Author E-mail: Nardaviel@aol.com
Category: Drama, angst
Keywords: Harry, Draco, slash, shagging, sex, Gryffindor, Slytherin
Spoilers: All five, just in case I missed something
Summary: In Harry's defense, Draco had a gorgeous arse.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I don't even own the bloody disclaimer; I took it from Amethyst. And Amethyst tells me she took it from Fiction Alley.
Warning: If you didn't already realise, this fic contains slash.
Author’s Note: Amethyst gave me the first sentence and some help along the way, because she just rocks like that. Thanks also goes to my betas: fanfic_t00bs' own Amethyst and Airiviel, and also my friend Rachel. You all rock too. And... that is all I have to say.
In hindsight, it was obvious that Harry had made a big mistake in trusting Draco.
In Harry's defense, Draco had a gorgeous arse, and trying to do anything as complicated as think while said arse was anywhere nearby was not always entirely possible. But hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and now that he thought about it, Draco's arse did not affect Draco's ability (or desire) to keep a secret. And besides, the entire school already knew about Draco's numerous trysts with Zacharias Smith; what would the knowledge of this additional affair do but help solidify his reputation as Hogwarts' resident sex god?
A reputation, Harry now knew first-hand, that was not entirely unfounded. That was, in fact, quite possibly more accurate than Harry's own Boy-Who-Lived title. But Harry didn't particularly feel like dwelling on memories of that night.
It hadn't started that night. No, it had been a long time coming, and no one knew it better than Harry -- except perhaps Draco, obviously. It had been so long in coming, in fact, that Harry couldn't remember when he had first looked at Draco and seen more than a rival. He had known for quite a while that he preferred neither gender over the other, but had not thought his attraction towards men would extend as far as his second-biggest enemy.
As that thought had occurred to him, he had hoped fervently that it he wouldn't suddenly find himself infatuated with his other enemy. Lord Voldemort was many things, but attractive, Harry had told himself, was not among them.
But Draco -- oh, yes, Draco was attractive. What had been pinched and pointed had turned into angular and defined. His complexion was still pale to the point of making him look sickly, but somehow it didn't seem to matter as much when put up against Draco's flinty grey eyes and shimmering almost-silver hair. And the fact that he was a Malfoy didn't hurt; he always moved with grace, and even when he was humiliating somebody in public he did it nowadays with an air that suggested that he was only doing so because he had nothing better to do and not because he cared enough to want whoever it was to be hurt.
He did care enough, sometimes, but Harry knew that only because in light of his budding obsession with the blonde boy, he found himself watching him a great deal more than he had been. He came to recognize the small fire of passion in Draco's voice when he was only feigning boredom, the disgusted way he looked at the people he disliked. And he realized that he, Harry, was not always -- he was sometimes, yes, but not always -- the subject of those glances.
Harry had muttered angrily to himself that he didn't need that sort of encouragement when he knew it meant nothing, and had tried to restrain the nervous thing that fluttered awake in his chest every time he thought about it.
He cursed Draco every day, even as he daydreamed about him. It could be argued, he supposed, that his infatuation wasn't Draco's fault. But it could also be argued that it was, and Harry liked the latter argument better. And besides, it certainly wasn't Harry's fault.
Nor was it Harry's fault that one early Friday evening found him lonely, dejected, and wandering the castle. He wished he could be with Ron and Hermione, but Ron was off finding Dean to "talk" to him. Dean had just broken up with Ginny, and Ginny had yet to stop crying; Harry suspected Ron was more likely to castrate him than talk to him, but kept this thought to himself. Hermione had said something about N.E.W.T.'s being just around the corner and had rushed off to the library after giving Harry a hurried but passionate lecture about not studying when they were "only seven months away!"
Harry had wondered idly as he entered the Entrance Hall when it would occur to his friends to look for him. Probably not for a while; Hermione would almost certainly be the one to think of it, and she wouldn't be back from the library until late. He couldn't truthfully say he was particularly unhappy with the thought. Now that he actually considered it, wandering around the castle on his own seemed to suit his mood better than being with his friends. He let his thoughts wander, and they returned within only a few seconds to a Slytherin seventh-year with pale blonde hair and a rare, disarming smile.
He looked up at a slight noise to see a pale figure weaving and stumbling his way across the Entrance Hall, coming from the direction of the Slytherin dorms. Stepping closer, Harry discovered that the pale figure was none other than a certain seventh-year. He took a deep breath and tried to quell the fretful animal in his chest.
"Practising for the ballet, Malfoy?" he called, echoing Draco's insult from their second year.
Draco turned to glare at him. "No, Potter," he said, slurring his words only slightly. "I'm imiti... imtia... mimit... I'm walking like you." He turned towards Harry slowly, furrowing his brow with concentration at the task, and Harry kept his eyes on Draco's face with no small amount of difficulty.
Draco approached Harry slowly, and Harry gave up on keeping the flutter in his chest under control, deciding instead to devote all of his attention to keeping his breathing steady.
When there was only a foot between them, Draco finally stopped, and returned Harry's gaze with startling lucidity. He smirked slightly at Harry's badly-concealed surprise, but then sobered again.
"I'm not so drunk I can't see what's being shoved into my face, Potter," he said quietly, in a strange tone that reminded Harry of a predator stalking his prey. Harry shivered.
"And what's being shoved in your face, Malfoy?" he asked, feeling vaguely satisfied that his voice shook only slightly.
Draco didn't answer, but instead grabbed him by the arm and started walking towards a rarely-used corridor leading off the Great Hall. Harry froze. Draco didn't turn back to look at him, but kept walking, and Harry let himself be pulled along, stumbling blindly after Draco. He couldn't have made himself tell Draco to let go even if he'd wanted to, if the shrinking part of his mind that wasn't completely intoxicated by Draco's nearness and Draco's hand, -- oh gods, Draco's hand -- could have its way.
Not until he stumbled into Draco did he realize that Draco had stopped outside a classroom Harry had never noticed before. He opened the door, shoved Harry inside, followed, and shut the door loudly behind him.
"Wh-" Harry managed to get out, before Draco's mouth was on his. His lips parted of their own accord and then Draco's tongue was inside his mouth and Harry stopped thinking.
When Draco abruptly pulled back, smirking that gods-damned smirk of his, Harry gasped for breath. "D -- Malfoy," he choked out. He doubled over for a few seconds, and when he righted himself Draco was looking at him, no longer smirking but with a strange expression that made Harry's blood run cold. "Malfoy," Harry said, only somewhat more easily. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"
A hint of confusion appeared in Draco's eyes. His expression slipped slightly before quickly reasserting itself.
"Is there a problem, Potter?" he asked smoothly.
"Yes," Harry said shortly, his heart pounding and a large part of his mind crying out that it didn't matter, just please let him do that again. But the rational part of his mind was right, and he knew it, as much as it pained him. "I know how you brag about your little affairs the day after they happen, and I can only imagine what it would do to your status if you were able to tell everyone that you fucked the great Boy Who Lived. And if you think I'm going to let you use me as a rung in your precious social ladder, you're wrong."
The confusion left Draco's eyes, replaced by understanding and amusement. "Potter," he said, only slightly less venemously than usual. "Don't flatter yourself. If you think anyone who has the pleasure of your, er, company will have some of your greatness rub off on him, you are sorely, sorely mistaken. I happen to have other reasons." The look on his face made Harry think twice about asking what reasons those were. Draco closed the small space between himself and Harry, and Harry's breath caught in his throat. He could feel Draco's arousal against his thigh, as well as his own answering hardness making itself known. And he was certain Draco could feel it too.
Draco smiled, an eerie, hungry smile that made Harry's heart stop. "Trust me," Draco murmered, and then Harry's lips were once again covered by Draco's, and he felt the part of him that still thought vanish into nothingness.
The words echoed through Harry's brain. He laughed bitterly to himself from his bed, where he lay on top of the covers staring at nothingness. It had only been last night that it had happened, and already half the school knew that Draco Malfoy had seduced Harry Potter. And, surely enough, Draco's popularity had skyrocketed. It was only a matter of time, Harry thought, before Witch Weekly ran an article on it.
He didn't know why he hadn't expected this to happen, couldn't figure out for the life of him why he had taken Draco Malfoy at his word. The only explanation he could think of for his own stupidity was that he hadn't been in what one would call a good position to think, but even that explanation was a feeble one.
He hadn't even bothered trying to deny it when people had asked him excitedly if it was true. He couldn't see the point. Ron had looked disgusted and avoided Harry for a short while, until Hermione -- who had hugged him and told him how sorry she was and was now standing guard over Harry, threatening to hex anyone who bothered him about it -- had said she would talk to him. After that, Ron had apologized and now followed Hermione's example in his own fashion, glaring at anyone who came close to Harry and making loud remarks about how he was sure he could beat anyone he wanted to in a fight.
Harry was reminded of somewhat smarter versions of Crabbe and Goyle. The thought brought with it a fresh wave of hurt.
Ron poked his head through the door. "Harry, mate, it's lunchtime. Hermione said to ask if you wanted us to bring up some food for you."
Harry shook his head. "No, thanks, I might as well go down." He got slowly out of bed and went down with Ron into the common room to meet Hermione.
Lunch was a horrible affair. People glanced at him and giggled through the entire meal, and Hermione, Ron, and Neville were the only Gryffindors who would come near him. Harry ate little and could taste none of what he ate. When Hermione and Ron finished eating, he sighed with relief and got up from the table to join the growing crowd heading towards the Entrance Hall.
"Hey, Potter!" came a shrill voice. Harry winced and turned to face Pansy Parkinson, who was part of a small crowd of Slytherins surrounding Draco.
"Hey, Potter!" she yelled again. "How long did it take you, huh, Potter? We've a bet going -- I said thirty seconds, but Blaise says it must've been only twenty, and Goyle insists it was a full minute and a half. So what was it?"
Ron stepped towards her and Hermione raised her wand, but Harry shook his head slightly and they retreated, though they both glared daggers at the knot of Slytherins. Harry started forward himself. The people around Draco parted as he came towards him, everyone watching with interest to see what he would do. Draco stood there smirking that damned smirk at him.
"Hello, Potter," he said smugly. A red wave of anger rose over Harry, eclipsing the hurt those words would otherwise have caused. He didn't reply. Instead, he raised his fist and punched Draco in the mouth with all the strength he could muster. Then he turned his back on him and walked back to Hermione and Ron with a sense of lightness he hadn't felt in months, since he first started watching Draco.
He didn't look back at Draco once.
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