Fic: Maid to Order [Harry/Draco, NC-17
Since the harry_holidays master list has been posted I can post my contribution here. My gift was written for the lovely hill_ who delights us with her wonderfully porny drawings.
A big thank you to fleshdress for her gift to me: Restraining Order
Title: Maid to Order
Author: mizBean
Wordcount: 8,000
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: Porn!! (NC-17)
Warnings: Cross-dressing, dirty talk, bottom!Harry, copious amounts of crack.
Author’s notes: A big thank you to my lovely betas: eryn_, ella_bane and winnett and everyone who put up with my angsting over the last few months. This is probably the filthiest thing I've ever written. *blushes and then runs and hides*
Summary: Harry Potter, an unhappy Auror with a boring sex life, receives a tip to the whereabouts of one Voldemort's Horcruxes. There is, however, one catch.
Maid to Order
For Harry Potter, life held many surprises. Discovering that magic was in fact real and not the stuff of fairy tales was big. Discovering that his enemies weren’t always who he thought they were was earth shattering. Discovering that he got off wearing woman’s clothes… that was just confusing.
“No. Absolutely not!”
“Harry.”
“A French Maid?” he cried, staring wide-eyed at sight of himself dressed in a short black skirt and fishnet stockings. He twisted around in front of the full-length mirror Hermione had conjured on a Ministry conference room wall. “Explain to me how I’m supposed to find Helga Hufflepuff’s cup in this?”
Hermione heaved the sigh of someone who already had to explain this several times over. “Antonin Dolohov is holding his annual Tarts and Vicars party this evening at his country estate. We received a tip this morning that Helga’s cup is hidden in one of the bedrooms.” She caught Harry’s eyes in mirror. “I don’t have to tell you what getting that cup means.”
“I know. It means everything. It’s just…” He sighed. “It’s a dress, Hermione. This isn’t how I expected to be tracking down Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”
Hermione gave one last tug on the frilly white apron attached to his skirt and stood up, clearly annoyed. “And exactly how did you expect it to go? That we’d track down every one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes during our final year at Hogwarts? Honestly, Harry.”
“No,” Harry replied resentfully. Hermione knew this was a sore subject for him. Just shy of his twenty-fifth birthday, Voldemort was still running loose, wrecking havoc. Finding this cup would mean there would only be one Horcrux left and he would finally be close to destroying the man who killed his parents. Then, perhaps, he could leave this hero business behind him and finally have a normal life, or at the very least acquire a steady boyfriend.
It was no secret that all work and no play made Harry a very dull boy. He had his share of relationships. He was Harry Potter, after all. But then the same things happened: He was busy, distracted, never around, or he was too dangerous, liable to get anyone who got near him killed.
He pouted at his reflection, feeling severely put out. He barely even recognized himself. Hermione had even used some sort of spell to smooth down the worst of his unruly hair. “Why can’t you wear the dress?” he complained. “I’ve seen you work undercover. You’re just as good of an Auror as I am. You’re loads better than that time you sneaked into Borgin and Burkes.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Nice try, Harry, or did you just forget the part when I told you the party was for men only? And who else am I going to send? Wayne Hopkins? A man so straight he thinks plaid shirts are proper business attire." Her tone suddenly turned serious. "There will be a lot of people there tonight. This will be our best chance to slip in and out unnoticed.”
Harry nodded, suddenly fascinated with how his skirt lifted and showed the pale white of his upper thighs when he turned. He twirled again, smiling despite himself. “What?” he demanded, catching Hermione grinning at his reflection.
“I thought you’d like this assignment. Weren’t you just complaining that your sex life was lacking?”
“Hermione,” he cried, aghast. “They’re Death Eaters.”
“Hush. I’m kidding, of course,” she teased. “This assignment won’t be any different than your other assignments. You’ll just be wearing a dress instead of Auror’s robes.”
Harry rather thought if this assignment was anything like the work he normally did, he’d French kiss Arthur Weasley. Still, he did like the way the stiletto-heeled shoes accentuated the curve of his long legs. Perhaps he could dump the dress and just keep the shoes. Just to wear around his flat, of course. And keep the stockings, too. It’d be a shame to break up the set. Cheered by his brilliant idea, he thrust his left hip out saucily and nearly fell flat on his arse.
Hermione stifled a laugh. “Perhaps flats are in order,” she said, making a note on a scroll of parchment. “Hazel down in accounting has large feet. I’ll send Smith to fetch a pair of hers.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he hissed, stumbling to his feet again. Hermione was going to pry these shoes off of his cold, dead body. He caught his reflection in the mirror again and sighed. What were they thinking? He was Harry Potter. He’d be the laughing stock of the Wizarding world if this ever got out. “This is never going to work,” he moaned.
Hermione mused for a moment. “I suppose I could get Ron to wear the dress, instead.”
Oh God. The sudden vision of Ron wearing nothing but garters popped into Harry’s head. While that happened to be a one of his favorite (and most private) fantasies, it was not one he would be sharing with a bunch of scary old poofs with Dark Marks branded into their skin. “No! Absolutely not,” he cried fiercely, ignoring Hermione’s smirk. “I mean... he’d never do it. May… maybe someone else in the Order could do it.” He cast about frantically for names. “Neville?” Hermione laughed. “Shacklebolt?”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. Like Kingsley would look fanciable in a dress.”
“Er…” The thought of Kingsley Shacklebolt in dress suddenly didn’t sound so ridiculous, or unappealing. He squirmed, starting to feel rather flushed and out of breath. The knickers weren’t helping matters, constricting his privates in a way that was liable to cut off his circulation if he couldn't bring himself under control. “Hermione, I think this is a really bad idea.”
Hermione was silent for a moment. “Harry, turn around and take a look at yourself.” She stepped behind him and peered at their reflections in the mirror over his right shoulder. “You do realize that you look better in those stockings than I ever would.”
Harry had to agree with that, following her gaze down to the toned muscles of his thighs. “I… I still play Quidditch on the weekends,” he explained.
“And look at your face.” She reached around and centered his chin so that he had to look at himself in the mirror. “I always thought you were beautiful.” Harry blushed, unable to meet her eyes. “But now, you really look fantastic. Only you could look this innocent wearing something so naughty. Trust me. You’ll have no trouble getting that cup.”
He took a deep breath. Hermione probably could talk him into shagging Hagrid if it suited her purposes. “Okay,” he said shakily. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. I’ll call in the team and we’ll get started.”
~*~
Harry had spent the rest of the workday alternately being ogled and snickered at by the other Aurors on his team. Shacklebolt even pinched him on the arse, making Harry hot and not just a little bothered. Now he found himself sitting in Hermione’s bedroom feeling extremely on edge as he watched her pull bottles and vials of make-up out of her vanity table drawer. “All this for me?” he asked weakly.
“Harry, relax. You’ll be fine. Pucker your lips. There’s nothing to worry about. Voldemort hates fancy dress parties. I doubt he’ll show.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” he replied sourly.
Hermione spared him a scathing look before dabbing his lips with a small brush. “The only thing you need to worry about is getting that cup. We’ll have other agents there to take care of the Death Eaters. You might want to avoid Crabbe and Goyle though. And Malfoy, I suppose.”
Harry blinked. “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy?” Hermione nodded. “What’s he doing back here?”
Hermione shrugged, brushing powder on his cheeks. “I don’t know what he’s up to and, frankly, I don’t care. Unless he impedes the operation, I don’t want you engaging him.” She looked at him sternly. “And that’s an order.”
Harry scowled. The last time he had seen Malfoy was at his secret tribunal in front of the Wizengamot where he was given a very generous pardon and then summarily deported from the country. Until now, Harry had only assumed Malfoy was too busy sleeping his way through half the male population of the Mediterranean to care what his former Death Eater associates were doing.
“Don’t worry, I have nothing to say to him,” he said, sighing. The thought of running into his former Slytherin classmates while wearing drag was horrifying and… he blinked… arousing?
“Oh God,” he moaned, feeling his cock swell inside his knickers.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His ears were burning and Hermione was too busy transfiguring his plain black glasses into something a little more stylish to notice. “Ooh, I like that,” she said brightly, slipping them onto his face. “It gives you that naughty schoolgirl look.”
“Hermione.”
“What?”
“This.” He gestured to himself. “I think I have a problem.” He stared at his neatly manicured hands clasped in his lap, covering the hard-on that even thoughts of Crabbe and Goyle wearing drag couldn’t render flaccid. He took a deep breath. “All right. At work, Whitby and Moody couldn’t stop staring at me. And… and then Kingsley pinched me and…” he swallowed and focused on the pattern of Hermione’s rug. “I thought I’d practice a little. You know, walk around in the dress and I went to the coffee shop where that cute Muggle boy works - the one who I’m pretty sure is straight. I… I started flirting with him and he… Well… I… I let him kiss me.”
“I’ll have a talk with the team. There’s no excuse for that sort of behavior,” she replied briskly, dipping a large white pouf into a pot full of powder. “And you shouldn’t be kissing strange Muggles either. But let’s face it, Harry. Look at you. You’re like catnip for lonely, hard-up boys.”
“That’s not the point,” he ground out. “I like it. I mean… A lot.”
“So?”
God, was she that obtuse? “But I can’t,” he said miserably. “I’m the Boy Who Lived. Not the Boy Who Gets Off Wearing Ladies’ Knickers.”
“And why not? Honestly, Harry. What do you care? People are going to gossip no matter what you do. Why not live up to their worst expectations for a change? You know, you have become a tad dull.”
Harry sighed, not at all convinced. He didn’t know how to tell her that it wasn’t just the ladies knickers. It was how he felt when he wore them. Desired. Coveted. Wanted. It was all he could do not to want to be ravished by the nearest bloke that looked at him.
Hermione stopped dabbing the powder on his forehead. “A Disillusionment Charm to cover your scar and a little make-up. No one will recognize you. Want to see?”
He peered into the mirror Hermione handed him and lightly touched his face, amazed with what a sprinkle of glitter and cherry red lipstick could do. He was a completely different person. “I- wow.” It was all he could think to say.
“Good. Ron will be here any minute.”
“What?” His stomach dropped. “I don’t want Ron to see me like this,” he hissed.
“Perhaps if you weren’t too busy flirting with Kingsley and Whitby you would have remembered me telling you that Ron’s your escort to the party."
Oh God. “Hermione, no.”
“I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” she replied briskly. “Ron’s a professional. He does these sorts of assignments all the time. He’ll just be there to make sure nothing bad happens.”
Harry had the sinking feeling that Ron was going to be very busy this evening.
Right on time a sharp pop of displaced air sounded in the room, and Harry turned to see Ron gaping at him like he had just witnessed Severus Snape profess his undying love for Neville Longbottom, or perhaps just his best mate dolled up like a Knockturn Alley trollop. “Harry?” he asked weakly.
Harry cringed, mortified and… and… oh fuck… completely turned on by the way Ron was staring at him. “Hermione, you didn’t tell Ron that I would be dressed like this, did you?” he cried.
“Nonsense,” Hermione replied firmly. “I told Ron that he was escorting you to a fancy dress party.”
“Harry’sagirl,” Ron squeaked, pointing. Harry might have heard the words, “frilly knickers,” but he was too horrified to keep listening.
“Hermione,” Harry cried, covering himself again in a valiant attempt to hide his hard-on.
“Ron, stop staring. You’re making Harry uncomfortable.”
“I can’t help it, all right?” Ron pleaded. “It... it’s Harry.”
Harry groaned. His best mate was leering at him. “That’s it! I can’t do this,” he cried.
Hermione’s gaze suddenly turned steely as she slowly withdrew her wand from the sleeve of her robes. “You know, Harry, you’re not the only one who had to make sacrifices over the years. I had ambitions for my life too. A rewarding job, a social life, maybe even a boyfriend.” She shot Ron a nasty glare. “It didn’t involve spending the last seven years skulking about searching for hidden trinkets. So don’t you dare flake out on me now! Am I clear?”
Ron gulped. “I’ll be good.”
Harry nodded, covering his eyes. “This is going to be a long fucking evening.”
~*~
With a beaded handbag in one hand and Ron’s arm clutched in the other, Harry tottered up the front steps of Dolohov’s estate. With Hermione’s help, the two of them had managed to come to an agreement: Ron wasn’t to leer at Harry and Harry was to think of the most repulsive thing imaginable in order to keep his “problem” under control.
At least Ron no longer looked like Ron, Polyjuiced as he was into a rather attractive black man with a shaved head. That Harry really wanted to lick. He really was going to have to kill Hermione one of these days.
“All right, Harry?” Ron asked tightly.
His cock twitched as a rather cute man sauntered by, openly admiring him. “Fine.”
Followed by another man dressed as Lady Godiva. He closed his eyes. “Slughorn. Naked. Right.”
“Slathered in butter,” Ron added helpfully.
Harry cringed. “Got it.” He opened his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Millicent Bulstrode wearing a polka dotted bikini always works for me,” Ron said thoughtfully. “Or Madam Pince.”
“How about Argus Filch?” added Harry, dissolving into a rather unmannish fit of giggles. He cleared his throat. Fucking dress. “Can we just get this over with?”
Ron nodded and Harry followed him into the crowded salon, resolutely not checking out Ron’s arse underneath his vicar’s robes.
“All right,” said Ron, stopping next to the bar. “I need to find a place to set the spell that will take down their wards. You… Fuck,” he spat, turning quickly to block Harry’s view. “Malfoy. Three o’clock,” he whispered.
“Really?” Harry’s expression brightened. Clearly all the blood in his head had headed south to frolic inside his rapidly swelling cock.
Ron looked at Harry in horror and started shaking his head. “No.”
“What? I can’t see. Get out of the way.”
“No. No. You’re not… Draco Malfoy, Harry?”
“I just want to see what he’s wearing,” Harry pouted, stomping his stiletto-heeled foot on the ground.
“He’s just wearing plain set of vicar’s robes, but it doesn’t matter now. He’s gone and I don’t think he saw us.” He grabbed a flute of champagne from an overburdened house-elf and shoved it into Harry’s hands. “Here, drink this. It’ll calm you down.”
Harry drained the glass and grabbed another. “The knickers. They’re too tight,” he whimpered.
“Okay, Harry?” Ron took Harry’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Slughorn. Butter.” He nodded encouragingly.
Harry closed his eyes and saw a vision of Malfoy and Ron lolling in bed together wearing nothing but pearls. “Not working,” he moaned.
“Okay. Sprout, Snape and McGonagall in a three way. McGonagall is wearing a strap-on. Snape bottoms.”
Harry concentrated. “Sorry.”
“Flitwick joins them, wearing nothing but a hat and spurs,” Ron added.
One thought of Flitwick’s wee little penis and Harry’s cock began to shrivel like a spent balloon. “Thanks,” he said, smoothing down the front of his skirt. “You’ve got a really filthy mind, you know that? Remind me not to look in the drawer of your nightstand.”
“Yeah, well, Hermione’s been distant lately,” Ron replied grimly. He looked at Harry carefully. “Better?"
Harry nodded.
“All right. Let’s get out of here.” Ron steered Harry around and accidentally pushed him straight into Draco Malfoy.
For a stunned moment, Harry’s mind went blank, watching Malfoy’s drink tumble to the ground, spilling whisky down the front of his robes. Then so strong came the urge to fall down to his knees and lick the whisky clean off Malfoy’s boots that he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Hermione really was going to have to die, or at the very least be stricken with a very potent toenail-growing hex.
“Idiot. Why can’t you watch where you’re going?” Malfoy sneered, mopping the front of his robes with cocktail napkin.
“Forget him. Let’s go,” Ron hissed in Harry’s ear as he tugged at his elbow.
It was the dress. It was messing with his head. Why was he still standing there? More importantly, why hadn’t Malfoy noticed him? The stupid ponce was still crying over his wet robes. Harry lifted his skirt to show just a hint of his garters and thrust a stocking-legged foot forward, clearing his throat.
Malfoy looked up and his eyes narrowed. For a horrible moment, Harry thought he had made a mistake. It was one thing to flirt with strange men at a party, quite another to do it with someone you’ve had a long, difficult history with and who had willingly allied himself with Voldemort. “Sorry,” Harry stammered.
Malfoy said nothing, still staring at Harry. Finally, he shook his head. “For a moment I thought we had met,” he explained, his eyes warming considerably as he took Harry’s hand, “but I’m sure I would’ve remembered someone as pretty as you.” He brushed his lips against Harry’s fingers, sending sparks through his body. “Draco Malfoy, at your service.”
Harry had the sudden, hysterical urge to laugh with joyful glee. Draco Malfoy was coming on to him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy,” he replied, in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own. “I’m very sorry for your robes,” he continued, ignoring Ron’s sharp jab to his ribs. “Is there anything I can do to make amends?”
Malfoy’s eyes positively gleamed. “I’m sure we can think of something.”
“We have to go,” Ron hissed, stepping between them. “Don’t we?” he said to Harry pointedly.
“Sorry.” Harry made a conciliatory he-gets-that-way-all-the-time nod toward Ron and allowed himself to be yanked into the hallway.
Ron found a small lavatory underneath the stairs and pushed Harry inside. “What in the bloody hell was that?” he demanded.
“I’m not sure,” Harry admitted weakly.
Ron groaned, looking skyward. “I don’t feel like I know you anymore.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He was a grown man and he still couldn’t get his hormones under control. It was no wonder that Voldemort was still running loose. “I don’t know if I know myself anymore,” he admitted. He looked at Ron helplessly.
“I’d say that’s why you’re flirting with Malfoy, but I know you better than that.”
Harry looked up sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been obsessing about Malfoy a bloody long time. Look, the only reason I care is that Malfoy could jeopardize our mission, which is why we’re here. You do remember why we’re here?”
Harry glared at him. He wanted to ask Ron how he would bloody well feel trying to conduct a mission with a perpetual hard-on. Instead he turned and punched the wall hard with his fist for no other reason than to prove to himself that he wasn’t a total girl. “Ow!” he cried, looking at his ruined hand accusingly. “Fuck.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Here.” He took Harry’s hand and silently mended the broken bones.
Harry flexed his fingers once and then looked at Ron sadly. “You know, you’re too good to me.”
“Yes, I know. Now, are we done with this because we need to snatch that cup and get the hell out of here? Hermione’s probably pissing in her boots right now, wondering what we’re up to.”
“Yes, we’re done,” said Harry sheepishly. He took a deep breath and pushed Malfoy, ladies’ knickers and his own sexual crisis out of his head. “Let’s do it.”
Ron nodded before whispering a command into his wrist, setting into motion the first part of their plan: a spectacular display of Weasley Whiz-Bangs on the estate’s front lawn. Their ploy seemed to work. Several seconds later, the sound of voices were heard rushing past the lavatory door. Another moment passed and Ron pulled out his wand and began murmuring a string of words in Latin. Pale streaks of light quickly shot up the walls, moving to the ceiling and the floors above, knocking down the wards in their paths. “That should do it.” He checked his watch. “You have thirty minutes to get the cup. If you can’t find it by then, leave.”
Harry nodded. “Right.”
Ron caught his arm. “I mean it, Harry. Forget what Hermione says.”
~*~
The house was bigger than he thought and several minutes had past before he found the door to the bedroom where he was told Helga Hufflepuff’s cup would be hidden. He stepped forward and glanced quickly behind him. Satisfied that the corridor was empty, he lightly traced his fingers over the bedroom door and frowned. Something wasn’t right. He could still feel magic crackling from inside the room and he quickly pulled his hand away. The wards were still up. He silently cursed Ron and reached for his wand hidden underneath his skirt.
“Careful,” a voice whispered behind him and Harry froze.
“Sorry,” he rasped, “I…” Before he could finish, a warm puff of air tickled the back of his neck, followed by a body pressing against his, molding itself to Harry’s spine. Oh God, he thought desperately, seeing a hand appear, winding its way around his waist while another one reached around to cup his chin. Suddenly, he was caught between the very real desire to let himself fall into this stranger’s arms or do the sensible thing and hex this lothario straight into Squibdom. Harry quickly decided that wearing high heels and fishnet stockings precluded him from doing the sensible thing and if Hermione had a problem with that she really should have come up with a Plan B.
“Shh…” the voice soothed, playfully nibbling Harry’s ear. “These doors are enchanted, love. We wouldn’t want someone as pretty as you getting hurt, now would we?”
Harry stiffened. “Malfoy?” he croaked.
“Hmmm… I missed you,” he replied, still tonguing the skin inside Harry’s ear. “You ran away.”
Obviously Harry should never run away from Slytherins with tongues as clever as this one and he was never going to do it again if he could help it. Thoughts of Horcruxes and Hermione vanished as he let himself succumb to the sensation of Malfoy’s hand skimming the edge of his skirt, exploring the bare skin there as he nudged Harry’s legs apart. “Oh God,” he whimpered, letting his head fall forward so he could watch Malfoy’s hand disappear under his skirt. It had to be the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
“You like this, don’t you?” Malfoy purred, cupping Harry’s erection and squeezing it through the lace material of his knickers. “Lifting your skirt like a common, two-bit whore.”
“Y-yes,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks flame. “Y-you like this too,” he accused. Well, it was more like a squeak than an accusation as Malfoy’s rather sizable erection began to press insistently against Harry’s arse.
“Hmm…,” Malfoy hummed contentedly, latching his mouth onto the sensitive skin at the base of Harry’s neck. That’s going to bruise later, Harry thought dimly, letting his head loll to the side, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Malfoy continued to ravish his body, sending sharp shivers of heat to his groin. A sudden pang of warning shot through him, but then Malfoy’s hand dipped inside his knickers, touching bare skin, and he very nearly came. “I… I can’t,” he started to babble, finally prying his eyes open. The door in front of him swam into focus and he took a breath.
The mission. He had to get Helga’s cup.
Remembering that Malfoy hadn’t recognized him, he pushed his hands away (dying a little inside as he did so) and spun around. “Mr. Malfoy,” he said, smiling. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t let strange men grope me in the hallway.”
Malfoy seemed unimpressed, ducking his head to lick a swath of skin under Harry’s chin. “You should try it. You might like it.”
Harry twisted his neck away. He was rapidly running out of places to squirm. “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” he gasped. “My friend is expecting me.”
Malfoy lifted his head to look at Harry and Harry saw a flicker of something he didn’t like. Malfoy knew who he was. “You…“
Malfoy muttered something and door behind Harry flew open. “Yes, Potter,” he drawled, looking more like the Malfoy he remembered, the one who had somehow managed to talk the Wizengamot into setting him free. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Before Harry could react, he was hit with something that sent him tumbling backwards into the room with his wand clattering across the floor. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, and sat up on his hands, finding his legs obscenely splayed open in front of him. He flushed and quickly shut them, uncomfortably aware that his erection was still pressing visibly against the fabric of his knickers.
“Pity. I rather liked you, like that. Spread open like the slut you obviously are.” Harry suddenly looked up and saw a wand pointed straight at his chest. Malfoy raised his eyebrow, doing a fair impression of his father.
Fuck. Fuck FUCK. Harry scrambled to his feet and reached for his wand only to watch helplessly as it rolled towards Malfoy’s feet. Malfoy stooped to pick it up and placed it on the table next to him.
“So, imagine my surprise,” Malfoy went on genially, “when some oaf spills a drink on me, and lo and behold, it’s Harry Potter and he’s wearing a dress. It’s like Christmas came early.”
Harry’s eyes darted around the room. He was trapped. Aside from the large bed and opulent furnishings, the room resembled the inside of a fortress. There were no windows and only one door, the one directly behind Malfoy.
Malfoy seemed amused by Harry’s distress. “The original owner of this house built this room for his lovely wife. He kept her locked her up during the day and only came in to ravish her at night,” he explained. “Awful life, I imagine.”
“Terrible,” Harry agreed, quickly hatching a plan. Attempting a winsome smile, he straightened his skirt (the torn shoulder, alas, was a lost cause) and took a step backward, perching himself atop a writing table. “So,” he said coyly, tilting his head to one side as he crossed his legs, “you said Christmas came early.” He stretched one of his legs in front of him, flexing the heel. “Do you like seeing me dressed like this?”
Draco’s mouth fell open and he quickly shut it again. “If you…”
“If I what?” asked Harry playfully, finding this flirting business a lot easier than he would have thought. Malfoy took the bait, taking several steps forward, leaving Harry’s wand abandoned on the table by the door. Now all Harry had to do was to figure out how to get past Malfoy to reach it. He adjusted his legs, spreading them slightly.
Malfoy looked at them warily before raising his eyes to Harry’s face. “What are you doing?”
Harry’s focused his eyes directly on Malfoy’s. “I’m trying to save the Wizarding world, Malfoy. The cup. I know it’s in here. Give to me.”
Sweat began to bead down Malfoy’s forehead. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said rather unconvincingly.
“Cut the crap, Malfoy. Why else did you follow me up here? Give it to me.”
“And why would I do that?” Malfoy hedged in strained voice.
It was now or never. Harry spread his legs wider, ignoring his heart hammering painfully in his ears. “Because you can’t take your eyes off me,” he said, attempting a seductive tone. “You want me, Malfoy. You want me so bad that your cock is leaking inside your pants. That’s why you couldn’t stop rutting against me in the corridor, isn’t it? Like you wanted to impale me with your thick, swollen cock.” Malfoy made a whimpering sound and Harry knew that he had him. He slid off the desk and slinked toward Malfoy, feeling more like a femme fatale from an old Hollywood film than an overworked bespectacled Wizard.
Malfoy’s wand dropped as he watched Harry walk toward him. “You’re not… Are you suggesting I…”
Harry wasn’t sure what he was suggesting, but he kept going anyway because shagging the living daylights out of Draco Malfoy sounded like a very good idea indeed. Hell, he had done far worse things in the service of the Wizarding world than fuck attractive erstwhile Death Eaters, and he’d be lying to himself if he claimed that he didn’t dream about having his way with Malfoy since he was a sixteen-year old wanking beneath his bedcovers. He took another step forward, feeling heat and lust radiate from the other man’s body. “You can’t wait to see me spread open, can you, Malfoy?” he whispered, surprised at his own audacity, and he had to struggle to keep his voice steady. “So you can slide your cock inside my tight hole and fuck me. Fuck me so hard that I come screaming your name.”
Malfoy visibly swallowed. Harry cupped his chin and watched as Malfoy struggled not to react. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?” Harry asked breathlessly.
“Awfully sure of yourself, are you?” Malfoy said in a crisp tone that was fooling no one.
“As sure as I know we’ve both wanted this since we were in school.” Malfoy’s eyes flew open and something deep inside Harry opened and broke apart. “I want the cup,” said Harry, leaning forward to whisper against Malfoy’s skin. “And I want you. I always have,” he admitted, playing his last card and not caring. He supposed this was an eye-opening day all around. He ought to send Hermione his therapy bills, or maybe just buy her roses. He planted a kiss just under Malfoy’s ear before drawing away, holding his gaze.
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly,” he whispered, before kissing Malfoy again, on the lips this time, relishing the moan that came shuddering from inside the other man’s body. Malfoy tasted sweet with traces of whisky on his tongue, and Harry had to wonder why that sweetness was such a surprise. He urged Malfoy backward until they both tumbled onto the bed and he moved quickly, straddling his thighs and pinning him to the mattress. “We have a deal, then?” he asked.
“Fuck, yes,” said Malfoy without missing a beat, and for once Harry was glad that Malfoy seemed to lack any kind of moral center.
“Good,” replied Harry, opening Malfoy’s collar and letting his fingers glide over the warm skin hidden underneath. A slow smile drifted across his face as his hand moved deeper, finding the hard nub of one of Malfoy’s nipples and he twisted it, garnering a gasp from the man lying beneath him. He was actually going to do this. He was going to fuck Draco Malfoy.
“It’s really hot seeing you like this,” Malfoy said breathlessly, drawing his hands up Harry’s thighs and curling them around to knead the skin of his arse.
“Yeah?” Harry rasped, letting his eyes flutter shut as he arched against Malfoy’s hands.
“Yeah,” Malfoy agreed, reaching with one hand to touch Harry’s face, his thumb lingering on Harry’s lower lip. “Take off your knickers,” he whispered.
Harry let out a shuddering breath and grinned. He eagerly tore at the elastic around his waist and pushed the knickers down his legs, grateful to finally rid them from his body. “Better?” he asked, his cock bobbing eagerly under his skirt as he climbed back over Draco’s thighs.
“God, yes,” said Malfoy, pulling Harry down into a searing kiss that made Harry wonder why he never considered kissing Malfoy before. It probably would have saved a lot of angst back in school.
Sweat began to prickle down Harry’s back, as Malfoy’s hands continued to paw at his dress, seeking bare skin and Harry loved it. Loved the feeling of Malfoy’s hands all over his body while they plundered each other’s mouths. His cock dragged against the fabric of Malfoy’s robes as he moved, feeling the hard press of Malfoy’s erection underneath, and he became dimly aware that Malfoy could make him do anything right now and he wouldn’t be able to say no. “Fuck,” Harry finally gasped, coming up for air. “We have to make this quick. I don’t have a lot of time,” he said, staring down at Malfoy’s lipstick smeared face and oh God... It wasn’t like he was going to last much longer anyway.
Malfoy smirked. “That rather seems to be the point, Potter. Or did that Muggle family of yours drop you on the head too many times?”
It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to retort that the Dursleys and sex were not to be brought up anywhere near each other, but then he was distracted by the spectacle of Malfoy frantically wiggling out of his trousers. “Nnngh,” fell out of his mouth, staring at Malfoy’s hard, pink cock, glistening in the torchlight and looking very eager to sink itself into Harry’s body.
“All right there, Potter?” asked Malfoy, a little too smugly for Harry’s tastes.
Harry nodded, letting his eyes drift up to Malfoy’s face, and seeing dark, glittering eyes that didn’t quite hide the desperate hunger buried inside, and oh yes, Harry would do anything Malfoy wanted.
Malfoy regarded Harry for a moment, as if he understood what Harry was thinking. “Give me your fingers,” Malfoy ordered, lifting his chin.
Oh God.
He let Malfoy take his hand and watched helplessly as a light, almost chaste kiss was pressed into his palm before a tongue appeared, pink and snakelike, between his fingers. Malfoy’s tongue swirled around his digits as he nibbled and suckled them like they were made of hard candy. It was… fuck, he couldn’t even begin to describe the sensation and he began to squirm, feeling heat and want curl around inside him.
“You like this,” Malfoy observed softly, before drawing one of Harry’s fingers deep into the wet heat of his mouth. Another one of his fingers slipped in and Malfoy began to suck hard, saliva dribbling down his chin as he fellated Harry’s fingers, making humming noises as he did so and, oh fuck, it was all Harry could not to grab his own cock and pull himself off. Malfoy’s other hand slid down his back and into the crack of Harry’s arse and Harry couldn’t take it anymore.
“Malf- I need…” He gave up and began to buck against Malfoy, seeking any kind of relief from the ache growing inside him.
"There, there," Malfoy soothed, after slowly drawing Harry’s fingers out of his mouth, his pink tongue trailing behind to lick his lips. “Look at you,” he said, taking in Harry’s trembling form as he drew a line down Harry’s cheek. “Practically begging me to fuck you in your pretty little dress.”
Harry shut his eyes, biting back a moan. He shifted backwards, just out of the reach of Malfoy’s hands. “Y- you want it too, Malfoy,” he rasped. “You want me so bad,” he lifted his skirt and readjusted himself so Malfoy could see better, “that you… oh fuck… that you’d betray your Death Eater friends for me,” he finished, stabbing his wet fingers inside his hole. Fuck. He could only imagine what he looked like, riding his own fingers like a cheap slut and he bit his upper lip hard to keep himself from coming.
“Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy replied thickly, his eyes wide as he watched Harry work himself open.
Harry made an impatient sound and hissed, “Admit it. Admit that you want me.” Oh God, he was so fucking hard, his neglected cock was weeping between his legs and he couldn’t honestly fathom why this mattered so much now, but he was suddenly determined that Malfoy admit that he wanted him, Harry Potter, not some bloke in a pretty dress.
Malfoy reluctantly focused his eyes back to Harry’s face and Harry couldn’t restrain himself from moaning at the need he saw written in those grey eyes. Malfoy opened his mouth, his breath coming out in short wheezing gasps. “I… I do… want you,” he panted, his hands skating up Harry’s thigh, pulling him closer. “N- need to be inside you, H- Harry. Please.”
Harry made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh and he grabbed Malfoy’s shirt collar, kissing him hard and deep before pushing him back to the bed again and climbing on top of him. Not wanting to waste another moment, he spat into his palm and wrapped his spit-slick hand around Malfoy’s prick, positioning it into place.
“Yessss,” he hissed, pressing down and feeling his insides burn as they adjusted around the thickness of Malfoy’s cock. He was going to feel this later and he pulled up slowly, so slowly, feeling the burn lessen and then slammed back down again.
“Oh fuck,” cried Malfoy, and Harry rather agreed. He couldn’t remember the last time sex felt this good, this wanton and free, and he threw his head back and began to ride Malfoy’s cock with abandon, stretching himself further until Malfoy hit that spot deep inside him that made Harry’s toes curl and he began to wail.
Malfoy pulled him down for another kiss and he suddenly found himself flipped onto his back with Malfoy smugly staring down at him. “Fucking Harry Potter,” he whispered against Harry’s lips before thrusting hard enough to make Harry walk funny for the rest of the week. “Always have…,” he thrust again, “to make things…,” thrust, “so…,” thrust, “hard.”
Harry braced his hands against the headboard in a valiant attempt to match Malfoy’s increasingly erratic thrusts, leaving his cock trapped between them, unnoticed. “Malfoy,” he whimpered, “I need… Please.” His head lolled to the side. Fuck. His eyes widened, seeing something glowing on the floor. It was the Portkey inside his handbag. His thirty minutes were almost up. “I’ve got to go, Malfoy,” he began to whine. “Hurry… Draco I…” White lights began to sparkle behind his eyelids like some errant Weasley Whiz-Bang and suddenly he was coming, hard, only seconds after Malfoy’s hand had slid between them. A few strokes later, Malfoy came too, moaning into the crook of Harry’s shoulder, and Harry almost forgot to breath.
~*~
Harry pried open his eyes and saw cherubs painted on the ceiling. They had been watching the two of them with obvious interest and he smiled back at them sleepily. How he managed to keep his glasses on through all this, he had no idea and he let his eyes flutter shut again, enjoying the sound of Malfoy’s ragged breath in his ears. Malfoy made a contented sound, burrowing deeper into Harry’s arms and Harry’s eyes flew open again. The cup. He sat up suddenly, shoving Malfoy off him, and climbed off the bed, running for his wand.
“Potter! What the fuck?” Malfoy called after him, sitting up on his elbows and glaring murderously.
Harry snatched his wand and Accioed his handbag. “I’ve got to go. Mission’s over.” He pointed his wand at Malfoy. “Show me where the cup is. Now.”
Malfoy visibly sighed. “Fine,” he said, looking away. “My robe pocket.”
“What?”
“Just look.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable.
His wand still trained on Malfoy, Harry walked to spot where Malfoy’s robes were crumpled in a heap on the floor. He felt around inside the pockets, removing a small tube of lubricant, several Galleons and a small key. He held the key up. “Where does this go?” he barked.
Malfoy reached out his hand. “Give it to me.”
Harry looked at him skeptically.
“You don’t trust me, Potter. Fine,” he sneered, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who wanted to save the world so badly.”
“Fine,” Harry replied curtly, handing him the key.
Malfoy held his gaze as he grabbed his wand off the nightstand and tapped it against the key, transfiguring it into a dingy silver cup. He held it up for Harry to see.
Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait.” He snatched the cup out of Malfoy’s hands and slipped it into his bag. “You had it with you the whole time?”
“More or less,” Malfoy replied smugly.
“But… I was told the cup was hidden in this room.”
Malfoy grinned. “It was. It was just hidden on me.”
“But…” None of this was making sense. Was Malfoy…? His handbag pulsed impatiently. He was running out of time.
“Catching up, are you?”
“Then why did we just…”
“More fun that way, I guess.” He shrugged.
Harry’s mouth fell open.
“Say hello to Granger for me.”
“Wait.” He felt a tug at his navel and began spinning around, hurtling towards the inside of Hermione’s flat.
~*~
Harry blinked, steadying himself and stared at Hermione. Ron appeared beside him a few seconds later. “Malfoy,” he croaked.
“You didn’t run into that git again, did you?” asked Ron.
“Never mind that.” Hermione ran up to them. “Did you get it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Harry replied bitterly, throwing the handbag at Hermione. “Your clever plan worked.” He kicked off his heels and tore off his dress, throwing that at Hermione as well, and realizing too late that it probably reeked of sex. He really couldn’t bring himself to care, miserably stalking instead into Hermione’s bedroom intent on looking for something to wear that wasn’t girly or frilly or pink.
“What’s your problem?” demanded Ron, following behind and he stopped, staring wide-eyed at Harry, apparently just now noticing his disheveled appearance. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”
“Problem?” Harry repeated angrily, before catching his reflection in Hermione’s mirror and he laughed mirthlessly, wiping the smeared lipstick off his face with the heel of his hand. Bite marks were scattered across his neck and his hair was sticking rather more on end than usual. In short, he looked like he had just been fucked in the most spectacular way possible and his gut suddenly clenched. “Nothing,” he said sourly, grabbing his jeans and t-shirt out of Ron's hands and sinking down onto the bed, feeling something inside him break.
“This was all set up, wasn’t it?” he asked softly, when Hermione appeared in the doorway and he turned away, concentrating on fastening his jeans instead. “Let’s see if we can have a laugh at Harry Potter’s expense,” he went on, pulling on his t-shirt, grateful to have his regular clothes on again. “Let’s put him in a dress. Maybe he’ll flirt with the boys in the office. That’ll be hilarious. And oh yeah, there’s this cup you should get if you’re not too busy having brilliant sex with Draco sodding Malfoy, who for all I know is still a fucking Death Eater, but I guess he’s not now, is he? Because the two of you were working together!” He pulled off one of his earrings and threw it on the floor, glaring at the way it sparkled in the light.
“Wait. You fucked Malfoy?” Ron looked a little sick.
“Well, technically he fucked me, but that’s not the point. The-“
“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, kneeling down in front of him to look him in the eye. “Look, all Malfoy was supposed to do was slip the key inside your handbag outside the room where I told you the cup was hidden. That’s it. Once the Portkey was activated, you and the key would come safely back here. Then all we had to do was transfigure the key back into its original state and we’d have the cup.” She sighed. “I'm really sorry, Harry. This isn’t the first time Malfoy refused to follow orders.”
“That’s not good enough, Hermione,” Harry replied angrily. “I thought we were friends. You lied to me.”
At least Hermione had the decency to look chagrined, Harry thought, watching her and Ron exchange glances. “We are friends, Harry,” she said, squeezing Harry’s knee. “But I’m also your superior now and Malfoy’s status with the Ministry is classified. I was under specific orders not to tell you.”
“So Malfoy’s been working for us all along, then?” he asked resentfully. “By all means, let’s not tell ‘The Chosen One.’ You know, the one with his arse on the line.” Ron snorted. “Shut up. I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry snapped, glaring at him. “Oh, not you, too,” he cried, turning to see Hermione stifling a smile.
“You did have sex with him,” Ron pointed out tactfully.
“Harry, I just assumed you knew about Malfoy anyway. You were at his tribunal. Why do you think he got that pardon?” She smirked. “Even Ron figured it out on his own.”
“Hey!” Ron cried.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “All those stories about him sleeping around, acting like a careless playboy… Well, some of it was true,” she admitted grudgingly. “But it really was just a Ministry cover.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Harry cried. “Why didn’t Malfoy just give me the cup? Why did he make me…?” Hermione raised an eyebrow and Harry flushed. “I mean why did he…?”
“Sleep with you?” she finished. “I don’t know. He probably likes you. Since when does Malfoy do anything that doesn’t satisfy his own self-interest?”
Harry rolled his eyes and looked away.
“Look, Harry, you are attractive. You just can never see it. I admit I hoped that the dress would help you loosen up a bit.” She smirked. “I just didn’t realize it would succeed so spectacularly.” Hermione moved to sit beside him on the bed. “But I didn’t plan that.” She gestured to Harry’s cock, now happily sated, resting inside the snug confines of his jeans. “That was all you. And Malfoy,” she added. “I suppose he’s not that bad,” she mused. “You’d be much better off with him than pining over that straight boy in the coffee shop.”
“Hermione,” Ron said, aghast.
“Hush, you,” Hermione admonished Ron. “Harry could do worse. Besides, I don’t see you climbing into his bed.”
“I don’t even like blokes,” cried Ron.
“Says the man who couldn’t stop staring at Harry when he was wearing a dress,” Hermione parried.
“Okay, I’ve had enough. I’m going home,” Harry said, rising to his feet. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like anything is ever going to come of this.” He walked to the door still feeling sulky and a little used.
“Harry, you should be proud of yourself,” Hermione called after him. “You accomplished your mission.”
He grunted before Apparating to his flat. He took one step forward and froze. “Lumos,” he whispered.
Sitting on his sofa was a delightfully mussed Draco Malfoy regarding Harry with obvious impatience. “About time you got here,” he said, sparing a look at his nails. “I thought I was going to have to start wanking to your copy of Gay Wizarding Times.”
Harry blinked. “What? Why?”
Malfoy stood and pulled Harry into his arms. “I can think of several reasons why. Most involve your cock and my cock playing together.”
“We don’t even like each other,” Harry complained, even as his fingers began furiously unbuttoning Malfoy’s robes. He slid his hand inside hoping to find more of that soft, warm skin and his eyes flew open instead. “Hang on. What are you wearing?”
Malfoy smirked, shrugging off his robes to reveal a lacy green corset and matching knickers. “I thought I ought to return the favor since I was the one who sent Granger that dress.”
Harry’s mouth flapped open. “You…”
Malfoy shrugged, looking smug. “I think that was the best idea I’ve had yet.”
Harry had to agree.
~fin~
A big thank you to fleshdress for her gift to me: Restraining Order
Title: Maid to Order
Author: mizBean
Wordcount: 8,000
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: Porn!! (NC-17)
Warnings: Cross-dressing, dirty talk, bottom!Harry, copious amounts of crack.
Author’s notes: A big thank you to my lovely betas: eryn_, ella_bane and winnett and everyone who put up with my angsting over the last few months. This is probably the filthiest thing I've ever written. *blushes and then runs and hides*
Summary: Harry Potter, an unhappy Auror with a boring sex life, receives a tip to the whereabouts of one Voldemort's Horcruxes. There is, however, one catch.
Maid to Order
For Harry Potter, life held many surprises. Discovering that magic was in fact real and not the stuff of fairy tales was big. Discovering that his enemies weren’t always who he thought they were was earth shattering. Discovering that he got off wearing woman’s clothes… that was just confusing.
“No. Absolutely not!”
“Harry.”
“A French Maid?” he cried, staring wide-eyed at sight of himself dressed in a short black skirt and fishnet stockings. He twisted around in front of the full-length mirror Hermione had conjured on a Ministry conference room wall. “Explain to me how I’m supposed to find Helga Hufflepuff’s cup in this?”
Hermione heaved the sigh of someone who already had to explain this several times over. “Antonin Dolohov is holding his annual Tarts and Vicars party this evening at his country estate. We received a tip this morning that Helga’s cup is hidden in one of the bedrooms.” She caught Harry’s eyes in mirror. “I don’t have to tell you what getting that cup means.”
“I know. It means everything. It’s just…” He sighed. “It’s a dress, Hermione. This isn’t how I expected to be tracking down Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”
Hermione gave one last tug on the frilly white apron attached to his skirt and stood up, clearly annoyed. “And exactly how did you expect it to go? That we’d track down every one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes during our final year at Hogwarts? Honestly, Harry.”
“No,” Harry replied resentfully. Hermione knew this was a sore subject for him. Just shy of his twenty-fifth birthday, Voldemort was still running loose, wrecking havoc. Finding this cup would mean there would only be one Horcrux left and he would finally be close to destroying the man who killed his parents. Then, perhaps, he could leave this hero business behind him and finally have a normal life, or at the very least acquire a steady boyfriend.
It was no secret that all work and no play made Harry a very dull boy. He had his share of relationships. He was Harry Potter, after all. But then the same things happened: He was busy, distracted, never around, or he was too dangerous, liable to get anyone who got near him killed.
He pouted at his reflection, feeling severely put out. He barely even recognized himself. Hermione had even used some sort of spell to smooth down the worst of his unruly hair. “Why can’t you wear the dress?” he complained. “I’ve seen you work undercover. You’re just as good of an Auror as I am. You’re loads better than that time you sneaked into Borgin and Burkes.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Nice try, Harry, or did you just forget the part when I told you the party was for men only? And who else am I going to send? Wayne Hopkins? A man so straight he thinks plaid shirts are proper business attire." Her tone suddenly turned serious. "There will be a lot of people there tonight. This will be our best chance to slip in and out unnoticed.”
Harry nodded, suddenly fascinated with how his skirt lifted and showed the pale white of his upper thighs when he turned. He twirled again, smiling despite himself. “What?” he demanded, catching Hermione grinning at his reflection.
“I thought you’d like this assignment. Weren’t you just complaining that your sex life was lacking?”
“Hermione,” he cried, aghast. “They’re Death Eaters.”
“Hush. I’m kidding, of course,” she teased. “This assignment won’t be any different than your other assignments. You’ll just be wearing a dress instead of Auror’s robes.”
Harry rather thought if this assignment was anything like the work he normally did, he’d French kiss Arthur Weasley. Still, he did like the way the stiletto-heeled shoes accentuated the curve of his long legs. Perhaps he could dump the dress and just keep the shoes. Just to wear around his flat, of course. And keep the stockings, too. It’d be a shame to break up the set. Cheered by his brilliant idea, he thrust his left hip out saucily and nearly fell flat on his arse.
Hermione stifled a laugh. “Perhaps flats are in order,” she said, making a note on a scroll of parchment. “Hazel down in accounting has large feet. I’ll send Smith to fetch a pair of hers.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he hissed, stumbling to his feet again. Hermione was going to pry these shoes off of his cold, dead body. He caught his reflection in the mirror again and sighed. What were they thinking? He was Harry Potter. He’d be the laughing stock of the Wizarding world if this ever got out. “This is never going to work,” he moaned.
Hermione mused for a moment. “I suppose I could get Ron to wear the dress, instead.”
Oh God. The sudden vision of Ron wearing nothing but garters popped into Harry’s head. While that happened to be a one of his favorite (and most private) fantasies, it was not one he would be sharing with a bunch of scary old poofs with Dark Marks branded into their skin. “No! Absolutely not,” he cried fiercely, ignoring Hermione’s smirk. “I mean... he’d never do it. May… maybe someone else in the Order could do it.” He cast about frantically for names. “Neville?” Hermione laughed. “Shacklebolt?”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. Like Kingsley would look fanciable in a dress.”
“Er…” The thought of Kingsley Shacklebolt in dress suddenly didn’t sound so ridiculous, or unappealing. He squirmed, starting to feel rather flushed and out of breath. The knickers weren’t helping matters, constricting his privates in a way that was liable to cut off his circulation if he couldn't bring himself under control. “Hermione, I think this is a really bad idea.”
Hermione was silent for a moment. “Harry, turn around and take a look at yourself.” She stepped behind him and peered at their reflections in the mirror over his right shoulder. “You do realize that you look better in those stockings than I ever would.”
Harry had to agree with that, following her gaze down to the toned muscles of his thighs. “I… I still play Quidditch on the weekends,” he explained.
“And look at your face.” She reached around and centered his chin so that he had to look at himself in the mirror. “I always thought you were beautiful.” Harry blushed, unable to meet her eyes. “But now, you really look fantastic. Only you could look this innocent wearing something so naughty. Trust me. You’ll have no trouble getting that cup.”
He took a deep breath. Hermione probably could talk him into shagging Hagrid if it suited her purposes. “Okay,” he said shakily. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. I’ll call in the team and we’ll get started.”
~*~
Harry had spent the rest of the workday alternately being ogled and snickered at by the other Aurors on his team. Shacklebolt even pinched him on the arse, making Harry hot and not just a little bothered. Now he found himself sitting in Hermione’s bedroom feeling extremely on edge as he watched her pull bottles and vials of make-up out of her vanity table drawer. “All this for me?” he asked weakly.
“Harry, relax. You’ll be fine. Pucker your lips. There’s nothing to worry about. Voldemort hates fancy dress parties. I doubt he’ll show.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” he replied sourly.
Hermione spared him a scathing look before dabbing his lips with a small brush. “The only thing you need to worry about is getting that cup. We’ll have other agents there to take care of the Death Eaters. You might want to avoid Crabbe and Goyle though. And Malfoy, I suppose.”
Harry blinked. “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy?” Hermione nodded. “What’s he doing back here?”
Hermione shrugged, brushing powder on his cheeks. “I don’t know what he’s up to and, frankly, I don’t care. Unless he impedes the operation, I don’t want you engaging him.” She looked at him sternly. “And that’s an order.”
Harry scowled. The last time he had seen Malfoy was at his secret tribunal in front of the Wizengamot where he was given a very generous pardon and then summarily deported from the country. Until now, Harry had only assumed Malfoy was too busy sleeping his way through half the male population of the Mediterranean to care what his former Death Eater associates were doing.
“Don’t worry, I have nothing to say to him,” he said, sighing. The thought of running into his former Slytherin classmates while wearing drag was horrifying and… he blinked… arousing?
“Oh God,” he moaned, feeling his cock swell inside his knickers.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His ears were burning and Hermione was too busy transfiguring his plain black glasses into something a little more stylish to notice. “Ooh, I like that,” she said brightly, slipping them onto his face. “It gives you that naughty schoolgirl look.”
“Hermione.”
“What?”
“This.” He gestured to himself. “I think I have a problem.” He stared at his neatly manicured hands clasped in his lap, covering the hard-on that even thoughts of Crabbe and Goyle wearing drag couldn’t render flaccid. He took a deep breath. “All right. At work, Whitby and Moody couldn’t stop staring at me. And… and then Kingsley pinched me and…” he swallowed and focused on the pattern of Hermione’s rug. “I thought I’d practice a little. You know, walk around in the dress and I went to the coffee shop where that cute Muggle boy works - the one who I’m pretty sure is straight. I… I started flirting with him and he… Well… I… I let him kiss me.”
“I’ll have a talk with the team. There’s no excuse for that sort of behavior,” she replied briskly, dipping a large white pouf into a pot full of powder. “And you shouldn’t be kissing strange Muggles either. But let’s face it, Harry. Look at you. You’re like catnip for lonely, hard-up boys.”
“That’s not the point,” he ground out. “I like it. I mean… A lot.”
“So?”
God, was she that obtuse? “But I can’t,” he said miserably. “I’m the Boy Who Lived. Not the Boy Who Gets Off Wearing Ladies’ Knickers.”
“And why not? Honestly, Harry. What do you care? People are going to gossip no matter what you do. Why not live up to their worst expectations for a change? You know, you have become a tad dull.”
Harry sighed, not at all convinced. He didn’t know how to tell her that it wasn’t just the ladies knickers. It was how he felt when he wore them. Desired. Coveted. Wanted. It was all he could do not to want to be ravished by the nearest bloke that looked at him.
Hermione stopped dabbing the powder on his forehead. “A Disillusionment Charm to cover your scar and a little make-up. No one will recognize you. Want to see?”
He peered into the mirror Hermione handed him and lightly touched his face, amazed with what a sprinkle of glitter and cherry red lipstick could do. He was a completely different person. “I- wow.” It was all he could think to say.
“Good. Ron will be here any minute.”
“What?” His stomach dropped. “I don’t want Ron to see me like this,” he hissed.
“Perhaps if you weren’t too busy flirting with Kingsley and Whitby you would have remembered me telling you that Ron’s your escort to the party."
Oh God. “Hermione, no.”
“I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” she replied briskly. “Ron’s a professional. He does these sorts of assignments all the time. He’ll just be there to make sure nothing bad happens.”
Harry had the sinking feeling that Ron was going to be very busy this evening.
Right on time a sharp pop of displaced air sounded in the room, and Harry turned to see Ron gaping at him like he had just witnessed Severus Snape profess his undying love for Neville Longbottom, or perhaps just his best mate dolled up like a Knockturn Alley trollop. “Harry?” he asked weakly.
Harry cringed, mortified and… and… oh fuck… completely turned on by the way Ron was staring at him. “Hermione, you didn’t tell Ron that I would be dressed like this, did you?” he cried.
“Nonsense,” Hermione replied firmly. “I told Ron that he was escorting you to a fancy dress party.”
“Harry’sagirl,” Ron squeaked, pointing. Harry might have heard the words, “frilly knickers,” but he was too horrified to keep listening.
“Hermione,” Harry cried, covering himself again in a valiant attempt to hide his hard-on.
“Ron, stop staring. You’re making Harry uncomfortable.”
“I can’t help it, all right?” Ron pleaded. “It... it’s Harry.”
Harry groaned. His best mate was leering at him. “That’s it! I can’t do this,” he cried.
Hermione’s gaze suddenly turned steely as she slowly withdrew her wand from the sleeve of her robes. “You know, Harry, you’re not the only one who had to make sacrifices over the years. I had ambitions for my life too. A rewarding job, a social life, maybe even a boyfriend.” She shot Ron a nasty glare. “It didn’t involve spending the last seven years skulking about searching for hidden trinkets. So don’t you dare flake out on me now! Am I clear?”
Ron gulped. “I’ll be good.”
Harry nodded, covering his eyes. “This is going to be a long fucking evening.”
~*~
With a beaded handbag in one hand and Ron’s arm clutched in the other, Harry tottered up the front steps of Dolohov’s estate. With Hermione’s help, the two of them had managed to come to an agreement: Ron wasn’t to leer at Harry and Harry was to think of the most repulsive thing imaginable in order to keep his “problem” under control.
At least Ron no longer looked like Ron, Polyjuiced as he was into a rather attractive black man with a shaved head. That Harry really wanted to lick. He really was going to have to kill Hermione one of these days.
“All right, Harry?” Ron asked tightly.
His cock twitched as a rather cute man sauntered by, openly admiring him. “Fine.”
Followed by another man dressed as Lady Godiva. He closed his eyes. “Slughorn. Naked. Right.”
“Slathered in butter,” Ron added helpfully.
Harry cringed. “Got it.” He opened his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Millicent Bulstrode wearing a polka dotted bikini always works for me,” Ron said thoughtfully. “Or Madam Pince.”
“How about Argus Filch?” added Harry, dissolving into a rather unmannish fit of giggles. He cleared his throat. Fucking dress. “Can we just get this over with?”
Ron nodded and Harry followed him into the crowded salon, resolutely not checking out Ron’s arse underneath his vicar’s robes.
“All right,” said Ron, stopping next to the bar. “I need to find a place to set the spell that will take down their wards. You… Fuck,” he spat, turning quickly to block Harry’s view. “Malfoy. Three o’clock,” he whispered.
“Really?” Harry’s expression brightened. Clearly all the blood in his head had headed south to frolic inside his rapidly swelling cock.
Ron looked at Harry in horror and started shaking his head. “No.”
“What? I can’t see. Get out of the way.”
“No. No. You’re not… Draco Malfoy, Harry?”
“I just want to see what he’s wearing,” Harry pouted, stomping his stiletto-heeled foot on the ground.
“He’s just wearing plain set of vicar’s robes, but it doesn’t matter now. He’s gone and I don’t think he saw us.” He grabbed a flute of champagne from an overburdened house-elf and shoved it into Harry’s hands. “Here, drink this. It’ll calm you down.”
Harry drained the glass and grabbed another. “The knickers. They’re too tight,” he whimpered.
“Okay, Harry?” Ron took Harry’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Slughorn. Butter.” He nodded encouragingly.
Harry closed his eyes and saw a vision of Malfoy and Ron lolling in bed together wearing nothing but pearls. “Not working,” he moaned.
“Okay. Sprout, Snape and McGonagall in a three way. McGonagall is wearing a strap-on. Snape bottoms.”
Harry concentrated. “Sorry.”
“Flitwick joins them, wearing nothing but a hat and spurs,” Ron added.
One thought of Flitwick’s wee little penis and Harry’s cock began to shrivel like a spent balloon. “Thanks,” he said, smoothing down the front of his skirt. “You’ve got a really filthy mind, you know that? Remind me not to look in the drawer of your nightstand.”
“Yeah, well, Hermione’s been distant lately,” Ron replied grimly. He looked at Harry carefully. “Better?"
Harry nodded.
“All right. Let’s get out of here.” Ron steered Harry around and accidentally pushed him straight into Draco Malfoy.
For a stunned moment, Harry’s mind went blank, watching Malfoy’s drink tumble to the ground, spilling whisky down the front of his robes. Then so strong came the urge to fall down to his knees and lick the whisky clean off Malfoy’s boots that he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Hermione really was going to have to die, or at the very least be stricken with a very potent toenail-growing hex.
“Idiot. Why can’t you watch where you’re going?” Malfoy sneered, mopping the front of his robes with cocktail napkin.
“Forget him. Let’s go,” Ron hissed in Harry’s ear as he tugged at his elbow.
It was the dress. It was messing with his head. Why was he still standing there? More importantly, why hadn’t Malfoy noticed him? The stupid ponce was still crying over his wet robes. Harry lifted his skirt to show just a hint of his garters and thrust a stocking-legged foot forward, clearing his throat.
Malfoy looked up and his eyes narrowed. For a horrible moment, Harry thought he had made a mistake. It was one thing to flirt with strange men at a party, quite another to do it with someone you’ve had a long, difficult history with and who had willingly allied himself with Voldemort. “Sorry,” Harry stammered.
Malfoy said nothing, still staring at Harry. Finally, he shook his head. “For a moment I thought we had met,” he explained, his eyes warming considerably as he took Harry’s hand, “but I’m sure I would’ve remembered someone as pretty as you.” He brushed his lips against Harry’s fingers, sending sparks through his body. “Draco Malfoy, at your service.”
Harry had the sudden, hysterical urge to laugh with joyful glee. Draco Malfoy was coming on to him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy,” he replied, in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own. “I’m very sorry for your robes,” he continued, ignoring Ron’s sharp jab to his ribs. “Is there anything I can do to make amends?”
Malfoy’s eyes positively gleamed. “I’m sure we can think of something.”
“We have to go,” Ron hissed, stepping between them. “Don’t we?” he said to Harry pointedly.
“Sorry.” Harry made a conciliatory he-gets-that-way-all-the-time nod toward Ron and allowed himself to be yanked into the hallway.
Ron found a small lavatory underneath the stairs and pushed Harry inside. “What in the bloody hell was that?” he demanded.
“I’m not sure,” Harry admitted weakly.
Ron groaned, looking skyward. “I don’t feel like I know you anymore.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He was a grown man and he still couldn’t get his hormones under control. It was no wonder that Voldemort was still running loose. “I don’t know if I know myself anymore,” he admitted. He looked at Ron helplessly.
“I’d say that’s why you’re flirting with Malfoy, but I know you better than that.”
Harry looked up sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been obsessing about Malfoy a bloody long time. Look, the only reason I care is that Malfoy could jeopardize our mission, which is why we’re here. You do remember why we’re here?”
Harry glared at him. He wanted to ask Ron how he would bloody well feel trying to conduct a mission with a perpetual hard-on. Instead he turned and punched the wall hard with his fist for no other reason than to prove to himself that he wasn’t a total girl. “Ow!” he cried, looking at his ruined hand accusingly. “Fuck.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Here.” He took Harry’s hand and silently mended the broken bones.
Harry flexed his fingers once and then looked at Ron sadly. “You know, you’re too good to me.”
“Yes, I know. Now, are we done with this because we need to snatch that cup and get the hell out of here? Hermione’s probably pissing in her boots right now, wondering what we’re up to.”
“Yes, we’re done,” said Harry sheepishly. He took a deep breath and pushed Malfoy, ladies’ knickers and his own sexual crisis out of his head. “Let’s do it.”
Ron nodded before whispering a command into his wrist, setting into motion the first part of their plan: a spectacular display of Weasley Whiz-Bangs on the estate’s front lawn. Their ploy seemed to work. Several seconds later, the sound of voices were heard rushing past the lavatory door. Another moment passed and Ron pulled out his wand and began murmuring a string of words in Latin. Pale streaks of light quickly shot up the walls, moving to the ceiling and the floors above, knocking down the wards in their paths. “That should do it.” He checked his watch. “You have thirty minutes to get the cup. If you can’t find it by then, leave.”
Harry nodded. “Right.”
Ron caught his arm. “I mean it, Harry. Forget what Hermione says.”
~*~
The house was bigger than he thought and several minutes had past before he found the door to the bedroom where he was told Helga Hufflepuff’s cup would be hidden. He stepped forward and glanced quickly behind him. Satisfied that the corridor was empty, he lightly traced his fingers over the bedroom door and frowned. Something wasn’t right. He could still feel magic crackling from inside the room and he quickly pulled his hand away. The wards were still up. He silently cursed Ron and reached for his wand hidden underneath his skirt.
“Careful,” a voice whispered behind him and Harry froze.
“Sorry,” he rasped, “I…” Before he could finish, a warm puff of air tickled the back of his neck, followed by a body pressing against his, molding itself to Harry’s spine. Oh God, he thought desperately, seeing a hand appear, winding its way around his waist while another one reached around to cup his chin. Suddenly, he was caught between the very real desire to let himself fall into this stranger’s arms or do the sensible thing and hex this lothario straight into Squibdom. Harry quickly decided that wearing high heels and fishnet stockings precluded him from doing the sensible thing and if Hermione had a problem with that she really should have come up with a Plan B.
“Shh…” the voice soothed, playfully nibbling Harry’s ear. “These doors are enchanted, love. We wouldn’t want someone as pretty as you getting hurt, now would we?”
Harry stiffened. “Malfoy?” he croaked.
“Hmmm… I missed you,” he replied, still tonguing the skin inside Harry’s ear. “You ran away.”
Obviously Harry should never run away from Slytherins with tongues as clever as this one and he was never going to do it again if he could help it. Thoughts of Horcruxes and Hermione vanished as he let himself succumb to the sensation of Malfoy’s hand skimming the edge of his skirt, exploring the bare skin there as he nudged Harry’s legs apart. “Oh God,” he whimpered, letting his head fall forward so he could watch Malfoy’s hand disappear under his skirt. It had to be the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
“You like this, don’t you?” Malfoy purred, cupping Harry’s erection and squeezing it through the lace material of his knickers. “Lifting your skirt like a common, two-bit whore.”
“Y-yes,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks flame. “Y-you like this too,” he accused. Well, it was more like a squeak than an accusation as Malfoy’s rather sizable erection began to press insistently against Harry’s arse.
“Hmm…,” Malfoy hummed contentedly, latching his mouth onto the sensitive skin at the base of Harry’s neck. That’s going to bruise later, Harry thought dimly, letting his head loll to the side, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Malfoy continued to ravish his body, sending sharp shivers of heat to his groin. A sudden pang of warning shot through him, but then Malfoy’s hand dipped inside his knickers, touching bare skin, and he very nearly came. “I… I can’t,” he started to babble, finally prying his eyes open. The door in front of him swam into focus and he took a breath.
The mission. He had to get Helga’s cup.
Remembering that Malfoy hadn’t recognized him, he pushed his hands away (dying a little inside as he did so) and spun around. “Mr. Malfoy,” he said, smiling. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t let strange men grope me in the hallway.”
Malfoy seemed unimpressed, ducking his head to lick a swath of skin under Harry’s chin. “You should try it. You might like it.”
Harry twisted his neck away. He was rapidly running out of places to squirm. “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” he gasped. “My friend is expecting me.”
Malfoy lifted his head to look at Harry and Harry saw a flicker of something he didn’t like. Malfoy knew who he was. “You…“
Malfoy muttered something and door behind Harry flew open. “Yes, Potter,” he drawled, looking more like the Malfoy he remembered, the one who had somehow managed to talk the Wizengamot into setting him free. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Before Harry could react, he was hit with something that sent him tumbling backwards into the room with his wand clattering across the floor. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, and sat up on his hands, finding his legs obscenely splayed open in front of him. He flushed and quickly shut them, uncomfortably aware that his erection was still pressing visibly against the fabric of his knickers.
“Pity. I rather liked you, like that. Spread open like the slut you obviously are.” Harry suddenly looked up and saw a wand pointed straight at his chest. Malfoy raised his eyebrow, doing a fair impression of his father.
Fuck. Fuck FUCK. Harry scrambled to his feet and reached for his wand only to watch helplessly as it rolled towards Malfoy’s feet. Malfoy stooped to pick it up and placed it on the table next to him.
“So, imagine my surprise,” Malfoy went on genially, “when some oaf spills a drink on me, and lo and behold, it’s Harry Potter and he’s wearing a dress. It’s like Christmas came early.”
Harry’s eyes darted around the room. He was trapped. Aside from the large bed and opulent furnishings, the room resembled the inside of a fortress. There were no windows and only one door, the one directly behind Malfoy.
Malfoy seemed amused by Harry’s distress. “The original owner of this house built this room for his lovely wife. He kept her locked her up during the day and only came in to ravish her at night,” he explained. “Awful life, I imagine.”
“Terrible,” Harry agreed, quickly hatching a plan. Attempting a winsome smile, he straightened his skirt (the torn shoulder, alas, was a lost cause) and took a step backward, perching himself atop a writing table. “So,” he said coyly, tilting his head to one side as he crossed his legs, “you said Christmas came early.” He stretched one of his legs in front of him, flexing the heel. “Do you like seeing me dressed like this?”
Draco’s mouth fell open and he quickly shut it again. “If you…”
“If I what?” asked Harry playfully, finding this flirting business a lot easier than he would have thought. Malfoy took the bait, taking several steps forward, leaving Harry’s wand abandoned on the table by the door. Now all Harry had to do was to figure out how to get past Malfoy to reach it. He adjusted his legs, spreading them slightly.
Malfoy looked at them warily before raising his eyes to Harry’s face. “What are you doing?”
Harry’s focused his eyes directly on Malfoy’s. “I’m trying to save the Wizarding world, Malfoy. The cup. I know it’s in here. Give to me.”
Sweat began to bead down Malfoy’s forehead. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said rather unconvincingly.
“Cut the crap, Malfoy. Why else did you follow me up here? Give it to me.”
“And why would I do that?” Malfoy hedged in strained voice.
It was now or never. Harry spread his legs wider, ignoring his heart hammering painfully in his ears. “Because you can’t take your eyes off me,” he said, attempting a seductive tone. “You want me, Malfoy. You want me so bad that your cock is leaking inside your pants. That’s why you couldn’t stop rutting against me in the corridor, isn’t it? Like you wanted to impale me with your thick, swollen cock.” Malfoy made a whimpering sound and Harry knew that he had him. He slid off the desk and slinked toward Malfoy, feeling more like a femme fatale from an old Hollywood film than an overworked bespectacled Wizard.
Malfoy’s wand dropped as he watched Harry walk toward him. “You’re not… Are you suggesting I…”
Harry wasn’t sure what he was suggesting, but he kept going anyway because shagging the living daylights out of Draco Malfoy sounded like a very good idea indeed. Hell, he had done far worse things in the service of the Wizarding world than fuck attractive erstwhile Death Eaters, and he’d be lying to himself if he claimed that he didn’t dream about having his way with Malfoy since he was a sixteen-year old wanking beneath his bedcovers. He took another step forward, feeling heat and lust radiate from the other man’s body. “You can’t wait to see me spread open, can you, Malfoy?” he whispered, surprised at his own audacity, and he had to struggle to keep his voice steady. “So you can slide your cock inside my tight hole and fuck me. Fuck me so hard that I come screaming your name.”
Malfoy visibly swallowed. Harry cupped his chin and watched as Malfoy struggled not to react. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?” Harry asked breathlessly.
“Awfully sure of yourself, are you?” Malfoy said in a crisp tone that was fooling no one.
“As sure as I know we’ve both wanted this since we were in school.” Malfoy’s eyes flew open and something deep inside Harry opened and broke apart. “I want the cup,” said Harry, leaning forward to whisper against Malfoy’s skin. “And I want you. I always have,” he admitted, playing his last card and not caring. He supposed this was an eye-opening day all around. He ought to send Hermione his therapy bills, or maybe just buy her roses. He planted a kiss just under Malfoy’s ear before drawing away, holding his gaze.
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly,” he whispered, before kissing Malfoy again, on the lips this time, relishing the moan that came shuddering from inside the other man’s body. Malfoy tasted sweet with traces of whisky on his tongue, and Harry had to wonder why that sweetness was such a surprise. He urged Malfoy backward until they both tumbled onto the bed and he moved quickly, straddling his thighs and pinning him to the mattress. “We have a deal, then?” he asked.
“Fuck, yes,” said Malfoy without missing a beat, and for once Harry was glad that Malfoy seemed to lack any kind of moral center.
“Good,” replied Harry, opening Malfoy’s collar and letting his fingers glide over the warm skin hidden underneath. A slow smile drifted across his face as his hand moved deeper, finding the hard nub of one of Malfoy’s nipples and he twisted it, garnering a gasp from the man lying beneath him. He was actually going to do this. He was going to fuck Draco Malfoy.
“It’s really hot seeing you like this,” Malfoy said breathlessly, drawing his hands up Harry’s thighs and curling them around to knead the skin of his arse.
“Yeah?” Harry rasped, letting his eyes flutter shut as he arched against Malfoy’s hands.
“Yeah,” Malfoy agreed, reaching with one hand to touch Harry’s face, his thumb lingering on Harry’s lower lip. “Take off your knickers,” he whispered.
Harry let out a shuddering breath and grinned. He eagerly tore at the elastic around his waist and pushed the knickers down his legs, grateful to finally rid them from his body. “Better?” he asked, his cock bobbing eagerly under his skirt as he climbed back over Draco’s thighs.
“God, yes,” said Malfoy, pulling Harry down into a searing kiss that made Harry wonder why he never considered kissing Malfoy before. It probably would have saved a lot of angst back in school.
Sweat began to prickle down Harry’s back, as Malfoy’s hands continued to paw at his dress, seeking bare skin and Harry loved it. Loved the feeling of Malfoy’s hands all over his body while they plundered each other’s mouths. His cock dragged against the fabric of Malfoy’s robes as he moved, feeling the hard press of Malfoy’s erection underneath, and he became dimly aware that Malfoy could make him do anything right now and he wouldn’t be able to say no. “Fuck,” Harry finally gasped, coming up for air. “We have to make this quick. I don’t have a lot of time,” he said, staring down at Malfoy’s lipstick smeared face and oh God... It wasn’t like he was going to last much longer anyway.
Malfoy smirked. “That rather seems to be the point, Potter. Or did that Muggle family of yours drop you on the head too many times?”
It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to retort that the Dursleys and sex were not to be brought up anywhere near each other, but then he was distracted by the spectacle of Malfoy frantically wiggling out of his trousers. “Nnngh,” fell out of his mouth, staring at Malfoy’s hard, pink cock, glistening in the torchlight and looking very eager to sink itself into Harry’s body.
“All right there, Potter?” asked Malfoy, a little too smugly for Harry’s tastes.
Harry nodded, letting his eyes drift up to Malfoy’s face, and seeing dark, glittering eyes that didn’t quite hide the desperate hunger buried inside, and oh yes, Harry would do anything Malfoy wanted.
Malfoy regarded Harry for a moment, as if he understood what Harry was thinking. “Give me your fingers,” Malfoy ordered, lifting his chin.
Oh God.
He let Malfoy take his hand and watched helplessly as a light, almost chaste kiss was pressed into his palm before a tongue appeared, pink and snakelike, between his fingers. Malfoy’s tongue swirled around his digits as he nibbled and suckled them like they were made of hard candy. It was… fuck, he couldn’t even begin to describe the sensation and he began to squirm, feeling heat and want curl around inside him.
“You like this,” Malfoy observed softly, before drawing one of Harry’s fingers deep into the wet heat of his mouth. Another one of his fingers slipped in and Malfoy began to suck hard, saliva dribbling down his chin as he fellated Harry’s fingers, making humming noises as he did so and, oh fuck, it was all Harry could not to grab his own cock and pull himself off. Malfoy’s other hand slid down his back and into the crack of Harry’s arse and Harry couldn’t take it anymore.
“Malf- I need…” He gave up and began to buck against Malfoy, seeking any kind of relief from the ache growing inside him.
"There, there," Malfoy soothed, after slowly drawing Harry’s fingers out of his mouth, his pink tongue trailing behind to lick his lips. “Look at you,” he said, taking in Harry’s trembling form as he drew a line down Harry’s cheek. “Practically begging me to fuck you in your pretty little dress.”
Harry shut his eyes, biting back a moan. He shifted backwards, just out of the reach of Malfoy’s hands. “Y- you want it too, Malfoy,” he rasped. “You want me so bad,” he lifted his skirt and readjusted himself so Malfoy could see better, “that you… oh fuck… that you’d betray your Death Eater friends for me,” he finished, stabbing his wet fingers inside his hole. Fuck. He could only imagine what he looked like, riding his own fingers like a cheap slut and he bit his upper lip hard to keep himself from coming.
“Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy replied thickly, his eyes wide as he watched Harry work himself open.
Harry made an impatient sound and hissed, “Admit it. Admit that you want me.” Oh God, he was so fucking hard, his neglected cock was weeping between his legs and he couldn’t honestly fathom why this mattered so much now, but he was suddenly determined that Malfoy admit that he wanted him, Harry Potter, not some bloke in a pretty dress.
Malfoy reluctantly focused his eyes back to Harry’s face and Harry couldn’t restrain himself from moaning at the need he saw written in those grey eyes. Malfoy opened his mouth, his breath coming out in short wheezing gasps. “I… I do… want you,” he panted, his hands skating up Harry’s thigh, pulling him closer. “N- need to be inside you, H- Harry. Please.”
Harry made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh and he grabbed Malfoy’s shirt collar, kissing him hard and deep before pushing him back to the bed again and climbing on top of him. Not wanting to waste another moment, he spat into his palm and wrapped his spit-slick hand around Malfoy’s prick, positioning it into place.
“Yessss,” he hissed, pressing down and feeling his insides burn as they adjusted around the thickness of Malfoy’s cock. He was going to feel this later and he pulled up slowly, so slowly, feeling the burn lessen and then slammed back down again.
“Oh fuck,” cried Malfoy, and Harry rather agreed. He couldn’t remember the last time sex felt this good, this wanton and free, and he threw his head back and began to ride Malfoy’s cock with abandon, stretching himself further until Malfoy hit that spot deep inside him that made Harry’s toes curl and he began to wail.
Malfoy pulled him down for another kiss and he suddenly found himself flipped onto his back with Malfoy smugly staring down at him. “Fucking Harry Potter,” he whispered against Harry’s lips before thrusting hard enough to make Harry walk funny for the rest of the week. “Always have…,” he thrust again, “to make things…,” thrust, “so…,” thrust, “hard.”
Harry braced his hands against the headboard in a valiant attempt to match Malfoy’s increasingly erratic thrusts, leaving his cock trapped between them, unnoticed. “Malfoy,” he whimpered, “I need… Please.” His head lolled to the side. Fuck. His eyes widened, seeing something glowing on the floor. It was the Portkey inside his handbag. His thirty minutes were almost up. “I’ve got to go, Malfoy,” he began to whine. “Hurry… Draco I…” White lights began to sparkle behind his eyelids like some errant Weasley Whiz-Bang and suddenly he was coming, hard, only seconds after Malfoy’s hand had slid between them. A few strokes later, Malfoy came too, moaning into the crook of Harry’s shoulder, and Harry almost forgot to breath.
~*~
Harry pried open his eyes and saw cherubs painted on the ceiling. They had been watching the two of them with obvious interest and he smiled back at them sleepily. How he managed to keep his glasses on through all this, he had no idea and he let his eyes flutter shut again, enjoying the sound of Malfoy’s ragged breath in his ears. Malfoy made a contented sound, burrowing deeper into Harry’s arms and Harry’s eyes flew open again. The cup. He sat up suddenly, shoving Malfoy off him, and climbed off the bed, running for his wand.
“Potter! What the fuck?” Malfoy called after him, sitting up on his elbows and glaring murderously.
Harry snatched his wand and Accioed his handbag. “I’ve got to go. Mission’s over.” He pointed his wand at Malfoy. “Show me where the cup is. Now.”
Malfoy visibly sighed. “Fine,” he said, looking away. “My robe pocket.”
“What?”
“Just look.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable.
His wand still trained on Malfoy, Harry walked to spot where Malfoy’s robes were crumpled in a heap on the floor. He felt around inside the pockets, removing a small tube of lubricant, several Galleons and a small key. He held the key up. “Where does this go?” he barked.
Malfoy reached out his hand. “Give it to me.”
Harry looked at him skeptically.
“You don’t trust me, Potter. Fine,” he sneered, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who wanted to save the world so badly.”
“Fine,” Harry replied curtly, handing him the key.
Malfoy held his gaze as he grabbed his wand off the nightstand and tapped it against the key, transfiguring it into a dingy silver cup. He held it up for Harry to see.
Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait.” He snatched the cup out of Malfoy’s hands and slipped it into his bag. “You had it with you the whole time?”
“More or less,” Malfoy replied smugly.
“But… I was told the cup was hidden in this room.”
Malfoy grinned. “It was. It was just hidden on me.”
“But…” None of this was making sense. Was Malfoy…? His handbag pulsed impatiently. He was running out of time.
“Catching up, are you?”
“Then why did we just…”
“More fun that way, I guess.” He shrugged.
Harry’s mouth fell open.
“Say hello to Granger for me.”
“Wait.” He felt a tug at his navel and began spinning around, hurtling towards the inside of Hermione’s flat.
~*~
Harry blinked, steadying himself and stared at Hermione. Ron appeared beside him a few seconds later. “Malfoy,” he croaked.
“You didn’t run into that git again, did you?” asked Ron.
“Never mind that.” Hermione ran up to them. “Did you get it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Harry replied bitterly, throwing the handbag at Hermione. “Your clever plan worked.” He kicked off his heels and tore off his dress, throwing that at Hermione as well, and realizing too late that it probably reeked of sex. He really couldn’t bring himself to care, miserably stalking instead into Hermione’s bedroom intent on looking for something to wear that wasn’t girly or frilly or pink.
“What’s your problem?” demanded Ron, following behind and he stopped, staring wide-eyed at Harry, apparently just now noticing his disheveled appearance. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”
“Problem?” Harry repeated angrily, before catching his reflection in Hermione’s mirror and he laughed mirthlessly, wiping the smeared lipstick off his face with the heel of his hand. Bite marks were scattered across his neck and his hair was sticking rather more on end than usual. In short, he looked like he had just been fucked in the most spectacular way possible and his gut suddenly clenched. “Nothing,” he said sourly, grabbing his jeans and t-shirt out of Ron's hands and sinking down onto the bed, feeling something inside him break.
“This was all set up, wasn’t it?” he asked softly, when Hermione appeared in the doorway and he turned away, concentrating on fastening his jeans instead. “Let’s see if we can have a laugh at Harry Potter’s expense,” he went on, pulling on his t-shirt, grateful to have his regular clothes on again. “Let’s put him in a dress. Maybe he’ll flirt with the boys in the office. That’ll be hilarious. And oh yeah, there’s this cup you should get if you’re not too busy having brilliant sex with Draco sodding Malfoy, who for all I know is still a fucking Death Eater, but I guess he’s not now, is he? Because the two of you were working together!” He pulled off one of his earrings and threw it on the floor, glaring at the way it sparkled in the light.
“Wait. You fucked Malfoy?” Ron looked a little sick.
“Well, technically he fucked me, but that’s not the point. The-“
“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, kneeling down in front of him to look him in the eye. “Look, all Malfoy was supposed to do was slip the key inside your handbag outside the room where I told you the cup was hidden. That’s it. Once the Portkey was activated, you and the key would come safely back here. Then all we had to do was transfigure the key back into its original state and we’d have the cup.” She sighed. “I'm really sorry, Harry. This isn’t the first time Malfoy refused to follow orders.”
“That’s not good enough, Hermione,” Harry replied angrily. “I thought we were friends. You lied to me.”
At least Hermione had the decency to look chagrined, Harry thought, watching her and Ron exchange glances. “We are friends, Harry,” she said, squeezing Harry’s knee. “But I’m also your superior now and Malfoy’s status with the Ministry is classified. I was under specific orders not to tell you.”
“So Malfoy’s been working for us all along, then?” he asked resentfully. “By all means, let’s not tell ‘The Chosen One.’ You know, the one with his arse on the line.” Ron snorted. “Shut up. I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry snapped, glaring at him. “Oh, not you, too,” he cried, turning to see Hermione stifling a smile.
“You did have sex with him,” Ron pointed out tactfully.
“Harry, I just assumed you knew about Malfoy anyway. You were at his tribunal. Why do you think he got that pardon?” She smirked. “Even Ron figured it out on his own.”
“Hey!” Ron cried.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “All those stories about him sleeping around, acting like a careless playboy… Well, some of it was true,” she admitted grudgingly. “But it really was just a Ministry cover.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Harry cried. “Why didn’t Malfoy just give me the cup? Why did he make me…?” Hermione raised an eyebrow and Harry flushed. “I mean why did he…?”
“Sleep with you?” she finished. “I don’t know. He probably likes you. Since when does Malfoy do anything that doesn’t satisfy his own self-interest?”
Harry rolled his eyes and looked away.
“Look, Harry, you are attractive. You just can never see it. I admit I hoped that the dress would help you loosen up a bit.” She smirked. “I just didn’t realize it would succeed so spectacularly.” Hermione moved to sit beside him on the bed. “But I didn’t plan that.” She gestured to Harry’s cock, now happily sated, resting inside the snug confines of his jeans. “That was all you. And Malfoy,” she added. “I suppose he’s not that bad,” she mused. “You’d be much better off with him than pining over that straight boy in the coffee shop.”
“Hermione,” Ron said, aghast.
“Hush, you,” Hermione admonished Ron. “Harry could do worse. Besides, I don’t see you climbing into his bed.”
“I don’t even like blokes,” cried Ron.
“Says the man who couldn’t stop staring at Harry when he was wearing a dress,” Hermione parried.
“Okay, I’ve had enough. I’m going home,” Harry said, rising to his feet. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like anything is ever going to come of this.” He walked to the door still feeling sulky and a little used.
“Harry, you should be proud of yourself,” Hermione called after him. “You accomplished your mission.”
He grunted before Apparating to his flat. He took one step forward and froze. “Lumos,” he whispered.
Sitting on his sofa was a delightfully mussed Draco Malfoy regarding Harry with obvious impatience. “About time you got here,” he said, sparing a look at his nails. “I thought I was going to have to start wanking to your copy of Gay Wizarding Times.”
Harry blinked. “What? Why?”
Malfoy stood and pulled Harry into his arms. “I can think of several reasons why. Most involve your cock and my cock playing together.”
“We don’t even like each other,” Harry complained, even as his fingers began furiously unbuttoning Malfoy’s robes. He slid his hand inside hoping to find more of that soft, warm skin and his eyes flew open instead. “Hang on. What are you wearing?”
Malfoy smirked, shrugging off his robes to reveal a lacy green corset and matching knickers. “I thought I ought to return the favor since I was the one who sent Granger that dress.”
Harry’s mouth flapped open. “You…”
Malfoy shrugged, looking smug. “I think that was the best idea I’ve had yet.”
Harry had to agree.
~fin~