Chapter Text
Harry had intended to stay at Ron’s overnight and sneak back into Hogwarts through the Honeydukes passage on Sunday. But his knee bounced restlessly as he finished his beer, his eyes straying back to Hermione’s letter as Ron talked, and eventually Ron sighed and told him to fuck off.
“There’s no point you kicking around here when you could be at school feeling up your pointy little boyfriend.”
Harry sputtered a protest, but Ron was already chivvying him out of the front door.
“Seriously, get lost. Cheers for helping with the tidying. Don’t let Malfoy’s pasty arse distract you from NEWTs, Hermione really would kill me then.”
“But—”
“Mate. I’ll see you in a month. Tell Hermione I miss her, yeah?” Ron winked, for a moment looking remarkably like his sister, then slammed the door in Harry’s face.
Harry stared at the wonky, rusted number 9 that marked Ron’s flat. He could pound on the door, tell Ron that he’d missed him (true), that he was having a good day (debatable) and that there was nowhere he’d rather be than Ron’s tiny living room (untrue). Or he could Apparate back to Hogsmeade and be talking to Draco and Hermione within half an hour.
“Thanks for the beer,” Harry called through the door. “I’m sorry for—you know.”
“Why are you still here?” came the muffled response.
“I’m not,” Harry assured him, and Disapparated.
It was already late afternoon, but Hogsmeade was as busy as ever. On any other day, Harry would have taken a few minutes to enjoy the crowded streets, the careless chatter, the smell of meat pies and ale drifting from the Three Broomsticks—but just then, he had other things on his mind. He fought his way through the crowds, tossing apologies over his shoulder and trying not to feel guilty about the alarm he was leaving in his wake. (Apparently, the sight of Harry Potter running made people think something was under attack. Harry was vaguely annoyed at how reasonable that assumption was.)
Despite his panic-provoking haste, it was another twenty minutes before he found himself in front of Doreen, the portrait formerly known as the Fat Lady.
“I hate these fucking stairs,” he gasped at her. “Bandersnatch.”
“Now, really,” Doreen sniffed, but swung open without further comment.
The common room was busier than it ordinarily would have been on a Hogsmeade day, with fifth-, seventh- and eighth-year students huddled together in groups, textbooks and class notes spread between them. But even so, Draco and Hermione were not hard to spot: they were at their usual table, heads bent, both of them frowning in concentration.
Harry leant against the wall to catch his breath and let himself look. Draco was hunched over, somehow taking up much less space than a person over six feet tall wearing loose-fitting Hogwarts robes should. Hermione, by contrast, seemed to fill the entire opposite side of the table. Her finger was tapping restlessly on the shaft of her quill, her hair was frizzier than ever, and she had no less than five books open in front of her—she kept switching between them like a hummingbird darting between flowers.
They weren’t talking. They weren’t touching. Hermione kept swatting her hair out of her face and Harry remembered, with sudden vivid clarity, that Ron would gently put his hand on her wrist and tell her to breathe whenever she got this stressed.
Had Harry ever seen Draco touch Hermione without her touching him first? He tried to think, but nothing came to mind. In fact, Draco touched Harry more than he touched Hermione. Draco’s fingers would linger when Harry passed him something; his shoulder would lean casually against Harry’s whenever they sat next to each other; his leg would press back, tentatively, whenever Harry would nudge against it with his own.
Just then, Harry noticed, Draco’s legs were crossed at the ankle and tucked firmly out of the way of Hermione’s. A hysterical laugh threatened to burst out of him. He forced it back down.
Draco caught sight of Harry before Hermione did—his head flicked up as Harry approached, his mouth forming a soft Oh that Harry was still too far away to hear. Hermione looked up, frowning, and followed Draco’s gaze.
“Harry!”
“Hi.” Harry had managed to suppress the hysterical laugh, but he couldn’t stop himself from grinning at the clear line of space between Draco and Hermione’s things on the table between them.
“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked. “I thought you were at Ron’s until tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing, he—” Harry glanced over his shoulder at the crowded common room; most of the surrounding students had their heads buried in books, but he had long since learned to recognise the quirk of an ear in his direction. “Actually, can we go somewhere else for a minute? The three of us?”
Draco paled. Hermione bit her lip.
“Is it important? I’m a bit behind where I wanted to be with my Arithmancy reading…”
“It’s important,” Harry said firmly. “And it won’t take long. Hey, Seamus?”
Seamus, the owner of one of the aforementioned quirked ears, looked up innocently. “Harry! Didn’t see you come in! How’s it going, there?”
“I need a spot nearby where me, Draco and Hermione won’t be interrupted. Do you know one?”
“Ah, you want the classroom next to the sixth-floor Trophy Room,” Seamus said promptly. “Hasn’t been used for years. Except by me and Dean, of course.”
“Cheers,” Harry said, grimacing at Seamus’s leer. “Draco, Hermione? Come with me?”
Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance and simultaneously began to gather their things together. Harry’s instinctive jealousy flared at the wordless communication, not yet used to the fact that there was nothing to be jealous of. He clenched his jaw and looked away, and pretended not to notice Neville smiling knowingly a few tables over.
“What’s this about?” Hermione asked as Harry led the way down the stairs. “Is Ron okay? Did something happen?”
The urge to laugh bubbled up inside him again. God, it was so obvious. He had been so stupid. “He’s totally fine. Everything’s fine. Better than fine, actually— Here, get in, I don’t want anyone listening.”
Hermione looked at him doubtfully but ducked through the classroom door that Harry was holding open. Draco went to follow her then paused on the threshold.
“What are you doing?” he asked Harry in an undertone.
The laughter that Harry had been suppressing burst out of him in a single harsh bark. He slapped a hand over his mouth and Draco’s neat eyebrows shot upwards.
“Just get inside, will you?” Harry said tightly through his fingers. He tried to smile at Draco with his eyes to communicate that there was nothing to worry about, but from Draco’s alarmed expression, he wasn’t sure he pulled it off.
The door was stiff. Harry had to shove it closed with all his might to get it in the frame, but the effort eased a little of his frenzied energy. He locked it with a Colloportus, added some extra privacy spells for good measure, then turned to Draco and Hermione. They were leaning against adjacent desks, twin expressions of apprehension on their faces.
“So, Ron told me,” Harry said, grinning. “About you two.”
Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance.
“About…us two?” Hermione asked.
“That it’s all fake. You’re not actually in a relationship. You’ve been with Ron all along.”
Draco went very still.
“Ah,” Hermione said.
“How come you didn’t tell me!” Harry’s grin was starting to hurt his cheeks. “I could have helped you convince people!”
“Oh, well, you know,” Hermione said. “You had quite enough to be getting on with. You still do, as a matter of fact—why on earth did he tell you?”
“It wasn’t his fault. He thought I already knew, for a start—but I found out by accident. I saw one of your letters when I was helping him tidy up.” Hermione straightened, her eyes widening, and Harry hastened to add, “I didn’t see much! Just enough to realise something was going on.” It was a lie—Harry had seen quite a lot, actually, but he was desperately trying to forget it all. All of it, that is, except the bits about Draco not actually being Hermione’s boyfriend.
The thought prompted another surge of giddiness. Harry grinned at Draco—then faltered at the lack of an answering grin on Draco’s face. Harry was aware of Draco’s tendency to hold himself back, so he hadn’t expected him to be jumping for joy—but he’d expected something. That quiet little smile that Harry liked so much, maybe. Something other than…blankness.
“Well, I’m glad we don’t have to keep it from you any more,” Hermione said, and Harry reluctantly turned his attention back to her. “But you really can’t tell anyone, Harry. Nobody at all—not even Ginny. If it gets out, it will all have been for nothing.”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Are you sure you can manage to keep it a secret? I can Obliviate you if you like?”
“No! God, no. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. And if I do, I’ll let you know right away, so you can Obliviate them.”
Hermione pulled a face.
“I’m kidding! Come on, Hermione, you know the sort of things I kept quiet for Dumbledore.”
“If I recall, you shouted most of them from the rooftops, but everyone thought you were too much of a nutter to listen to you,” she said, smiling ruefully. “But yes, all right. I would actually prefer not to Obliviate anyone again, if possible. And accident or not, I am sorry you’re finding out now. You really don’t need the extra stress, not with NEWTs so close.”
“It’s fine, I’m not worried about NEWTs.”
“Oh, Harry, you really should be—they’re our last chance to prove ourselves before we can actually start making a difference—!”
Harry waved a hand, batting the words out of the air before they could reach him. “I just mean,” he said quickly, since Hermione was starting to look very put out. “I’m not worried about them because I’ve already been revising like mad, haven’t I? I’ll probably do the best I’ve ever done, thanks to you two.”
He looked meaningfully at Draco, hoping that the compliment would provoke a smile, at least. But Draco was still just watching him, his pale face completely devoid of expression.
“Well,” Hermione said, sounding unconvinced, “speaking of NEWTs—I really should be getting back to Arithmancy…”
“Wait. There’s something else I have to tell you.” Harry swallowed. “I, erm.” He took a deep breath. “I kissed Draco. I’m so sorry, Hermione.”
There was a beat of silence. Harry couldn’t stop his gaze from flicking back to Draco. Still nothing.
“Oh,” Hermione said. “Well. That’s quite all right. No harm done, after all.”
She sounded so reasonable. So understanding.
It was awful.
“It’s not all right, though, is it?” Harry said. “I didn’t know you weren’t together, did I? I thought the two of you were— God. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have done it. I was being a terrible friend and I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, Harry.” As she had done outside the Transfiguration classroom the other day, Hermione rushed forwards and pulled Harry into a hug. It hurt just as much as it had last time. “You weren’t being a terrible friend! You must have been awfully lonely these last few months. I appreciate you apologising, but I really do understand. I know you didn’t mean it.”
Hermione was obviously trying to be nice. So why did it feel like she was stabbing him in the gut rather than hugging him?
“Well, no, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Harry said. “But I—I can’t pretend that I didn’t mean to kiss him, because I did.”
Hermione pulled away, frowning up at him.
“I meant it.” Harry bowed his head. “I wanted it.”
“Oh. You—? I thought… You made it sound like it was an accident.” She glanced at Draco—but Draco’s face was still. fucking. blank.
“I suppose it kind of was, maybe, the first time. It happened so fast, I wasn’t even thinking. But the second time…I definitely knew what I was doing then.”
“The second time? You mean…the same night as the first? Two kisses, but one…kissing session?”
Something heavy curdled in Harry’s stomach. “No,” he said, forcing himself to meet Hermione’s gaze. “No, there were, erm. Two kissing sessions.”
“Oh. I… When?”
“The first one was just over a month ago,” Harry said gloomily. “The second one was, erm. A few days ago. Tuesday night.”
Hermione gasped. Her surprise was almost gratifying—it was much closer to the reaction Harry had expected. He braced himself for the anger he was sure would follow, but instead of getting upset at Harry, Hermione whirled on Draco.
“You said nothing happened on Tuesday!”
“I’m sorry,” Draco said, his voice small.
“We agreed it was a bad idea!”
“I know,” Draco said in that same horrible small voice. “I didn’t mean for— I’m sorry.”
“Wait,” Harry said. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh,” Hermione said. “No, nothing, it doesn’t matter—”
But the heavy thing in Harry’s stomach twisted into something hotter, sharper. “Hermione. Did you already know? About Draco and me?”
“Erm,” Hermione said. “No?”
Harry wanted to believe her. He really did.
But now he thought about it, she had tried to stop Draco staying in Gryffindor Tower on Tuesday. Harry had been so fixated on getting Draco upstairs that he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But it was strange that she’d tried to talk them out of it, given that she had been the one to suggest the bed-sharing idea in the first place.
Harry shoved his hands in his pockets to hide his clenched fists. “Draco?” he asked. “Did you tell her already?”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Hermione said quickly. “I forced him into it. Truly—I shoved him into an alcove and pointed my wand at him until he confessed.”
She was trying to make him feel better again, but the mental image of Draco and Hermione pressed together in an alcove had not yet lost its sting.
“When?” Harry heard himself say. “How long have you known?”
“It was—the morning after the first time, I think.”
“The morning after— You mean last month?”
“I— Yes.”
Draco didn’t react well to confrontation, Harry remembered. He forced himself to breathe. His voice came out reasonably level when he said, “But if you’ve known all that time…why didn’t you tell me about you two?”
“Well, I didn’t want you to get hurt—”
Something inside Harry snapped. “You didn’t want me to—? Hermione, I’ve felt like shit for weeks. I thought I’d manipulated Draco into cheating on you—I thought you two were in love, and I just had to sit there and watch! What fucking hurt did you think you were saving me from?”
Hermione stepped backwards, wide-eyed. “I thought— Draco said it was an accident, I assumed he— What about you and Ginny?”
“There is no me and Ginny! I don’t want there to be a me and Ginny! I want…”
Draco had barely moved. To the untrained eye, he might have even seemed relaxed—he was still leaning against the desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him. But his knuckles were white where they gripped the tabletop, his shoulders sharper than they should have been. And, finally, finally there was a hint of emotion on his face—his mouth was open, his lips parted the barest amount. It was nothing, really. It was still enough to make something wild flare in Harry’s chest.
“I think perhaps I should leave the two of you to talk…”
Hermione was still standing close enough for Harry to touch. Her hair really was a mess—and she had bags under her eyes and tiny sores on her bottom lip, spots of red where she’d bitten hard enough to break the skin.
The flames of Harry’s anger sputtered and died.
“Fuck,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t help being a knob these days.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry too, for not telling you. I really was trying to help. I didn’t realise you had…feelings?”
Harry swallowed and nodded.
“Right. Well. I suppose I’ll just— I’ll be back in the common room if either of you need me.”
She made to duck around Harry, but he grabbed her and pulled her into a hug, as she’d done to him. It didn’t hurt at all this time. “You’re brilliant,” he said into her hair. “I really am sorry. And—don’t forget to breathe, yeah? You won’t be able to take the NEWTs if you give yourself a heart attack from stress before they even start.”
“That’s not biologically possible, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Hermione said, a smile in her voice. “I’ll lock the door behind me. Try not to— Oh, just be careful with each other, won’t you? Both of you. I’ll see you later.”
The classroom felt bigger in Hermione’s absence. Bigger and quieter. Dust muffled Harry’s footsteps as he crossed the room towards Draco.
“Hey,” Harry said. “I’m sorry for losing my cool a bit there. Are you all right?”
Draco’s only response was a sharp, deep inhale.
“It’s just…you haven’t said much since I got back. You haven’t said much over the last few days, really.”
He didn’t say anything then, either. He just watched Harry, his eyes wary, his mouth open that tiny, almost imperceptible amount.
“I actually sort of thought that now I know about you and Hermione, you and I might be able to, you know…”
It must be getting late—Draco’s hair was starting to come loose at the front.
“But I’m beginning to think that maybe you’re not interested in that?”
Draco didn’t contradict him, and Harry swallowed hard. It had been shit to be rejected when he thought it was because Draco was with Hermione. It was worse to find out it was because Draco didn’t actually want him after all.
“Right,” Harry said, his heart sinking. “Okay. Well, I reckon there isn’t much for us to talk about after all, then.” He managed a smile. “Sorry about all this.”
He turned, ready to trudge back up to the common room and stare unseeingly at a textbook for a few hours. But:
“You said you’d stop apologising.”
Harry looked over his shoulder. There had been a definite waver in Draco’s voice, but his gaze was steady as ever.
“I suppose I did,” Harry said slowly. “But, you know. Extenuating circumstances and all that. I’ve made a pretty big tit of myself.”
“You—” Draco seemed to be having trouble speaking. To be fair, he was extremely out of practice. “Why aren’t you hexing me right now?”
“Do you want me to be hexing you?”
“No, of course I— But all this is my fault. You just said it to Hermione: you’ve felt like shit for weeks. Because of me.”
“Draco, I don’t think you can blame yourself for me liking you.”
“I can blame myself for encouraging the delusion that you like me,” Draco said. “When you don’t. Not really.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I do, actually. Hence the, you know”—Harry waved a hand—“feeling like shit thing.”
“But that’s not—” Draco’s emotionless façade seemed to be cracking. How did he normally keep it in place so well, when he seemed to feel so much? “When you said what you said, on Tuesday. That was—”
“When I said that I really like you, you mean?”
Draco let out a strained little huff. “Yes. But that’s the thing—I’ve been thinking about it all week. Whatever it is that you think you like, that’s not me. Maybe you like me now I don’t do anything, now I stop myself from saying every awful thing that comes into my head, but you’ve forgotten what I’m really like—”
“Actually, since I can hardly embarrass myself more, I might as well tell you that I like you most when you do say those things,” Harry said. “When you’re distracted and you forget to be polite. When you don’t stop yourself from making a joke because you think it’s too funny to keep to yourself. When you’re sharp and snooty and mean.”
A flush bloomed on Draco’s cheeks. He opened his mouth again, but no sound came out.
“And when I compliment you and you get all flustered,” Harry said softly. “I like that.”
Draco continued to gape, and Harry figured he might as well carry on—if Draco didn’t want anything else to happen between them, this was probably his last chance to say it. And Draco deserved to know. He deserved to have someone point out the good things about him. And, selfishly, Harry wanted to be the one to do it.
“I like how clever you are,” Harry said, “and how easily you make things make sense. I like how you’re funny and a little bit fucked up. I like how you know you’ve done some shit that wasn’t okay. I like how you’re trying to be better.”
Draco was getting steadily pinker, and Harry couldn’t take his eyes off him.
“And I like it when it gets late and your hair starts to fall out of its poncey little charm. Like it’s doing right now.”
Draco reached up to fix it, but Harry stepped forwards and caught his wrist before he could. “You’re always so cold.”
“Bad circulation,” Draco said hoarsely. “It’s the pure-blood inbreeding.”
“That would make sense.”
Harry had moved closer without noticing. The sun would still be up for a while, but the light spilling through the windows had that soft, intimate quality of late spring: a bit shy, the memories of cold, dark evenings still too recent.
“Harry,” Draco said in that same hoarse voice.
“Yeah?” Harry shifted closer, his thumb sliding over the fine bones of Draco’s wrist. His pulse was quick under Harry’s fingertips, and there was something in his gaze that Harry couldn’t quite place—it wasn’t exactly heat, nor was it longing, but it wasn’t too far removed from either. Harry’s own pulse sped up in response.
“I can’t give you what you need,” Draco said softly.
Harry froze. Fuck, he’d done it again. He’d got carried away, caught up in Draco’s reactions to Harry’s compliments—when Harry knew Draco was so starved of kindness that he’d react like that no matter who said it. Hadn’t that very thing been the reason Harry had started to be nice to Draco in the first place?
“Yeah, no, of course,” Harry said. He dropped Draco’s wrist and took a step back, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I was being stupid. You already said you weren’t interested—”
“You are being stupid.” Despite the wrenching in his chest, Harry felt his smile become genuine at the insult. “I don’t mean that I— I mean that I can’t. Obviously it’s nice having you say all those things, whether they’re true or not, but I… I’m not a good person. I can’t inflict myself on you, I can’t be in any sort of—of anything with you. I’m too…”
“Too what?”
“Awful. Broken.”
He looked like he believed it, too. His head was bowed, and the wispy strands of white-blonde hair that had fought loose from the neatening charm hung down over his eyes. Now Harry had let go of Draco’s wrist, Draco’s hands were free—but he made no attempt to put his hair back in place.
Harry had been prepared to leave. He had been prepared to retreat and lick his wounds. But—
“Are you saying,” he said slowly, “you don’t want anything else to happen between us because you don’t think you’re a good person? Is that—the only reason?”
“What other reason does there need to be?”
“If you don’t want it, for example. If you don’t want me.”
“Didn’t I just say that was stupid? Of course I fucking want you.”
Through the farce of administering the Veritaserum antidote, Harry had become intimately familiar with the way Draco’s jaw felt under his hand. It had always been so smooth, every morning—it had even been smooth in the middle of the night, when they’d kissed, when Harry’s own jaw was scratchy with stubble.
Draco’s jaw was smooth now, in the early evening, when Harry stepped into his space and lifted his chin. Half-perched on the desk as he was, Draco was shorter than Harry. When he looked up, his eyes were wide—grey lakewater under an ice-blue sky.
“Do you mean that?” Harry asked.
A shaky exhale. “I’m trying to do the right thing—”
“Draco. Please stop worrying about what the right thing is for a minute. Do you mean it?”
Draco’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. There was a glimpse of pink tongue as he licked his lips.
“Harry,” he said. “You pudding-headed halfwit. I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember.”
Harry swore. He stepped closer, automatically leaning in. Draco made a helpless noise and tipped his face up, and it took every ounce of self-control that Harry possessed not to close the final distance between them.
“I’m not,” Harry said, feeling exactly as stupid as Draco said he was, “I’m not asking you for anything. Nothing you don’t want. I’ve just—I’ve really missed you these last few days. And if you just want to be friends, that’s fine. But I like you so much. Draco. I really, really—”
Draco lunged upwards and kissed him, and something huge and warm swelled in Harry’s chest—but too soon, Draco pulled away. “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
But Harry cut him off with another kiss, slow and sweet and helpless, and Draco melted into it. His cold hand found Harry’s neck and Harry couldn’t help a quiet noise of pleasure. Draco was wrong: perhaps they shouldn’t have kissed before, but finally, finally, they should.
“Harry,” Draco whined into Harry’s mouth, and Harry shivered. “Wait, think about it. You don’t really want this—”
“God, you’re so wrong.” Harry ran a trembling hand through Draco’s hair. The neatening charm dragged against his fingers then popped as it broke completely.
“But— You’re Harry Potter—”
“Afraid so.” Harry pulled away long enough only to yank off his glasses—then he was back again, kissing Draco’s forehead, his nose, his cheek. “And I like you, Draco Malfoy. Tell me if you really don’t want this and I’ll stop, but”—a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth, the corner that would quirk up in a quiet smile just for Harry—“if you do want it…please. Please.”
Harry held his breath. He could feel Draco’s every shaky little exhale play over his skin.
“You prick,” Draco whispered. “I want it so much I can barely—”
But Harry didn’t find out what Draco could barely do, because he was kissing him, every frustrated, yearning thought he’d had over the last month pouring out of him through the press of lip-on-lip, through urgent, grasping hands.
And for all Draco’s apparent reservations, he met each kiss eagerly, his mouth opening with a low groan, gripping Harry’s neck, his shoulders, his waist. He lurched to his feet and Harry stumbled backwards, but he was never in any danger of falling—Draco was all over him, grabbing him, pulling him closer in what felt like seven different places at once.
Distantly, Harry was aware that the kiss lacked finesse. Their last one had, too—Harry had been so desperately turned on, so overwhelmed by having Draco close, of having Draco want him. It occurred to him that he should be embarrassed about it, about how unrefined he had been then and was being now, moaning and gasping and dragging at Draco without any thoughts of technique—but, god, there was no room inside him for anything other than the surge of heat and the relief at having this, of not needing to feel guilty. Draco wasn’t with Hermione. He wasn’t with anyone. And he wanted Harry.
“Fuck, I want to suck you off.” Despite Draco’s rough grip, Harry nearly did fall then, his knees weak at the desire thick in Draco’s voice. “The way you gave me that fucking antidote was killing me. Why the fuck didn’t you let me do it myself?”
“Because I was so stupidly horny for you, you tit,” Harry gasped, tilting his head as Draco bit a path down the side of his neck. “I thought it was—ah—the only way I could touch you like that.” He still couldn’t quite believe that it wasn’t—after all, only a few hours ago, he’d been in Ron’s kitchen, trying not to snap the handle of the sweeping brush as Ron asked how nice Draco was being to Hermione.
“You can touch me however the fuck you want,” Draco growled, and possibilities spiralled through Harry’s mind, flashes of pale skin and arched backs and spread limbs.
“I don’t…” Harry trailed off, because how on earth could he know where to start, with an offer like that? But then it became suddenly, blindingly clear.
He lifted his head with difficulty, bumping a kiss to the top of Draco’s hair—vanilla, clove—and murmured, “Hey, c’mere.”
Draco dragged his nose against Harry’s jaw, his cheek, then kissed him, slowly and deeply. Harry lost himself in it for an endless honeyed minute, then he broke them apart with a gentle hand on Draco’s chin.
Draco’s eyes fluttered open, and desire throbbed through Harry at the sight of his huge pupils, his flushed cheeks. “God, you look good like this,” Harry breathed unthinkingly, and Draco swayed forwards, his gaze dropping to Harry’s mouth. “Wait, hang on—”
Draco blinked, and Harry knew he had to act quickly, before Draco remembered himself, before he retreated again. He cupped Draco’s jaw, the way he’d done those times he’d indulged himself in that first-floor bathroom, and ran his thumb over Draco’s swollen bottom lip.
“Open your mouth,” Harry said hoarsely. Draco’s eyes darkened further—then, obediently, he parted his lips.
It was different, and yet it was the same. Draco’s lips were pink, full from the force of Harry’s kisses. His breath was quick and shallow, puffing over the pad of Harry’s thumb. His hair was in complete disarray, sticking up at the back, falling over his forehead, brushing his cheekbones.
But the heat between them—that had always been there. The way desire flooded through Harry at the glimpse of Draco’s tongue was achingly familiar. The way his entire being was alight at having Draco like this, pliant and waiting, an edge of sharpness hiding just out of sight. That wasn’t new at all.
Dazed, Harry traced Draco’s bottom lip, marvelling at the soft, pink plumpness. Draco allowed it for a single slow back-and-forth, then he sucked Harry’s thumb into his mouth.
Harry’s breath was punched out of him. Draco’s mouth was so soft and wet, his tongue a constant caress. It was stupid to be so turned on by someone holding your gaze as they sucked your thumb, but Harry was pretty sure it was one of the sexiest things that had ever happened to him. And Draco said he wanted to do that to Harry’s cock.
Harry had assumed he was being quiet—staring, silent and gormless—but Draco’s mouth slackened, and he drew off and said, “Fuck, the noises you make.”
Harry remembered Ginny saying something like that the day she’d been dosed with Veritaserum. Heat prickled up his neck. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Draco shook his head and crowded Harry back against the classroom wall. “Don’t you dare be sorry about that. Don’t you dare—” Then he was kissing Harry again and every other thought left Harry’s head entirely—until Draco breathed, “Seriously, though. Can I suck your cock?”
Harry’s fists clenched in the fabric of Draco’s robes. He tried to say something in response, but the only thing that he could manage was an incoherent “Guh?”
“Fuck. Please. Please let me.”
And what was Harry supposed to say to that, except another Guh, accompanied by a frantic nod.
The corner of Draco’s swollen mouth curled up in a half-smirk. “I’m going to take you apart,” he promised, and dropped to his knees. His gaze dragged over the bulge at Harry’s crotch and Harry had to take several deep, gulping breaths. “Undo these for me,” Draco said, a touch of his old imperiousness in his tone. “I can’t work Muggle trousers.”
Harry couldn’t either, it turned out—his fingers were clumsy as he unfastened the button of his jeans, as he struggled to tug the zip over his straining erection. Once he’d finally managed to shove them down, he went for the waistband of his underwear—but Draco batted his hands away.
“This bit, I can do,” he said—and then he did, his cold fingers making Harry’s stomach jump as they dipped inside the elastic.
Both of them held their breath as Harry’s cock was revealed. He was embarrassingly turned on, his cock dark and angry and so, so hard—but Draco let out a desperate little noise that made Harry feel slightly better.
“You…” Draco licked his lips. “Fuck, you’re…” He looked up at Harry hungrily. “Tell me again.” And when Harry just blinked, completely stupid from the sight of Draco looking at him like that, of his face so close to Harry’s dick, Draco clarified, “Tell me to open my mouth for you.”
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. “Draco,” Harry rasped. He reached down and ran his thumb over Draco’s cheek. “Open your mouth.”
Harry had only just felt himself react to the wicked glint in Draco’s eyes when Draco swallowed Harry’s cock and the entire world fell away. Harry groaned, a long, low Fuuuuck, but all the curse words in the world combined would not have accurately portrayed the depth of his feeling.
The sensation of Draco’s mouth around Harry’s thumb had been nothing, nothing, compared to the bliss of the soft, wet heat that surrounded his cock. Over the last few months, Harry had wanked dozens of times to the thought of this—but he’d had no idea. He’d been so stupid. Fuck. It felt— It felt so good—
“You’re so—” he tried, but there really were no words to describe the way Draco’s tongue slid over the head of Harry’s cock, the way his eyes fell closed, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth. “Fuck, Draco, you— This feels— This feels amazing.” He couldn’t think where to put his hands, fluttering them from Draco’s head, through his dishevelled hair, over the sharp line of his cheekbones (even sharper than usual due to the unholy hollowing of his cheeks). “God, you look so good, all messy like this.”
With a hum of approval that sent shudders rippling down Harry’s thighs, Draco drew off Harry’s cock and rubbed it over his face, smearing pre-come and saliva over his lips and chin, looking up at Harry with that devilish glint in his eye. Harry sucked in a ragged breath.
“You’ve no idea how much I’ve thought about this,” Draco said, his face wet and voice rough, and lowered his mouth again. Harry let out a strangled groan and thrust his hips, gasping when the head of his cock hit the back of Draco’s throat. Draco hummed encouragingly and tugged Harry forwards, but Harry shook his head, biting his lip—it had felt too good, had made the heat simmering at the base of his spine swell threateningly.
Somehow, Harry had thought that Draco would be tentative, doing this sort of thing. It was stupid—he had replayed their kisses in his head thousands of times, and during both, Draco had easily taken control, had obviously known what he was doing. But Harry had grown so used to Draco holding himself back in every other aspect that in his fantasies, Draco was shy, and Harry would coax him out of his shell over long nights spent locked away together, both of them slowly learning how to make each other feel good.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. Draco was alive like this in a way Harry was completely powerless against. There was nothing shy about him: he had one hand around the base of Harry’s dick and one on Harry’s hip, holding him steady, strong and sure. He never stopped moving, his mouth sending constant, torturous waves of pleasure crashing over Harry. And, perhaps worst of all, he looked like he loved it, his eyes closed in bliss, thick moans escaping him whenever Harry failed to stop the twitching of his hips.
Draco’s mouth on him was the best thing that Harry had ever felt. But it was his confidence, his smirks, his uncharacteristic shamelessness that meant that, even trembling with the effort of fighting it, it wasn’t long before Harry was clenching his eyes shut, clinging to the edge.
“Draco, please,” he whimpered. “Please, you’re gonna make me come.” It was a warning, a plea, a desperate request to slow down—but Draco didn’t falter.
Harry had no control over his own limbs. He was upright only because of the wall at his back, of Draco’s grip on his hip, his cock. “Draco,” he tried to say, but he couldn’t quite get it out, his tongue clumsy and his body straining, so close, so fucking close. “I’m serious, I’m—”
The hot, wet heat was consuming him. It didn’t feel real, didn’t feel like he was a person with a body standing in a classroom—he felt like nothing but pure, throbbing pleasure. In a wild attempt to ground himself, Harry opened his eyes and stared at the blurry wooden beams of the classroom ceiling—but then he made the mistake of glancing downwards and saw Draco watching him through his lashes, his eyes so dark they were almost black, shining with an unmistakable gleam of smugness.
Harry’s entire body seized. He felt himself let out a hoarse, desperate cry, but he could barely hear it over the roaring of his ears—though he was agonisingly aware of the wet sounds of Draco’s mouth, his throat, as he swallowed Harry’s release, and fuck if that didn’t make renewed waves of it surge through him, orgasm over orgasm over orgasm, Draco’s fine hair clenched in Harry’s hand and his mouth coaxing out impossible amounts of juddering pleasure from his cock.
He came back to himself slowly. He became dimly aware of a muscle twitching in his thigh and an ache in the back of his skull from where he’d thrown his head back against the wall. It took several deep breaths before he felt able to look down—Draco was running his lips over Harry’s dick, leaving soft, wet kisses up and down the length of it. Harry shivered, and one last sad little bead of come grew at his slit. Draco licked it up, his tongue dragging over the oversensitive head.
“Shit,” Harry murmured, stopping himself from flinching away—he wasn’t ready for it to be over.
Draco grinned up at him, messy and unselfconscious, and Harry knew with an unnerving clarity that he would do anything to have Draco look like that again. But Harry stared, awed, for a moment too long—Draco’s grin faltered, and a faint crease grew between his eyebrows.
“I—”
Harry fell to his knees and kissed Draco before he could say anything else, remembering too late what had recently filled Draco’s mouth. It tasted weird—sort of tangy, almost sweet. But it wasn’t hugely unpleasant, and Harry would have suffered far worse to have Draco melt against him, to feel the urgent press of him against Harry’s naked hip.
“If I remember right, I owe you a handjob,” Harry murmured. He felt stupid saying it, his attempt at seduction pathetic compared to what Draco had done to him, but Draco shuddered.
“You don’t have to.”
“Do you not want me to? Because I really, really want to.”
A shaky exhale. “Well, in that case—it won’t take much…”
And it didn’t. Once Draco’s robes had been discarded and his cock was thick and hot in Harry’s tentative hand, Draco was trembling and clinging to Harry almost immediately. It was hard to know where to look—because Draco’s cock was in Harry’s hand, but also his face was right there, his cheeks flushed and his mouth open, letting out short, breathy whimpers. Harry had never seen anything like it, ever in his life.
He said as much—or he said something similar; he was still operating on much-less-than-optimal brain capacity—and Draco whined and came, shuddering, spilling into Harry’s fist.
Harry felt a stir of interest again at the sight of it, at the feel of it—of Draco, uncontrolled, which was Harry’s new favourite thing in the whole world. The interest sharpened into desire when Draco kissed him, long and deep.
“God, I’m so glad you’re not seeing my best friend,” Harry said fervently into Draco’s mouth.
Draco let out a huff of not-quite-laughter and pressed his forehead against Harry’s. “I am sorry. For not telling you. I know it doesn’t mean much, but I did want to. I nearly did, a few times. It just never— I couldn’t—”
“S’okay,” Harry said, still boneless and languid and more than a little distracted by Draco’s proximity. “I know you had your reasons. Though if the reason is just that you’re not a good person, I think it’s a shit one.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth, amazed at how brave and brilliant that small action felt even though Draco’s come was still cooling in his palm.
“That might have been a factor,” Draco admitted. “But as well as that—I can’t have anyone know about me. That I—that I’m not interested in witches.”
Harry frowned. “Oh. Why not? I thought wizards didn’t care about that. Not like Muggles.” Hermione’s voice rang in his head, reminding him not to tar all Muggles with Uncle Vernon’s foul brush. “Some Muggles, anyway,” he amended.
But Draco surprised him. “Hermione says that Muggles are worse, too. I don’t know anything about that, but I— My parents would— The Malfoys have a responsibility as members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”
“That’s the thing Neville mentioned once? Something about stuffy pure-bloods getting annoyed if you don’t make icy-fingered inbred babies?” Harry cleaned his hand with a quick Scourgify and tangled his own fingers with the aforementioned icy inbred ones—though said inbred fingers were warm now, and twined with Harry’s without hesitation.
“Yes,” Draco said. “There’s so few of us left, so many of them dead, and if I don’t— If they know I’m refusing to obey them…”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Harry said, instead of what he wanted to say, which was Who the fuck cares? But Draco’s breath had started to quicken, and Harry pulled him close and held him, vanilla and clove mixing with the lingering smell of sex, until Draco shuddered and loosened again.
“It is okay,” Draco said. “Because I’m leaving. After NEWTs, I’m getting away from them all. I’ll be fine.” The words had a rhythm to them, as if Draco had said them hundreds of times before. But they seemed to give him strength nonetheless—his voice was much firmer when he continued, “But until then, nobody can know about me.”
“Well, all right. I was going to mention it in my weekly owl to Lucius, but I’ll keep it to myself for now.” Harry grinned and leaned in for another kiss, but Draco turned his head away.
“The thing is,” he said. “The thing is, I have to still be with Hermione. At least until the end of school.”
Harry’s muscles tensed of their own accord. He reminded himself that it wasn’t real, Draco and Hermione. Draco wasn’t interested in witches. He’d just said so.
“Right,” he heard himself say. “Yeah, I get it. But— When nobody is watching, we can still…? I mean, I don’t need to take an ad out in the Prophet, personally, so…”
“But would you be happy with that? With hiding who you really are? With looking over your shoulder and worrying and having to pretend all the time?”
Harry’s immediate reaction was Yeah, I don’t care, that doesn’t sound hard at all. But Draco looked so distressed that he made himself think about it.
He felt like he’d already been hiding things, for as long as he could remember—even before the Horcruxes, there had been the prophecy, and Sirius, and the frequent unintentional trips into Voldemort’s head.
But he couldn’t deny that it had been harder, that year, to hide his feelings for Draco. The Horcruxes, the prophecy, the dreams—they had been…abstract, almost. Harry had been able to momentarily push them aside, to focus on other things. Whereas Draco was always there, always so close—never close enough.
“It might be tough,” Harry said tentatively. Draco nodded and started to pull away, but Harry tightened his grip. “But it would be worth it if I could still spend time with you,” he said. “If I could look at you from across the breakfast table without feeling guilty about how much I like you.” He leaned closer and dropped his gaze to Draco’s mouth. “And if I didn’t have to pretend at all when we were alone. If I could kiss you. If I could touch you.” He let his voice go low. “If I could make you come again.”
Draco’s fingers were tight on Harry’s arms. “Mother of Merlin,” he breathed. “Weasley was right when she called you intense, wasn’t she?”
Harry ducked his head, but Draco pulled him into a kiss—their slowest, softest one since that very first time in Harry’s bed, when moonlight had brushed Draco’s skin, when the revelation of Draco had still been fresh in Harry’s mind.
“All right,” Draco murmured. “If you’re sure. If you’re sure you want that—I want it, too.”
Giddiness bubbled up inside Harry again—and finally, it was not misplaced. “Yeah? You mean it?”
“Yeah. Yes. If you— If you’ll take me, under those conditions.”
Harry grinned and pushed Draco to the floor, both of them falling onto Draco’s discarded robes. “I’ll take you under any conditions you want,” he said, moving his hips suggestively and snickering into Draco’s shoulder.
“Oh, very clever. Ouch, by the way. You’re a lot heavier than you look, you know.” But he wasn’t pushing Harry off—on the contrary, he was shifting, spreading his legs so Harry fit snugly between them.
“I’d be happy to switch if you’re not comfortable,” Harry suggested. “I liked that, on Tuesday. I liked you on top of me.”
“Did you,” Draco said, in a voice that sent shivers down Harry’s spine—then he froze. “Wait, what time is it? It’s starting to get dark—is it after curfew?”
“I’ve literally never cared less about curfew,” Harry said, nuzzling his face into Draco’s hair—but Draco did push him off then.
“I’m serious, Harry,” he said. “We’re a floor away from Gryffindor Tower. There could be any number of teachers and prefects between here and there.”
“Oh, right, your teacher thing. Look, it doesn’t matter—”
“It doesn’t matter to you, maybe!” Draco scrambled to his feet and tugged on his underwear. “But I can’t get in trouble, I can’t, I—”
Harry knelt up and grabbed Draco’s arm, stilling his frantic motions. “Hey,” he said. “Listen: it doesn’t matter, because I have an Invisibility Cloak.”
“You…”
“I have an Invisibility Cloak, yeah,” Harry repeated. “It’s in my bag, I was going to use it to sneak back into the castle tomorrow. I can walk you back to the dungeons with it if you want. Or you can stay in Gryffindor. Whichever.”
Draco opened and closed his mouth like a pointy, confused goldfish. “Mother of Merlin,” he breathed, “I can’t believe I forgot about your…” Then his face twisted. “You shit. I’ve been panicking about being in Gryffindor Tower after curfew for months and all along you had a fucking Invisibility Cloak!”
He lunged at Harry, pushing him back to the floor. Harry allowed it, laughing. “Well, to be fair,” he said, easily rolling them so Draco was underneath him again, “if I had let you use the Cloak, you wouldn’t have stayed over.”
“You horny, scheming prick! Get off me right now, Potter, I swear—”
“Potter,” Harry mimicked, plumming up his accent and cackling when Draco squawked in outrage.
Harry was stronger than Draco, but let him gain the upper hand as they wrestled—he hadn’t been lying: he had liked it very much when Draco had been on top of him. And Draco’s outrage didn’t last long at all once Harry was the one pinned to the floor.
They never did find out whether it had been past curfew when Draco had asked—but it certainly was by the time they left the classroom several hours later.
And it turned out that sharing an Invisibility Cloak with Draco Malfoy was not at all as awful as Harry had previously feared.