The Cure For Moping [Harry/Draco - NC-17 - 2991]
Originally posted by mini_fest_mod at The Cure For Moping [Harry/Draco - NC-17 - 2991]
Title: The Cure For Moping
Author/Artist: hastendown
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, a little bit of Ron/Hermione
Prompt: At the Ministry office Christmas party, the eggnog is spiked with Veritaserum. Hidden feelings get revealed!
Word Count: 2991
Rating: NC-17, dirty talk and frottage
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: My beta, funnily enough, doesn’t have an LJ, but that doesn’t mean I don’t owe her my sanity. Thank you, hun. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine.
Summary: Harry has always hated the office Christmas parties. This is the worst one yet, though, because it seems like he just can’t keep his thoughts to himself tonight. Yes, he may have had a tad too much to drink.
It wouldn’t be a party at the Ministry if it wasn’t abundantly decorated, thought Harry as he stepped out of the Floo and into the Atrium.
“They’ve really gone all out this year,” Ron echoed his thoughts as he came out behind Harry. They waited a moment for Hermione to join them, then walked in the direction of the ballroom.
“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione’s voice was concerned.
“I’m fine, Hermione.” Harry rolled his eyes at Ron. Hermione had been worrying about him like a mother hen ever since he and Ginny had broken up. It annoyed Harry, not because she was meddling, but because her behaviour seemed to suggest that this was somehow the most sad and traumatic thing that ever happened in Harry’s life. He wasn’t going to tell his friends, but he had never really been in love with Ginny.
Sure, he’d wanted to be with her. She was kind and caring and wonderful and safe, and she was everything the war was not. She was a failsafe, a fallback option, an attempt at being a normal adolescent. But there was never any real, deep, dramatic romantic love between them, and they both knew it. After the Battle of Hogwarts, after the need to live in the moment had ceased, when Harry could finally consider that he might actually have a future, they had broken up amicably.
Hermione was not wrong. Ever since, Harry had been gloomy and brooding and introverted. However, that wasn’t so strange, when you really thought about it. Lupin was dead. Tonks was dead. Mad-Eye was dead. Fred was dead. One could even say that all of those people had died for him, because of him, that they had died to compensate for his incompetence. Sometimes Harry woke up at night with the sound of curses echoing in his ears, or the sobbing of the Weasley family over Fred’s lifeless body. It was as if the nightmare, the true horror of what they had been through, was only now becoming real to Harry. He’d done a great job at keeping reality at bay before, but his denial had to run out sometime. And unfortunately, that time was now.
He was snapped out of his depressing thoughts by Ron, who gave him a good-natured slap to the shoulder.
“Hello? Earth to Harry? You there, mate?”
Harry nodded. They were standing in the middle of the ballroom, and the festive atmosphere was oppressive. The ceiling was hung with long, intricately spun snowflakes that were in perpetual motion, a flurry of white, a snowstorm, keeping the room chilly but never too cold. A tall stately witch was up on a stage at one end of the room, crooning an old Celestina Warbeck song. The other side of the room was taken in by a long table full of food and drink. Most noticeably, there was a big bowl of bright red punch in the middle.
Harry excused himself and resolutely made his way towards the punch. He was going to be asked a whole bunch of intrusive questions tonight about the war and his personal life, his two least favourite topics of conversation. He’d do well to be drunk before the interrogations started. The punch tasted sweet, almost too sweet on Harry’s empty stomach. Never the less, he swallowed down the first glass in one greedy gulp, then refilled it and rejoined his friends.
“Hi, Harry, I was looking for you!” Hermione’s voice was overly bright and Harry quickly cast a look around to see what was making Hermione talk in such a fake-cheerful voice. Standing next to her, just a little too close for comfort, was Cormac McLaggen.
“I was just telling Cormac that I’m studying to become a Healer. And that you and Ron are having a blast at Auror training. Aren’t you?”
Harry was speaking before he was even aware of it. “I wouldn’t say I was having a blast, no.”
Both McLaggen and Hermione looked at him oddly.
Oblivious, Harry went on: “Most of the physical training is about as intense as a practice Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, and we covered most of the spellwork we’re learning in the DA in fifth year.”
That was a condescending thing to say, Harry considered. Why had he said that?
“Anyway,” Hermione turned her attention back to McLaggen. “What have you been up to since graduation, Cormac?”
Before McLaggen could answer, Ron appeared. He looked over at McLaggen with a sour expression on his face, as if he had never quite forgiven him for the Slug Club. Then he grabbed Harry and Hermione by their shoulders and leaned in close: “You should come with me a sec.”
His voice was excited enough that they obediently followed.
“Honestly Ron,” Hermione began, the exasperation in her voice fond, “there’s no reason for you to be jealous of Cormac.”
Ron gave her a look. “It’s Cormac now, is it? That’s not what this is about, Mione.” He gave her a quick kiss, then explained: “It seems Malfoy has had quite a bit to drink, and he’s spilling all of the family secrets.”
Harry’s eyes went wide, and Ron snorted. “Thought you might be interested.”
Ron was right. Malfoy was standing right next to the giant bowl of punch, talking loudly with a rather bored looking Pansy Parkinson.
“So I told Father,” he said as Harry approached, “I told him there was absolutely no way.”
When he shut up and looked over at Parkinson expectantly, she seemed to snap out of her daze. “No way of what, darling?” she asked.
Malfoy looked annoyed to find that she hadn’t been paying attention. “No way of me creating offspring with the Greengrass cow, of course.”
He looked quite shocked at his own crass choice of words for a second, but quickly recaptured the haughty expression that was always, always, always on his face. The expression, Harry pondered, that made him look quite appealing.
“Why ever not?” Pansy asked, and okay, Harry was eavesdropping now. Ron was breathlessly listening as well, but Hermione seemed to have wondered off again.
“Astoria is a wonderful young woman, you know.” Parkinson went on.
“That’s just it!” Malfoy replied, a lot louder than necessary. “She’s a woman!”
He said it like Astoria Greengrass had personally offended him with her gender. Nobody said anything for a while, surprised at the outburst.
“So?” Parkinson prompted.
“Well, I’m gay, aren’t I?” said Draco.
That’s when all hell broke loose. Pansy Parkinson started giggling like an idiot, the way Harry remembered her doing often in school. Ron was laughing right along with her. Malfoy, who had suddenly realised what he’d just said, turned bright red and stormed off in the direction of the cloakroom. Harry followed without thinking.
“Malfoy!” he shouted.
There was no response. The tosser didn’t even turn to look at him, or slow his pace at all.
“Malfoy, wait!”
Still nothing.
Harry sprinted a little bit and managed to grab Malfoy by the shoulder.
“What?” Malfoy spun around and spat in Harry’s face a little with the force of the exclamation.
Now that he had him, Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“What happened in there?” he tried.
Malfoy looked at him like he couldn’t quite believe Harry really was that much of an idiot, and Harry felt a wave of nostalgia go through him at the familiar glare.
“What happened, Potter,” he spat, “is that someone spiked the Christmas punch with Veritaserum.”
“No.” It couldn’t be. “Why do you say that?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Because I just revealed my most closely guarded secret to a room full of Ministry officials and their dates?”
“Well, you were always a little stupid,” Harry said.
“Fuck you, Potter. I’m studying to be a Potions Master. I know what I’m talking about.”
Harry thought for a moment. He’d drunk the punch himself, and he’d immediately gone on to say some pretty strange things to McLaggen. Maybe Malfoy was right. Harry sensed this was a great opportunity for a game of twenty questions.
With his best challenging look, he whispered: “Prove it.”
“I’m not proving shit to you, Potter. I’m going home. I don’t o”
Malfoy fell silent and all of the colour drained from his face. He had meant to say he didn’t owe Harry anything, but that wasn’t true. Ever since the incident in the Room Of Requirement, Draco Malfoy owed his life to Harry Potter. Then again, Harry also owed his life to Draco not identifying him at the Manor, so perhaps they were even.
Not that Harry was going to give up the advantage. He was dying for information, he was currently in training to become an interrogator, Malfoy had the information he wanted and he was under Veritaserum. It was the perfect situation.
“Sit down, Malfoy.” Harry gestured to a wooden bench in the middle of the hallway.
Malfoy didn’t move.
“Sit down. You do, you know.” Harry couldn’t say Malfoy did owe him. He was under the influence of Veritaserum himself and he truly believed they were even, but he neatly sidestepped the words, and Malfoy got the implication because he sank down on the bench with a sigh.
“You’re gay.”
No answer.
Harry tried again: “Are you gay, Malfoy?”
A beat, then a choked off: “Yes.”
“Okay.” Here came the truly important bit, the bit Harry was dying to know. “How did you know you were gay?”
“Merlin, Potter!” Malfoy was trying to buy himself some time, Harry realised, but in the end there’d be no talking around the Veritaserum. He waited, somewhat impatiently.
“I was looking at boys a lot,” Malfoy huffed.
Harry snorted, and waited for more.
“It was when we were in second year, I think, when I joined the Quidditch team.”
Harry blushed a little. He knew what that felt like.
Evidently, Malfoy felt like he’d sufficiently answered the question, because he turned a defiant gaze on Harry and asked: “Why do you want to know?”
Damn it. Harry had almost forgotten he was under the influence of the punch, himself.
“Ginny and I broke up because I think I might be gay,” he admitted.
Predictably, Malfoy laughed at that.
“Shut up,” said Harry. “So I wanted to ask you how you knew. Who was the first boy you fancied?”
Malfoy turned bright red. He bit his lip in an attempt to keep his reply in, and Harry saw his fingers twitch nervously. He had a split-second to think this may not have been the smartest question to ask the most secretive and vindictive wanker he knew.
Then, very softly, Malfoy said: “You.”
Harry blinked. Malfoy wasn’t meeting his gaze, but there was no chance Harry had misheard. Malfoy had fancied him when they were in Hogwarts. As a matter of fact, Malfoy may have fancied him since second year.
“And now?” asked Harry.
Apparently the Veritaserum was loosening his hold on Draco, because he snapped: “Fuck off, Potter. Go shag a Weasle with a dick if you’re so curious.”
Harry knew what was happening. Draco was lashing out because Harry was honing in on the truth.
“Ask me how I feel about you,” he prompted.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I’m not falling for that one, Potty, I know you think me and everyone I associate with is the scum of the earth.” He really thought that, or he wouldn’t have been able to say it, Harry realised.
Again, more gently: “Ask me, Malfoy.”
The use of his first name had the desired effect, because Malfoy looked up and asked: “Very well, Harry, how do you feel about me?”
Harry made sure not to avert his gaze when he said: “I’m in love with you.”
It was true. He had already suspected as much but it had to be true if the Veritaserum wasn’t objecting.
Emboldened by this revelation, Harry leaned in to kiss Draco. His lips were relaxed but unresponsive for a few second, and then it was like something snapped. All of a sudden Draco was all over Harry, climbing into his lap, his hands gripping Harry’s head tightly, fingers running through his hair, and kissing him with abandon. It felt rough and it felt like a challenge and Harry felt the pleasure of it shiver down into his bones.
He smiled so broadly at Draco’s enthusiasm that he briefly broke the kiss. Annoyed, Draco muttered: “You can’t just dangle all of that arrogant sexiness in my face for eight years and then be surprised I’m into you, you utter wanker!”
This surprised Harry. “I swear to Merlin, I haven’t flirted with you even once in seven years.”
Draco looked at him skeptically, then seemed to remember the Veritaserum. “You’re the biggest tease in Hogwarts, Harry Potter,” he said. “Do you really mean to tell me that all of the quill-sucking and the freshly fucked hairdo and the long fingers stroking the broomstick handle were just the incredibly seductive way you live your life?”
Harry raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t been aware he’d done any of those things. And just like that, they were kissing again.
“Yeah,” admitted Harry sheepishly. “I guess so.”
“Do you have any idea what I wanted to do with you, Potter?
His name sounded differently now, still like a challenge but a dirtier one by far.
Seeing his chance and taking it, Harry asked: “What did you want to do to me?”
Draco didn’t hesitate. “I wanted to fuck you in Filch’s broom closet,” he said, and Harry had the strange thought that his voice sounded the way silk felt, if silk was a sound.
“I wanted to suck your cock until you were begging me, Harry. Until it felt so good I’d ruined you for everyone else. I wanted you to fuck me over a desk.”
Harry groaned, and Draco shifted a little in his lap until Harry could feel his hardness, radiating heat. It felt good, it felt so shockingly good that Harry made a pathetic little sound in spite of himself. He was gay. He was so fucking gay he had no idea how he’d missed it, before. He gripped Draco’s hips tightly and pushed them more firmly to his.
“I wanted you to fuck me over a desk, Harry” Draco repeated, “and I wouldn’t have cared if we’d been caught. I wouldn’t care if we were caught now. The Chosen One coming undone under the hands of Draco Malfoy. The great and awe-inspiring Harry Potter just completely losing his composure, all because of me.
He was right, too. Harry was going insane with the friction of Draco against him. He was blushing and panting and grabbing at every inch of Draco’s smooth pale skin he could reach, and he was embarrassingly close to coming in his pants. Oh. Oh Gods.
Draco tightened the muscles in his thighs and pushed against Harry more firmly. He leaned down a little and started sucking at Harry’s neck, leaving an angry red mark. That was it. Harry was done. He realised, of course, that he would have to go back in there, facing all of those very serious ministry officials, with a bright red mark in his neck showing all of them what he’d just been up to. With a start, Harry came.
Malfoy seemed to be right on his heels, whining a little and still rutting against Harry. Harry opened his eyes just in time to see Malfoy’s expression as he came, eyes glassy and lips parted and absolutely gorgeous. Then Draco slumped down and hid his face in Harry’s neck. Was he embarrassed, now? That was just too cute.
In an attempt to dispel the tension, Harry chuckled. “So, err,” he tried to pull Malfoy upright, but he felt warm and strong and heavy and his heart wasn’t in it, so Malfoy didn’t budge. “What are you doing later?”
Draco was up in a flurry of movement, on his feet in the blink of an eye. The git barely even looked disheveled. “Shagging you, I hope.” he said with a wink. Then Draco spun on his heels and rejoined the party, and Harry was left gaping at his retreating form and the pertness of his backside.
Harry went into the gents to freshen up and was unsurprised to find Hermione waiting for him in the hallway when he came out.
“Harry, Harry, where have you been?” she sounded worried.
“Oh, I was just in the loo,” Harry said as nonchalantly as he could, hiding the hickey in his neck by scratching at it in what he hoped was an offhand gesture. He was relieved to find the Veritaserum had worn off.
“Merry Christmas, Hermione.”
She gave him a calculating look. “Merry Christmas, Harry. Glad to see you’re not moping anymore.”
Title: The Cure For Moping
Author/Artist: hastendown
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, a little bit of Ron/Hermione
Prompt: At the Ministry office Christmas party, the eggnog is spiked with Veritaserum. Hidden feelings get revealed!
Word Count: 2991
Rating: NC-17, dirty talk and frottage
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: My beta, funnily enough, doesn’t have an LJ, but that doesn’t mean I don’t owe her my sanity. Thank you, hun. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine.
Summary: Harry has always hated the office Christmas parties. This is the worst one yet, though, because it seems like he just can’t keep his thoughts to himself tonight. Yes, he may have had a tad too much to drink.
It wouldn’t be a party at the Ministry if it wasn’t abundantly decorated, thought Harry as he stepped out of the Floo and into the Atrium.
“They’ve really gone all out this year,” Ron echoed his thoughts as he came out behind Harry. They waited a moment for Hermione to join them, then walked in the direction of the ballroom.
“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione’s voice was concerned.
“I’m fine, Hermione.” Harry rolled his eyes at Ron. Hermione had been worrying about him like a mother hen ever since he and Ginny had broken up. It annoyed Harry, not because she was meddling, but because her behaviour seemed to suggest that this was somehow the most sad and traumatic thing that ever happened in Harry’s life. He wasn’t going to tell his friends, but he had never really been in love with Ginny.
Sure, he’d wanted to be with her. She was kind and caring and wonderful and safe, and she was everything the war was not. She was a failsafe, a fallback option, an attempt at being a normal adolescent. But there was never any real, deep, dramatic romantic love between them, and they both knew it. After the Battle of Hogwarts, after the need to live in the moment had ceased, when Harry could finally consider that he might actually have a future, they had broken up amicably.
Hermione was not wrong. Ever since, Harry had been gloomy and brooding and introverted. However, that wasn’t so strange, when you really thought about it. Lupin was dead. Tonks was dead. Mad-Eye was dead. Fred was dead. One could even say that all of those people had died for him, because of him, that they had died to compensate for his incompetence. Sometimes Harry woke up at night with the sound of curses echoing in his ears, or the sobbing of the Weasley family over Fred’s lifeless body. It was as if the nightmare, the true horror of what they had been through, was only now becoming real to Harry. He’d done a great job at keeping reality at bay before, but his denial had to run out sometime. And unfortunately, that time was now.
He was snapped out of his depressing thoughts by Ron, who gave him a good-natured slap to the shoulder.
“Hello? Earth to Harry? You there, mate?”
Harry nodded. They were standing in the middle of the ballroom, and the festive atmosphere was oppressive. The ceiling was hung with long, intricately spun snowflakes that were in perpetual motion, a flurry of white, a snowstorm, keeping the room chilly but never too cold. A tall stately witch was up on a stage at one end of the room, crooning an old Celestina Warbeck song. The other side of the room was taken in by a long table full of food and drink. Most noticeably, there was a big bowl of bright red punch in the middle.
Harry excused himself and resolutely made his way towards the punch. He was going to be asked a whole bunch of intrusive questions tonight about the war and his personal life, his two least favourite topics of conversation. He’d do well to be drunk before the interrogations started. The punch tasted sweet, almost too sweet on Harry’s empty stomach. Never the less, he swallowed down the first glass in one greedy gulp, then refilled it and rejoined his friends.
“Hi, Harry, I was looking for you!” Hermione’s voice was overly bright and Harry quickly cast a look around to see what was making Hermione talk in such a fake-cheerful voice. Standing next to her, just a little too close for comfort, was Cormac McLaggen.
“I was just telling Cormac that I’m studying to become a Healer. And that you and Ron are having a blast at Auror training. Aren’t you?”
Harry was speaking before he was even aware of it. “I wouldn’t say I was having a blast, no.”
Both McLaggen and Hermione looked at him oddly.
Oblivious, Harry went on: “Most of the physical training is about as intense as a practice Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, and we covered most of the spellwork we’re learning in the DA in fifth year.”
That was a condescending thing to say, Harry considered. Why had he said that?
“Anyway,” Hermione turned her attention back to McLaggen. “What have you been up to since graduation, Cormac?”
Before McLaggen could answer, Ron appeared. He looked over at McLaggen with a sour expression on his face, as if he had never quite forgiven him for the Slug Club. Then he grabbed Harry and Hermione by their shoulders and leaned in close: “You should come with me a sec.”
His voice was excited enough that they obediently followed.
“Honestly Ron,” Hermione began, the exasperation in her voice fond, “there’s no reason for you to be jealous of Cormac.”
Ron gave her a look. “It’s Cormac now, is it? That’s not what this is about, Mione.” He gave her a quick kiss, then explained: “It seems Malfoy has had quite a bit to drink, and he’s spilling all of the family secrets.”
Harry’s eyes went wide, and Ron snorted. “Thought you might be interested.”
Ron was right. Malfoy was standing right next to the giant bowl of punch, talking loudly with a rather bored looking Pansy Parkinson.
“So I told Father,” he said as Harry approached, “I told him there was absolutely no way.”
When he shut up and looked over at Parkinson expectantly, she seemed to snap out of her daze. “No way of what, darling?” she asked.
Malfoy looked annoyed to find that she hadn’t been paying attention. “No way of me creating offspring with the Greengrass cow, of course.”
He looked quite shocked at his own crass choice of words for a second, but quickly recaptured the haughty expression that was always, always, always on his face. The expression, Harry pondered, that made him look quite appealing.
“Why ever not?” Pansy asked, and okay, Harry was eavesdropping now. Ron was breathlessly listening as well, but Hermione seemed to have wondered off again.
“Astoria is a wonderful young woman, you know.” Parkinson went on.
“That’s just it!” Malfoy replied, a lot louder than necessary. “She’s a woman!”
He said it like Astoria Greengrass had personally offended him with her gender. Nobody said anything for a while, surprised at the outburst.
“So?” Parkinson prompted.
“Well, I’m gay, aren’t I?” said Draco.
That’s when all hell broke loose. Pansy Parkinson started giggling like an idiot, the way Harry remembered her doing often in school. Ron was laughing right along with her. Malfoy, who had suddenly realised what he’d just said, turned bright red and stormed off in the direction of the cloakroom. Harry followed without thinking.
“Malfoy!” he shouted.
There was no response. The tosser didn’t even turn to look at him, or slow his pace at all.
“Malfoy, wait!”
Still nothing.
Harry sprinted a little bit and managed to grab Malfoy by the shoulder.
“What?” Malfoy spun around and spat in Harry’s face a little with the force of the exclamation.
Now that he had him, Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“What happened in there?” he tried.
Malfoy looked at him like he couldn’t quite believe Harry really was that much of an idiot, and Harry felt a wave of nostalgia go through him at the familiar glare.
“What happened, Potter,” he spat, “is that someone spiked the Christmas punch with Veritaserum.”
“No.” It couldn’t be. “Why do you say that?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Because I just revealed my most closely guarded secret to a room full of Ministry officials and their dates?”
“Well, you were always a little stupid,” Harry said.
“Fuck you, Potter. I’m studying to be a Potions Master. I know what I’m talking about.”
Harry thought for a moment. He’d drunk the punch himself, and he’d immediately gone on to say some pretty strange things to McLaggen. Maybe Malfoy was right. Harry sensed this was a great opportunity for a game of twenty questions.
With his best challenging look, he whispered: “Prove it.”
“I’m not proving shit to you, Potter. I’m going home. I don’t o”
Malfoy fell silent and all of the colour drained from his face. He had meant to say he didn’t owe Harry anything, but that wasn’t true. Ever since the incident in the Room Of Requirement, Draco Malfoy owed his life to Harry Potter. Then again, Harry also owed his life to Draco not identifying him at the Manor, so perhaps they were even.
Not that Harry was going to give up the advantage. He was dying for information, he was currently in training to become an interrogator, Malfoy had the information he wanted and he was under Veritaserum. It was the perfect situation.
“Sit down, Malfoy.” Harry gestured to a wooden bench in the middle of the hallway.
Malfoy didn’t move.
“Sit down. You do, you know.” Harry couldn’t say Malfoy did owe him. He was under the influence of Veritaserum himself and he truly believed they were even, but he neatly sidestepped the words, and Malfoy got the implication because he sank down on the bench with a sigh.
“You’re gay.”
No answer.
Harry tried again: “Are you gay, Malfoy?”
A beat, then a choked off: “Yes.”
“Okay.” Here came the truly important bit, the bit Harry was dying to know. “How did you know you were gay?”
“Merlin, Potter!” Malfoy was trying to buy himself some time, Harry realised, but in the end there’d be no talking around the Veritaserum. He waited, somewhat impatiently.
“I was looking at boys a lot,” Malfoy huffed.
Harry snorted, and waited for more.
“It was when we were in second year, I think, when I joined the Quidditch team.”
Harry blushed a little. He knew what that felt like.
Evidently, Malfoy felt like he’d sufficiently answered the question, because he turned a defiant gaze on Harry and asked: “Why do you want to know?”
Damn it. Harry had almost forgotten he was under the influence of the punch, himself.
“Ginny and I broke up because I think I might be gay,” he admitted.
Predictably, Malfoy laughed at that.
“Shut up,” said Harry. “So I wanted to ask you how you knew. Who was the first boy you fancied?”
Malfoy turned bright red. He bit his lip in an attempt to keep his reply in, and Harry saw his fingers twitch nervously. He had a split-second to think this may not have been the smartest question to ask the most secretive and vindictive wanker he knew.
Then, very softly, Malfoy said: “You.”
Harry blinked. Malfoy wasn’t meeting his gaze, but there was no chance Harry had misheard. Malfoy had fancied him when they were in Hogwarts. As a matter of fact, Malfoy may have fancied him since second year.
“And now?” asked Harry.
Apparently the Veritaserum was loosening his hold on Draco, because he snapped: “Fuck off, Potter. Go shag a Weasle with a dick if you’re so curious.”
Harry knew what was happening. Draco was lashing out because Harry was honing in on the truth.
“Ask me how I feel about you,” he prompted.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I’m not falling for that one, Potty, I know you think me and everyone I associate with is the scum of the earth.” He really thought that, or he wouldn’t have been able to say it, Harry realised.
Again, more gently: “Ask me, Malfoy.”
The use of his first name had the desired effect, because Malfoy looked up and asked: “Very well, Harry, how do you feel about me?”
Harry made sure not to avert his gaze when he said: “I’m in love with you.”
It was true. He had already suspected as much but it had to be true if the Veritaserum wasn’t objecting.
Emboldened by this revelation, Harry leaned in to kiss Draco. His lips were relaxed but unresponsive for a few second, and then it was like something snapped. All of a sudden Draco was all over Harry, climbing into his lap, his hands gripping Harry’s head tightly, fingers running through his hair, and kissing him with abandon. It felt rough and it felt like a challenge and Harry felt the pleasure of it shiver down into his bones.
He smiled so broadly at Draco’s enthusiasm that he briefly broke the kiss. Annoyed, Draco muttered: “You can’t just dangle all of that arrogant sexiness in my face for eight years and then be surprised I’m into you, you utter wanker!”
This surprised Harry. “I swear to Merlin, I haven’t flirted with you even once in seven years.”
Draco looked at him skeptically, then seemed to remember the Veritaserum. “You’re the biggest tease in Hogwarts, Harry Potter,” he said. “Do you really mean to tell me that all of the quill-sucking and the freshly fucked hairdo and the long fingers stroking the broomstick handle were just the incredibly seductive way you live your life?”
Harry raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t been aware he’d done any of those things. And just like that, they were kissing again.
“Yeah,” admitted Harry sheepishly. “I guess so.”
“Do you have any idea what I wanted to do with you, Potter?
His name sounded differently now, still like a challenge but a dirtier one by far.
Seeing his chance and taking it, Harry asked: “What did you want to do to me?”
Draco didn’t hesitate. “I wanted to fuck you in Filch’s broom closet,” he said, and Harry had the strange thought that his voice sounded the way silk felt, if silk was a sound.
“I wanted to suck your cock until you were begging me, Harry. Until it felt so good I’d ruined you for everyone else. I wanted you to fuck me over a desk.”
Harry groaned, and Draco shifted a little in his lap until Harry could feel his hardness, radiating heat. It felt good, it felt so shockingly good that Harry made a pathetic little sound in spite of himself. He was gay. He was so fucking gay he had no idea how he’d missed it, before. He gripped Draco’s hips tightly and pushed them more firmly to his.
“I wanted you to fuck me over a desk, Harry” Draco repeated, “and I wouldn’t have cared if we’d been caught. I wouldn’t care if we were caught now. The Chosen One coming undone under the hands of Draco Malfoy. The great and awe-inspiring Harry Potter just completely losing his composure, all because of me.
He was right, too. Harry was going insane with the friction of Draco against him. He was blushing and panting and grabbing at every inch of Draco’s smooth pale skin he could reach, and he was embarrassingly close to coming in his pants. Oh. Oh Gods.
Draco tightened the muscles in his thighs and pushed against Harry more firmly. He leaned down a little and started sucking at Harry’s neck, leaving an angry red mark. That was it. Harry was done. He realised, of course, that he would have to go back in there, facing all of those very serious ministry officials, with a bright red mark in his neck showing all of them what he’d just been up to. With a start, Harry came.
Malfoy seemed to be right on his heels, whining a little and still rutting against Harry. Harry opened his eyes just in time to see Malfoy’s expression as he came, eyes glassy and lips parted and absolutely gorgeous. Then Draco slumped down and hid his face in Harry’s neck. Was he embarrassed, now? That was just too cute.
In an attempt to dispel the tension, Harry chuckled. “So, err,” he tried to pull Malfoy upright, but he felt warm and strong and heavy and his heart wasn’t in it, so Malfoy didn’t budge. “What are you doing later?”
Draco was up in a flurry of movement, on his feet in the blink of an eye. The git barely even looked disheveled. “Shagging you, I hope.” he said with a wink. Then Draco spun on his heels and rejoined the party, and Harry was left gaping at his retreating form and the pertness of his backside.
Harry went into the gents to freshen up and was unsurprised to find Hermione waiting for him in the hallway when he came out.
“Harry, Harry, where have you been?” she sounded worried.
“Oh, I was just in the loo,” Harry said as nonchalantly as he could, hiding the hickey in his neck by scratching at it in what he hoped was an offhand gesture. He was relieved to find the Veritaserum had worn off.
“Merry Christmas, Hermione.”
She gave him a calculating look. “Merry Christmas, Harry. Glad to see you’re not moping anymore.”