It's my birthday gift to me! I'm so happy! :)
Okay, so a little over three months ago, I suddenly had this flash of inspiration for a H/D one-shot (naturally), and as my birthday was coming up, I decided to aim to finish it by then and thus celebrate the day of my birth in style ;) What can I say; it seemed like a good idea at the time *shrugs*. Anywho, to cut a long (long) story short, here it is, complete at last *maniacal laughter*.
Title: Truth or Dare (please ignore the sheer crapiness of the title, it was all I could come up with at the time).
Characters: Harry, Draco, with appearances by Hermione, Weasleys, various other ex-Hogwarts students, and Lucius and Narcissa.
Pairing: It should really go without saying, but: H/D.
Warnings: Slash, much swearing, lots of implied meanings, and a rather vague masturbation scene.
Disclaimer: The usual: I do not own Harry Potter, I only wish I did. HP belongs to JKR, the lucky woman.
Rating: Just to cover my back, we'll put this at a nice round +15 (if that's even a legitimate rating).
Summary: When you're lonely and bored, you'll do almost anything to shake it off. Even play a game of Truth or Dare.
When Harry Potter moved into the house next-door, Draco almost packed up and moved out.
He’d been happy in this neighbourhood; the people were nice and pleasant - except for that old bitch in number seventeen, the one with all the Kneazles, but she was mad as a hatter anyway, and who cared about her? - and none of them seemed in any way perturbed that Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and son of Lucius Malfoy to boot, was living amongst them. Granted, most of them probably didn’t even know their own names, never mind his, since not a single one of them was under the age of a hundred. But at least none of them spat on him when he walked past, or talked about him in ridiculously loud whispers, as had happened in his Camden flat almost on a daily basis. And now Potter had to come along and ruin it all, with his stupid scar, and his ever-present entourage of the bloody paparazzi, and disrupt the quiet little bubble of peace Draco had been building up since the end of his father’s trial a few years ago.
And as if having Potter in the vicinity wasn’t bad enough, the fucking Chosen One had the nerve to host party after all-night party, so that Draco often woke up at night with music blasting through the thin wall adjoining his house to Potter’s, trying in vain to ignore the sounds of obvious revelry and get back to sleep.
If Draco was honest, the only reason those parties pissed him off something awful was because he wasn’t invited. And that wouldn’t have bothered him one bit … if he hadn’t seen Blaise Zabini staggering from Potter’s place, hand wrapped around a can of lager, emphatically telling Potter that it was the best party he’d ever been to, and Potter replying that he was welcome any time. Draco had been incensed at that. Potter had no doubt despised Blaise as much as he had Draco when they were at school, and yet here they were, acting like Hogwarts had never happened and having the time of their lives, and there Draco was, holed up in his house, stuck in a job he resented, reduced to listening at windows just so he could feel included in the celebratory mood that still gripped the country, even now, several years after the Dark Lord’s death - and he was as miserable as sin.
It wasn’t bloody fair, damn it; he’d suffered as much as anyone had - when was he allowed to just relax and enjoy himself? But Draco had been on the ‘wrong side’ during the war, and no one, no one, would ever let him forget it.
The parties died down after about a month or so, for which Draco was eternally grateful, although every couple of weeks, thereabouts, Potter’s house would fairly jump with loud music and hysterical laughter. Draco had thought about complaining to Potter directly, but most likely he’d just get yet another door slammed in his face, and things would continue as they were now. Besides, it just wasn’t worth the humiliation that would surely descend on Draco the minute Potter and his groupies found out he was living next-door.
And then … oh God, it must have been some sort of sick, cosmic joke, but Draco had gone outside to get the paper one morning - because the boy who delivered it was a sodding lazy little git and could never be bothered to drop it off inside the gate - and there was Potter, wearing nothing but a pair of grey boxer shorts and a navy-blue dressing-gown open to the waist, standing on his own doorstep. They’d stared at each other for a total of thirty seconds, and then Potter had given a nod and a sleepy sort of smile and gone back inside, leaving Draco standing in the early morning sun, staring at the place Potter had just been.
Ever since then, of course, Draco had, for some bizarre reason unbeknownst even to himself, kept picturing the v of pale skin that Potter’s open dressing-gown had exposed and imagining all the delightfully wicked things he could do to it … and really quite despising himself for thinking them in the first place.
Fact was, he was twenty-five and hadn’t got laid in a year, so even a glimpse of Potter’s - rather impressive, it had to be admitted - torso in broad daylight was bound to make him sweat and think dirty, dirty thoughts. But as if it wasn’t bad enough that he kept wanking off to the image of fucking Potter senseless, he eventually started to dream about it too, which was just not on. This was Potter, paragon of virtue and bane of Draco’s existence, and wasn’t it just so disgustingly ironic that Draco would develop this - this absolutely nauseating obsession with the man after catching only a glimpse of bared flesh. What was he, some kind of blushing virgin? It was ridiculous, and Draco found himself wishing for the days when Potter had been just a distant annoyance, miles away from Draco and his peaceful little life.
***
Draco returned from his job at St Mungo’s - a cushy little number in the Experimental Potions division, and while he might like the work, his colleagues were right bastards who never let him forget he and his family’s fall from grace - one Thursday evening, a month or so later, expecting yet another night in front of the telly (marvellous invention, even if it was made by Muggles), eating whatever he could dig out of the freezer because he was too shattered to do any serious cooking, and falling into bed fully-clothed because getting undressed was too much of an effort. He was about sit down and eat, planning to watch an old House re-run - alright so he had a soft spot for Wilson, so what? - when the throbbing bass of the Weird Sisters’ new song thundered through the house.
Draco closed his eyes, counted to ten … Actually, he only managed to get to five before he slammed his knife and fork down, jumped out of his seat and was hammering on Potter’s door before he even realised he’d moved.
This was the third time this week that he’d been disturbed by one of Potter’s parties; was it really too much to ask just for a bit of peace and quiet? It wouldn’t usually bother him, but he’d had an extremely harrowing day, putting up with more of his co-workers’ shite, and he was damned if he was going to handle another long, sleepless night just because Potter fancied a bit of booze and music. He pounded a fist against the door again.
Not that he expected anyone to hear him, so he was surprised when the door swung open, and Potter himself was standing there.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Draco considered just offing himself now and saving himself the embarrassment of being caught drooling on Potter’s doorstep. Honestly, didn’t the fucker ever get dressed? Or did he just spend his days in various states of half-nakedness, giving innocent people an eyeful of that rather delectable chest, and biceps you could bounce a Galleon off?
“Malfoy,” Potter said, and he had to be drunk because the Potter Draco knew would never be able to say his name in such calm, even welcoming tones. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if I could have a word with you,” Draco said, which wasn’t at all what he really wanted to say in regards to Potter’s question. “It’s about your music. Can you -”
“Damn, is it too loud?” Potter asked suddenly, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Draco wished he would stop. It wasn’t a turn on at all. Really. “Christ, sorry Malfoy, I’ll turn it down. I had no idea -”
“Whatever, Potter,” Draco cut in, not particularly interested in the man’s explanation. “Just keep in mind that there are other people living in this street.”
“Yeah, yeah I will. Sorry,” Potter said again, and even managed to sound like he meant it.
A shout from inside Potter’s house made Potter turn, and Draco thought about slipping away now while the other man was distracted, but then Potter faced him again, a smile in his eyes.
“Hey, Malfoy,” he said, “fancy joining the party?”
“Tempting, Potter. But a night spent with you and the Weasley horde is not exactly what I had in mind.” Draco said it, hoping to get a rise from Potter, one that would remind them both that they were arch-rivals and that inviting each other to parties wasn’t quite the way to keep that up.
But Potter just gave him a slow smile that clearly said, What did you have in mind then?, and said, “Daphne Greengrass, remember her? She works with Hermione, she and her younger sister are here. And Blaise as well, he’s a regular guest, and Neville, Hannah and Susan are here too,” Potter added, tilting his head to one side. “So it’s not just me and "'the Weasley horde,'" he grinned. “Fancy it?”
And Draco knew he should have said no, knew the best thing to do would be to fob Potter off with an excuse, turn around and go back to his own home. Alone. Again.
No.
He couldn’t, just couldn’t, spend one more night the same way he’d been spending them ever since he’d moved in. A solitary meal. A couple of hours either watching TV or reading. Then bed, and up for work at six-thirty. Even the idea of it was pure torture, and Draco knew there was no way he was going to refuse Potter’s offer, so he resigned himself to the fact that a) he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, b) he had to spend several hours in forced company with a bunch of Gryffindors, and c) Potter and his naked self was going to be right there with him.
Suddenly, the prospect of Weasleys, sleep deprivation and loud music didn’t seem quite so bad.
***
When Potter led Draco into his living room - by the wrist as well: was he completely shit-faced drunk or just insane? - there was an instant hush in the loud conversation filling the room. The lead singer of the Weird Sisters warbled on into the void from the radio, but all eyes fell upon Draco, standing in the doorway, now extremely uncomfortable and wishing Potter would do something that he’d find a complete turn-off.
Not that that was likely.
Meanwhile, Potter dropped onto the sofa, pulling his legs up so that Draco would have somewhere to sit. Draco took the seat hesitantly - it was unfortunately located next to Granger, and he had to resist the urge to shy away from her and her Mudblooded self - and tried to stare down the curious and slightly hostile looks he was getting from Potter’s mates.
Blaise waved at him from where he was sprawled out over a cushion before the fire, and Daphne gave him a smile as she handed him a drink. Astoria, on the other hand, jumped up and hugged him, squealing, “Draco! Good to see you!” into his ear. Bugger. The girl had always had an unfortunate fondness for him, but at least she was glad to see him. Time was he would have held her at arms length and favoured her with a vague smile, but now he hugged her back and exchanged a few pleasantries with her - how their mothers were doing, how long he’d been living next door to Potter, and how they each were faring now after the war was done.
Shortly after Draco’s arrival, the tension in the room started to ease a bit, and he found himself relaxing as the alcohol and general easiness of those around him started to work its magic. At first he said little and only half-listened to the various Weasley family anecdotes that seemed to be in full flow and had the others in stitches, and then Potter glanced over at him and smiled, and Draco was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that Potter’s foot was just inches from his thigh, and that he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. After that, Draco began to join the conversation, saying almost anything and everything in his head just so he didn’t have to think about the man sitting right next to him, and blaming his sudden looseness of tongue on the alcohol.
About an hour later, inebriated inspiration struck Susan Bones as she reclined in her seat, legs dangling over one arm of the chair, her head pillowed by the other. She sat up suddenly - almost toppling out of the chair as she did so - and said, “I know!”
It was during a lull in conversation, so her voice rang clearly through the room, catching everyone’s attention. Ron Weasley glanced lazily up at her and asked what the hell she was on about.
“I’ve got an idea,” Susan said, eyes sparkling somewhat glassily. “Let’s play Truth or Dare.”
At once, half of the room’s occupants agreed loudly that this was a good idea, and the other half vehemently protested that Truth or Dare was a stupid game, and anyway they were all a bit too drunk to do anything requiring much effort.
They were overruled. In Draco’s experience, Truth or Dare had a life of its own; once invoked, it had to be played, spreading embarrassment and shame, and spawning hundreds of domestic arguments as people were dared to do the most outrageous things.
It probably goes without saying that Draco was one hundred percent up for playing it.
In any usual situation - not that anything in the past few years had been usual - he wouldn’t have bothered, but now … he’d spent so long living day to day, just going through the motions that, for once, and with alcohol zinging around in his bloodstream, he just wanted to let go of every inhibition and anxiety and play the goddamn game. The minute he voiced his opinion, Potter sat up and agreed with him, which pretty much sealed the deal. Potter’s house, Potter’s rules, after all.
And that, as they say, was that.
***
They seated themselves in a circle, pushing the sofa and armchairs out of the way so they’d have enough room. Cushions and drinks were handed around, and everyone made themselves comfortable on the carpeted floor, Draco leaning against the sofa, with Potter still sitting by his side. It was starting to unnerve him.
Granger started, as Draco had known she would, and picked Hannah Abbott, who chose Truth immediately. He hoped he wasn’t surrounded by those boring people who always picked Truth because they were embarrassed by the dares other people gave them. He personally usually chose Dare.
“Alright, Hannah,” Granger said, and paused while she thought of a question. “Okay, where’s the weirdest place you and Neville have had sex?”
Hannah blushed bright red, Longbottom almost purple, and mumbled, “Hogwarts, behind the greenhouses.”
There was a chorus of catcalls and whistles, though Draco privately marvelled at the fact that she and Longbottom had actually had the nerve to have sex full stop. Then Hannah, cheeks still faintly pink, chose Astoria, who also picked Truth. She was a Slytherin, though, so Draco knew her Truth would probably be as interesting as a dare.
"What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever done it?” Hannah said, which Draco had expected. They’d all get this one, sooner or later. It was the standard question of the game.
Astoria thought for a minute, absent-mindedly taking a drink from her glass. “I think,” she said eventually, “I think it was at our Hogwarts leaving party. With Alexander Belmont, he was in Ravenclaw.”
“What, you just did it? Right in front of everyone?” Ron asked, staring at Astoria like he’d never seen anything so awe-inspiring.
She shook her head, though still managed to look slightly pleased with herself. “In the toilets, which isn’t much better. But he was a bit of an exhibitionist and I was willing to give it a go.” She smiled, cat-like. “Fancy it, Weasley?”
Weasley nodded fervently; Draco glanced over at Granger, who looked merely amused, which was a surprise. Hadn’t the two of them been absolutely mad for each other at school? What had changed between then and now? Potter noticed him looking and murmured, “They haven’t dated in three years. All that time they bickered and we thought it was sexual tension. Turns out it was just regular tension and they were completely incompatible.”
He grinned as he pulled away from Draco - and when had he got so close? Draco wondered - and went back to the game. Astoria had asked the same question of her sister, and Daphne had replied and gone on to ask one of the other Weasleys lounging underneath the window. Once everyone had answered the question, including Draco, they went round the circle once more.
Daphne was dared to flash the rest of the group, which she did with considerable relish, and which caused Weasley’s jaw to drop to the floor. Blaise chose Truth and Susan asked him what his sexuality actually was, since no one seemed to know; Blaise just smirked and said he refused to label himself with such restrictive categories, to which everyone had looked at each other and said, “Bi,” at the same time. Then someone dared Potter to wear women’s clothing for the rest of the night, which Potter accepted more readily than was strictly necessary, and Granger conjured up a truly hideous pink, flowery dress that Potter donned immediately.
When he came back from the bathroom, Draco almost bit his tongue in half trying to keep from licking his lips. Against all the laws of nature, Potter looked fucking hot in a dress. It clung in all the wrong places and should have looked completely ridiculous, and yet … Draco couldn’t stop staring.
He was dwelling so deeply on this oddity that he didn’t realise it was his turn until Granger nudged him sharply with her elbow and he turned to glare at her, finding the eyes of everyone in the room fixed on him again.
"What?” he snapped, and Granger jerked her head in the direction of the Weaselette.
Ginny rolled her eyes. “I asked you, Truth or Dare, Malfoy?” she said, her tone a spot-on imitation of Draco’s drawl.
“Dare,” Draco said at once, and then regretted it immediately when Ginny’s smile turned sly.
“I dare you,” she said slowly, “to knock on the door of number seventeen and ask the cow who lives there for a … a cup of sugar. And you have to be naked,” she added, with the air of a magician revealing the finale of her act.
Draco’s first thought was, Oh, so you’ve met the old bitch too, have you?, and then her words actually permeated his alcohol-fogged brain, and he quickly wondered whether he could off the Weaselette and make it look like an accident.
And then he smiled. This was more like it. If this didn’t shake off the torpid boredom that had been plaguing him for at least the last year, then nothing would. Hell, he could already feel the hot curl of anticipation in the pit of his stomach, and he hadn’t even started.
“Gonna do it then, Malfoy?” One of the other Weasleys, whose name Draco had never bothered learning, spoke up, sounding thoroughly doubtful that he would.
Draco set down his glass and stood up. “Naturally,” he smirked, and started unbuttoning his shirt.
He was extremely gratified when Potter let out an odd, choked squeaking sound as the material fell from his shoulders, and Ginny leaned across Ron to whisper to Hermione, “Christ, if I’d known he looked like that under his clothes, I’d never have ignored him at school.” Putting that revolting thought firmly to the back of his mind, Draco started on his jeans, toeing off his shoes and socks and then sliding the denim from his legs. There were a few more admiring murmurs, which Draco was thrilled to hear; he knew he was no troll, but living alone for five years would make anyone doubt their appearance, even one such as his own.
God, this was fantastic. Adrenalin was making his whole body sing and his heart beat twice its normal rate, and Draco felt more alive than he had in a very long time. If he’d known all it would take was a few drinks and a party to make him feel this good, he would’ve insinuated himself into Potter’s life ages ago. He was about to take off his boxers when Potter suddenly coughed and sat up poker-straight.
“Er, Gin?” he said, and Draco was pleased to hear his voice was all hoarse and croaky. “Does Malfoy have to be … um, completely naked to do this?”
“Well yeah, Harry,” Ginny said in surprise. “Truth or Dare, you know?”
Potter just closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Right, right, Truth or Dare,” he said weakly, and leaned back against the sofa.
“Carry on then, Malfoy,” Ginny said, sounding breathless with excitement, and Draco, just this once, obliged her and tugged off his underwear.
Longbottom and Weasley both gagged and turned away quickly from the sight of a naked Draco Malfoy, but almost everyone else leaned forward interestedly. There was a smug, “Told you,” from Blaise, which made Draco roll his eyes and smirk even wider, and then he glanced down at Potter and …
Oh. Holy. Fuck.
Potter’s face was flushed and his eyes held the most unashamedly hungry look Draco had ever seen. They raked over his body with obscene slowness and lingered slightly on his cock, which, surprise, surprise twitched under the scrutiny. Then their gazes met, and the green of Potter’s was almost obscured by the black of his dilated pupils, and it was quite possibly the most erotic moment of Draco’s life. Intense? Wasn’t even in the vicinity of being able to describe it …
And then, as Draco somehow managed to get his breath back, the moment passed, and the others were urging him on with his dare, practically dragging him outside and pushing him in the direction of number seventeen.
***
“Well. I wasn’t expecting that reaction.”
“Yeah …”
“I mean, I always knew Kneazles were vicious little buggers, but bloody hell …”
“I know …”
“It’s all your fault, Ginny,” Ron spoke up, nudging his sister in the ribs.
“My fault? How come?” Ginny said hotly. “I never said he had to do the dare, did I?”
This was the conversation Draco heard upon re-entering the living room, wincing a bit; fucking Kneazles deserved to be rounded up, shoved in a sack and subjected to a thousand Cruciatus curses. And Mrs Number Seventeen should be made to join them … honestly, that woman was insane.
He’d gone along to her house, completely starkers still, and knocked on her door. About twenty bloody minutes after he’d knocked, she’d shuffled her way to the door, opened it as slowly as she possibly could and then just stared at him, standing on the doorstep, freezing his balls off. And then, when he’d asked for the cup of bloody sugar - sugar! What had the Weaselette been thinking of? - the old bitch had gone fucking berserk and started setting her pet Kneazles on him! Bastards had tried to scratch every inch of flesh from his bones. The only reason he hadn’t been ripped to shreds was because he’d run like hell back to Potter’s the minute she’d grabbed the nearest Kneazle.
The others hadn’t said a word as he’d staggered back into the house and straight into the bathroom. Someone had silently handed him his clothes while he had cleaned himself up, and everyone very kindly kept their laughter to a minimum. Now he walked back into the living room, took his seat and downed two shots of Firewhisky without saying anything, and the game soon resumed as normal.
As more and more alcohol was consumed, the group started picking Truth simply because it was easier than trying to gear their heavy limbs into action for a dare. Some truly astonishing truths were revealed as well, some that Draco could quite happily have lived without knowing: Susan had once had a crush on Snape, (“It was the hands! I have a thing about hands!”), and Granger was kinky, apparently, which was the icing on the cake of Too Much Information.
And then they came to Potter, who also chose truth, and Astoria asked him: “Who in this room do you want to get off with most?”
“Blaise,” Potter said immediately, and there was an outburst of drunken giggling and catcalling until he added, “And Ginny, and Susan. Oh, and Malfoy of course.”
There was instant silence, and then everybody started talking at once. One of the Weasleys exclaimed, “Malfoy, Harry? Why the hell would you want to kiss that ferret-faced git?” and Astoria, smirking widely, asked Potter what his reasons were for wanting to kiss the four people he’d just named.
“Well,” Potter began slowly. “Blaise because he has a nice mouth. Ginny because she’s a good kisser -” someone laughed at that, and Weaselette flushed hotly, though she was grinning smugly “- Susan because I’m curious. And Malfoy …” the room went deadly silent again, “Malfoy because I want to see what else that mouth can do besides smirk.”
Draco vaguely wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. There were many loud shouts of laughter around him, but he couldn’t for the life of him see what was so funny. Perhaps they thought Potter was joking, though one look into those green, lust-filled eyes was enough to give Draco hope that he really wasn’t.
It was too much to take. He couldn’t sit in the room another minute with Potter staring at him like that, not without spontaneously combusting or something equally ridiculous. Draco jumped up and practically flew to the bathroom, where he slammed the door closed and locked it firmly, before leaning against the wood and sliding down to the floor.
He wasn’t sure why he was acting like this. He’d been lusting after Potter for quite a while now; surely the reassurance that Potter had been doing the same should come as a relief? And yet relief was about the only thing he wasn’t feeling at that precise moment. It was just … the thought of Harry Potter fancying him, Draco Malfoy, wasn’t just completely and totally insane. It was also completely and totally right. It made absolute sense.
And it scared the absolute shit out of him.
It shouldn’t be right; it should be utterly abhorrent to him, but his entire mind and body seemed to be very keen on the idea. It should make him want to hex Potter into a thousand tiny little bits, but it just made him want to shag the man senseless. And it didn’t look as though the feeling was going away any time soon.
But do you want it to?
A voice had woken up in the back of his head, making Draco want to beat it repeatedly against a brick wall. It was bad enough that his emotions were in complete disarray, but did his own mind have to turn on him too? He’d only ever suffered such introspection twice before in his life - once, funnily enough, when Potter had turned him down for Weasley. That had been a bit of a black day in Draco’s life because, up until then, he’d always got everything he’d wanted. That was the first time anyone had ever turned him down, and it had opened his eyes to the world beyond the little microcosm that had been built for him at Malfoy Manor. The second time he’d probed his own thoughts so deeply had been the day after he’d first met the Dark Lord, the day he’d been given the despicable task of murdering Dumbledore. He’d spent every waking moment dwelling on the problem, even going so far as to question the life that was being laid out before him, when he’d previously never given it a thought.
Maybe he was analysing it too much. Maybe he was acting as he had every day until now, so careful and cautious that he’d cocooned himself in a web of false security that was now being ripped to shreds before his very eyes. Maybe he should just give his mind a break and let the rest of him take over.
Maybe he should just stop being so damn afraid all the time, and actually get on with life.
What have I got to lose? he asked himself.
Your dignity, self-respect and reputation, his brain answered immediately.
Oh well. He hadn’t had those in a long time anyway. Besides, at least this way he went out with a bang.
Smiling to himself, he stood up and opened the door.
***
Potter was outside, fist raised as though about to knock on the door. They stood there for the longest ten seconds of Draco’s life, and then Potter dropped his hand and took a step back.
And there it was. Tension. Thick enough to cut with a knife and choking the very breath out of him. The tension he only ever got with Potter, because Potter was the only one who ever got to him enough that he could feel it. It made him want to simultaneously dash from the house and snog the life out of the dark-haired man before him, and yet he couldn’t get his limbs to coordinate to do either.
“What I said in there -” Potter began uncertainly, drifting closer, but Draco cut him off.
“Potter, just shut up,” he said, suddenly overwhelmingly tired. “If you meant it, that’s fucking brilliant. If not, well … I really hope you meant it.”
Potter stared at him blankly, and for a second Draco was afraid he’d said too much. Then Potter hesitantly hooked a finger in Draco’s collar and, half pulling and half leaning forward, tugged him across the foot-wide gap between them and …
At that moment, Weasley stumbled from the living room and completely broke the charged silence that had descended on the hallway outside the bathroom. Draco and Potter jumped apart like they were same-sided magnets being forced together, while Weasley stared at them, dumbfounded (which was very similar to his usual expression, and therefore not at all unexpected).
“Er … I was just wondering if you were coming back to the game, Harry,” he said, at least having the grace to look embarrassed.
Potter threw him an extremely irritated look, but said, “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”
Weasley nodded and went back into the living room, throwing curious looks over his shoulder every now and then, as though wondering what Potter and Draco were doing. Which was a whole lot of nothing, Draco realised; they were just standing there again, trying very hard to pretend everything was still perfectly normal, despite the fact that they were avoiding each other’s gazes and blushing like it was going out of fashion.
“So, erm …” Draco began, and then coughed, appalled that his voice had gone horribly croaky. “I should really get going,” he went on, in a slightly less nervous tone.
“No!” Potter said loudly, causing Draco to raise an eyebrow. Potter flushed an even deeper shade of red and said, his voice calmer, “No, you don’t have to leave.”
“But I probably should. I have work tomorrow, and I …” Draco trailed off at the utterly crushed look on Potter’s face.
“It’s not even midnight yet, you’ll have plenty of time for sleep … Come on, just a little bit longer? You get to see me make an even bigger prat of myself.”
Draco felt his mouth twitch upwards in a smirk. “I’m not sure that’s possible,” he said, gesturing to the flowery pink dress, which Potter was still wearing.
Potter grinned sheepishly, and Draco cursed himself for finding it endearing. “Yeah, I look like a complete arse in this, don’t I?” he said, tugging at the collar, exposing yet more of that amazing collarbone.
“No,” Draco said quietly, wrenching his gaze away. “That’s the problem.”
Potter blinked at him a bit. Then his mouth stretched into a smile and he took just one step forward, towards Draco, who felt his heart jump up to somewhere in the region of his throat.
“Well then,” Potter said in a low voice, leaning close to Draco. “I’d better keep it on then, hadn’t I?”
Draco found himself nodding before he’d even thought about it. And then he thought, Keep it on? Fuck that, and said, “No, I think I’d better stay a bit longer and figure out how to get you out of it.”
“Oh really?” Potter was grinning again, and they were gravitating towards each other as though they couldn’t help it - which was true, Draco realised. He could no more stop this than cease breathing, and he had about as much inclination to, as well. “I reckon you’ll be here for a while then.”
“Promises, promises,” Draco teased, and, smirking widely at the hungry look on Potter’s face, turned around and sauntered back into the living room.
He could tell at once that the others had been talking about himself and Potter. It was in their faces as they glanced at him and then hurriedly looked away as Potter came up behind him. For a second, Draco felt Potter’s hand at the small of his back, sliding under his shirt, and then the dark-haired man had retaken his seat in front of the dying fire and was staring back at him, almost daring Draco to take his own seat, and smirking in that predatory, seductive way that made the hairs on Draco’s arms stand up.
When he’d sat down, making sure to lean against Potter’s entire left side in the process, a short silence ensued, and then, in a would-be casual voice, Weasley said, “So, shall we get back to the game?” A murmur of assent followed, and then once again, Truth or Dare began.
If Draco had thought it had been difficult to concentrate before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. He couldn’t move without experiencing little jolts of pleasure as his skin and Potter’s came into contact, and every time that happened, he’d have to close his eyes at the sheer electricity of it and he’d lose his focus and forget whose turn it was. Potter looked like he was suffering a similar fate, if the occasional twitching and throat-clearings were anything to go by.
One of them was going to snap, and soon, if they carried on for much longer. Draco was entertained for a few minutes by the image of himself shoving Potter to the floor and just jumping him, but then Susan said his name and that made him glance up.
She dared him to kiss Blaise. As far as dares went, it was hardly exciting stuff, but it was infinitely preferable to kissing, say, Longbottom or Weasley, or, dear Merlin forbid, Granger, so he shrugged and didn’t argue. After all, he and Blaise had kissed a few times when they were younger, once more would hardly be torture, so he leaned across the circle as Blaise did the same.
A sudden hand on his arm stopped him. He glanced back to find Potter holding him back and glaring at Blaise.
“That’s not a proper dare,” he protested, ignoring Draco’s increasingly irritated attempts to remove his arm. “That’s boring. I mean, Malfoy and Blaise actually like each other. It’d be much better if he kissed … oh, I dunno, Ron or Hermione, or someone.”
Jealousy was not something Draco found attractive, partly because it was petty, but mostly because he could get jealous enough for two people, so he wasn’t looking for the same quality in others. And alright so he fancied the arse off Potter - that didn’t mean Potter had any right to turn into a possessive bastard and try to stop him having a bit of harmless fun.
Thus, when he next spoke, it was to retort, “Satan will ice-skate down the road of the damned before I kiss Weasley or Granger, Potter.” He paused to send Potter a look that was as far as possible from the heated, lusty gazes they’d exchanged earlier. “So unless you have someone else in mind, I suggest you bugger off and keep your nose out.”
He leaned towards Blaise, only to be stopped again, this time by Granger’s voice.
“Well,” she said, in a reasonable sort of tone, and Draco decided right then and there that she should share the same fate as Mrs Number Seventeen and her psycho pets. “Why don’t you kiss Harry?”
The silence in the room was absolute. No one moved, not even Draco, who was considering leaving now while he still had his dignity. And then all at once people started agreeing with this idea as though they’d never heard anything quite so thrilling.
“Brilliant!” Susan said gleefully.
“Why didn’t we think of that?” Daphne moaned, nudging her sister in the ribs.
“Should be worth a watch,” said Longbottom, causing several people to glance at him in surprise.
“Not quite as good as kissing me, but I’m all for it.” This was from Blaise, and Draco shot him a look of utmost betrayal. “Sorry Draco,” Blaise grinned, not looking in the least bit apologetic, “but I’ve been wondering.”
Draco wanted to know what he meant by that, but then Potter started protesting and Draco’s anger and hurt quite drowned out what he’d been about to say. Considering this was all Potter’s fault in the first place, the fucker could at least have the courage to face up to the challenge. And his vehement arguments weren’t exactly flattering either; not ten minutes ago, Potter had practically been drooling at the thought of snogging Draco, and here he was, saying he really didn’t want to. As much as Draco wished it wasn’t, it was painful. It was the recognition of this pain that finally made him snap.
He whirled on Potter so ferociously that everyone in the room started in surprise. “You’re a cowardly son of bitch, aren’t you, Potter?” he sneered, gleaning a small amount of satisfaction at the scowl that appeared on the Chosen One’s face. “What’s wrong, can’t handle the thought of kissing me? Or maybe … maybe you’re jealous,” he purred, “jealous that Blaise gets to kiss me and you don’t.”
Potter spluttered incoherently, which was not a good look for him, Draco noticed offhandedly, and then managed to say, “Fuck off Malfoy, I’m not - jealous.”
The slight waver in his voice said otherwise, however.
Draco just smirked, and there wasn’t a trace of desire in it now. “Oh, come on, Potter. Didn’t you say earlier you, and I quote, ‘wanted to see what else that mouth can do’?”
Green fire scorched Draco’s face, but he was too incensed to care. All around them, the others had fallen silent, watching with rapt, wary expressions the scene unfolding before them. Currently, all eyes were on Potter, whose face showed quite clearly his internal battle between anger and the challenge Draco was throwing at him.
He’d never been able to resist a challenge from Draco before.
“Fuck it,” Potter whispered, and took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
It seemed he wasn’t about to start now.
Draco turned away from Blaise without another word. Blaise, though slightly disappointed, nevertheless stayed silent as Draco faced Potter fully and they stared at each other for a bit longer, driving everyone else mad with the unresolved tension in the process.
And then something very strange happened: Potter glanced over at Granger and a fleeting smirk took over his face, before he looked back at Draco and became serious once again. And Draco suddenly realised something.
He planned it. He planned the whole goddamn thing. The party, the dares … everything.
***
Draco was seething.
Potter had orchestrated the entire night. He’d turned his music up too loud in order to get Draco to complain about it. He’d invited Draco to this party because he’d known a night of booze and relaxation was exactly what he’d needed. He’d agreed to play Truth or Dare because he’d wanted to know a bit about Draco. He’d also known that Draco was ridiculously infatuated with him, and he’d taken advantage of that so he could get his kicks out of trying to seduce him. The whole damn evening he’d been unwittingly playing into Potter’s hands, and Granger had been helping him!
That, Draco decided, was really not on. How dare Potter try to use him like this, as though he was some kind of weak-willed pushover who needed to be controlled and manipulated into doing what other people wanted! He didn’t let his fury show, though, partly because he wanted revenge, and partly because … well, he hadn’t thought how he was going to get it yet. He was hoping for some divine inspiration, and to his delight, he got some a few seconds after his epiphany.
Potter didn’t know he’d figured out his clever little plan; he was still blissfully under the impression that Draco was completely naïve of his intentions, which suited Draco just fine - for now. He surmised that Potter wasn’t really interested in him, or was only interested in the thrill of seducing him, the chase as it were, and that both enraged and pained him more than the fact that he’d been manipulated. But it also gave him the perfect chance to get a little of his own back.
Potter hesitated a bit. Draco realised he was going to have to take this one into his own hands, figuratively speaking, and shuffled forwards, so that he was now kneeling in front of Potter, who had coloured slightly and whose hands were, oddly enough, shaking. Then, before either of them could bottle it, Draco roughly grabbed Potter’s collar, pulled him forwards and, just before their mouths met, pushed hard so that Potter toppled backwards, his head inches from the stone fireplace.
Without waiting for Potter to protest, Draco clambered over his body, straddled his hips, leaned down, whispered harshly: “Didn’t plan for this, did you, you bastard?” and then kissed him.
It started out savage and brutal, Draco crushing his mouth against Potter’s so hard he could taste blood. Then Potter let out a gasp - it might have been of pain, it might have been of pleasure, he couldn’t tell - and his mouth fell open, and before Draco slipped his tongue inside, he smoothed it over Potter’s lips in a show of gentleness that surprised himself just as much as everyone else. Potter’s hands came up to grab onto Draco’s hair, but Draco pulled away with a growl, seized his wrists and pinned them to the floor, before returning to the kiss.
The world narrowed to just the two of them, lying on the floor, limbs entwined, bodies pressed close. For several blissful seconds, Draco forgot his anger, forgot his humiliation, forgot where he was, and just lost himself in the slide of Potter’s lips and the blistering heat of his mouth. He could hear a tide of blood in his ears, along with the pounding of his heart, and he was utterly breathless but he wasn’t about to come up for air, not now, not for anything.
Potter broke the kiss first, but Draco didn’t miss a beat; he simply trailed his mouth down to Potter’s throat, fiercely delighted at the breathy, whimpering moans that escaped from the other’s man’s lips, and the thrusting, rutting motion of their hips as they discovered the brain-meltingly wonderful effects of friction on erections. In a rush of hot air that caused Potter’s spine to arch upwards in a universal gesture of pleasure, Draco whispered, “You’re going to remember this, and you’re going to regret it,” in Potter’s ear, just seconds before he pulled away, untangled himself from that pink-flowery-dress-clad body and stood up.
Dead silence greeted him, the first non-Potter-related thing that Draco actually registered. He glanced around at the circle of people around him, and saw …
Arousal, confusion, disbelief, anxiety, and sheer bloody shock - and that was just on Granger’s face. Everyone else wore a veritable facsimile of her expression, though typically, several of the Weasleys’ faces housed a tinge of disgust. What he would see on Potter’s face Draco didn’t know, and wasn’t sticking around to find out. The whole night had been the single most embarrassing event of his life, even including his fourth-year enforced stint as a ferret, and he wanted to get away from it as fast as possible.
Running from the house probably wasn’t the most diplomatic of reactions, and probably wouldn’t help his dignity - if indeed he actually had any dignity left after this night - but Draco was too … well, pick an emotion, any emotion, and he was most likely feeling it. In any case, he dashed from Potter’s house without looking back, because he knew that if he did glance back and search out Potter’s eyes, he might never actually leave.
Part two
Title: Truth or Dare (please ignore the sheer crapiness of the title, it was all I could come up with at the time).
Characters: Harry, Draco, with appearances by Hermione, Weasleys, various other ex-Hogwarts students, and Lucius and Narcissa.
Pairing: It should really go without saying, but: H/D.
Warnings: Slash, much swearing, lots of implied meanings, and a rather vague masturbation scene.
Disclaimer: The usual: I do not own Harry Potter, I only wish I did. HP belongs to JKR, the lucky woman.
Rating: Just to cover my back, we'll put this at a nice round +15 (if that's even a legitimate rating).
Summary: When you're lonely and bored, you'll do almost anything to shake it off. Even play a game of Truth or Dare.
When Harry Potter moved into the house next-door, Draco almost packed up and moved out.
He’d been happy in this neighbourhood; the people were nice and pleasant - except for that old bitch in number seventeen, the one with all the Kneazles, but she was mad as a hatter anyway, and who cared about her? - and none of them seemed in any way perturbed that Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and son of Lucius Malfoy to boot, was living amongst them. Granted, most of them probably didn’t even know their own names, never mind his, since not a single one of them was under the age of a hundred. But at least none of them spat on him when he walked past, or talked about him in ridiculously loud whispers, as had happened in his Camden flat almost on a daily basis. And now Potter had to come along and ruin it all, with his stupid scar, and his ever-present entourage of the bloody paparazzi, and disrupt the quiet little bubble of peace Draco had been building up since the end of his father’s trial a few years ago.
And as if having Potter in the vicinity wasn’t bad enough, the fucking Chosen One had the nerve to host party after all-night party, so that Draco often woke up at night with music blasting through the thin wall adjoining his house to Potter’s, trying in vain to ignore the sounds of obvious revelry and get back to sleep.
If Draco was honest, the only reason those parties pissed him off something awful was because he wasn’t invited. And that wouldn’t have bothered him one bit … if he hadn’t seen Blaise Zabini staggering from Potter’s place, hand wrapped around a can of lager, emphatically telling Potter that it was the best party he’d ever been to, and Potter replying that he was welcome any time. Draco had been incensed at that. Potter had no doubt despised Blaise as much as he had Draco when they were at school, and yet here they were, acting like Hogwarts had never happened and having the time of their lives, and there Draco was, holed up in his house, stuck in a job he resented, reduced to listening at windows just so he could feel included in the celebratory mood that still gripped the country, even now, several years after the Dark Lord’s death - and he was as miserable as sin.
It wasn’t bloody fair, damn it; he’d suffered as much as anyone had - when was he allowed to just relax and enjoy himself? But Draco had been on the ‘wrong side’ during the war, and no one, no one, would ever let him forget it.
The parties died down after about a month or so, for which Draco was eternally grateful, although every couple of weeks, thereabouts, Potter’s house would fairly jump with loud music and hysterical laughter. Draco had thought about complaining to Potter directly, but most likely he’d just get yet another door slammed in his face, and things would continue as they were now. Besides, it just wasn’t worth the humiliation that would surely descend on Draco the minute Potter and his groupies found out he was living next-door.
And then … oh God, it must have been some sort of sick, cosmic joke, but Draco had gone outside to get the paper one morning - because the boy who delivered it was a sodding lazy little git and could never be bothered to drop it off inside the gate - and there was Potter, wearing nothing but a pair of grey boxer shorts and a navy-blue dressing-gown open to the waist, standing on his own doorstep. They’d stared at each other for a total of thirty seconds, and then Potter had given a nod and a sleepy sort of smile and gone back inside, leaving Draco standing in the early morning sun, staring at the place Potter had just been.
Ever since then, of course, Draco had, for some bizarre reason unbeknownst even to himself, kept picturing the v of pale skin that Potter’s open dressing-gown had exposed and imagining all the delightfully wicked things he could do to it … and really quite despising himself for thinking them in the first place.
Fact was, he was twenty-five and hadn’t got laid in a year, so even a glimpse of Potter’s - rather impressive, it had to be admitted - torso in broad daylight was bound to make him sweat and think dirty, dirty thoughts. But as if it wasn’t bad enough that he kept wanking off to the image of fucking Potter senseless, he eventually started to dream about it too, which was just not on. This was Potter, paragon of virtue and bane of Draco’s existence, and wasn’t it just so disgustingly ironic that Draco would develop this - this absolutely nauseating obsession with the man after catching only a glimpse of bared flesh. What was he, some kind of blushing virgin? It was ridiculous, and Draco found himself wishing for the days when Potter had been just a distant annoyance, miles away from Draco and his peaceful little life.
***
Draco returned from his job at St Mungo’s - a cushy little number in the Experimental Potions division, and while he might like the work, his colleagues were right bastards who never let him forget he and his family’s fall from grace - one Thursday evening, a month or so later, expecting yet another night in front of the telly (marvellous invention, even if it was made by Muggles), eating whatever he could dig out of the freezer because he was too shattered to do any serious cooking, and falling into bed fully-clothed because getting undressed was too much of an effort. He was about sit down and eat, planning to watch an old House re-run - alright so he had a soft spot for Wilson, so what? - when the throbbing bass of the Weird Sisters’ new song thundered through the house.
Draco closed his eyes, counted to ten … Actually, he only managed to get to five before he slammed his knife and fork down, jumped out of his seat and was hammering on Potter’s door before he even realised he’d moved.
This was the third time this week that he’d been disturbed by one of Potter’s parties; was it really too much to ask just for a bit of peace and quiet? It wouldn’t usually bother him, but he’d had an extremely harrowing day, putting up with more of his co-workers’ shite, and he was damned if he was going to handle another long, sleepless night just because Potter fancied a bit of booze and music. He pounded a fist against the door again.
Not that he expected anyone to hear him, so he was surprised when the door swung open, and Potter himself was standing there.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Draco considered just offing himself now and saving himself the embarrassment of being caught drooling on Potter’s doorstep. Honestly, didn’t the fucker ever get dressed? Or did he just spend his days in various states of half-nakedness, giving innocent people an eyeful of that rather delectable chest, and biceps you could bounce a Galleon off?
“Malfoy,” Potter said, and he had to be drunk because the Potter Draco knew would never be able to say his name in such calm, even welcoming tones. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if I could have a word with you,” Draco said, which wasn’t at all what he really wanted to say in regards to Potter’s question. “It’s about your music. Can you -”
“Damn, is it too loud?” Potter asked suddenly, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Draco wished he would stop. It wasn’t a turn on at all. Really. “Christ, sorry Malfoy, I’ll turn it down. I had no idea -”
“Whatever, Potter,” Draco cut in, not particularly interested in the man’s explanation. “Just keep in mind that there are other people living in this street.”
“Yeah, yeah I will. Sorry,” Potter said again, and even managed to sound like he meant it.
A shout from inside Potter’s house made Potter turn, and Draco thought about slipping away now while the other man was distracted, but then Potter faced him again, a smile in his eyes.
“Hey, Malfoy,” he said, “fancy joining the party?”
“Tempting, Potter. But a night spent with you and the Weasley horde is not exactly what I had in mind.” Draco said it, hoping to get a rise from Potter, one that would remind them both that they were arch-rivals and that inviting each other to parties wasn’t quite the way to keep that up.
But Potter just gave him a slow smile that clearly said, What did you have in mind then?, and said, “Daphne Greengrass, remember her? She works with Hermione, she and her younger sister are here. And Blaise as well, he’s a regular guest, and Neville, Hannah and Susan are here too,” Potter added, tilting his head to one side. “So it’s not just me and "'the Weasley horde,'" he grinned. “Fancy it?”
And Draco knew he should have said no, knew the best thing to do would be to fob Potter off with an excuse, turn around and go back to his own home. Alone. Again.
No.
He couldn’t, just couldn’t, spend one more night the same way he’d been spending them ever since he’d moved in. A solitary meal. A couple of hours either watching TV or reading. Then bed, and up for work at six-thirty. Even the idea of it was pure torture, and Draco knew there was no way he was going to refuse Potter’s offer, so he resigned himself to the fact that a) he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, b) he had to spend several hours in forced company with a bunch of Gryffindors, and c) Potter and his naked self was going to be right there with him.
Suddenly, the prospect of Weasleys, sleep deprivation and loud music didn’t seem quite so bad.
***
When Potter led Draco into his living room - by the wrist as well: was he completely shit-faced drunk or just insane? - there was an instant hush in the loud conversation filling the room. The lead singer of the Weird Sisters warbled on into the void from the radio, but all eyes fell upon Draco, standing in the doorway, now extremely uncomfortable and wishing Potter would do something that he’d find a complete turn-off.
Not that that was likely.
Meanwhile, Potter dropped onto the sofa, pulling his legs up so that Draco would have somewhere to sit. Draco took the seat hesitantly - it was unfortunately located next to Granger, and he had to resist the urge to shy away from her and her Mudblooded self - and tried to stare down the curious and slightly hostile looks he was getting from Potter’s mates.
Blaise waved at him from where he was sprawled out over a cushion before the fire, and Daphne gave him a smile as she handed him a drink. Astoria, on the other hand, jumped up and hugged him, squealing, “Draco! Good to see you!” into his ear. Bugger. The girl had always had an unfortunate fondness for him, but at least she was glad to see him. Time was he would have held her at arms length and favoured her with a vague smile, but now he hugged her back and exchanged a few pleasantries with her - how their mothers were doing, how long he’d been living next door to Potter, and how they each were faring now after the war was done.
Shortly after Draco’s arrival, the tension in the room started to ease a bit, and he found himself relaxing as the alcohol and general easiness of those around him started to work its magic. At first he said little and only half-listened to the various Weasley family anecdotes that seemed to be in full flow and had the others in stitches, and then Potter glanced over at him and smiled, and Draco was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that Potter’s foot was just inches from his thigh, and that he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. After that, Draco began to join the conversation, saying almost anything and everything in his head just so he didn’t have to think about the man sitting right next to him, and blaming his sudden looseness of tongue on the alcohol.
About an hour later, inebriated inspiration struck Susan Bones as she reclined in her seat, legs dangling over one arm of the chair, her head pillowed by the other. She sat up suddenly - almost toppling out of the chair as she did so - and said, “I know!”
It was during a lull in conversation, so her voice rang clearly through the room, catching everyone’s attention. Ron Weasley glanced lazily up at her and asked what the hell she was on about.
“I’ve got an idea,” Susan said, eyes sparkling somewhat glassily. “Let’s play Truth or Dare.”
At once, half of the room’s occupants agreed loudly that this was a good idea, and the other half vehemently protested that Truth or Dare was a stupid game, and anyway they were all a bit too drunk to do anything requiring much effort.
They were overruled. In Draco’s experience, Truth or Dare had a life of its own; once invoked, it had to be played, spreading embarrassment and shame, and spawning hundreds of domestic arguments as people were dared to do the most outrageous things.
It probably goes without saying that Draco was one hundred percent up for playing it.
In any usual situation - not that anything in the past few years had been usual - he wouldn’t have bothered, but now … he’d spent so long living day to day, just going through the motions that, for once, and with alcohol zinging around in his bloodstream, he just wanted to let go of every inhibition and anxiety and play the goddamn game. The minute he voiced his opinion, Potter sat up and agreed with him, which pretty much sealed the deal. Potter’s house, Potter’s rules, after all.
And that, as they say, was that.
***
They seated themselves in a circle, pushing the sofa and armchairs out of the way so they’d have enough room. Cushions and drinks were handed around, and everyone made themselves comfortable on the carpeted floor, Draco leaning against the sofa, with Potter still sitting by his side. It was starting to unnerve him.
Granger started, as Draco had known she would, and picked Hannah Abbott, who chose Truth immediately. He hoped he wasn’t surrounded by those boring people who always picked Truth because they were embarrassed by the dares other people gave them. He personally usually chose Dare.
“Alright, Hannah,” Granger said, and paused while she thought of a question. “Okay, where’s the weirdest place you and Neville have had sex?”
Hannah blushed bright red, Longbottom almost purple, and mumbled, “Hogwarts, behind the greenhouses.”
There was a chorus of catcalls and whistles, though Draco privately marvelled at the fact that she and Longbottom had actually had the nerve to have sex full stop. Then Hannah, cheeks still faintly pink, chose Astoria, who also picked Truth. She was a Slytherin, though, so Draco knew her Truth would probably be as interesting as a dare.
"What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever done it?” Hannah said, which Draco had expected. They’d all get this one, sooner or later. It was the standard question of the game.
Astoria thought for a minute, absent-mindedly taking a drink from her glass. “I think,” she said eventually, “I think it was at our Hogwarts leaving party. With Alexander Belmont, he was in Ravenclaw.”
“What, you just did it? Right in front of everyone?” Ron asked, staring at Astoria like he’d never seen anything so awe-inspiring.
She shook her head, though still managed to look slightly pleased with herself. “In the toilets, which isn’t much better. But he was a bit of an exhibitionist and I was willing to give it a go.” She smiled, cat-like. “Fancy it, Weasley?”
Weasley nodded fervently; Draco glanced over at Granger, who looked merely amused, which was a surprise. Hadn’t the two of them been absolutely mad for each other at school? What had changed between then and now? Potter noticed him looking and murmured, “They haven’t dated in three years. All that time they bickered and we thought it was sexual tension. Turns out it was just regular tension and they were completely incompatible.”
He grinned as he pulled away from Draco - and when had he got so close? Draco wondered - and went back to the game. Astoria had asked the same question of her sister, and Daphne had replied and gone on to ask one of the other Weasleys lounging underneath the window. Once everyone had answered the question, including Draco, they went round the circle once more.
Daphne was dared to flash the rest of the group, which she did with considerable relish, and which caused Weasley’s jaw to drop to the floor. Blaise chose Truth and Susan asked him what his sexuality actually was, since no one seemed to know; Blaise just smirked and said he refused to label himself with such restrictive categories, to which everyone had looked at each other and said, “Bi,” at the same time. Then someone dared Potter to wear women’s clothing for the rest of the night, which Potter accepted more readily than was strictly necessary, and Granger conjured up a truly hideous pink, flowery dress that Potter donned immediately.
When he came back from the bathroom, Draco almost bit his tongue in half trying to keep from licking his lips. Against all the laws of nature, Potter looked fucking hot in a dress. It clung in all the wrong places and should have looked completely ridiculous, and yet … Draco couldn’t stop staring.
He was dwelling so deeply on this oddity that he didn’t realise it was his turn until Granger nudged him sharply with her elbow and he turned to glare at her, finding the eyes of everyone in the room fixed on him again.
"What?” he snapped, and Granger jerked her head in the direction of the Weaselette.
Ginny rolled her eyes. “I asked you, Truth or Dare, Malfoy?” she said, her tone a spot-on imitation of Draco’s drawl.
“Dare,” Draco said at once, and then regretted it immediately when Ginny’s smile turned sly.
“I dare you,” she said slowly, “to knock on the door of number seventeen and ask the cow who lives there for a … a cup of sugar. And you have to be naked,” she added, with the air of a magician revealing the finale of her act.
Draco’s first thought was, Oh, so you’ve met the old bitch too, have you?, and then her words actually permeated his alcohol-fogged brain, and he quickly wondered whether he could off the Weaselette and make it look like an accident.
And then he smiled. This was more like it. If this didn’t shake off the torpid boredom that had been plaguing him for at least the last year, then nothing would. Hell, he could already feel the hot curl of anticipation in the pit of his stomach, and he hadn’t even started.
“Gonna do it then, Malfoy?” One of the other Weasleys, whose name Draco had never bothered learning, spoke up, sounding thoroughly doubtful that he would.
Draco set down his glass and stood up. “Naturally,” he smirked, and started unbuttoning his shirt.
He was extremely gratified when Potter let out an odd, choked squeaking sound as the material fell from his shoulders, and Ginny leaned across Ron to whisper to Hermione, “Christ, if I’d known he looked like that under his clothes, I’d never have ignored him at school.” Putting that revolting thought firmly to the back of his mind, Draco started on his jeans, toeing off his shoes and socks and then sliding the denim from his legs. There were a few more admiring murmurs, which Draco was thrilled to hear; he knew he was no troll, but living alone for five years would make anyone doubt their appearance, even one such as his own.
God, this was fantastic. Adrenalin was making his whole body sing and his heart beat twice its normal rate, and Draco felt more alive than he had in a very long time. If he’d known all it would take was a few drinks and a party to make him feel this good, he would’ve insinuated himself into Potter’s life ages ago. He was about to take off his boxers when Potter suddenly coughed and sat up poker-straight.
“Er, Gin?” he said, and Draco was pleased to hear his voice was all hoarse and croaky. “Does Malfoy have to be … um, completely naked to do this?”
“Well yeah, Harry,” Ginny said in surprise. “Truth or Dare, you know?”
Potter just closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Right, right, Truth or Dare,” he said weakly, and leaned back against the sofa.
“Carry on then, Malfoy,” Ginny said, sounding breathless with excitement, and Draco, just this once, obliged her and tugged off his underwear.
Longbottom and Weasley both gagged and turned away quickly from the sight of a naked Draco Malfoy, but almost everyone else leaned forward interestedly. There was a smug, “Told you,” from Blaise, which made Draco roll his eyes and smirk even wider, and then he glanced down at Potter and …
Oh. Holy. Fuck.
Potter’s face was flushed and his eyes held the most unashamedly hungry look Draco had ever seen. They raked over his body with obscene slowness and lingered slightly on his cock, which, surprise, surprise twitched under the scrutiny. Then their gazes met, and the green of Potter’s was almost obscured by the black of his dilated pupils, and it was quite possibly the most erotic moment of Draco’s life. Intense? Wasn’t even in the vicinity of being able to describe it …
And then, as Draco somehow managed to get his breath back, the moment passed, and the others were urging him on with his dare, practically dragging him outside and pushing him in the direction of number seventeen.
***
“Well. I wasn’t expecting that reaction.”
“Yeah …”
“I mean, I always knew Kneazles were vicious little buggers, but bloody hell …”
“I know …”
“It’s all your fault, Ginny,” Ron spoke up, nudging his sister in the ribs.
“My fault? How come?” Ginny said hotly. “I never said he had to do the dare, did I?”
This was the conversation Draco heard upon re-entering the living room, wincing a bit; fucking Kneazles deserved to be rounded up, shoved in a sack and subjected to a thousand Cruciatus curses. And Mrs Number Seventeen should be made to join them … honestly, that woman was insane.
He’d gone along to her house, completely starkers still, and knocked on her door. About twenty bloody minutes after he’d knocked, she’d shuffled her way to the door, opened it as slowly as she possibly could and then just stared at him, standing on the doorstep, freezing his balls off. And then, when he’d asked for the cup of bloody sugar - sugar! What had the Weaselette been thinking of? - the old bitch had gone fucking berserk and started setting her pet Kneazles on him! Bastards had tried to scratch every inch of flesh from his bones. The only reason he hadn’t been ripped to shreds was because he’d run like hell back to Potter’s the minute she’d grabbed the nearest Kneazle.
The others hadn’t said a word as he’d staggered back into the house and straight into the bathroom. Someone had silently handed him his clothes while he had cleaned himself up, and everyone very kindly kept their laughter to a minimum. Now he walked back into the living room, took his seat and downed two shots of Firewhisky without saying anything, and the game soon resumed as normal.
As more and more alcohol was consumed, the group started picking Truth simply because it was easier than trying to gear their heavy limbs into action for a dare. Some truly astonishing truths were revealed as well, some that Draco could quite happily have lived without knowing: Susan had once had a crush on Snape, (“It was the hands! I have a thing about hands!”), and Granger was kinky, apparently, which was the icing on the cake of Too Much Information.
And then they came to Potter, who also chose truth, and Astoria asked him: “Who in this room do you want to get off with most?”
“Blaise,” Potter said immediately, and there was an outburst of drunken giggling and catcalling until he added, “And Ginny, and Susan. Oh, and Malfoy of course.”
There was instant silence, and then everybody started talking at once. One of the Weasleys exclaimed, “Malfoy, Harry? Why the hell would you want to kiss that ferret-faced git?” and Astoria, smirking widely, asked Potter what his reasons were for wanting to kiss the four people he’d just named.
“Well,” Potter began slowly. “Blaise because he has a nice mouth. Ginny because she’s a good kisser -” someone laughed at that, and Weaselette flushed hotly, though she was grinning smugly “- Susan because I’m curious. And Malfoy …” the room went deadly silent again, “Malfoy because I want to see what else that mouth can do besides smirk.”
Draco vaguely wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. There were many loud shouts of laughter around him, but he couldn’t for the life of him see what was so funny. Perhaps they thought Potter was joking, though one look into those green, lust-filled eyes was enough to give Draco hope that he really wasn’t.
It was too much to take. He couldn’t sit in the room another minute with Potter staring at him like that, not without spontaneously combusting or something equally ridiculous. Draco jumped up and practically flew to the bathroom, where he slammed the door closed and locked it firmly, before leaning against the wood and sliding down to the floor.
He wasn’t sure why he was acting like this. He’d been lusting after Potter for quite a while now; surely the reassurance that Potter had been doing the same should come as a relief? And yet relief was about the only thing he wasn’t feeling at that precise moment. It was just … the thought of Harry Potter fancying him, Draco Malfoy, wasn’t just completely and totally insane. It was also completely and totally right. It made absolute sense.
And it scared the absolute shit out of him.
It shouldn’t be right; it should be utterly abhorrent to him, but his entire mind and body seemed to be very keen on the idea. It should make him want to hex Potter into a thousand tiny little bits, but it just made him want to shag the man senseless. And it didn’t look as though the feeling was going away any time soon.
But do you want it to?
A voice had woken up in the back of his head, making Draco want to beat it repeatedly against a brick wall. It was bad enough that his emotions were in complete disarray, but did his own mind have to turn on him too? He’d only ever suffered such introspection twice before in his life - once, funnily enough, when Potter had turned him down for Weasley. That had been a bit of a black day in Draco’s life because, up until then, he’d always got everything he’d wanted. That was the first time anyone had ever turned him down, and it had opened his eyes to the world beyond the little microcosm that had been built for him at Malfoy Manor. The second time he’d probed his own thoughts so deeply had been the day after he’d first met the Dark Lord, the day he’d been given the despicable task of murdering Dumbledore. He’d spent every waking moment dwelling on the problem, even going so far as to question the life that was being laid out before him, when he’d previously never given it a thought.
Maybe he was analysing it too much. Maybe he was acting as he had every day until now, so careful and cautious that he’d cocooned himself in a web of false security that was now being ripped to shreds before his very eyes. Maybe he should just give his mind a break and let the rest of him take over.
Maybe he should just stop being so damn afraid all the time, and actually get on with life.
What have I got to lose? he asked himself.
Your dignity, self-respect and reputation, his brain answered immediately.
Oh well. He hadn’t had those in a long time anyway. Besides, at least this way he went out with a bang.
Smiling to himself, he stood up and opened the door.
***
Potter was outside, fist raised as though about to knock on the door. They stood there for the longest ten seconds of Draco’s life, and then Potter dropped his hand and took a step back.
And there it was. Tension. Thick enough to cut with a knife and choking the very breath out of him. The tension he only ever got with Potter, because Potter was the only one who ever got to him enough that he could feel it. It made him want to simultaneously dash from the house and snog the life out of the dark-haired man before him, and yet he couldn’t get his limbs to coordinate to do either.
“What I said in there -” Potter began uncertainly, drifting closer, but Draco cut him off.
“Potter, just shut up,” he said, suddenly overwhelmingly tired. “If you meant it, that’s fucking brilliant. If not, well … I really hope you meant it.”
Potter stared at him blankly, and for a second Draco was afraid he’d said too much. Then Potter hesitantly hooked a finger in Draco’s collar and, half pulling and half leaning forward, tugged him across the foot-wide gap between them and …
At that moment, Weasley stumbled from the living room and completely broke the charged silence that had descended on the hallway outside the bathroom. Draco and Potter jumped apart like they were same-sided magnets being forced together, while Weasley stared at them, dumbfounded (which was very similar to his usual expression, and therefore not at all unexpected).
“Er … I was just wondering if you were coming back to the game, Harry,” he said, at least having the grace to look embarrassed.
Potter threw him an extremely irritated look, but said, “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”
Weasley nodded and went back into the living room, throwing curious looks over his shoulder every now and then, as though wondering what Potter and Draco were doing. Which was a whole lot of nothing, Draco realised; they were just standing there again, trying very hard to pretend everything was still perfectly normal, despite the fact that they were avoiding each other’s gazes and blushing like it was going out of fashion.
“So, erm …” Draco began, and then coughed, appalled that his voice had gone horribly croaky. “I should really get going,” he went on, in a slightly less nervous tone.
“No!” Potter said loudly, causing Draco to raise an eyebrow. Potter flushed an even deeper shade of red and said, his voice calmer, “No, you don’t have to leave.”
“But I probably should. I have work tomorrow, and I …” Draco trailed off at the utterly crushed look on Potter’s face.
“It’s not even midnight yet, you’ll have plenty of time for sleep … Come on, just a little bit longer? You get to see me make an even bigger prat of myself.”
Draco felt his mouth twitch upwards in a smirk. “I’m not sure that’s possible,” he said, gesturing to the flowery pink dress, which Potter was still wearing.
Potter grinned sheepishly, and Draco cursed himself for finding it endearing. “Yeah, I look like a complete arse in this, don’t I?” he said, tugging at the collar, exposing yet more of that amazing collarbone.
“No,” Draco said quietly, wrenching his gaze away. “That’s the problem.”
Potter blinked at him a bit. Then his mouth stretched into a smile and he took just one step forward, towards Draco, who felt his heart jump up to somewhere in the region of his throat.
“Well then,” Potter said in a low voice, leaning close to Draco. “I’d better keep it on then, hadn’t I?”
Draco found himself nodding before he’d even thought about it. And then he thought, Keep it on? Fuck that, and said, “No, I think I’d better stay a bit longer and figure out how to get you out of it.”
“Oh really?” Potter was grinning again, and they were gravitating towards each other as though they couldn’t help it - which was true, Draco realised. He could no more stop this than cease breathing, and he had about as much inclination to, as well. “I reckon you’ll be here for a while then.”
“Promises, promises,” Draco teased, and, smirking widely at the hungry look on Potter’s face, turned around and sauntered back into the living room.
He could tell at once that the others had been talking about himself and Potter. It was in their faces as they glanced at him and then hurriedly looked away as Potter came up behind him. For a second, Draco felt Potter’s hand at the small of his back, sliding under his shirt, and then the dark-haired man had retaken his seat in front of the dying fire and was staring back at him, almost daring Draco to take his own seat, and smirking in that predatory, seductive way that made the hairs on Draco’s arms stand up.
When he’d sat down, making sure to lean against Potter’s entire left side in the process, a short silence ensued, and then, in a would-be casual voice, Weasley said, “So, shall we get back to the game?” A murmur of assent followed, and then once again, Truth or Dare began.
If Draco had thought it had been difficult to concentrate before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. He couldn’t move without experiencing little jolts of pleasure as his skin and Potter’s came into contact, and every time that happened, he’d have to close his eyes at the sheer electricity of it and he’d lose his focus and forget whose turn it was. Potter looked like he was suffering a similar fate, if the occasional twitching and throat-clearings were anything to go by.
One of them was going to snap, and soon, if they carried on for much longer. Draco was entertained for a few minutes by the image of himself shoving Potter to the floor and just jumping him, but then Susan said his name and that made him glance up.
She dared him to kiss Blaise. As far as dares went, it was hardly exciting stuff, but it was infinitely preferable to kissing, say, Longbottom or Weasley, or, dear Merlin forbid, Granger, so he shrugged and didn’t argue. After all, he and Blaise had kissed a few times when they were younger, once more would hardly be torture, so he leaned across the circle as Blaise did the same.
A sudden hand on his arm stopped him. He glanced back to find Potter holding him back and glaring at Blaise.
“That’s not a proper dare,” he protested, ignoring Draco’s increasingly irritated attempts to remove his arm. “That’s boring. I mean, Malfoy and Blaise actually like each other. It’d be much better if he kissed … oh, I dunno, Ron or Hermione, or someone.”
Jealousy was not something Draco found attractive, partly because it was petty, but mostly because he could get jealous enough for two people, so he wasn’t looking for the same quality in others. And alright so he fancied the arse off Potter - that didn’t mean Potter had any right to turn into a possessive bastard and try to stop him having a bit of harmless fun.
Thus, when he next spoke, it was to retort, “Satan will ice-skate down the road of the damned before I kiss Weasley or Granger, Potter.” He paused to send Potter a look that was as far as possible from the heated, lusty gazes they’d exchanged earlier. “So unless you have someone else in mind, I suggest you bugger off and keep your nose out.”
He leaned towards Blaise, only to be stopped again, this time by Granger’s voice.
“Well,” she said, in a reasonable sort of tone, and Draco decided right then and there that she should share the same fate as Mrs Number Seventeen and her psycho pets. “Why don’t you kiss Harry?”
The silence in the room was absolute. No one moved, not even Draco, who was considering leaving now while he still had his dignity. And then all at once people started agreeing with this idea as though they’d never heard anything quite so thrilling.
“Brilliant!” Susan said gleefully.
“Why didn’t we think of that?” Daphne moaned, nudging her sister in the ribs.
“Should be worth a watch,” said Longbottom, causing several people to glance at him in surprise.
“Not quite as good as kissing me, but I’m all for it.” This was from Blaise, and Draco shot him a look of utmost betrayal. “Sorry Draco,” Blaise grinned, not looking in the least bit apologetic, “but I’ve been wondering.”
Draco wanted to know what he meant by that, but then Potter started protesting and Draco’s anger and hurt quite drowned out what he’d been about to say. Considering this was all Potter’s fault in the first place, the fucker could at least have the courage to face up to the challenge. And his vehement arguments weren’t exactly flattering either; not ten minutes ago, Potter had practically been drooling at the thought of snogging Draco, and here he was, saying he really didn’t want to. As much as Draco wished it wasn’t, it was painful. It was the recognition of this pain that finally made him snap.
He whirled on Potter so ferociously that everyone in the room started in surprise. “You’re a cowardly son of bitch, aren’t you, Potter?” he sneered, gleaning a small amount of satisfaction at the scowl that appeared on the Chosen One’s face. “What’s wrong, can’t handle the thought of kissing me? Or maybe … maybe you’re jealous,” he purred, “jealous that Blaise gets to kiss me and you don’t.”
Potter spluttered incoherently, which was not a good look for him, Draco noticed offhandedly, and then managed to say, “Fuck off Malfoy, I’m not - jealous.”
The slight waver in his voice said otherwise, however.
Draco just smirked, and there wasn’t a trace of desire in it now. “Oh, come on, Potter. Didn’t you say earlier you, and I quote, ‘wanted to see what else that mouth can do’?”
Green fire scorched Draco’s face, but he was too incensed to care. All around them, the others had fallen silent, watching with rapt, wary expressions the scene unfolding before them. Currently, all eyes were on Potter, whose face showed quite clearly his internal battle between anger and the challenge Draco was throwing at him.
He’d never been able to resist a challenge from Draco before.
“Fuck it,” Potter whispered, and took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
It seemed he wasn’t about to start now.
Draco turned away from Blaise without another word. Blaise, though slightly disappointed, nevertheless stayed silent as Draco faced Potter fully and they stared at each other for a bit longer, driving everyone else mad with the unresolved tension in the process.
And then something very strange happened: Potter glanced over at Granger and a fleeting smirk took over his face, before he looked back at Draco and became serious once again. And Draco suddenly realised something.
He planned it. He planned the whole goddamn thing. The party, the dares … everything.
***
Draco was seething.
Potter had orchestrated the entire night. He’d turned his music up too loud in order to get Draco to complain about it. He’d invited Draco to this party because he’d known a night of booze and relaxation was exactly what he’d needed. He’d agreed to play Truth or Dare because he’d wanted to know a bit about Draco. He’d also known that Draco was ridiculously infatuated with him, and he’d taken advantage of that so he could get his kicks out of trying to seduce him. The whole damn evening he’d been unwittingly playing into Potter’s hands, and Granger had been helping him!
That, Draco decided, was really not on. How dare Potter try to use him like this, as though he was some kind of weak-willed pushover who needed to be controlled and manipulated into doing what other people wanted! He didn’t let his fury show, though, partly because he wanted revenge, and partly because … well, he hadn’t thought how he was going to get it yet. He was hoping for some divine inspiration, and to his delight, he got some a few seconds after his epiphany.
Potter didn’t know he’d figured out his clever little plan; he was still blissfully under the impression that Draco was completely naïve of his intentions, which suited Draco just fine - for now. He surmised that Potter wasn’t really interested in him, or was only interested in the thrill of seducing him, the chase as it were, and that both enraged and pained him more than the fact that he’d been manipulated. But it also gave him the perfect chance to get a little of his own back.
Potter hesitated a bit. Draco realised he was going to have to take this one into his own hands, figuratively speaking, and shuffled forwards, so that he was now kneeling in front of Potter, who had coloured slightly and whose hands were, oddly enough, shaking. Then, before either of them could bottle it, Draco roughly grabbed Potter’s collar, pulled him forwards and, just before their mouths met, pushed hard so that Potter toppled backwards, his head inches from the stone fireplace.
Without waiting for Potter to protest, Draco clambered over his body, straddled his hips, leaned down, whispered harshly: “Didn’t plan for this, did you, you bastard?” and then kissed him.
It started out savage and brutal, Draco crushing his mouth against Potter’s so hard he could taste blood. Then Potter let out a gasp - it might have been of pain, it might have been of pleasure, he couldn’t tell - and his mouth fell open, and before Draco slipped his tongue inside, he smoothed it over Potter’s lips in a show of gentleness that surprised himself just as much as everyone else. Potter’s hands came up to grab onto Draco’s hair, but Draco pulled away with a growl, seized his wrists and pinned them to the floor, before returning to the kiss.
The world narrowed to just the two of them, lying on the floor, limbs entwined, bodies pressed close. For several blissful seconds, Draco forgot his anger, forgot his humiliation, forgot where he was, and just lost himself in the slide of Potter’s lips and the blistering heat of his mouth. He could hear a tide of blood in his ears, along with the pounding of his heart, and he was utterly breathless but he wasn’t about to come up for air, not now, not for anything.
Potter broke the kiss first, but Draco didn’t miss a beat; he simply trailed his mouth down to Potter’s throat, fiercely delighted at the breathy, whimpering moans that escaped from the other’s man’s lips, and the thrusting, rutting motion of their hips as they discovered the brain-meltingly wonderful effects of friction on erections. In a rush of hot air that caused Potter’s spine to arch upwards in a universal gesture of pleasure, Draco whispered, “You’re going to remember this, and you’re going to regret it,” in Potter’s ear, just seconds before he pulled away, untangled himself from that pink-flowery-dress-clad body and stood up.
Dead silence greeted him, the first non-Potter-related thing that Draco actually registered. He glanced around at the circle of people around him, and saw …
Arousal, confusion, disbelief, anxiety, and sheer bloody shock - and that was just on Granger’s face. Everyone else wore a veritable facsimile of her expression, though typically, several of the Weasleys’ faces housed a tinge of disgust. What he would see on Potter’s face Draco didn’t know, and wasn’t sticking around to find out. The whole night had been the single most embarrassing event of his life, even including his fourth-year enforced stint as a ferret, and he wanted to get away from it as fast as possible.
Running from the house probably wasn’t the most diplomatic of reactions, and probably wouldn’t help his dignity - if indeed he actually had any dignity left after this night - but Draco was too … well, pick an emotion, any emotion, and he was most likely feeling it. In any case, he dashed from Potter’s house without looking back, because he knew that if he did glance back and search out Potter’s eyes, he might never actually leave.
Part two