a bastard, assuming he and his mother even survive the—"
Seeing Draco's words spiraling into increasingly outrageous territory, and with Daphne seated not far away, Harry quickly clamped a hand over Draco's mouth. "Shhh! Do you want her to hear you? How would you even handle that? Doesn't Lucius's cane sting anymore? Don't come running to my place in the middle of the night again if you get scolded."
Harry found no amusement in looking at Draco's furrowed brows and eyes. It was the same story every time. Draco was like a sea urchin—squeeze him and he'd vent, get angry and his tongue would run wild. No matter how much trouble that sharp mouth had caused him, he never learned his lesson. Whenever those misty grey eyes threatened to well up with unshed tears, someone would always step in to clean up his mess. Over time, Draco's temper had only grown worse, all thanks to Narcissa and Lucius spoiling him rotten, Harry thought irritably.
"Alright, stop glaring at me. I was talking about Debby," Harry rolled his eyes and removed his hand from Draco's lips. Draco's warm breath had heated Harry's palm, and the softness and warmth of his lips seemed to linger on Harry's skin. He flexed his fingers subtly.
"Debby? Your sister? And you say you're not pathetic, Potter." Draco didn't need to think hard to realize Harry had been deliberately winding him up, and he was annoyed at himself for falling for it so easily. His pride stung, and a flush crept up his neck—a distinct disadvantage of having fair skin—spreading all the way to the tips of his ears, turning him once again into a ripe tomato. Draco picked up his quill, pretending to be fully absorbed in his essay. "Whatever. It's none of my business anyway. It's not like I'm a girl."
Harry stared at the burning red tips of Draco's ears, peeking from beneath his platinum hair. He felt a strange sense of satisfaction, mixed with an urge to tease him further. Unable to resist, he reached out to fiddle with Draco's ear, mumbling, "I never said it had to be a girl."
"Potter!" Draco snapped, his voice a mix of embarrassment and fury, as he swatted at Harry's annoying hand, which was now tracing a path down the line of his neck toward his collarbone.
"Right here!" Harry responded, utterly shameless, and took the opportunity to sling his arm around Draco's shoulders, pulling him close.
Puberty had left only two significant marks on Draco. The first was his height, which had shot up like a bamboo shoot, often leaving him groaning in the night from growing pains that seized his entire body. He would then invariably find a way to wake a soundly sleeping Harry to massage the aches away. The second was his shoulders, which had grown more solid, losing the softness of childhood. Now, when Harry touched them, they felt all hard angles and bone.
Harry pulled his seat closer, his arm draped around Draco as his hand moved from one shoulder to the other and back again, tracing the lines of the boy's bone and muscle beneath his touch.
"A bit lower," Draco instructed, reaching a hand back to point at a spot on his upper back. Out of Draco's line of sight, Harry rolled his eyes but acquiesced, shifting his palm to the indicated area. He began kneading and stretching the muscles tense from long hours of sitting. His hands worked their way down from the tight shoulder blades, past the slender, resilient waist, to the abruptly fuller curve of his hips. Under the firm, steady pressure of Harry's hands, Draco closed his eyes, lulled into a drowsy haze.
The four o'clock sun gilded Draco's eyelashes and cast a persistent flush across his cheeks. His breathing was shallow, a faint smile playing on his lips as he drifted into a half-sleep. Pillowed on the sleeve of his robe, entirely unguarded, he let Harry hold him close, like a unicorn slumbering peacefully in its lair.
A part of Harry wished Draco could remain like this forever, lost in a sweet, untroubled, comfortable dream, an Alice in her own wonderland. But another part of him—a worse Harry—wanted to shake him awake, to see him frown, to pick a fight, to chastise him for lying so beautifully and serenely before him, for having no one pursue him into his dreams to bite him, just as Harry had done in the dream he'd had at this very table at noon.
In the dream, Draco sat astride Harry's lap with legs splayed wide, kissing him in a filthy manner, tongue protruding to feed Harry, licking Harry's stubble and the saliva dripping from his chin in small, deliberate licks. His lips were wet, full and rosy, glossier than any lipstick, held in Harry's mouth and chewed like jelly, bitten by incisors and canines until they bled, only growing more decadent. He held Harry's head tightly against his chest, letting Harry grind his nose against his nipples through the shirt, sucking hard on the two points on his chest until the clean white fabric glistened with silver droplets of saliva. Even when it hurt, he didn't curse, only hummed. A soft moan at light pressure, a deeper one at greater force. The rising and falling melody eventually dissolved into muffled whimpers, like sobbing. The arms holding Harry never loosened their grip. He didn't complain of pain, which only made Harry treat him with greater tenderness. Harry's warm hands slipped beneath the robe, skimming over skin that prickled with sensation as if sparked by tiny flames, seeking out that one place which could bring him pleasure.
But Harry was still a novice. His hands wandered, left and right, yet failed to find that precise place which could render his already beautiful Draco even more beautiful. Left with no choice, he turned to Draco for guidance. His tongue found Draco's again, and between sucking on its slick tip and murmuring incoherently, he trailed kisses along Draco's neck and ears. He coaxed and wheedled, pleading with Draco to reveal that most sensitive and vulnerable sanctuary—to lay it bare for his eyes and his touch.
Draco's mouth was busy responding to the cascade of Harry's kisses, while his hands worked at the fastenings of his own robes. The Slytherin green pooled like spilled ink on the cold flagstones, and from within it, a body of pale marble was unveiled. Apart from the woollen socks, Draco had left nothing for himself. With his slender chest, narrow waist, and flat abdomen, Draco stood naked before Harry, like a perfect mannequin in a shop window. Even the most critical eye could find not a single flaw upon this body.
Draco spread his legs for Harry, revealing the dreamscape between them. More crimson—how many crimson patches did he possess? Draco's cleft resembled a pod, its tiny wet crimson mouth opening and closing, breathing as if alive, rising and falling, eager for Harry's rough fingers and cock. Trembling droplets hung from the near-transparent hairs, clinging to his wet, soft shell. Harry swallowed hard, his throat parched, desperate for the water flowing from Draco's body to quench his thirst.He longed to treat Draco's lower lip as he had treated his upper lip, but when he lowered his head, his mouth encountered not Draco's flawless groin, but the fingers Draco used to block him. Whether in dreams or reality, Draco was a rare bastard.
Draco's slender fingers reached down, his beautiful pale hand circling and kneading the swollen, crimson flesh as he masturbated before Harry's eyes. Harry stared in stunned disbelief at this Draco of his dreams. How the muscles in his lower abdomen tensed as he twisted his clitoris. How his cunt quivered and made sounds as his fingers slid over it. How that inviting mouth emitted moans of varying pitch, pulsing against Harry's eardrums. He performed the most intimate, lewd, and vulgar acts before Harry's eyes, yet his face bore no trace of shame—only pure delight and indulgence. That primal bliss and joy born of bodily desire being satisfied, that cheap, whorish expression utterly foreign to the real Draco.
A profound boredom washed over him. In that single moment, Harry's mind snapped into stark clarity—the artifice, the sheer falseness of it all, was utterly suffocating.
The fake Draco wrapped his arms around Harry's neck, seeking another kiss, but Harry turned his face away, denying him the touch of his lips. He clasped his hands around the impostor's throat, looking on with detached coolness as this counterfeit version of himself drowned in desire. The hair was still platinum, the eyes still grey, but as Harry gazed upon that face—identical in every way to Draco's own striking features—he could summon not a flicker of interest. This one isn't my Draco.Patience had never been one of Harry's virtues, and this realization now stretched his temper to its limit. The real Draco could earn a kiss. But this one? A cheap counterfeit deserved only to be used as a hole.
Harry yanked the fake Draco by the roots of his platinum hair, hauling him up from the floor. Without giving him a moment's respite, he shoved his painfully swollen cock into the boy's mouth. He treated him as nothing more than a wet dream come true, a mere hole for venting his lust. Harry was still growing, his penis not yet particularly large, yet the fake Draco's cheeks remained stuffed full, like a hamster preparing for winter. He tightened his throat to swallow the tip of Harry's glans, ignoring the gag reflex, forcing it as deep into his throat as possible. Harry buried his hands in the fake Draco's hair, gripping so tightly it felt as though he might tear out the scalp along with it. He thrust his hips relentlessly, driving into the fake Draco's mouth again and again. He was close, so very close...
Just as Harry was about to experience his first wet dream, the fake Draco released Harry's cock from his mouth. Before Harry could react, he shoved him onto the floor, straddling his sharply defined waist and abdomen. He used Harry's cock to rub against the insatiable hole beneath him. The pleasure of friction against the wet folds was nowhere near as intense as the sensation inside a mouth. But Harry revelled in watching this fake Draco display a hint of predatory aggression. He rolled onto his back, allowing his shaft to repeatedly grind over the other's clitoris, sweeping relentlessly across fake Draco's lower body. Each time it brushed past the entrance, Harry yearned to thrust inside without restraint, to experience the extreme tightness and wet softness within. The fake Draco seemed to read Harry's every thought. Each movement, each friction aligned perfectly with the core of Harry's strength, pressing down with a weight that stole his posture, leaving him bent and breathless. Harry could only be a breathing dildo, watching as the fake Draco indulged himself on him.
Time trickled by, and in a daze, Harry felt the version of himself within the dream begin to sweat faintly. The fake Draco's skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, his movements growing increasingly frenzied. His entire body shook like a sieve, the friction accelerating until his clitoris stood out, crimson and swollen. An inexhaustible stream of fluid seemed to flow from his sheath, trickling down the flesh pressed together between them and onto Harry's body, moistening every hair on his lower half. Finally, a warm, wet torrent—colourless, odourless, yet seemingly endless—gushed forth from the fake Draco's body, drenching Harry. The fake Draco comes.
Harry watched as the fake Draco, his neck glistening with sweat and his torso yielding, touched himself in a frantic search for release. The pent-up fire within Harry seemed ready to ignite him at any moment. After reaching his own climax, the fake Draco became uncooperative. A languid listlessness settled over his features, his eyes narrowing to slits like those of a drowsing housecat. A familiar, unsettling premonition coiled in Harry’s chest—one he knew all too well as the harbinger of Draco’s mischief. Sure enough, the false Draco lifted his languid face and offered a smile that might have seemed radiant to an unknowing observer, but to Harry, held only cunning. Then, bending forward, his head sinking between his legs and his spine curving softly, he curled into a wisp of lingering warmth—and dissolved into nothing.
"FUCK! FUCK!" A furious Harry, forgetting Lily's teachings entirely, spat out the curses in rapid succession as the erection beneath his robes began to wilt. His gaze locked onto the school robe Draco had left behind on the floor, glaring at it as if it were the root of all this torment, his eyes burning with an intensity hot enough to scorch two holes through the fabric. In the peak of his anger, a laugh broke through—first a wry twist of his lips, then a widening grin as if recalling some private joke, soon escalating into audible "heh, heh" chuckles. It ended with him rolling on the floor in near-hysterics, laughing until his facial muscles ached and stiffened, refusing to form any upward curve. Finally, he collapsed flat on the floorboards, pressing his cheek against the lingering warmth of Draco's abandoned robe in a gesture almost intimate, and muttered, "Even the fake one's a bastard."
The soft rhythm of Draco's breathing whispered against him, the warmth of another wizard's skin beneath his palm so vivid and real. Harry drew his seat closer, then closer still, until they sat cheek-to-cheek, the sleeves of their identical robes entwining. The blond wizard's hand emerged from the fabric, resting relaxed upon the table. Harry began to play with the hand he had held a thousand times before—tracing the nail of its thumb, the prominent knuckles, then the small brown mole at the junction of Draco's thumb and forefinger, even though its owner always insisted that a Malfoy does not have moles and referred to it stubbornly as a "blemish." The boy's wrist was still slender, the bluish veins rising along the back of his hand and the inner curve of his wrist like ranges of quiet mountains and lingering rivers flowing silently through Draco's very being, each a testament to the quiet miracle of a life unfolding.
A pain began to gather in Harry's chest—fine as silk yet tenacious, wrapping slowly around his heart. It seemed to beat and not to beat, to skip and yet to flow in perfect, natural rhythm.
Birds need water. People need food. And Harry—Harry needed to kiss him.
Harry lifted one of Draco's hands and gently pressed it to his own cheek. The cool, soft touch felt like silk against his skin, a second layer settling over him. Stirred by the movement, Draco drifted awake, his eyelids barely parting—just a sliver—before he registered Harry and let them fall closed again. His voice was faint, barely audible, yet instinctively sharp.
"Potter, must you? I'm exhausted. It's your fault—sneaking off to fool around with Greengrass last night. I spent half the night interrogating Zabini before he finally talked. Barely slept a wink because of you. You traitor. You lecher. You utter scoundrel. And now you won't even let me sleep... I'll tell Severus. He'll give you detention—have you scrub Longbottom's cauldrons..."
Harry listened intently to his drowsy muttering, a soft smile playing on his lips but offering no reply. Instead, he pressed a smiling kiss to Draco's wrist, while his other hand slid under Draco's robe and came to rest on his thigh, a palm's breadth from his groin, venturing no further. It was time to wake the sleeper properly.
He leaned close to Draco's ear, flushed pink from the sun, and whispered, "When were you planning to tell me that you're... different from me here?"
"What?" Harry's voice was too hushed, too low; to Draco's half-asleep mind, it sounded like the murmur of a unicorn, the meaning slipping just out of reach.
Harry clicked his tongue softly. His right hand ventured again beneath Draco's clothes, fingers drifting from the outer thigh to the inner, almost brushing against the fabric of his underwear. "I said, aren't we supposed to be best friends? Why didn't you tell me you're built like Daphne down there?"
Draco was losing patience, a restless itch stirring low in his body. One hand moved to stop Harry's, only to halt halfway and hover in uncertainty. "Potter, I swear, if you spout any more useless nonsense, I'll hex your bollocks off."
With a surge of resolve, Harry let his fingers travel that final distance, brushing over the soft, dry fabric of Draco's underwear to cup the delicate, petal-like folds beneath. A gentle scrape of his knuckles against the sensitive skin drew a soft, shuddering whimper from Draco. Danger and desire wove through Harry's voice, leaving it rougher, even, than Draco's sleep-laden tones. "Malfoy... I'm going to devour you."
Draco was fully awake now.
His expression darkened dramatically, silvery eyes narrowing with a severity that would put his godfather Severus to shame. Yet the words that left his lips were anything but scholarly. "Potter... you called me Malfoy?"
Harry rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they stayed in their sockets, caught between exasperation and amusement—or perhaps an equal measure of both. "That's the part you heard?"
"Well, yes," Draco retorted, righteous indignation puffing his chest despite the utter lack of logic. "Did you say anything else of substance?"
Harry's fingers lightly brushed against Draco's core, a fleeting touch to announce his presence.
Draco's face flushed crimson in an instant. "Pervert! You groped my ass while I was asleep! My father will hear about this, and you're dead."
"So I can touch when you're awake, then?" Harry teased, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over the delicate petals beneath him.
"In your dreams, Potter. The only way you're touching me is if another Wizarding War breaks out. Go fuck yourself. You foul git—get your hand out of there! I don't want Madam Pince throwing us out of the library."
"No," Harry refused, resting his head against Draco's shoulder and rubbing against him like a wildcat, openly leaning into his defiance. "I'm not as much fun as you are. Pleasuring myself is boring." Having spent so much time with Draco, Harry had learned the crucial lesson that he could only be handled with careful stroking. Sure enough, Draco, disarmed by the unexpected praise, softened the hands that were pushing Harry away. Harry often opposed him and rarely offered compliments, making them all the more precious; every time Draco heard one so casually dropped, his pride would soar sky-high.
"Naturally. Not just anyone can achieve the perfection of a Malfoy. My mother says I'm a gift from Merlin himself." Though Draco fought to maintain his composure, his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth lifted of their own accord, cheeks flushing with a color more vivid than any cosmetic could produce. Watching him bloom with such open vanity filled Harry with a fierce, proprietary delight—so potent he nearly leaned in to kiss him right there in the library.
Mine, Harry thought. I'm the only one who can make him shine like this with just a few words. Lucius doesn't count; he's married to Narcissa. Snape doesn't count either; he's too old and will die sooner anyway.
Harry decided to press his luck. "Let me see," he murmured, and before Draco could process the request, he'd already slipped a hand beneath the fabric, his fingers finding the tender skin at the apex of Draco's thighs—or rather, that particular flesh. "I want to see," Harry added, his voice low.
The blush on Draco's face deepened. It wasn't that he wanted to keep secrets from Harry, and he'd always considered his own intersex body to be perfect. But the mere thought of taking down his trousers for Harry, of letting him see that, sent all the blood in his body rushing to his face, flooding him with an inexplicable sense of shame. Slytherin boys were still boys, and those childish contests of comparing sizes in the dormitory did occasionally happen—though Draco never partook in such vulgar antics. Aside from his father, his mother, and himself, not even Severus knew that he lacked a penis, and instead had a delicate, flower-like fold.
Draco's mind raced, from Narcissa's earnest teachings to the profound intimacy he shared with Harry, yet all he could finally muster was a faint mutter: "My father... wouldn't approve..."
Oh, Harry... Harry, don't push me. I'm afraid I might just say yes.
Harry's emerald-green eyes held Draco's gaze unblinking. Seeing Draco lower his head, unable to look back, he knew he had already won him over—only the final push was needed. Harry was a stubborn wildcat, patiently scratching open the door to Draco's heart with his claws. "He's not here. We can be discreet."
What could Draco do? He had never been able to refuse this black-haired, four-eyed troll.
Neither Harry nor Draco wanted to hastily make do in some abandoned classroom or men's bathroom—Draco found such places filthy, while Harry felt that whenever he looked back on this moment—and he was certain he would revisit it often—it deserved a brighter, more fitting setting. In perfect agreement, they decided to head back to Draco's dormitory. The Slytherin dorms were doubles, shared with Blaise, but at this hour, Blaise was either chasing after younger girls—Harry firmly believed this was criminal and that one day the Aurors would storm the Slytherin dungeons and drag Blaise off to the Wizengamot—or older ones. The room was empty; it would be a waste not to use it.
As usual, Harry slung his own backpack over his shoulder, picked up Draco's bag with one hand, and reached for Draco's hand with the other. Draco dodged the gesture.
"Don't touch me with the same hand that's been all over Greengrass. Whichever part of you touched her would have been severed long before it reached me."
Harry didn't want to argue with him right then. He cast an Undetectable Extension Charm on his own sleeve and offered the now-lengthened fabric to Draco. Deep down, Draco just wanted to be placated, and with Harry offering him a way out, he was more than willing to take it. He grabbed hold of the sleeve, swinging it back and forth gently, his threat carrying very little force. "There won't be a next time."
All the way back, Draco chattered incessantly at Harry—Pureblood politics, the House Cup, Quidditch—as if completely unaffected. Only his slightly sweaty palm, firmly pressed against Harry's sleeve, betrayed his inner tension.
The moment they entered the room, Harry swiftly drew his wand, casting both a Muffliato and a Imperturbable Charm. After triple-checking that all sound and light were securely contained within the walls—and effectively locking Blaise out—he placed both their bags side-by-side at the foot of the bed. Then, with the ease of someone in his own home, he settled onto what was arguably the softest bed in Slytherin, if not the entire school.
The room was left with only the sound of their slightly quickened breathing. Harry discreetly wiped his own damp palms against his trousers and glanced sideways at Draco. Seeing the other boy's fingers tightly twisting the silver-and-green hangings of the four-poster bed, his heart softened. He reached over, took the hand that was tormenting the drapes, and enveloped it in his own. His voice came out much softer than he had intended.
"Now... show me."
"Then you're not allowed to talk or touch."
"Then I talk, but no touching."
"Then no talking, but you can touch."
"Deal."
Draco, realizing he'd been outmaneuvered, was on the verge of protesting when Harry swiftly made a zipping-his-lips gesture. The deep green of the lake outside seemed to seep into his eyes, turning them a murky grey-green swirl of anticipation, excitement, danger, and something else Draco couldn't—and didn't dare to—decipher.
Flustered, Draco fumbled with the first button of his robe. The hands that could steadily stir a potion counter-clockwise thirty times without a tremor were now shaking inexplicably under Harry's gaze. The robe fell in a heap at his feet, pooling around him in dark folds, followed by the waistcoat and tie. When he struggled with a shirt button for what felt like an age, Draco seriously considered calling it all off, shoving Harry out the door—he knew, after all, that Harry would forgive him eventually, no matter how angry he got.
He lifted his gaze to Harry, attempting the pitiful look that never failed on Lucius. Harry, however, seemed entirely immune. He hooked a foot around Draco's calf, pulling him closer. The click of his dragonhide boot against Draco's leg sent a shiver through his entire body. Harry steadied him, then covered Draco's fumbling fingers with his own larger hand, taking over the unfinished task.
True to their "no talking, but touching is allowed" bargain, Harry remained silent. The only sounds were their breathing and heartbeats. The quiet unnerved Draco; he regretted the rule now, leaving him stranded on this precipice. He pushed Harry's hand away, swallowed hard, and muttered, more to himself than to Harry, "I'll do it myself."
He sped up taking off his shirt, piling it likewise at his feet, and stood topless before Harry. The dungeons in October were chilly, and the cool air raised fine goosebumps across Draco's skin—on his arms and his chest. Small, pink nubs stiffened under Harry's gaze, like two pointed little towers standing on Draco's slender chest, the surrounding, paler areolas dotted with raised, millet-sized bumps. A mix of shame and cold made Draco want to cover himself with his arms, but Harry stopped him in time. Harry drew his wand from his robe pocket, raised an eyebrow, and with a look asked if a minor breach of rules was permissible. Draco nodded, and Harry softly cast a Warming Charm upon him.
Bolstered by the charm, Draco seemed to find the courage for a final push. He pulled out his belt, his legs trembling slightly, nimbly stepped out of his trousers, kicked off his boots and thick socks, until only a pair of silk underwear and the hereditary Malfoy ring remained. Draco had always known his body was beautiful. He was tall, sufficiently slim, with no excess fat on his waist and abdomen, and his proportions were excellent; Pansy had once praised his legs for being a mile long. Moreover, he was a Malfoy—people would flock to him even if he did nothing. Whether his body was attractive had never been a concern for him. But Harry's silence made Draco worry: did he appear less impressive in Harry's eyes than in his own? Would Harry... find him lacking?
Draco searched Harry's face for an answer. He found Harry's pupils dilated, the lines beside his nose trembling faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching in time with the rise and fall of his chest. The emotion held within his eyes was straightforward and clear. This reaction... probably meant he liked it, right? Regaining a bit of Malfoy-style confidence, Draco hooked his thumbs into the long, fine straps of his underwear and pulled them down in one swift motion. Then, he took Harry's hand—the one that always felt somewhat rough in comparison to his own—and pressed it against the hidden place beneath him.
"I promised you could touch."
Harry's composure wavered. From this angle, he couldn't see the full view beneath Draco, so he simply knelt among the discarded clothes. His fingers slid downward along Draco's folds, coming away coated with a moisture that wasn't quite water.
He withdrew his hand, examining the substance from Draco's body under the bright light. It was semi-transparent, somewhat sticky, and slick to the touch—much like Draco's own skin. He brought it to his nose, inhaling lightly; only the faint scent of soap remained, indicating it was odorless. As he extended his tongue, on the verge of tasting it, Draco swatted his hand away.
"That's disgusting! Don't you dare put that in your mouth. What if you get sick?"
Harry didn't even bother to roll his eyes. He gripped Draco's bare hips and swapped their positions, settling Draco onto the bed. One clean hand pressed against the nape of Draco's neck, bending him forward, while the other—the one just moments ago buried beneath him—smeared the slick wetness across Draco's lips. Before any curse could form, Harry sealed his mouth, using his own.
It was the first kiss they had shared in all their years of knowing each other. Harry had once imagined their first kiss would be more romantic, accompanied by flowers, fireworks, and a candlelit dinner, with exploding colours painting Draco's profile in vibrant shades as they leaned in by a window. The cold, dark dungeons had never been on his list. But in the moment Draco kissed him back, all notions of romance and grandeur vanished. Nothing was more important than this person being present, and this person being pleased.
Harry tentatively touched his tongue to Draco's lips. He hadn't forgotten his desire to taste the essence of Draco's body. A faint, subtle saltiness greeted his taste buds, reminiscent of some seasoning Lily used in her cooking, yet brighter and sweeter. A mere trace of it was enough to whet Harry's appetite. Perhaps he was genuinely hungry, or perhaps it was simply the instinct to devour what he had finally obtained. He deepened the kiss, consuming Draco's mouth with renewed fervor. He released Draco's lips only to seek his tongue. That same tongue, so sharp and intimidating in speech, was surprisingly sweet in his mouth—wet and slick, sending a thrilling shiver from Harry's own tongue straight to the base of his skull with every stroke against its surface. He sucked on Draco's tongue as if it were a piece of chocolate, willing it to melt completely in the heat of his mouth.
Intense desire erupted from their joined lips. Draco's hands wandered to his own chest, where two pale peaks tingled with need. He pressed, kneaded, and teased the soft nubs until they stood firm and attentive. These small buds were completely at his mercy, and the helpless, melodic cries he made—though wordless—stirred Harry's desire more powerfully than any love potion could.
Poor Draco. A deep, aching emptiness throbbed below, where a rising tide of slickness now overflowed, wave after wave, challenging its once-tidy confines. The excess traced shimmering paths down the insides of his slender thighs. An urgent, desperate itch consumed him, and he rubbed himself against Harry in frantic, restless motions—a wordless, pleading request for Harry to tend to him, to ease the torment.
Harry's excitement grew. His hand, which had been resting on the nape of Draco's neck, now traveled down the line of his spine in a swift, dancing motion. It glided over the still-developing muscles of his back, dipped into the inward curve of his waist—as delicate as a girl's—and over the full, rounded curve of his buttocks, journeying toward its intended destination for the day.
Harry used his fingers to gently part Draco's folds. The two petals, pressed together, began to unfurl slowly under his touch. He sought the place that would bring Draco pleasure, recalling the details of his midday wet dream, exploring while carefully watching Draco's reactions.
It was challenging. The abundant moisture had already drenched Draco's entire pussy. What he encountered first wasn't the flower-like organ itself, but the flow of liquid it had drawn forth from within Draco's body. Fortunately, his partner was cooperative enough. With careful, probing touches, Harry finally found, at the apex of the vulva, the slightly raised bud of the clitoris, still nestled within its protective folds.
Harry had no experience, so it was no surprise that his touch was far from gentle. He pressed down hard on Draco’s clit with his fingers, forcing a sharp, desperate cry from Draco’s lips. His lower abdomen trembled as though pushed past its limits, and a rush of wetness gushed from inside him, drenching Harry’s hand. The sheets were spattered with the evidence of his release—scattered, shimmering drops everywhere. Under the relentless friction of Harry’s two fingers, Draco experienced the first climax of his life.
Harry, thinking he'd done things right, was ready to repeat the process. But Draco, who hadn't yet recovered from his climax, found his rationality returning ahead of his body. Or perhaps this was a hidden worry that had always been buried in his heart, now seizing a pretext to manifest itself, demanding that Harry provide him with a resolution.
Draco moved closer to Harry, his fingers threading into Harry's thick black hair, forcing those green eyes—which had been nearly buried between his legs—to meet his own. His voice was thick with grievance as he asked, "Is this what you did with Greengrass yesterday too?"
The more Draco thought about it, the more upset and resentful he felt. He found Harry detestable, thought Greengrass was a bitch, and his aggressive side surged forth as he called Greengrass a slut, claiming she'd been with Flint last month and was now in Harry's bed this month. Even though he was usually the one with the sharp tongue, his eyes began to redden as he spoke, his lips quirking as if on the verge of tears.
Harry knew how to handle a pompous Draco, a sarcastic Draco, a furious Draco—but a hurt Draco was entirely outside his experience. He had never been the one to cause Draco's distress before; this silver-spoon-born boy had always known how to make him yield. And now? He still wanted, no, needed, Harry's heartfelt concern.
Harry soothed his boy with his newly acquired skill—kissing. He drew Draco's head down, gently meeting his lips, his words barely a whisper.
"To hell with Greengrass."
A kiss.
"There is no Greengrass."
Another kiss.
"I saw you naked in the Quidditch locker room, and I... I'd never seen a body like that. Boys don't have that, so I went to ask the girls. Pansy would have cursed me, Millicent's cat bites, I could only go to Daphne—"
Seeing Draco's red-rimmed eyes, Harry was struck by a sudden inspiration and changed his words. "—could only go to Greengrass. She got undressed. I ran."
More kisses.
Apart from the moments needed for speech, Harry barely let his lips part from Draco's. The muscles along his jaw were beginning to ache, but he still refused to pull away.
Draco kicked him in the shin, picking a fight out of thin air. "Was she prettier, or am I?"
Seeing that Draco had emerged from his earlier mood, Harry breathed an inward sigh of relief and switched back to their familiar pattern of bickering. "Her chest was bigger than yours."
"Potter!"
Sure enough, Draco kicked him again.
"I prefer it like yours," Harry said, both to remedy his earlier remark and speaking the honest truth. "No matter how many others I might see, I'd only ever prefer it like yours."
Harry leaned in to kiss him again.
The pace of the kiss slowed. Harry lost himself in the velvety softness of Draco's mouth, savoring him leisurely. No longer as clumsy as during their first kiss, Harry's hands traced paths along Draco's neck, his chest, his lower abdomen, finally coming to rest over that flower-like organ. It was small enough to be cupped entirely in one palm, soft, with tender, delicate flesh so fragile it seemed like a creature from another world. Nestled between Draco's thighs, it was a part of him, and Harry cherished it just as he cherished Draco.
"I want to taste it."
Harry's palm cradled Draco's pussy with an undeniable presence, making it impossible for Draco to misinterpret his intention.
Draco was terrified, shaking his head frantically. It's too dirty... the place where I pee... how could he...
Facing Draco, Harry always became like a master of Legilimency, able to read every one of his thoughts.
"It's not dirty. Your body… none of it is dirty."
Draco bit his own lip. Harry's eyes held no mockery, no ridicule—only the desire and sincerity he had already seen so many times today.
Harry decided to push him just a little further. "Please, Draco."
That damn Harry Potter! He always knew exactly how to get to him. A sudden surge of anger rose in Draco. Why was he the only one feeling so utterly exposed, so vulnerable?
Draco released his lip and gave a curt nod, but not without setting his own terms. "Fine," he said, voice tight with a mix of annoyance and resolve. "But then I get to taste you, too." He paused, reconsidering. "Not... not there," he clarified, flustered. "The place boys are supposed to have."
Harry let out a soft chuckle. "You know the word 'cock', right? You can say it. It just means you want to taste my cock, too."
"As long as you get the point, that's all that matters," Draco retorted, a vivid flush spreading across his face as he used feigned irritation to mask his fluster. "And for the record, I can say it. Cock. Cock, cock, cock, cock. Satisfied?"
Harry was still laughing, and Draco felt a strong urge to hit him. Harry chose that moment to kiss him, then flipped over with carp-like agility. He pointed his wand at himself, and all his clothes vanished. It was Draco's first time seeing Harry completely naked. He barely had time to register the lines of his shoulders or the solid plane of his chest before Harry leaned over, pressing him into the bed, and guided his cock into Draco's mouth.
A distinctly male, musky scent filled Draco's nostrils, mingling with the familiar notes of Harry's lemon soap, cinnamon, and the crisp scent of grass. The combination assaulted his senses. He inhaled deeply, and the indescribable aroma—not necessarily pleasant, yet not unpleasant either—only heightened his arousal. Draco felt himself growing wet again. Harry's pubic hair tickled his lips, coarse and itching, and Draco felt a surge of something lewd, a desire to bury his face in it. He glanced up at Harry, embarrassed, only to find Harry already watching him, his own clear pupils holding two tiny reflections of Draco. When Draco didn't move, Harry didn't push. He simply rested his fingers gently in Draco's hair, stroking it, encouraging him. And Draco felt his embarrassment deepen.
Harry's developing sex organ was still quite different from an adult's. There were no distinct testes, and the shaft wasn't particularly long, but it was unexpectedly substantial, a weighty presence resting on his tongue. Draco decided he liked this sensation; he decided he liked Harry's cock. He treated it like a Blood Pop from Honeydukes, curling his tongue around the tip and probing the small slit with its very end.When Harry first thrust gently within his mouth, it startled Draco, making him fear Harry was about to take his new toy away. Realizing Harry was only moving back and forth, he relaxed again. But with each movement, Harry filled Draco's small mouth to its limits, forcing Draco to consciously relax his throat, allowing Harry to reach deeper, granting him more space to play within his mouth. The cock bumped against his teeth several times. Though Harry hadn't complained, Draco remembered Zabini's advice about needing to cover one's teeth during oral sex to avoid hurting the other person. He didn't want to hurt Harry, but his teeth were just... there. It wasn't like he could use a spell to make them all fall out. How was he supposed to cover them?Then, a spark of inspiration struck his clever mind. He formed his mouth into a perfect 'O', his cheeks puffing out prettily. There, that should keep Harry from getting hurt. Every time a few drops of fluid escaped Harry's body, Draco would give a soft suck, swallowing them down. It tasted a bit sharper than milk. He'd never consumed anything so primal before, and as he continued, he found himself growing somewhat addicted. His tongue pressed with a bit more purpose, a silent attempt to coax more from Harry's cock.
Harry kept his eyes fixed on Draco's expression even as he moved within his mouth. When he saw a frown, he softened his movements; when Draco's cheeks puffed out, he pushed a little deeper. Teenagers knew nothing about delayed gratification. The moment Draco sucked on him sharply, Harry yielded to the sensation, spilling himself into Draco's mouth. White semen traced a path down from the corner of Draco's lips.
Harry surged forward, licking the streaks from Draco's face, starting from his chin and moving upwards until he reached the corner of his mouth. He lingered there, pressing two more reluctant kisses before his lips gradually traveled downward and closed over Draco's pussy.
Harry gave Draco no time to prepare. He pressed forward, nuzzling the small nub at the apex of Draco's folds, rubbing against it persistently until it drew soft, whimpering sounds from Draco. The more he heard, the hotter the fire burned in his own belly, his already spent cock stirring back to life, begging for its owner's attention. Harry ignored it completely, instead holding fast to Draco's hips, urging the long legs to wrap around his shoulders, and burying himself between them to taste him with fervor. The outer folds were soon slick with Harry's saliva, the inner depths wet with Draco's own essence—a glistening, blooming shell unfurled before Harry's eyes, a vision of decadent red. He adored it so much he scarcely knew how to properly cherish it. He licked, he sucked, he nibbled, his teeth gently catching the slightly prominent bud in a delicate bite.
Draco cried out again, his hips arching instinctively against Harry, his thighs tightening around Harry's head, pressing his face deeper. Harry lapped at him like a puppy, drinking in every drop of the essence that flowed from his body. Only when Draco had shuddered through his release, coating Harry's face, did Harry turn his attention to his own cock, stroking it hastily before spilling onto Draco's sheets.
Harry pulled Draco down onto the bed with him, resting his head on Draco's stomach as they waited for the intensity to subside. Draco's fingers traced from the hair at Harry's nape to the curve of his cheekbone beneath his eyes. Harry responded by gently nipping at his wrist, then pressing a trail of kisses along the line of Draco's arm until he shifted to face him directly, placing lazy, intermittent kisses on his mouth. A quiet, intimate atmosphere settled around them, one neither wanted to disrupt.
Draco was the one who finally broke the silence, asking a question that, for the first time that day, made Harry's mind go completely blank.
"Aren't you going to... come inside?" Draco whispered.
"Where?" Harry asked, suspecting he had misheard. It couldn't mean what he thought it meant.
"Your arse," Draco said, rolling his eyes and refusing to dignify Harry's foolish question with anything more. "Where else?"
Harry was silent for a moment, then turned the question back on Draco. "Do you want me to?"
"A bit," Draco admitted with rare honesty. "I want to feel you."
Harry planted a firm kiss on his forehead. "I'm right here."
"It's not enough," Draco insisted. "I want you closer."
"So you want me inside you?" Harry asked.
Draco nodded.
"You know I love you. You're the closest person to me besides my parents and Debby. We don't need to prove anything, right?"
Draco nodded again. "But I still want to."
Harry stopped hesitating. He sat up and helped Draco do the same, only for Draco to suddenly balk.
"My back is a bit sore," he complained.
Harry piled the pillows from the bed behind Draco. Seeing it wasn't enough, he snatched Blaise's pillows too, building a support for him.
"Better?"
"Mhm." Finally satisfied, Draco gave a soft sound of assent.
Harry parted Draco's legs, his cock pressing against the almost imperceptibly small entrance. He tentatively pushed forward, the head slipping inside. Harry froze immediately, looking up to gauge Draco's reaction.
"So strange," Draco murmured, the sensation of being stretched by a foreign object causing a flicker of discomfort. Seeing Harry's fixed gaze, Draco looked back, confused. "Keep going."
Harry pushed in a little deeper. This time, real pain flared. Draco gasped, his hand flying down to cover his mons, his body trembling. "Harry," he cried out, his voice sharp with pain, "it hurts!"
Draco often complained about pain, but he rarely told Harry to stop. Unsure of what to do, Harry instinctively began to pull back.
"Hey!" Draco stopped him. "If you pull out now, then this pain was for nothing."
"If I push in further, it'll hurt you more." Harry was kneeling before Draco, his cock half-sheathed inside him, half exposed—stuck in an awkward, unsettling limbo. It wasn't exactly painful, but as Draco had said, it felt strange.
"Then make an exception just this once," Draco murmured, his lashes lowering as he avoided Harry's gaze. "You're only allowed to hurt me this one time."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek, steeled himself, and pushed all the way in. Coarse hair met soft folds, and the heated, tight clutch of Draco's body enveloped him. A primal urge to move surged through him, but he held still, afraid of causing more discomfort. He shifted just enough for Draco to feel the full, unmistakable presence within him.
"Harry," Draco breathed, his fingers tracing the faint, firm curve low on his abdomen—the shape of Harry pressed against him from within. His grey eyes were wide, his voice hushed with something akin to reverence. "You're here."
Harry found the scene both erotic and strangely sacred. He couldn't quite define his own emotions, so he focused on the physical act instead.
He withdrew slightly, then pushed back in, his movements cautious and measured. This was another person's body; he didn't dare be rough.
"Harry," Draco called out again.
"Hmm?"
"Why aren't I feeling that 'so-good-you-forget-your-own-name' feeling Zabini talked about? I'm Draco Malfoy."
"Me neither," Harry replied, laughing breathlessly. "I'm Harry Potter."
Draco gave Harry's backside a light kick, causing him to slip out. His cock was still hard, a warm, rigid length, but neither of them paid it any mind.
Draco leaned in and kissed Harry's lips. "Zabini is a liar."
Harry kissed him back. "Then we won't play with him anymore."
"But he's my roommate."
"You're my boyfriend."
End.