Fran's story archive - Being Harry Potter: Malfoy Watching
Here is another story originally posted on frances_potter which I'm archiving here. It is, of course, H/D and was, I think, my only try at writing first-person.
Originally posted May 2003.
The following was written for lovely taradiane, who has always been so kind and thoughtful for me. I hope you enjoy this, Tara.
I have recently found the joys of writing first-person and what follows is different from my usual stuff (which some might consider not a bad thing). It is JadedWithLife!Experiencedbutultimatelyloving!Harry daydreaming about Shaggable!virgin!Draco. It might also be the first part of a trilogy, we will have to see how it goes.
My thanks goes out to aome for her excellent beta-read. You are such a gem my dear. Also, I would never have completed this if it wasn't for the patience of olivia_lupin who helped me see the wood for the trees. And thanks to everyone who came to my help when I was looking for a particular quote.
Rating: Hmmmm not sure but I would think heavy-R or light NC-17.
Being Harry Potter: Malfoy Watching...
I’ve never liked Hallowe’en much. Even before the added bonus of finding out it was the day Voldemort chose to kill my parents, I’d hated all the trick and treating. Dudley used the day as another reason to beat me up ... he’d set up a trick that I could never complete and the treat would be more bruises or punishments from his parents.
I don’t like to think of Petunia and Vernon as ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ if I can help it. Giving them titles like that reminds me that they are in some way related to me and I’ve come to hate that as well.
So, here I am ‘celebrating’ my seventh Hallowe’en at Hogwarts. We’ve had the feast, the younger kids have gone to bed and we older kids can dance the night away to the witching hour. I’ve done my duty and danced with a few people, smiling in all the right places, spoken a few platitudes and have now found somewhere to hole up until the party finishes. It’s hard to be happy when all I can see is Voldemort killing my parents.
This is the chamber just off the Great Hall where I went after my name came out of the Goblet of Fire three years ago. It’s changed a bit since then. The portraits are all the same, but the furniture is different. This nice sofa wasn’t here in front of the fire, for example.
And, of course, the last time I was here there were three other people gathered around the fire. If I close my eyes and really concentrate I can still picture Viktor, Cedric and Fleur, as they were that night. I don’t dream about Cedric any more; those dreams stopped in my sixth year. They were replaced with other things ... other images to stop me from wanting to close my eyes at night.
The sofa is just long enough for me to stretch out full length on, and because of its position, I’m hidden from the door if anyone should come into the room ... they’d have to come right up to the fire to see me. I’ve found some proper alcohol as well and I’d love a cigarette, but I haven’t had one of those since the summer when Dudley shoplifted some and I threatened to tell on him unless he shared.
Hallowe’en at Hogwarts... The first one I guess I was too young and too in awe of being a wizard to connect the feast with my parents. The second year I was too busy with voices in my head, the third with visions of my own death at the hands of both a Grim and Dementors. The fourth, there was the whole Triwizard thing.
No, it took until the fifth year for it all to actually sink in.
My fifth year was pretty crap anyway - what with the mixture of nightmares, lack of sleep and constant reminders that I was personally responsible for Voldemort’s return. It is a year I’d like to forget, thank you very much.
Except for Quidditch, of course.
If it hadn’t been for the Quidditch I think I might have gone mad. Playing, watching, practicing became my life and my escape. When Dumbledore had suggested I stop because of the danger, I begged, pleaded and then threatened him about what I’d do without it. Me! Threatening Dumbledore! That would be funny if the conversation hadn’t been so serious.
And it was Quidditch that led to my favourite new pastime ... Malfoy Watching.
Oh, I know I’ve been doing it since I first met him, but this was when it first became a conscious activity. I’ve been doing it again all evening at the Hallowe’en feast and the Watching has been so intense that I can picture him in my mind without even having to close my eyes...
...From the tip of his perfect blond head to the toecaps of his lovely Italian leather shoes...
Sometimes I try to remember when my attitude towards him changed from distaste and loathing to ... well, something that has the habit of making my breath hitch and leaves me with a very satisfying warmth deep in my belly. I get confused about the whole thing if I think about it too much and I end up thinking about “what ifs”...
What if I’d actually spoken to him in the robe shop?
What if he’d not seen Hagrid and made that stupid comment about him?
Whit if I’d never met the Weasleys on the platform at Kings Cross?
What if Ron hadn’t come and sat with me on the train?
What if I’d been on my own when he’d arrived looking for ‘Harry Potter’?
What if I’d taken his hand?
What if I’d gone to the Sorting without preconceived ideas of Slytherin and let the Hat sort me there instead of Gryffindor?
What if...
Over six years of “what ifs”.
I think my view of him started to change on the way back to school at the beginning of our fifth year. I was fifteen going on one hundred years old at that point. A summer like I had can age you quicker than anything.
He’d come looking for me on the train with his usual bravado and snide, hateful comments and I just knew that he’d been told about Voldemort’s attack on Privet Drive. The Muggles said a gas explosion had caused the death and destruction, but we all know the truth. It’s ironic that the Dark Lord failed miserably to kill me or any of my relatives, and their house remained intact while two others were flattened.
Voldemort clearly needs better access to information. Maybe he should start using the Internet instead of relying on stupid Death Eaters.
Later in the train journey I’d gone for a walk and found him on his own. He was sitting by a window watching the scenery and chewing on a fingernail. But it was his other hand I noticed ... it was trembling slightly and I realised the reason he’d stood before me earlier with balled fists was to stop his hands from shaking.
What had happened to him over the summer to leave him with a nervous tremor like that? Of course, I didn’t go and ask him. Can you imagine his reaction if I had? But after that I started keeping an eye on him. I justified it with thoughts that he was probably a Death Eater by then and we needed to know what he might be planning. But in reality I had a knot of something close to fear in my stomach that this person could have been reduced to a nervous wreck in just ten weeks.
But I digress ... Quidditch.
The first match of my fifth year was Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin and we all went to watch and ... naturally ... to cheer on Hufflepuff. I’d taken to watching the other teams practice and for some reason no one ever questioned it. I think they were scared of me like they’d been back in our second year. Back then the reason had been they thought I was Slytherin’s heir -- now it was because the rumour mills said I killed Cedric! Whenever I watched a Slytherin practice session I scrutinized him almost exclusively. Of course my excuse was that I was learning the tactics of the other Seekers, but then I never watched Morag MacDougal, the Ravenclaw Seeker, or Wayne Hopkins, the Hufflepuff one.
And I only had eyes for Draco during that match. He is one hell of a flyer with such deft control -- it’s quite awesome to watch. Even the way he leans into a subtle direction change is a joy to behold. Of course, the Quidditch gear helps ... all those flowing robes and protection gear.
Then I just happened to notice the way his feet on the footrests splayed his knees and I swear I caught a look on his face that flickered though half a dozen different shades of pleasure.
Now, don’t get me wrong ... flying is exciting. It can be a truly orgasmic experience. Couple that with the thrill of a fast-paced Quidditch match and you have the recipe for being turned on quicker than trying to get one of the female teachers to bend down so you can look down her robes, or following girls up the staircases, especially the one up to the Divination classroom.
So, if he was having a private erotic moment courtesy of his broom, then who am I to judge? But the problem was that I was getting turned on by the thought of him having a delicious hard-on encounter with his broom. I was sitting in the stands deliberately holding my cloak over myself and with my free hand doing things I’d rather not discuss in public.
It was outrageously glorious.
Until Ron turned to me and asked if I was okay. He said I looked sick and got Hermione to have a look as well. She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead to check if I was running a temperature and all the time they were fussing over me I was holding onto myself. I was panicking that if I let go they would notice the movement and wonder what I was doing.
At least their attention had diminished my up-to-then growing problem and as luck would have it, Malfoy chose that moment to catch the Snitch and the game ended.
But instead of flying off to join his team-mates, he flew over to where I was sitting and brandished the Snitch at me.
“One to me, Potter. This year you’re going down!”
I swear he knew I had my hand in my trousers and later, in the shower, I held that image of his smirking triumphant face in my mind as I wanked off.
And the Malfoy Watching has carried on ever since. To begin with, the Watching was just part of our on-going scowling at each other, but as time went on it became much more. Over the past two years I think I’ve become something of an expert on Draco Malfoy.
For instance, I know he always cuts his apples into quarters before eating them. He doesn’t have milk in his coffee, but will have cream and if there’s no cream he’ll have an extra spoon of sugar. He never wears red unless it’s the lining of a cloak. He likes to walk in the rain or just as the sun is coming up, and sometimes he will climb to the top of the West Tower to watch the sunset.
I found out when his birthday was and took great delight at watching him trying to work out who would send him an unsigned card. I used him as my guinea pig for all my Divination practice … star charts, I Ching, Tarot, crystal ball … I never believed any of it, but it’s surprising how many coincidences there were.
Where, I once asked myself, does ‘hatred’ stop and ‘friendship’ begin? When exactly did I stop hating him? When did it turn to the need I now have? I think it was during our sixth year. We had one of our very public arguments, this time out on the steps leading up to the main doors, and the comments were as vindictive as I can ever remember them being.
It was exhilarating.
Him, inches away yelling at me, that pert little rosebud mouth so close that if I had moved forward I could have touched his lips with my own. I could swear the warmth of his body was permeating my clothes and touching my skin. And what made it even more exhilarating was the fact people were watching ... I was hard and excited and they all thought we were fighting. As he continued his tirade, I leaned a fraction closer and breathed onto his lips ... his mouth. He faltered for a second, mouth opening and closing, then continued as if nothing had happened. Except, that is, for just the hint of pink flushing across his cheeks.
If I hadn’t wanted him before, then I think at that point I certainly would have. God, he is so aggravating and adorable and self-righteous and precious and I want to hold and pet and love him.
That was October and I spent the rest of my sixth year lusting after him from afar, continuing with my Malfoy Watching and dreaming about all the things we could do to each other. It was a blessed release to dream about him when Voldemort was trying to kill me yet again.
Sometimes I wish Voldemort had killed me along with my parents. Then I wouldn’t have had to spend ten years with the Dursleys being treated like dirt beneath their feet ... a piece of property instead of a person ... and then another seven as property of another kind. They all expect me to rid the Wizarding world of Voldemort. How the fuck am I expected to do that when even Dumbledore can’t? Tom Riddle had it right ... the only reason I survived as a baby was a lucky chance.
I’m not special ... I don’t want to be special ... I want to be bloody normal. I want to have a life where I don’t have to be constantly on guard ... where I’m not expected to save the known world ... where someone loves me for ‘me’ and not because of a stupid scar.
I tried to find that person as well ... someone to love me for ‘me’, but without much success. So in between lusting after Draco and hating him, I spent most of my sixth year looking for that someone. Unfortunately I ended up either broken hearted, or fighting Voldemort.
My first boy? Hmmm. Does wanking off to daydreams of Draco count? No, I guess not.
I did that quite a bit after the Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin match in our fifth year. Beyond that, there was something ‘nice’ about watching boys, though for most part, I just liked ‘watching’. For instance, I’ve seen all my dorm mates naked, but I’ve never wanted to shag Seamus or give Dean a blowjob. And sex with Neville? That is an image I could do without, thank you very much.
Our first game in sixth year was against Ravenclaw, and one of their seventh year Beaters caught me in the showers after the match. November the fifth! Bonfire Night ... and boy did we produce some fireworks. I don’t think a wank in the shower was ever the same after that. Wet dreams ... wet boys. He gave me my first blowjob and I returned the favour. We met on a semi-regular basis for the rest of the year and he introduced me to all the joys of hard bodies and the exquisite pleasure to be gained from someone else’s erection. He was blond, like Draco, and I think that was why it was so exciting.
I dated girls when I wasn’t seeing him. There was a brief fling with Ginny after I took her to the Hallowe’en feast ... nothing happened there and I only went with her because it seemed to be expected (and besides, I was seeing my Beater at the time). I dated Hermione over Christmas ... we petted and kissed, and had fun, but it didn’t take us long to realise we were not set for a life-long commitment.
My first sex with a girl was a Hufflepuff called Megan. We were paired up in Herbology for an assignment on the correct preparation of Devil’s Claw root powers and we did it in Greenhouse Number One -- another date for my calendar ... 16th April 1997. I think I will celebrate it on an annual basis. Shame it all ended in tears. She told her best friend Sally-Ann and before you know it, Teen Witch Weekly is announcing our wedding. So I stopped sleeping with fellow students except for a final time with my Beater. He left that summer and as a going-away present, he let me shag him.
I had a fling with Vernon’s secretary over the summer. I met her when she came to dinner -- I’d been banished to my room and she came in by mistake. One thing lead to another and I went to the office one day and hey presto ... magic on Vernon’s desk!
But somehow I kept coming back to boys. Oh, I like girls, but I prefer boys. There is something I can’t explain about running your hands over a nicely muscled chest and feeling strong legs wound tightly around your waist. Kisses are different too ... and hands ... mouths ... tongues...
And erections ... don’t forget how good they are. Just intoxicating.
Which is probably why I ended up with Ron that summer. I spent three weeks at the Burrow and it just sort of ‘happened’ one day. I didn’t know he was in our shared bedroom and I went in to find him tossing off. He was embarrassed; I wasn’t and I offered to help.
A bit like the Hermione thing, we had a good time, but he decided he preferred girls and I decided that while I wanted boys in general, I wanted Draco in particular. Of course, it’s a bit pointless really, because I don’t think there is any hope of him returning what I feel ... want. Need.
Then I went back to Privet Drive and everything changed. Dudley got caught with a school chum from Smeltings and it was the first time I’ve ever seen him punished. Vernon and Petunia were livid ... apoplectic with rage ... and I suddenly realised that sleeping with your own sex wasn’t approved of by loads of people. It was a shock, because I couldn’t see why it was wrong, but if they were prepared to punish Dudley like that, I wondered what the hell they would do to me.
I went back to my seventh year with Dudley’s screams still in ringing in my ears and decided that maybe I should either stick to girls or become celibate. The Teen Witch Weekly incident with Megan was still fresh in my mind and I tried to imagine what would happen if headlines like ‘Potter Comes Out -- Boy Who Lived is Queer’ started to appear.
I decided to forget about sex until a) I’ve left school, b) I’ve killed Voldemort or c) Voldemort killed me.
The whole situation was moot anyway. When the object of my lust returned for our final year, he had Pansy Parkinson on his arm and she had the biggest diamond ring imaginable on her finger. I watched him as she prattled on about engagement parties and weddings to anyone who would listen, including the Gryffindors -- surprising how house animosities seem to be forgotten by the girls when big diamonds got flashed around; even Hermione managed to ohh and ahh over it. But my Obsession was completely pokerfaced. Oh, he smiled when he had to ... even graciously accepted the congratulations offered by his fellow students ... but there was no emotion -- nothing to show exactly how he was feeling about his impending nuptials.
At one point those grey eyes turned to me and I like to believe he threw me a look which cried, “Help me, Potter, get me out of this,” but I think that was probably my own interpretation of what was more likely a “Piss off, Potter” look.
That was two months ago and they seem to be inseparable. I still Watch him, trying to see how he really feels, whether he really loves her.
Which brings me to here ... a sofa in a room off the Great Hall, a bottle of brandy, a glass and me. So much for the boy who fucking lived. Property of everyone ... lover of none ... a daydreaming idiot who gets his rocks off by wanting someone who hates his guts. I’ve no doubt that given the choice Draco would rather hex me than shag me.
I look at the glass for a long time before finally taking a sip of the brandy. It burns my throat in the way only good alcohol can do and for once I offer a word of thanks to Vernon for not locking his drinks cupboard. I detest the man for many things, but he does have a good taste in wine and spirits. I finally started stealing from them during the summer after my fifth year. I stole food as well and I remember sitting in my room tucking into a slice of the most wonderful fruitcake and wondering why I hadn’t done it before.
They’d had me so under their thumb for so long that it hadn’t occurred to me to actually steal anything from them. I had Malfoy to thank for that as well. He steals things. Stupid little things -- a quill, a sheet of parchment, a hair ribbon. I once saw him take a little spell book from Lavender’s bag; he saw me watching him and put it back before it was missed. Why he does this I have no idea, but sometimes I think he wants to get caught doing it, as if that was the only way he could get attention.
And here I am screaming for him to see me. Maybe I should start taking stuff from his bag.
Or slip my hand into his trouser pocket and give him the benefit of my expert fingers.
I wonder if Pansy has talented hands or if he has to do that for himself.
I’ve learned over the last year just what being around him can do to me. Oh, there’s the wanking, which is glorious and mind numbing. But I found out by accident that I could just touch myself lightly and get a flood of warmth and tingling excitement dipping into my body. The tingling spreads quickly, like a mini electric shock from my cock down my thighs and up into my stomach. I can do it anytime, no one notices the hand in my pocket when I’m sitting in class or watching him practice.
The trouble is it doesn’t last long and when it has gone I’m left bereft again ... desperate with longing.
I wonder not for the first time what it would feel like to have his hand on me causing that bolt of sensation. His mouth open for me to plunge into like Ron’s had been. What he would taste like coming in my mouth ... feel like coming over my body.
Putting the glass down, I loosen the fly on my trousers and slip my hand inside, feeling the familiar length through the cotton of my underwear. I have on tight briefs today rather than boxers and the sensation of the material over my erection makes me hiss with pleasure. It wouldn’t do to come all over the furniture or inside my clothes, not with the long walk back up to Gryffindor Tower, and I choose to bring myself to the edge and stop it before I plunge off the precipice and into glory. I’m getting quite good at that now, almost revelling in the control I have over myself.
As I rub my thumb over the head and feel the first drops of pre-come soak into the material, I let my eyes close and imagine it is his hand ... his fingers curling around me ... his voice saying ‘I love you’. It is wonderful in its intensity and awful in its loneliness.
I’m almost there when the door slams open and my little paradise is destroyed completely.
The music pours in, shattering the room’s stillness and I freeze for a moment, which feels more like an eternity, as the door is closed with equal force, music dying to a quiet background beat again. My sigh of relief is a mixture of gratitude to the person for deciding not to remain in the room and rapture as my fingers return to their prize.
Sod the furniture, I’m a wizard and I can clean up afterwards.
Then, just as I’m thinking how much I want to bend him over the back of the sofa and shag him senseless, the bloody door opens again. My eyes close and I bite hard on my lower lip as I force myself to let go. It’s a good job I’m a Gryffindor or I might just kill whoever it is interrupting my fantasies.
“Draco Malfoy!”
The voice is female. It shrieks over the noise from the hall and I recognise Pansy without any trouble. She has a whining voice which can cut through even the loudest noise and she is in my room screeching out the name of my fantasy lover ... and I hate her to bits.
I try to zip my fly over my still erect cock without making any noise; believe me when I say it isn’t an easy task. Everything feels so sensitive and I can’t keep a little smirk from my face as I imagine what she would say if I called her over and asked her to finish me off.
Then, just as I succeed in my endeavours, I hear another, quieter voice. It is off to one side and a little muffled. “Yes.”
I know she must have closed the door as the music fades for a second time, and it suddenly occurs to me that the person whose name Pansy shrieked is actually in the room. I turn onto my front and wriggle to the end of the sofa. If I’m careful, I might be able to look round with neither of them seeing me. The pressure on my erection is satisfyingly painful, and I try not to press it into the cushions.
“What was all that in aid of?”
Pansy comes into full view, standing over a high-backed, winged chair, her whole body language expressing her annoyance at the person sitting before her. I note for the first time her horrible robes ... whoever picked that colour should be shot. When I’d watched her dancing with Draco earlier what she’d been wearing hadn’t registered. All I’d seen was him in his black and white ... silver hair, white shirt, black trousers, grey bowtie and cummerbund, simple black robes with no adornments except a unpretentious silver clasp ... understated elegance.
Even if I hadn’t recognised the voice from that single word, I would have known it was Draco from the bits of him I could see. Those black-clad legs stretching out to crossed ankles. His elegant shoes. A long fingered hand holding onto the chair arm.
I want him.
She doesn’t deserve him.
“I don’t want to dance.”
It’s funny how different his tone is. The voice is the same familiar drawl, oozing confidence and whatever quality the Slytherin has that I will never possess in a million years. But tonight there is something else ... a timbre not there when he’s on public show. He sounds poignant ... melancholy ... and I wonder what has happened to still the arrogance that has always been so much part of him in my mind. It suddenly occurs to me that I can’t remember the last time we spoke to each other with no one else listening.
Was there ever a time?
“You’re my fiancé. You are supposed to escort me to this ball and to be with me throughout.” Pansy has her hands on her hips now and there are spots of livid colour on her cheeks. Her voice is pinched with anger and she reminds me of Petunia. I have a sudden vision of Draco and Pansy in twenty years ... she, thin and shrill -- he, fat and repulsive with an equally fat son ... and I have the urge to rescue him. To get up and hex the cow and take him away somewhere safe where he will never have to marry a witch like that. Where I can pet him and love him and bring him to sweet bliss whenever he wants.
His hand tightens on the arm of the chair. “I escorted you and I’ve danced. Just because we are engaged it doesn’t mean I have to spend every hour of every day with you.”
She laughs. Pansy actually stands there and laughs at him before reaching out a hand. I think she touches his face and that makes the knot of anger growing in my stomach get tighter. Only I get to laugh at him like that ... and how dare she touch him.
“That is where you are wrong, Draco my love. I expect you to attend me whenever I want. You will fawn over me, delight me with your charm and wit, and pretend to be happy at the prospect of spending the rest of your life with me.” Her face becomes even more pinched and I wonder if she has gripped Draco’s face with equal force.
His hand comes up from the chair arm and drags hers away. “I know where my duties lie.” The sneer in his voice is back and he suddenly gets to his feet. He’s taken off his robes and my breath catches in my throat as I see his slim form attempt to tower over the girl with sheer force of will. Draco used to be taller than me, but I shot up over the last summer and I’ve an inch of height on him that means he has to look up at me. Pansy almost overwhelms him ... she isn’t fat, but he is so slender she looks like she could break him in two.
“Then I suggest you remember them. Just you keep in mind that I’m saving the Malfoy name. Without my family you lose everything.”
“New money, Pansy dearest. Don’t think that just because you come with a huge dowry that automatically makes you my better ... or even my equal for that matter.”
My eyes widen as the implications of the conversation begin to sink in. He’s marrying her for money? Surely the Malfoys can’t be that desperate? I’m so caught up in the idea of the Malfoys being destitute that when she slaps his face I physically jump at the crack of her hand against his skin.
Almost without thinking my hand snakes down to the floor where I know I left my wand. I grasp for it, knocking over the half-full glass in the process. It rolls silently on the carpet, the alcohol soaking in. Damn it! I curse inwardly and reach for the familiar handgrip. It settles into my palm as if it had been there all my life and I can feel the magic tingling through it. By the time I look back at the scene unfolding before me, Draco is his calm, poised self.
There is a vivid red mark on his cheek, stark against his pale skin, and I want to curse them both ... her for daring to hit him, and him for letting her do it. He says nothing and I recognise the expression from class ... cold clinical detachment. He uses it when he is in trouble and I know from their reaction that the teachers hate it because they can’t read what is going on behind those aloof grey eyes.
Pansy’s hand is flexing and I wonder if she is going to hit him again, but the hand doesn’t get raised. Instead she sneers at him and for a moment I wonder if Slytherins are trained from birth in how to render that expression just perfectly.
“My family name might not be as old as yours, but at least we’re not having to sell the family silver to make ends meet.” I see her glance at the big diamond on her finger. “I suppose I should be grateful you had a few family heirlooms tucked away.”
I watch as Draco clenches his teeth -- her sarcastic words have clearly hit a raw nerve of some sort. He folds his arms, shifting slightly as he moves his weight over his right hip, and leans in towards her. “Then why the hell would you want to marry me?”
The sneer changes into a smirk. “The name, Draco. Oh, and let’s not forget the manor. We could buy you out if we wanted to, but that wouldn’t give us the Malfoy name.” She smiles openly as Draco backs off a little. Clearly the answer wasn’t what he’d expected. “And all I want from you is a son and heir, so don’t worry your pretty little head about having to share my bed on a regular basis. Just keep your little boyfriends out of my sight and we’ll get along just fine.”
My jaw drops and I’m sure my eyes are the size of a house-elf’s. Boyfriends? I’ve spent two years dreaming about shagging him senseless, but one of the reasons for not doing anything about it was because I thought he was straight.
I think I might come there and then as the blood rushes from my head to other parts of my body. My hips flex automatically against the cushions and I bite hard on my lower lip to stop the audible groan I know is growing in my throat.
Draco isn’t straight. He’s marrying Pansy because he has to.
Be still, my heart! Grown patient with thine ache!
“You are a first-class bitch, Pansy.” His voice is low and clipped. “You’ll get nothing from me. Nothing!” The final word is hissed right into her face.
“Don’t bet on it, my love. I’m sure a chat with Lord Voldemort will soon change your mind. He’ll have suggestions about how to deal with your virginity. Maybe he’ll even take it for you.” She runs a sharp nail over the still vivid mark on his cheek leaving a line in its wake. “You’re a Death Eater, Draco. At least try to act like one.”
With that she flounces from the room and I am left frozen to the spot. Part of me is desperate to offer something to him ... I have no idea what ... while the rest is numb with the confirmation that Draco is a Death Eater. You don’t toss around words like that if they aren’t true. I want to confront him. I want to hit him.
I want to gather him in my arms and make everything better.
I cradle my head on my hands as all my dreams spill away and dissolve into dust. I’m too late, for fuck’s sake. Voldemort has already claimed him. Is my scar hurting at the thought of him being sworn to serve Voldemort or because of something else? What will his reaction be when he realises someone has overhead that damning slip of the tongue?
I hear footfalls on the carpet and I wait for the door to open and release me from this moment. When it doesn’t, I crane my neck around the arm of the sofa and can just see him standing there looking ahead. It is the most forlorn sight I have ever seen ... Draco Malfoy in his holiday finery, scratching at the inside of his left arm through the crisp whiteness of his shirt and staring, unseeing, at a spot on the wall.
For a moment I think he is going to break down, but instead he turns suddenly and picks up a vase. His face contorts into pain and anger and he flings it towards the fireplace. In a strange surreal moment, I am aware of the vase on its journey and it suddenly occurs to me that I am living a scene from Gone With The Wind. I am Rhett Butler listening to Scarlett and Ashley arguing and now Scarlett is flinging a vase at me.
The horror of finding out Draco has been Marked dissolves in the absurdity of the situation and suddenly he is a swooning damsel in distress waiting for me to rescue him.
It must, I decide, be the brandy.
I halt the vase in mid-flight with a simple little spell and allow it to hover between us. He still doesn’t know I’m in the room and I watch as his face opens in shock and surprise at the floating vase. With a tentative step he moves toward it, but stops mid-stride as I finally show myself, kneeing on the sofa so that I can lean on the back.
“You should be careful what you throw. That could be irreplaceable.”
The shock and surprise of the vase is nothing compared to the look on his face as it finally dawns on him that not only has someone been in the room during his conversation with Pansy, but that someone is me. The one person in the universe he doesn’t want to know the truth about him ... that he is gay, that his relationship with Pansy is a sham, that she is the one bringing money into the almost bankrupt Malfoy family.
That he’s been Marked by the Dark Lord.
Oh, and that he’s still a virgin.
“Potter!” he scowls and suddenly I don’t think that expression looks good on him. He shouldn’t scowl ... it spoils the classic lines of his face. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I should hate him. He’s pledged himself to my enemy ... to the person who’s wanted me dead all my life. No matter what happens here and now, one day I will have to face this boy on the battlefield ... take his life before he can take mine.
My elbows rest on the back of the sofa and I twiddle my wand around my fingers in lazy circles. “In case you haven’t noticed, Malfoy, I was here first.”
“Well, bully for you. I’ll leave you to get on with whatever is occupying the Golden Boy’s time.” He turns to the door and I let the vase crash to the floor. It smashes into pieces and he automatically shies away to shield himself from the ceramic splinters. When he turns back the grey eyes are wild with anger. “You bloody idiot. Are you mad?”
“Quite possibly,” I respond. You make me mad I want to add. I watch him for a moment as if I can hold him in place just with my gaze. It seems to work because he doesn’t make for the door.
“I’m going,” he finally speaks.
“Okay. If you want.” My eyes drift over him, he had such long legs. “Or you can stay.”
“Here? With you?” The sneer grows on his face and I realise we are falling into familiar patterns ... sniping at each other. Pointless, really, when after all these years we’ve probably run out of insults.
“If you want.”
“Fuck off, Potter!”
“Sure, why not.”
The sofa is a barrier between us and I consider for a moment keeping it so, but instead decide I need to be closer to him. I swing my legs over the sofa back and cross the space separating us. I feel his eyes on me, moving back and forth, and I smirk as they come to rest on the bulge in my trousers. My erection has subsided a little, but I can still feel it pushing against my clothes, desperate to be released. It’s good I’m no longer as hard; if I had been I might have come there and then just from him looking at me. Does he know how he affects people ... affects me ... by just being in the same room?
He won’t meet my face for a moment and when he does the handprint on his cheek seems to have darkened as he blushes. I am entranced by the shape of Pansy’s palm on his flesh and horrified by the fact her nail has broken his skin. Close enough now to touch him, I reach out towards the mark and he flinches away. My left hand closes around his shoulder, holding him still and, making soothing noises, I turn his face so I can see the damage more clearly.
As I study him, I marvel at the fact we are touching and I wonder if he is actually trembling or whether it is my hand that is shaking. “Shall I get rid of that?” I finally manage to say, aware that my voice has become throaty. Do I sound as needy as I feel?
He nods but doesn’t speak and when I cup his left cheek in my hand his eyelids close, the dark blond lashes dusting against his skin. They are long, I realise, much longer than I had thought.
It is all I can do not to kiss them ... every single one individually.
The charm is a simple one taught to me by Madam Pomfrey. Apparently she marched in on Dumbledore at the beginning of the year and demanded I learn basic first aid charms so that I can heal myself. This charm doesn’t need a wand and works on minor injuries, but I still haven’t mastered any of the more important life-saving stuff yet.
He sighs into my hand as the smarting pain from the blow dissolves into nothing and the damaged skin heals. When he opens his eyes there is just a hint of drowsiness in the grey. I hold his face between my hands for as long as I can and it is he who finally pulls away. He takes a step backwards and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to say anything, then finally, in a very quiet voice, he says, “Thank you.”
I shrug and don’t reply because I can’t. If I speak I know I will say something either stupid or totally inane -- probably ‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy a shag now?’ for instance.
“I have to go,” he steps back again. It doesn’t sound like Draco. The public Draco would just leave; this one seems to be waiting for me to give him permission.
“Why?” It’s safe for me to ask a single-word question. It won’t give me the opportunity to get tongue-tied. My eyes are drawn to his bowtie and I wonder if it is real or the equivalent of a Muggle clip-on.
“Pansy will be waiting.” He swallows as my fingers reach for the tie. “And I’m a Death Easter.”
“And?” I should be worried. I should walk away right now, but I’ve waited for this moment for too long and I refuse to let Voldemort ruin it.
“I hate you.”
“I know.” Oh! I manage a two-word sentence. I go for three. “It doesn’t matter.” Does that count as three or four?
“Of course it does.”
“Yes it does.”
I tug on the tie and it comes undone, the two ends hanging loosely around his neck. He is a birthday present and I want to unwrap him. I find something else to watch as he swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs. There is a moment of complete silence between us and I become aware of the sound of the music seeping into the room through the cracks in the door. It wraps around us and I can feel the beat vibrating through the floor. “Dance with me.” It is stupid ... it is inane, but I don’t know what else to say. We’ve only ever argued and neither of us knows how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve snide remarks.
“I can’t. I hate dancing. Pansy said I stand on her toes.”
“Pansy is a pillock.” For the first time he smiles, it is tentative at first, but slowly lights his face. “You’ve just not had the right partner.”
“No,” is all he breathes.
The music changes tempo and it feels like a heart beat, slow and regular. “You just need to pretend you’re flying. Listen to the beat.” My hand moves to rest on his chest, over his breastbone. As I touch him, his breath hitches and he takes a half step away. Quickly my other hand moves to his hip. He could leave if he wanted ... I’m not holding him prisoner ... but instead he remains still. “Feel the music.”
He nods and I begin to tap out the rhythm on his chest, fingertips gentle and feather-like. As I do it his eyelids close and his mouth opens a little in concentration. His mouth becomes the centre of my universe and I want to kiss those lips. But if I do he might run away, back to the dreaded Pansy and his other Slytherin cronies.
Then, just as I think things can’t get much better, he raises his arms and puts them around my neck. I groan as his fingers link together, tangling in my hair. It is all I can do not to pull him towards me ... to feel his body against my own. Instead my hand keeps its rhythmic tempo on his chest until Draco begins to move.
He is a natural and as my feet pick up his steps, I slide my hand from his chest to rest lightly on his hip. He keeps his eyes closed and I watch his face as I let him lead, moving to his steps ... his rhythm. But at the same time he relies completely on me to stop us crashing into the furniture, a trust I would never have expected. I am entranced by everything about him and all of my dreams of the last two years condense into this one perfect moment.
I am lost ... I love him.
As the music shifts up a gear to a faster piece, we come to a stop and for what seems like an eternity we don’t move. His eyes finally open and he looks like he is waking from a dream. Cheeks flushed, he raises that grey gaze to mine and his tongue darts out to moisten his lips.
Okay, it was probably a completely subconscious gesture, but I’m sure I could feel that wet tongue right down into my own groin and now it is my eyelids that flutter close briefly. When they open again, he is still there ... still with his hand round my neck ... and I slide my fingers from his hip, letting them trail up his torso. Inside the loop of his arms, I take his face in my hands and lean towards that sweet mouth.
I keep the pressure almost non-existent, trying to gauge whether he is enjoying it. He doesn’t pull away, but makes no effort to return the touch and I begin to place little butterfly kisses on his lips ... his jaw ... the curve of his throat. Slow and delicate rather than fast and hard. Just when I think I am approaching the whole thing the wrong way and that he hates me, I feel the first tentative return. The hesitant touch lingers on the corner of my mouth and that traitorous tongue of his flicks out, brushing over my bottom lip.
It is exquisite and I let go of his face, looping one arm around his neck and the other his waist, pulling him against me. He must know I am hard for him, feel me pressing into the hollow of his hip and as I deepen the kiss, I realise I can feel him against me. I groan into his mouth and he whimpers into mine.
Then, just as I think it can’t be any more perfect, I make the mistake of pulling him hard again me. His erection presses against mine and he freezes in my arms before pushing me away. He stands before me, a dichotomy of opposites -- mouth red and swollen from our kisses, hair messy, provocative, his chest heaving as he pants for breath. But all that is overlaid by his huge eyes, wide with what I know is fear. It is radiating from him like a palpable force and I know I have pushed him too far.
He steps away and dives for the door, almost wrenching it from its hinges in his desperation to get out. The door slams behind him and I stare at it for a moment. Part of me wants to race after him, but I know if I do I will lose him for good.
Draco isn’t going anywhere. He will be in school tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. I know how he kissed me ... how he wanted me ... and if I bide my time he will come back.
My tongue dips out to flick across my lips and I can taste him there ... feel the heat of his body still warm on my clothes and the pressure of his erection against my own. Since that Quidditch match in my fifth year I have dreamed of kissing him ... of feeling his body pressing against mine. I had always imagined it as being passion-filled ... hard and desperate, but the reality was different ... tender and sweet and adoring. It was more than I’d thought possible and I just want to drown in his mouth.
I don’t care if he’s a Death Eater. I still want him. We can sort that out and I will worry about Voldemort another day.
One of my hands slides over my own shirt, feeling the remnants of his warmth as it moves downwards, and I cup myself through my clothes. I’m hard from his touch and I groan at the thought of his cock rubbing over my own skin ... pressing into me ... as his fingers tease against my nipples.
I want to make him feel like this -- want to give him to the same sensations I can feel flickering through my body. Returning to the sofa, I reach for my fly again, but don’t unzip it. Someone else might come in and I wonder what the reaction might be if I was caught with my hard cock in my hand. A smirk flicks across my face at thought of how many detentions that would earn me.
Instead I pick up the glass and fill it before dropping back onto the cushions. The brandy smells strong, overpowering the scent and taste left by Draco and I’m not sure I want to loose that, at least not just yet. The still-full glass is returned to the carpet and, tucking my fingers into the waistband of my trousers, I let my head fall to the arm of the sofa, close my eyes and dream.
His image is strong against my eyelids and my other hand reaches down to brush over a nipple, pinching it through the material of my shirt. I let out a tiny little hum of pleasure at the feel of the warm skin of my abdomen against my fingertips and the growing hard nub of my nipple, giving both a light squeeze. Oh yes. My hands move as I stroke and feel myself, imagining it is him that I am touching, and it is sweet and sexy and mind numbing in its brilliance.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear the door opening again. Quietly this time. It shuts with a soft click and there is a mumble of whispered words followed by the soft sigh of magic as he locks the door.
He’s come back.
I don’t move. Instead I lay there gently stroking myself to glorious hardness as I wait for him to speak. I don’t need him to touch me ... not yet ... but I do want him to watch.
“Harry?”
It’s the first time he’s called me that and the word is like magic ... it sounds like a charm when slipping from his sweet mouth and it is all I have ever wanted. If I never hear another word, that sound will last me to the end of my days. I close my eyes, feasting on the resonance of my name on his lips, letting it roll around my mouth ... my mind ... my soul.
It is clearly a question and I wonder what he is asking.
Are you still here? Do you really want me? Can you save me? Will you hold me and make everything better?
I realise that even though I have known him for over six years, I actually don’t know him at all. I know he watches rainbows, but not why or what he thinks of them.
When I open my eyes again he is standing over me, looking down. There is that hint of a blush across his cheeks again as his eyes move from mine down the length of my body, and back up again. The expression on his face is one of fear and wonder. I met those grey eyes with my own and know what my answer is to all his questions.
I reach out a hand towards him and finally speak.
“Yes, Draco.”
~~~fin
“Be still, my heart! Grown patient with thine ache” is taken from The Sister’s Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Thanks to Amariel for finding it for me.
Originally posted May 2003.
The following was written for lovely taradiane, who has always been so kind and thoughtful for me. I hope you enjoy this, Tara.
I have recently found the joys of writing first-person and what follows is different from my usual stuff (which some might consider not a bad thing). It is JadedWithLife!Experiencedbutultimatelyloving!Harry daydreaming about Shaggable!virgin!Draco. It might also be the first part of a trilogy, we will have to see how it goes.
My thanks goes out to aome for her excellent beta-read. You are such a gem my dear. Also, I would never have completed this if it wasn't for the patience of olivia_lupin who helped me see the wood for the trees. And thanks to everyone who came to my help when I was looking for a particular quote.
Rating: Hmmmm not sure but I would think heavy-R or light NC-17.
Being Harry Potter: Malfoy Watching...
I’ve never liked Hallowe’en much. Even before the added bonus of finding out it was the day Voldemort chose to kill my parents, I’d hated all the trick and treating. Dudley used the day as another reason to beat me up ... he’d set up a trick that I could never complete and the treat would be more bruises or punishments from his parents.
I don’t like to think of Petunia and Vernon as ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ if I can help it. Giving them titles like that reminds me that they are in some way related to me and I’ve come to hate that as well.
So, here I am ‘celebrating’ my seventh Hallowe’en at Hogwarts. We’ve had the feast, the younger kids have gone to bed and we older kids can dance the night away to the witching hour. I’ve done my duty and danced with a few people, smiling in all the right places, spoken a few platitudes and have now found somewhere to hole up until the party finishes. It’s hard to be happy when all I can see is Voldemort killing my parents.
This is the chamber just off the Great Hall where I went after my name came out of the Goblet of Fire three years ago. It’s changed a bit since then. The portraits are all the same, but the furniture is different. This nice sofa wasn’t here in front of the fire, for example.
And, of course, the last time I was here there were three other people gathered around the fire. If I close my eyes and really concentrate I can still picture Viktor, Cedric and Fleur, as they were that night. I don’t dream about Cedric any more; those dreams stopped in my sixth year. They were replaced with other things ... other images to stop me from wanting to close my eyes at night.
The sofa is just long enough for me to stretch out full length on, and because of its position, I’m hidden from the door if anyone should come into the room ... they’d have to come right up to the fire to see me. I’ve found some proper alcohol as well and I’d love a cigarette, but I haven’t had one of those since the summer when Dudley shoplifted some and I threatened to tell on him unless he shared.
Hallowe’en at Hogwarts... The first one I guess I was too young and too in awe of being a wizard to connect the feast with my parents. The second year I was too busy with voices in my head, the third with visions of my own death at the hands of both a Grim and Dementors. The fourth, there was the whole Triwizard thing.
No, it took until the fifth year for it all to actually sink in.
My fifth year was pretty crap anyway - what with the mixture of nightmares, lack of sleep and constant reminders that I was personally responsible for Voldemort’s return. It is a year I’d like to forget, thank you very much.
Except for Quidditch, of course.
If it hadn’t been for the Quidditch I think I might have gone mad. Playing, watching, practicing became my life and my escape. When Dumbledore had suggested I stop because of the danger, I begged, pleaded and then threatened him about what I’d do without it. Me! Threatening Dumbledore! That would be funny if the conversation hadn’t been so serious.
And it was Quidditch that led to my favourite new pastime ... Malfoy Watching.
Oh, I know I’ve been doing it since I first met him, but this was when it first became a conscious activity. I’ve been doing it again all evening at the Hallowe’en feast and the Watching has been so intense that I can picture him in my mind without even having to close my eyes...
...From the tip of his perfect blond head to the toecaps of his lovely Italian leather shoes...
Sometimes I try to remember when my attitude towards him changed from distaste and loathing to ... well, something that has the habit of making my breath hitch and leaves me with a very satisfying warmth deep in my belly. I get confused about the whole thing if I think about it too much and I end up thinking about “what ifs”...
What if I’d actually spoken to him in the robe shop?
What if he’d not seen Hagrid and made that stupid comment about him?
Whit if I’d never met the Weasleys on the platform at Kings Cross?
What if Ron hadn’t come and sat with me on the train?
What if I’d been on my own when he’d arrived looking for ‘Harry Potter’?
What if I’d taken his hand?
What if I’d gone to the Sorting without preconceived ideas of Slytherin and let the Hat sort me there instead of Gryffindor?
What if...
Over six years of “what ifs”.
I think my view of him started to change on the way back to school at the beginning of our fifth year. I was fifteen going on one hundred years old at that point. A summer like I had can age you quicker than anything.
He’d come looking for me on the train with his usual bravado and snide, hateful comments and I just knew that he’d been told about Voldemort’s attack on Privet Drive. The Muggles said a gas explosion had caused the death and destruction, but we all know the truth. It’s ironic that the Dark Lord failed miserably to kill me or any of my relatives, and their house remained intact while two others were flattened.
Voldemort clearly needs better access to information. Maybe he should start using the Internet instead of relying on stupid Death Eaters.
Later in the train journey I’d gone for a walk and found him on his own. He was sitting by a window watching the scenery and chewing on a fingernail. But it was his other hand I noticed ... it was trembling slightly and I realised the reason he’d stood before me earlier with balled fists was to stop his hands from shaking.
What had happened to him over the summer to leave him with a nervous tremor like that? Of course, I didn’t go and ask him. Can you imagine his reaction if I had? But after that I started keeping an eye on him. I justified it with thoughts that he was probably a Death Eater by then and we needed to know what he might be planning. But in reality I had a knot of something close to fear in my stomach that this person could have been reduced to a nervous wreck in just ten weeks.
But I digress ... Quidditch.
The first match of my fifth year was Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin and we all went to watch and ... naturally ... to cheer on Hufflepuff. I’d taken to watching the other teams practice and for some reason no one ever questioned it. I think they were scared of me like they’d been back in our second year. Back then the reason had been they thought I was Slytherin’s heir -- now it was because the rumour mills said I killed Cedric! Whenever I watched a Slytherin practice session I scrutinized him almost exclusively. Of course my excuse was that I was learning the tactics of the other Seekers, but then I never watched Morag MacDougal, the Ravenclaw Seeker, or Wayne Hopkins, the Hufflepuff one.
And I only had eyes for Draco during that match. He is one hell of a flyer with such deft control -- it’s quite awesome to watch. Even the way he leans into a subtle direction change is a joy to behold. Of course, the Quidditch gear helps ... all those flowing robes and protection gear.
Then I just happened to notice the way his feet on the footrests splayed his knees and I swear I caught a look on his face that flickered though half a dozen different shades of pleasure.
Now, don’t get me wrong ... flying is exciting. It can be a truly orgasmic experience. Couple that with the thrill of a fast-paced Quidditch match and you have the recipe for being turned on quicker than trying to get one of the female teachers to bend down so you can look down her robes, or following girls up the staircases, especially the one up to the Divination classroom.
So, if he was having a private erotic moment courtesy of his broom, then who am I to judge? But the problem was that I was getting turned on by the thought of him having a delicious hard-on encounter with his broom. I was sitting in the stands deliberately holding my cloak over myself and with my free hand doing things I’d rather not discuss in public.
It was outrageously glorious.
Until Ron turned to me and asked if I was okay. He said I looked sick and got Hermione to have a look as well. She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead to check if I was running a temperature and all the time they were fussing over me I was holding onto myself. I was panicking that if I let go they would notice the movement and wonder what I was doing.
At least their attention had diminished my up-to-then growing problem and as luck would have it, Malfoy chose that moment to catch the Snitch and the game ended.
But instead of flying off to join his team-mates, he flew over to where I was sitting and brandished the Snitch at me.
“One to me, Potter. This year you’re going down!”
I swear he knew I had my hand in my trousers and later, in the shower, I held that image of his smirking triumphant face in my mind as I wanked off.
And the Malfoy Watching has carried on ever since. To begin with, the Watching was just part of our on-going scowling at each other, but as time went on it became much more. Over the past two years I think I’ve become something of an expert on Draco Malfoy.
For instance, I know he always cuts his apples into quarters before eating them. He doesn’t have milk in his coffee, but will have cream and if there’s no cream he’ll have an extra spoon of sugar. He never wears red unless it’s the lining of a cloak. He likes to walk in the rain or just as the sun is coming up, and sometimes he will climb to the top of the West Tower to watch the sunset.
I found out when his birthday was and took great delight at watching him trying to work out who would send him an unsigned card. I used him as my guinea pig for all my Divination practice … star charts, I Ching, Tarot, crystal ball … I never believed any of it, but it’s surprising how many coincidences there were.
Where, I once asked myself, does ‘hatred’ stop and ‘friendship’ begin? When exactly did I stop hating him? When did it turn to the need I now have? I think it was during our sixth year. We had one of our very public arguments, this time out on the steps leading up to the main doors, and the comments were as vindictive as I can ever remember them being.
It was exhilarating.
Him, inches away yelling at me, that pert little rosebud mouth so close that if I had moved forward I could have touched his lips with my own. I could swear the warmth of his body was permeating my clothes and touching my skin. And what made it even more exhilarating was the fact people were watching ... I was hard and excited and they all thought we were fighting. As he continued his tirade, I leaned a fraction closer and breathed onto his lips ... his mouth. He faltered for a second, mouth opening and closing, then continued as if nothing had happened. Except, that is, for just the hint of pink flushing across his cheeks.
If I hadn’t wanted him before, then I think at that point I certainly would have. God, he is so aggravating and adorable and self-righteous and precious and I want to hold and pet and love him.
That was October and I spent the rest of my sixth year lusting after him from afar, continuing with my Malfoy Watching and dreaming about all the things we could do to each other. It was a blessed release to dream about him when Voldemort was trying to kill me yet again.
Sometimes I wish Voldemort had killed me along with my parents. Then I wouldn’t have had to spend ten years with the Dursleys being treated like dirt beneath their feet ... a piece of property instead of a person ... and then another seven as property of another kind. They all expect me to rid the Wizarding world of Voldemort. How the fuck am I expected to do that when even Dumbledore can’t? Tom Riddle had it right ... the only reason I survived as a baby was a lucky chance.
I’m not special ... I don’t want to be special ... I want to be bloody normal. I want to have a life where I don’t have to be constantly on guard ... where I’m not expected to save the known world ... where someone loves me for ‘me’ and not because of a stupid scar.
I tried to find that person as well ... someone to love me for ‘me’, but without much success. So in between lusting after Draco and hating him, I spent most of my sixth year looking for that someone. Unfortunately I ended up either broken hearted, or fighting Voldemort.
My first boy? Hmmm. Does wanking off to daydreams of Draco count? No, I guess not.
I did that quite a bit after the Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin match in our fifth year. Beyond that, there was something ‘nice’ about watching boys, though for most part, I just liked ‘watching’. For instance, I’ve seen all my dorm mates naked, but I’ve never wanted to shag Seamus or give Dean a blowjob. And sex with Neville? That is an image I could do without, thank you very much.
Our first game in sixth year was against Ravenclaw, and one of their seventh year Beaters caught me in the showers after the match. November the fifth! Bonfire Night ... and boy did we produce some fireworks. I don’t think a wank in the shower was ever the same after that. Wet dreams ... wet boys. He gave me my first blowjob and I returned the favour. We met on a semi-regular basis for the rest of the year and he introduced me to all the joys of hard bodies and the exquisite pleasure to be gained from someone else’s erection. He was blond, like Draco, and I think that was why it was so exciting.
I dated girls when I wasn’t seeing him. There was a brief fling with Ginny after I took her to the Hallowe’en feast ... nothing happened there and I only went with her because it seemed to be expected (and besides, I was seeing my Beater at the time). I dated Hermione over Christmas ... we petted and kissed, and had fun, but it didn’t take us long to realise we were not set for a life-long commitment.
My first sex with a girl was a Hufflepuff called Megan. We were paired up in Herbology for an assignment on the correct preparation of Devil’s Claw root powers and we did it in Greenhouse Number One -- another date for my calendar ... 16th April 1997. I think I will celebrate it on an annual basis. Shame it all ended in tears. She told her best friend Sally-Ann and before you know it, Teen Witch Weekly is announcing our wedding. So I stopped sleeping with fellow students except for a final time with my Beater. He left that summer and as a going-away present, he let me shag him.
I had a fling with Vernon’s secretary over the summer. I met her when she came to dinner -- I’d been banished to my room and she came in by mistake. One thing lead to another and I went to the office one day and hey presto ... magic on Vernon’s desk!
But somehow I kept coming back to boys. Oh, I like girls, but I prefer boys. There is something I can’t explain about running your hands over a nicely muscled chest and feeling strong legs wound tightly around your waist. Kisses are different too ... and hands ... mouths ... tongues...
And erections ... don’t forget how good they are. Just intoxicating.
Which is probably why I ended up with Ron that summer. I spent three weeks at the Burrow and it just sort of ‘happened’ one day. I didn’t know he was in our shared bedroom and I went in to find him tossing off. He was embarrassed; I wasn’t and I offered to help.
A bit like the Hermione thing, we had a good time, but he decided he preferred girls and I decided that while I wanted boys in general, I wanted Draco in particular. Of course, it’s a bit pointless really, because I don’t think there is any hope of him returning what I feel ... want. Need.
Then I went back to Privet Drive and everything changed. Dudley got caught with a school chum from Smeltings and it was the first time I’ve ever seen him punished. Vernon and Petunia were livid ... apoplectic with rage ... and I suddenly realised that sleeping with your own sex wasn’t approved of by loads of people. It was a shock, because I couldn’t see why it was wrong, but if they were prepared to punish Dudley like that, I wondered what the hell they would do to me.
I went back to my seventh year with Dudley’s screams still in ringing in my ears and decided that maybe I should either stick to girls or become celibate. The Teen Witch Weekly incident with Megan was still fresh in my mind and I tried to imagine what would happen if headlines like ‘Potter Comes Out -- Boy Who Lived is Queer’ started to appear.
I decided to forget about sex until a) I’ve left school, b) I’ve killed Voldemort or c) Voldemort killed me.
The whole situation was moot anyway. When the object of my lust returned for our final year, he had Pansy Parkinson on his arm and she had the biggest diamond ring imaginable on her finger. I watched him as she prattled on about engagement parties and weddings to anyone who would listen, including the Gryffindors -- surprising how house animosities seem to be forgotten by the girls when big diamonds got flashed around; even Hermione managed to ohh and ahh over it. But my Obsession was completely pokerfaced. Oh, he smiled when he had to ... even graciously accepted the congratulations offered by his fellow students ... but there was no emotion -- nothing to show exactly how he was feeling about his impending nuptials.
At one point those grey eyes turned to me and I like to believe he threw me a look which cried, “Help me, Potter, get me out of this,” but I think that was probably my own interpretation of what was more likely a “Piss off, Potter” look.
That was two months ago and they seem to be inseparable. I still Watch him, trying to see how he really feels, whether he really loves her.
Which brings me to here ... a sofa in a room off the Great Hall, a bottle of brandy, a glass and me. So much for the boy who fucking lived. Property of everyone ... lover of none ... a daydreaming idiot who gets his rocks off by wanting someone who hates his guts. I’ve no doubt that given the choice Draco would rather hex me than shag me.
I look at the glass for a long time before finally taking a sip of the brandy. It burns my throat in the way only good alcohol can do and for once I offer a word of thanks to Vernon for not locking his drinks cupboard. I detest the man for many things, but he does have a good taste in wine and spirits. I finally started stealing from them during the summer after my fifth year. I stole food as well and I remember sitting in my room tucking into a slice of the most wonderful fruitcake and wondering why I hadn’t done it before.
They’d had me so under their thumb for so long that it hadn’t occurred to me to actually steal anything from them. I had Malfoy to thank for that as well. He steals things. Stupid little things -- a quill, a sheet of parchment, a hair ribbon. I once saw him take a little spell book from Lavender’s bag; he saw me watching him and put it back before it was missed. Why he does this I have no idea, but sometimes I think he wants to get caught doing it, as if that was the only way he could get attention.
And here I am screaming for him to see me. Maybe I should start taking stuff from his bag.
Or slip my hand into his trouser pocket and give him the benefit of my expert fingers.
I wonder if Pansy has talented hands or if he has to do that for himself.
I’ve learned over the last year just what being around him can do to me. Oh, there’s the wanking, which is glorious and mind numbing. But I found out by accident that I could just touch myself lightly and get a flood of warmth and tingling excitement dipping into my body. The tingling spreads quickly, like a mini electric shock from my cock down my thighs and up into my stomach. I can do it anytime, no one notices the hand in my pocket when I’m sitting in class or watching him practice.
The trouble is it doesn’t last long and when it has gone I’m left bereft again ... desperate with longing.
I wonder not for the first time what it would feel like to have his hand on me causing that bolt of sensation. His mouth open for me to plunge into like Ron’s had been. What he would taste like coming in my mouth ... feel like coming over my body.
Putting the glass down, I loosen the fly on my trousers and slip my hand inside, feeling the familiar length through the cotton of my underwear. I have on tight briefs today rather than boxers and the sensation of the material over my erection makes me hiss with pleasure. It wouldn’t do to come all over the furniture or inside my clothes, not with the long walk back up to Gryffindor Tower, and I choose to bring myself to the edge and stop it before I plunge off the precipice and into glory. I’m getting quite good at that now, almost revelling in the control I have over myself.
As I rub my thumb over the head and feel the first drops of pre-come soak into the material, I let my eyes close and imagine it is his hand ... his fingers curling around me ... his voice saying ‘I love you’. It is wonderful in its intensity and awful in its loneliness.
I’m almost there when the door slams open and my little paradise is destroyed completely.
The music pours in, shattering the room’s stillness and I freeze for a moment, which feels more like an eternity, as the door is closed with equal force, music dying to a quiet background beat again. My sigh of relief is a mixture of gratitude to the person for deciding not to remain in the room and rapture as my fingers return to their prize.
Sod the furniture, I’m a wizard and I can clean up afterwards.
Then, just as I’m thinking how much I want to bend him over the back of the sofa and shag him senseless, the bloody door opens again. My eyes close and I bite hard on my lower lip as I force myself to let go. It’s a good job I’m a Gryffindor or I might just kill whoever it is interrupting my fantasies.
“Draco Malfoy!”
The voice is female. It shrieks over the noise from the hall and I recognise Pansy without any trouble. She has a whining voice which can cut through even the loudest noise and she is in my room screeching out the name of my fantasy lover ... and I hate her to bits.
I try to zip my fly over my still erect cock without making any noise; believe me when I say it isn’t an easy task. Everything feels so sensitive and I can’t keep a little smirk from my face as I imagine what she would say if I called her over and asked her to finish me off.
Then, just as I succeed in my endeavours, I hear another, quieter voice. It is off to one side and a little muffled. “Yes.”
I know she must have closed the door as the music fades for a second time, and it suddenly occurs to me that the person whose name Pansy shrieked is actually in the room. I turn onto my front and wriggle to the end of the sofa. If I’m careful, I might be able to look round with neither of them seeing me. The pressure on my erection is satisfyingly painful, and I try not to press it into the cushions.
“What was all that in aid of?”
Pansy comes into full view, standing over a high-backed, winged chair, her whole body language expressing her annoyance at the person sitting before her. I note for the first time her horrible robes ... whoever picked that colour should be shot. When I’d watched her dancing with Draco earlier what she’d been wearing hadn’t registered. All I’d seen was him in his black and white ... silver hair, white shirt, black trousers, grey bowtie and cummerbund, simple black robes with no adornments except a unpretentious silver clasp ... understated elegance.
Even if I hadn’t recognised the voice from that single word, I would have known it was Draco from the bits of him I could see. Those black-clad legs stretching out to crossed ankles. His elegant shoes. A long fingered hand holding onto the chair arm.
I want him.
She doesn’t deserve him.
“I don’t want to dance.”
It’s funny how different his tone is. The voice is the same familiar drawl, oozing confidence and whatever quality the Slytherin has that I will never possess in a million years. But tonight there is something else ... a timbre not there when he’s on public show. He sounds poignant ... melancholy ... and I wonder what has happened to still the arrogance that has always been so much part of him in my mind. It suddenly occurs to me that I can’t remember the last time we spoke to each other with no one else listening.
Was there ever a time?
“You’re my fiancé. You are supposed to escort me to this ball and to be with me throughout.” Pansy has her hands on her hips now and there are spots of livid colour on her cheeks. Her voice is pinched with anger and she reminds me of Petunia. I have a sudden vision of Draco and Pansy in twenty years ... she, thin and shrill -- he, fat and repulsive with an equally fat son ... and I have the urge to rescue him. To get up and hex the cow and take him away somewhere safe where he will never have to marry a witch like that. Where I can pet him and love him and bring him to sweet bliss whenever he wants.
His hand tightens on the arm of the chair. “I escorted you and I’ve danced. Just because we are engaged it doesn’t mean I have to spend every hour of every day with you.”
She laughs. Pansy actually stands there and laughs at him before reaching out a hand. I think she touches his face and that makes the knot of anger growing in my stomach get tighter. Only I get to laugh at him like that ... and how dare she touch him.
“That is where you are wrong, Draco my love. I expect you to attend me whenever I want. You will fawn over me, delight me with your charm and wit, and pretend to be happy at the prospect of spending the rest of your life with me.” Her face becomes even more pinched and I wonder if she has gripped Draco’s face with equal force.
His hand comes up from the chair arm and drags hers away. “I know where my duties lie.” The sneer in his voice is back and he suddenly gets to his feet. He’s taken off his robes and my breath catches in my throat as I see his slim form attempt to tower over the girl with sheer force of will. Draco used to be taller than me, but I shot up over the last summer and I’ve an inch of height on him that means he has to look up at me. Pansy almost overwhelms him ... she isn’t fat, but he is so slender she looks like she could break him in two.
“Then I suggest you remember them. Just you keep in mind that I’m saving the Malfoy name. Without my family you lose everything.”
“New money, Pansy dearest. Don’t think that just because you come with a huge dowry that automatically makes you my better ... or even my equal for that matter.”
My eyes widen as the implications of the conversation begin to sink in. He’s marrying her for money? Surely the Malfoys can’t be that desperate? I’m so caught up in the idea of the Malfoys being destitute that when she slaps his face I physically jump at the crack of her hand against his skin.
Almost without thinking my hand snakes down to the floor where I know I left my wand. I grasp for it, knocking over the half-full glass in the process. It rolls silently on the carpet, the alcohol soaking in. Damn it! I curse inwardly and reach for the familiar handgrip. It settles into my palm as if it had been there all my life and I can feel the magic tingling through it. By the time I look back at the scene unfolding before me, Draco is his calm, poised self.
There is a vivid red mark on his cheek, stark against his pale skin, and I want to curse them both ... her for daring to hit him, and him for letting her do it. He says nothing and I recognise the expression from class ... cold clinical detachment. He uses it when he is in trouble and I know from their reaction that the teachers hate it because they can’t read what is going on behind those aloof grey eyes.
Pansy’s hand is flexing and I wonder if she is going to hit him again, but the hand doesn’t get raised. Instead she sneers at him and for a moment I wonder if Slytherins are trained from birth in how to render that expression just perfectly.
“My family name might not be as old as yours, but at least we’re not having to sell the family silver to make ends meet.” I see her glance at the big diamond on her finger. “I suppose I should be grateful you had a few family heirlooms tucked away.”
I watch as Draco clenches his teeth -- her sarcastic words have clearly hit a raw nerve of some sort. He folds his arms, shifting slightly as he moves his weight over his right hip, and leans in towards her. “Then why the hell would you want to marry me?”
The sneer changes into a smirk. “The name, Draco. Oh, and let’s not forget the manor. We could buy you out if we wanted to, but that wouldn’t give us the Malfoy name.” She smiles openly as Draco backs off a little. Clearly the answer wasn’t what he’d expected. “And all I want from you is a son and heir, so don’t worry your pretty little head about having to share my bed on a regular basis. Just keep your little boyfriends out of my sight and we’ll get along just fine.”
My jaw drops and I’m sure my eyes are the size of a house-elf’s. Boyfriends? I’ve spent two years dreaming about shagging him senseless, but one of the reasons for not doing anything about it was because I thought he was straight.
I think I might come there and then as the blood rushes from my head to other parts of my body. My hips flex automatically against the cushions and I bite hard on my lower lip to stop the audible groan I know is growing in my throat.
Draco isn’t straight. He’s marrying Pansy because he has to.
Be still, my heart! Grown patient with thine ache!
“You are a first-class bitch, Pansy.” His voice is low and clipped. “You’ll get nothing from me. Nothing!” The final word is hissed right into her face.
“Don’t bet on it, my love. I’m sure a chat with Lord Voldemort will soon change your mind. He’ll have suggestions about how to deal with your virginity. Maybe he’ll even take it for you.” She runs a sharp nail over the still vivid mark on his cheek leaving a line in its wake. “You’re a Death Eater, Draco. At least try to act like one.”
With that she flounces from the room and I am left frozen to the spot. Part of me is desperate to offer something to him ... I have no idea what ... while the rest is numb with the confirmation that Draco is a Death Eater. You don’t toss around words like that if they aren’t true. I want to confront him. I want to hit him.
I want to gather him in my arms and make everything better.
I cradle my head on my hands as all my dreams spill away and dissolve into dust. I’m too late, for fuck’s sake. Voldemort has already claimed him. Is my scar hurting at the thought of him being sworn to serve Voldemort or because of something else? What will his reaction be when he realises someone has overhead that damning slip of the tongue?
I hear footfalls on the carpet and I wait for the door to open and release me from this moment. When it doesn’t, I crane my neck around the arm of the sofa and can just see him standing there looking ahead. It is the most forlorn sight I have ever seen ... Draco Malfoy in his holiday finery, scratching at the inside of his left arm through the crisp whiteness of his shirt and staring, unseeing, at a spot on the wall.
For a moment I think he is going to break down, but instead he turns suddenly and picks up a vase. His face contorts into pain and anger and he flings it towards the fireplace. In a strange surreal moment, I am aware of the vase on its journey and it suddenly occurs to me that I am living a scene from Gone With The Wind. I am Rhett Butler listening to Scarlett and Ashley arguing and now Scarlett is flinging a vase at me.
The horror of finding out Draco has been Marked dissolves in the absurdity of the situation and suddenly he is a swooning damsel in distress waiting for me to rescue him.
It must, I decide, be the brandy.
I halt the vase in mid-flight with a simple little spell and allow it to hover between us. He still doesn’t know I’m in the room and I watch as his face opens in shock and surprise at the floating vase. With a tentative step he moves toward it, but stops mid-stride as I finally show myself, kneeing on the sofa so that I can lean on the back.
“You should be careful what you throw. That could be irreplaceable.”
The shock and surprise of the vase is nothing compared to the look on his face as it finally dawns on him that not only has someone been in the room during his conversation with Pansy, but that someone is me. The one person in the universe he doesn’t want to know the truth about him ... that he is gay, that his relationship with Pansy is a sham, that she is the one bringing money into the almost bankrupt Malfoy family.
That he’s been Marked by the Dark Lord.
Oh, and that he’s still a virgin.
“Potter!” he scowls and suddenly I don’t think that expression looks good on him. He shouldn’t scowl ... it spoils the classic lines of his face. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I should hate him. He’s pledged himself to my enemy ... to the person who’s wanted me dead all my life. No matter what happens here and now, one day I will have to face this boy on the battlefield ... take his life before he can take mine.
My elbows rest on the back of the sofa and I twiddle my wand around my fingers in lazy circles. “In case you haven’t noticed, Malfoy, I was here first.”
“Well, bully for you. I’ll leave you to get on with whatever is occupying the Golden Boy’s time.” He turns to the door and I let the vase crash to the floor. It smashes into pieces and he automatically shies away to shield himself from the ceramic splinters. When he turns back the grey eyes are wild with anger. “You bloody idiot. Are you mad?”
“Quite possibly,” I respond. You make me mad I want to add. I watch him for a moment as if I can hold him in place just with my gaze. It seems to work because he doesn’t make for the door.
“I’m going,” he finally speaks.
“Okay. If you want.” My eyes drift over him, he had such long legs. “Or you can stay.”
“Here? With you?” The sneer grows on his face and I realise we are falling into familiar patterns ... sniping at each other. Pointless, really, when after all these years we’ve probably run out of insults.
“If you want.”
“Fuck off, Potter!”
“Sure, why not.”
The sofa is a barrier between us and I consider for a moment keeping it so, but instead decide I need to be closer to him. I swing my legs over the sofa back and cross the space separating us. I feel his eyes on me, moving back and forth, and I smirk as they come to rest on the bulge in my trousers. My erection has subsided a little, but I can still feel it pushing against my clothes, desperate to be released. It’s good I’m no longer as hard; if I had been I might have come there and then just from him looking at me. Does he know how he affects people ... affects me ... by just being in the same room?
He won’t meet my face for a moment and when he does the handprint on his cheek seems to have darkened as he blushes. I am entranced by the shape of Pansy’s palm on his flesh and horrified by the fact her nail has broken his skin. Close enough now to touch him, I reach out towards the mark and he flinches away. My left hand closes around his shoulder, holding him still and, making soothing noises, I turn his face so I can see the damage more clearly.
As I study him, I marvel at the fact we are touching and I wonder if he is actually trembling or whether it is my hand that is shaking. “Shall I get rid of that?” I finally manage to say, aware that my voice has become throaty. Do I sound as needy as I feel?
He nods but doesn’t speak and when I cup his left cheek in my hand his eyelids close, the dark blond lashes dusting against his skin. They are long, I realise, much longer than I had thought.
It is all I can do not to kiss them ... every single one individually.
The charm is a simple one taught to me by Madam Pomfrey. Apparently she marched in on Dumbledore at the beginning of the year and demanded I learn basic first aid charms so that I can heal myself. This charm doesn’t need a wand and works on minor injuries, but I still haven’t mastered any of the more important life-saving stuff yet.
He sighs into my hand as the smarting pain from the blow dissolves into nothing and the damaged skin heals. When he opens his eyes there is just a hint of drowsiness in the grey. I hold his face between my hands for as long as I can and it is he who finally pulls away. He takes a step backwards and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to say anything, then finally, in a very quiet voice, he says, “Thank you.”
I shrug and don’t reply because I can’t. If I speak I know I will say something either stupid or totally inane -- probably ‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy a shag now?’ for instance.
“I have to go,” he steps back again. It doesn’t sound like Draco. The public Draco would just leave; this one seems to be waiting for me to give him permission.
“Why?” It’s safe for me to ask a single-word question. It won’t give me the opportunity to get tongue-tied. My eyes are drawn to his bowtie and I wonder if it is real or the equivalent of a Muggle clip-on.
“Pansy will be waiting.” He swallows as my fingers reach for the tie. “And I’m a Death Easter.”
“And?” I should be worried. I should walk away right now, but I’ve waited for this moment for too long and I refuse to let Voldemort ruin it.
“I hate you.”
“I know.” Oh! I manage a two-word sentence. I go for three. “It doesn’t matter.” Does that count as three or four?
“Of course it does.”
“Yes it does.”
I tug on the tie and it comes undone, the two ends hanging loosely around his neck. He is a birthday present and I want to unwrap him. I find something else to watch as he swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs. There is a moment of complete silence between us and I become aware of the sound of the music seeping into the room through the cracks in the door. It wraps around us and I can feel the beat vibrating through the floor. “Dance with me.” It is stupid ... it is inane, but I don’t know what else to say. We’ve only ever argued and neither of us knows how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve snide remarks.
“I can’t. I hate dancing. Pansy said I stand on her toes.”
“Pansy is a pillock.” For the first time he smiles, it is tentative at first, but slowly lights his face. “You’ve just not had the right partner.”
“No,” is all he breathes.
The music changes tempo and it feels like a heart beat, slow and regular. “You just need to pretend you’re flying. Listen to the beat.” My hand moves to rest on his chest, over his breastbone. As I touch him, his breath hitches and he takes a half step away. Quickly my other hand moves to his hip. He could leave if he wanted ... I’m not holding him prisoner ... but instead he remains still. “Feel the music.”
He nods and I begin to tap out the rhythm on his chest, fingertips gentle and feather-like. As I do it his eyelids close and his mouth opens a little in concentration. His mouth becomes the centre of my universe and I want to kiss those lips. But if I do he might run away, back to the dreaded Pansy and his other Slytherin cronies.
Then, just as I think things can’t get much better, he raises his arms and puts them around my neck. I groan as his fingers link together, tangling in my hair. It is all I can do not to pull him towards me ... to feel his body against my own. Instead my hand keeps its rhythmic tempo on his chest until Draco begins to move.
He is a natural and as my feet pick up his steps, I slide my hand from his chest to rest lightly on his hip. He keeps his eyes closed and I watch his face as I let him lead, moving to his steps ... his rhythm. But at the same time he relies completely on me to stop us crashing into the furniture, a trust I would never have expected. I am entranced by everything about him and all of my dreams of the last two years condense into this one perfect moment.
I am lost ... I love him.
As the music shifts up a gear to a faster piece, we come to a stop and for what seems like an eternity we don’t move. His eyes finally open and he looks like he is waking from a dream. Cheeks flushed, he raises that grey gaze to mine and his tongue darts out to moisten his lips.
Okay, it was probably a completely subconscious gesture, but I’m sure I could feel that wet tongue right down into my own groin and now it is my eyelids that flutter close briefly. When they open again, he is still there ... still with his hand round my neck ... and I slide my fingers from his hip, letting them trail up his torso. Inside the loop of his arms, I take his face in my hands and lean towards that sweet mouth.
I keep the pressure almost non-existent, trying to gauge whether he is enjoying it. He doesn’t pull away, but makes no effort to return the touch and I begin to place little butterfly kisses on his lips ... his jaw ... the curve of his throat. Slow and delicate rather than fast and hard. Just when I think I am approaching the whole thing the wrong way and that he hates me, I feel the first tentative return. The hesitant touch lingers on the corner of my mouth and that traitorous tongue of his flicks out, brushing over my bottom lip.
It is exquisite and I let go of his face, looping one arm around his neck and the other his waist, pulling him against me. He must know I am hard for him, feel me pressing into the hollow of his hip and as I deepen the kiss, I realise I can feel him against me. I groan into his mouth and he whimpers into mine.
Then, just as I think it can’t be any more perfect, I make the mistake of pulling him hard again me. His erection presses against mine and he freezes in my arms before pushing me away. He stands before me, a dichotomy of opposites -- mouth red and swollen from our kisses, hair messy, provocative, his chest heaving as he pants for breath. But all that is overlaid by his huge eyes, wide with what I know is fear. It is radiating from him like a palpable force and I know I have pushed him too far.
He steps away and dives for the door, almost wrenching it from its hinges in his desperation to get out. The door slams behind him and I stare at it for a moment. Part of me wants to race after him, but I know if I do I will lose him for good.
Draco isn’t going anywhere. He will be in school tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. I know how he kissed me ... how he wanted me ... and if I bide my time he will come back.
My tongue dips out to flick across my lips and I can taste him there ... feel the heat of his body still warm on my clothes and the pressure of his erection against my own. Since that Quidditch match in my fifth year I have dreamed of kissing him ... of feeling his body pressing against mine. I had always imagined it as being passion-filled ... hard and desperate, but the reality was different ... tender and sweet and adoring. It was more than I’d thought possible and I just want to drown in his mouth.
I don’t care if he’s a Death Eater. I still want him. We can sort that out and I will worry about Voldemort another day.
One of my hands slides over my own shirt, feeling the remnants of his warmth as it moves downwards, and I cup myself through my clothes. I’m hard from his touch and I groan at the thought of his cock rubbing over my own skin ... pressing into me ... as his fingers tease against my nipples.
I want to make him feel like this -- want to give him to the same sensations I can feel flickering through my body. Returning to the sofa, I reach for my fly again, but don’t unzip it. Someone else might come in and I wonder what the reaction might be if I was caught with my hard cock in my hand. A smirk flicks across my face at thought of how many detentions that would earn me.
Instead I pick up the glass and fill it before dropping back onto the cushions. The brandy smells strong, overpowering the scent and taste left by Draco and I’m not sure I want to loose that, at least not just yet. The still-full glass is returned to the carpet and, tucking my fingers into the waistband of my trousers, I let my head fall to the arm of the sofa, close my eyes and dream.
His image is strong against my eyelids and my other hand reaches down to brush over a nipple, pinching it through the material of my shirt. I let out a tiny little hum of pleasure at the feel of the warm skin of my abdomen against my fingertips and the growing hard nub of my nipple, giving both a light squeeze. Oh yes. My hands move as I stroke and feel myself, imagining it is him that I am touching, and it is sweet and sexy and mind numbing in its brilliance.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear the door opening again. Quietly this time. It shuts with a soft click and there is a mumble of whispered words followed by the soft sigh of magic as he locks the door.
He’s come back.
I don’t move. Instead I lay there gently stroking myself to glorious hardness as I wait for him to speak. I don’t need him to touch me ... not yet ... but I do want him to watch.
“Harry?”
It’s the first time he’s called me that and the word is like magic ... it sounds like a charm when slipping from his sweet mouth and it is all I have ever wanted. If I never hear another word, that sound will last me to the end of my days. I close my eyes, feasting on the resonance of my name on his lips, letting it roll around my mouth ... my mind ... my soul.
It is clearly a question and I wonder what he is asking.
Are you still here? Do you really want me? Can you save me? Will you hold me and make everything better?
I realise that even though I have known him for over six years, I actually don’t know him at all. I know he watches rainbows, but not why or what he thinks of them.
When I open my eyes again he is standing over me, looking down. There is that hint of a blush across his cheeks again as his eyes move from mine down the length of my body, and back up again. The expression on his face is one of fear and wonder. I met those grey eyes with my own and know what my answer is to all his questions.
I reach out a hand towards him and finally speak.
“Yes, Draco.”
~~~fin
“Be still, my heart! Grown patient with thine ache” is taken from The Sister’s Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Thanks to Amariel for finding it for me.