Stracciatella

One afternoon in late August, fiery hot like dragon's breath, they run into each other for the first time after Voldemort's death. Harry's with Ron and Hermione in Fortescue's recently re-opened Ice Cream Parlour when Draco Malfoy comes in, accompanied by Goyle and Parkinson. He stumbles into Harry, if by accident or design is anybody's guess. There's ice cream all over Harry's shirt, Stracciatella -- his favourite flavour this sweltering summer. Malfoy wipes the ice cream from Harry's chest and licks his fingers. A heat wave rolls over Harry, sweat pouring down his back. Twenty minutes later, in the alley behind Fortescue's, he is licking Malfoy's naked stomach and proceeds to blow him, hungry like he never thought he could be – for the wide arch of Malfoy's throat, the trembling in his thighs, the moans spilling from his lips.

A couple of days later they meet again, just the two of them. They don't talk much and never mention the war. Harry still has Malfoy's wand, but not one word is lost about that dreadful night months ago in Malfoy Manor. They order ice cream -- vanilla, lemon, coconut and Stracciatella -- and watch each other lick at cones and waffles, catching running drips of white stuff with their tongues. Minutes after Fortescue's closes, they kiss in the darkness of the warm summer night. Malfoy tastes like coconut and he does things with his lips that make Harry shake with need. He comes with Malfoy's hand in his trousers and Malfoy's tongue in his mouth. And he almost comes again when Malfoy licks his fingers clean of Harry's spunk that looks like vanilla ice cream in the soft light of the moon.

A week passes, ten days, a fortnight, but then Harry can't stand it anymore and sends Malfoy an owl, saying simply, Fortescue's, 4 pm. Gabriella, the dark-haired witch, who owns the Ice Cream Parlour now, gives them free sundaes. It is nice to sit in the sun, desire coiling hot inside, while the ice cream is cool on their tongues. But Harry wants more. And so, it seems, does Malfoy, who's not willing to wait for nightfall, but pulls Harry back into the alley, for kisses and sex in the bright light of the day. When a drunken luthier from the magical instruments shop walks in on them, with Harry's ice cream-smeared fingers buried deep in Malfoy's arse, Harry knows it is time to move.

And so he stocks the gigantic, old-fashioned ice-box of number 12, Grimmauld Place, with every light-coloured flavour he can find: vanilla and Stracciatella, of course, but exotic ones, too, like fig and pear, marshmallow and butter cream. With every flavour he puts into the box and casts a Cooling Charm upon, Harry wonders what it will look and taste like on Malfoy's skin.

They fall into a routine they never planned and barely acknowledge: twice, sometimes three times a month, they meet in the empty house, bare but for the old, covered-up furniture and the pillows and blankets Harry brought to the upstairs room. He always arrives first, builds a fire in the huge fireplace that will keep them warm all through the night. Once, in the beginning, he had dinner ready when Malfoy came, but Malfoy left, saying he'd rather come only for dessert. Since that night, Harry brings only Firewhisky and lube to Grimmauld Place where a box full of ice cream waits for him. He takes it out so it's cool rather than freezing, and perfectly soft but not yet melted. Then he waits, huddled in a chair in the entrance hall. Every time, Harry's afraid that Malfoy will not come, that the last time was the end of those odd, brilliant nights that leave him sleepless with longing the rest of the time.

But Malfoy always shows up at Grimmauld Place, dependable like clockwork, never a minute late. And really, there's nothing for Harry to fear, for the moment Malfoy enters, his desire for Harry fills the house like an ice storm raging through the fields. Even before Harry has closed the door, Malfoy sheds his robes and drops them carelessly to the floor. Hard as a rock, he pushes Harry against the wall and searches his mouth for a desperate kiss. He's shivering with such need, as if he hasn't had a wank or fuck all those days when they are not together. Harry doesn't quite understand, but then he doesn't care as long as Malfoy's hard body presses against him and his lips do the things that almost undo Harry right there, in the entrance hall.

When they met here for the first time, Malfoy did come amidst the portraits of generations of Blacks, in a tangle of clothing and half-opened flies, frotting and kissing. You taste so good, he said, before groaning into Harry's mouth and coming so hard Harry had to keep him from sliding to the floor. Now they usually make it into the library. Harry pours two glasses of Firewhisky. A bowl of ice cream is set on the low table. Malfoy takes his customary seat on the brown leather couch. His erection bulges beneath his trousers; he's barely able to close his legs all the way. He watches Harry with dark, glazed eyes. His lips are swollen from the kissing at the door, so much brighter than their usual pink. It makes Harry want to smear strawberry ice cream all over Malfoy's mouth. But he never does. The one time he dripped ice cream, red like cherry lollipops, on Malfoy's skin, Malfoy got up, took his clothes and left. Harry waited week after week in Grimmauld Place until Malfoy sent an owl, saying he'd be there the next day. Since then, the ice cream is sparkling lemony white, or golden vanilla white, or even a soft pistachio greenish white, but never red like strawberries.

Harry wonders why Malfoy hates the red so much, but then he gets off himself on the sight of semen and spit and white cream mingling on Malfoy's pale skin. He hands him a glass of Firewhisky, and they both knock it back at once. The glass falls from Malfoy's hand and rolls underneath the couch, his fingers are twitching so hard. Harry knows how much Malfoy wants to dip his hands into the ice cream bowl, but that is Harry's job tonight. He kneels on the floor and pushes Malfoy's legs further apart. Malfoy's breath hitches, as the cloth is pulled even tighter across his cock, and Harry leans into his groin and smells his need. Malfoy shivers but he keeps himself from bucking up into Harry's mouth.

The ice cream is cold, glittering like snow in Harry's palm, with tiny yellow pieces of lemon peel. It's melting at the edges and clear sugary drops end up on Malfoy's bespoke trousers. The dark spot looks as if precome seeped through the cloth, and maybe it has. Malfoy reaches for Harry and pulls him closer.

"Now?" he asks, voice all hoarse, and Harry nods.

At once Malfoy tears at the lacings and has his trousers open in no time. His cock springs free from its confines, purple veins bulging in the pink flesh. The tip is glistening, and Harry licks his lips. Malfoy whimpers, as Harry knew he would. He's been in Malfoy's place before. Warm or cold -- hot mouth or the startling cool of the ice? It makes Harry hard just thinking about the anticipation of not knowing what will come. Slowly he wraps his hand around Malfoy's cock, smothering it in lemon ice cream. Malfoy winces and moans; his hand shoots out to get a grip on Harry's hair. His erection falters, but that's the point. Harry starts licking and sucking at the lemony sweetness, flicking his tongue at a bit of ice cream on the tip, moving it back and forth across the slit. Malfoy's chest rises and falls in erratic bursts; his grip in Harry's hair starts to hurt.

"Suck me," he moans, and his hips snap up when Harry takes him into his mouth.

The feeling of hard, cool cock, slick with melting ice cream, is incredible. Harry cannot get enough of it. He brushes his lips around the smooth skin, and zingy lemon explodes on his tongue. Malfoy pushes harder, and Harry starts blowing him for real, moving up and down his cock, all the while licking it clean. Malfoy comes within seconds, without warning. Shocking heat floods Harry's mouth and he pulls away quickly. Spunk dribbles down his chin, and Malfoy pulls him close, weak still from the orgasm; he wants Harry to move onto his lap. He licks his own come from Harry's face in delicious, languid swirls; he kisses Harry deeply, his lips soft and yielding. "So good," he whispers, eyes closed, his face all relaxed.

Harry's trying not to move, because he's so hard he may just come from brushing accidentally against Malfoy's hip. And he doesn't want to come yet. They've got the whole night before them, but that first time is always special. And by now he's acquired a taste of Malfoy with ice cream on the side.

"Ready?" he asks softly, and Malfoy opens his eyes. They are sparkling grey, iris dark and incredibly wide. It's all the answer Harry needs. He reaches for his wand and Apparates them both upstairs into Sirius' old room.

Usually they take their time undressing, but tonight Harry cannot wait. There's Stracciatella ice cream in the bucket on the bedside cabinet, and he is so hungry for the taste of it. He tears off his clothes with little grace; it's faster than by magic, and so much better with Malfoy's eyes on him. There's warmth from the side where the flames crackle in the fireplace; there's cold lingering in the air around the bucket of ice. Harry straddles Malfoy so his groin's touching smears of ice cream and Malfoy's soft cock, but he needs him naked now, chest and thighs and arms and throat. Brutally he pulls at Malfoy's shirt but the silk won't rip. Malfoy's teasing laughter makes him push the shirt all the way up and over Malfoy's head. He shoves it further towards Malfoy's wrists that are soon trapped by a tight bundle of white silk that Malfoy just can't get out of.

"Potter, what the fuck?" He sounds uncertain and even a bit afraid, pulling at the silk, still playfully, but when his wrists don't come loose, his breathing speeds up. Curiously, his cock that has been bobbing half-hard against his opened fly, twitches with interest. There are specks of melted ice cream in his pubic hair, and Harry rubs them into his skin.

"Get me out of this thing," Malfoy says as he pulls at the silk and arches up into Harry's touch at the same time. Harry slips down Malfoy's trousers with the pants, shoves them all the way to Malfoy's knees, down his calves and tosses them onto the floor. Malfoy's gorgeous, with his bound hands raised above his head. The soft skin on the inside of his arms is even paler than the rest of him, blue veins shimmering underneath. Harry can but stare at him. Slowly he traces the white scars on Malfoy's chest, two long thin ridges reaching from throat to stomach. Harry wants to lick at them, clean them away like ice cream from the skin. Malfoy's breathing shallow and fast, and Harry notices he doesn't pull at the silk any more.

He reaches for his wand on the cabinet and quickly casts the spell, "Incarcerous." Silk ribbons uncoil from the four posts of the bed, raw and white, spun by silk moths fed with mulberry leaves, even the thinnest thread breakable only by a very sharp knife. Or by magic. They wrap themselves around Malfoy's ankles and wrists, spreading his legs far apart and pulling his wrist further up towards the headboard.

"Stop it!" Malfoy snaps and he starts jerking at the silk again. All he achieves is for the threads to tighten their hold, and he gives it up, glaring at Harry. "Untie me at once, Potter. This is not funny anymore."

And Harry would untie him but for the raging erection between Malfoy's thighs. His cock is swollen thick, and when Harry wraps his fingers around it, Malfoy thrusts into his hand with a hiss so sharp and tense, betraying both how much he wants this and how much he doesn't.

Harry dips his hands into the Stracciatella ice cream, cold and not yet soft beneath his fingertips. He starts with Malfoy's nipples; they get hard the moment the ice cream touches them. Pale pink buds stand erect within a smothering of white, with tiny chocolate specks sticking to Malfoy's skin. Harry thinks he may just come from looking at them, and he licks across the buds, savouring the sweetness and the shivers running through Malfoy's body. Desire spikes in Harry's groin and he cannot help but moan and press his cock into Malfoy's wide-spread thighs.

Quickly he reaches into the Stracciatella again, scoops up a handful and slathers his hot cock with it. The cold is shocking, it almost hurts, and yet, yet Harry cannot help but stroke himself.

"Don't you dare." Malfoy bucks and thrashes as hard as he can, to stop Harry from tossing himself off.

And Harry stops, mesmerised by the red on Malfoy's wrists and ankles, where the silk has cut into his skin. He gets more ice cream, two handfuls of it, and smears it on Malfoy's arms. Icy white on pale skin, on fading serpent and scull, on the fresh red imprints of the silk. Malfoy leans up and catches Harry's lips, biting into him with a need that makes Harry dizzy and hot, and he gets more ice cream to cover Malfoy's throat and chest. Malfoy winces and moans, "Come here," voice raw and shaking. But Harry's not all done with him. More Stracciatella to cover Malfoy's sides and stomach, the smooth dips above his hips, the pale insides of his thighs. Ice cream is dripping everywhere, melting from the heat of Harry's hands, of Malfoy's skin. It runs in white rivulets, collects in Malfoy's navel and wets his dark blond patch of pubic hair.

Harry sits back on his heels, hands full of Stracciatella still. He smothers Malfoy's long legs in it, all the way down to the red rings around his ankles that Harry soothes with layers of ice cream. Malfoy gasps, Harry's name on his lips, a frantic repetition of sounds and moans. Harry licks the rest of ice cream from his palms, watching Malfoy who is watching him, eyes so dark there is barely any grey but only deeply gleaming black. Harry strokes the skin of Malfoy's thighs, muscles pulled tight and shivering, and he just has to take a lick at the hollows behind Malfoy's knees, where ice cream drips from skin to sheets. He can hear, he can feel Malfoy's breath hitch. When Harry looks up again, precome is seeping from the tip of Malfoy's cock.

He kneels between Malfoy's thighs, puts his hands on Malfoy's ice cream-slippery hips. With the flames from the fireplace throwing orange glints on them, Malfoy's body looks like a winter landscape on a sunny December morning. The house is all quiet but for the crackling of the fire and their laboured breathing. Malfoy's hips are moving in slow, shallow thrusts under his hands. Harry is shivering all over; he wants Malfoy so much.

He is about to lie on top of him, to have their bodies touch, their skin, their cocks, and let the ice cream melt them together, like all those times before. But then it strikes him that Malfoy's tied down to the bed. He won't be able to run away again if Harry does to him what he's been wanting to do for weeks. Harry grabs his wand --

"Accio strawberry ice cream," he says, and Malfoy's eyes grow wide.

"Bastard," he snarls and pulls viciously at the silk. With all his strength he tries to push Harry off of him; Harry has to use his weight to keep him down. Magic sizzles in the air, there's a gush in the fireplace as if an ice storm rattles the chimney. For a moment the fire is squashed and shadows invade the room before the flames leap up again.

Three storeys below, there are clanging noises in the kitchen, then something bangs against the walls on the stairs. They never noticed the door was not all closed and now it springs open as a small glass bowl zooms in, straight into Harry's outstretched hand.

"Don't you dare put that stuff on me," Malfoy growls, still pulling at the silk, but without much heart in it.

"You want it." Harry knows he's right as another translucent pearl of precome seeps from Malfoy's cock. Harry dabs some cool Stracciatella ice cream on the tip of it. He laughs out lout, when Malfoy jerks away and growls some more. Oh, Malfoy wants this, he wants it bad.

"You pay for this, Potter," Malfoy whispers but he's stopped pulling at the silk. Instead, his eyes are on the bowl. He looks afraid, all of a sudden, and Harry's having second thoughts whether this really is a good idea. He almost killed Malfoy once; he never wants to hurt him again. Softly, he traces the two scars almost hidden underneath the ice cream; he clears two paths from Malfoy's throat over his chest to the soft dip of his stomach.

"It's going to feel good, I promise."

Malfoy nods, once, eyes still on the pinkish red of the ice cream in the bowl.

It feels different than the light-coloured stuff, thicker and smoother, as if the fruit changes the consistency of milk, sugar and cream. Harry scoops up strawberry ice cream into the palm of his hand; he puts it onto the scars, spoonfuls of red that melt into the white around. Soon, two red stripes run across Malfoy's upper body: two uneven diagonals, the one just to the right of his left nipple, the other almost down the middle of his chest. Malfoy's eyes are closed, he is lying perfectly still, only his fingers twitch. And his cock.

Harry puts the bowl away, with a last scoop of strawberry ice cream in his hand. He lowers himself on Malfoy's body that is all for him now, to touch and kiss and lick. Carefully he smears the ice cream on Malfoy's lips, and Malfoy gasps at the cold, then starts sucking at Harry's fingers. His eyes are still closed, and they stay like this even when Harry brings their cocks together, their hips, their bellies, skin touching ice cream, warm touching cold. Malfoy sucks and sucks, as if he cannot get enough of the sweet taste of strawberry, of summer, of --

"Harry," he moans, but Harry has enough of that and pulls away, wanting Malfoy's mouth all for himself. He smashes his lips into the slickness of spit and cream, and Malfoy groans into the kiss, or maybe it's Harry groaning. Now it's his turn to suck at Malfoy's tongue that tastes so sweet, but not like strawberry at all.

Their bodies start to move and soon find a rhythm of their own, thrusting and rubbing, pushing and sliding. Harry lifts himself up just a bit, to let his fingers glide through the mess of ice cream on Malfoy's skin, twirling around his nipples and reaching lower for their cocks that are smashed into each other. They thrust easily into his fist that is slick with ice cream. Malfoy's making desperate noises, he jerks his head to the side, away from Harry's mouth. Harry follows him at once; he wants so much to bite into Malfoy's sweet red lips. But Malfoy arches up, his body tight as the string of bow, pulling hard at the silk. He moans, "Harder, Merlin, harder," with a strangled voice and, "Yes, good, so good, so fucking good," when Harry tightens his hold and speeds up his strokes.

The sticky slipperiness of ice cream on Malfoy's skin, its sweet aroma mingled with the smell of sweat and spunk, the wordless sounds that spill from Malfoy's lips -- all of this pushes Harry towards this place that is both pleasure and pain. His thighs tremble, as does his arm that holds his weight, but it just pushes him closer. His strokes, Malfoy's thrusts -- it's a red-white blur between their bodies, and Harry needs, he needs ...

Pushing his face against Malfoy's chest, he flicks his tongue and licks drops of ice cream and sweat from burning skin, and he groans deeply, can't help it, and it's still not enough, not --

A shudder runs through Malfoy's body; he is bucking wildly into Harry's fist, slamming so fast and hard against Harry's cock it hurts, but that's just what Harry craves, what pushes him into the place where need gives way to rippling waves of pleasure. With Malfoy's spunk spilling hotly on his fingers, Harry comes, in a blinding burst of skin and fire, the sound of "Draco, Draco" on his lips.

It takes him long minutes to come back again and realise he's slumped onto Malfoy and sticky beyond belief. Malfoy's still panting, and so is he. They are a mess. The bed is, too. Harry raises his head, and even that seems too much effort. Malfoy looks at him with an odd expression, eyes cloudy and dark with sated desire.

"Untie me," he says quietly.

Harry moans -- God, he can barely move -- but he leans over, grabs his wand and casts the Finite. The next thing he knows he's on his back, with Malfoy straddling him and holding him down. The odd expression is still on his face, but then he looks at Harry and gasps. Two red lines run across Harry's chest, the one just to the left of his right nipple, the other almost down the middle. As they watch, the lines melt away, strawberry ice cream running into splotches of Stracciatella.

"Crucio," Malfoy whispers, and Harry feels wandless magic touch him like a lover's caress. There is an edge of pain, but something else, too, that enfolds Harry like a cloak, invisible, a shivering shimmer in the air around him. I can give you only this, Malfoy doesn't say.

Still, Harry answers, "Clean me up?", for that's what they've doing all those months, licking ice cream from their lips and skin, when curses and scars cannot be taken back. The past is always between them, a cold and sticky layer that melts them together, again and again.

Malfoy looks at Harry, grey eyes soft and warm like they rarely are. He lowers his head, but never takes his gaze from Harry's face as he cleans him of the red, with quick, gentle licks, using the whole length of his tongue. He's licking and sucking all the way from Harry's throat to his stomach until there's only vanilla-white ice cream, gleaming golden in the fire-light with specks of chocolate sticking to Harry's skin.

Then Malfoy lies down, his arm and one leg covering Harry's body, his face buried in Harry's hair.

They stay like this for an hour or longer. Harry would have thought Malfoy's fallen asleep, but he's never stopped stroking Harry's nipples, painting circles with the melted ice cream on his skin. Every once in a while he kisses Harry's ear and neck.

"We need a bath," he eventually says.

Harry turns to him. "I'm starved." As if to make a point, his stomach grumbles loudly. "Care to join me for dinner first?"

And Malfoy laughs. And nods.

fin