Harry woke up gasping. He couldn't remember what he had been dreaming about. But he was hard (probably not Voldemort then), unusually hard, desperately hard. On its own volition his hand slid into his pajama bottoms.
The Gryffindor bed-hangings were decidedly not soundproof. This had been demonstrated to everyone's embarrassment, Ron's most of all, in fifth year, when Fred and George had (Ron claimed) responded to an offhand complaint about lack of privacy with assurances that the beds had Sound-Snuffing spells on them and expressions of pitying amazement that he hadn't known this. The rest of them had spent several uncomfortable mornings laying there listening to moans and meaty noises until Dean had taken it upon himself to have a word with Ron, who did not make eye contact with anyone for over a week, until he avenged himself by telling Ginny that George had with Fred's permission been seeing Fred's girlfriend Angelina under the guise of being Fred, and Mrs. Weasley sent them both Howlers.
To everyone's surprise it was Neville who figured out that they could amplify the wind noise from outside the tower and it would nicely screen out certain other noises, like the thwap-thwap-thwap of Harry's fist as it pumped around his hard shaft. Suddenly he thought of a long, pointed pink tongue and his teeth and stomach clenched and he came.
As he cleaned up he remembered: that tongue had been in his dream.
****
Harry couldn't help looking at tongues at the breakfast table. Lavender had gotten a tongue piercing. Colin really needed to close his mouth when he chewed. None of them were the tongue from his dream.
****
It was a cold grey February morning and Draco Malfoy shivered all through Care of Magical Creatures. He was quite cross. Crabbe and Goyle had been "polishing wands" again and Goyle's bed squeaked and he hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep and you couldn't get decent coffee at Hogwarts and his father had sent him another letter pressuring him about giving in to the Dark Side again and he hadn't been able to find his heavy wool cloak with the grey trim and was stuck wearing a lighter-weight one because green trim would have clashed with his waistcoat, and now some stupid git was nattering on at him about something and he was supposed to care?
His problem, reflected Draco, not really paying attention as he treated his assigned class partner to what he hoped was yet another example of the cutting Malfoy wit, the problem, he thought, oblivious to his partner seething, the problem was that he needed a challenge. Granted he had spent sixteen years avoiding anything that could be classified as work, but his life had become so... routine. Get up, get impeccably dressed, bestow his godlike presence on the world, favor his inferiors with his approval, or point out their failings in an attempt to cultivate them a little, which, he had to admit, was certainly a challenge, and a rather hopeless one at that.
Draco sighed, making sure it was a sophisticated and world-weary sigh and not merely a glum sulking one, despite how he actually happened to be feeling at the moment. He had read a book once about the Frontier and how it was an outlet for people's restlessness, and that's what he needed, something wild and untamed, something he could explore and conquer and make his own. But he was past the age when exploring the corridors of Hogwarts could excite him, and the only thing around to bend to his will were Crabbe and Goyle. And his future offered nothing better. There really wasn't anything interesting about joining the unstoppable forces of Evil if they were unstoppable; he would just be a cog in the clockwork of a slightly unusual corporate machine. Dammit, he was sixteen, his life was supposed to be full of - life! And vitality! Not orders from a dried-up half-dead obsessive maniac, and his groupie father. Life, and vitality! And to start with, perhaps a warmer cloak, and some coffee.
****
Ravenclaw was handing out a test at lunch.
"What, they like exams so much they're giving their own now?" asked Seamus, but it turned out it was a sort of personality test and the Ravenclaw Wiz-Quiz team was going to score them and sell everyone their results next week, as it was meant as a fundraiser ("probably to pay overdue library fines," commented Seamus). Harry was a bit unclear on why anyone would pay for their score on what looked like a very silly multiple-choice test (Question Three: If you were charged with performing underaged wizardry, it would be for
not that fending off the Forces of Darkness was really a laughing matter, given that it was almost certainly the right answer in his case, although he thought he'd be optimistic and put c) instead since it sounded like just the sort of thing he'd do with Ron. But he still didn't see what it was supposed to tell him.
- wanting to practice a difficult charm for your NEWTS
- being unable to resist a spell with that many warnings and cautions
- putting out the fire started by a friend who was unable to resist a spell with that many warnings and cautions
- love potions, love potions, love potions
- fending off The Forces Of Darkness),
"It's like matchmaking," explained Parvati, whose sister was on the Wiz-Quiz team. "See, take this question here. "If you found 20 Galleons on the sidewalk you would
Let's say you answer "b" (which he had). Then they'll compare your answers to everyone else's to see who put "b" too, and at the end you'll get a list of whose answers were most similar to yours, and that's like your top whatever loves at Hogwarts, right in time for Valentine's Day!" She giggled.
- blow it all at Honeydukes
- blow it all at Quality Quidditch Supplies
- blow it all at Flourish and Blotts
- save it for something special
- use a Returning Charm to send it back to whoever lost it."
Lavender giggled too. "Ooh, I wonder who I'll get matched with," she said, batting her eyes at Dean, who frowned and hastily engaged Neville in a discussion of their history reading, which was the dullest and most off-putting thing he could think of.
Harry wasn't sure he wanted the Ravenclaws to figure out his top loves at Hogwarts, but it made him happy to see students laughing all over the Great Hall, so why not play along?
He read the next question: Your favorite Hogwarts meal is
and dithered between a) and d).
- meat-and-two-veg bar
- bangers and mash
- haggis, neeps, and tatties
- chicken tikka masala
- Snape's "special" brownies
"It's not necessarily loves," said Ron. "I mean, Fred and George would answer all these questions the same. And - and maybe you don't necessarily love someone the same as you, they say opposites attract, right?' he added a bit nervously.
"I think Ron's right," Harry put in, just in case it would come in handy when they got their results, "It might not be loves at all, just people you happen to have a lot in common with."
"With whom you happen to have a lot in common," murmured Hermione automatically, before throwing down her quill. "Ooh! None of these answers are right!"
"Uh, oh, Herm, a test you didn't study for?" Seamus said, laughing.
"Just mark the one you like best," said Ron soothingly, angling for a look at her parchment.
"But I don't like any of them!" she objected. "Honestly, this is nonsense."
"I think it's fun!" said Seamus cheerily. "Maybe I'll get someone I never thought about that way before, you know? And it'll be a good thought?"
"Is there anyone you haven't thought about that way before?" Dean asked slyly.
Seamus grinned. "Well, I haven't thought of them yet, have I. Just because I have attempted to break out of the narrow bounds of House-cest."
"Sooner or later everyone ends up dating everyone else," said Parvati lazily.
"Aided by the fact that Shameless Finnegan here has dated everyone else," said Dean.
Seamus pouted. "What's with this, Dean?"
"Or at least everyone who hasn't dated Seamus has dated someone who has," put in Neville unexpectedly.
"Everyone? Not me," said Ron in disbelief, hurriedly glancing around to make sure that no one got a mistaken impression of his dating activities.
"Sure, you went to the ball with Padma," said Lavender.
"That doesn't count," hmphed Ron, not anxious for that to be brought up.
"Sure it does," said Seamus, getting into this. "What about Ernie MacMillan?"
"Hm," said Parvati, "Dated Susan Bones dated Hannah Abbott also dated Padma."
"Good grief," said Dean, "It's like degrees of Kevin Bacon."
Everyone looked blank except for Hermione, who laughed. "So what's your Seamus number, Dean?" she teased.
"Ooh, am I number one?" Seamus bubbled.
"No, you're a zero," Dean told him. "Lavender, Parvati, Padma, and three-quarters of the rest of the school would be ones."
"I'd be a two then," said Neville, at the same time as Seamus inhaled and said, "You're jealous, aren't you," to Dean, and Harry, who had been listening to all of this, said, "I never knew Hogwarts was such a hotbed of romance!"
"Maybe you just haven't been paying attention," said Neville and Dean simultaneously. There was a moment of silence.
"Actually forty-two percent of Hogwarts students marry other Hogwarts students," said Ron. "My parents did, yours, Neville's, Lavender's..."
"How did you know that?" asked Hermione, looking impressed with Ron.
"Well, they're my own parents," he began.
"Nooo, the forty-two percent. Of course I've read it in Hogwarts: A History-"
Ron tried to look casual but could not suppress a hint of a smile as he interrupted her. "You think you're the only person who reads, 'Mione?"
She tried to look outraged and failed. "Oh, honestly, Ron," she said laughing.
"Hmm," said Lavender. "Maybe some of us don't need to be taking this survey?"
"Well, I hope no one gets married on the basis of their survey results," Dean said skeptically. "I know I don't want to choose my future mate on the basis of whether they'd rather ride a Firebolt, a Hornet, or a vintage Silver Arrow."
"Oh, come on, Dean," Seamus cajoled, "You mean you don't care at all about a man's broomstick?"
Lavender and Parvati giggled.
Harry frowned. He didn't think a shared taste in brooms was much of a basis for a relationship either. But it seemed he really had been out of the loop in finding relationship opportunities. His romantic daydreams tended to be hazy at best and to dissolve completely somewhere around the first kiss, and his real life hadn't even gotten that far. And now Ron was saying there was a 42% chance he would meet - had already met - his future spouse? He thought wildly of Cho. But what if there wasn't anyone for him at Hogwarts? Was that 42% of marriages, or 42% of wizards? What percentage of wizards even got married? Was he wasting his only chance? He had been hesitant to pursue anyone because of that whole "target of a murderous obsession on the part of a Dark Lord" thing. But if you looked at it another way being marked for a tragic and untimely death was actually all the more reason to, er, try to have certain experiences...
"Hey, I know," Ron said suddenly. "I've got someone you'll never connect into the Seamus web: Malfoy."
Parvati looked at him pityingly. "Dated Pansy dated Warrington hooked up with Lavender, do give us a harder one, Ron."
"Hey!" said Lavender. "Dated Pansy dated Derrick hooked up with Parvati."
Ron looked aghast. "You both hooked up with Slytherins?"
"Hey, it's a small school," said Seamus. "You yourself could find Slytherins among your top loves at Hogwarts."
Harry thought of finding out he was compatible with Millicent Bulstrode and shuddered. Or Pansy, ugh. It had always vaguely surprised him that Malfoy, who matched his socks to his shirts to his textbooks so he wouldn't clash while carrying them, would date a girl whose favorite colors were pink and orange. Together. Not that he expected Malfoy to have any taste, of course, but it was just - aesthetically wrong. Pansy made him look bleached, instead of...
Harry's mind flashed with pale skin, gone too fast to see, and he felt uneasy. He looked across the Great Hall to the blonde hair he could always spot among the black uniforms. It annoyed him that the most eye-catching hair in Hogwarts was attached to a head he would rather not think about. Although it had saved him a dozen times from getting a curse in the back, catching that hair in the corner of his eye just in time to dodge. The first one was always easy to avoid, and Harry got the impression Malfoy was not so much trying to hex him while his back was turned as get his attention for a proper duel. They were almost invitations, Malfoy's sneak attacks, although invitations that did usually hit some hapless Hufflepuff and turn their eyes to stone or set their hair on fire. Harry tried to resist Malfoy's provocations, but he had found that fewer bystanders ended up getting jinxed if he just gave in and gave Malfoy the fight he wanted. Harry was getting good at Lip-Locker hexes, which ended duels quickly as they stopped your opponent from responding. With his lips locked, Malfoy was almost tolerable.
****
Draco looked at the list of questions. If you were an Animagus, you would take the form of:
- something cute
- something sneaky
- something fast
- something venomous
- Hagrid.
Time was he would have found that hilarious.
Time was the Gryffindorks would have been running to McGonagall blubbering over it, too. But his old opponents had gotten hard to rile. Taunts that once would have made Weasley blaze up now merely left him looking hassled. Granger had the gall to look bored where once her cheeks would have flamed. And Potter... the rage, the green fire that had once burned in his eyes was gone. It was a cold war now, for Potter; he was wary, watchful, guarded, but never out of control. Potter only dropped that restraint on the Quidditch pitch anymore, flying full out against him, holding nothing back. Draco could feel himself play harder against him than he ever bothered to in his other matches, just to push him farther, just to see him consumed by the game. He wanted to see Harry lose control, wanted to heat up their cold war, wanted to be able to make his eyes gleam with fury, wanted to see him burn when he smirked at him. But he couldn't even get Potter angry enough to duel him properly; he would respond with a maddening air of duty, as if Draco was a nuisance and he was only bothering at all to make sure he didn't hex any more stupid gawkers who got themselves in the way.
And just look at him! He was even mentioned in question eight:
Admit it! Your dream Yule Ball date is:
- Nicolas Flamel - he's over four hundred years old, he's had a lot of time to practice more than his alchemical skills
- Moaning Myrtle - you'll show her the meaning of moaning
- Fleur Delacour - she's part Veela!
- Stan Shunpike - he can drive your bus anytime
- Harry Potter - you dream that someday he'll be The Boy Who Lived With You
Time was, Potter would have been all a-tremble that someone had dared suggest that his popularity had something to do with his first (and only, Draco thought) accomplishment. But look at him! He was over there laughing over something that little slut Finnegan was saying. Unspeakable Name, would the Ravenclaws manage to match the boy with anyone with whom he hadn't already had a fling? Well, Draco himself, he thought, but he was quite sure their answers would have nothing in common. Potter and Finnegan, on the other hand... he could just see them both marking b), thinking it was funny, or c), as typically hair-brained victims of a bit of hair (Draco himself was answering a), on the grounds that he'd at least actually be interesting to talk to)... yes, he could see the test matching them and inspiring Finnegan to go after Potter. Which one would think might be a situation with some potential... but would Harry even react if he were mocked for being Finnegan's catch-of-the-day? Draco snarled. Potter, he thought, would not react if he hit him with a sledgehammer.
****
Harry was dreaming. Hands, elegant hands, fast hands, Seeker hands, skimming over his body, never holding still for an instant, and Harry quivering beneath them, and that tongue, following the hands, tracing a steady path from -
Harry woke up, aching. He ran his own hands across his chest, down his hips and up his sides, but it wasn't the same. He wondered if Cho would be on his list, if he would be on hers, if it would make a difference, if it was even Cho he wanted, if there was anyone at Hogwarts for him to want.
****
It had been a muted, pale February day, but the Great Hall was filled with excited chatter as students picked up their scrolls from the Ravenclaw table that night at dinner.
Seamus was cackling, and Lavender and Parvati were giggling, and Ron was looking thoughtful, and Neville was smiling a sweet, shy, blushing smile that nonetheless desperately begged somebody to ask him who he had gotten, when Harry sat down and looked at his results.
And nearly leapt up again.
First on his list was Draco Malfoy.
He also had Ron, Ginny, Natalie McDonald, Hannah Abbott, and Seamus (he would later find out that Seamus was apparently compatible with everybody, because he showed up on almost everyone's list), but for the moment he could not process beyond - that name at the top.
"Who'd you get, Harry, ooh, who'd you get," the rest of the table was asking, but it was all a roaring in his ears. Malfoy? He couldn't really have anything in common with that slimy prat, could he?
Seamus was prying out of Hermione that the top of her list had been Justin Finch-Fletchly, and Seamus was encouraging her to ask him out "because he's such a sweet guy, and you know I think his fling with me is the only time he's dated anybody at Hogwarts, and it's such a shame because he's such a sweetheart."
"Actually he's not available," said Neville, but by then they had gone on to the rest of Hermione's list (including Dean, Susan Bones, Seamus, and both Creevey brothers), but it was all washing over Harry like so much jarveying. There had to be some mistake. The Ravenclaws had entered Malfoy's answers wrong, or something, because they couldn't possibly match Harry's. Take that question about what you looked for first in a boyfriend/girlfriend. Would Malfoy have answered a) looks, or b) sense of humor, or even c) lets you copy homework? Possibly c), because he always did seem to be looking to get out of work (Harry never saw him in the library), except that the next choice was d) pure bloodlines, an answer that could have been put there deliberately for the snobbish Slytherin. And e), "arm free of Dark Mark", was right out. Of course, Harry hadn't actually put e), because while it was definitely important, he had to admit he had gotten attracted to Cho on the basis of how she looked when she played Quidditch, only Quidditch wasn't on there, so he had had to say looks, but in any case, he was quite sure he hadn't accidentally circled d).
And thinking back to his other answers, he was quite sure that Malfoy could not possibly have picked Nicolas Flamel (who Harry wished he had a chance to meet before his (unpublicized) death, as he thought it would be fascinating to talk to someone who must have seen so much), and despite the riveting way he played Quidditch, throwing himself forward on his broom, the bright hair a streak as he hurtled across the pitch, Malfoy couldn't possibly have preferred a fast Animagus form over a venomous one. So there had to be some mistake; he had spent enough time with Hermione to know that even brilliant perfectionists sometimes cast spells wrong, so the Ravenclaws were hardly immune, and all it would have taken was one bad setting on an autoabacus. That had to be it. Because it was just impossible that the Amazing Bouncing Ferret was his top love at Hogwarts, or even "someone with whom he had a lot in common".
Across the room, Draco stared at his scroll in disbelief. Harry Potter? Harry "worship my scar" Potter? He couldn't have matched answers with Potter. Potter had grown up in a closet, did he even know what tikka masala was? And obviously he'd be fending off the forces of Darkness next time he did underaged magic, just as he no doubt had done the last eight times he had gotten off scot-free for it (Draco, of course, since he let Crabbe and Goyle hang around, had figured he'd be putting out the fire). There had to be some mistake.
Back at the Gryffindor table it had been established that Ginny was extremely put out to have gotten her brother at the top of her list, that the Creeveys had also gotten each other first but thought it was neat, that Padma and Parvati had also gotten each other first, and that next year the Ravenclaws should skip siblings because it wasn't very exciting to find out you had a lot in common with them (and more than a little weird to see them at the top of a list of "your loves at Hogwarts"). Harry had stared numbly at his scroll through all of this, and was still lost in thought when Parvati plucked it out of his limp fingers.
She looked at it, gasped, and fixed him with that look of deep pity he was so sick of after years of Divination. Without a word she handed the scroll to Lavender, who also gasped, and also looked at him like Trelawney had just announced that he was doomed to be clawed by a slaad. Silently, the scroll passed down the table, accompanied by looks of horror, confusion, and disgust. Even Seamus had nothing to say.
Harry found himself feeling oddly... defensive. It wasn't that bad. It was just a silly quiz. The way the Gryffindors were acting, it was like he had seen Voldemort in the Mirror of Erised or something.
The scroll finally reached Ron (Neville had to roll it up and poke him with it, as he was staring at Hermione rather intently). Ron, upon reading it, actually blanched, and leapt to his feet with a sort of strangled noise, knocking over his chair in the process.
Harry had had enough. "It's not that bad!" he shouted. "Nundu breath, what happened to "it's just for fun"?!"
Seamus smiled unevenly. "That's the spirit, Harry, just for fun." He gathered speed. "Why, did I make a fuss out of being matched with Dean, here? Or Lucy Innamorati? Or Warrington? Or Orla "my Puffskein tongue got stuck up my-" Quirke? Of course not, there's no harm in identifying a fellow fan of Honeydukes and bangers and mash."
"That's Seamus for you," whispered Dean. "Can't decide between bangers and mash." Parvati giggled.
Harry thought of being matched with Warrington, or Orla Quirke. Malfoy really wasn't the worst he could have done.
"But Malfoy," said Ron. "Harry doesn't deserve having his list ruined like that."
Lavender giggled. "I wouldn't call it ruined."
He was at least intelligent, Harry thought while Ron made retching noises, unlike his goons, or Millicent Bulstrode (and not for the first time he wondered how Draco put up with his fellow Slytherins).
Lavender was arguing, "Yeah, but he does have that pretty hair," and Harry thought "Yeah, and he does have that pretty hair," and groaned, and began banging his head against the table.
The Slytherin table, preoccupied trying to guess which of Pansy's matches was making her blush, was leaving Draco alone with his protests. He couldn't have been matched with Potter. Potter was the enemy, the prey, the fodder, the butt of the joke. Well, maybe a worthy enemy, and he had turned the joke back on Draco on a few occasions. But that didn't mean they had anything in common. No, he simply couldn't possibly be compatible with Potter, he had, he had class, and panache, and biting cynicism, and a devastatingly attractive body, and all sorts of things that Potter wouldn't know if they bit him.
On second thought, biting, Potter, and his own devastatingly attractive body really didn't belong in the same sentence.
On third thought, they did.
He thought of the tense line Harry's back as they raced for the Snitch, the same tension he could feel in his own back. He thought of Harry's eyes gleaming beneath that unkempt hair and the arrogant way Harry held his wand. "Fuck," said Draco.
It was of course at that moment that Crabbe looked at Draco's results, hooted with laughter, and passed them to Goyle, still howling. Goyle bellowed until Draco thought he might sprain something. It spread around the table as they handed his scroll from hand to hand, because everyone was laughing too hard after reading it to announce its contents.
Hermione had been looking at Harry with worry (although Ron seemed to think it was no more than the natural reaction) and was about to say something when the Slytherin table erupted. Harry, resting his head on the table, didn't even look up.
Truly horrible things were happening in Harry's head. Malfoy's blonde hair was stuck in his eyes, and his pale glittering eyes were looking at him and he couldn't look away and then suddenly the hands from his dream were his hands, the tongue was his tongue, instantly melting together until Harry, awfully, couldn't even be sure they hadn't been his all along. The Draco in his head smirked, stretched, yawned, and Harry saw that pink tongue and pale skin and he couldn't breathe and he was ragingly hard.
Malfoy was contemplating truly horrible things. He was humiliated beyond all belief, and so he was furious, and not even his favorite mental picture of Crabbe-run-through-with-a-meat-hook was giving him any comfort. Harry Potter was on his "loves at Hogwarts" list. And for a terrible, unthinkable moment, he had wanted him to be there. And it had taken Crabbe and Goyle to recall him to himself.
As if he would ever think of Potter that way. Potter might think of him that way; that could even explain his otherwise incomprehensible presence on Malfoy's list, a perfectly understandable desperate craving on Harry's part to have more in common with his unattainable dream (Draco mentally enunciated "unattainable"). In fact, the Slytherins were probably laughing at Potter, for aspiring to a height so far above him, rather than Draco, who had merely let himself discover a new hook for baiting the priggish Gryffindor.
Draco was relieved to find himself returning to a sane train of thought. He was the object of desire, it wouldn't do for him to feel it himself. It would just be obscene for him to think anything of the sort about someone so unworthy as Potter, like a master waiting on his house-elf. Whereas Potter would try to resist (explaining his baseless hostility), but in the end would naturally succumb to the worship that was Draco's due. And wouldn't it serve him right, for Potter to be at last forced to admit his superior by his own heart? His self-righteousness undercut by a helpless longing, begging on his knees for the slightest acknowledgment from his disdainful idol.
Draco smiled wickedly and felt a sudden rush of blood that began in his face and ended, to his surprise, in his cock. He could feel his eyes lit up in unholy glee, his fists clenched as he thought of the nasty scheme, and his cock burning to match his eyes or his nails in his palms, straining in his pants, tugging at him, a giant compass needle pointing unerringly towards his magnetic north, aiming him forward, across the room, towards Harry.
Harry.
He held himself back; this was not the time, yet; but he looked at Harry.
Harry sat with his head in his hands, and then looked up with such a hopeless expression that Draco nearly laughed aloud. This was going to be almost too easy. How to go about it exactly, get Harry to admit his hunger, his despair, taunt him with little promises of fulfillment, then extract promises in return, degrade him. Make him say he would do anything.
Draco's cock pulsed. "Anything, anything". He could hear Potter's voice, his guards down, the caution gone, and he almost shook, holding himself back. Anything. And then reject him. Or, perhaps, indulge a little first... Draco saw Harry get up and head for the exit of the hall, and Draco let his cock pull him forward to follow him.
Harry had sat there, lost in his thoughts, while Hermione got distracted by Ron's imitation of Goyle and Dean quietly asked Seamus if he really minded getting matched with him by the test. Thoughts was perhaps an exaggeration. Perhaps "thought". Tongue. That's all he could think about. Tongue, and his cock. Ok, that was two thoughts, although they weren't actually separate thoughts. He was going mad. Mad in spades. Mad in tongues. Crazy people spoke in tongues, right, or was that people who had been touched by the Holy Spirit? He needed to be touched, his spirit felt holy, purified down to nothing but a white-hot glowing rod and a mercifully wet, cool, quenching tongue. He had, in fact, he thought, gone crazy. He had to get out of there. But could he even stand up without someone noticing? Could he even move without coming in his pants?
Harry thanked God for the loose fit of Hogwarts robes as he fled to the exit, carefully not looking at the Slytherin table.
Draco caught him at the foot of the stairs.
The nervousness abated the hard-on a little. But just a little.
Harry, Draco noticed, was shaking.
Draco was smirking at him. He didn't dare to breathe.
His eyes were huge and dark and darted everywhere, skimming over him in guilty little bursts. He could hardly stop himself from tangling his hands into the dark hair. Not until Harry was on his knees.
His lips were pressed together, twisted mockingly, and Harry was glad, because he wasn't sure what would have happened if he had had to look at that tongue, and terribly, terribly disappointed.
Draco very deliberately ran his tongue around his lips.
Harry gasped, a deep, gulping noise that echoed down the empty hall.
Draco sneered at Harry, grabbed him by the wrist and started to lead him to the nearest classroom.
Harry hesitated.
Draco raised his eyebrows, as if to say, "What? You're saying this isn't a foregone conclusion?" and Harry's stomach exploded with billywigs and he remembered to breathe and forgot again and followed Draco.
Draco slammed the door of the classroom behind them and muttered a Locking Charm at the door. He leered at Harry, who was standing helplessly where Draco had dropped his wrist.
Harry was staring at Draco. The incredibly fair hair. The incredibly pale skin. The eyes, always so icy, and now as cold and inexorable as glaciers. His hands, that should be delicate but were strong, that should be harsh but were surprisingly gentle. He wanted those hands.
Draco saw the sparks in Harry's eyes, but it wasn't enough, he wanted to see him consumed.
"Take off your robe," he ordered. It came out more awkwardly than he expected, more like a plea and less like a command. "C'mon, Potter, I know you want to." That was better.
Harry's head snapped up at Draco's use of his last name, and he caught his eyes. "I want to? Or you want me to?"
Draco's breath hissed in appreciation. This was better, he was fighting back. All the better when he lost. "I suppose you'd rather take off mine," he said, trying to make it cutting, but Harry stepped forward eagerly and was pushing Draco's robes down his shoulders before he knew what hit him.
Draco swore under his breath and ripped at Harry's robes. He could not be naked when Harry was dressed. Without even thinking about it he pulled Harry's pants down with his robes, leaving Harry standing there wearing nothing but a vest, and Draco, kneeling in front of him, eye to eye with a formidable erection.
Draco's eyes widened. This was not how it was supposed to go, this was all wrong, but he remained there for a moment, fascinated, almost hypnotized by the gentle bobbing of Harry's cock.
With an effort of will he pulled himself to his feet, using Harry as a handhold. The manoeuvre dragged him up the length of Harry's body and Harry let out another one of those gasps, and his knees started to buckle.
Harry was incoherent with frustration. "But- but-" his mind babbled. Draco had been at his feet, had had his head inches from his cock, had sat there with the tip of that pointed tongue between his teeth, and he hadn't touched him! "Tongue," he said, or tried to say, but Draco was slithering up his body and there was pressure and friction and Harry felt his knees liquefy and felt Draco's hands on his shoulders encouraging him down, and then he was where Draco had been moments before. Only Draco was still wearing his pants.
Draco stood over him, his face inscrutable.
Harry looked up at him, openly desperate, shuddering with need.
Draco could not get his pants off fast enough. He yanked at them, got them caught, Harry leaned in to try to help, smacked his face into Draco's belly, and promptly got hit under his chin with Draco's erection as it popped up. Draco got his pants round his ankles, tried to pick up both feet at once, hopped, nearly stumbled over Harry. Harry put his hands on his hips to steady him. Before he could lose his nerve he leaned forward and licked Draco's stomach, then the underside of his cock.
A sort of floating calm filled him. Draco's stomach was very soft and Harry grazed his lips against it before licking Draco's cock again. He almost felt like he could feel it, himself, a phantom tongue lapping against him for every touch he gave to Draco. "See?" Harry wanted to say. "This is how it works. You don't just sit there like you're looking for the Snitch, you bloody do something." But instead he looked up at Draco and smiled, really smiled, and Draco looked down at the heat in those green eyes and the softly parted lips and the trust and he sank his hands into the tangles of Harry's hair and shoved his cock in his mouth.
And Harry took it, gagging, and wrapped his arms around Draco's hips and sucked frantically, and Draco pulled on his handfuls of his hair, and bucked his hips, and came.
Most of it ended up on Harry's chin. It looked like he was drooling. He knelt there, at Draco's feet, as Draco's breathing slowed, and Draco regarded him silently. Harry was slowly rocking his hips, a silent plea for release, running his own hands across his chest and flanks and looking betrayed that they were his own.
Draco watched him, desperate, fucking the air. This was his chance to make him beg.
Harry looked up at Draco watching him. Draco was not going to touch him, Harry realized, and all of his dreams about hands and tongues were just dreams. His eyes filled with tears of frustration and Harry gave in, sat back, let his own hand drop to his lap and curl around his engorged cock. It wouldn't take much to end this torment, just a few thrusts -
Draco saw Harry's hand start jerking away and was suddenly, blindingly furious. How dare he, when he, Draco, wanted him to lose control. Wanted to be in control. Draco flung himself forward.
- and Draco flew at him, knocked him backwards, tore his hand away, replaced it with his own. The long, pale fingers wrapped around him and then, oh god, his mouth. Harry looked down and saw the long pink tongue flickering over him and screamed and thrashed and spent himself into Draco's mouth. His legs shook as he spasmed and he felt like he was unravelling, and also like he was finally complete, his whole skin full to bursting of Harry-being-touched-by-Draco.
Harry realized that he was lying on the floor, that Draco's head was resting on his stomach, and that he was running his hands slowly through Draco's soft hair. And that none of these things seemed particularly improbable.
Draco felt completely relaxed, as if he had found his way to the absolute reference frame and was perfectly at rest in it. The fact that it involved lying on top of Harry Potter was unexpected, but then, so was Harry spontaneously licking him.
He wondered if he could get him to do it again.
Harry shifted under him and sat up. Draco sat up too, chuckling affectionately, "Can't even keep you down with a blowjob, can I," and trailed off as he realized how he sounded.
But Harry just grinned at him, green eyes sparkling (Draco suddenly realized that Harry's glasses had been knocked off at some point), and said "Hey, tell you what, I'll give you a second try sometime," and Draco caught his breath and leaned forward and kissed him, softly, gently, deeply, sliding his tongue through the other boy's mouth in long caresses until Harry sighed and wrapped his arms around Draco's waist, pulling him close.
And then, as Draco leaned forward into Harry, he pinched his ass.
Draco yelped and narrowed his eyes at Harry, who just blinked at him innocently, and looked at him nose to nose, and whispered "I think those Ravenclaws are onto something, Draco." And Draco said "Harry," soft as a breath, and Harry's eyes were warm, and his eyes were liquid, looking at Harry, not his Harry yet, but he could be, a whole world of Harry he could explore and conquer and make his own, although probably, he thought, rubbing his ass, never actually tame. And Harry looked at him and he knew there were things they would have to talk about someday, but tonight they were no more complicated than "when can we meet next", which turned out to conveniently enough be tomorrow. Valentine's Day.
"I expect chocolates," said Draco, laughing, as they dressed and attempted to get the sticky spot out of the rug, "Dark chocolates with creamy centers and little enchanted hearts on them that play the slow movements from classical symphonies," and Harry said, "Oh good, I'll have a reason to have to console you with sex then," and they were both full of joy and laughing almost too hard to walk. And Harry said casually "Would you want me to give them to you in the Great Hall," and Draco thought of the Slytherins roaring with laughter and briefly contemplated stealing a Time-Turner and returning to the morning he thought he needed a challenge and beating himself bloody. And Draco said, "You remember the first question of that test?"
"Sure," said Harry. "If you were in a different House, which House would it be?
And we both answered e)."
- Ravenclaw
- Gryffindor
- Slytherin
- Hufflepuff
- I couldn't possibly be in a different House.
"Right," said Draco, "Because you're not very cunning, I'm too smart to be daring, and neither of us is particularly fond of either learning or toil."
"Your point?" asked Harry, a little annoyed by the "cunning" comment.
"You may have to be a little bit cunning," said Draco. "I know it's a stretch. I suppose I can be a little bit daring, but given my father a little bit won't go very far."
Harry had figured Lucius Malfoy was one of those "later" topics and in his surprise that Draco was willing to speak so openly about his father he almost forgot to answer.
"Um," he said. "Cunning. Right. Sneeeaaaky." He wiggled his eyebrows.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Look, just don't tell anyone you don't trust not to tell anyone who could tell someone who might tell my father, okay? I don't want to get an eagleowl notifying me of the Dark Lord's delight that I have won your trust and his impatience for me to bring you to him."
Harry winced. "And I thought I was going to have coming-out issues," he said, shaking his head.
"Out?" asked Draco, smirking, "Here you were brought up in a closet, I'd think you'd be at home there." He kissed Harry before he could reply.
****
The sky was blue for Valentine's Day, and the Gryffindors piled their lunch plates with cakes and sweets and little hearts that scrolled through a list of romantic messages.
"Ah, Valentine's Day," sighed Seamus happily, "The holiday of Love."
"And you would know!" Hermione sang at him. Her cheeks were pink and she seemed to be smiling a lot at nothing in particular.
"So what's your Seamus number these days, Hermione?" Dean asked her archly.
"I believe we're still waiting for an answer to that from you as well," Hermione tossed back.
Seamus and Ron both blushed.
"Good grief, everyone's pairing off," said Lavender. "Seamus numbers are dropping like flies all over this school. Augusta's a five, Eloise is a four, and ooh, latest news: Blaise hooked up with Malcolm, so I guess he would be a six now, right, if Draco's a four?"
"He's a three actually," said Harry, blushing a bit. Everyone kept talking, except for Hermione, who started throwing message hearts at Ron.
"It's hopeless," Neville said to him kindly. "You could probably hold up a banner at the next Quidditch meet and no one would get it."
Harry looked at him curiously. He thought very hard. And then he winked.
::End::
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