Draco walked slowly across the courtyard, lost in thought. He was having a bloody miserable day, and the damned snow currently falling was not helping matters any. Early October was an unusual time to have a massive dumping of snow. Draco had looked forward to several more weeks of decent weather, and he felt betrayed by Mother Nature, who could be quite a wicked bitch, at times.
On top of the snow, he had received unwelcome news from home that had caused him to drag Crabbe and Goyle on their daily walk, regardless of how they protested leaving the crackling fire in the Slytherin common room. Draco had taken to daily walks the prior year, as it was the best way to divulge plotting instructions without being overheard.
Today there were no plots to discuss, merely Draco's bad mood and his desire to freeze the buttocks off of Crabbe and Goyle in the spirit of shared misery. Draco pulled his thick ermine cloak more tightly around his neck and carefully placed his white boots in the pristine snow as he walked. He was dressed all in white today—mainly because he looked damned good in it, but also in order to blend with the scenery. And because he felt very cold and it felt right to look the part. Snowflakes clung to his lashes, and he wondered when the snow planned to stop falling.
Draco sighed and stopped short as he felt a sudden swirl of magic about him—like a wind. Wait, it was a wind! The air spun around him, faster and faster, lifting his hair and swirling his cloak. Before he could react, it seemed to collapse in on him and all was still. He blinked for a moment, wondering what the hell had happened, and then he heard laughter.
Harry Potter stepped from a nearby alcove, chortling gleefully.
"Not so pristine now, are you Malfoy?" he taunted, prompting Draco to look down. Bloody hell! His white cloak was now brown, as was a circle of snow surrounding Draco. He felt something trickle down the side of his face and reached up a hand, half-fearing to find blood. His fingers came away with a dark coating of mud. Potter had hit him with a Dirt Devil spell, which had reacted quite nastily with the wet snow, turning everything to mud.
Mud! He had mud in his hair!
"POTTER!" Draco bellowed and launched himself forward. The cowardly Gryffindor spun on a heel and bolted.
"Eh, Draco, wait for us!" Goyle cried behind him, but Malfoy's rage spurred him onward. Bloody Potter! If he'd ruined Draco's beautiful, expensive ermine cloak, he'd extract the price from Potter's hide!
Harry disappeared around a corner and Draco pelted after him. He had barely rounded the corner when a hand reached out and dragged him into a dark alcove. Draco's momentum caused him to slam—hard—into the wall.
Before he could catch his breath, warm lips pressed into his, muffling Draco's snarl of rage. Crabbe and Goyle huffed by outside. Draco watched them pass with a flash of annoyance. Did the idiots not notice Draco's tracks? He was distracted by a tongue being thrust halfway down his throat, and he melted slightly under the erotic onslaught.
Potter pulled back after a moment and wrinkled his irritatingly cute nose.
"Ew, you taste like dirt," Harry said. His mouth and nose were smeared with mud.
"I wonder why, Potter, you stupid prat. You had better hope to Merlin my cape comes clean or I'll—"
His pronouncement was cut off by Harry's lips again, and he noticed Potter's hands did not seem to mind the grime, because they were underneath Draco's cape and sliding over his ribs.
"I'm not in the mood for this, Potter," he said when the Gryffindor's mouth withdrew once more, although that was something of a lie, because Potter was getting quite good at the kissing thing—Draco felt a flash of rage when he wondered if Potter had been practicing on the side—and his hands were now beneath Draco's shirt. Although they were cold enough to make Draco wince, they evoked heat in all the right places. "I'm having a very bad day," he continued petulantly.
Potter pulled away immediately, and Draco nearly snatched him back when those lovely hands disappeared from Draco's flesh.
"Poor baby," Potter crooned. "We'd best get you cleaned up, then, so you can get back to… what was it you were doing outside?"
"Walking," Draco snapped, though his mind was rather insistently replaying the endearment Potter had used.
"Really? It looked more like sulking to me."
Before Draco could snarl a reply to that, Harry walked farther into the recesses of the alcove. "Come along."
Draco knew he should walk back into the snow. He should definitely not follow Potter into the dark unknown.
"Don't be frightened," Potter goaded from the shadows. Bastard. Draco followed.
Potter had opened a hidden door that led to a cobwebby corridor, dark even though lit by Harry's wand. It reeked of dust and disuse.
"How did you know this was here?" Draco asked.
"Map," Potter said and padded down the hallway. Draco was forced to hurry after him, or be lost in the darkness.
"Never mind," Potter said as he opened a door at the end of the corridor. The portal revealed a small room that smelled old and musty, though it appeared dust free. Several candles had been lit here and there. The place contained sparse furnishings—a huge tub of water took up much of the center of the room. A table sat against one wall, accompanied by a single chair. In one corner rested a small bed, hardly larger than a cot.
Harry turned and began to work the fasteners that held the cape shut at Draco's throat, causing the breath to lock up in Draco's chest. Potter eased the filthy ermine cape from Draco's shoulders.
"Scourgify?" Potter asked.
"Hell no! You'll damage it!"
"Want me to send it out for cleaning? I'll buy you a new one, if you'd like."
Draco sighed. With Potter's wretched fashion sense, it was easy to forget the prat was rich, as well as attractive. He stifled that thought by strangling it and banishing it to a dark, unused portion of his brain.
"All right," Draco said mildly, more curious to see what Potter planned to do next than worried about his wardrobe. Potter hung the cape on a wooden peg near the door and returned to stand before Draco. His face was expressionless, and he met Draco's eyes for only an instant before moving his hands to the buttons of Draco's shirt—once white, but now streaked with dirt.
Draco neither moved nor spoke as the tanned fingers undid one button and then another, moving from Draco's neck to the waistband of Draco's formerly pristine trousers. He unfastened the cuffs and slipped the shirt from Draco's shoulders. Potter cast a Cleaning Charm on the shirt, and Levitated it to hang on another peg.
Potter knelt then, to remove Draco's white boots. Draco braced himself with a hand on Potter's head, making an effort not to fondle the dark locks. The boots were similarly cleaned and placed against the wall.
Potter stood and looked steadily into Draco's eyes as his hands worked at unfastening the white trousers. There was no smirk, nor even the hint of a smile, on Potter's lips. Draco found it difficult to breathe, a feat that grew even harder when Harry pushed the pale material over Draco's hips and knelt to help him step out of them. The trousers went the way of the other clothing, and Draco wondered how far Potter planned to go, but the Gryffindor seemed suddenly nervous, and he gestured to the bath.
"I'll… wash your hair for you," he said quietly. Draco offered him a half-hearted smirk, stepped around him, and dropped his boxers. They were white, of course, like everything else.
The bath was the perfect temperature, just hot enough to sting until his body adjusted. It was scented with something—mulberry? As he sank into the water, Draco asked, "How did you know? The scent, I mean." He turned in the bath until he faced Potter, who blushed slightly.
"I noticed… in class and in the halls…"
Draco felt an irrational flush of pleasure at the thought of Potter noticing Draco's scent. He wondered if he had noticed Harry's, and shut his eyes for a moment. Oh yes, it was something woodsy… like spruce, or cedar… He caught a whiff of it, with a flash of satisfaction at being correct, as Potter moved behind him.
"Wet your hair," Potter ordered. Draco dutifully sank beneath the surface. He scrubbed the mud from his face while he was under. When his head cleared the water, he felt Potter's hands slick over his hair with sweet-smelling shampoo. Potter must have remembered the day in the showers when Draco had washed his hair, for his hands were slow and soothing. Potter spent extra time on Draco's temples, working on a headache Draco did not even know he'd had.
A moan of pleasure escaped him before he could stifle it. Potter leaned over suddenly kissed him—upside down—nibbling at Draco's lips. Draco reached up and put a wet hand into Potter's hair, feeling the silken strands catch on his fingers. He turned his head to deepen the kiss, wondering how Potter could turn him on so easily with a shampoo and a kiss.
Bloody damned Gryffindor.
Draco felt Potter's hand on his chest, caressing over a nipple—brushing over it lightly with his fingers—and smoothing over Draco's ribs. The hand trailed lower and stopped.
"Time to rinse," Potter said against his lips. The hand disappeared as Potter stepped back. Draco fought back a snarl of frustration. It was the dirt. The bastard was getting revenge for the dirt.
He went under the water and released a groan where Potter could not hear it. He raised his hands to rinse the suds, but Potter's were already there, massaging gently. For only a moment, Draco wondered if Potter planned to hold him down and drown him, and then grinned at the foolish thought. The Golden Boy wouldn't drown his worst enemy. Well, perhaps his worst enemy—he could clearly envision Potter holding old snakeface under water until the twitching stopped.
Potter's hands disappeared, and Draco surfaced. When he blinked the water from his eyes, he saw Potter standing beside the tub, holding a thick towel. Draco stepped out of the tub and Potter enveloped him in the soft fleece.
"Want me to dry your hair?" he asked quietly and Draco nodded. He couldn't fathom Potter's motives. The Gryffindor was being positively… sweet. Draco expected a Drying Spell, but a smaller towel was pressed onto his hair and Potter squeezed, giving Draco yet another massage while standing close enough that Draco could breathe in his woodsy scent.
"Sit down and I'll brush it for you."
Draco bypassed the chair and elected to sit on the bed. Only because it looked more comfortable. Potter grinned and crawled onto the bed. He parked behind Draco, kneeling with a leg on each side of Draco's hips.
Draco felt the brush in his hair, starting properly at the ends, to work out any tangles, and then scraping over Draco's scalp in a delight of sensation. God, he so loved having his hair brushed. Potter was surprisingly good at it, considering his own hair looked like it had never been touched by brush or comb. Potter pressed a kiss into the side of Draco's neck and he shivered. Potter did it again, nipping slightly with his teeth, and the towel slid from Draco's shoulders, giving him wordless access to more flesh.
Potter ignored the invitation and continued to brush. Fucking tease. It felt good, but Draco wanted more. He turned around and pressed himself against Potter, who overbalanced at the sudden movement and fell onto the bed with Draco atop him.
He looked into Potter's glowing eyes for a moment. The Gryffindor smirked.
"I thought you weren't in the mood," Potter whispered.
"Fuck you, Potter."
"Or fuck you, Malfoy," he replied suggestively.
Draco froze, uncertain if his brain were riding the same track as Potter's.
"Are you suggesting—?"
Potter's arms went around Draco's back, and the Gryffindor kissed him hard. His thighs were on either side of Draco's hips and his erection was obvious beneath Draco's flank. Draco groaned at the rush of sensation. God.
Draco suddenly decided Potter was wearing far too many clothes. Draco's wand was across the room, but Harry's was on the bed. Draco picked it up and vanished the buttons on Potter's shirt, one at a time.
"I like seeing your fingers wrapped around my wand, Malfoy," Potter said hoarsely.
"Would you like to see them wrapped around your other wand?" Draco retorted seductively, and smirked when Potter drew in what sounded like a tortured breath. Draco dropped the wand and smoothed both hands down Potter's chest, spreading the shirt wide. He pressed himself against Potter—flesh to flesh in intimate contact.
Potter trembled beneath Draco's hands as he moved his fingers over Harry's waist to the button on his jeans. While Draco's hands were busy, his tongue lapped across Potter's chest and Draco took one of Harry's nipples into his mouth. The Gryffindor arched and gasped and Draco felt the blood throb in his veins.
He kissed Potter to smother any possible protest, and opened the denim trousers. He tucked a hand inside and sighed happily at Potter's whimper. The hard flesh was pressed wantonly into his palm, and Draco stroked it obligingly. After a few caresses, he released Harry long enough to remove the jeans completely, followed by the undergarments.
Draco grinned wickedly at the sight of Potter clad only in an unbuttoned shirt, begging for Draco's touch. He wasn't sure what was more arousing, the rush of pure lust, or the heady sense of power he felt when Potter's body arched upward to meet his hands. The Dark Lord be damned, Harry Potter belonged to Draco Malfoy.
He pushed Potter back onto the mattress, and slid his hands over every bit of flesh he could reach, quickly following the hands with his mouth. He saved Potter's lovely cock for last. The shaft was throbbing, weeping, and hard with need when Draco finally took it into his mouth. Potter actually cried out, although the words were unintelligible. By the feel of Potter trembling beneath his hands, Draco knew it wouldn't be long before the Gryffindor came.
Potter surprised him by wrapping a hand in Draco's hair and pulling hard. Draco bit down in annoyance. Potter yanked with both hands, so Draco released him and allowed the Gryffindor to haul him upward.
"Potter—" he started, but Harry silenced him with a rough kiss. Draco felt Potter's thighs on either side of his hips again. The long legs tangled in his and Draco was quickly rolled over. Green eyes bored into his, and Potter smiled wickedly.
"This was my plot, Malfoy, remember?"
Draco's breath caught in his throat, and then released with a groan when Potter's hands copied Draco's actions, roaming over his skin with rough tenderness. Potter's hot mouth followed, licking and—Draco gasped—biting! Bloody hell, Draco never would have guessed that teeth could feel so good. The nips nearly distracted him from Potter's hands, which had not ceased their caresses, and now found parts of Draco that had been unexplored before today.
Potter's fingers were wet (had he cast a spell between bites?) and, oh god, inside Draco, who suddenly tensed, even though it was far too late for that.
"Potter," he asked raggedly, "Do you know what you're doing?"
"I haven't a clue, Malfoy, but I think you should relax," Potter murmured, and then his mouth was on Draco's cock, not biting now, but laving and sucking. Oh god yes. Draco not only relaxed, but opened his legs and fucking invited the Gryffindor inside. And Potter obliged. The fingers disappeared, to be replaced with something larger, harder, and hotter. Draco moaned the loss of Potter's mouth on his cock, even though it was exchanged with a firm grip.
Draco tensed again when Potter's length began to press inexorably into him, but Potter's lips were on his neck. Teeth scraped over Draco's flesh and the soft voice whispered, "Is this okay?"
Draco nearly laughed. He wasn't sure if it was okay. It didn't really feel okay, but he thought it might become okay if they worked at it a bit. Draco knew if he even hinted that it wasn't okay, Potter would withdraw and probably waste valuable time and energy on apologizing, and that would definitely not be okay, so Draco said, "Yes." He thrust himself upward to prove it, gasping aloud at the pain.
It was so unpleasant that Draco spared a moment to vow revenge, and he wondered why any man would submit to the torture of being fucked, until he opened his eyes and caught sight of Potter, who seemed to be locked in a position of astonishing bliss. His head was thrown back and his white teeth were clamped onto his lower lip. The dark lashes were closed over his green eyes, and his face was flushed. Potter's black hair curled like midnight over the collar of his open shirt—god, what a beautiful sight he was.
Potter moved slightly and Draco's brows shot up, because that had been… different, and not unpleasant at all. His fingers dug into Potter's arse, wordlessly urging him to do it again. He did so and Draco moaned. Potter whimpered and started to move in earnest. Draco lost himself in sensation, drinking in the feel, scent, and taste of Harry Potter. It was almost too much to bear.
"God, you're gorgeous," Harry murmured thickly.
Draco arched and Potter's teeth grazed his neck again before biting down on his shoulder—almost too hard. Potter's hand stroked in rhythm with his thrusts and Draco felt an impending implosion. Potter cried out suddenly and jolted against Draco, who sank his teeth into Potter's shoulder—partly in retaliation, and partly to muffle the scream of bliss that burst from his throat when the brilliant orgasm tore though him. The tremors seemed to last forever. Draco knew for certain he had never come so hard in his life. He'd never felt anything so… Draco shied away from the thought.
Potter was a dead weight on his chest. A very pleasant dead weight. Draco's arms were wrapped around Potter like a lifeline. He felt Potter's lips against his hair, nuzzling softly. Draco felt a rush of warmth that was frighteningly intense. He fought it by removing his hands from Potter's back, although he allowed himself to do it by sliding his fingers over the smooth skin, evoking a shiver from Potter. Draco bit back a groan.
"Up, Potter," he said hoarsely, and bit his lip when the Gryffindor pulled away gently. Draco avoided Potter's eyes, and took the wand from the bed once more. He cast a cleaning spell on both of them, pleased when the sting brought a bit of clarity to his senses. He stood up and tossed the wand on the bed before walking to his now-clean clothing.
Draco dressed quickly, ignoring Potter, who lounged on the bed and watched him. He left the ermine cloak on the peg, trusting Potter to have it cleaned properly, or replaced. Draco paused with his hand on the door. He glanced back at the Gryffindor.
"Hate you, Potter," he said quietly.
"Hate you too, Malfoy," Harry replied, and a grin quirked his lips.
Draco went out. In the darkness, he smiled.