Fic: By the Book (H/D, R)
I know there's a number of you who won't read this 'cause it's H/D, so. Um. I love you anyway. But since I'm not prolific enough for write a pairing for everyone, I'll just-- um-- pretend it's the thought that counts. :-?
I wrote fic as a sort of Christmas present to y'all-- well, I mean, what else can I do? Heh. And look ma, no porn!
Disclaimer: JKR owns Draco & his issues, too.
Warning: Christmas fluff! Rated R, because I don't write porn for Christmas, man. Not quite, anyway.
Dedication: To my friends-- you know who you are. Because my cards are going to be late, and because y'all mean more to me than you know.
And to the fandom-- Happy Christmas, everyone! Here's to another year of bickering over silly things & squeeing over the next movie. Because y'all help me get my priorities straight. So to speak.
I wish you joy.
Author's Note: Everyone needs to write a mistletoe fic at one time or another. It's the rules, right? So this is mine. Thanks muchly to Aja & Diana for the read-through. *hearts*
- By the Book -
Being blond really was all it was cracked up to be.
No one actually had to tell Draco-- he'd figured that out for himself. He could tell that certain things were important to a Malfoy from a very young age, when he saw his father brushing his fine, thinning silvery hair silently in his study. He looked so careful, so concentrated, as if he could keep himself from going bald by sheer force of will. He and his father never spoke of such things, but even then Draco knew that certain priorities were inescapable. Certain things went without saying.
As a first year, Draco had often been late to breakfast because he had to double-check his hair, but it was worth it. It was his hair, and if he didn't take care of it, who would? He needed to project the right image, yes, but most of all he needed the connection with all those memories of his far-away parents. He had his mother's silky texture and his father's silver tint; his mother's mouth and his father's chin. His parents disagreed on whose eyes he had. Mother usually claimed they were his grandmother's on the Black side, but this seemed to make his father rather put out, and Draco had never seen them get to the end of that particular argument. He didn't mind.
It took Draco until seventh year to notice what color Pansy Parkinson's eyes were. He'd assumed they were grey like his or possibly blue, until she'd tried holding his hand and asking him. Draco had swallowed and thought quickly. It had been dark outside, and Pansy was a mass of indistinct shapes and the overpowering scent of flowers.
"I say, do you even know mine? What brought this about?"
Pansy had sighed, probably settling in for another lecture on How To Treat Your Girlfriend.
"You're my boyfriend now, Draco. It's just one of those things that you're supposed to notice, all right? Just quit fooling around and tell me."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Blue?"
"Try again." Pansy had her we're-not-moving-till-you-crack voice. He'd hated that voice.
"Green?" Draco would probably have noticed green, but it was worth a try.
"God no! Don't make me sick, Draco."
Draco sighed. It was so tiresome having his House color muddied like this. Or possibly just Pansy reminding him of Potter. That was just not on. "Hey! It was just a guess, okay? So I give up, what is it?"
With a whispered Lumos, Pansy revealed the ugly truth. Brown. Mud-brown. Dirt-brown. Draco had to look away.
"I can't see it like this," he'd said, and in a way that was true.
Certain things were unexpected. The first time, and every single time after that, Draco thought he wouldn't go wrong if he did certain things by the book.
He'd tangle his fingers in Pansy's dirty blond curls and wait for the pang of pleasure at doing what a Malfoy should do, for once. Instead of satisfaction, somehow he'd feel cheated. This wasn't right. This was all Potter's fault again.
Quite a number of things were Potter's fault.
Draco didn't necessarily know how, exactly, but that didn't matter, because he knew anyway. And it was just getting worse as time went on. It was as if the world had gone mad, and Draco was the only sane one left. No one understood, not about Potter or what it meant to be a Malfoy or anything. Pansy didn't understand, not even after all these years.
"Get a bloody clue, will you?" she'd said, looking him in the eye in that soppy girly way that meant she wanted him to produce a rose from his robes' pocket. Draco knew what girls like Pansy wanted, but that didn't mean it was his job to give it to them.
"So will you go with me or not, Parkinson?" he'd said, feeling tired.
Pansy made a sort of growling sound and stomped off. "Does that mean no?"
"We're fucking over, Draco!" she screamed, slamming the door to the seventh year girls' room.
Just in time for Christmas, too. He supposed he was staying in Hogwarts this year, then. No use spending Christmas getting drunk with his mother, after all, was there. Draco could get drunk just as well alone, thank you very much.
On his fifth generous sip, Draco felt maudlin enough to dig out his silver-backed mirror. His mother had given it to him on his sixteeth birthday, because that was tradition and tradition stayed no matter what else had changed. She hadn't told him he was now a man or anything quite that obvious, but she did kiss his hair and cry a little. Draco hated it when she cried. It made him want to throw up even thinking about it, though that was partly the hang-over.
Draco sighed, twisting a lock of his hair around his index finger consideringly in front of the mirror.
It was white. You could barely see it since his hair was so light already, but there it was. Draco was aging before his time, and it was all Potter's fault, because it certainly wasn't his father's fault.
Draco didn't know what Potter had to do with it, exactly, but it had to be something, otherwise Draco's bile began to rise and his skin started to burn with hatred so fierce it could've singed the furniture. Draco didn't take disappointment at all well, and Draco's father was supposed to be there. He was supposed to be better than the rest of them, and stronger, and more clever. It was supposed to be easy. Draco was supposed to be laughing right now.
So it wasn't his father's fault. It was their fault. It was his fault. Fucking Potter had to fucking die. As soon as Draco could get up without falling flat on his face, he'd think of how, and that would be that.
His father wasn't really dead, anyway. He'd just gone into hiding, because that was what Malfoys did. They went into hiding and then returned when everyone would least expect it, stronger than ever. Invincible.
It was all Potter and his stupid cronies and the stupid Ministry and the stupid fucking war. They could all bloody die for all Draco cared. And he didn't, not anymore. They could all. Just. Die.
He swallowed another mouthful of that house elf's secret stash and sighed dramatically. It had been no problem getting Winky to share. He'd kept treating her like a house elf should be treated, even if most of the other idiots in this awful school didn't. She looked at him with teary adulation in her eyes, and Draco knew he could probably get her to refuse direct orders from Dumbledore for his sake. At least there was someone who was still loyal to him.
Light-headed and woozy, Draco sprawled on the floor as he leaned against his bed. There was no one to see, of course. They were all home, warm and cozy with their piles of presents and their living mothers and fathers waiting for them at the dinner table.
Draco rather liked feeling sorry for himself. It gave him something to do, besides go mad and try to maim Potter extravagantly right under Dumbledore's nose. Or set Hogwarts on fire. Or owl his mother telling her exactly what was on his mind.
He didn't need them. He didn't need any of them. He may be the only living Malfoy left in full possession of his faculties, but that was good enough. He would show them.
Draco's stomach growled.
He hadn't been down to the Great Hall for regular meals in several days now, and sometimes he forgot to ask Winky for food along with the drink. Maybe now was a good time to go down and have some of that cornish hen along with the weak cider they probably had out, if this year was like every other year. Draco was certainly drunk enough for the attempt, though not yet drunk enough to walk into walls. It was a good moment to make his move.
Walking through the massive doors to the Great Hall, Draco had to blink numerous times, trying to adjust to the sudden light and heat and festive air. Was the Christmas tree actually bigger this year? What were they trying to do, scare the first years?
Draco stumbled to his usual place at the Slytherin table unseeingly, trying not to weave about more than absolutely necessary. Possibly, he was slightly more tipsy than he'd thought. Winky must be brewing her liquor more harshly in time for Christmas. He'd remember to thank her, later, if he did that sort of thing. Which, of course, he didn't.
It took Draco a few moments to realize the Slytherin table wasn't actually set. There was a nice linen tablecloth, cheerily festive with little candy-canes and sprigs of evergreen, but for all the food there was, you'd have thought that Slytherin House had all collectively gone on extended sabbatical. To the Himalayas.
Somewhere in Draco's fogged-up brain, a memory surfaced, and he looked up. Oh. So there they were.
All of his Housemates (which meant Zabini and a fourth-year whose name escaped Draco most times) were clustered at the far end of the Gryffindor table. Draco blinked a few times, thinking this was an alcohol-induced vision, but no. There they were. There were also some random Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws at the opposite end.
It was probably another hare-brained idea of the Headmaster's, trying to get the Houses to band together and feel the love. Or the unity. Or some other such nonsense, like "Christmas spirit".
Harry Potter sat smack in the middle, brooding. All alone.
Potter looked as miserable as Draco felt. Good. The bastard had it coming. And then some.
Draco smiled, getting up before he'd thought better of it. All that meat and soup and bread looked rather good after his unintended fast lately.
He looked to the one side, where Zabini was practically weeping into his cider, and to the other, where some Ravenclaw breastless wonder was trying to wink at him, and failing. And then he sat right opposite Potter, not saying a word. It would've been slurred anyway, and Draco had quite enough embarrassment for one lifetime so far. He eyed the coffeepot shrewdly. That should do the trick, as long as he was bothering to hang around, he thought.
A quiet, semi-civil meal of ignoring each other and stuffing themselves as much as humanly possible was apparently too much to hope for, however.
"Well. Happy Christmas, Malfoy," Potter said sweetly. Draco tried not to choke on his chicken.
He chewed carefully, keeping his eyes on the food. Potter couldn't really be that dense, could he?
"I thought you'd died from malnutrition up there, but I suppose that was too much to hope for, after all."
Draco did choke that time, setting off a protracted coughing fit. Trust Potter to accidentally kill him by making him choke to death on a chicken bone from one of his idiotic attempts at wit.
"Are you all right, Malfoy?" Potter cried in what sounded almost like alarm. Ridiculous. "I wasn't-- I mean-- I was only-- do you need help?"
Almost immediately, the coughing stopped. At least Draco's body was on his side. The idea of Potter "helping" was enough to turn Draco a horribly festive shade of green.
Looking up was a bad idea, in retrospect. He was just going to say something suitably decimating like, "only if you need your fingers broken" while sneering for all he was worth, when he got caught again.
Draco didn't know what it was, exactly, that caught him. What was more, he didn't want to know. He just wanted it to go away, along with Potter's stupid wide-eyed stare and his stupid parted mouth and his stupid-- God, how-- pitiful-- perpetually sleep-tumbled hair which was currently falling over his eyes. Right that moment, he'd been blowing on a wayward strand irritably. He'd let it grow during the summer, and this past autumn it had just kept growing. And growing. Draco had gotten three haircuts of his own merely from the stress of watching it.
All of that ugly, coarse, black-as-coal mess, getting uglier and more unruly with every passing day.
Draco didn't know how Potter could stand it. He wondered if it was softer than it looked to the touch. Draco thought Potter was probably a lot softer than he looked. He couldn't be the only one who bruised easily, that'd just be too unfair.
Actually, Potter had soft-looking skin, especially around the mouth. It was moving in all sorts of obscene ways as he chewed and chewed and finally swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing prominently. So vulgar. It was disgusting.
That part about his body being on his side was a blatant lie, of course, but this was taking it a bit far.
He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly more miserable than he could've thought possible with all that firewhisky in him. All his blood had just rushed right between his legs, and it bloody ached. And Potter was staring at him like he'd never seen him before with those eyes. Those eyes again.
Draco knew exactly what color they were, too.
Just. Fucking. Perfect.
Draco returned his gaze to his chicken rather prudently, he thought. "Oh, get bent and bloody well die, Potter!"
"You're so predictable, Malfoy," Potter said, smirking. "Come to think of it-- that's what I like about you."
It was ridiculous. Potter, smirking like that. He looked something like a cross between a rakish hero and a mischievous nine year-old, except storybook heroes werent supposed to have ugly scars and even uglier glasses. Not to mention a hint of overbite. Draco noticed, even if no one else did. Draco could've catalogued all the ways in which Potter Is An Ugly Git, if he wanted to waste his time thinking about those sorts of things. Which he didn't, of course.
Potter was no hero. Potter was-- well-- Potter. Pathetic Potter. Poncey Potter. Puny-dick Potter, and so on.
And wasn't he supposed to be brooding? Why wasn't Potter brooding anymore? What was wrong? Shouldn't Draco's presence hurry that sort of thing along?
Besides that awful insinuation, Potter appeared to have cheered up somehow, just in time to ruin Draco's perfectly nice meal. Draco took offense to that, too. He grimaced sourly, eyeing the food that had looked so good only moments ago with utter distaste.
"Great! Now you've put me off my food. Thanks a lot, Potter! For the company, and the fucking holiday cheer. See you 'round, I'm sure." Draco hunted around for the napkin. He wasn't going to go without wiping his fingers. Some people still had manners, after all.
Potter looked abashed. Granted, Draco had been the one to throw the first volley, but who was counting? Besides, it was always Potter's fault. That was just a law that could never get broken. Even Potter couldn't do anything to break it. Potter, who thought rules didn't apply to him. Oh, but they did. They really, really did.
Well, great, Draco thought viciously. I hope he chokes on his sodding conscience.
Draco Malfoy was not predictable. There were such things as style. And reputation. And common sense. Things Potter clearly knew nothing about.
"I'm-- er-- I'm sorry, okay? It's Christmas, and--" Potter trailed off. Even he couldn't be daft enough to think their "problem" could be helped with a pleasant little dose of Christmas spirit, of all things. Hah.
Draco's "problem" was Potter's continued bloody existence. The Boy Who Lived Too Fucking Long was more like it.
"It's not Christmas till midnight, Potter," Draco said evenly. He was rather proud at his bearing. Perhaps he was getting better at that whole Malfoy Poise he was supposed to have been born with.
"It's Christmas Eve, Malfoy. Even I am not willing to trade the usual stale insults right now. Let's just-- I don't know. What do you say to a truce?"
Draco had to swallow hard so as not to sputter. "A-- what? Are you mad?" His voice rose an octave or two. "Better yet, are you drunk??"
Potter chuckled. "You're the drunk one here, Malfoy. Good thing I'm above taking advantage of that little fact, wouldn't you say?"
Potter's eyes were twinkling weirdly, like he was up to something. Draco didn't like the look of it. He felt cold for a moment. Potter didn't used to be this disturbing, did he? He couldn't be sure at the moment, but he had his suspicions. Besides, he wasn't an obvious drunk, not like some people. Those people being Ron Weasley and a famous incident involving whipped cream, garter-belts and Mrs. Norris.
"So what do you say? It's just one day out of the whole bloody year. We can swing it. Plus it'd make the cider more enjoyable, yeah?"
Draco paused slightly, for effect. It would be really cute if Potter was sincere. That would make it all the more hilarious. He was sure. In retrospect. Probably tomorrow, when Draco was less drunk.
"You're absolutely raving, aren't you," said Draco flatly. "I always knew it, but this is good solid evidence. You realize that, right?"
Potter's look turned vaguely long-suffering. "Bollocks. God, get over yourself already, Malfoy. You'll have more fun, I promise. People might actually like you. Or not-- but you might at least not get hexed as often."
He really shouldn't have mentioned that, about the hexing. Now it was a matter of pride.
"I was just leaving, Potter, like I said. I don't know why I'm still here. It's certainly not the company." Draco spared a quick glance for Zabini, who was now at the opposite end of the table. He seemed to have had too much cider and was presently all but drooling down the neck of some nameless Hufflepuff. At least this one had breasts. Still-- Hufflepuff. Draco shuddered delicately. He had to get out while he had what remained of his sanity, missing napkin be damned.
Draco spared one last semi-longing look for his half-eaten dinner and got up, already planning on telling Winky exactly which left-overs he wanted, and how much. He'd probably only have to wait ten minutes, and there was something to be said for supper in bed. Besides "messy", "lonely" and "somewhat pathetic". And anyway, no one had to know.
"Well, fine then! Just go, then!" Potter yelled after him. "And you know what? Your hair is too bloody yellow! How often do you dye it, anyway? Every morning, right?"
Oh. So he wasn't the only one a little tipsy, then. How... deeply uninteresting. Draco turned around, already at the corridor that would take him back to the dungeons fastest.
"Now there's a low blow, Potter. Really. Crushed. And by the way-- have fun with the Hufflepuffs for me!"
Draco loved having the last word, he really did. It never got old.
~~
He was in no hurry to get back to his room, however. The more he thought of Christmas dinner by himself-- or worse yet, with Zabini and whoever else watching as he ate in the Common Room-- the slower Draco walked. He'd already had enough to take the edge off.
Draco was approaching the huge door that lead to the last corridor before Slytherin territory with some reluctance. Maybe he could-- do something. Except there was nothing to do. Maybe he could give up and go home. Yeah, that sounded like an idea. Mother didn't try to strike up stupid conversations, and there was his own perpetually heated Quidditch pitch to practice in. It would be fine. He could even pretend the Manor was his, and--
Potter chose that moment-- and Draco knew it could only be Potter-- to bump into his back, cursing softly under his breath.
"Bloody hell!" Draco whipped around, ready to draw his wand at last. To hell with goddamned Christmas spirit and truces and everything else-- this was the last straw. His insult died on his lips, nearly forgotten when he got a good look at Potter's face. He'd never seen Potter wear that particular expression while looking at him before. "Are you following me?!"
"What? Of course not, I--" And then something else seemed to catch his attention, because Potter was blushing. No, not just blushing-- his face was beginning to match the crimson of his tie. Not that Draco really looked at Potter's tie, except in a cursory sort of way. Gryffindors made him ill, but it paid to know thy enemy. That was all part of being a Malfoy.
Neither of them said anything for long moments. What could one say in a situation like this? The best bet would've been just to ignore it and keep walking, but now that Potter drew both their attention to the innocuous-seeming plant above their heads, there was little left that could be done.
Draco pulled his wits together with an effort, since apparently it was up to him. He coughed a little before speaking, but his voice sounded surprisingly normal. "We don't have to kiss, Potter, if that's what you're thinking." He sounded sure of himself, too. That was certainly a relief. "It's only mistletoe. It won't bite your arse if you walked right on by." Draco laughed. No one ever appreciated his fine sense of humor, so he might as well laugh at his own jokes, right.
Potter certainly didn't. Instead of laughing, he just gaped at him like a bloody goldfish. It was really unattractive. Well, more unattractive than usual for Potter.
"And it's not like I'd cry if you didn't, either. I'd cry if you did, more like," Draco sneered. Potter's expression didn't change. If anything, he seemed more dumbstruck than ever at Draco's little dig. He'd been counting on a half-arsed insult at the very least.
Potter really did seem almost unnaturally dense sometimes. Draco had merely pointed out the obvious. In fact, he thought he'd been clever.
"Er-- no. I mean." Potter winced a bit, obviously aware of his deep and abiding cluelessness. Damningly, however, he still didn't move. "No. Of course not. I wasn't--"
Draco smirked. "Bad memories, eh? Some unlucky bird burst out crying 'cause your snogging skills are so rubbish? C'mon, you can tell me." He grinned. "Although I can tell I'm right. I'm right, aren't I!" Draco laughed again, delighted. It was almost too good to be true, but somehow it was. Draco's day was made.
"She didn't-- they're not-- shut UP, Malfoy!" And they were back to clenched fists and dark glares.
Draco liked Potter this way: angry but too flustered to draw his wand. And Potter's vehement protest was more damning than any sort of assent he could've made.
Apparently, Potter had actual contact with the opposite sex. Draco wondered if he should feel sorry for the poor girl-- but no, he wasn't that altruistic, was he. He loved it when he managed to stumble upon something like this without even trying. It didn't happen very much, but when it did... oh, it was sweet. So sweet.
"I bet she'd cried long and hard, too. Was she a wailer, Potter? Is that how you get a girl wet?" Draco's mouth hurt from grinning so much. It felt unnatural, but he couldn't stop. This was too much.
Shockingly, there was still room for deeper coloration, because Potter flushed a darker shade yet. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen anyone this red, not even a Weasley. It was rather interesting, purely from an aesthetic viewpoint. Unlike with a Weasley, though, Draco found he liked seeing Potter completely overcome like this. It wasn't his doing, exactly, but he wasn't complaining. Potter looked positively striken. It was great. He licked his lips in appreciation and Potter's eyes widened in blatant horror.
Really, really great. Horror was a good look on him.
That gave Draco an idea. It was highly unpredictable, Draco thought. This'll shut Potter up. Definitely.
Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring his own growing jitters. Potter was always making something out of nothing. Wanker. He was just-- just a stupid-- sodding-- Gryffindor--
"Aaaarrgh!" Draco growled, his mouth descending on Potter's without preamble.
Before he even knew what he'd done, Draco was moaning.
Why did Potter always have to ruin everything?
~~
There was a little pang in Draco's chest, kind of painful. It went down his middle, burning a bit. He didn't know what it was, but his heart was racing and his mind was foggy, though not with alcohol.
It was almost like he was scared, but not quite. His hands were shaking so he buried them in Potter's hair, making the other boy gasp into his mouth and press closer. That wasn't what he meant to have happen, was it?
Potter's hair was pretty soft to the touch after all, almost as soft as Draco's, but the texture was completely different. Draco wasn't sure different in what way, exactly. He would probably have to investigate more before he figured it out.
They were still standing right in the doorway, and Potter was pressing him uncomfortably hard into the doorjamb, but it was all right because he was panting into Draco's mouth and making tiny little impatient noises like he couldn't get enough of it. Those were the sounds of someone just about to become Draco's to do with as he pleased.
Except there was that painful pang again, that dart of pain right up his middle. It felt a bit like having to tell the truth when he had his heart set on lying. Or like the first moments after coming inside after a particularly long time out in the wintry wind, all of his exposed skin stinging madly. It felt like nothing he'd felt before, and Draco thought maybe Potter really was going to be end of him this time.
He held on tighter.
Draco was almost glad Potter was leaning him against something, because his knees felt like they were made of clay and water, and his hands were scrabbling at Potter's robes like he needed something to hold on to and nothing was working. His knees were going to buckle if this kept up. It was unacceptable, Draco realized that, though he couldn't quite seem to care enough to stop.
Wasn't there some sort of time limit on mistletoe-related snogs? As well as some sort of rule about location? Because now that Potter was mouthing Draco's jaw and nuzzling his ear and placing small pecks by his temples, Draco was starting to suspect they'd left the land of plausible deniability far behind. And perhaps more importantly, mistletoe blaming. This was going overboard, wasn't it?
He should stop it right now. It was awfully soppy to be standing like this and letting Harry Potter, of all people, manhandle him as if Draco liked it. Anyone could see them. He was even letting Potter muss up his hair.
There was a strange, warm feeling that spread through him the longer he kept going, though. It was nice. Draco hadn't realized he was this cold, either. Nor that Potter was this-- well-- hot. His lips were very warm, anyway. He'd been kissing him with his mouth closed, and it wasn't in Draco's nature to go in for this sort of thing without heavy tongue action, but for some stupid reason, Draco felt almost-- shy. So he stuck to licking at Potter's lips and trying not to sigh too obviously.
Mostly, Draco hadn't realized that something that hurt like this could make him so... so....
"Happy Christmas, Draco," Potter huffed against his mouth, slurring heavily. Was this Potter's idea of humor? This... this wasn't what he'd followed him for... was it? It couldn't be. He was clutching the front of Draco's robes in a most satisfying manner and taking quick little hitched breaths.
Clearly, Potter was desperate.
Happy? Draco thought, as if trying the concept on for size. To his great surprise, it seemed to fit pretty snugly. Draco opened his mouth to protest anyway.
And then Harry Potter slipped Draco the tongue. Draco's brain promptly melted like butter on a hot day, ceasing to function properly as most of his blood rushed to pool between his legs.
That's more like it, he thought distantly, tasting cider and sweet-bread and a number of Christmasy, sweet, filling things Draco couldn't quite identify. "Mmmmyeahyoutoo," he moaned, though he'd forgotten the last thing Potter had said already.
Draco was still hungry, and Potter tasted like a forgotten treat he hadn't had for a long time. He was going to have him now, and Potter couldn't do a thing about it. Finally, it seemed they agreed on something. He flipped them around experimentally, pressing Potter against the wall. The mistletoe wasn't even visible from this location.
Potter just slipped his arms around Draco's neck and groaned, his hips bucking a little at the added pressure. "God, Malfoy-- mmmmnghhh--"
Draco's belly gave a flutter and he moaned breathily, doing his best to inhale Potter's tongue into his mouth like he could consume him from the inside out. Funnily enough, Potter was apparently after the same thing, because Draco's mouth wasn't his own anymore either.
Naturally, this started a fight, trying to see who could inflict more damage: who could stab his tongue faster and harder and bite the other's lip just so and swirl and push and thrust his tongue deeper into the other's mouth.
Even if either of them had been keeping score, neither of them would've actually been winning, though Draco had gotten Potter to whimper obscenities into his mouth more than once. That probably counted for something. It was unclear what, except for the fact that every time Perfect Potter spat another curse in between sucks and bites and groans, Draco's cock got just that little bit more painfully hard.
Draco would've been utterly humiliated if he wasn't so far gone. And also, if he wasn't having a rather similar effect on Potter.
He couldn't remember why he'd ever thought this was a good idea or what this was supposed to give him, but he didn't care. If he didn't have more-- well. He would most likely be doomed to wanking over this for the rest of his natural life.
Happy? he thought again, delirious and bewildered and almost-- giddy.
Draco wasn't supposed to be happy, not while grinding himself to orgasm against Harry Potter's rigid cock in the middle of a public corridor. A Malfoy would be thinking about how to turn this to his advantage, probably. Draco just hoped Potter didn't plan on stopping anytime soon.
Hair-color aside, sometimes being a Malfoy wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Truth be told, Draco was flexible on certain things. Especially under the right circumstances.
Definitely when he was coming harder than he'd ever had in his life, his face buried in Harry Potter's neck as Potter's body shook and jerked against him.
"Yessss, Draco, oh yes, yes, yes," Potter chanted breathlessly.
Happy.
And it didn't hurt at all, really. It was a nice buzz, starting at his toes and filling him up to the top of his head, like he had a fever but it felt good. He felt good. Potter's "yes" made Draco warmer than all the cider and firewhisky and fresh-brewed coffee had, combined.
In the end, certain things had been worth waiting for.
I wrote fic as a sort of Christmas present to y'all-- well, I mean, what else can I do? Heh. And look ma, no porn!
Disclaimer: JKR owns Draco & his issues, too.
Warning: Christmas fluff! Rated R, because I don't write porn for Christmas, man. Not quite, anyway.
Dedication: To my friends-- you know who you are. Because my cards are going to be late, and because y'all mean more to me than you know.
And to the fandom-- Happy Christmas, everyone! Here's to another year of bickering over silly things & squeeing over the next movie. Because y'all help me get my priorities straight. So to speak.
I wish you joy.
Author's Note: Everyone needs to write a mistletoe fic at one time or another. It's the rules, right? So this is mine. Thanks muchly to Aja & Diana for the read-through. *hearts*
- By the Book -
Being blond really was all it was cracked up to be.
No one actually had to tell Draco-- he'd figured that out for himself. He could tell that certain things were important to a Malfoy from a very young age, when he saw his father brushing his fine, thinning silvery hair silently in his study. He looked so careful, so concentrated, as if he could keep himself from going bald by sheer force of will. He and his father never spoke of such things, but even then Draco knew that certain priorities were inescapable. Certain things went without saying.
As a first year, Draco had often been late to breakfast because he had to double-check his hair, but it was worth it. It was his hair, and if he didn't take care of it, who would? He needed to project the right image, yes, but most of all he needed the connection with all those memories of his far-away parents. He had his mother's silky texture and his father's silver tint; his mother's mouth and his father's chin. His parents disagreed on whose eyes he had. Mother usually claimed they were his grandmother's on the Black side, but this seemed to make his father rather put out, and Draco had never seen them get to the end of that particular argument. He didn't mind.
It took Draco until seventh year to notice what color Pansy Parkinson's eyes were. He'd assumed they were grey like his or possibly blue, until she'd tried holding his hand and asking him. Draco had swallowed and thought quickly. It had been dark outside, and Pansy was a mass of indistinct shapes and the overpowering scent of flowers.
"I say, do you even know mine? What brought this about?"
Pansy had sighed, probably settling in for another lecture on How To Treat Your Girlfriend.
"You're my boyfriend now, Draco. It's just one of those things that you're supposed to notice, all right? Just quit fooling around and tell me."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Blue?"
"Try again." Pansy had her we're-not-moving-till-you-crack voice. He'd hated that voice.
"Green?" Draco would probably have noticed green, but it was worth a try.
"God no! Don't make me sick, Draco."
Draco sighed. It was so tiresome having his House color muddied like this. Or possibly just Pansy reminding him of Potter. That was just not on. "Hey! It was just a guess, okay? So I give up, what is it?"
With a whispered Lumos, Pansy revealed the ugly truth. Brown. Mud-brown. Dirt-brown. Draco had to look away.
"I can't see it like this," he'd said, and in a way that was true.
Certain things were unexpected. The first time, and every single time after that, Draco thought he wouldn't go wrong if he did certain things by the book.
He'd tangle his fingers in Pansy's dirty blond curls and wait for the pang of pleasure at doing what a Malfoy should do, for once. Instead of satisfaction, somehow he'd feel cheated. This wasn't right. This was all Potter's fault again.
Quite a number of things were Potter's fault.
Draco didn't necessarily know how, exactly, but that didn't matter, because he knew anyway. And it was just getting worse as time went on. It was as if the world had gone mad, and Draco was the only sane one left. No one understood, not about Potter or what it meant to be a Malfoy or anything. Pansy didn't understand, not even after all these years.
"Get a bloody clue, will you?" she'd said, looking him in the eye in that soppy girly way that meant she wanted him to produce a rose from his robes' pocket. Draco knew what girls like Pansy wanted, but that didn't mean it was his job to give it to them.
"So will you go with me or not, Parkinson?" he'd said, feeling tired.
Pansy made a sort of growling sound and stomped off. "Does that mean no?"
"We're fucking over, Draco!" she screamed, slamming the door to the seventh year girls' room.
Just in time for Christmas, too. He supposed he was staying in Hogwarts this year, then. No use spending Christmas getting drunk with his mother, after all, was there. Draco could get drunk just as well alone, thank you very much.
On his fifth generous sip, Draco felt maudlin enough to dig out his silver-backed mirror. His mother had given it to him on his sixteeth birthday, because that was tradition and tradition stayed no matter what else had changed. She hadn't told him he was now a man or anything quite that obvious, but she did kiss his hair and cry a little. Draco hated it when she cried. It made him want to throw up even thinking about it, though that was partly the hang-over.
Draco sighed, twisting a lock of his hair around his index finger consideringly in front of the mirror.
It was white. You could barely see it since his hair was so light already, but there it was. Draco was aging before his time, and it was all Potter's fault, because it certainly wasn't his father's fault.
Draco didn't know what Potter had to do with it, exactly, but it had to be something, otherwise Draco's bile began to rise and his skin started to burn with hatred so fierce it could've singed the furniture. Draco didn't take disappointment at all well, and Draco's father was supposed to be there. He was supposed to be better than the rest of them, and stronger, and more clever. It was supposed to be easy. Draco was supposed to be laughing right now.
So it wasn't his father's fault. It was their fault. It was his fault. Fucking Potter had to fucking die. As soon as Draco could get up without falling flat on his face, he'd think of how, and that would be that.
His father wasn't really dead, anyway. He'd just gone into hiding, because that was what Malfoys did. They went into hiding and then returned when everyone would least expect it, stronger than ever. Invincible.
It was all Potter and his stupid cronies and the stupid Ministry and the stupid fucking war. They could all bloody die for all Draco cared. And he didn't, not anymore. They could all. Just. Die.
He swallowed another mouthful of that house elf's secret stash and sighed dramatically. It had been no problem getting Winky to share. He'd kept treating her like a house elf should be treated, even if most of the other idiots in this awful school didn't. She looked at him with teary adulation in her eyes, and Draco knew he could probably get her to refuse direct orders from Dumbledore for his sake. At least there was someone who was still loyal to him.
Light-headed and woozy, Draco sprawled on the floor as he leaned against his bed. There was no one to see, of course. They were all home, warm and cozy with their piles of presents and their living mothers and fathers waiting for them at the dinner table.
Draco rather liked feeling sorry for himself. It gave him something to do, besides go mad and try to maim Potter extravagantly right under Dumbledore's nose. Or set Hogwarts on fire. Or owl his mother telling her exactly what was on his mind.
He didn't need them. He didn't need any of them. He may be the only living Malfoy left in full possession of his faculties, but that was good enough. He would show them.
Draco's stomach growled.
He hadn't been down to the Great Hall for regular meals in several days now, and sometimes he forgot to ask Winky for food along with the drink. Maybe now was a good time to go down and have some of that cornish hen along with the weak cider they probably had out, if this year was like every other year. Draco was certainly drunk enough for the attempt, though not yet drunk enough to walk into walls. It was a good moment to make his move.
Walking through the massive doors to the Great Hall, Draco had to blink numerous times, trying to adjust to the sudden light and heat and festive air. Was the Christmas tree actually bigger this year? What were they trying to do, scare the first years?
Draco stumbled to his usual place at the Slytherin table unseeingly, trying not to weave about more than absolutely necessary. Possibly, he was slightly more tipsy than he'd thought. Winky must be brewing her liquor more harshly in time for Christmas. He'd remember to thank her, later, if he did that sort of thing. Which, of course, he didn't.
It took Draco a few moments to realize the Slytherin table wasn't actually set. There was a nice linen tablecloth, cheerily festive with little candy-canes and sprigs of evergreen, but for all the food there was, you'd have thought that Slytherin House had all collectively gone on extended sabbatical. To the Himalayas.
Somewhere in Draco's fogged-up brain, a memory surfaced, and he looked up. Oh. So there they were.
All of his Housemates (which meant Zabini and a fourth-year whose name escaped Draco most times) were clustered at the far end of the Gryffindor table. Draco blinked a few times, thinking this was an alcohol-induced vision, but no. There they were. There were also some random Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws at the opposite end.
It was probably another hare-brained idea of the Headmaster's, trying to get the Houses to band together and feel the love. Or the unity. Or some other such nonsense, like "Christmas spirit".
Harry Potter sat smack in the middle, brooding. All alone.
Potter looked as miserable as Draco felt. Good. The bastard had it coming. And then some.
Draco smiled, getting up before he'd thought better of it. All that meat and soup and bread looked rather good after his unintended fast lately.
He looked to the one side, where Zabini was practically weeping into his cider, and to the other, where some Ravenclaw breastless wonder was trying to wink at him, and failing. And then he sat right opposite Potter, not saying a word. It would've been slurred anyway, and Draco had quite enough embarrassment for one lifetime so far. He eyed the coffeepot shrewdly. That should do the trick, as long as he was bothering to hang around, he thought.
A quiet, semi-civil meal of ignoring each other and stuffing themselves as much as humanly possible was apparently too much to hope for, however.
"Well. Happy Christmas, Malfoy," Potter said sweetly. Draco tried not to choke on his chicken.
He chewed carefully, keeping his eyes on the food. Potter couldn't really be that dense, could he?
"I thought you'd died from malnutrition up there, but I suppose that was too much to hope for, after all."
Draco did choke that time, setting off a protracted coughing fit. Trust Potter to accidentally kill him by making him choke to death on a chicken bone from one of his idiotic attempts at wit.
"Are you all right, Malfoy?" Potter cried in what sounded almost like alarm. Ridiculous. "I wasn't-- I mean-- I was only-- do you need help?"
Almost immediately, the coughing stopped. At least Draco's body was on his side. The idea of Potter "helping" was enough to turn Draco a horribly festive shade of green.
Looking up was a bad idea, in retrospect. He was just going to say something suitably decimating like, "only if you need your fingers broken" while sneering for all he was worth, when he got caught again.
Draco didn't know what it was, exactly, that caught him. What was more, he didn't want to know. He just wanted it to go away, along with Potter's stupid wide-eyed stare and his stupid parted mouth and his stupid-- God, how-- pitiful-- perpetually sleep-tumbled hair which was currently falling over his eyes. Right that moment, he'd been blowing on a wayward strand irritably. He'd let it grow during the summer, and this past autumn it had just kept growing. And growing. Draco had gotten three haircuts of his own merely from the stress of watching it.
All of that ugly, coarse, black-as-coal mess, getting uglier and more unruly with every passing day.
Draco didn't know how Potter could stand it. He wondered if it was softer than it looked to the touch. Draco thought Potter was probably a lot softer than he looked. He couldn't be the only one who bruised easily, that'd just be too unfair.
Actually, Potter had soft-looking skin, especially around the mouth. It was moving in all sorts of obscene ways as he chewed and chewed and finally swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing prominently. So vulgar. It was disgusting.
That part about his body being on his side was a blatant lie, of course, but this was taking it a bit far.
He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly more miserable than he could've thought possible with all that firewhisky in him. All his blood had just rushed right between his legs, and it bloody ached. And Potter was staring at him like he'd never seen him before with those eyes. Those eyes again.
Draco knew exactly what color they were, too.
Just. Fucking. Perfect.
Draco returned his gaze to his chicken rather prudently, he thought. "Oh, get bent and bloody well die, Potter!"
"You're so predictable, Malfoy," Potter said, smirking. "Come to think of it-- that's what I like about you."
It was ridiculous. Potter, smirking like that. He looked something like a cross between a rakish hero and a mischievous nine year-old, except storybook heroes werent supposed to have ugly scars and even uglier glasses. Not to mention a hint of overbite. Draco noticed, even if no one else did. Draco could've catalogued all the ways in which Potter Is An Ugly Git, if he wanted to waste his time thinking about those sorts of things. Which he didn't, of course.
Potter was no hero. Potter was-- well-- Potter. Pathetic Potter. Poncey Potter. Puny-dick Potter, and so on.
And wasn't he supposed to be brooding? Why wasn't Potter brooding anymore? What was wrong? Shouldn't Draco's presence hurry that sort of thing along?
Besides that awful insinuation, Potter appeared to have cheered up somehow, just in time to ruin Draco's perfectly nice meal. Draco took offense to that, too. He grimaced sourly, eyeing the food that had looked so good only moments ago with utter distaste.
"Great! Now you've put me off my food. Thanks a lot, Potter! For the company, and the fucking holiday cheer. See you 'round, I'm sure." Draco hunted around for the napkin. He wasn't going to go without wiping his fingers. Some people still had manners, after all.
Potter looked abashed. Granted, Draco had been the one to throw the first volley, but who was counting? Besides, it was always Potter's fault. That was just a law that could never get broken. Even Potter couldn't do anything to break it. Potter, who thought rules didn't apply to him. Oh, but they did. They really, really did.
Well, great, Draco thought viciously. I hope he chokes on his sodding conscience.
Draco Malfoy was not predictable. There were such things as style. And reputation. And common sense. Things Potter clearly knew nothing about.
"I'm-- er-- I'm sorry, okay? It's Christmas, and--" Potter trailed off. Even he couldn't be daft enough to think their "problem" could be helped with a pleasant little dose of Christmas spirit, of all things. Hah.
Draco's "problem" was Potter's continued bloody existence. The Boy Who Lived Too Fucking Long was more like it.
"It's not Christmas till midnight, Potter," Draco said evenly. He was rather proud at his bearing. Perhaps he was getting better at that whole Malfoy Poise he was supposed to have been born with.
"It's Christmas Eve, Malfoy. Even I am not willing to trade the usual stale insults right now. Let's just-- I don't know. What do you say to a truce?"
Draco had to swallow hard so as not to sputter. "A-- what? Are you mad?" His voice rose an octave or two. "Better yet, are you drunk??"
Potter chuckled. "You're the drunk one here, Malfoy. Good thing I'm above taking advantage of that little fact, wouldn't you say?"
Potter's eyes were twinkling weirdly, like he was up to something. Draco didn't like the look of it. He felt cold for a moment. Potter didn't used to be this disturbing, did he? He couldn't be sure at the moment, but he had his suspicions. Besides, he wasn't an obvious drunk, not like some people. Those people being Ron Weasley and a famous incident involving whipped cream, garter-belts and Mrs. Norris.
"So what do you say? It's just one day out of the whole bloody year. We can swing it. Plus it'd make the cider more enjoyable, yeah?"
Draco paused slightly, for effect. It would be really cute if Potter was sincere. That would make it all the more hilarious. He was sure. In retrospect. Probably tomorrow, when Draco was less drunk.
"You're absolutely raving, aren't you," said Draco flatly. "I always knew it, but this is good solid evidence. You realize that, right?"
Potter's look turned vaguely long-suffering. "Bollocks. God, get over yourself already, Malfoy. You'll have more fun, I promise. People might actually like you. Or not-- but you might at least not get hexed as often."
He really shouldn't have mentioned that, about the hexing. Now it was a matter of pride.
"I was just leaving, Potter, like I said. I don't know why I'm still here. It's certainly not the company." Draco spared a quick glance for Zabini, who was now at the opposite end of the table. He seemed to have had too much cider and was presently all but drooling down the neck of some nameless Hufflepuff. At least this one had breasts. Still-- Hufflepuff. Draco shuddered delicately. He had to get out while he had what remained of his sanity, missing napkin be damned.
Draco spared one last semi-longing look for his half-eaten dinner and got up, already planning on telling Winky exactly which left-overs he wanted, and how much. He'd probably only have to wait ten minutes, and there was something to be said for supper in bed. Besides "messy", "lonely" and "somewhat pathetic". And anyway, no one had to know.
"Well, fine then! Just go, then!" Potter yelled after him. "And you know what? Your hair is too bloody yellow! How often do you dye it, anyway? Every morning, right?"
Oh. So he wasn't the only one a little tipsy, then. How... deeply uninteresting. Draco turned around, already at the corridor that would take him back to the dungeons fastest.
"Now there's a low blow, Potter. Really. Crushed. And by the way-- have fun with the Hufflepuffs for me!"
Draco loved having the last word, he really did. It never got old.
~~
He was in no hurry to get back to his room, however. The more he thought of Christmas dinner by himself-- or worse yet, with Zabini and whoever else watching as he ate in the Common Room-- the slower Draco walked. He'd already had enough to take the edge off.
Draco was approaching the huge door that lead to the last corridor before Slytherin territory with some reluctance. Maybe he could-- do something. Except there was nothing to do. Maybe he could give up and go home. Yeah, that sounded like an idea. Mother didn't try to strike up stupid conversations, and there was his own perpetually heated Quidditch pitch to practice in. It would be fine. He could even pretend the Manor was his, and--
Potter chose that moment-- and Draco knew it could only be Potter-- to bump into his back, cursing softly under his breath.
"Bloody hell!" Draco whipped around, ready to draw his wand at last. To hell with goddamned Christmas spirit and truces and everything else-- this was the last straw. His insult died on his lips, nearly forgotten when he got a good look at Potter's face. He'd never seen Potter wear that particular expression while looking at him before. "Are you following me?!"
"What? Of course not, I--" And then something else seemed to catch his attention, because Potter was blushing. No, not just blushing-- his face was beginning to match the crimson of his tie. Not that Draco really looked at Potter's tie, except in a cursory sort of way. Gryffindors made him ill, but it paid to know thy enemy. That was all part of being a Malfoy.
Neither of them said anything for long moments. What could one say in a situation like this? The best bet would've been just to ignore it and keep walking, but now that Potter drew both their attention to the innocuous-seeming plant above their heads, there was little left that could be done.
Draco pulled his wits together with an effort, since apparently it was up to him. He coughed a little before speaking, but his voice sounded surprisingly normal. "We don't have to kiss, Potter, if that's what you're thinking." He sounded sure of himself, too. That was certainly a relief. "It's only mistletoe. It won't bite your arse if you walked right on by." Draco laughed. No one ever appreciated his fine sense of humor, so he might as well laugh at his own jokes, right.
Potter certainly didn't. Instead of laughing, he just gaped at him like a bloody goldfish. It was really unattractive. Well, more unattractive than usual for Potter.
"And it's not like I'd cry if you didn't, either. I'd cry if you did, more like," Draco sneered. Potter's expression didn't change. If anything, he seemed more dumbstruck than ever at Draco's little dig. He'd been counting on a half-arsed insult at the very least.
Potter really did seem almost unnaturally dense sometimes. Draco had merely pointed out the obvious. In fact, he thought he'd been clever.
"Er-- no. I mean." Potter winced a bit, obviously aware of his deep and abiding cluelessness. Damningly, however, he still didn't move. "No. Of course not. I wasn't--"
Draco smirked. "Bad memories, eh? Some unlucky bird burst out crying 'cause your snogging skills are so rubbish? C'mon, you can tell me." He grinned. "Although I can tell I'm right. I'm right, aren't I!" Draco laughed again, delighted. It was almost too good to be true, but somehow it was. Draco's day was made.
"She didn't-- they're not-- shut UP, Malfoy!" And they were back to clenched fists and dark glares.
Draco liked Potter this way: angry but too flustered to draw his wand. And Potter's vehement protest was more damning than any sort of assent he could've made.
Apparently, Potter had actual contact with the opposite sex. Draco wondered if he should feel sorry for the poor girl-- but no, he wasn't that altruistic, was he. He loved it when he managed to stumble upon something like this without even trying. It didn't happen very much, but when it did... oh, it was sweet. So sweet.
"I bet she'd cried long and hard, too. Was she a wailer, Potter? Is that how you get a girl wet?" Draco's mouth hurt from grinning so much. It felt unnatural, but he couldn't stop. This was too much.
Shockingly, there was still room for deeper coloration, because Potter flushed a darker shade yet. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen anyone this red, not even a Weasley. It was rather interesting, purely from an aesthetic viewpoint. Unlike with a Weasley, though, Draco found he liked seeing Potter completely overcome like this. It wasn't his doing, exactly, but he wasn't complaining. Potter looked positively striken. It was great. He licked his lips in appreciation and Potter's eyes widened in blatant horror.
Really, really great. Horror was a good look on him.
That gave Draco an idea. It was highly unpredictable, Draco thought. This'll shut Potter up. Definitely.
Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring his own growing jitters. Potter was always making something out of nothing. Wanker. He was just-- just a stupid-- sodding-- Gryffindor--
"Aaaarrgh!" Draco growled, his mouth descending on Potter's without preamble.
Before he even knew what he'd done, Draco was moaning.
Why did Potter always have to ruin everything?
~~
There was a little pang in Draco's chest, kind of painful. It went down his middle, burning a bit. He didn't know what it was, but his heart was racing and his mind was foggy, though not with alcohol.
It was almost like he was scared, but not quite. His hands were shaking so he buried them in Potter's hair, making the other boy gasp into his mouth and press closer. That wasn't what he meant to have happen, was it?
Potter's hair was pretty soft to the touch after all, almost as soft as Draco's, but the texture was completely different. Draco wasn't sure different in what way, exactly. He would probably have to investigate more before he figured it out.
They were still standing right in the doorway, and Potter was pressing him uncomfortably hard into the doorjamb, but it was all right because he was panting into Draco's mouth and making tiny little impatient noises like he couldn't get enough of it. Those were the sounds of someone just about to become Draco's to do with as he pleased.
Except there was that painful pang again, that dart of pain right up his middle. It felt a bit like having to tell the truth when he had his heart set on lying. Or like the first moments after coming inside after a particularly long time out in the wintry wind, all of his exposed skin stinging madly. It felt like nothing he'd felt before, and Draco thought maybe Potter really was going to be end of him this time.
He held on tighter.
Draco was almost glad Potter was leaning him against something, because his knees felt like they were made of clay and water, and his hands were scrabbling at Potter's robes like he needed something to hold on to and nothing was working. His knees were going to buckle if this kept up. It was unacceptable, Draco realized that, though he couldn't quite seem to care enough to stop.
Wasn't there some sort of time limit on mistletoe-related snogs? As well as some sort of rule about location? Because now that Potter was mouthing Draco's jaw and nuzzling his ear and placing small pecks by his temples, Draco was starting to suspect they'd left the land of plausible deniability far behind. And perhaps more importantly, mistletoe blaming. This was going overboard, wasn't it?
He should stop it right now. It was awfully soppy to be standing like this and letting Harry Potter, of all people, manhandle him as if Draco liked it. Anyone could see them. He was even letting Potter muss up his hair.
There was a strange, warm feeling that spread through him the longer he kept going, though. It was nice. Draco hadn't realized he was this cold, either. Nor that Potter was this-- well-- hot. His lips were very warm, anyway. He'd been kissing him with his mouth closed, and it wasn't in Draco's nature to go in for this sort of thing without heavy tongue action, but for some stupid reason, Draco felt almost-- shy. So he stuck to licking at Potter's lips and trying not to sigh too obviously.
Mostly, Draco hadn't realized that something that hurt like this could make him so... so....
"Happy Christmas, Draco," Potter huffed against his mouth, slurring heavily. Was this Potter's idea of humor? This... this wasn't what he'd followed him for... was it? It couldn't be. He was clutching the front of Draco's robes in a most satisfying manner and taking quick little hitched breaths.
Clearly, Potter was desperate.
Happy? Draco thought, as if trying the concept on for size. To his great surprise, it seemed to fit pretty snugly. Draco opened his mouth to protest anyway.
And then Harry Potter slipped Draco the tongue. Draco's brain promptly melted like butter on a hot day, ceasing to function properly as most of his blood rushed to pool between his legs.
That's more like it, he thought distantly, tasting cider and sweet-bread and a number of Christmasy, sweet, filling things Draco couldn't quite identify. "Mmmmyeahyoutoo," he moaned, though he'd forgotten the last thing Potter had said already.
Draco was still hungry, and Potter tasted like a forgotten treat he hadn't had for a long time. He was going to have him now, and Potter couldn't do a thing about it. Finally, it seemed they agreed on something. He flipped them around experimentally, pressing Potter against the wall. The mistletoe wasn't even visible from this location.
Potter just slipped his arms around Draco's neck and groaned, his hips bucking a little at the added pressure. "God, Malfoy-- mmmmnghhh--"
Draco's belly gave a flutter and he moaned breathily, doing his best to inhale Potter's tongue into his mouth like he could consume him from the inside out. Funnily enough, Potter was apparently after the same thing, because Draco's mouth wasn't his own anymore either.
Naturally, this started a fight, trying to see who could inflict more damage: who could stab his tongue faster and harder and bite the other's lip just so and swirl and push and thrust his tongue deeper into the other's mouth.
Even if either of them had been keeping score, neither of them would've actually been winning, though Draco had gotten Potter to whimper obscenities into his mouth more than once. That probably counted for something. It was unclear what, except for the fact that every time Perfect Potter spat another curse in between sucks and bites and groans, Draco's cock got just that little bit more painfully hard.
Draco would've been utterly humiliated if he wasn't so far gone. And also, if he wasn't having a rather similar effect on Potter.
He couldn't remember why he'd ever thought this was a good idea or what this was supposed to give him, but he didn't care. If he didn't have more-- well. He would most likely be doomed to wanking over this for the rest of his natural life.
Happy? he thought again, delirious and bewildered and almost-- giddy.
Draco wasn't supposed to be happy, not while grinding himself to orgasm against Harry Potter's rigid cock in the middle of a public corridor. A Malfoy would be thinking about how to turn this to his advantage, probably. Draco just hoped Potter didn't plan on stopping anytime soon.
Hair-color aside, sometimes being a Malfoy wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Truth be told, Draco was flexible on certain things. Especially under the right circumstances.
Definitely when he was coming harder than he'd ever had in his life, his face buried in Harry Potter's neck as Potter's body shook and jerked against him.
"Yessss, Draco, oh yes, yes, yes," Potter chanted breathlessly.
Happy.
And it didn't hurt at all, really. It was a nice buzz, starting at his toes and filling him up to the top of his head, like he had a fever but it felt good. He felt good. Potter's "yes" made Draco warmer than all the cider and firewhisky and fresh-brewed coffee had, combined.
In the end, certain things had been worth waiting for.