fic: A Matter Of Pride 2/2
Title: A Matter of Pride [2/2]
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 11,447 (6,006 for this part)
Notes: Written for enchanted-jae at hds-beltane. (And she liked it! *happy dance!*)
Summary: The initial bet which goes so much more wrong than Draco could have imagined. The discriminating photos which Draco would sell his soul for, to save his pride. A safe place to relieve tension becomes tension itself. A silent acknowledgement of opposing sides, and yet, an acceptance. A willing surrender.
[ Part One]
Draco was late. It wasn't because he had been held up, or forgotten about the... appointment, but merely because he had not wanted to go. However, the classroom door tentatively clicked open, and he couldn't procrastinate any more. He was already there. Potter was perched on a desk, crossed-legged and holding an envelope loosely in one hand. Draco's eyes flashed to it, and his long fingers itched to rush over and grab it. When he shut the door, Potter aimed his wand at it, barely skimming Draco, locking it before he spoke. "So. Photos. Here. They're copies, of course." He tossed them at Draco, who feverishly scrabbled at the flap to open it.
The first was a work of art. He was framed majestically by the fire in the background, outlines highlighted in slivers of light which ran across his limbs and shifted as the photo moved. He looked much as he always did, proud, standing tall, completely unlike the surprised-rabbit face he had been wearing at the time of the actual photo. Much of his body was in hard shadow, but the shadows moved, and it was not at all hard to see all and any details one wished to see. He looked like a terrifying god from Classical literature. He was, also like those in Classical literature often were, naked, of course. It was equally breathtakingly beautiful, and damning. He set fire to them right there and then, ashes dropping from his hands to form black snow on the ground at his feet.
"You heard what I said, right? Copies, Malfoy." Potter's voice broke his hypnotic watching of the smouldering remains, and he looked up sharply. He'd gotten a look at the photos; the only thing left was what Potter wanted from him. He wouldn't have called him to somewhere private just to give him the pictures; he would have cornered him after Potions or something. He waited, rendered dumb, still glancing down at the ground.
Suddenly, Draco regrets looking down, not watching Potter, not observing his every change in movement, because he suddenly finds himself crushed, once more, against a wall, and he has no idea how Potter even managed to get across the room that quickly. Once again, the kiss is powerful, rough, uncontrolled, yet it is controlled, it is utterly controlled by Potter, and Draco can't even fend him off. Potter pushes one hand to twine through Draco's hair, pulling hard enough that a small noise escapes his mouth before he can prevent it, escaping right into Potter's mouth, who swallows it like he's trying to eat his way through Draco.
Potter pushes hard enough that Draco starts sliding down the wall, stuck in an awkward position with his legs bent, barely still standing, unable to get the leverage to shove Potter off. He hates it. He hates that he never has any choice, he hates that he can just let Potter do this to him and he's not physically capable of preventing it, and he hates it that Potter can kiss better than Pansy. He feels petty. He feels used. He feels... well, he hates Potter. That much is certain. But can a person hate someone and yet not hate them at the same time? No. No, Draco firmly asserted to himself.
Potter finally shoves himself away from Draco, leaving Draco to suddenly drop onto the floor in a mess of limbs, and Potter's gone by the time the Slytherin even manages to get up. He has a feeling, a small but steadily growing feeling, a dreading feeling, that Potter has almost as little clue as to what's really going on as he does. Almost.
* * *
Letters from his mother are never comforting. They're meant to be, and Draco can tell. She's doing all she can to reassure him, make sure he's fine, not losing sleep or weight, or worrying. Her calm words are all a lie, and Draco knows that, and Narcissa probably knows that Draco knows, but he understands why she does it anyway. He sighs, and burns the letter immediately after the second reading. He's used to doing that to all letters of correspondence now, just in case. It helps to keep the nostalgia, the tiredness, the pressure of what he has to do down if he has no reminders of what he has to do.
In the same way, Draco burnt the notes that Potter sent him, first the one with the detailed paragraph describing the area just beyond the lake, then the one with the clinically phrased time, date and location. The same psychology didn't seem to apply to Potter though (nothing ever applied to Potter, apparently), and the boy found himself wondering why. Why the meeting, why the insistence, why the blackmail, why the kiss. Always, why the kiss.
There had only been one solution that Draco could think of, and it didn't make any sense to him at all. Potter fancied him. Maybe. Potter hated him too though; Draco knew that as an unshakable fact. The day that Harry Potter stopped being his archrival, his whole world would be shifted. He had spent years, five of them, trying to outdo Potter, prove that he wasn't always right... and he had proved it, over and over, that Potter was just another person, like him, who got angry, and pissy at people, who didn't do homework, and lazed around during revision time, but still the boy persisted in being treated in a favourable light. His whole life revolved around Potter since that first incident on the Express, and... now that Draco thought about it that way, it seemed rather pathetic. He was just another Potter follower really, who relied on the other boy, though it was not for the traditional fame and luck and courage or whatever else people loved Potter for. And now he was thoroughly trapped.
It was possibly the one thing Harry Potter could have done to completely keep Draco's attention on him. A kiss. It infuriated him that Potter had just invaded him thrice now, and none of the times had he the opportunity to do something about it, be it stop him and whack his head in, or take control of the kiss. That second thought plagued Draco. It plagued him because he didn't know why he thought it. There was no reason for it, apart from the fact that he didn't want to seem like some passive little bitch. Potter's bitch, to be more precise. In an attempt to show Potter that the other boy did not affect him at all, Draco pushed all thoughts of the kiss from his mind. No effect on him whatsoever. Life was completely normal (all in the day of an evil lord's minion's work, after all) and carried on with or without Harry bloody Potter.
So why did he keep feeling Potter's lips on his when he was in bed, lying in the dark, imagining the weight and pressure of the other boy on him?
The next time an inconspicuous owl flew over to him, two days later, Draco ripped the letter open, devoured it with his eyes and promptly burnt it right there, at the breakfast table. Crabbe eyed him, and asked, "Another detention?" Draco nodded absently, wondering how long he could use that excuse before people started wondering what it was he kept doing to be given detentions. Nevertheless, the boy made it through the meal without losing his decorum. He had his hair perfectly slicked back, in an effort to save his proud image, but he couldn't hide the fact that he looked more worn than usual, but most of the Slytherins who mattered to him knew that he had something to be doing, something which was draining his energy anyway. A little bit more didn't matter very much to him at the moment.
Passing Potter in Potions, he avoided looking the boy in a subtle way, glancing briefly at the area just above his eyes. He didn't want to seem obvious that he was avoiding, didn't want to give any ground to the Gryffindor, but he didn't want to know what emotions those eyes held at that particular moment. Maybe Potter pitied him. He hated that. He hated that anyone would pity him; pity only served as something to degrade the object of the emotion. In this case, him.
* * *
A different classroom this time, and Draco gets there early, before Potter. When the other boy comes in and shuts the door, Draco has his wand out and pointed, the tip slightly shaking. He swallows before he talks, making sure that his voice will come out steadily. Harry has a look of mild surprise, and then patience, as if simply waiting for him to make his move. He wonders why he hasn't just hexed the other boy all to hell yet. Maybe he's grown up a little. "What do you want this time?" The first word quavers just minutely, but the rest is as firm as he had hoped it would be.
Harry stares at Draco's wand for just a moment, before shrugging. "I don't know. I felt like it?" He starts coming into the room to sit on a desk, a slight flush covering his cheeks, and Draco feels something inside of him. Half of it is outrage, outrage that Potter can just call him on a whim, when he feels like it, with no consideration at all. That's the simple half. The other half wars with confusion, and helplessness, and... and since when did pleasure get into the equation there?
"You felt like it. What am I, your pet?" the blond snaps, twisting strands of hair out of his eyes, because he doesn't want anything to disturb his concentration. "Your little dog, for you to play with whenever you feel like it?" He's caustic about it, sounding disgusted and sneering. Potter's words have only confirmed what he had realised before though. That Potter doesn't really know what's going on.
"Do you want to be?" There's a small smile lightly dusted across Potter's lips, and Draco suddenly knows that the other boy is picturing him as a little dog. Maybe one of those fluffy puppies. He scowls, and the boy looks amusedly at him. "So did you figure it out yet?" It takes just a second, but Draco knows what Potter means. He means whether Draco knows the reasoning behind the kisses. He doesn't; as far as he can see it, there is no logic behind it, because this whole situation is not logical.
Although his wand arm is starting to ache, Draco doesn't stop pointing it at Potter. "I'm not your dog," he aid flatly. "So stop treating me like one. And no, I didn't. Do you fancy me?" There. He's said it. He almost looks away, blushing, but stops himself. He's not backing out of this either. He can stare Potter full on whilst the other stares straight back at him with a proud, defiant face.
Potter does that half chuckle, half snort of his. "I haven't figured it out either. Maybe I do." Ho shite. Potter has just admitted that he might fancy Draco Malfoy. True, it was a might, but it must be a very strong 'might' for him to say it with such lack of emotion. Like it doesn't bother Potter at all that he might possibly fancy his arch-nemesis.
"Potter. Hello?" Draco is vaguely wondering whether the other boy's gone mad, or been hexed lately or something. He's acting a bit passive. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Not that he's concerned. Just that he really wants to know if it doesn't bother the other boy at all that he thinks he fancies Draco Malfoy. Forget the archrival thing, what about the whole same-sex thing?
Potter raises his eyebrows. "There's nothing wrong with me. What's wrong with you?" True, Draco is very jumpy, but he has reason to be, doesn't he?
"There's nothing wrong with me, Potter. Just the small revelation that you might possibly fancy me!" His arm is too tired to hold up his wand anymore. He'd also think of a more logical argument, but his brain's not really responding to the weak and few stimuli he's giving it. Potter just seems to laugh at his discomfort. Which, he supposes, is hardly anything new, but it's still not a pleasant feeling, and Draco really wishes that he hadn't put his wand down, because as soon as he did so, Potter reaches out and grabs him by the hair, jerking him towards him. The hair. He wishes the other boy would stop doing that, it damn well hurts. "POTTER." Draco grates through his teeth, actually able to fend him off this time. He grabs his wand again, and shoves it into Potter's stomach.
Harry simultaneously smashed his mouth onto Draco's and gripped the boy's wand with the other hand. Draco tried to wriggle it, desperately hoping that Potter wasn't going to break his wand or anything. Dammit. Potter's tongue shoved into his mouth, and Draco considered biting down on it, but the way Potter angled their mouths made him unable to do that. He wishes that he could think of a non-verbal spell to get rid of the Gryffindor, but the way that Potter sucking on his lip makes wet little noises is very distracting. He's not sure if it's a good distracting, or a bad distracting, but distracting it is. Potter's pulled him even closer, so that his pelvis hits the front of the desk that Potter's sitting on, and the wand is jabbing into both of their stomachs now.
Somehow, Potter's hand's drifted from his hair, to curving around his neck, along his jaw, touching his cheek, and Draco has no idea why he's still so close if he's not being held there. "Bloody hell, Potter," Draco croaks, "Get a grip."
"I thought I did," Potter has a quick-fire answer, and has his hand entwines in Draco's hair again, even if it's not so harsh this time, and kisses him again. Draco has no idea what this is. There's no fluttering of butterflies, no somersaults of the stomach. It's just a really good kiss. That's a good sign. That means that he doesn't fancy Potter, right? The kiss ends slowly again, each pulling away almost reluctantly, like taffy being wrenched apart. "At least this way, I can guarantee that no media's going to get hold of this," Potter says, somewhat grimly, and Draco realises that it's true. He's leaning forwards, and Potter's almost straddling him, one leg dangling off the desk either side of Draco's hips, and Draco knows that this is going to keep happening. He doesn't know what he thinks about that. Maybe he's not thinking at all. He feels a little numb, protected from all his feelings. Maybe this is what Potter feels; maybe it's why Potter doesn't seem to be bothered about any of this.
* * *
Draco is ridiculously angry. He's angry with himself, for once more being the submissive, dumb whore. He had his wand out the whole time and he hadn't done anything. He's angry at Potter for using him as a way to... to feed his bloody sexual needs without alerting the media, because he knows that Draco is hardly going to tell anyone about his bloody physical homosexual relationship with Harry Potter. He's angry with himself for really not caring. That is the big one. The finale. The one that really annoys him. He really doesn't care that he's... in a gay physical relationship, with Harry Potter, of all people. And it angers him because deep down, Draco is completely terrified that there's something wrong with him. He should care. It was a big deal. Not compared to being threatened by Voldemort himself, but this was much more personal. This was a challenge, the terms laid down by Potter, and he was rising to it. He had to. He was too proud not to.
Change became routine. Draco is regularly shattered, worrying over his mother mostly. He turns over his 'mission' in his mind over and over, and he knows that his friends make comments on his drawn appearance behind his back, and give him sympathetic looks when he's around. He's barely keeping up with work, and that results in staying behind and catching-up, or detentions, which saps away more of his precious time. Meeting with Potter takes up his precious time too, but that... that is a relief.
It's a different time of day and different day of week and different location each time, just to keep the meetings irregular should anyone suspect anything. Potter still sets them times, but now he just tells him at the end of each time when the next meeting will be. When they meet, there's never much talk. Sometimes none at all. It's just the process of locking the door, and then edgy, tense touching, pushing, kissing, something which somehow satisfies letting out feelings more than screaming, or punching something does. Draco knows the shape of Potter's shoulders now, just where the bone juts up, just where there's enough muscle for him to clutch without severely hurting the other boy. He knows that Potter often has dry lips, and that he has a really crazy tongue.
Harry, on the other hand, knows the shape of Draco's ribcage better than his own. He knows what the white hair feels like; the way Draco clenches his jaw when they kiss. He knows that Draco's not completely passive; he does indeed have fire of his own. It's a challenge now. Who can kiss better, who's more violent, more vigorous, more intense. And then they part, take a few moments to silently recover, make arrangements for next time, then part their ways. No chit-chat. No mention of any feelings they might or might not feel towards each other. No gentleness.
When they pass each other in the corridors or at classes, the people around them can see the tension between them. Hermione worries about Harry, saying that he's too focused on the boy. Ron thinks Harry should get the better of him somehow. It's almost funny how wrong they are. There's a heated look between them when they stalk past each other, and everyone mistakes it for the heat of anger, but it's not. It's the heat of passion, knowing that there's something between them that they can't get with anyone else, that their secret is completely secure because neither will crumple and tell. It's the dance between two equally graceful wild beasts, which want to both tame the other, and yet keep the natural wildness. Draco's time with Potter is something he can truly relax over.
* * *
There's only a while before their exams and end of term now. Draco hasn't revised much at all, because he knows that what happens this summer will make all prospects of getting qualifications disappear. He's spending more time with Potter now, it's gone to almost once every other day, and Draco knows that Potter's feeling some kind of pressure too. But they're on different sides, and he knows Potter can't talk about it, and Potter know he can't talk about it. Just sometimes, Draco feels the other boy draw back just for a moment, and say something like, 'They all need me to save them. They know nothing about me.' or 'I need to destroy him. You understand that, don't you?' before attacking Draco again, to drown out everything else. Once, just once, Draco did something similar. "He's going to kill my parents. You know that, right?" They never discussed that, either. There's an unspoken mutual agreement to not discuss about anything that matters. To focus on that isolated hour or so as something out of time.
Sometimes, Draco's shirt ends up on the floor in this warmer weather, and Potter's hands push all over him. Sometimes, Potter's shirt ends up on the floor too, and Draco will press his body to the other boy's, because even though it's hot, Potter's body warmth is different. Sometimes, after a frustrating day, he flings himself at Potter and lets the other boy roughly kiss all his stresses until they disappear under a flood of stimulation. Sometimes, Draco listens to Potter whisper in his ear about how he makes the most delightful of noises, and shivers. Sometimes, he lets the other boy thoroughly molest his upper body, and sometimes, he molests back.
Sometimes, he wonders if he's falling for Potter.
Sometimes he even forgets that this whole thing stemmed from a couple of pictures Potter has hidden away somewhere.
Until the day that Potter had Draco pinned against the wall, kissing down his neck and making sure not to leaving any marks, when Draco clings to Harry's shoulders and whispers, "Potter, you're making me hard." That has never happened before. It was the first concession. Draco had lost the competition between them, the one to push the limit, the one to grapple for pride, and pleasure, and power. It wasn't that Draco hadn't gotten hard from Potter before, from thinking about Potter at night, anticipating the next time, imagining the other boy holding him, even with the knowledge that he was planning something to endanger everyone, even knowing that he was a Slytherin, even knowing everything. It wasn't that Harry hadn't gotten hard from Draco either, from thinking about the way he half opened his mouth when Harry kisses that spot just under his jaw line, from thinking about perhaps one day having that pale skin to himself for more than an hour, more than in an empty, dusty classroom.
It was that this was the first time either of them had admitted to having any reaction whatsoever to the other person. It was obvious that they did. But they didn't talk about it. From that moment, their dynamics changed. Draco had lost, and he had conceded it willingly. His pride hadn't seemed to protest, however. Harry had continued to push his entire body onto Draco, his thigh pressing against Draco's groin, making the other boy suddenly groan gutturally. Potter became just that small but significant bit rougher, harder, his fingertips pressing into Draco's skin and dragging along it. Potter's mouth along his skin and then his mouth is practically tearing small sounds from Draco. His eyes glaze over, but he can still see the focused look on Potter's face. As the boy crushes his slightly smaller body to his, Draco not only doesn't care, but doesn't mind at all.
From then on, Draco's trousers occasionally disappear too, pooling into a heap and kicked aside. Draco is suddenly introduced to having his arse groped, placed perfectly into Potter's hands. Once, Harry mentions that Draco is just the right amount of plumpness. He had snorted, and pushed his arse further into Potter's grip. Potter didn't only touch him in that way, either. He'd also started first lightly brushing Draco's groin, teasing the area around, trailing his hands up Draco's thighs until he was cupped around the blond, his hand radiating warmth. Draco watches him when he does this, fascinated, as if Potter's hand is hypnotic.
There is one thing that Potter never does. Potter never directly touches him, never strokes him down or rubs his hand in, even if Draco is blatantly hard and wants more attention. Draco knows when he's being teased, and he hates it. When Potter refuses to touch him anymore, he pushes his hips forward towards the other boy, clutches Potter tighter as if that would persuade him, and loses control over his voice, which emits begging noises of its own. He hates that too. Potter always leaves him hanging, a small smile discreetly tucked into the curve of his face, kisses or pats him on the cheek, picks up his shirt, and leaves.
At night, behind the scare privacy of his curtained bed, the boy bites his own forearm as he jerks himself off roughly with no finesse, no real feeling. He just needs somewhere he can release, because Potter's not letting him. Draco lets out his frustrations like this, with short, angry movements. He knows it's not because he's undesirable in the eyes of the other boy. He knows Potter gets hard with all that rubbing along him, but Potter never satisfies himself either, apparently. The situation's changed, because previously, these meetings with Potter were his release, his time-out from the real world. Now he needs a release from the release, and once again, it isn't fair. He's confused and doesn't completely know what he wants, but Potter's been doing a pretty good job of being his release up until now.
The next time Potter has him keening against wall Draco fists Potter's shirt, which is crumpled around the shoulders from Draco holding onto it already. "Wait," he whispers, pulling Potter into close. He desperately wraps his arms around the other boy's neck, and Harry has to put his hands on the wall to stop himself completely falling onto Draco. "Sex..." He couldn't quite think straight. "I... sex. With you." He swallows, afraid the boy will refuse him. He's not quite sure his pride will survive if he is rejected. Potter's good at relieving his tensions; he just wants Potter to keep on doing it. "Whatever you want," he promises breathily. "Just let me come." Potter turns his head so that the two are staring directly into each other's eyes. Draco tries to convey that 'whatever you want' in his eyes, because he means it; he truly, completely means it. His body is up for grabs now, or more accurately, up for Potter to grab, if he so wishes.
Potter's arm is stealthily moving around Draco's waist, and it's something more intimate, more affectionate, than anything they've ever done. And then he grinds his free palm into Draco's erection. The blond lets out something between a squeak and a throaty moan, almost falling over from the sudden pressure. No wonder Potter put his arm around first. The contact isn't for very long though, and Draco quickly latches both of his hands onto Potter's, trying to keep him there. Potter lifts the boy's paler hands along with his own, and presses the kiss onto the back of one of Draco's hands. "Next time," he promises, "Classroom three, Saturday, eight." He trails a hand across Draco's hip before buttoning his shirt and leaving. Draco slumps against the wall, both bitterly disappointed, and already eagerly anticipating Saturday, just from that one preview of what he might receive.
* * *
"Aw, fuck!" Draco swore as he almost reversed his own knee, and hastily pointed his wand away. He obviously wasn't concentrating anymore.
Pansy hurried over and rubbed his knee, something which Draco found vaguely disturbing. "Are you okay, Draco? We all know you're stressed," she flicked a glance around at the members of their little clique to indicate exactly who was particularly concerned, and continued, "and you've got a lot to... do, and... live up to, but you should rest, you know?" Her simpering voice annoyed Draco; it was a voice people used for others when they thought that the person they were talking to was disturbed, or very young. He was neither. She started massaging his shoulders, unable to wrap her smaller hands around his shoulders properly, and Draco suddenly thought about how much larger Potter's were, in comparison, and how much more pressure he applied to Draco's body when they touched. He suddenly didn't want Pansy touching him anymore.
The Slytherin boy glanced at his watch, which was obviously the cause of his tension and lack of concentration. Twenty to eight. Good enough; it'd take him a bit of time to get there. "I'm going," he announced, getting up and leaving Pansy's hands in midair,leaving the common room. None of the Slytherins mentioned anything; they were used to Draco being secretive by now. Draco revelled in the low temperature of the dungeons in a time of year when the nights were sticky and hot as he made his way around the castle. Slipping inside the room, the boy removed his cloak and fiddled with the hem. His eyes kept flickering at his watch, until he finally twisted it to the other side of his wrist, to prevent him from constantly glancing at it. Not being able to see it unnerved him too though, and he had to turn it back around again. He was speculating over how obsessed he was, when the door popped open and he started. "Potter!"
The dark-haired boy blinked slowly at him through his glasses. "...Who else?" he asked mildly. He too removed his cloak, and Draco watched him do it whilst a herd of kangaroos bounced their way across his stomach. There was a small thought across the back of his head, that it seemed odd that he had been physically involved with Potter for so long, and yet this was the first time he'd had this feeling. He didn't know quite what to do, as if everything had changed between Thursday and now. Potter was waiting for him to step across, but after a moment to realise that Draco wasn't going to move, Harry stepped forwards instead, pulling his and Draco's bodies together and backing Draco up until the back of his thighs hit the desk.
Potter takes command and Draco lets him, revelling in the touch of someone who knows his body better than he does now. Potter kisses him on that sensitive spot just below his jaw, and Draco mewls softly. Their dynamics have changed again, somehow. Again, because Draco initiated it. This probably means something significant, but Draco can't spare much thought at the moment. Potter's hands, arousing when rough, mould themselves gently to the slight curves of Draco's body, touching him with sweet strokes and lightly sweeping across his skin. This is not a side of Potter Draco has had the opportunity to experience before. He liked it rough, but he certainly does not like this less. Draco sighs, bracing his forearms on Potter's chest as the Gryffindor quickly undresses Draco. Draco knows he enjoys being nude in front of Potter, because Potter finds such fascination in his body when he is.
Although Draco is stripped bare early, Potter takes a while over Draco's body, and the blond enjoys that, enjoys the lingering sensation over each part of his body. Potter seems unusually gentle today. It seems to put to rest all those kangaroos romping around; Draco isn't nervous, because he trusts Potter. Potter knows his body, their bodies. When Potter takes Draco by the hand and leads him over to the wall so that Draco can lean himself against it, the Slytherin just follows willingly, his eyes full of heat. Their eyes meet for a moment, and they both know that today is going to be passionate. Leaning his cheek against the cool wall, Draco closes his eyes; he wants to concentrate on the feeling. Potter smoothes his hands across his prominent hipbones, massages his arse, nudges his legs slightly further apart, teasing him every so slightly. Draco doesn't mind so very much this time; he knows what he's going to get in the end.
Feeling a cool liquid around Potter's fingers, Draco realises why he was rejected the first time. He feels a rush of gratitude that Potter would think about practical things like lubrication and making him comfortable, because he doesn't have the head capacity to think about anything except sex with Potter these days. It's slow and awkward, because they're teenage boys with no idea as to go about this, no past experience of another male, added to adolescent gawkiness. Draco gasps when Potter hurts him slightly, and the boy at his back stops immediately. It's not an overwhelming first sensation; it doesn't pull off entirely smoothly. It takes some give and take, much adjusting of hips and legs, frustratingly slow movements and many mental notes to take forward to their next time together. But Draco knows that there's no one he'd rather move through his tentative learning curve with; Potter's considerate of every noise he makes; he's learnt it like a second language and adjusts to pleasure them both.
In a different way, this first, sticky orgasm with each other is overwhelming though. It doesn't last long; just a few minutes; they can't control their bodies yet, but sitting in a messy pile of Potter limbs and paler Malfoy limbs, with sweet kisses and mutual wonder for what they just did together is something which generates a warm fuzzy feeling Draco he never knew he could make room for. He's also somehow very proud. He's not entirely sure what about. He memorises each and every way that Potter tries to satisfy them both, their silent promises to improve the next time. He still doesn't quite know what this is. Maybe it's love. Maybe it's mutual attraction of two equally stubborn forces. The unstoppable force meeting the unmovable wall, so to speak. Maybe it's teenage hormones. Whatever it is, Draco wraps his arms around Potter's arms, which encircle his chest, feeling the layer of muscle over the bone (Potter should eat more), and lowers his head to bare his neck, and lets Harry kiss him, because that's the way he likes it.
It's not a matter of who's weaker; it's a matter of preference. Draco likes to be pampered, touched, taken care of and know that someone cares enough to do that. Potter, he guesses, likes to explore and touch and hold what he deems to be beautiful between his hands. It works well between them. Eventually, Potter gently grips Draco's hips carefully and eases them apart, the friction of even just that making Draco squirm a little. Potter reaches over to the pile of clothes and rummages inside a pocket. "Here," He says, righting himself. He holds out a stack of paper, and Draco knows what they are. He sits on Potter's lap, staring down at all that red and orange flame silhouetting his photo self. He looks no less majestic than he did the last time he saw it. He looks wild, feral, something fantastically beautiful. From the slightly ragged edges and fingerprints smeared all over the glossy surface of the photo, Draco can tell that Potter has held this over and over, shoved it into a pocket a million times, traced a finger over the surface constantly. He reaches for a wand; Potter's is nearer. He burns the rest of the photos. But he hands this one back to the other boy. "It's yours."
Potter plucks it out of his fingers and tucks it back into his pocket. "Yes," he says slowly. "It's mine." He pauses deliberately, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You're mine." He kisses Draco on the cheek, a light pressure of warm, damp lips, and a sign of affection never before used. Draco shivers. Only a few months ago, that statement would have aroused his anger immediately. Now... well, there's a bit more of that warm fuzzy feeling he had earlier. His pride is unruffled. He takes that as a good sign. "You know," Potter's breath is warm on his ear, just enough to breeze the smaller hairs next to his ear tickle him, and Draco is proud that the other boy can't speak completely normally yet, a raspy tone lacing the edge of his words. "You never did dance around a bonfire for me."
Draco snorts as he gracelessly yanks Potter's arms around him forwards; the other boy jerks forward so that he can worm his head backwards into the curve of the other boy's shoulder. "Are you going to make me?" he asked. Strange that so little time has passed, but there's no embarrassment over the thought of dancing naked in front of Potter anymore.
"I was thinking maybe I'd join you in the naked bonfire dancing."