What a Malfoy Wanted By Jateshi

Dedicated to Meredyth13 on LJ, who made my St. Valentine's day special this year by taking the place left empty when a participant from LJ's community BlondAzkaban never came through on the fic exchange we took part in.

Notes: There is slash here, folks. Specifically Draco/Harry slash. Written pre-HBP, it contains no spoilers, a semi-not-nice Ron, Slytherin-styled manipulations, and minor sex stuffies at the end. Nothing explicit, at least to me. Reviews and feedback loved and can be given here or at the first posting of this fic, What a Malfoy Wanted, on my LJ.


What a Malfoy wanted, a Malfoy got. Whatever a Malfoy wanted, they took, he corrected, whispering the words into the silence of the dungeons. The result wasn't immediate as Fate had shown him over the course of years, but that unwritten family motto had yet to fail.

He could admit that the first time he'd gone after Potter - Harry, he substituted quickly - the approach lacked any sort of Slytherin subtlety. Age was no excuse for the spectacularly bad introduction on the Hogwarts Express; maybe it was the shock of seeing him again but Weasley played a large role in his behaviour. The money-grubbing, spineless, prideless Pureblood sitting so close to a wizard who simply radiated power – it could've been a Mudblood sitting beside Potter and he would have behaved better. For all of the wizards the Boy Who Lived had to befriend first, it had to be a Weasley.

Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin must have been spinning in their crypts at the mere thought. Sure the Weasleys were courageous – their performances against the Dark Lord's forces during His first reign had been commendable – but the problem with the Weasleys was deeper than that. For all that their patriarch was a Muggle-lover, for all that they claimed to side with the Light and Albus Dumbledore, they were still Purebloods. Keeping that label was a matter of pride for them – Arthur Weasley could blacken Lucius Malfoy from now until the end of all time but they valued their status as Purebloods. Each and every last Weasley could spout at length about how "bad" Dark wizards were and how "Muggleborns are just as good as any regular witch or wizard," but Arthur had owled the Purebloods of England every time a child of his was born. He knew (besides the fact that his network of informants had told him of the confrontation) that Ron Weasley (there were too many still in residence to merely refer to them all by surname alone - he'd confuse himself) had gotten The Talk.

The Talk was a common thing for Purebloods to hear. With the increasing number of Mudbloods and halfbloods around in society, each son and daughter of any self-respecting Pureblood family was pulled aside around the age when dating was to begin and sat down for a chat. Depending on one's family's views on the other parts of society, The Talk could vary – in Draco's case, it was about "which sorts" were acceptable and the allowances that could be made for allegiances and alliances. Ron had gotten The Talk about dating and marrying the right sorts of girls, possibly throwing in a bit about his duty and most certainly some part about the right sorts of friends – he broke it off with his girlfriend the same day.

The Weasleys could prattle on about any nonsense that they wanted, but underneath their red hair and pale skin, they were Purebloods. He'd have given ten Galleons to see that Granger's face as Ronald took her hand; his informant mentioned that, with how long the two had been a couple (more than a year), Granger had obviously been hoping for something different. The Weasley most likely had begun by telling her how beautiful she was, how sweet of a girl she was; the Mudblood probably blushed and tittered, lowering her lashes alluringly – a chaste, shy virgin.

Of course, once Weasley began to talk about his family's expectations, his new-found dream of going after some lofty goal (probably working for the Ministry as a Head of some big department), that smile would falter. Granger was smart, he'd give her that – no girl on earth could hear that conversation turning point and not know where it was going to end. Right after informing the prodigious witch that she wasn't the right sort of girl for him; Draco wondered if he had patted her hand, giving her a darling smile that he used to get out of trouble as much as he could possibly manage, and asked if they could still be friends. He might have even used the "I know it didn't work out for us, but I hope that doesn't mean we still can't be friends" line, though the Slytherin wasn't sure Ron had enough tact to pull it off.

No one outside of Gryffindor – except him – knew the exact details from that point on, but every last resident of Hogwarts could tell the Golden Trio had fractured that evening. Hermione was flanked by her Gryffindor dorm mates at all times, a female wall that kept the Weasleys (even her fellow Gryffindor female Weasley, it should be noted) away. Most boys were kept away from Granger by her bodyguards but not Potter – not after his fight with Ron, in the very least. Snape had been the one to break the two Gryffindors apart, taking off an obscene amount of House Points ("Twenty-five each for fighting in the halls, five additional points from you each for being too uncivilized to use your wands for it – one would think neither of you were wizards with the way you carried on like an uncivilised child. Ten points from Mr Weasley for that tongue of his, and a detention with Filch...ah yes, Mr Potter, fifteen points for continuing the assault after you had knocked him to the ground already, as well as detention.") with a gleeful smirk. After both boys had served their week of detentions with the castle's keeper they reputedly refused to even be in the same room voluntarily.

All of that – the anger, the alienation, the pain - had provided him with just the perfect grounds to extend a new overture to the halfblood. Taking his cue, Slytherin House changed their general dealings with the House of Gryffindor literally overnight. They'd surprised those Gryffindors by forming an alliance not with the Pureblood who had stood up for their normal principles, but had instead reached out and formed a shaky truce with the halfblood and the Mudblood. Consensus inside of the Slytherin dorms would never change – Purebloods were superior – but the way the Weasleys were showing their breeding drew harsh criticism. Of course it was a mistake to date a Mudblood in the first place, but children could be eventually excused a simple mistake like that. No, the greater crime came from the way he had sheared off the relationship so easily – there were rules about how to properly break off those inappropriate relationships. Parkinson grumbled and whined about siding with them ("Draco, they're Gryffindors - a halfblood and a Mudblood!") but, as all of the more vocal opponents did, she dropped her complaints when Draco walked her through his plan step by slight step. With those fears gone, all of the worries assuaged and laid to rest and his Housemates placated, Draco was free to act as he saw fit.

His lips twitched into a smile, the warm body fitted against his side moving closer to him during the throes of sleep. One finger pulled strands of jet-black hair straight, removing the loose knots and tangles before another turn of his head could set them to solid form. The ghost of a smile grew into full bloom when Harry's head turned, lifted up to his hand and caress; that same grace Draco held himself with showed in his hands as fingers plucked and smoothed the individual hairs, brushing them off of Harry's eyes and over to the side of his face. Each little touch to his lover's head was tender, the intent shifting with the growing touch to playfully trace the pad of his index finger over the pale, soft, moist lips.

"So responsive," the Slytherin murmured, the smile staying on his features as he watched the boy beside him move. Those lips parted with barely a prodding from his hand, Draco losing a margin of control for precious seconds as he shivered. Warm breath curled around his skin, teasing over every nerve which seemed to have come alive for just those flashes, a sparking of sensation that never lived before he had met Harry. Now it was something other than a memory that stirred, something fiery and primal that mimicked the travel of breath against his skin. It was a fire that raced through his veins, shaking his breath and driving every other feeling out of his body to leave him with the experience of Harry. It was cliché the way it felt – light coming over the horizon, bathing every cell of his body for those few seconds in perfect heat, a sun that stroked his body and flushed it with colour and desire.

Even more than being his light Harry was his drug, his weakness and the one thing he would never let go of now. He was a presence that brought a missing part that he hadn't known was lost until the Gryffindor had whispered it once to him, late at night; Harry was more than just the device he'd told his Housemates, far more than the pawn to manipulate to keep them safe from either side. Weasley had taken his Harry from him for so many years – six years without him at his side, six years fighting against him because there wasn't another choice to take – but now that he was with him, Draco was never going to give Harry up. Harry was more than sex, more than beauty or power – he was everything that kept the Slytherins in line and behind him in support.

He was someone the darkness had touched and scarred, someone so shrouded in pain that his emerald-coloured eyes could darken and be mistaken for spots of coal. He was someone who shivered late at night in his arms, sometimes screaming out in pain and regret from the horrors his dreams brought him; he was someone who was wracked with guilt with attacks against people he never had even heard of before they'd died. He was everything Draco was not, every strength and weakness equally embraced and accepted. He was every good feeling that Draco had beaten down from his emotional range, every aspect that the callous Slytherin had discarded to promote his image. He was the one person who finally took the time to see past the name and mantle it forced on his shoulders, to see that under the sneers and cutting remarks about Granger he was just like Harry could have been. Draco was a normal boy with his normal flaws and normal weaknesses.

Harry could've been like him – that was another small confession whispered after the last candle had burned itself out, when Draco could only assume Harry had decided he was asleep before admitting that fact. Thankfully, Harry was something so much more than he could aim for; he hadn't given in to the temptation to be ordinary and normal and had instead become what he was meant to be. Harry was every candle ever lit to hold back the waves of darkness that flooded the rooms once the sun went down, a flicker of light that could fill the deepest shadow with glimmers of hope. He was the image a dying man would want to see, a glimpse of heaven sent to the earth in order to give a true sense of hope. He was every sweet memory that brought a smile to a tear-stained face, every bright moment in a person's life that gave them hope beyond their circumstances should have allowed. Harry was love and innocence and trust, qualities Draco had no idea how he could possess with everything he'd lived through.

And in this moment, he's also so very easy to kiss, he silently observed, leaning over the prone Gryffindor to replace his gentle fingertip with lips. Under him, a soft response of naked heat shifting to press against his body, the wiry sprite came alive. Breathing into the kiss Draco felt a hand fist in his uniform sweater, pulling him closer and deeper; those same lips that were objects of admiration were parting under the insistent soft pressures of his tongue. Once their mouths open, both boys instinctively moving to keep the kiss deep and full, it was that sweet feeling again, that drug which sang in his blood. It was more than magical, more than 'electric' which Harry called it; it was a siren's call in his mind, something telling him to toss every last tenant he'd valued aside for this one thing he held so closely in his arms. In was the way his hands moved without a thought to pull the other boy flush against his skin, the way he treasured the short inhales of breath Harry took.

It wasn't love, no matter what that unsure thought whispered into his thoughts – it was Harry. Harry was always something more than the ordinary, so why did being with Harry have to fit a normal word that just anyone could use? He loved the way pulling away from Harry mid-kiss brought out the boy's aggressive side, the way it brought out his seductive side as well. When he pulled away, just enough for a breath, everything halted for eternity when he felt it; protests were, like always, thrown out the window to lean into the touch, hips rolling, rubbing. Now it was his turn to feel a loving caress through his hair, drawing one long breath before leaning first into Harry's hand and then to kiss him slowly.

"Naughty one, aren't you...?" His voice was still controlled, missing that rough edge of barely-tempered desire he longed to let lace through his tones. Once his words, as well as his soft tone, sunk through the fog around Harry's mind he could see the colour rising to Harry's face. What little resistance he had to the other boy crumbled at the soft crimson that coloured his face, a pale flash of tongue moving out to lick his cheek. The salty taste of skin under his taste buds drove another flutter of desire through his body, a coil of fire unwinding in his belly. Each new flush from Harry drove the feeling to a new height, teeth tugging at Harry's lower lip before his tongue no longer was licking, nibbling and kissing his skin and instead plundered the cavern of his mouth.

There was a flash of mischief in a pair of green eyes before Harry's hand was gone from massaging his cock and instead he was groin to groin, feeling their erections barely contained by the zips on their trousers. That was a feeling he always loved and he was damned ever since Harry had put his consistent reactions together and figured it out. When Harry slid his hips down against his body, letting him feel every inch of his length as he sinfully moved, Draco found his breath gone in a long moan with none spare that he could plead with. The lack of breath was a good thing, though, because a Malfoy didn't plead for anything. They especially did not plead for dark-haired Gryffindors to stop teasing them and remove their shoes, socks, trousers and pants.

"And you're one to talk," Harry taunted back, body moving with those vaunted Seeker's reflexes and throwing his leg over Draco's back. The extra leverage seemed to only have one aim as he dry-thrust against him, his leg pulling Draco firmly against his front and holding him. Now it was Harry's turn to grin as Draco tried time and time again to say something in retort and each and every time lose his words to a soft, shaking moan for more. When he was sure Draco wasn't going to protest the action any time soon it was so simple to sit up, the Slytherin finding himself against the soft bed. Through it all Harry was relentless, never giving him a chance to regain control, keeping up his 'assault' on the other boy. The way Draco would groan under his breath – every noise was kept soft, quiet and hidden as a natural instinct – when he dragged his cock up and down against their zips was more precious than any gift.

The normally verbose Slytherin didn't respond in quite the manner Harry expected – instead of making some whispered retort he moved, reaching up and capturing Harry's face between his palms and dragging his head down close. Draco certainly had never been quite so agreeable in their stints of foreplay, never really content to give Harry a few moments of control; that rivalry between them had always made Draco want to dominate instead of be his equal though slow and slight changes in his habits indicated that could change. Right before he was claimed for a long kiss Harry could half-hear Draco mutter that there was a better use for his mouth, one that he quickly proved was far more enjoyable than teasing. That's my Draco, hands sliding through his hair and anchoring their grip near his skull, Harry letting his head roll back into the grip, with his silver, wicked tongue and that red-hot mouth.

They were both moaning softly as they rocked against the other's body swallowing the throaty sounds they each made in turn, their kiss barely breaking for more than enough time to take a short gasp of breath. Even when they were apart it was a nip on his lower lip or a lick from his tongue again and again, both boys grinding against each other while desperately trying to catch their breath again. The few times Draco opened his mouth to try and speak again Harry stopped his words with his tongue, thumb and index finger rubbing the Slytherin's shirt over his torso, dragging the washed cotton over hardening nubs. Every trick he employed to keep Draco silent was a nod back to the Slytherin writhing on the bed under him, a sensual demonstration that when Harry wanted to he could learn any skill.

A toss of his hair and Harry sat up, letting a wicked grin curve around his lips. Draco looked thoroughly debauched with his red and swollen lips, pupils dilated and clouded with lust. Strands of corn-silk yellow hair fell against his face and duvet, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow giving some reason to hold the light hairs there. Harry tugged on the silk green and silver tie, the knot no longer flush under the once-crisp folds of that soft washed oxford shirt, and pulled it further down the boy's chest, the silk rippling and wrinkling under his hands. One button looked missing from the perfect row hidden under the tie, the rest in various and mixed states of being done or undone with distracting snatches of pale skin visible through the cracks. Even breath Draco took slid his shirt open more, muscles rolling and moving towards the bare touch Harry applied to every new millimetre of skin he found.

Nonchalantly Harry dragged his free hand through the untameable mess of hair on his head, adjusting his glasses by pushing them back up on his nose. Literally mustering every ounce on control in his body Harry stopped the gyrations of his hips against Draco's, shivering at the petulant moan the Slytherin uttered in protest. "While that was a perfectly brill way of waking up," Besides learning the art of incredibly great sex from him, Harry slowly had picked up a good margin of control over his own voice – when he wanted it, "It's not nice to start something-" Now he quite purposefully circled his hips, pressing his arse against the firm erection below, "-we don't have time to finish."

When the lust started to clear from Draco's eyes Harry knew it was time to move, shifting across the prone frame before making it to the edge of the bed and sliding off. Firmly on his feet it was now time to employ every method of deterring his raging hard-on.

Draco moved on the bed, somehow managing to turn the act of sitting up into one of the most erotic sights Harry had ever witnessed. The way he flipped himself over, wiry body evident under his clothing with the motions; the way he incorporated what Harry would've sworn was rutting against the bedcovers as a perfectly normal part of sitting cross-legged on his own duvet.

Thoughts of Argus Filch and his cat, Mrs Norris, didn't stop a soft whimper when Draco locked eyes with him, the Slytherin reaching under the waistband of his trousers on what Harry hoped was the pretence of tucking his shirt back in. Somehow the Slytherin just knew he was going to win, body shivering as he lifted his body just a hair and giving Harry the perfect lighting to see the way his hand was moving. The cloth of his trousers clung so tightly to his groin Harry could see the outline of his fingernails as one finger dragged from the base of his cock to the head. When Draco let out a showy, panting moan Harry joined in, forgetting to straighten his tie and rubbing his hot palm over the fronts of his trousers.

Between closing his eyes to take a long breath and opening them, Draco had silently climbed off the bed and wrapped arms around Harry. Pressing into his back teeth lightly nipped against the column of skin his neck presented, pulling Harry's hand away from his body and cupping him before the boy voiced a protest.

"D-dumbled-d-dore a-aah, gods yes, Draco..." Harry's voice dropped out into a hiss, lips twisting into sibilant pleas for more in Parseltongue. Cool air hit the curls of dark hair nested around the base of his cock before there was warmth – what had Draco coated his hand with and when did he even have time? – and a hand jerking him off.

"No Dumbledore," Draco whispered to his skin, teeth biting down on his neck and then soothing the red mark. "You know me Harry." No time given to let the Gryffindor do more than feel and certainly no break to let him contemplate the fact that he was now the one spread wantonly against the duvet. "I hate unfinished things."