(no subject)
Title: Assault, Trespass and Vandalism - PART TWO!
Author: moonflower_rose
Pairing: HP/DM
Genre/Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: The usual...also, don't run with scissors...
Length: 3000(ish) words
Summary: Sequel to the fic Disturbing The Peace - written for my darling silentauror!!!
Disclaimer: Please see my disclaimer here.
Miss PART ONE? Click here.
Four. Zero. Eight.
He stared at the polished steel numbers again and sounded them out under his breath.
He’s in there.
Harry could hear Malfoy’s racket when he entered the lift, the curses and crashes resonating, slightly muffled, down the elevator shaft. Malfoy’s neighbour hadn’t been exaggerating, the man was making more noise than should have been possible without the liberal application of a sonorous. The noise grew steadily louder as the lift rose, louder still when the doors rolled smoothly open, and were frankly astounding by the time Harry reached the door and began pondering the number plate. Malfoy’s neighbour’s had to all be deaf, all out, or all using a series of heavy duty silencing charms to drown out the racket, because this was beyond a joke.
He raised his hand to knock on the door, realising even as he did so that it would be a genuine miracle if Malfoy actually heard it.
Knock-knock-knock.
Something smashed, and Malfoy raged on.
Thud-thud-thud!
A minute passed, during which Malfoy continued to holler and screech unintelligibly, and objects continued to shatter. Harry shifted from one foot to the other, waiting, wondering whether to just forget the knocking and barge right in.
Auror Handbook, chapter 17, paragraph 6: An Auror must make all reasonable efforts to alert the suspect to his/her presence before entering the location, as per the Wizarding Privacy Act, 1988. This applies only in circumstances where the suspect is not a flight risk, holding hostages, or a danger to the public or themselves, or hopping on one foot while eating a banana in South Wales.
“Ah, bollocks.”
Harry continued knocking, thumping, and pounding on the door for a further seven minutes and thirty one seconds, partly because he was nothing if not conscientious, and partly because he was sort of nervous, before deciding he’d been more than reasonable, and pulled out his wand.
“Right, then. Lets see what kind of wards Malfoy’s got operating here…this could be difficult, knowing him…”
He started easy, a combination of a strong alohomora and a confundus charm, and was gob smacked when it actually worked. Harry felt the wards drop without protest all around him.
“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, “Are you trying to get intruded upon? My Aunt Petunia could have broken in using chopsticks and an open sesame, on this rubbish…”
He apparated into the flat cautiously, drawing the line at actually picking the lock - maybe Malfoy was trying to throw people off, with the door wards, and there was some kind of hex-trap on the other side, or a billion volts of electricity ready to burn him to a crisp the minute he tried to turn the shiny doorknob…
…no. No, Malfoy just had horrifyingly inadequate wards. Harry held his wand in front of himself defensively, and headed towards the source of all noise in the building - by the layout of the flat, the kitchen was dead ahead, the living room down a hall to the right, and there were stairs leading down into the foyer-y sort of area Harry had entered through, up which were probably things like, oh, maybe bedrooms? Harry started to feel a trifle sweaty, and turned right.
The short hall opened up into a large living room that looked like it had been very tastefully furnished - before Malfoy started smashing shit up. Pot plants were knocked over, books were strewn around the room. Every picture and painting on the walls hug askew, including a very put-out looking portrait of Malfoy’s mother, and there was debris all over the carpet which looked like it had formerly been a collection of knick-knacks. Malfoy. He was right in the middle of the mess, his pale hair poking out in random directions like a silky blond birds nest. Red cheeked, sweat dappled. Trousers tight, shirt clingy. Barefoot, and Harry noted absently that Malfoy had very attractive feet. A mobile phone clenched in one hand. Berserk. Harry’s heart pounded. Malfoy was goddamn sexy even when he was in the midst of a psychotic break.
“Oi, Malfoy! Over here!”
Wild grey eyes zeroed in on him, unfocused, but oddly unsurprised to see him. Harry waved, and dropped his hand when he realised what a twat he must look.
“Uh. Good evening. Er, you might be wondering what I’m doing here…someone in the building reported you for disturbing the peace, and I-”
“Yeah, ‘course - you. ’Sfuckin’ wonderful! Jus’wha I fuckin’ needed, fuckin’ Potfucker in m’house, fuckin’ up m’stuff!”
Well, that was kind of uncalled for, and Harry was about to say so when Malfoy exploded into a tirade of curse-words and flying spittle, and pinwheeling arms. All the regulars were there, arsehole, bastard, speccy and scarhead - it was just like being back in school - and there were a few of the less regular insults, such as Hairy Snotter, Gryffindick, and Scar Breath (which quite frankly, didn’t make any sense). Then came a whole flood of brand new swears that Malfoy appeared to be making up as he went along, the most distressing of which, to Harry, was ‘cunt-eyes’…
“Malfoy, come on now - just calm down, would you? If you’ll just shut your trap for a minute I’m sure we can discuss this like reasonable people-”
Malfoy chose that moment to fall flat on his face, for no discernable reason, in the middle of a pile of shredded magazines. There was a muffled, pathetic ‘ow’ sound, and Malfoy seemed unable to coordinate his limbs enough to get back up again. Harry sighed.
“Bloody hell, Malfoy.”
Harry moved forward and gripped Malfoy by the forearms - and shivered. Malfoy was fit, alright. He could feel the supple shape of his biceps through the cotton shirt. He lingered for a moment, then Malfoy whimpered again and Harry set about putting him upright. Malfoy had a distressed little turned-down look on his face, like a sad version of the smiley faces Sandra always punctuated her memos with. It was cute.
“Don’t feel well.”
It was such a whiny, petulant statement, that Harry had to force the smirk from his face.
“Well, Malfoy, that really doesn’t surprise me much, because by the smell of things you’ve probably had at least two thirds of a bottle of Ogden’s to yourse-”
Harry didn’t get to finish his comment, because Malfoy became suddenly pasty-faced, and promptly barked all over Harry’s trousers and shoes. Harry sighed again.
“Ew.”
It took about ten minutes to get Malfoy upstairs. Firstly, he had to wait for Malfoy to finish retching all over his legs, which took a little while. Then he had to get rid of the vomit without accidentally banishing any of Malfoy’s possessions, destroyed as they may have been, or his own clothing - he wanted Malfoy to get into his pants, but not like that. And then there was the sheer difficulty of getting the long-limbed, leaden weight of Malfoy slung around his shoulders and up the stairs, without one or both of them being killed in the attempt. Malfoy didn’t vomit again, thankfully. He had beige carpets, and Harry wasn’t confident there wouldn’t be some degree of staining, despite the vomit-removing charms in his repertoire. And Malfoy also didn’t fight him, which Harry had considered may be a possibility. This would have been far more difficult if Malfoy had tried to wrestle drunkenly with him all the way up the stairs - actually, it might have been kind of hot…
Harry shook his head to rid himself of the image of Malfoy bending him over in a headlock, and concentrated on getting them both safely up the stairs.
Now…if it were me who was pissed, what would Ron do? Bad example, he’d probably be just as drunk as me, if not worse…okay, so if Ron and I were drunk as Malfoy, what would Hermione do? Well, after the lecture and a cuff about the ears, she’d probably shove us under the cold water to sober up before she made us go to bed.
“Which way to the bathroom, Malfoy?”
Harry needn’t have bothered asking, as Malfoy was too pissed to do much more than warble. Harry looked around and made an educated guess, and steered himself and Malfoy towards the only door which was open.
It was a bedroom. It must have been Malfoy’s, because it had a lived-in sort of look that a guest bedroom never really managed, and it smelled of Malfoy, too. Well, not like Malfoy smelled now, which was sort of bitter-smelling, and vomit-y. A scent hung subtly in the air, something that teased at Harry’s nose, and his cock, if he were being honest - something he’d gotten caught on at Metrosexuelle that day, when he’d become mesmerised by Malfoy trying on jumpers. Something he couldn’t name or describe, but he knew right away as belonging to Malfoy’s skin. It was big, for a bedroom in an apartment - the walls were cream coloured and velvety, as was the carpet, and the sheets on the bed. The furniture was wood, plain, straight lines in glossy, dark polished cherry, with brassy fittings. Light filtered in through venetian blinds and cast long shadows around dressers and side tables. It was…moody, Harry decided, with a proud grin. Moody - I thought of that all by myself. I’ll have to tell Hermione…if she ever gets past the thing about me being in Malfoy’s bedroom, she might appreciate it.
To the right of the bed was a door that was either going to be an ensuite, or a walk-in robe. Harry lugged Malfoy towards it, and - yes, ensuite. Excellent.
“Right,” Harry began brusquely, propping Malfoy up against a wall and turning the cold water tap to full. “Malfoy, what I need you to do now is hop under the shower, so if you could just get your kit off-”
Malfoy stumbled forward, glassy-eyed, right past Harry and into the shower cavity, fully clothed. He yelped, probably due to the cold water, Harry reckoned, and stood under the spray shivering and chattering. Harry rubbed his eyes.
“You aren’t meant to do that fully clothed, Malfoy…blimey, get out of it, will you?”
As easy as he went in, Malfoy lurched back out again, skidding on the hem of his wet trousers and falling headfirst into Harry’s arms.
“Hoops,” He mumbled, mouth mashed into Harry’s bicep.
“Hoops?” Harry asked, and Malfoy nodded.
“Hoops - felava.”
“Right…”
Malfoy was virtually a dead weight, dripping wet and soaking the front of Harry’s clothes right through. He grasped one-handed at a stack of fluffy towels, folded politely in neat, thick squares on the tile beside the bath, and nabbed one, looping it around Malfoy’s shoulders before reaching for another. Harry dumped the towel on Malfoy’s head and tried his best to rub Malfoy’s hair dry.
“Hey - Malfoy, do you think you can stand up on your own?” Malfoy swayed a bit, but remained upright, and Harry used his now free second hand to help rub at his hair too. “Good one. Now, if you can just not throw up or fall over for a minute, we might be getting somewhere.” Malfoy’s hair was probably as dry as it was going to get, so Harry dropped that towel on the floor and started on the one hanging around his shoulders. He swallowed noisily. What he really needed to do right now was get Malfoy out of his wet clothes and into something dry.
“Okay. So, Malfoy, you’re wet. Which is not great, because you’re still dressed. So, we need to remedy that before anything else. Can you…can you take off all your, um, clothes? Please.”
The vomiting in the living room seemed to have marked the end of Malfoy’s furious ranting phase, and the beginning of his placid one, because Malfoy was yet to argue a thing with Harry since. His hands went obediently to the buttons on his trousers, fingers stubbornly uncoordinated and unable to pluck them open, moving on to tug at his t-shirt instead, also without success. Malfoy whimpered slightly helplessly, and Harry felt his neck flush.
Sweet, merciful Merlin. Let me be allowed to help undress him…oh please, oh please, oh please…
Harry reached out to still Malfoy’s helpless fingers. “Arms up, Malfoy…”
Malfoy raised his arms, swaying again, and Harry took hold of the hem of his t-shirt with a heavy swallow, and started pulling it up over his head.
Inch after glorious inch of smooth, pale torso came into view. It was just like Harry remembered, toned and slender, and gleaming, and begging to have fingers or tongues ran over it, over the perfect, pinkish nipples and into the dip of the navel. Harry’s fingers itched to touch Malfoy’s belly and pull on the pale track of hair he could see glinting in the light, and he needed a moment of deep breaths and clenched fists to pull himself together.
Hands to yourself, Potter - touching Malfoy like that would be considered assault. You don’t know how much of this he’s going to remember, or whether he’s going to be out for blood tomorrow. No touching. Look all you want, but absolutely no touching. You’ll lose your nuts, if not your job.
The wet t-shirt was tossed on the floor with a splat, and Harry dragged his eyes with difficulty up to meet Malfoy’s glazed ones.
“Trousers - do you need,” he coughed, his throat suddenly dry, “do you need help with the trousers?”
Malfoy didn’t answer. His eyes were starting to close, and the swaying was getting very pronounced, so Harry coughed again and knelt, and reached trembling fingers towards Malfoy’s crotch, fumbling for buttons and popping them out of their holes one by one. He tried not to be distracted by the heat of Malfoy’s groinal region under his hand. Dear God. Sweat was prickling at his back and the insides of his elbows, and then he was pulling the trousers down to Malfoy’s knees, and ankles, and Malfoy was gripping his hair for balance as he stepped out of his trousers with difficulty.
“’Ants.” Malfoy slurred.
“I - what?”
Malfoy blinked slowly, and let go of Harry’s hair. He teetered for a moment, then grabbed at his hips, fingers eventually hooking onto the waistband of his briefs (which were tight, white and wet, and not leaving very much to Harry’s extremely keen imagination) and shifting them downwards an inch. Harry’s throat was dry.
“Oh…p-pants…”
And then Malfoy was naked. He was every inch as perfect as Harry had ever imagined him. Harry tried not to stare at it, but it was difficult. It was right there, right in front of his face - he was on his knees in front of Malfoy’s bare naked cock. It was like Merlin was shining on him, or God, or some crap. It was all his dreams come true. It was close enough to kiss, and wouldn’t he like that, just to lean forward and nuzzle his nose into those wiry blond curls and kiss it all over, right down the length of it to the head, and back up the other side…
Harry wiped his chin, which was sporting a wet trail of saliva.
“D-dry clothes, Malfoy?” Malfoy closed his eyes again, and shook his head no. Harry felt dizzy, too. “Are you sure? Not even some pants?” Malfoy grunted, and shook his head again. Harry thought it was just like Christmas.
“Dun like ‘ants. Like bed. Bed now, p’lese.”
Harry stood back up again, manoeuvring around wet towels and clothing strewn across the floor, and slipped one arm around Malfoy’s naked waist to help him away. Oh, it was too good to be true - he was taking a naked Draco Malfoy to bed, Merlin be praised. Malfoys skin was warm and soft, his muscles lean and hard - Harry realised he was stroking the skin, and stopped, clearing his throat.
Assault, Potter. They’ll snap your wand.
Harry helped Malfoy back into the bedroom, unmolested.
About a foot away from the bed, Malfoy shook free of Harry, detaching himself and diving headfirst towards his bed. Harry scrambled forward to make sure he didn’t brain himself on the headboard.
“Wemmafone?”
Malfoy was lying facefirst on the pillows, arms and legs flung out all over the place.
“Wemma - what?”
Malfoy lifted his head just a little, eyes bleary, and tried to focus on Harry.
“Whem mafone? Neemafone. Gemmafone?”
Harry stared at him blankly until it suddenly struck him.
“Oh! Your phone! You want your stupid mobile?”
Malfoy nodded, adding another “Gemmafone.”
“Yeah, alright,” Harry rolled his eyes, and walked out of the bedroom, “I’m going to get your precious phone.”
He jogged down the stairs and back to the living room, wincing at the mess and the left over stench from Malfoy’s technicolour efforts earlier in the evening - there the phone was, in a small pile of rubble. Harry collected it and ran back up to the bedroom.
“Oi, Malfoy, here’s your stupid-”
A loud snore answered him. Malfoy had already passed out. Harry sighed. “Drunk git.” He placed the phone on the bedside table, and managed to stop himself from reaching out and running his hands over the length of Malfoy’s body, over the muscled shoulders and down his spine, the swell of his perfect arse…Harry turned away and coughed, and put some distance between the two of them. This was a dangerous position for him. I should just leave… Harry looked back, at Malfoy sprawled and sleeping, and against his better judgement, decided to stay a little longer.
“Just to make sure he’s alright,” he muttered to himself, before looking down at his clothes. “And just until I can get the reek out of my trousers. They’re wet, too…yup, I better stay, and hang out my trousers to dry. Makes perfect sense.”
Harry carefully ignored his conscience, which was hollering in his ear about drying spells and perfume charms, and took off his trousers, quietly moving the venetians and opening the balcony doors. He stepped outside, hanging the trousers over the back of a chair out on Malfoy’s cosy balcony. The air was still warm, and smelled like flowers - a breeze lifted his hair, and Harry looked down, noticing Malfoy had a downstairs courtyard, full of plants. “Curcuma,” he noted, spotting the purpleish flowers giving off the scent, “and my God, do I need to stop hanging out with Neville and get a bloody hobby if I can recognise a bloody plant like that.”
Once back inside, Harry was at a bit of a loss. Malfoy had a big brown recliner in one corner, and so Harry sat down in it, and tried not to look at Malfoy too much, all spread out as he was. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to live to regret this?”
Harry shifted the leaver, and the chair reclined, and he settled down to wait for his trousers, and for…well, whatever else.
...more to come.
Author: moonflower_rose
Pairing: HP/DM
Genre/Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: The usual...also, don't run with scissors...
Length: 3000(ish) words
Summary: Sequel to the fic Disturbing The Peace - written for my darling silentauror!!!
Disclaimer: Please see my disclaimer here.
Miss PART ONE? Click here.
Four. Zero. Eight.
He stared at the polished steel numbers again and sounded them out under his breath.
He’s in there.
Harry could hear Malfoy’s racket when he entered the lift, the curses and crashes resonating, slightly muffled, down the elevator shaft. Malfoy’s neighbour hadn’t been exaggerating, the man was making more noise than should have been possible without the liberal application of a sonorous. The noise grew steadily louder as the lift rose, louder still when the doors rolled smoothly open, and were frankly astounding by the time Harry reached the door and began pondering the number plate. Malfoy’s neighbour’s had to all be deaf, all out, or all using a series of heavy duty silencing charms to drown out the racket, because this was beyond a joke.
He raised his hand to knock on the door, realising even as he did so that it would be a genuine miracle if Malfoy actually heard it.
Knock-knock-knock.
Something smashed, and Malfoy raged on.
Thud-thud-thud!
A minute passed, during which Malfoy continued to holler and screech unintelligibly, and objects continued to shatter. Harry shifted from one foot to the other, waiting, wondering whether to just forget the knocking and barge right in.
Auror Handbook, chapter 17, paragraph 6: An Auror must make all reasonable efforts to alert the suspect to his/her presence before entering the location, as per the Wizarding Privacy Act, 1988. This applies only in circumstances where the suspect is not a flight risk, holding hostages, or a danger to the public or themselves, or hopping on one foot while eating a banana in South Wales.
“Ah, bollocks.”
Harry continued knocking, thumping, and pounding on the door for a further seven minutes and thirty one seconds, partly because he was nothing if not conscientious, and partly because he was sort of nervous, before deciding he’d been more than reasonable, and pulled out his wand.
“Right, then. Lets see what kind of wards Malfoy’s got operating here…this could be difficult, knowing him…”
He started easy, a combination of a strong alohomora and a confundus charm, and was gob smacked when it actually worked. Harry felt the wards drop without protest all around him.
“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, “Are you trying to get intruded upon? My Aunt Petunia could have broken in using chopsticks and an open sesame, on this rubbish…”
He apparated into the flat cautiously, drawing the line at actually picking the lock - maybe Malfoy was trying to throw people off, with the door wards, and there was some kind of hex-trap on the other side, or a billion volts of electricity ready to burn him to a crisp the minute he tried to turn the shiny doorknob…
…no. No, Malfoy just had horrifyingly inadequate wards. Harry held his wand in front of himself defensively, and headed towards the source of all noise in the building - by the layout of the flat, the kitchen was dead ahead, the living room down a hall to the right, and there were stairs leading down into the foyer-y sort of area Harry had entered through, up which were probably things like, oh, maybe bedrooms? Harry started to feel a trifle sweaty, and turned right.
The short hall opened up into a large living room that looked like it had been very tastefully furnished - before Malfoy started smashing shit up. Pot plants were knocked over, books were strewn around the room. Every picture and painting on the walls hug askew, including a very put-out looking portrait of Malfoy’s mother, and there was debris all over the carpet which looked like it had formerly been a collection of knick-knacks. Malfoy. He was right in the middle of the mess, his pale hair poking out in random directions like a silky blond birds nest. Red cheeked, sweat dappled. Trousers tight, shirt clingy. Barefoot, and Harry noted absently that Malfoy had very attractive feet. A mobile phone clenched in one hand. Berserk. Harry’s heart pounded. Malfoy was goddamn sexy even when he was in the midst of a psychotic break.
“Oi, Malfoy! Over here!”
Wild grey eyes zeroed in on him, unfocused, but oddly unsurprised to see him. Harry waved, and dropped his hand when he realised what a twat he must look.
“Uh. Good evening. Er, you might be wondering what I’m doing here…someone in the building reported you for disturbing the peace, and I-”
“Yeah, ‘course - you. ’Sfuckin’ wonderful! Jus’wha I fuckin’ needed, fuckin’ Potfucker in m’house, fuckin’ up m’stuff!”
Well, that was kind of uncalled for, and Harry was about to say so when Malfoy exploded into a tirade of curse-words and flying spittle, and pinwheeling arms. All the regulars were there, arsehole, bastard, speccy and scarhead - it was just like being back in school - and there were a few of the less regular insults, such as Hairy Snotter, Gryffindick, and Scar Breath (which quite frankly, didn’t make any sense). Then came a whole flood of brand new swears that Malfoy appeared to be making up as he went along, the most distressing of which, to Harry, was ‘cunt-eyes’…
“Malfoy, come on now - just calm down, would you? If you’ll just shut your trap for a minute I’m sure we can discuss this like reasonable people-”
Malfoy chose that moment to fall flat on his face, for no discernable reason, in the middle of a pile of shredded magazines. There was a muffled, pathetic ‘ow’ sound, and Malfoy seemed unable to coordinate his limbs enough to get back up again. Harry sighed.
“Bloody hell, Malfoy.”
Harry moved forward and gripped Malfoy by the forearms - and shivered. Malfoy was fit, alright. He could feel the supple shape of his biceps through the cotton shirt. He lingered for a moment, then Malfoy whimpered again and Harry set about putting him upright. Malfoy had a distressed little turned-down look on his face, like a sad version of the smiley faces Sandra always punctuated her memos with. It was cute.
“Don’t feel well.”
It was such a whiny, petulant statement, that Harry had to force the smirk from his face.
“Well, Malfoy, that really doesn’t surprise me much, because by the smell of things you’ve probably had at least two thirds of a bottle of Ogden’s to yourse-”
Harry didn’t get to finish his comment, because Malfoy became suddenly pasty-faced, and promptly barked all over Harry’s trousers and shoes. Harry sighed again.
“Ew.”
It took about ten minutes to get Malfoy upstairs. Firstly, he had to wait for Malfoy to finish retching all over his legs, which took a little while. Then he had to get rid of the vomit without accidentally banishing any of Malfoy’s possessions, destroyed as they may have been, or his own clothing - he wanted Malfoy to get into his pants, but not like that. And then there was the sheer difficulty of getting the long-limbed, leaden weight of Malfoy slung around his shoulders and up the stairs, without one or both of them being killed in the attempt. Malfoy didn’t vomit again, thankfully. He had beige carpets, and Harry wasn’t confident there wouldn’t be some degree of staining, despite the vomit-removing charms in his repertoire. And Malfoy also didn’t fight him, which Harry had considered may be a possibility. This would have been far more difficult if Malfoy had tried to wrestle drunkenly with him all the way up the stairs - actually, it might have been kind of hot…
Harry shook his head to rid himself of the image of Malfoy bending him over in a headlock, and concentrated on getting them both safely up the stairs.
Now…if it were me who was pissed, what would Ron do? Bad example, he’d probably be just as drunk as me, if not worse…okay, so if Ron and I were drunk as Malfoy, what would Hermione do? Well, after the lecture and a cuff about the ears, she’d probably shove us under the cold water to sober up before she made us go to bed.
“Which way to the bathroom, Malfoy?”
Harry needn’t have bothered asking, as Malfoy was too pissed to do much more than warble. Harry looked around and made an educated guess, and steered himself and Malfoy towards the only door which was open.
It was a bedroom. It must have been Malfoy’s, because it had a lived-in sort of look that a guest bedroom never really managed, and it smelled of Malfoy, too. Well, not like Malfoy smelled now, which was sort of bitter-smelling, and vomit-y. A scent hung subtly in the air, something that teased at Harry’s nose, and his cock, if he were being honest - something he’d gotten caught on at Metrosexuelle that day, when he’d become mesmerised by Malfoy trying on jumpers. Something he couldn’t name or describe, but he knew right away as belonging to Malfoy’s skin. It was big, for a bedroom in an apartment - the walls were cream coloured and velvety, as was the carpet, and the sheets on the bed. The furniture was wood, plain, straight lines in glossy, dark polished cherry, with brassy fittings. Light filtered in through venetian blinds and cast long shadows around dressers and side tables. It was…moody, Harry decided, with a proud grin. Moody - I thought of that all by myself. I’ll have to tell Hermione…if she ever gets past the thing about me being in Malfoy’s bedroom, she might appreciate it.
To the right of the bed was a door that was either going to be an ensuite, or a walk-in robe. Harry lugged Malfoy towards it, and - yes, ensuite. Excellent.
“Right,” Harry began brusquely, propping Malfoy up against a wall and turning the cold water tap to full. “Malfoy, what I need you to do now is hop under the shower, so if you could just get your kit off-”
Malfoy stumbled forward, glassy-eyed, right past Harry and into the shower cavity, fully clothed. He yelped, probably due to the cold water, Harry reckoned, and stood under the spray shivering and chattering. Harry rubbed his eyes.
“You aren’t meant to do that fully clothed, Malfoy…blimey, get out of it, will you?”
As easy as he went in, Malfoy lurched back out again, skidding on the hem of his wet trousers and falling headfirst into Harry’s arms.
“Hoops,” He mumbled, mouth mashed into Harry’s bicep.
“Hoops?” Harry asked, and Malfoy nodded.
“Hoops - felava.”
“Right…”
Malfoy was virtually a dead weight, dripping wet and soaking the front of Harry’s clothes right through. He grasped one-handed at a stack of fluffy towels, folded politely in neat, thick squares on the tile beside the bath, and nabbed one, looping it around Malfoy’s shoulders before reaching for another. Harry dumped the towel on Malfoy’s head and tried his best to rub Malfoy’s hair dry.
“Hey - Malfoy, do you think you can stand up on your own?” Malfoy swayed a bit, but remained upright, and Harry used his now free second hand to help rub at his hair too. “Good one. Now, if you can just not throw up or fall over for a minute, we might be getting somewhere.” Malfoy’s hair was probably as dry as it was going to get, so Harry dropped that towel on the floor and started on the one hanging around his shoulders. He swallowed noisily. What he really needed to do right now was get Malfoy out of his wet clothes and into something dry.
“Okay. So, Malfoy, you’re wet. Which is not great, because you’re still dressed. So, we need to remedy that before anything else. Can you…can you take off all your, um, clothes? Please.”
The vomiting in the living room seemed to have marked the end of Malfoy’s furious ranting phase, and the beginning of his placid one, because Malfoy was yet to argue a thing with Harry since. His hands went obediently to the buttons on his trousers, fingers stubbornly uncoordinated and unable to pluck them open, moving on to tug at his t-shirt instead, also without success. Malfoy whimpered slightly helplessly, and Harry felt his neck flush.
Sweet, merciful Merlin. Let me be allowed to help undress him…oh please, oh please, oh please…
Harry reached out to still Malfoy’s helpless fingers. “Arms up, Malfoy…”
Malfoy raised his arms, swaying again, and Harry took hold of the hem of his t-shirt with a heavy swallow, and started pulling it up over his head.
Inch after glorious inch of smooth, pale torso came into view. It was just like Harry remembered, toned and slender, and gleaming, and begging to have fingers or tongues ran over it, over the perfect, pinkish nipples and into the dip of the navel. Harry’s fingers itched to touch Malfoy’s belly and pull on the pale track of hair he could see glinting in the light, and he needed a moment of deep breaths and clenched fists to pull himself together.
Hands to yourself, Potter - touching Malfoy like that would be considered assault. You don’t know how much of this he’s going to remember, or whether he’s going to be out for blood tomorrow. No touching. Look all you want, but absolutely no touching. You’ll lose your nuts, if not your job.
The wet t-shirt was tossed on the floor with a splat, and Harry dragged his eyes with difficulty up to meet Malfoy’s glazed ones.
“Trousers - do you need,” he coughed, his throat suddenly dry, “do you need help with the trousers?”
Malfoy didn’t answer. His eyes were starting to close, and the swaying was getting very pronounced, so Harry coughed again and knelt, and reached trembling fingers towards Malfoy’s crotch, fumbling for buttons and popping them out of their holes one by one. He tried not to be distracted by the heat of Malfoy’s groinal region under his hand. Dear God. Sweat was prickling at his back and the insides of his elbows, and then he was pulling the trousers down to Malfoy’s knees, and ankles, and Malfoy was gripping his hair for balance as he stepped out of his trousers with difficulty.
“’Ants.” Malfoy slurred.
“I - what?”
Malfoy blinked slowly, and let go of Harry’s hair. He teetered for a moment, then grabbed at his hips, fingers eventually hooking onto the waistband of his briefs (which were tight, white and wet, and not leaving very much to Harry’s extremely keen imagination) and shifting them downwards an inch. Harry’s throat was dry.
“Oh…p-pants…”
And then Malfoy was naked. He was every inch as perfect as Harry had ever imagined him. Harry tried not to stare at it, but it was difficult. It was right there, right in front of his face - he was on his knees in front of Malfoy’s bare naked cock. It was like Merlin was shining on him, or God, or some crap. It was all his dreams come true. It was close enough to kiss, and wouldn’t he like that, just to lean forward and nuzzle his nose into those wiry blond curls and kiss it all over, right down the length of it to the head, and back up the other side…
Harry wiped his chin, which was sporting a wet trail of saliva.
“D-dry clothes, Malfoy?” Malfoy closed his eyes again, and shook his head no. Harry felt dizzy, too. “Are you sure? Not even some pants?” Malfoy grunted, and shook his head again. Harry thought it was just like Christmas.
“Dun like ‘ants. Like bed. Bed now, p’lese.”
Harry stood back up again, manoeuvring around wet towels and clothing strewn across the floor, and slipped one arm around Malfoy’s naked waist to help him away. Oh, it was too good to be true - he was taking a naked Draco Malfoy to bed, Merlin be praised. Malfoys skin was warm and soft, his muscles lean and hard - Harry realised he was stroking the skin, and stopped, clearing his throat.
Assault, Potter. They’ll snap your wand.
Harry helped Malfoy back into the bedroom, unmolested.
About a foot away from the bed, Malfoy shook free of Harry, detaching himself and diving headfirst towards his bed. Harry scrambled forward to make sure he didn’t brain himself on the headboard.
“Wemmafone?”
Malfoy was lying facefirst on the pillows, arms and legs flung out all over the place.
“Wemma - what?”
Malfoy lifted his head just a little, eyes bleary, and tried to focus on Harry.
“Whem mafone? Neemafone. Gemmafone?”
Harry stared at him blankly until it suddenly struck him.
“Oh! Your phone! You want your stupid mobile?”
Malfoy nodded, adding another “Gemmafone.”
“Yeah, alright,” Harry rolled his eyes, and walked out of the bedroom, “I’m going to get your precious phone.”
He jogged down the stairs and back to the living room, wincing at the mess and the left over stench from Malfoy’s technicolour efforts earlier in the evening - there the phone was, in a small pile of rubble. Harry collected it and ran back up to the bedroom.
“Oi, Malfoy, here’s your stupid-”
A loud snore answered him. Malfoy had already passed out. Harry sighed. “Drunk git.” He placed the phone on the bedside table, and managed to stop himself from reaching out and running his hands over the length of Malfoy’s body, over the muscled shoulders and down his spine, the swell of his perfect arse…Harry turned away and coughed, and put some distance between the two of them. This was a dangerous position for him. I should just leave… Harry looked back, at Malfoy sprawled and sleeping, and against his better judgement, decided to stay a little longer.
“Just to make sure he’s alright,” he muttered to himself, before looking down at his clothes. “And just until I can get the reek out of my trousers. They’re wet, too…yup, I better stay, and hang out my trousers to dry. Makes perfect sense.”
Harry carefully ignored his conscience, which was hollering in his ear about drying spells and perfume charms, and took off his trousers, quietly moving the venetians and opening the balcony doors. He stepped outside, hanging the trousers over the back of a chair out on Malfoy’s cosy balcony. The air was still warm, and smelled like flowers - a breeze lifted his hair, and Harry looked down, noticing Malfoy had a downstairs courtyard, full of plants. “Curcuma,” he noted, spotting the purpleish flowers giving off the scent, “and my God, do I need to stop hanging out with Neville and get a bloody hobby if I can recognise a bloody plant like that.”
Once back inside, Harry was at a bit of a loss. Malfoy had a big brown recliner in one corner, and so Harry sat down in it, and tried not to look at Malfoy too much, all spread out as he was. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to live to regret this?”
Harry shifted the leaver, and the chair reclined, and he settled down to wait for his trousers, and for…well, whatever else.
...more to come.