HP Harry's Garden

January 15th is not the prime time for a picnic outdoors, perhaps. Not in Wiltshire, at least.

For a Malfoy, all things were possible. For a Malfoy deep in love, there was no barrier imaginable allowed to prevent him from lavishing pleasure on his beloved.

"Clover?" Harry shook his head over it as Draco shook out the blanket that would go beneath them. "Four-leaved clover?"

"Hmm—and bees, yes. Lovely sound; very comforting. Hive's over there."

"Don't you get pests in?" Harry was curious, having grown up in suburbia. "Deer and whatnot? Wolves—do they even have wolves here?"

"It's magical, Potter. For Salazar's sake, try to remember the basics. Wards for that and temperature spells to keep the heat range up, repelling charms and daylight-extenders: all a Wizarding gardener's stock-in-trade. All laid on. Sometimes this is the only place I can get warm in winter."

"Really? With all that great pile you own?' Harry waved a careless hand at the hulk of the Manor rising behind them, just visible through the groves of ornamental trees, dormant under the snow. "There's got to be fifty fireplaces in there, Draco. At least."

Draco grinned, a little ruefully. "As I said—sometimes this is still the only place I manage it. No matter—take your boots off, please? Don't want to track slush on this."

"And what else do you want to come off, Draco?" Harry's under-the-lashes glance was speaking. "Shirt, jeans—my drawers?"

"Oh, yes, but not just yet, Potter," Draco allowed his lips to curl in a smile, every inch the young Lord of the Manor. If one noticed only his amused expression, one would've never seen the telltale swell rising beneath the heavy black wool of his winter robes. "Do be patient. I'll do that for you…later." His superciliousness fell away into teasing and Draco grinned. "Foreplay, Potter: anticipation makes shagging all that much sweeter."

"You're a sweet talker, you are, making promises."

"That I am. But I have someone sweet to talk to, now. There, all set." The blanket was arranged to his lordship's satisfaction; the huge hamper containing the alfresco meal positioned just so. Draco began deftly removing things from it, glancing back over his shoulder when Harry got so far and then stopped. "Socks, too, Harry. You won't need them, here."

Potter dutifully worked them off, flexing his long toes in the springy bed of clover. He looked all about him as he did so, admiring the swathe of vivid green nestled amongst snow-covered beds and stands of dried-out plant stalks. Another set of white-boxed hives lay beyond the patch of summer he sat upon, and he pointed them out whilst Malfoy busied himself opening a bottle of wine.

"Why not those, too, Draco? Not worthy?"

The other Wizard followed his pointing finger, and shook his head slightly. "Oh, no. Those are the Home Farm's; they're meant to be resting over the winter. It's only my bees that aren't hibernating. Here you go—drink up, Harry."

"Thanks," Harry accepted the flute of bubbly and sniffed it heartily. Draco smirked the merest bit as he forcefully suppressed a sneeze.

"You are such a child, Potter," he chuckled and raised his glass in a sweeping toast. "To us, then."

"Only sometimes," Harry grinned back, and lifted his own paper-thin shell of gilt-rimmed crystal high. "There are other times I'm fully an adult, love. But to us, yes—finally."

"Indeed," Draco observed severely, folding his lips and nodding. So very long a path to arrive here, but here they were, at last. They drank again; Draco sipping demurely, Harry tossing half the contents back in one go.

"Ah!" he gasped, after. "That's really brilliant, Draco—yours?"

"Hmm, yes. The New Zealand property, actually. More?"

"Please," and Draco topped him off before setting his own glass down on the section of blanket charmed to be stiff as a tabletop. He put out his hands after and proceeded to divest Harry of his scarf—not Gryffindor colours this time, but one of Draco's own, in Harry's favourite blue, lent this morning--and his knitted wool cap. Harry's hair sprung up like soot-black dandelion fluff, nearly sparking with static.

"Hah, you are a lion, Harry—a bloody ridiculous looking one, too, with that mane," Draco snickered, Vanishing the accessories somewhere. He smoothed the hair back from Harry's forehead, taking the chance to rest his lips there, mumble them softly through Harry's raven locks.

"Insensitive tosser, insulting me when you've only brought me out here to seduce me and I know it," Harry sipped at his champagne this time, his lashes lowered, but it was difficult to maneuver the glass properly, given that Draco was nibbling on Harry's earlobe. "You should be charming to me. I am your guest."

"It's a tactic of distraction, Potter," Draco murmured, his voice as low and warm in Harry's ear as the hum of the bees in the distance, sampling tropical flowers. "You're not noticing what else I'm doing, are you?"

"Mmm, no, I'm not, I admit." Harry turned his head to nose into Draco's scalp, mussing the baby-fine tresses, shiny as corn silk in the sharp light of a January noon. It, too, smelt of the garden, but with an herb-infused tang. Lemon balm, perhaps?

"And that's how your buttons are all undone, Potter," Draco grinned toothily, spreading his palms wide and easing back on his haunches. "Coat, please."

Harry grinned back equally happily and shrugged it off into Draco's willing grasp. "Slow process, what? You usually move much faster, Malfoy. We'll be here all day at this rate."

"All the better to practice my many wiles on you, Potter," Draco took care of the Muggle greatcoat in the same manner as he'd handled Harry's other things: Vanishing them elsewhere for the nonce. "Hungry? It's a little past noon."

"A bit," Harry nodded, his eyes back on the white boxes humming merrily yards away. Huge blooms of scarlet-kissed gold surrounded them, and drunken insects buzzed through the platter-like petals like tiny aeroplanes. "Why don't you let your bees rest, Draco? What's so special about them?"

"Oh, the honey is superb. They're a cross between Muggle Italian and WhisperKing's Wilde Magic variety, and they produce quite well under certain conditions—and I'm inordinately fond of raw honey on my toast in the mornings. Delicious. There's some comb in the hamper, I believe. For dessert."

Draco stripped his own outer things off whilst replying, and set them in a pile with his dragonhide boots and silk socks. He was clad in an open dove grey robe beneath and a simple cream tunic next to his winter-pale skin, belted with a wide swath of supple dark burgundy leather. Dark olive green wool trousers clung to his hips and flanks and stretched intriguingly when he moved about on the small island of blanket.

Harry watched him, admiring the grace of his body in motion, the intent expression on his fine features. They'd had a few rough moments recently, he and Draco, sorting things out, but this was lovely. A small oasis of peace in all the kerfuffle, and Draco was far removed from his usual public prickly, acerbic self.

"It is warm, here," Harry remarked, shifting. He felt he was wearing far too many clothes, surrounded as he was by the tropics. That was caladium, surely, and gardenia? And there were lilies, so many of them. Draco must be very fond of them to have that many kinds. "Sure we shouldn't undress now, Draco? Get it over with?"

"No, Harry," Draco quirked his lips in a half-smile. "I'm looking forward to biting your buttons off; don't deny my puerile fantasy, will you? I've been nursing it for ages."

"Never that—who am I?" Harry protested, curling up the corners of his mouth in turn, and Draco leant forward quickly and kissed them, unable to stop himself, "who am I to deny you anything, Malfoy?"

He breathed out the question 'round the corners of Draco's open mouth, his eager tongue, wet with champagne-scented saliva, and quite forgot he was supposed to be teasing his lover before he finished asking.

Draco snogged him again, lingering over Harry this time, with hands actively involved. They found Harry's throat and the lines of his torso under his shirt, tracing everything with feathery-soft touches and avid pluckings of fabric. Harry leaned into Draco's mouth, pushing his tongue deep in the hollows of Draco's cheeks, devouring the tiny breath of a gasp his companion released, and clutched his fingers tight-fast on Draco's ribs in return. This was entrancing, he thought hazily. My heaven on Earth.

"Draco," Harry murmured, his voice guttural, and the other Wizard arched into him immediately, as if he'd only been waiting for that particular note in Harry's voice.

The humming increased in audibility in the quiet, punctuated only by small slurping sounds and stifled groans, the rustle of fabric and the blanket edge rucking up in wrinkles on the bed of lucky clovers. They barely stayed upright on the blanket, folding into one another, limbs interlocking in a continuous line of elegant motion. Draco snuffled into Harry's collar and licked there, tasting, till he could stand it no longer and took his lover's lips again, plunging deep, his breath hitching sharp at the base his throat. Harry went right on with his seduction, coaxing Draco to take greater liberties with his eager skin, baring the column of his straining neck, the underside of his jaw, his nape, his blushing ears.

"Not so fast, Potter," Draco warned eventually, hauling himself away from Harry with some little effort. He was flushed, a spot of red riding high on the crest of each sucked-in cheek under the slash of bone, and panting lightly. "Gods! Don't be so greedy."

"Why not?" Harry wanted to know. He nipped at Draco's sharp-cut chin in passing, but sat back reluctantly, nonetheless. "You asked if I were hungry—I'm answering."

"Um…no, Harry," Draco mumbled, and cast his fevered gaze at his groin, where his cock swelled like overripe fruit. He frowned at it, having wanted to take all the time it properly required to relish this, the inaugeral visit to Harry's Garden with Harry. It was a momentous occasion; one he'd keep close and safe no matter what might happen in the future. "Not exactly what I meant. I wasn't really intending to start something that soon."


Draco shifted uneasily under Harry's hands when they found him again, unwillingly offering up the tender skin under his ear when Harry nudged at him, eyes full of barely suppressed amusement. He suffered the vicious suction with a grimace and shoved Harry away firmly when the love-bite was finished.

"We should eat; now, in fact. And you should be kindly waxing poetic over my gardening skills, Harry. We really do have all day together and I don't want to rush through it…alright?" He glared, unaware of how much Harry desired him at that moment, feathers ruffled and very visibly aroused and so vulnerable to Harry's slightest whim.

Harry contented himself with a light brush of lips over the tip of Draco's nose and then let him go. He settled himself primly on the opposite corner of the woolen rectangle, rubbing the wet spot on his own throat in passing and grimacing down at his own lap, where his heavy erection was barely disguised by his heavier tan corduroy trousers.

"Well…I suppose," Harry agreed reluctantly, meeting Draco's eyes once more and making a great show of his disappointment. He took up his glass again from where it had been discarded momentarily and bobbed it once in acknowledgement. "If I must."

"You must," Draco agreed. "It's well-past lunchtime now and knowing you, Harry, you'll lose consciousness soon if you're not properly victualled and watered." He grabbed at his own champagne flute and the bottle, splashing an inch or two into each glass as he swung back to the contents of the wicker hamper, covered platters and polished sterling serving dishes all laid out neatly across the top of the quilt. "Let's see—something with grilled chicken, from the looks of it, and sautéed sliced mushrooms; a mixed green salad, a selection of soft-rind cheeses and biscuits, sugared strawberries with mint—"

"Hothouse?" Harry inquired, tongue in cheek. His own tastes were simple; had been of necessity, but he was certainly aware Draco's were not. There was a breeze; almost sweltering and laden with the scent of gardenia and jasmine. He undid his cuffs absentmindedly and rolled them up over wrists that were still boney and jutting but concealed great strength. No stick figure, Harry, nor a malnourished boy any longer, but a man, and as Draco had told him repeatedly, a fine figure of one.

Who was, admittedly, actually hungry.

"Naturally, at this time of year," Draco answered sedately, setting out two china plates and accompanying cutlery. "There's an herbed saffron pilaf, as well, with mussels and capers, and I believe a cream soup—ah! Asparagus! My favorite!"

Harry's stomach rumbled faintly, and he looked down, mildly surprised to hear from his vocal midsection. Draco was snorting merrily at his expression when he glanced over.

"What? You truly didn't think you were hungry, Harry? You're always famished by this time! You and Weasel, both; the twin terrors of the Ministry café, gobbling up anything and everything in your path. One would think you were never fed at all, otherwise."

"Which means what, Malfoy?" Harry mock-growled and he brought his hands up, feinting a boxing position and shaking a threatening fist at Malfoy's pointy chin. "I'm but a beast that thinks of nothing but my gut? Them's fighting words, you know, back at the Burrow. You'll call me stubby next, and plebian, too, I shouldn't wonder."

Draco cocked an expressive brow at him, and spared an impatient glance at the fists. He turned back to survey the food. "Prat. Only if you deserve it. Some of everything, then?"

"Please," Harry dropped his silly pose to scoot closer, and took up his serviette and cutlery. "Is there pumpkin juice, too?"

"Right here," Draco waved a wand over a covered pitcher, and a stemmed glass poured itself as he set about placing generous portions on Harry's plate. There was an aspic as well, and rounds of crusty bread spread thinly with creamery butter, a rich goose-liver pate studded with black truffles, and various other tidbits involving goat cheese, paper-thin San Marzano tomato slivers, citroned oil drizzles and scads of Niçoise olives.

"Good lord! I'll never manage all this, Draco!"

Harry's plate was overloaded when his host finally handed it over, and Harry needed to support it with his knees. The position was horridly uncomfortable after a minute; he finally shifted to ape Draco's Indian-style crossed legged stance, set his plate in front of him on the raised ridge of blanket spelled flat, and contemplated it with all seriousness. He hadn't seen such gorgeous food outside a restaurant since his Hogwarts days and then only on quite special occasions. It was a veritable feast—that and this day, clear and crisp all around them, and Draco in an outfit that begged to be removed.

Harry swallowed nervously. Such good things, these. There was a tiny thrill of terror up his spine at the idea of losing them. That didn't bear contemplation, so he took up his fork instead and scooped up some rice.

"Oh, I think you'll find you will, Harry," Malfoy was observing mendaciously as he settled himself opposite. He sipped his champagne and looked down his nose at Harry. "My house elves are quite advanced in the culinary arts. You shan't be able to help yourself, Potter."

"Herm," Harry hummed, dubiously. His mouthful had been delicious. "Just don't be pissy if I fall asleep after, in a postprandial stupor."

"Not to worry. I've various means of rousing you, Harry," Draco preened, and got to work cutting up his portion of the chicken. "I shall very much look forward to the opportunity," he added slyly, with his eyes directed solely on his napkin.

"I'll just wager you will, Draco," Harry nodded, and nibbled on a bit of lettuce, his slightly anxious expression easing into delight over the Balsamic bite contrasted with garden-fresh baby greens and cool chunks of crumbly Feta and cucumber. Everything was delicious, bursting with individual notes that tickled his senses.

Harry turned his attention to his luncheon far more seriously, but his eyes were always wandering: over Draco, at ease across from him, totally delectable in his expensive clothing, his grey eyes clear and untroubled. At the rock garden surrounding a tiny waterfall opposite, where cacti bloomed and dragonflies hovered. At the stand of holly some distance away, the branches heavy with scarlet clusters of berries, the brilliant green of the serrated leaves heightened by the dusting of snow they cradled.

They ate their luncheon in relative silence, Draco observing Harry out of the corner of one eye all the while, his blood pounding through his veins. He could barely think of eating with Harry here, beside him. It made his heart trip and caused his fingertips to tremble ever so slightly, so that he almost fumbled his knife. Harry caught his gaze after a bit, when the first edge had been taken off, and it was obvious he could concentrate more on taste than caloric intake for survival.

"What?" Harry asked, lifting brow at him. "You're staring at me again, Draco. Why do you do that?"

Draco cleared his throat, stalling, and glanced away immediately. "I like to watch you, that's all." The rosy colour that had flushed his sharp-cut features was back in spades and Harry enjoyed it immensely, seeing Draco blush and cast his eyes down. He adored any opportunity to tip his ancient arch-nemesis off-balance; the results were always terribly sexy.

"Do you?" he replied archly. "Well, I do, too. Made quite a career of watching you, Malfoy, over the years."

Draco busily speared a piece of chicken instead of answering and chewed it methodically, his grey eyes finding Harry's face again after a moment. He'd known, of course, that Harry had spied on him, years ago, but he hadn't thought he'd garnered much of Harry's attention after the war ended. In truth, he hadn't seemed to ever truly enter the sphere of Harry's notice till that fateful New Year's Eve party at the Ministry, and then he'd had to scheme and plot to keep those eyes on him.

It was heady experience for Draco, having Harry in his own namesake Garden. This was the place he'd been most content—'warm', as he'd told Harry—when they'd first begun their irregular affair, a year ago now. It was a realm of secrets, with all the wishes and worries of his hidden heart written out plain to see in flower petals and plant lore. But things between them had ended and then begun again, and this relationship they had now was all over new and even more different yet.

Draco wanted to keep it; to clutch securely at the exquisitely fresh and perfect knowledge of Harry Potter loving him in return and lock it firmly under chains and repellent barriers, so that no ill-intentioned person could ruin it. So that he, himself, couldn't muddy the waters and frighten Harry off, or disgust him with the depths of his obsession, or—

There was a quick acid rising in his throat, ruining all the hard work of his elves, slaving cheerfully away this morning to produce this gourmet fare, and Draco made sure to have another swallow of champagne to force the bile down. Draco peeped over at Harry, who had his attention on the magnificent stand of Birds-of-Paradise and seemed to not notice him falling apart around the edges, and heaved a tiny sigh of relief.

"I like the pilaf, " Harry mumbled, turning back to his lunch and licking up grains of saffron rice sticking to his lips, swiping at them with his napkin when he couldn't reach all of them. Draco's prick was so hard watching that pink tongue dart, he nearly groaned aloud. "S'good, but isn't it more like a paella, Draco?"

Draco started, so deep in his musings over Harry eating that Harry's actual voice ripped him back abruptly to reality. Oh, yes—a question on the rice dish. He regained control of himself immediately, though; wouldn't want Harry to think he was in any way inattentive.

"Oh, perhaps so," he replied slowly, taking a brief moment to consider the makeup of the tumbled tomatoey-yellow pile of rice on edge of his own plate. There were shrimps, pink and succulent, and scraps of fresh basil, green-grey bits of other herbs and small scallops, and the trademark saffron that flavoured it. "Likely," he agreed finally. "It's certainly more Spanish in origin than anything else. Did you want some more, then?"

"No," Harry smiled. "It'll be a job just finishing what you've already given me. But you should, Draco," he jabbed his fork in Draco's direction, grinning widely, his gaze--in startling contrast—quite, quite grave and intent. "You're looking scarecrowish still. Did you ever gain the weight back you lost last summer, after your stay in St. Mungo's?"

Draco flushed red and then went whiter than death warmed over, all the warmth trickling out of his limbs, his satisfied belly. He hated to touch upon the events of the previous summer: pain, pain and yet more pain, relentless, painted in fiery smudges on the canvas of obsidian that was his life without Potter. He flinched without volition over the unwelcome memories, gathered himself together with sheer gritty determination and raised his tight jaw, meeting squarely the emerald eyes that rested inquiringly on him. They were full of heartening concern but no knowledge of just how intimately Draco had suffered when Harry cut him loose, six months ago. Harry must instead be thinking of the minor injury Draco had sustained during the one illegal Potions-ring bust.

"Don't remind me, Harry. Please." Setting his plate down, having suddenly lost his appetite, Draco took up the bottle of champagne from the bucket. "Can I refill your glass, then?"

"No," Harry said slowly, plopping his own plate on the blanket and swiping his linen square over his well-cut lips, oily and pinkened from use. "But you can come over here, if you're finished for the moment. I want to snog you."

The champagne already latent in Draco's bloodstream took off, zooming madly, leaving a mind-altering trail of minute bubbles behind it. He'd the bottle back in the ice bucket so fast his hands were a blur, and was lunging across the small distance between them in a split-second: no more time than it took to inhale.

"Harry," Draco murmured, and that one word contained layer upon layer of meanings, some contradictory. "Harry."

Their mouths met, still fragrant with taste—vinegar, butter, mushroom, celery—and matched up as each of them tilted their chins and angled properly for the snog. It was very long, this one, full of tiny nibbles, as if each couldn't quite bear to lift away for a second; couldn't think of any parting, no matter how brief.

"Let me have more of you," Draco gasped, his lungs depleted, and his fingers fell away from Harry's chest for a second, revealing bared skin rippling across a fine display of manly muscle. "More!"

"Ummm," Harry nodded, and helped Draco with the removal of his shirt—or rather, got in the way a bit, his fluttering fingers fumbling over the deft hands undressing him. "Please."

They slid sideways and down on the quilt, only narrowly missing the serving plates and the assorted accoutrements of luncheon, and rolled into one another frantically, every inch of Draco finding its mating point on Harry's lithe body, every point that could be shared, offered. But it was not near enough for either of them.

Harry ripped at Draco's flies, anguished. "Let me!" he begged, but his lover was distracted by Muggle zippers and brass buttons dark with age.

"Fuck," Draco murmured, his voice hitching, "patience, Potter—I'm getting there. It's not my fault these ancient trousers of yours are poured on you!"

"Berk, hardly," Harry grinned into Draco's throat where it hovered above him—he was flat on his back and spread out on the blanket like another serving dish, and his cock ached something fierce to be free. "Go faster, damn you!"

"I'll give you faster, Harry," Draco leered, having triumphed at last over simple Muggle technology and dragged Harry's denims down over his thighs. Harry wore no underwear and Draco smiled widely, his grey eyes hot in his tight face. He was so very, very in need of this; had been all his life, really.

"Very nice, Harry," he teased, twiddling a nipple there, fingering a ridge of muscle here, "making my life easier this way. Did you want me to touch you, then?"

"Oh, yeah, you are a berk, Malfoy," Harry groaned and thrust his newly released hips up, seeking more of the fingertips now trailing lightly across his cock and balls. "Definitely, yes, I want that. Do your best, why don't you? I might need more convincing to take the rest of this off."

Draco chuckled with delight; Harry flirting—when it was with him, of course—made his heart soar into the stratosphere. He was throbbing with happiness, now. "You want more sweet talk or would you rather action, Harry? Action does speak so much louder than mere words, you know." He wet his fingertips in his mouth quickly and swept them across the swollen head of Harry's dick, easing around the bulge of foreskin, smearing the clear liquid that welled from the slit in the centre.

"Mmm, yes—do that, too, Draco," Harry didn't answer directly. He only pressed closer, crushing his cock and Draco's questing hand between them. "More, please. Do that more."

"Harry…" Malfoy's face was transformed; Harry would've seen it clearly if he hadn't had his eyes closed, simply relishing in feel. There was tenderness in every line of Draco's aristocratic features; a deep, satisfied glow permeating every pore of his skin. He was supremely joyful, having Harry here under his hands, his grinding pelvis, his raging heartbeat. "Harry!"

No more words for the moment; all had devolved to tiny grunts and achy groans and escaped hissing gasps that communicated need on a visceral level. The remainder of each other's clothing was forcibly removed: fine imported fabric tore at button-holes and seams, despite the charms woven in; the blanket table was shouldered firmly out of the way as they wrestled each other into full nudity, seeking access and skin and deeper-harder-faster-now.

"Draco, my Draco," Harry whispered, opening his great emerald eyes wide finally, blinking up at the sky that hovered. A clear, cool sapphire dome rose above them; the cloudless sky of winter, marked only by a passing hawk's contrail and the nearly visible rays of the noonday sun. In the greater world about them, it was cold: a frigid winter's day, blinding in its snow's purity, the bareness of its trees, its spare, ascetic beauty. But here there were bees and the faint odour of honey in the comb, and Draco's twisting limbs burning into his on a bed of clover and smooth, plaid wool.

"I love you so," Harry whispered, and ran a wondering hand through the fine, nearly translucent hair falling down about his upturned face.

There lingered the smells of orchids, rare and fragile; of tender chicken, grilled in wine and lemon-butter; of roses, blooming festively across a hand-built stone espalier. Tension crackled between them, breaking and surging, mounting again even as it crested and shattered.

"My love," Draco muttered, his low voice full of all the other words that stayed caught behind his nipping teeth and agile tongue. He worshipped Harry, pressing ghosts of kisses across the expanse of chest revealed. "My very dear love." The breeze stirred and warm verdant air washed over them, two young Wizards entwined so close there'd be trouble inserting a sheaf of onionskin parchment between them. "I can't get enough of you, ever, Harry," he admitted finally, and buried his aquiline nose in his lover's tumbled hair, letting the blue-black provide him a bit of cover. Their hips were in motion, now a slow, throbbing dance that never died, and he was floating on a sea of expectation. Soon, soon, Draco's body told him, soon you'll be inside.

"I'll die without you."

He was so very helpless before Potter; had been, all these years. Flinching back, and barely daring to force his way into Harry's world, though never did he cease trying, one way or another. Draco Malfoy, angrily, hopelessly determined; Harry Potter, naïve and too-knowing simultaneously, blind as the speccy git he really was. "Don't leave me, Harry. Don't—ever."

"You have me," Harry smiled, and brought his trembling hand up again to smooth his beloved's tumbled hair. "From the start, I suppose," he added wryly. "Never did manage to ignore you, Draco."

Their hearts were thundering, painful. Harry was at once close to hyperventilating as his lover's eyes widened and then he again snogged Harry speechless; Draco had forgotten to inhale and exhale properly whilst doing so. They rested for a moment after, both sets of ribcages heaving with effort, laboring under the pressure of an imperative need to join together. Draco's sweaty palm idly caressed Harry's shaft; slippery smooth thin wrinkles of skin over what felt like an iron girder cloaked in finest velvet, and Harry ran his spatulate fingertips down the planes of the pale back that arched over him, telling each boney ridge and dip in Draco's spine.

They rested, Draco dropping his head over Harry's heart to listen, and each regained an ounce of their usual composure, slowly. 'All day' Draco had promised just a few moments before, and Harry wanted that span of hours badly. His promised day with Draco, and only Draco; no one else to interfere, and all it might lead to, for it hadn't been particularly easy finding his way here through the labyrinth the Draco-that-was-Malfoy had erected around his inner sanctum.

"Silly git," Harry snickered, secretively pleased with his own accomplishments, and too, with Draco's decided tumble from his ivory tower. He'd like to see Malfoy successfully retreat from that admission, or attempt again to make light of how he truly felt under that marbled Pureblood facade. Draco was like the Manor, in a way, rising tall and imposing and a bit frightening, but inside there was such beauty—so many rare things and treasures, and now Harry had access to all of them. Indeed, Harry had Malfoy just where he wanted him, finally: at his mercy and vulnerable.

"I'll show you gittishness, Potter!" Draco reared his head up in challenge, eyes sparkling. He was fully revived, his pulse formerly racing in terror and lust now settled into desire and comfort. He was giddy, in fact, Draco was, drunk on love. "You're in imminent danger of molestation, you realize? At my mercy, Scarhead," Draco attempted to look terribly stern and threatening, and failed miserably. "I've got you all to myself now and there's no one to rescue you, Saint Potter. You're mine, to do as I please with, whatever I please with—so, admit it!"

"I am your willing captive, Draco," Harry grinned, spreading his hands wide in a mock-supplicating manner. He shifted, to ensure Draco would glance down at his dick, waiting ever so patiently to be Draco's. "Your slave, love, obedient to every command."

Draco leered again, and he really did look utterly ridiculous doing so, though not as idiotic as when he growled.

"Really? You'll do what I tell you, then?" He peered down at Harry suspiciously as if he were concerned his mischievous captive was merely taking the piss. "You're sure about that?"

"Absolutely," Harry twinkled. "Just say the word. Anything to please you, I swear."

"Now who's the sweet talker, Potter?" Draco wanted to know, drumming his fingertips on Harry's chest. He stopped and brushed a thumbprint across Harry's lower lip, pressing in hard and sneaking a quick nip in after. Harry winked at him and lifted his hips invitingly.

"You tempt me, sorely," Draco admitted. His gaze, rolling across the length of Harry, was nearly palpable. "Kiss me, then, if you're so eager," Draco let his hand drag down his midsection, taking one of Potter's with it. "Here," he purred and any remaining trepidation was wiped away in the assurance of his own undeniable physical charms.

Harry groaned—Draco was so very hard against his belly, poking at his navel almost painfully. It made him ache throughout with desire, though he couldn't decide what he wanted—needed—most: to shag or be shagged? Lovely concept, at any rate, and no doubt there'd be both varieties sampled before they were done on this blanket.

"I will," he responded, his voice low and promising an Arabian tale's worth of carnal delight. "But what will you give me in return, Draco?"

"Everything, Harry." Malfoy was caught between wonder and lust, staring at Harry; such a potent mix, it gutted him. 'Harry, Harry, Harry,' his dick clamoured, throbbing a tattoo into his brain. But there was so much more to this than that. "Everything I can, everything you want," he vowed in return, a Malfoy rich in wealth and imagination when it came to pleasing his lover. "But fucking do it now, Harry, or I'll explode already, waiting."

"No more talking," Harry agreed, seriously. And took his time sliding down Draco's humming torso, nipping at matched pairs of rosebud nubs rising and ridges of tensed subcutaneous muscle along the way. Oh, Merlin, he is so very beautiful! Harry's heart shouted. And all so very mine!

So mine.

Draco shuddered under Harry's mouth engulfing him—Harry's hunger knew no bounds—his cock grew harder by degrees and it was decided wordlessly that it would be Harry atop Draco this round, the cock he'd just licked into red-purple readiness already eager to begin the slide into Harry's more than willing arse in short, throbbing jerks. They were quick and deft about it, falling into position with the ease of long-time lovers.

Draco's long hands clamped at Harry's sides, blunt fingernails digging in, and his narrow pelvis rose up to meet Harry's slightly broader one as it slowly lowered, the lubrication charms they both whispered leaving behind a bounteous slick of vanilla-raspberry flavoured oil. Harry hadn't bothered with any stretching, as he'd been had once already in the bath that morning--or really, not even two hours previous--and he craved that slight pain of Draco's cock pushing at his limits and then beyond them, branding him from the inside out.

"Harry!" Draco couldn't help himself. 'No talking' was bloody impossible: he'd love honeying his tongue and overflowing onto Harry's lips when the man above him swooped down suddenly to snog him, fully seated at last. They rocked together, in perfect cadence, seeking Harry's sweet spot together, and Draco sighed heavily when he found it, and his lover's verdant eyes darkened and went strangely fixed, the pupil consuming the green.

"Like that, love? Want more?" Draco gasped, unable to keep from shoving up and away from the blanket, unable to stay himself from going deeper. "Harry?"

"Uhh," Harry's eyes rolled back in head. "Yesss…"

Draco held him firmly, the muscles in his forearms straining to prevent Harry's spine from curling in on itself and folding his body into a boneless heap.

"Steady, steady, love," he muttered. "Move for me," he commanded when he was satisfied his angle was the right one, the perfect one for lavishing his beloved into orgasm. He coaxed Harry from the paralyzing trance that came of being filled and owned and utterly adored with come-hither, sultry rolls of his hips and a side-to-side slosh of flesh within flesh. Life could simply not be ever better than this moment. "Harry!"

"Um," Harry came awake at last, remembering abruptly that the best was yet to come, and shuffled his knees properly under him for purchase. He rose, suction giving way and lube dripping down his quivering thighs, and sat back with a thump onto Draco's boney hips almost immediately.

"Ah!" Draco grunted. "Again, Harry! More!"

Pushing up, his hands squarely braced on Draco's shoulders, Harry's arse reversed its motion, their arms rubbing together and trading perspiration, and Draco planted his feet flat on the wool beneath them and swiveled his waist to follow. Harry fell again as the twist reverberated within him, and they both moaned at the impact. Draco's cock had to be nudging at Harry's tonsils; it felt that way, buried so deep that it would take a miracle to dislodge it.

"Come on, Harry," Draco urged him. "Come on—up, you wanker! Don't stop now!"

"No!" Harry cried out. "Never stop!" He was hauled and thrust and pulled himself up again by sheer will, fighting sweet inertia; all at once, biting fingers curving talon-like into him, holding him and never letting go, forcing him to fly a bit, and then drawing him back securely. Harry obliged, and increased his speed of his volition, panting harshly, up and down in a concerted bounce that had Draco's jaw gaping.

Harry drooled; it was so lovely. Brilliant to be impaled and fucked into oblivion by this one man. He could die now, happily. Would, with Draco's cock spearing his heart.

"Gnngh! Harry!" Draco was not-quite-coherent, his whole body pink with a flush, darker than rose petals where they met and joined, and his fingers were unbearably tight under Harry's armpits, tugging at the sensitive hairs growing there. "Fuck it, Harry—fuck me—take me—make me!"

One hand was ripped away from Harry's bruised skin. It grasped his cock harshly and pulled. Once, twice, tight and with a jerk at the end that was utterly mind-blowing. Harry's cock flexed, precum bubbling up between Draco's killer fingers; rippled again and he screamed.

"Draco! Ah! Ah! Draco!"

The resulting squeeze of his anus—of all his innards, clenching as the bright winter world shaded velvety dark red and miles away—spurred Draco's own ejaculation. It went on and on, and he heaved his hips up and down jerkily throughout, seeking to prolong Harry's pleasure, to draw this moment into hours. And shouted without a sound at the end, his throat raw, his back arched into eternity.

"Harry…oh, Harry," Draco gathered Harry's limp form against him and rolled them both, still lodged together firmly despite the slippery trickle of his cum seeping from Harry's quivering bum. "Oh, Harry, how I love you; how I love you!"


His answer was Harry's head tucked familiarly under Draco's chin, his broad damp hand spread wide against the thud of Draco's slowing heart, the soundless whisper of his lips moving slowly against Draco's breastbone. They twitched and Draco's skin absorbed every brush of smooth skin, chapped a bit now where Harry had chewed on them; it was both balm and elixir. "I love you," Harry's lips spelled in silence, with tongue-tip pressing into salt-tainted flesh for emphasis. "I love you."

"Draco," he added, never making a sound, and this powerful incantation Harry used to keep Draco always his could never be undone nor reversed, not by anything.