FIC: Seas Between Us Broad Have Roared (Harry/Draco - 2700 - NC-17)
Title: Seas Between Us Broad Have Roared
Author/Artist: ???
Pairing(s): Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Prompt: 50, about hating New Year's Eve
Word Count/Art Medium: 2700
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Fluff and Smut, Insomnia, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, New Year's Eve, Kissing, 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: Thanks to Q for the brainstorming and the beta and the friendship. The dingoes joke is just for you. And thanks to the mods for running this fest!
Summary: It's New Year's Eve, the first since the war, and Harry's moved into a new flat in an old Muggle building. All he wants is to sleep through the whole stupid celebration... but that wouldn't be much of a story, now, would it?
(READ ON AO3)
There’s a good lift in Harry’s new building. A proper old-fashioned one that rattles and clinks and chimes, and has a needle that ticks off how high you rise. It’s the best thing about the whole place; the flat itself is fairly awful, despite the steep rent.
“Paying for the view, I suppose, love?” Molly had said when she’d visited, awkwardly, the day after he’d moved in last week. She came with a custard tart and left half an hour later in tears, bustling about to try to hide it. Harry hadn’t known why.
After she was gone, he sat down in front of his huge window and leaned his head against the glass. He ate the entire tart with a fork, straight from the pan, and then watched the sky grow dark and the city lights come on. He could see the bridges, out over the river. Being this high up makes him feel like maybe he’d want to fly again. Maybe. Someday.
But the flat’s old, dingy and drafty - he can feel the chill seep in through the dodgy windows that don’t close tightly - and the hallways are dismal, with musty carpets and the smells of too many neighbours’ suppers all mixed together. The view and the lift are the only good things about it, really.
At 5pm on New Year’s Eve, a cold twilight already firmly settled over the whole of London, Harry’s returning from buying groceries. He punches the button for the eleventh floor and slumps against the back wall of the lift, the railing bumping up against his tailbone.
He’s still a bit sore from moving out of Grimmauld. He’d insisted on packing and hauling cardboard boxes himself - under a glamour, of course, because the bloody press would have had a bloody field day with "Harry Potter Abandons Grimmauld, Moves Into Muggle High-Rise, Probably Losing His Marbles, Is His Wizarding Life Over, More on Page 5!!!"
But Harry had found comfort in moving his things the Muggle way. In the end, he’d had far more in those boxes than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t realised he had that many things to care about.
In that spirit, he unpacks the groceries and makes himself an omelet for dinner, cracking three eggs, scrambling them up, turning the liquid round and round in the pan. He adds cheese and salt and pepper, flips it onto a plate with a little flourish, and eats the whole thing standing over the sink.
He glances over at the kitchen clock with one hand in London time and one on Sydney time. Hermione’d bought it for him before she and Ron left for Australia. They did Floo calls every week and they always sounded warm and happy, hopping about with dingoes, or whatever it was one did in Australia. Forgetting about the war, probably. Forgetting about him. Being happy, or happier, at least. He hopes they’re happier.
His own sadness - depression, if he’s honest - is boring and repetitive, more than anything else. It’s a low hum, not a siren. He’s tired of being lonely, tired of being tired, tired of thinking about the war. Leaving Grimmauld was supposed to help; he’s not sure yet if it has.
Harry’d run into Draco Malfoy on the street, hauling one of the last giant boxes from his moving van into the building. Malfoy had looked stunned, and not altogether happy, to see him; he’d called Harry a wanker twice in one conversation and implied that he was bringing down the tone of their newly shared London neighborhood. Malfoy looked better than he had any right to, with his hair cropped close to his head and a giant scarf wrapped around his neck a hundred times. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, light pink on creamy skin, gray eyes glittering in the winter sun.
Harry has every intention of sleeping through London’s stupid New Year’s Eve celebration. Fireworks over the Thames, sloshed revelers snogging in the streets - it could all go straight to hell. Harry hates fireworks, for obvious reasons. And even before the war, when he got to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays, he used to spend New Year's Eve hiding. Too much forced happiness for his tastes.
He makes himself a cup of tea and carries it into his bedroom, padding along in bare feet. He sits on the edge of his bed and scrolls aimlessly on his phone while he drinks it, wanders around on YouTube, debates some Muggle porn but doesn’t have the energy.
Instead, he decides to call it a night, cleans his teeth, comes back to bed and pulls up the comforter over himself. He won’t allow himself to cast a Tempus charm; he knows it’s ridiculously early.
He brings down his usual silencing charms and tries to sleep, but it’s far too early, and insomnia kicks in almost immediately. His usual film begins playing in his head: the final battle, curselight, the Forest of Dean, Ron leaving, flash to the Dursleys, the bars on the windows, Hedwig falling from the air, digging Dobby’s grave, George, Voldemort’s laugh, the splintering glass in the Hall of Prophecy, George again, back to the final battle, back to the forest, back to the cupboard, fuck.
He thrashes about in bed for who knows how long, until he hears a thumping that’s loud enough to break through his silencing charms. When he pulls down the charm with an angry wave of his hand, he realises his wards are chiming as well, urgently, and bloody hell, this is enough to wake up the dead, let alone his neighbours.
Drawing his wand, Harry stumbles out of bed and bangs open the door.
Of course.
Malfoy looks like a snack.
Harry’s traitor mind offers that unhelpful thought, before the rest of his brain can catch up and tamp it back down to wherever it came from. The heat’s up too high in the flat, blasting and dry, and Harry swallows hard.
“Merlin, Potter, were you asleep already?” Malfoy’s brushing past him into the flat before Harry even has a chance to move aside. He’s brought with him the smell of the cold outside air, far more crisp and lovely than Harry remembered it being earlier.
“Your wards are as tight as a bloody fortress. Are you paranoid these days? What do you suppose would happen in this Muggle monstrosity you’ve moved into? Your neighbours must all think you’re just some rumpled student at uni with rich parents or something, living off a trust fund. They probably think you’re as rich as old Allie Gringott-“
While he’s droning on, Draco manages to give Harry a cool, appraising glance and he’s suddenly aware of his rumpled hair and sweaty pyjamas. When was the last time he’d washed this ancient t-shirt properly? He’d Vanished salsa off it after breakfast today, but that hardly counted. And here’s Malfoy dressed to the nines, a peacoat that nips in tight at the waist and tight jeans and- is that makeup he’s got on?
Meanwhile, Malfoy is still talking. “-another reason you ought to come out with me tonight. There’s a whole world out there, Potter. There are better ways of forgetting than pulling a blanket over your head.”
“It wasn’t on my head, you twit,” he responds automatically, the first words he’s said since he opened the door. Malfoy smiles as though getting Harry to speak means he’s won some sort of contest, and truly he’s got some nerve to have that kind of smile on him when Harry’s still just trying to adjust to the fact of his presence in his flat.
“Not literally on your head, Potter. I meant - hiding. You don’t have to hide.” Malfoy’s still smiling that smile, and it’s simply too much, Harry has to smile back. It’s like his face doesn’t consult with his brain first and just responds, automatically, right along with some sort of buzz down his spine that warms his whole body and settles, unsettlingly, in his groin. He shifts, hoping Malfoy doesn’t notice.
Of course he notices. As Malfoy’s eyes slide down Harry’s body, his long lashes, blackened with some sort of makeup, tilt down and practically brush his cheeks. Harry’s distracted, shifting again and wondering whether he’s ever noticed another human’s eyelashes before and whether all of them are that bloody attractive. But he notices when Malfoy finally drags his gaze back up and his eyes look different, somehow, darker, more wicked, and he’s biting his bottom lip.
“We’re alive, Potter. Whether we deserve to be- well, whether I do- that's still an open question, but who cares, tonight. Come out with me.”
And then there’s a sparkle of possibility, a glimmer on the words even though they’re not magic. Or maybe they are, Harry can’t be sure.
His pause is long enough for Malfoy to decide he’s bringing Harry along, apparently, and he’s suddenly caught in a rush of magic. With his standard look of distaste back on his face, Malfoy hits Harry with an Outfit Totalicus and two tailoring charms in quick succession, spinning him around.
He stands back to admire his work - Harry looks down to see himself suddenly sporting a tight black t-shirt, even tighter black trousers, a leather jacket full of buckles that don’t even seem to close; is this what Malfoy would have him wear?! - and finishes with a sharp cleaning charm right to Harry’s face, his teeth and cheeks getting a harsh invisible scrub and his hair rearranging itself into some poncy fauxhawk sticking straight off his head. Harry reaches up and touches it gingerly. Is that what hair gel feels like?
He huffs out a laugh in disbelief. “I’m not going anywhere with you,“ he begins, but Malfoy rolls his eyes and cuts him off.
“Oh, spare me the theatrics, we both know you’re coming,” he mutters, and he grabs Harry’s arm and Apparates them out directly into the night, into a street full of people, into the freezing night air of an old, exhausted year about to turn new.
***
Hours later but still before midnight, Harry’s back in the lift. But this time, Malfoy’s crowding him against the rail, pressing the whole of his body against him. They haven’t kissed yet, their mouths just an inch apart, all hot breath and rosy cheeks, Draco’s cold hands rucking up under Harry’s shirt. Harry gives a yelp and Draco smiles, a small sweet smile just for him, and Harry grabs him tighter. He’s thrown off balance, then, fully pressed against Harry, and Harry can’t help himself moving his hips, reaching, rubbing against Draco’s leg where it’s pressed between his.
Draco’s breath catches in his throat and he seems to try to bite back a sound, but Harry’s too close, they’re too tangled, he can feel the rising and falling of Draco’s chest against his own. It’s too much, all of it, and he’s trying to hold back but his traitor hips tilt up again of their own accord until he’s properly frotting against Draco, far too many layers of denim against denim, with Draco’s leg firmly slotted between his own.
When Draco drops to his knees, Harry jams his hand on the button, all the buttons, any button. The lift jerks to a stop, but no alarms ring.
Thank Merlin this thing is knackered, Harry thinks, as Draco makes short work of the buttons on his trousers, jerks open his zipper, and mouths him over the thin grey cotton of his pants. Harry arches up and has to steady himself against the bar. He can’t stifle a gasp, loud and dramatic in the tiny elevator, and that seems to prompt Draco to give some sort of involuntary low growl and finish the work of taking Harry’s cock out. In the lift, the same one where he helped Mrs Cartwright in 6B pick up all the shopping she’d dropped from a torn bag earlier that day. Draco’s knees - Draco, on his knees, his mind emphasized enthusiastically - were in just the spot where her large ham had landed.
Although his mind may be overwhelmed to the point of distraction, Harry’s cock is paying close attention. Draco’s teasing it, using his hand and his tongue, stroking and licking, enveloping it in his mouth for a tantalising moment and then pulling back to tease again. Harry’s hips buck again, harder this time, and Draco has to reach up for the bar to brace himself.
Harry, unthinking, throws his head back and it hits the wall, and the jolt of pain somehow goes straight to his cock, and fuck, this was about to be over far too soon.
Draco must recognise the signs. Without properly taking off Harry’s pants, he stumbles to his feet, lipstick smeared, hair a mess, wrecked and delicious.
“What do you say we restart this thing? I assume your bed is a touch more comfortable than the lift floor.” His voice is rough and scratchy, which turns Harry on so instantly and completely that he doesn’t even realise why his voice sounds that way, doesn’t even connect it to his dick roughing up the back of Draco’s throat, until he’s replaying this moment in his head days later.
He can’t even speak, he just shakes his head and blindly, wandlessly, waves his hand at the buttons. He doesn’t even think of a spell, just casts his will toward the panel, thinking only, go go go.
The elevator jerks upward again so hard that both of them nearly lose their balance, speeding upward far too fast, and Draco's whole body presses into Harry. He fists his hands in Harry’s hair and frots against him, almost like he can’t help it, can’t stop himself. It’s perfect, just the perfect friction in the perfect place, and then Harry’s coming in the bloody lift. It rushes over him like a wave, exploding in his body and his mind, and he gives a full-body shudder and grabs Draco and makes the most embarrassing moan right into his shoulder. His body goes slack and he, very seriously, considers Apparating directly to Antarctica or Siberia, or no wait, if he’s going to exile himself, maybe somewhere warm like or Fiji-
“The fuck, Potter?!" Draco sputters, and Harry doesn't know if he's talking about the elevator or him coming in his pants like a teenager. They’re still speeding upward and off balance, hanging onto each other, but Draco grabs Harry's hand and pulls it down to the bulge in his crotch.
Harry barely has time to gasp before the lift jerks to a stop and the doors slam open on his floor. They tumble out into the corridor, all tangled limbs, partly tripping over each other. The two of them kneel together in the hallway and laugh, and listen as the doors bang shut again and the whole lift rattles like a cage as it descends, clanging down to the ground floor far below them.
"Fuck," Draco repeats, breathless from laughter. "You'd better get me off too before that thing comes back to get its revenge.” He kisses Harry properly, hard, and Harry kisses back, and that’s where the new year finds them.
***
A few more hours later, they’ve finally made it to Harry’s bed. (Draco’s cast half a dozen freshening charms on his bed, themselves, and everything within his wand’s radius.) Harry’s on his back and Draco is curled into him like a comma, head on his chest.
Harry’s about to doze off when he hears Draco singing under his breath.
“Whazzat?” he mumbles,
“Auld Lang Syne. The new year’s song. I make sure to sing the whole thing through every year, for good luck.” His voice is gentle, impossibly so - an entirely new way for Draco Malfoy to speak, in Harry’s experience.
“How’s that good luck worked out for you so far?” Harry asks, rubbing his hand over the nape of Draco’s neck.
He snorts in response. “Point taken. Maybe this year, though…” he says, and lets the words trail off, his voice drifting into sleepy silence.
“Yeah, maybe this year.” Harry smooths Draco’s hair back from his forehead and they drift off together, in the middle of the London sky.
***
Title from a verse of Auld Lang Syne, which is oddly beautiful and weirdly Drarry-appropriate. Via Wikipedia:
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely you'll buy your pint cup!
and surely I'll buy mine!
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine†;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.
Author/Artist: ???
Pairing(s): Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Prompt: 50, about hating New Year's Eve
Word Count/Art Medium: 2700
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Fluff and Smut, Insomnia, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, New Year's Eve, Kissing, 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: Thanks to Q for the brainstorming and the beta and the friendship. The dingoes joke is just for you. And thanks to the mods for running this fest!
Summary: It's New Year's Eve, the first since the war, and Harry's moved into a new flat in an old Muggle building. All he wants is to sleep through the whole stupid celebration... but that wouldn't be much of a story, now, would it?
(READ ON AO3)
There’s a good lift in Harry’s new building. A proper old-fashioned one that rattles and clinks and chimes, and has a needle that ticks off how high you rise. It’s the best thing about the whole place; the flat itself is fairly awful, despite the steep rent.
“Paying for the view, I suppose, love?” Molly had said when she’d visited, awkwardly, the day after he’d moved in last week. She came with a custard tart and left half an hour later in tears, bustling about to try to hide it. Harry hadn’t known why.
After she was gone, he sat down in front of his huge window and leaned his head against the glass. He ate the entire tart with a fork, straight from the pan, and then watched the sky grow dark and the city lights come on. He could see the bridges, out over the river. Being this high up makes him feel like maybe he’d want to fly again. Maybe. Someday.
But the flat’s old, dingy and drafty - he can feel the chill seep in through the dodgy windows that don’t close tightly - and the hallways are dismal, with musty carpets and the smells of too many neighbours’ suppers all mixed together. The view and the lift are the only good things about it, really.
At 5pm on New Year’s Eve, a cold twilight already firmly settled over the whole of London, Harry’s returning from buying groceries. He punches the button for the eleventh floor and slumps against the back wall of the lift, the railing bumping up against his tailbone.
He’s still a bit sore from moving out of Grimmauld. He’d insisted on packing and hauling cardboard boxes himself - under a glamour, of course, because the bloody press would have had a bloody field day with "Harry Potter Abandons Grimmauld, Moves Into Muggle High-Rise, Probably Losing His Marbles, Is His Wizarding Life Over, More on Page 5!!!"
But Harry had found comfort in moving his things the Muggle way. In the end, he’d had far more in those boxes than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t realised he had that many things to care about.
In that spirit, he unpacks the groceries and makes himself an omelet for dinner, cracking three eggs, scrambling them up, turning the liquid round and round in the pan. He adds cheese and salt and pepper, flips it onto a plate with a little flourish, and eats the whole thing standing over the sink.
He glances over at the kitchen clock with one hand in London time and one on Sydney time. Hermione’d bought it for him before she and Ron left for Australia. They did Floo calls every week and they always sounded warm and happy, hopping about with dingoes, or whatever it was one did in Australia. Forgetting about the war, probably. Forgetting about him. Being happy, or happier, at least. He hopes they’re happier.
His own sadness - depression, if he’s honest - is boring and repetitive, more than anything else. It’s a low hum, not a siren. He’s tired of being lonely, tired of being tired, tired of thinking about the war. Leaving Grimmauld was supposed to help; he’s not sure yet if it has.
Harry’d run into Draco Malfoy on the street, hauling one of the last giant boxes from his moving van into the building. Malfoy had looked stunned, and not altogether happy, to see him; he’d called Harry a wanker twice in one conversation and implied that he was bringing down the tone of their newly shared London neighborhood. Malfoy looked better than he had any right to, with his hair cropped close to his head and a giant scarf wrapped around his neck a hundred times. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, light pink on creamy skin, gray eyes glittering in the winter sun.
Harry has every intention of sleeping through London’s stupid New Year’s Eve celebration. Fireworks over the Thames, sloshed revelers snogging in the streets - it could all go straight to hell. Harry hates fireworks, for obvious reasons. And even before the war, when he got to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays, he used to spend New Year's Eve hiding. Too much forced happiness for his tastes.
He makes himself a cup of tea and carries it into his bedroom, padding along in bare feet. He sits on the edge of his bed and scrolls aimlessly on his phone while he drinks it, wanders around on YouTube, debates some Muggle porn but doesn’t have the energy.
Instead, he decides to call it a night, cleans his teeth, comes back to bed and pulls up the comforter over himself. He won’t allow himself to cast a Tempus charm; he knows it’s ridiculously early.
He brings down his usual silencing charms and tries to sleep, but it’s far too early, and insomnia kicks in almost immediately. His usual film begins playing in his head: the final battle, curselight, the Forest of Dean, Ron leaving, flash to the Dursleys, the bars on the windows, Hedwig falling from the air, digging Dobby’s grave, George, Voldemort’s laugh, the splintering glass in the Hall of Prophecy, George again, back to the final battle, back to the forest, back to the cupboard, fuck.
He thrashes about in bed for who knows how long, until he hears a thumping that’s loud enough to break through his silencing charms. When he pulls down the charm with an angry wave of his hand, he realises his wards are chiming as well, urgently, and bloody hell, this is enough to wake up the dead, let alone his neighbours.
Drawing his wand, Harry stumbles out of bed and bangs open the door.
Of course.
Malfoy looks like a snack.
Harry’s traitor mind offers that unhelpful thought, before the rest of his brain can catch up and tamp it back down to wherever it came from. The heat’s up too high in the flat, blasting and dry, and Harry swallows hard.
“Merlin, Potter, were you asleep already?” Malfoy’s brushing past him into the flat before Harry even has a chance to move aside. He’s brought with him the smell of the cold outside air, far more crisp and lovely than Harry remembered it being earlier.
“Your wards are as tight as a bloody fortress. Are you paranoid these days? What do you suppose would happen in this Muggle monstrosity you’ve moved into? Your neighbours must all think you’re just some rumpled student at uni with rich parents or something, living off a trust fund. They probably think you’re as rich as old Allie Gringott-“
While he’s droning on, Draco manages to give Harry a cool, appraising glance and he’s suddenly aware of his rumpled hair and sweaty pyjamas. When was the last time he’d washed this ancient t-shirt properly? He’d Vanished salsa off it after breakfast today, but that hardly counted. And here’s Malfoy dressed to the nines, a peacoat that nips in tight at the waist and tight jeans and- is that makeup he’s got on?
Meanwhile, Malfoy is still talking. “-another reason you ought to come out with me tonight. There’s a whole world out there, Potter. There are better ways of forgetting than pulling a blanket over your head.”
“It wasn’t on my head, you twit,” he responds automatically, the first words he’s said since he opened the door. Malfoy smiles as though getting Harry to speak means he’s won some sort of contest, and truly he’s got some nerve to have that kind of smile on him when Harry’s still just trying to adjust to the fact of his presence in his flat.
“Not literally on your head, Potter. I meant - hiding. You don’t have to hide.” Malfoy’s still smiling that smile, and it’s simply too much, Harry has to smile back. It’s like his face doesn’t consult with his brain first and just responds, automatically, right along with some sort of buzz down his spine that warms his whole body and settles, unsettlingly, in his groin. He shifts, hoping Malfoy doesn’t notice.
Of course he notices. As Malfoy’s eyes slide down Harry’s body, his long lashes, blackened with some sort of makeup, tilt down and practically brush his cheeks. Harry’s distracted, shifting again and wondering whether he’s ever noticed another human’s eyelashes before and whether all of them are that bloody attractive. But he notices when Malfoy finally drags his gaze back up and his eyes look different, somehow, darker, more wicked, and he’s biting his bottom lip.
“We’re alive, Potter. Whether we deserve to be- well, whether I do- that's still an open question, but who cares, tonight. Come out with me.”
And then there’s a sparkle of possibility, a glimmer on the words even though they’re not magic. Or maybe they are, Harry can’t be sure.
His pause is long enough for Malfoy to decide he’s bringing Harry along, apparently, and he’s suddenly caught in a rush of magic. With his standard look of distaste back on his face, Malfoy hits Harry with an Outfit Totalicus and two tailoring charms in quick succession, spinning him around.
He stands back to admire his work - Harry looks down to see himself suddenly sporting a tight black t-shirt, even tighter black trousers, a leather jacket full of buckles that don’t even seem to close; is this what Malfoy would have him wear?! - and finishes with a sharp cleaning charm right to Harry’s face, his teeth and cheeks getting a harsh invisible scrub and his hair rearranging itself into some poncy fauxhawk sticking straight off his head. Harry reaches up and touches it gingerly. Is that what hair gel feels like?
He huffs out a laugh in disbelief. “I’m not going anywhere with you,“ he begins, but Malfoy rolls his eyes and cuts him off.
“Oh, spare me the theatrics, we both know you’re coming,” he mutters, and he grabs Harry’s arm and Apparates them out directly into the night, into a street full of people, into the freezing night air of an old, exhausted year about to turn new.
***
Hours later but still before midnight, Harry’s back in the lift. But this time, Malfoy’s crowding him against the rail, pressing the whole of his body against him. They haven’t kissed yet, their mouths just an inch apart, all hot breath and rosy cheeks, Draco’s cold hands rucking up under Harry’s shirt. Harry gives a yelp and Draco smiles, a small sweet smile just for him, and Harry grabs him tighter. He’s thrown off balance, then, fully pressed against Harry, and Harry can’t help himself moving his hips, reaching, rubbing against Draco’s leg where it’s pressed between his.
Draco’s breath catches in his throat and he seems to try to bite back a sound, but Harry’s too close, they’re too tangled, he can feel the rising and falling of Draco’s chest against his own. It’s too much, all of it, and he’s trying to hold back but his traitor hips tilt up again of their own accord until he’s properly frotting against Draco, far too many layers of denim against denim, with Draco’s leg firmly slotted between his own.
When Draco drops to his knees, Harry jams his hand on the button, all the buttons, any button. The lift jerks to a stop, but no alarms ring.
Thank Merlin this thing is knackered, Harry thinks, as Draco makes short work of the buttons on his trousers, jerks open his zipper, and mouths him over the thin grey cotton of his pants. Harry arches up and has to steady himself against the bar. He can’t stifle a gasp, loud and dramatic in the tiny elevator, and that seems to prompt Draco to give some sort of involuntary low growl and finish the work of taking Harry’s cock out. In the lift, the same one where he helped Mrs Cartwright in 6B pick up all the shopping she’d dropped from a torn bag earlier that day. Draco’s knees - Draco, on his knees, his mind emphasized enthusiastically - were in just the spot where her large ham had landed.
Although his mind may be overwhelmed to the point of distraction, Harry’s cock is paying close attention. Draco’s teasing it, using his hand and his tongue, stroking and licking, enveloping it in his mouth for a tantalising moment and then pulling back to tease again. Harry’s hips buck again, harder this time, and Draco has to reach up for the bar to brace himself.
Harry, unthinking, throws his head back and it hits the wall, and the jolt of pain somehow goes straight to his cock, and fuck, this was about to be over far too soon.
Draco must recognise the signs. Without properly taking off Harry’s pants, he stumbles to his feet, lipstick smeared, hair a mess, wrecked and delicious.
“What do you say we restart this thing? I assume your bed is a touch more comfortable than the lift floor.” His voice is rough and scratchy, which turns Harry on so instantly and completely that he doesn’t even realise why his voice sounds that way, doesn’t even connect it to his dick roughing up the back of Draco’s throat, until he’s replaying this moment in his head days later.
He can’t even speak, he just shakes his head and blindly, wandlessly, waves his hand at the buttons. He doesn’t even think of a spell, just casts his will toward the panel, thinking only, go go go.
The elevator jerks upward again so hard that both of them nearly lose their balance, speeding upward far too fast, and Draco's whole body presses into Harry. He fists his hands in Harry’s hair and frots against him, almost like he can’t help it, can’t stop himself. It’s perfect, just the perfect friction in the perfect place, and then Harry’s coming in the bloody lift. It rushes over him like a wave, exploding in his body and his mind, and he gives a full-body shudder and grabs Draco and makes the most embarrassing moan right into his shoulder. His body goes slack and he, very seriously, considers Apparating directly to Antarctica or Siberia, or no wait, if he’s going to exile himself, maybe somewhere warm like or Fiji-
“The fuck, Potter?!" Draco sputters, and Harry doesn't know if he's talking about the elevator or him coming in his pants like a teenager. They’re still speeding upward and off balance, hanging onto each other, but Draco grabs Harry's hand and pulls it down to the bulge in his crotch.
Harry barely has time to gasp before the lift jerks to a stop and the doors slam open on his floor. They tumble out into the corridor, all tangled limbs, partly tripping over each other. The two of them kneel together in the hallway and laugh, and listen as the doors bang shut again and the whole lift rattles like a cage as it descends, clanging down to the ground floor far below them.
"Fuck," Draco repeats, breathless from laughter. "You'd better get me off too before that thing comes back to get its revenge.” He kisses Harry properly, hard, and Harry kisses back, and that’s where the new year finds them.
***
A few more hours later, they’ve finally made it to Harry’s bed. (Draco’s cast half a dozen freshening charms on his bed, themselves, and everything within his wand’s radius.) Harry’s on his back and Draco is curled into him like a comma, head on his chest.
Harry’s about to doze off when he hears Draco singing under his breath.
“Whazzat?” he mumbles,
“Auld Lang Syne. The new year’s song. I make sure to sing the whole thing through every year, for good luck.” His voice is gentle, impossibly so - an entirely new way for Draco Malfoy to speak, in Harry’s experience.
“How’s that good luck worked out for you so far?” Harry asks, rubbing his hand over the nape of Draco’s neck.
He snorts in response. “Point taken. Maybe this year, though…” he says, and lets the words trail off, his voice drifting into sleepy silence.
“Yeah, maybe this year.” Harry smooths Draco’s hair back from his forehead and they drift off together, in the middle of the London sky.
***
Title from a verse of Auld Lang Syne, which is oddly beautiful and weirdly Drarry-appropriate. Via Wikipedia:
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely you'll buy your pint cup!
and surely I'll buy mine!
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine†;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.