Chapter Text
Winter, 2001
Draco Malfoy is smoking a cigarette. In the years since Harry hasn't seen him, his hair has grown, his figure has become fuller, and the dark circles under his eyes he had during the Malfoys’ trials have disappeared.
Harry clears his throat, trying to get his attention.
Malfoy’s eyes shift to him, betraying no particular emotion. He looks just a little bored.
“Fancy meeting you here, Potter.”
The words crawl out of his mouth in a cloud of smoke.
“I just wanted to say something. Before the game.”
Malfoy's brow furrows slightly. “Yes?”
Harry doesn't understand if Malfoy is actively trying to annoy him, or if it’s just the effect he always had on him. He knew it would be a bad idea to try to have a normal conversation with him. Ron had actually told him, while Hermione had merely cocked her head, as if trying to understand the reasons that drove him to want to talk to Draco Malfoy. If she could figure them out, Harry would certainly be interested in knowing them.
“I…”
Also, Harry doesn't actually know what to say. I’m sorry your father is still on house arrest? He’s really not. Lucius should have rotted in Azkaban, in his opinion. I’m sorry your mother decided to fuck off somewhere in France? She made a good choice, honestly. I know you started playing professional Quidditch, too, just to piss me off, you bastard. He’s not going to give him the satisfaction of actually hearing that.
“I’m gonna beat you tonight.”
Malfoys seems taken aback for a moment. A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips.
“We’ll have to see about that, Potter,” he says, dropping the cigarette on the dusty ground before crushing it under his shoe. "The Falcons have drastically improved since they got the new seeker, the Prophet says."
“They say Puddlemere’s new seeker is better.”
Malfoy actually smirks at that.
Ginny didn't take the news that her brother and her ex-boyfriend were going to become professional Quidditch players particularly well. The milkshake she'd just bought from Fortescue's nearly exploded in her tight grip.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke,” Ron deadpanned, slurping loudly from his.
Ginny blinked. “What the fuck?”
Harry held up placating hands. “Ginny—”
“I thought you two wanted to be Aurors. You talked my ears off for months, Harry!”
“I know, but—”
Ginny shook her head, cutting him off again. “I thought you two would be the Golden Boy and his sidekick, saving the world together, again and again!”
Harry cringed as her raised voice caught several passersby’s attention. Not that Harry Potter strolling through Diagon Alley with his friends wasn't attracting attention, per se. Ron and Ginny had already shot impolite glances, and gestures, at several people to keep them away.
“He’s not my sidekick.”
“I agree. Harry is my sidekick,” Ron nodded. “Honestly, Ginny, everyone knows that.”
Harry snorted a laugh, quickly hiding it with a cough at Ginny's irritated expression.
“You have to copy me all the time!” Ginny snapped, looking at Ron. “You just took the Salted Caramel Butterbeer milkshake because I did!”
“I took it because it’s Fortescue’s newest flavor, and it piqued my curiosity.”
“Dating Hermione is definitely improving your grammar, mate,” Harry muttered.
Ron shoved him.
Ginny, very maturely, stuck her tongue out at him. “I hope you two are not trying for the Harpies, at least.”
“Fuck no,” Ron rushed out. “I mean, they’re all yours. We’re officially in the Puddlemere United reserve team.”
“Puddlemere United?” Ginny had the decency to look impressed.
Ron grinned.
“Oliver put in a word for us,” Harry explained, and Ron scoffed.
“Not that Harry Potter needed a word, of course, but still.”
“It was nice of him,” Harry said.
“Alright, alright, whatever. Congratulations, losers. I hope I’ll get the chance to beat you soon.” Ginny rolled her eyes, putting an end to that discussion. “Now, where the hell did Luna go?”
As if summoned, Luna returned with a copy of that morning's Daily Prophet in her hand and a look of wonder on her face.
“Harry, I didn’t know you changed your mind about Auror Training!” She exclaimed, placing the newspaper under their eyes.
The Prophet’s front page was clearly divided into two: at the top, a photograph of Harry captured during his first training session with the Puddlemere’s team immediately caught the eye, along with a related article. On the bottom, smaller but not overshadowed, there was a photograph of Draco Malfoy from the third day of the Malfoys’ trials. The headline associated with it read: Surprising New Arrival in the Falmouth Falcons! Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy Join Quidditch at the Same Time: Is the Old Rivalry Heating Up Again?
“Well, what are you thinking, Lee? Are you excited?”
"What am I thinking, Steve? I think the most anticipated match of the season has just begun! Finally, the two most talked-about new Quidditch talents in the British and Irish Quidditch League are facing each other for the first time: Puddlemere United’s Harry Potter, and Falmouth Falcons’ Draco Malfoy."
"You actually know Harry Potter personally, isn’t that right?"
"Yes! I went to school with Harry Potter himself. And let me tell you, mate, he may be the best Dark Wizard Slayer of our generation, but he's also always been a bloody ace on a broomstick! He's going to catch the golden snitch even before Draco Malfoy has a chance to talk about his daddy-dearest!"
Harry can clearly hear Ron's laughter somewhere below and holds back a laugh himself. However, he can't help but look around for Malfoy's face, imagining his reaction. It doesn't take long to find him, and he's surprised to find no trace of annoyance on his face: he seems so focused on the game, Harry isn’t sure he even heard Lee Jordan and Steve Robinson's comments. Something seems to catch his attention, if the sudden curl of his lower lip is any indication, and Harry makes sure to follow his movements, never taking his eyes off his dark grey robes.
"Bloody hell, Lee, I think you're right! From the look on Harry Potter's face, it looks like he's seen something interesting! The game has barely begun, and the two seekers already seem to have their eyes glued to the snitch! Who will catch it first?"
“C’mon, Steve, is that even a question?”
“I know, I know, Harry Potter is incredibly fast and dedicated to the game, but, and forgive me, mate, if I say this, Draco Malfoy is not so bad himself! Thanks to him, the Falcons broke their 14-game losing streak, and they haven’t lost a single game since! And, from what we have seen, he really knows how to get under other players' skins...”
"Can I help you, Potter?" Malfoy shouts over the wind. "Do you want an autograph?"
"I want you out of my way, Malfoy."
Malfoy slows suddenly, catching Harry off guard. Harry tries to veer to the side to avoid running into him, but he doesn't have enough time. Malfoy's elbow lands squarely in Harry's stomach, with such force that he seriously fears he's punctured at least one organ.
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy shouts again, sarcasm dripping from his words like venom. “Did I hurt you, Scarhead?”
As Harry squints in pain, absently hearing Lee Jordan's voice grow indignant over the microphone as he says something about Malfoy and his foul moves, he manages to glimpse Malfoy rushing to dive headfirst into the ground.
“Fucking asshole,” he mutters, tightening his grip on the broomstick before doing the same.
Five months after Puddlemeres' defeat, Harry sees Malfoy at the gym Oliver recommended for him to train at.
"Only Quidditch players know its location, don't worry. At least there won't be any Potterheads there, glued to the glass and staring at you while you lift weights."
Harry thanked him with a grimace.
Draco Malfoy is running on a treadmill when Harry enters the room, because of course he is, busy talking to a girl running beside him, her long black hair pulled back in a high ponytail that whips through the air. It takes Harry a few seconds to recognize Millicent Bullstrode, also a new entry in the Falcons’ team, but she spots him as soon as she steps off the treadmill. She says something quietly to Malfoy, which Harry can't hear, but he can clearly see Malfoy's back and shoulders tense right away. Harry ducks behind some gym tools, walking to the equipment furthest from the side of the gym occupied by the two former Slytherins to climb onto a spinning bike.
In the distance, he hears the heavy gym door open and close, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s about to relax completely, focusing on the physical effort while trying to clear his mind, when the sound of slow footsteps approaching catches his attention. He makes no effort to suppress an annoyed grimace when Malfoy takes the bike next to his.
“Potter.”
Harry refuses to meet his gaze. He can perfectly imagine the satisfied grin on his stupid face.
“Malfoy.”
“Still thinking about the game?”
Harry doesn't say anything. Malfoy's breathing way too loudly; it’s starting to irk him. They both remain silent for a while, while Malfoy pedals faster to keep up with Harry, and Harry tries to increase his own pace to beat him. His legs begin to burn.
“I’m not thinking about you at all,” Harry grits out.
Malfoy’s laugh is out of breath.
“That’s not what I said, Potter.”
Harry glances at him. Malfoy is already looking at Harry, and he doesn't bother hiding it.
“Fuck off,” Harry snaps.
Malfoy grins and pedals even faster.
Harry dismounts his bike when the pain becomes too much, sitting down between the row of bikes and a series of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, trying to catch his breath. He can't say he's surprised when Malfoy drops to the ground in front of him, stretching out his legs to take up as much space as possible to get on his nerves. Harry curls his up against his chest so as not to touch him accidentally.
“The gym isn’t big enough for you?”
Malfoy shrugs, a bottle of water in his hand that seems to have appeared out of nowhere.
Harry continues: “I came here at night specifically so I wouldn't risk meeting—” you, he wants to admit, but at the last moment manages to say: “someone.”
"Sure. Me too. Too bad the plan didn't work."
Malfoy takes a sip from the bottle, still staring at him. A trickle of water escapes his mouth, mixing with the sweat on his throat. Harry bites hard on the inside of his cheek.
"I'm sorry," Malfoy offers, his expression far from apologetic.
“For what? Playing foul?”
"For ruining the start of your perfect Quidditch career. You always led your team to victory since you were signed, didn’t you? The only player who didn't pass through the Puddlemere reserve team. The perfect Harry Potter."
Harry scoffs. “Reading much about me, have you?”
“I have to keep an eye on my rivals.”
“Do you behave the same way with all your rivals?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
Harry tries to think of something clever to say, but for some reason, he can't stop watching the beads of sweat run from Malfoy's temples down his jawbone, his neck, until they are absorbed by the sleeveless shirt he's wearing.
“I was in the reserve team,” he points out.
“For, like, a day? Two?”
Harry licks his dry lips, quickly looking away as soon as he realizes he's spent several seconds staring at every muscle left exposed by his clothes. He uses the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, taking the opportunity to close his eyes for a moment and seek relief from the sight of him, but the image of Draco Malfoy seems to be burned into his retinas. When he looks back at him, there's a fierce hunger in Malfoy's eyes that's hard to ignore. He forces himself to say something, to at least try to.
"The Falcons must have been desperate to want you on their team."
He forces his gaze straight ahead, but is immediately drawn to Malfoy's legs when they spread slightly apart.
"That, too. But Blaise's mom's donation didn't hurt."
Harry tries to give him a mean smile. "Of course." He clears his throat; he’s feeling parched. "Are you out of your family's money?"
A shadow crosses Malfoy’s face, briefly replacing his permanent mocking expression. "Something like that," he says, before leaning toward him to hand him the bottle.
Harry frowns.
Malfoy raises his eyebrows.
"You looked thirsty."
"I'm fine."
Malfoy shrugs, taking another sip of water. Harry stares at the way his throat works. Malfoy is already smiling again as soon as his lips are free, and a moment later, he holds the bottle out to him again. Harry is surprised to accept it. Malfoy's fingers close around his for a second, but — it can't be. He must have imagined it.
Harry manages a sip. Under Malfoy's intense gaze, he can barely feel the relief of the cold water on his tongue.
“You can take more,” Malfoy says, his voice low.
Harry does. He doesn't say anything as he hands the bottle back to him.
Malfoy's fingers close around Harry's, again, before finding the bottle. "I’ll see you at the next game, then."
Harry nods, trying to read the expression on Malfoy's face and failing.
“Puddlemere will win the next International Quidditch Cup,” Harry says.
Malfoy breathes something that’s almost a laugh and goes away without saying anything else. Harry lets out a deep sigh only when he hears the gym door close. The knowledge of having a hard-on makes him feel quite embarrassed, but he hurries to the gym showers to take care of it anyway. He thinks about Malfoy’s legs.
Several months later, Puddlemere United wins the International Quidditch Cup. The Falcons don't even make the final, due to a game lost against the Holyhead Harpies. Harry went to see it from the stands just to see Ginny play. Or, at least, that's what he tells himself. Because of their busy schedules, they haven’t spent a lot of time together lately — which has helped ease the awkwardness after their break-up. Mrs. Weasley continues to invite him over to the Burrow every Sunday lunch to try to patch things up between them, anyway.
When the winning team is announced, Harry forces himself to focus on Ginny's victorious smile and not the way Malfoy slams his broomstick into the ground, storming off the pitch with a murderous expression. (Harry wishes he were closer so he could see it better, but that doesn't stop him from thinking about it the next time he touches himself.) Puddlemere's victory, five days later, is just the icing on the cake. Oliver and Ron take turns hoisting him onto their shoulders while Harry still clutches the snitch.
Harry returns to the gym that Oliver recommended a couple of nights later. He has been back at least one night a week, whether he was in London or somewhere else for a match, since that encounter with Malfoy. Part of him hoped to see him again. The other part was relieved when he wasn't there. This time, Malfoy is in the showers when Harry finishes his training. He knows it's him as soon as he hears the running water. He undresses slowly, putting his clothes and his glasses in the locker, retrieves his towel and the soap he brought from home, and then heads to the showers.
Malfoy faces the pristine wall, his hair darkened by the water sliding over him. Harry doesn't linger too long on his naked body. At least, he tells himself he doesn’t.
“Potter,” Malfoy says without turning around, the name rolling off his tongue with ease.
Harry clears his throat. “Malfoy,” he says, hanging the towel on a hook before walking to the empty shower on his right.
Malfoy hums.
Harry begins soaping himself up, keeping his eyes fixed on the white tiles. “I'm sorry the Falcons lost against the Harpies.”
Malfoy chuckles. It’s a soft, thin thing. “No, you’re not.”
Harry smirks and glances at him. Of course, Malfoy is already looking at him. Harry was expecting that part. He hadn't expected to see Malfoy's hand move between his legs. He looks away, the smirk fast gone.
Malfoy chuckles again.
"Give my congratulations to your girlfriend," he says, his breath catching in his throat. "She's good. Better than you, anyway."
It takes Harry a few seconds to realize that he is referring to Ginny.
“I would have done it myself, but I was a bit annoyed after the game,” Malfoy adds, facing Harry’s silence. “I don’t like losing.”
Harry risks another glance. He looks at Malfoy's face, and their eyes meet. It could be even worse than looking at his hand. Malfoy's gaze is dark, electrifying. Arousal rises rapidly in Harry's stomach. Panic, too.
“She’s not—” Harry starts to say, but then Malfoy moans softly, and Harry simply has to look down.
Malfoy’s fingers are moving slowly over his dick, squeezing the head now and then. His things are tense. The space between his legs, over the warm, wet floor, looks really appealing.
“Better than you?”
“My girlfriend,” Harry replies, struggling to get back on track. “We broke up. Ages ago. We weren’t right for each other.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth, slightly open around another sigh. “Yeah, I figured.”
Harry's eyes flicker between Malfoy's hand and his face for a few long seconds before he remembers where they are and glances down the corridor leading to the men's changing room.
“Not here,” he hisses, coming to himself.
Malfoy raises an eyebrow, then shrugs. He turns the shower knob to stop the water, retrieves his towel, and heads back to the changing rooms. Harry stays under the cold water long enough to soften his erection before following him. Malfoy, standing in front of his open locker, has tied his towel around his hips. It’s low enough to expose his hipbones, along with the sparse blond hair that starts from his belly button and continues under the towel. Harry has to fight, once again, the urge to get on his knees before him. He should probably — definitely — find it a disturbing thought, but he can’t bring himself to.
Harry walks past him to his locker, rushing to put his glasses back on.
"Do you still live at Grimmauld?" Malfoy asks.
Harry gives him a puzzled look. Malfoy sighs, as if he's an idiot and talking to Harry is a huge hassle. He runs a hand through his wet hair to push it away from his forehead. A few drops of water fall onto his shoulders.
"Everyone knows you moved to Grimmauld Place after the war."
“Sirius— my godfather left it to me.”
Malfoy looks at him like he couldn’t possibly care less.
“Yeah, I’m still in Grimmauld,” Harry cuts short, earning himself a satisfied nod.
“I have something to take care of tomorrow,” Malfoy says. “But I might come by in the evening.”
Harry should laugh in his face for that absurd idea.
“I might leave the Floo connection open, then.”
Malfoy smiles. It looks nearly genuine.
The following evening, Harry feels on the verge of a panic attack. He spends a good hour in his room, pacing back and forth, staring at the contents of his closet, and torturing the inside of his left cheek as he looks at himself in the mirror.
“What the fuck am I doing,” he mutters, hastily removing the third shirt he's tried on in the last twenty minutes.
For a moment, his gaze is drawn to the funerals suit, bound in the back of the closet. The thought of dressing up to welcome Draco Malfoy in his home for the first time is hysterical, but he almost tries it on. He doesn't. He opts for a white short-sleeved T-shirt and the sweatpants he's been wearing all day, because fuck him, honestly. What is even the point of thinking so much about what to wear if those clothes will end up on the floor in a matter of seconds?
“Oh my God,” he exhales at the thought. What the fuck is he doing?
Before leaving the room, he gently lowers the old photograph of his father with Sirius and Remus — he found it during the weeks spent tidying up and cleaning Grimmauld from top to bottom, with the help of Hermione and Ron — that he keeps on his bedside table.
“You guys shouldn't see this,” he mutters apologetically.
The green flames in the fireplace ignite around 8 p.m., and Malfoy steps out of it without a speck of ash on him. He looks at Harry without saying a word, at first, his gaze sweeping from Harry's hair to the ridiculous yellow-and-red socks he kind of forgot he was wearing. Fuck.
“Scared?” Malfoy asks, in place of a greeting.
"Never," Harry replies instinctively, but takes a step back anyway. "I think we should talk first. Before... Um. Should we sit down? Do you want something to drink? A glass of water?"
A slow smile spread over Malfoy’s mouth. “Not really,” he says, coming closer.
Harry stops himself from taking another step back. He still has some dignity, somewhere. Malfoy's shoes touch the tips of his toes.
“This is such a bad idea,” Harry says, before grabbing his face to kiss him.
He half expected his mouth to be sharp, like his words and the corners of his face, but it's strangely... soft. Harry presses a thumb against his cheek, and Malfoy sighs against his lips, caressing them with the tip of his tongue, while his hands close around Harry's hips, pulling him close.
Harry's glasses scrape against Malfoy's face, and Harry instinctively recoils.
“Sorry.”
A corner of Malfoy’s mouth turns up. It’s strangely sweet. Harry’s heart skips a beat. Malfoy elegantly removes his coat, folding it carefully before placing it over the back of the sofa, and revealing a dark suit with a buttoned-up shirt.
"Have you ever been with a man?" Malfoy asks, before Harry has a chance to investigate his attire.
"Um," Harry stalls, taken aback.
Malfoy continues to smile. He brings a hand to Harry's face, pulling him closer to press brief kisses to his mouth, while his fingers slide down his neck, his throat, his hair.
“I…” Harry tries to say, only to be interrupted by Malfoy's lips, his tongue, his teeth. “I haven’t, no.”
Malfoy takes a step back. Harry would be afraid he'd said the wrong thing if Malfoy's fingers weren't unbuttoning his vest before moving on to the buttons of his shirt.
"It’s all right," Malfoy says, his smile turning into a familiar smirk. "You don’t have to be scared. I can be gentle."
Harry huffs a laugh. “Fuck off. I'm not. I know how it works.”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow. The vest is folded over the coat, immediately followed by the shirt. “Where’s your bedroom?”
Harry takes him upstairs. He bites his tongue to keep from telling him he's using Sirius's old room, just to fill the silence. Malfoy surely doesn’t care. Inside, Harry pauses by the bed, almost saying something along the lines of well, here’s where the magic happens just to crack a joke. Fuck, he’s nervous.
Malfoy is standing in the doorway.
“Take off your clothes,” he says as soon as their eyes meet.
Harry does. He forgets to take off his glasses before removing his shirt, and they scratch his forehead uncomfortably. He takes off his sweatpants and boxers at the same time, remaining in just his socks. Malfoy doesn't take his eyes off him for a moment.
"What now?" Harry asks, his tone somewhere between challenging and eager to please.
Malfoy looks satisfied with the question.
“Now come here,” he says, unbuttoning his trousers, but stops Harry with a wave of his hand as he starts to walk. “Come to me on your knees, Potter.”
Harry swallows, quickly dropping to the ground. The thought of crawling toward Draco Malfoy fills him with both dread and arousal. It's not the first time he's found himself thinking there's something wrong in his head. Reaching Malfoy's feet, he raises his eyes to meet his. There's a craving so deep and clear on his face that Harry feels a shiver run down his spine. Malfoy unzips his trousers. The movement attracts Harry's attention.
“Do you want it?”
Harry licks his lips.
“Yes.”
“You can say no.”
Harry looks up, surprised. Malfoy's voice is trembling slightly.
"I know," Harry says. "I want it in my mouth, Malfoy. Is that what you want to hear?"
Malfoy sneers, arrogance sweeping over his face as if it never went away. "You say the sweetest things, Potter," he murmurs. "What are you waiting for?"
Harry drags down his trousers, then his boxers. The materials are soft under his fingers, Malfoy’s dick hard under his tongue. He licks it from head to the root, experimenting, curiously tasting what comes out.
“Do you like it?” Says, from above, Malfoy’s voice.
His fingers are in Harry's curls, stroking, scratching the back of his neck. Harry doesn't answer, sucking harder, taking him deeper into his mouth. Malfoy's breathless moans are lovely. He wishes he were closer to hear them better. Malfoy's fingers tighten, pulling him away abruptly and signaling him to stand up.
“What? Was it okay?”
“Just wanted to catch my breath for a moment,” Malfoy replies, pressing a kiss to his mouth, then another. “Bed?”
Harry nods absentmindedly, letting himself be pushed down onto the mattress until he's lying on it, Malfoy on top of him. Malfoy's fingers now close around his erection, pumping it slowly, the same way he did it to himself in the gym showers. He pushes his face against Harry’s throat, kissing and biting every bit of skin he can get. Harry happily lets him, taking the opportunity to map his back and shoulders with his hands, sliding them into his hair to hold him still and capture his mouth again. As arousal builds inside him, he slides a hand between Malfoy’s thighs, feeling blindly for his cock. The moan Malfoy lets out against is mouth is almost pained.
“Potter…”
“Yeah?”
But Malfoy says nothing else. Harry loses himself in observing the curve of his lips, his neck, his chest— and he notices, there, the thin, white lines that stand out against his now flushed skin.
"Are those...?" He whispers, unable to finish the sentence.
Malfoy must understand anyway, though, as he begins to jerk him off faster, distracting him completely from that thought, until his orgasm is torn from him by Malfoy's sudden movements. Harry takes a breath before pushing Malfoy’s body onto the bed, sliding between his legs.
Malfoy’s laugh is a startling sound. “I knew you liked sucking my cock.”
Harry almost smiles around it. He doesn't have to wait long for Malfoy's fingers to return to his hair, urging him to get off again.
“Potter—” He starts to warn him, but Harry ignores it and continues until Malfoy comes into his mouth with a long groan.
Harry swallows and tries not to grimace. The taste isn’t great, but the blissed-out expression on Malfoy’s face makes it worth it. Malfoy catches his gaze and smiles almost shyly.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Harry smiles back, lying down next to him. What the fuck, he almost wants to say, but holds back. All in all, he feels strangely at peace with it. Surprisingly. He doesn’t want to think about it too much, though, or he'll give himself a headache.
“I wanted to do it,” he replies, exhaling a long contented sigh. “You keep behaving like you think I had sex with you because I lost a bet or something.”
Malfoy doesn't say anything. When Harry turns to look at him, he's staring at the ceiling. His expression is serious, but not particularly tense. It’s a good sign. Probably.
“This is a really bad idea,” he says, as if picking up the thread of the conversation where it had been left off downstairs.
Harry smirks. “I like trouble.”
This, for some reason, makes Malfoy smile. "I know, Potter," he says, then gets up as if nothing had happened and starts getting dressed. He retrieves his wand to clean them both from Harry’s come, muttering a spell. "You can't talk about this to anyone, obviously," he adds, putting on his trousers. He seems to look around for his shirt before remembering he'd left it in the living room.
“Sure,” Harry nods, feeling vaguely dizzy. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
He doesn't think that his closest friends would have a particularly negative reaction if they knew he had sex with a guy. If they knew that the guy in question was Malfoy — that is another story. He's perfectly happy to keep it to himself, thank you very much. He doesn't even want to think, right now, about what might happen if the news became public.
Malfoy’s movement halts for a moment, then he nods curtly. “Of course. I’ll be out of your hair in a moment.”
He sounds almost hurt. Harry, for some unknown, ungodly reason, hurries to say: “But we’re gonna do it again, right?”
Malfoy stops at the door. He looks back at him. He isn’t smiling, but his eyes are soft. “Do you want to?”
Harry feels himself getting hot. “Um. Yeah?”
Malfoy’s face does something funny. It’s one of the rare times Harry is unable to read it. Then he clears his throat and looks away, drumming the fingers of one hand on the doorframe. “I’ll see you at the next game, Potter. Try not to consume your dick too much while you think about me until then.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking.
Are you looking forward to beating Draco Malfoy? is the question Harry hears most often in the months to come, as the next Puddlemere vs. Falcons match approaches.
“They sure love talking about your rivalry, mate,” Ron says one Sunday morning as he reads aloud Harry’s latest interview with The Prophet. “I wouldn't be surprised if they requested a press event with the two of you together.”
Harry, sitting at the other end of the couch in the Burrow's living room, buries his face in a pillow and groans loudly. "Can we talk about something else, please?"
"What? Draco Malfoy isn't your favorite topic?" George interjects, taking a seat in the plush chair across from them. "What a shocker, Harry."
Harry schools his expression into annoyance, trying not to think too hard (ha) about Malfoy. It’s not like he misses him, obviously. God forbid. But it’s strange to be so intimate with someone and then not hear from them for months. The thought of seeing him again in just a week makes a strange feeling grow in the pit of his stomach.
“What are the chances Puddlemere will beat Falcons?” Ron reads aloud. “Um, well, you should ask our, er, Captain, Oliver Wood, really—”
“I don’t talk like that!” Harry complains, throwing the pillow he was hugging at him, while George bursts into laughter. (Harry and Ron exchange a brief, satisfied look, smiling at each other. Making George laugh out loud is always a win.)
Mr. Weasley's arrival, fortunately, changes the subject.
"Boys, I need your help," he announces, sitting between Harry and Ron on the sofa, his eyes never taking their focus from the object he's holding with a certain reverence. "My pal Davies at work introduced me to this new Muggles' miracle, but for Godric's sake, I can't figure out how to turn it on!"
“You and your Muggles' miracles, Dad,” George sighs, but leans forward to take a look.
“Let me see,” Harry says. “What is it, exactly?”
Arthur smiles broadly. "It's called a Nokia three-three-one-zero. It's a device Muggles use for basic communications. They call it a mobile phone. It allows calls and short letters, without the use of fireplaces or owls! It's truly a marvel of modernity."
Harry presses a few buttons at random. When the screen suddenly lights up, Arthur makes a surprised and pleased noise. "Ah! You did it, dear boy. Thank you!"
Harry smiles at him, trying to give it back, but Arthur shakes his head.
"Oh, no, you can keep it! As a thank you for your help. We have plenty of them at work."
"Hey! I want a Nekia too," Ron complains, leaning past his father to look at the small screen.
"Of course, I'll bring each of you a Nokia," Arthur says solemnly. "It's a very effective method of communication. Davies says it's nearly indestructible. I can’t wait to test it!"
"Lunch is ready!" Mrs. Weasley calls from the kitchen. "And I don't want to see any Muggle devices while we eat!"
Harry slips the phone into his pocket. "Er, excuse me, Mr. Weasley," he begins, approaching Arthur as they head into the kitchen, an idea forming in his mind.
“Dear boy, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Arthur?”
“Yes, sorry, um... So how exactly does it work? How can I call or send short letters to someone?”
“Oh, that's a good question, Harry. You see…”
Harry takes a seat at the table next to Arthur, listening attentively as he explains to him all the basics. Ron gives him strange looks, but Harry ignores him.
“I'll give Ginny a mobile phone too, of course,” Arthur says then, quietly. “So you can text her whenever you want, son.”
Harry holds back a grimace. “Oh, sure, that’s very kind. Maybe you could — would you be able to give me another phone? Just for, um, a friend?”
Arthur looks at him with surprise, but then smiles warmly. "Of course, Harry. Of course."
The next time Harry sees Malfoy is at a press event. The room is particularly full for the interview involving Harry and Malfoy, sitting on the same side of the table, facing the various flashing cameras and fluttering quills. Even Rita Skeeter is, of course, present. Harry has to restrain himself from glaring daggers at her.
"Draco," Rita Skeeter herself is the first to speak, her quill already beginning to jot something down on the notebook floating near her face. "You're having a truly legendary season so far, even though the weight of your past must be heavy on you. What does Lucius Malfoy think of your unexpected Quidditch career?"
Harry glances at Malfoy’s face. It’s impassible.
“It's not the only choice my father disapproves of.”
“Can you give us an example of another choice?”
“Being here talking to you.”
Murmurs erupt in front of them. Some cameras flash. Harry averts his eyes in annoyance.
"Mr. Potter is having a legendary season, too," another reporter chimes in, smiling widely at Harry. "An exciting season that looks to be full of twists and turns. Any chance you'd like to speculate on how it will end?"
Harry smiles. “No chance at all, sorry.”
Someone laughs quietly.
“The Wizard’s Voice, question for Draco Malfoy.” A journalist interjects. “Malfoy, are you planning to win the Wizarding World's pity through your Quidditch career? Do you think millions of people will suddenly forget your allegiance to the Dark Lord just because you’re able to catch a snitch?”
Harry can almost feel Malfoy tense beside him. Hell, he’s the first to find the question idiotic. Under the table, he presses his foot against his, hoping it will somehow comfort him.
"I have made many mistakes in the past," Malfoy begins, speaking slowly. Cameras begin flashing again, quibbles writing furiously in the air. "My family and I have submitted ourselves, as was right, to the Wizengamot's judgment. My career has nothing to do with my past, nor with my family. If the Wizarding World decides to give me another choice, I will gladly accept it."
Harry has to hold back a smile.
“Do you agree with Draco Malfoy’s words, Mr. Potter?” The same reporter asks.
“Draco Malfoy and I are not exactly friends,” Harry decides to say, prompting a few more hushed laughs. “But I consider him worthy of my respect, both as a person and as an adversary. You don't need to know anything else.”
Under the table, Malfoy’s foot taps once against his. Harry hides a smile behind his glass of water.
"... And the teams playing tonight are Team Harry Potter versus Team Draco Malfoy."
"I’m sorry, Lee, maybe I misunderstood. Did you just say Team Harry Potter versus Team Draco Malfoy?"
Harry shakes his head, smiling. Malfoy, in front of him, rolls his eyes.
"Of course, right, I meant Puddlemere United versus Falmouth Falcons! Who's going to win tonight? Let the bets begin!"
"Are you prepared to lose, Potter?" Malfoy smirks.
Harry laughs. "You wish."
Despite all the fouls the Falcons attempt, thanks to Ron's saves, the points scored by Leo — an Italian guy whose moves on the pitch are way better than his English — and Harry's successful catch of the snitch at the right time, Puddlemere United wins by a thin margin of 10 points.
Malfoy lands forcefully, striding toward Harry with decisive steps, tearing him from his teammates' embrace with a hand wrapped around his elbow.
"Draco Malfoy really doesn't know how to lose! What do you think, Lee? What's he saying to the Puddlemere champion right now?"
"Keep your Floo connection open tonight," Malfoy hisses in Harry's ear, making him shiver. "I want you in bed when I come in."
"Your guess is as good as mine, mate! Nothing nice, that's for sure!"
Malfoy lets him go, walking away from the pitch without looking back. Ron immediately joins Harry.
"Are you okay? What did that asshole want?"
Harry blinks, trying to clear his thoughts.
"Oh, nothing. Just shit-talking as usual. You know him.”
“What a fucking prick!” Ron exclaims, but he’s too happy to be able to stop smiling.
Harry would like to return to Grimmauld immediately, but he gives in when Oliver and Ron insist he join them and the rest of the team for a celebratory drink. He thinks about Malfoy's words all evening, about his fingers gripping him tightly, his breath on his skin. He only manages to fight off a hard-on thanks to the disgusting way Ron is wolfing down his crisps. Eventually, he manages to leave with the excuse of a migraine. He appears directly inside his bedroom, already removing his jacket and shoes, and almost suffers a heart attack when he realizes he's not alone.
“Jesus fuck!” He yelps, a hand over his chest, looking at Malfoy.
Malfoy, who has been examining the contents of his bedside table until a moment ago, casually closes the drawer and raises an eyebrow. “I told you to wait for me in bed.”
Harry's heart stutters again, for a different reason.
"Ron and the others wanted to celebrate. Were you snooping through my things?"
“I just wanted to see if you had some lube.”
Harry isn’t sure he’s telling the truth, but blushes anyway. “The other bedside table.”
“Good.” Malfoy smirks. “Come here. You can walk.”
Harry scoffs, but doesn't need to be told twice. "How kind of you."
"I'm very kind, Potter," Malfoy agrees, licking his lips. Harry's gaze inevitably drops to his mouth. He's smiling now.
Harry kisses him. Malfoy's hands immediately cup his face, tilting it as he pleases to deepen the kiss, and Harry moans, wrapping his arms around Malfoy's hips.
Malfoy steps back, escaping his grasp.
"Don't touch me. Keep your hands behind your back."
Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise. "What? Why?"
“Because I like telling you what to do, and you like doing what I tell you to do. Isn’t it enough?”
Harry ponders it for a moment, then brings his hands behind his back.
Malfoy grins. "Very good," he concedes, bringing a hand to Harry's face to caress his cheek. It's almost too gentle. Harry squirms. "Now, close your eyes and open your mouth."
Harry obliges. Malfoy's tongue slides over his for an indefinite time, Malfoy's teeth playing with his lower lip, biting so hard it hurts a bit. Harry’s feeling weak in the knees. Malfoy's fingers take his glasses off, run through his hair, over his chest, under his hoodie. Harry shivers when Malfoy's thumb presses against his nipple, then caresses his chest.
“Open your eyes.”
He doesn't think he's ever had the chance to look at Malfoy's face so closely. Harry tilts his head to one side, gently biting Malfoy’s jaw. Malfoy allows it, clutching his hair in a hand.
"What should I do now?"
Malfoy steps away again, just long enough to remove his Falcons hoodie. "Get naked. Then on your knees."
Harry quickly removes his clothes, leaving them somewhere on the floor around him, before lowering himself. Malfoy lets him unbutton his trousers and pull down his underwear, welcoming the head of his erection into his mouth for just a few seconds before pulling him up by his hair and pressing another kiss to his mouth. Harry automatically wraps his arms around his shoulders, but Malfoy doesn't seem to mind, taking the opportunity to put his hands behind Harry's knees, lifting him to lay him on the bed.
“You’re stronger than you look,” Harry can’t help but mutter against his lips.
Malfoy simply glares at him before stripping completely and following him over the bed. He leaves a kiss on his throat, his collarbone, his left pectoral, before moving lower, nipping a patch of skin on Harry's stomach — Harry throws his head back, suppressing a moan — and then on his inner thigh, before closing his lips around his cock.
“Fuck, Malfoy,” Harry can’t help but groan, his fingers clawing at the sheets. “Fuck, it feels so good.”
Malfoy looks at him funny. Harry has to close his eyes and think hard about something disturbing (the stinking dark green liquid that erupted from the Mimbulus mimbletonia plant back in fifth year, the rotten food at Nick’s party, Filch’s filthy office) to avoid coming right there and then.
"Wait, wait, wait," Harry snaps when his thoughts are no longer enough.
Malfoy lets him go with a wet sound. “What? You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I— I didn’t want to come.”
Malfoy raises his eyebrows. "That was the general goal, Potter."
“I thought we would do something else tonight.”
“Something else?”
“Something more?”
“Oh, something more.”
“Fuck off.”
“No, no, tell me,” Malfoy grins, leaning closer and placing a hand on Harry’s leg, inviting him to wrap it around his hips. “What did you have in mind?”
Harry rolls his eyes, feeling himself blush. Malfoy’s cock starts to slide against his, and the pleasure is too much to think clearly.
"Did you want to fuck me?" Malfoy asks, moving slowly, holding Harry's hip with his free hand to keep his hips moving in rhythm. "Is that what you were thinking?"
Harry bites his lips hard, nodding.
“Really? Since when? The match?”
“Malfoy…” Harry whispers. It was meant to come out more as a warning, but he can hear the desperation in his own voice.
“No? Before the match? When we were here, on this bed? While you had my cock in your mouth?”
Harry closes his eyes, whimpering, clinging to Malfoy's shoulder, his other hand closing around his neck to drag him down, closer to his face.
“Did you touch yourself while thinking of fucking me?”
Harry can’t help but nod again.
“How many times?”
“Don’t know. Too many to count.”
Malfoy has the nerve to chuckle against his mouth. "Fuck," he mutters, breathless. "Next time, I'm going to ride you so hard you won't be able to think about anything else for months."
Harry's orgasm takes him by surprise, for some reason. He's been so focused on Malfoy's words that he doesn't realize he's on the edge until he's falling. He squeezes his thighs tightly around Malfoy's hips, forcing him to fall too. They remain silent for a few seconds, Malfoy panting against his neck, Harry breathing into his hair. The white strands are soft against his mouth. Harry dares to run his fingers through them. Malfoy makes a pleased noise against his skin.
"So, next time?" Harry asks when the silence becomes too heavy.
Malfoy clears his throat, sitting up. Harry forces himself to let him go.
“Next time,” he says, his tone suddenly brisk, starting to gather his clothes. Harry watches him while he cleans himself with the same spell he used the first time.
“What about me?”
Malfoy’s eyes return to his body in a second.
“Can’t you do it yourself?”
Harry smirks. “But I like the feeling of your magic.”
If he didn’t know better, he might almost think that Malfoy’s blushing.
He cleans him too, leaving Harry’s skin all tingly for a few seconds.
“Before you go,” Harry hurries to say, leaning over to retrieve the extra phone he'd asked Arthur for from the bedside table. “I have something for you.”
Malfoy frowns. “What’s that?”
Harry throws it to him, and Malfoy barely has time to put the wand back in his pocket before catching it.
“A Muggle thing. It’s called a mobile phone. You can, um, call people? And send text? They’re, like, really short letters. Without owls.”
Malfoy’s frown deepens while he observes it. “Is it cursed?”
“Why would I give you something cursed?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand you that much nowadays. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Call me and text me?”
Malfoy’s skepticism turns to surprise. “Oh.”
Harry smirks. “If you can understand how it works.”
“I will understand how it works,” Malfoy replies promptly. “If it’s a Muggle thing, how difficult could it be?”
Harry grins. “Yeah, sure. We can text each other before the next match, with it. Sending letters would be too risky. I saved my number under Lily.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You will find out. I believe in you.”
Malfoy scoffs.
Hey Jane, it’s Lily.
I just wanted to make sure you finally understood how it works.
Fuck off.
This mobilephon is so unhandy.
You’ll get used to it :)
What is that?
A smiley face :)
Why
Cause I’m smiling :)
Do I make you smile?
Shut up
:)