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lokifanWhat? Relatively long Potter fic from me? I'm surprised too!
I know it’s meant to be Five Times. I’m DECONSTRUCTING THE FORM OKAY. :P
Title: Six Times Draco Malfoy Didn’t Have Sex (And One Time He Did)
Word count: ~9200
Characters/pairings: Harry/Draco (with mild Pansy/Draco, Blaise/Draco, Greyback/Draco, Astoria/Draco and George/Draco)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: See title.
Warnings: attempted rape, dub-con touching, quite a bit of angst before the end despite my joy in writing awkward teenagers who like each other a lot
Author’s Notes: The pairings are demarcated into sections, so you can skip particular parts if you like: the attempted rape comes in the Greyback/Draco section, which is third. The fifth section (George/Draco) is highly dub-con. Just control + f for ‘one’, ‘two’ etc.
On AO3
One
“That was the best beating anyone’s ever been given. Ever.”
Pansy laughed as she always did at his jokes, her dark eyes bright with vicious glee and something sweeter. “I don’t think that’s how most people think of it, Draco.”
“Well they should!” he insisted, jerking his broom to punctuate his words. He was still in his Quidditch robes, his hair sticking sweatily to his face. McGonagall had sent him to the hospital wing, but even her glare couldn’t dim his mood. He felt like he was still flying.
“I know we lost this match, but without Potter and the psycho Weasleys the Gryffindors are dead in the water! And I can beat the Ravenclaws without much trouble, I usually do, and the Hufflepuffs aren’t even in the running. The Cup’s in the bag!”
She caught his smile and gave it back to him, bigger and brighter. There was a dimple in her left cheek, the one that only appeared when she smiled widely. “It had better be,” she agreed. “Potter’s the only one who ever beats you, so if we lose now there’ll be hell to pay.”
“We won’t!” he said, ignoring the slight clench of anxiety between his ribs. “Umbridge has seen how crazy Potter and those twins are – ”
“Like recognises like,” Pansy snorted, but Draco grandly ignored her.
“So as long as she’s about, we’re fine. The curse just has to hold off until we’ve won the Cup.”
“Fingers crossed,” said Pansy, but she sounded a little distracted, her eyes moving over his face. Draco frowned at her, and she sighed in response. “You do look rather battered, Draco.”
“I’m not battered,” Draco protested. “I’m fine. Sturdy.” He felt rather damaged, in fact; there were spots on his face that felt swollen and hot, and his left eye seemed tender. At least Pansy had done a few healing spells on the simpler things – she wasn’t very good at it, but self-healing was usually a mistake. He felt better, and besides, impending victory was better than Pepper-Up.
Anyway, he wasn’t going to wail about his injuries. He was going to be manly and stoic about them, and maybe Pansy would get that look she got when she spiked and drank the Christmas punch and she let him see her in her pink bra.
She didn’t have that look right now, though. She’d raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, and at any moment she was going to cross her arms and start telling him off. And irrespective of that dream Draco had had about Professor McGonagall in fourth year, he was not in the mood for such things when he’d hoped for kissing.
“Draco, don’t try to be all square-jawed about it. I saw Potter walloping you – ”
“Potter, hah,” Draco said. “He couldn’t hit his way out of a paper bag.”
“Oh yes? Because the way you wheezed when he punched you in the stomach suggests otherwise.” While Draco was still mouthing silent fury, Pansy glanced down, pink cresting in her cheeks, and said, “I bet your stomach’s all bruised, if you showed me.”
Her voice was huskier than normal and a little shy, and she was glancing up at him from beneath her dark lashes. Draco strangled the momentary urge to correct her grammar and hoped she wasn’t expecting scary abdominals before he started to remove his elbow guards.
Pansy’s lips were parted, and very pink. Draco hoped for strawberry lip-gloss. He’d licked Daphne’s all off her mouth once at a party and she’d told everyone he kissed like an overeager crup. Pansy had hexed her with jellylegs.
She really was the best. Draco beamed at her as his head cleared his Quidditch jumper. Her eyes were on his now-bare chest, but they were not wide with admiration. She looked horrified. “Oh, Draco!”
She put an arm round his shoulders and a hand gently on his bruised stomach. “You poor thing,” Pansy exclaimed.
Draco could smell her sweet-smelling shampoo, and he was shirtless and she was touching him. He bet nobody was touching a shirtless Potter, the violent tosser.
He smiled at Pansy, and she smiled back. He slid an arm round her, and a hand into her dark hair, and kissed her. The kiss was slow, the way they did best; she sucked gently at his lower lip and his hand twitched slightly against her back.
They kept kissing for long minutes, and a warm haze filled Draco’s mind. He heroically kept kissing as Pansy’s hand stroked up his chest. She hesitated for a moment, then gently tweaked his nipple.
Draco made a slightly embarrassing sound and decided it was time to take some manly initiative. He slid a hand about Pansy’s waist and shifted up the bed onto his side. Pansy moved with him, and for a moment it was like learning a new dance and her body followed his and it was so easy. He slid a hand up to her breast and she let him; she made a breathy sound as he licked her neck and her hand was sliding a little under his waistband, thumbing the length of his hipbone.
Their bodies slid close. Draco felt his cheeks burn for a moment, but then she moved in a way that made him groan. It wasn’t quite right, the pressure not very good, but she wasn’t horrified by his Perfectly Normal Reaction and even seemed rather pleased. He smiled into the kiss and felt her lips curve, wicked, in response.
It was at this point that McGonagall cleared her throat.
They both shot up, almost banging their heads together. McGonagall was standing at the foot of the bed with her arms folded and a glare that could have stopped Professor Snape at twenty paces.
Pansy and Draco got off the bed on different sides. Draco wished he was less shirtless.
“Madam Pomfrey has been detained,” she said. “I came to tell you so, Mr Malfoy, and to request that you wait. Which is apparently not a talent of yours.”
Draco flushed still harder, all the blood from his cock apparently taking up residence in his cheeks. Pansy looked she was going to die of mortification.
“Thirty points from Slytherin each. Miss Parkinson, please come with me. I think we need to have a talk.”
Pansy shot him a horrified look as she followed McGonagall from the room. Draco pulled a sympathetic face back. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to talk to McGonagall about sex.
Or so he thought until that evening, when Professor Snape asked for a word.
Two
It was quarter past one when Draco returned to the Slytherin common room, and his eyes were burning from staring at the cabinet for hours. He’d searched every inch of the wood, every line and swirl and warp in the grain, trying to find something he could use as a starting point for a portal. He’d failed.
The room was dim, the fire reduced to a banked pile of coals. Everyone else had gone to bed, apparently. Draco felt his shoulders slump with tiredness and relief – he wouldn’t have to try to put off Vince or lie to Pansy. He could go to bed.
He was headed for the stairs when a dark form rose from an armchair. Draco jumped and saw teeth flash in the gloom.
“Hi Draco. Out late again?”
“Obviously,” Draco returned, hoping he sounded composed. “Lying in wait again, Blaise?”
“Absolutely.” Blaise prowled closer. Draco couldn’t see his face properly – the fire was behind him – and he knew what light there was, was falling firmly onto his own face. He tried to look calm, like his father had when Draco was small. “I’m not sure what all this sneaking is in aid of... you were so proud at the start of the year. D’you have a girlfriend outside Slytherin?”
“No!”
Blaise was only a foot away now. “Good,” he murmured, and reached for Draco’s elbow. He drew him close with that slow, lingering touch, and Draco’s eyes widened.
He was –
Blaise kissed him. No fear, none at all, and Draco had never seen this coming. He kissed back in sheer surprise, at first, and gratitude for a surprise that wasn’t painful and for Blaise’s lack of fear. Blaise took his time, his tongue slow and his lips sweet, and finally Draco moaned into his mouth.
Oh God, this was everything he’d been needing. There was a polite space between Blaise and him still, but it was shrinking with every moment until they were chest to chest. Draco’s stomach swooped. Blaise’s fingers scrabbled at the cotton of his left sleeve, his fingernails scratching slightly at the material over Draco’s blackened skin.
No. No –
“No!” Draco pushed at Blaise’s chest. Blaise went, his dark eyes widening in incredulity. Draco felt his face stinging with the rush of blood, as if he’d been slapped. “Blaise, I can’t.”
Blaise frowned at him. “Why not?”
“Because...” Draco trailed off, the silence falling between them like a shroud. Because I don’t want anyone to look at the Mark.
Because danger’s coming here, and I’m going to bring it.
Because you know I fancy you and all you’ve ever seen is how to take advantage of lust.
But shame and guilt and suspicion weren’t things he could say. Not even when he knew his friends could see the fear that drained the blood from his face and the confidence from his movements.
And Blaise had only been his friend properly for a year. He wasn’t like Pansy who adored him or Greg who’d been his friend forever. Blaise wasn’t dressing up in bloody girl’s clothes to support him.
He’d always wanted power over Draco. Draco knew that, and – and –
Blaise’s hands were on him again, big hands sliding around his waist and pulling him tight against Blaise’s body. Draco went; it was lovely to relax for a moment, to let someone else take charge and to be doing something nice. Blaise nipped Draco’s lower lip, his hands tightening on Draco’s waist, and Draco moaned.
Blaise’s hands slid from his waist to settle firmly on Draco’s arse. Draco shivered a little, caught between unease and arousal. Blaise’s lips were soft, moving slickly across his mouth and jaw. Then he sucked on Draco’s neck as his hands squeezed Draco’s arse and Draco couldn’t hold back his rather tragic little sound.
Blaise’s lips curved against his sensitive skin.
The only sounds in the room were the muted crackling of the dying fire and the slick sounds of their lips, and the sound of their breathing as it slowly sped up until they were panting. Draco dug his nails into Blaise’s back as Blaise licked the underside of his top lip, and had the satisfaction of feeling Blaise’s hips jerk unmistakably forward.
Blaise’s hands kneaded his arse slowly as they kissed. Draco was a little embarrassed by how much that turned him on, but it helped. He shut his eyes, sucking on Blaise’s tongue, and oh Blaise’s hand was slipping under his waistband.
Draco shuddered at the feeling of a hand on his naked arse. Blaise made a blurred, encouraging sound and ran one long, teasing finger between Draco’s cheeks. Draco cried out, his fingernails digging into Blaise’s back once more. Blaise chuckled.
Draco flinched at the sound and finally made his body shift: he backed away, pulling himself out of Blaise’s arms.
“What’s wrong?” Blaise didn’t sound like a ruthless schemer or someone planning to manipulate him: he sounded a little breathless, and turned on, and young.
But Draco was all of those things too, and he was going to be a murderer. You couldn’t trust someone just because they were young. Not any more.
So he said, “I need to sleep,” with his voice dry and cracking like dead leaves and fled for the dormitory.
He was still sitting up in bed when Blaise came in. Blaise didn’t pause, simply climbing straight into his own bed, and Draco said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Draco waited until Blaise’s breathing evened out, and then he crept out and went back to the cabinet.
Three
Draco heard the sounds of the night of Dumbledore’s death over and over again in his head. Not the sound of his aunt’s laughter or Dumbledore begging; instead he heard the whoosh as Hagrid’s hut caught fire and Snape’s snarl as they’d fled: run, Draco!
He wished it would stop. There was nowhere to run to.
Greyback bared his teeth at Draco across the dining room table. After a moment Draco thought that maybe this wasn’t just a predator thing, and attempted a smile back.
Greyback’s eyes flashed amusement, and Draco heard a snigger from somewhere down the table. He flushed and felt his mother squeeze his forearm.
Stupid. He kept making mistakes, missing cues. This wasn’t one of his mother’s dinner parties with her tinkling laugh and Father murmuring to important men over brandy. These were pack interactions and he kept showing his belly.
Greyback’s yellow eyes stayed on him all through the meeting. Draco felt sick.
When the Dark Lord left Draco felt his body huddle into itself. The painful tension that had kept his back straight and his shoulders taut had almost gone. He stayed curled into himself, with his arms tight against his chest and his legs pressed together, as the room emptied. His mother put a hand on the nape of his neck, and he looked up at her.
“We’re going to bed,” she said softly. Draco nodded: there were wards on the master suite which meant that no one could get in without their permission, whatever else happened. Unfortunately the heir’s suite did not work the same way, and his mother’s attempt to suggest that Draco start sleeping in their room had been met by the barest hint of the Dark Lord’s glare. “You’ll go soon as well, won’t you?” Mother asked. “Bella’s planning to have a drink or two tonight with some friends.”
Draco nodded again. He couldn’t quite make himself speak or move. It was all right, he told himself; he could stay here for a few minutes, just until he felt he could move without drawing instant, terrible attention. He watched his father slide an arm around his mother – needing her support, not offering her protection. Draco kept his eyes on them as they left the drawing-room and the doors shut behind them.
“Draco.”
He looked up at Greyback without daring to meet his eyes. Greyback was moving towards him, mouth open enough for Draco to see his pointed teeth. Draco could feel the attention of the room focusing on them, malevolent energy sparking as the Death Eaters went quiet, and now Greyback was close enough for Draco to smell raw meat on his breath.
Draco panicked. He barrelled backwards, his chair clattering to the stone floor. Greyback smiled, horribly, as Draco retreated in blind fear.
“Running from me, little one? I haven’t done anything nasty to you.”
“Yet,” Draco blurted, then winced. Greyback was laughing, a horrible hoarse sound like a dog panting in the heat.
“Yet,” he agreed. Draco kept backing away.
His back hit the stone wall with an audible slap, and Draco flinched. Idiot.
Greyback gave his awful snuffling laugh again. “Stupid boy. So much for wizard strategy.” He prowled closer, and Draco’s hand clenched uselessly around the space where his wand should be.
He’d lent it to his father. Greyback knew it, too.
“I’m not a boy,” Draco said. His voice quavered, but he tried to sound adult -- too adult to interest Greyback.
Laughter rose from the assorted Death Eaters. Draco flushed. They were watching, eyes bright with interest, teeth showing. They were predators as much as Greyback was. They weren’t going to help him.
Draco’s stomach was so tight he felt sick. Please, if Greyback got what he wanted, please... they couldn’t stay and watch Greyback rape him. Surely.
His aunt tittered, her caustic giggle loud in the silence. “Stalemate is boring, boys. Aren’t you going to try something, Draco? See if you can get away!”
Unthinking, Draco stepped forward and Greyback shoved him back. The strength in that one movement terrified Draco, and then Greyback was on him. He didn’t hold Draco’s arms down or hit him; he didn’t need to. Greyback simply held Draco against the wall with his bulk, and touched him as he wished.
He stroked Draco’s face in a horrible parody of gentleness, his long, yellow nails scratching Draco’s skin. “Calm down, runt.” Draco’s fingers scrabbled against the marble wall, and he strained pointlessly against Greyback’s warm weight. “If you piss yourself, your mother won’t be pleased.”
“Don’t talk about her!” Draco spat, before wincing. Laughter rose around the room. The sound seemed to fill Draco’s ears.
His mother had known Bellatrix and the others planned to celebrate tonight. These noises wouldn’t draw her attention even if she heard them.
Greyback grabbed Draco’s shoulders and spun him, forcing him face-first to the wall. Draco groaned as his front smacked into the marble, and Greyback gave a rumbling chuckle.
Cold horror shook Draco as he felt Greyback’s erection against him. A choked whimper forced itself past Draco’s teeth as he struggled uselessly and heard men snicker.
A growl rumbled through Greyback’s chest as Draco wriggled, and his body went limp without conscious direction. Draco’s mouth tasted sour with fear and the knowledge of his own cowardice, but he didn’t dare move. Instead he pressed his cheek to the chill marble and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to risk meeting anyone’s eyes at this moment of utter humiliation.
He could feel Greyback scenting him; his rough face was rubbing over Draco’s neck and shoulders. Draco’s shoulders were hunched, but he could do nothing to stop Greyback from pressing his nose into Draco’s neck. It was a little thing -- nothing, really, Draco told himself, innocuous for Greyback -- but it made Draco feel terrifyingly vulnerable.
He gave a thin, whining scream as Greyback grabbed his nape. Greyback sank his claws into Draco’s skin, agonisingly, until Draco felt blood trickling down his neck. The men were still snickering, and Bella’s cackle echoed against the marble walls. Draco cried out again, his nose full of the smell of Greyback and his ears full of the Death Eaters’ laughter and his body caged by Greyback’s limbs. The searing heat of Greyback’s body was burning him. He curled against the wall, wanting to hide from everything, trying to protect his stomach and throat.
Greyback didn’t allow it. Greyback’s left hand was heavy on Draco’s shoulder; the other insinuated itself between the wall and Draco’s stomach, pressing threateningly against him through the thin cloth.
Draco choked out a sob as Greyback’s nails began tearing at his robes. Then he heard the door swing open, through the panic filling his head. Draco wished hopelessly for his mother, dreaded the Dark Lord, and then --
“You flea-ridden, sordid cur, get off him,” Snape ordered. His voice filled the room without the need to shout. Greyback went rigid. His hands stopped moving, but stayed in their invasive position on Draco’s body.
“Off! Or the Dark Lord shall hear of this,” Snape said, his voice authoritative and powerful in its own right, even as he called on the Dark Lord’s name to make Greyback stop.
Greyback snorted, but he backed away. Draco almost collapsed as his inescapable weight and heat vanished, leaving Draco in torn robes, trembling against the wall.
“He’s hardly worth the time anyway, idiot whelp that he is.”
Draco kept his eyes on Snape despite Greyback’s snarling; but Snape only looked over the Death Eaters scattered about the room, sneered, and left the room.
Draco trotted after him, reminding himself inescapably of being eleven and knowing that all his enemies would fade away in the face of Snape’s black glare. Of knowing that all his nightmares -- even the stupid second-year ones about Potter setting a snake on him -- could be defeated, because Snape would let Draco have hot chocolate in his office and explain how very unimpressive Potter was.
“Professor!” Draco gasped as Snape swept down the corridor. “Wait!”
Snape paused. Still shaking, Draco rushed towards him; he felt he would be safe in the range of Snape’s cold gaze. “I want -- thank you, Professor, he would’ve -- don’t tell my mother, please.” A moment of silence, and Draco desperately reached for calm. “I just -- thank you. I know you didn’t have to. Thanks.” He paused, then forged on. “I knew you weren’t like -- like him.”
The noise of the Death Eaters’ renewed celebrations filtered through the heavy door. Snape looked at him with empty eyes, nodded, and left without a word.
Draco was left alone in the dark corridor; now the spectacle was over, he was too unthreatening to be worthy of the Death Eaters’ attention. He was trembling; his knees were shaking so hard that Draco thought he might fall over. He tried to draw a calming breath, and it came out sounding like a sob.
It wasn’t because of what Greyback had done. That didn’t have the power to make Draco feel this isolated. Greyback’s attack, now that Draco was as safe as he ever was these days, wasn’t what made Draco want to cry. Greyback would leave him alone now, and his attempt meant no more than Draco’s second-year nightmares.
Snape had tried to help Draco last year, when Draco was having nightmares again; but he’d refused to go to Snape’s office, afraid to trust him or his potions. Even after the years where Draco’s forbidding head of house had been the one teacher the Slytherins could count on to stand between them and the rest of the confusing, frightening world. And now....
Draco stood trembling in the corridor of his invaded home, and was certain that tonight had been Snape’s last rescue.
Four
For most of Draco’s seventh year, eyes were on him constantly: Ginny Weasley’s glare, the heavy glower of most of the school, the mistrustful gaze of the Slytherins. Draco felt scoured by their stares, as if they were a heavy wind eroding him. Snape never looked at him at all and that made it worse.
After Easter, they stopped. The Slytherins had heard whispers of the Malfoys’ final disgrace; when he came back to Hogwarts bearing the proof in a black eye and awkward movements, they turned away. The rest of the school seemed to decide he was no longer a threat, and saved their stares for the enemies they needed to be ready for.
There were four exceptions. Vince glared at Draco; Greg gave him shifty, guilty looks from the corner of his small eyes; Pansy stared at him, wet-eyed and crumple-mouthed, for long moments before she turned away. And a mousy fifth-year girl stared.
She was Daphne’s little sister and a member of the Charms Club. Draco knew nothing else about her and hadn’t the faintest idea why she was staring. He hadn’t felt much like looking in the mirror recently but he knew he was thin and grey as an old bone.
Some of the other Slytherins patrolled the corridors for the Carrows, searching out Dumbledore’s Army. Their eyes were bright and angry, sparking in the night like curselight, and their wands were constantly out, ready to hex and curse. Draco tried pretending; but he was so tired he moved like he was already dead, a stumbling Inferi wandering the dungeons and trying not to think about the Unforgivables.
He was patrolling one night – he had to, their position was so tenuous, and anyway at least all Dumbledore’s Army did was stun – when he heard a scuffle of footsteps behind him. Draco turned, glaring through aching eyes. “I heard you. Go and shuffle off somewhere else to daub graffiti.”
Daphne’s little sister stepped into the mouth of the corridor. She was still in her uniform, and under the mousy fringe her eyes were wide awake.
“It’s me, Draco.”
“Hello, Astoria,” he said on a sigh, feeling his shoulders slump in relief. “What’re you doing out past curfew?”
“Looking for you.” She walked towards him with her chin raised and her hips swaying. He knew what she was offering: he could hardly miss it, when she’d undone so many of her shirt buttons that he could see the white lace of her bra.
Astoria’s bright blue eyes were anxious, and her newly made-up lashes were fluttering as she blinked nervously. But she smiled slowly at him, an approximation of the slow-burning smile Pansy could bestow these days, and her voice sounded calm. Far calmer than Draco’s ever did, now. “I thought, since you’d be up anyway patrolling, we could... have a late night?”
Draco didn’t want to. She was pretty -- he glanced again at the long bare legs under her skirt, and her blue eyes -- but he didn’t want to. Everyone thought he was broken and strange already, and Draco knew there were rumours about what had happened between him and Greyback. The fact that he’d turned down Astoria Greengrass wouldn’t change much, he thought, if she even told anyone.
“Astoria -- ” Draco met her eyes and froze. She looked scared still, and it wasn’t because this was new; she wasn’t an anxious younger girl attempting seduction. For a moment Draco recognised the fear in her eyes and it was just like his. She was old enough to be frightened because her world was crumbling, and old enough to be looking for a certain kind of oblivion.
He shut his eyes and moved forward. His chest pressed against hers and his legs tangled with hers and they half-fell into the wall as they kissed. Astoria matched him movement for movement: her hands tugging at his hair, her mouth opening, her whole body pushing against his. The constant ache in Draco’s muscles, born of stress, stayed; but Astoria was making noises and her right hand was sliding appreciatively over his shoulders. As if he still played Quidditch, when he’d given it up last year in favour of murder.
Draco clenched his eyes shut and kissed Astoria harder, as if bruising her mouth would let him forget it. Half the seventh years were escaping reality with sex. Draco could do it too. Astoria was pretty, and she’d come to find him, and she kept one hand in his hair as though to keep Draco’s mouth against hers. It would be good, Draco thought.
Astoria rolled her hips against Draco’s, and he was soft. He just couldn’t.
She made a shocked, inquiring noise against his mouth and he pulled back. She was pale, staring at him, and how could Draco explain? And she was a Slytherin, but that was all. Her family wasn’t involved with Voldemort; she wasn’t involved with this. So he couldn’t be involved with her.
Draco made an ugly sound and turned, half-staggering away, wordless. She didn’t follow.
Astoria still watched him after that, but in a different way; and he hunched down and tried to ignore it. He couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Five
Draco sat huddled between his parents and wished he could lie down. Or go flying. Or run away and never see any of the people in this room again, except maybe his parents, Goyle and Pansy. But his father’s body and face looked crumpled, and his mother was pressed against his right side so that he could feel how thin she was. He couldn’t make them move, not yet. This moment was for sitting together and letting the knowledge that they’d all come through this alive seep into their weary bones.
Draco could hear each of his own rasping breaths; he could feel the air moving painfully through his scorched throat and lungs. There was something awful about feeling it when his mother was pale with the loss of her sister and bodies lined the Hall; but he was alive, and each breath was matched by the expansion of his parents’ lungs, their bodies pressed to his. Draco shut his eyes for a moment, overcome by sheer, animal relief.
They sat for what seemed like ages while Draco listened to the sobbing and occasional wails and the sound of Madam Pomfrey giving orders through her teeth as she tried to save someone wearing school uniform. There was a crowd of Weasleys clumped together around a body, their bright hair discoloured with soot and soil and mingled as they bent over some lost brother.
Draco’s mother groped for his hand. He tried to hold hers hard enough that she’d stop shaking.
It didn’t work, and Draco felt panic rising in his chest in response. He was too used to being unable to protect her. And now none of them had wands.
Draco’s parents had taken on his habit of staying still and quiet and hoping that if you didn’t move, no one would notice you. But with the black horror of Azkaban lurking in the back of his mind, Draco couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit here as if he were already locked up.
“Mother,” he said under his breath. She started.
“Yes, darling?”
“Do you mind... I need some air. I’ll be back in a little bit. Okay?”
Mother nodded, and even found the ashes of a smile for him. “All right, darling. Stay close.”
Draco nodded and scrambled off the bench. He left the Great Hall without looking at anyone. The Entrance Hall’s blackened state made something twist in his chest, and he left it as fast as he could.
Despite Draco’s desire to escape, he ended up wandering through the corridor by the Room of Requirement. He paused outside the scorched door. His throat was thick with the thought of Crabbe as he reached for the door.
Draco’s fingertips touched it, and he jerked backwards. He couldn’t go in there. Draco turned and left -- not quite running, but walking too fast and not daring to look back.
He passed an enormous hole in the wall. It was surrounded by the scorched stone that had been blown everywhere, but no one else was around. The place was quiet, and the Room of Requirement was safely round a corner. Draco felt as if steel bands wrapped around his lungs had relaxed, and he could finally draw a deep breath.
Then he heard heavy, irregular footsteps behind him -- like someone was drunk, or injured -- and turned.
A Weasley twin. Draco felt fright spangle through his chest even before he remembered tonight’s events: the Weasley twins could’ve killed Montague, Draco had almost killed Ron Weasley, they hated Slytherins so...
“Malfoy?” Weasley demanded. He sounded half-angry, half-incredulous. “What’re you doing up here? It’s too late for you to betray Hogwarts again!”
“Nothing,” said Draco. “I was just walking. It’s nothing. I’ll go.”
He hated himself for being so craven; but he’d come out of this alive, and almost unharmed. He wasn’t going to be crushed at the eleventh hour by a Weasley.
Draco backed away instead of turning tail: he couldn’t make himself turn his back on the Weasley twin. He kept his eyes down -- chest burning with the knowledge of his own cowardice -- and noticed that Weasley’s shoes were burnt. He thought they might have been purple once, which was just typical of the Weasleys’ nouveau-riche ludicrousness.
“Malfoy!”
“What?” Draco snapped. He stood still, unsure if he was taking a stand or too nervous to keep moving, and raised his eyes.
“D’you know who I am?” Weasley demanded, face reddened and eyes swollen and mouth snarling. He advanced on Draco blindly and Draco backed away without knowing what he was doing. He felt his own eyes widen in response to Weasley’s raging blue glare.
Weasley followed him, crowding him against the wall. Draco was panting thinly, his mouth open. Weasley gave off great waves of heat, and he was shorter than Draco but much broader, and how had he pinned Draco in so fast? Weasley’s hands were against the wall on either side of Draco, and he was so close that their chests brushed with each of Draco’s panicked breaths.
“Do you know who I am?” Weasley repeated.
“One of the Weasley twins,” Draco said, hopelessly wishing that it was what Weasley wanted to hear. He wondered if there was anyone around to hear him shout.
Weasley gave an awful choking laugh. “I’m the Weasley twin. There’s only one of us now.”
Draco’s stomach dropped as he understood. Words dried up in his mouth. He stood, staring down at Weasley, hands clenching into helpless fists as he waited for what Weasley would do. The blue eyes were bleary, half-mad with grief.
Weasley’s hands grabbed his shoulders. Weasley stared at him, fury flickering behind the mist of despair, and Draco wanted to shut his eyes.
“You’re all alive, aren’t you, Malfoy? None of your lot died.”
“Yes,” Draco whispered. He understood about hating someone because they were lucky.
Weasley’s hands flexed against his shoulders. Then Weasley’s gaze dropped to Draco’s chest, and one hand clumsily ran over his chest, fisting Draco’s shirt over his heart. Draco swallowed, feeling Weasley’s fist heavy against his skin as he breathed. Weasley’s blue eyes were ice-bright and fierce.
“And you’re just walking around like... You always survive, Malfoys.”
“You survived too.”
“So I guess we should celebrate,” Weasley said, with another dry, awful laugh.
Draco swallowed. He wanted to squirm away, to escape Weasley’s blue eyes and his grief and his broad, strong hands.
“C’mon,” Weasley muttered. His breath scalded Draco’s face as he leant in. “Everyone knows you kept Greyback happy, Malfoy, why not me?”
Draco flinched back at the words. For a moment panic rose up in him as his shoulderblades smacked against the wall. He fought it back down, somehow; Weasley’s hands, exploring him, held him in place. He barely breathed, holding still like a prey animal waiting, as Weasley’s fingers slid over his chest, his sides, squeezing his hips.
Weasley’s kiss was awkward and painful, hurting Draco’s mouth. He froze under it, unsure what to do: the heat of Weasley’s body was threatening, but it was another bit of proof that Draco was alive.
Weasley didn’t seem to care that Draco wasn’t responding. His mouth stayed on Draco’s, his hands running down Draco’s back, squeezing his arse. Draco’s eyes were open; Weasley’s were scrunched determinedly shut.
He was looking to forget: like Astoria, like everyone. Like Draco, maybe. It was like he barely noticed Draco was there. Weasley touched him blindly, hot hands worming their way under his clothes, and at least he wasn’t getting angry that Draco was just staying still. He wasn’t really resisting, after all.
Then Weasley’s eyes flickered open for a brief moment, and the bright blue gaze met Draco’s. For a moment Weasley saw him, remembered who he was, and lust chased anger across his face as his grip on Draco tightened painfully. One hand clenched around Draco’s wrist, so hard that Draco could feel his speeding pulse there. The only sound was their breathing. Draco needed to distract him, but he couldn’t make himself move, only wait for what Weasley would do.
Weasley’s eyes flickered over him again, and he drew back. Draco could still feel the living heat of his body, could follow it with his - Weasley sucked in a deep breath and their chests touched as they breathed -
And there it was - the sign that this was life, that he was alive and not consigned to oblivion. He grasped for that feeling, grabbing at Weasley’s shirt and pulling him back. Draco kissed Weasley, a kiss like breathing him in, and his arms and legs drew Weasley closer. Weasley grabbed at him, half-mauling him as they dragged each other closer, panting into each other’s mouths. Draco’s back was forced bruisingly hard against the chilly, hard slabs of stone as they kissed. He tried to ignore it, ignore the cries they could still hear from the Great Hall, the thin threads of miserable sound around them. That would be for later - if he got a later - for now he was free.
He rubbed his hands over the muscles of Weasley’s back, moaning appreciatively as Weasley groped his arse. There’d be bruises later, but what did that matter? Draco bit Weasley’s neck, trying for every gasp and hitch in breath and moan he could have. Weasley’s thigh was rubbing against his hardening cock, and Draco rolled his hips, chasing the spark of pleasure. He had to get it now, before the misery and the numbness, before they took him to Azkaban -
Draco’s panting breath hitched in a sudden sob as Weasley’s mouth left his. For a moment all he could feel was the chill.
And then it was worse, because Weasley drew back, his eyes suddenly cogent. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Malfoy, I didn’t - ”
Weasley was gone in a moment, running back to his family. Draco would have to follow soon. Draco’s family was still there too. Still surviving, like Weasley had said. That was something.
And really, thank God he hadn’t fucked Weasley, that would’ve gone wrong in a million different ways -
Draco pulled back the sleeve of his robe, and joy rushed through him in a painful shock. The Dark Lord didn’t own him any more. The Dark Mark was gone.
Draco stayed slumped against the wall, panting. Tears trickled down his face, itching, but he paid them no attention; he was busy listening to the rush of blood in his ears and his own panting breaths, and reminding himself with each beat of his heart that he’d come out alive.
Six
When Draco was thirteen, he had sworn to himself that he was going to use Potter’s Invisibility Cloak one day, that bastard. At seventeen, he had achieved this goal.
When he was thirteen he’d never have thought he’d be using it to sneak across the Gryffindor Common Room with his hand on Potter’s arse, but then change was good.
They’d tried this, once before. Harry had kissed the scars on his chest in apology as he worked his way down Draco’s body. Draco had relaxed into Harry’s hands, knowing he could trust him; he’d shut his eyes, just feeling Harry’s hot tongue sparking fire along his nerves, his fingertips stroking the soft skin of the small of Draco’s back, Harry’s hair brushing his chest. Harry had slipped a thigh between Draco’s, and Draco had held himself taut against the urge to thrust up against it. Then Harry’s weight had fallen more heavily on him, Harry’s body between Draco’s legs. Harry was still kissing him, Draco could breathe in the scent of him, but that weight --
Draco’s whole body had twanged with tension. For a moment the weight against him was Greyback’s, and he shoved against the body on his, against the weight and unwanted intimacy he’d spent so long avoiding. For a moment Draco couldn’t get Harry off, he was too heavy and Draco was helpless. Then Draco got the right angle and shoved just as Harry realised and moved, and Harry ended up sprawled gracelessly on the carpet with Draco staring at him, trying to think of something to say.
Harry had apologised a lot, and Draco still hadn’t known what to say. The next night he’d brought firewhiskey with him to Harry’s dorm, having already drunk most of the bottle in an attempt to settle his nerves and not be pathetic. They didn’t have sex then, either; Harry had taken the bottle away and put Draco to bed. Draco whispered, “Harry?”
“Yes?” Harry muttered back, kneeling by the four-poster. “D’you need to be sick?”
“No, I… I’m sorry. About yesterday. Greyback.”
Harry closed his eyes, looking nauseous. “Yeah.”
“He didn’t -- he never r-raped me, Harry, Snape stopped him -- ”
“That doesn’t make it any better,” Harry snapped. He huffed out a breath. “Shit, I mean, obviously it does, and thank fuck for Snape, which I really never imagined I’d say this much, but. It must’ve been terrifying. I just wish I’d saved you, I wish…”
“You’re doing it now,” Draco said to his pillow, embarrassed even through the Firewhiskey haze. But Harry heard him and his green eyes went soft, and then Harry conjured a bucket and left him to sleep it off. Occasionally Draco woke that night to hear Weasley grousing about Harry’s cold feet and sharp elbows, and Harry hissing at him to shut up cos Draco needed to sleep. In retrospect that might have been when Draco fell for him.
But this would be it. Third time lucky. Draco was hard already, which made navigating the stairs win the shared Invisibility Cloak even more awkward.
They kissed their way across the room, which had the added benefit of causing Longbottom to make a horrified sound and flee. Draco snickered and Harry slapped his arse. Draco pulled his hair in answer and Harry made a sound that melted Draco’s bones and they fell onto Harry’s bed together. It was like fighting, rolling over and over, except when Draco landed on the bottom he didn’t feel he’d lost. At all.
He opened his thighs and Harry knelt between them. Harry was flushed, his reddened mouth open as he breathed, as he scrambled in the bedside table and produced lube. Draco raised his eyebrows and Harry flushed. “We don’t have to -- ”
“Oh yes we do.”
Only it was awkward and uncomfortable. Harry put a finger inside him and it felt strange, and big. It felt like the angle was wrong, or maybe Draco was just too tight, but he couldn’t work out how to relax properly. It didn’t feel good, Harry poking awkwardly at him with no rhythm as Draco tried to adjust. Harry looked uncertain, biting his lower lip in concentration, eyes trained firmly on Draco’s arsehole. Why had no one ever said how embarrassing sex was?
Oh, right, because purebloods didn’t believe in sex ed beyond “don’t get anyone pregnant.”
Shit. Okay. He could get the mood going. “More,” he said, voice artificially breathless. “Yeah, Harry, come on.”
He hadn’t quite thought that through, because when Harry obeyed and tried to put another finger in Draco flinched. Harry must have felt it, because he glanced up in time to see Draco’s face before Draco could hide his expression.
“I’m hurting you,” Harry said, his face all crinkled up in concern.
“No you’re not, Potter, don’t be an idiot - ”
“I can tell!” Harry withdrew his fingers, pulling back. Draco sat up indignantly.
“What’re you - ”
“Draco, let’s not do this, not tonight.”
Mortification hit him. “Harry, it’s - ”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Harry was wiping the lube off his fingers already, turned away as if that would hide his erection.
No. Fuck this. This was his archnemesis, they should be able to have slightly rough sex without it going all wrong.
“We can try again, it’s not -- Harry -- ”
Harry shook his head again, not turning round. Draco felt cold and thoroughly ludicrous lying there naked on Harry’s Gryffindor-red sheets, not having sex. His chest jangled with hurt and humiliation. He couldn’t even do this right.
Then Harry lay down beside him and subjected him to a near-violent degree of cuddling. Harry was still hard, Draco could feel it, but he couldn’t quite bear to offer a blowjob or handjob in the face of this rejection. Draco was still hard himself but it was disappearing rapidly in the face of his mortification.
Draco wanted to leave. He wanted to go away and hide under his bed, or possibly change his name and move to New Zealand. But if he did that he’d have to get Harry Potter, Secret Octopus off him, and also see Harry’s face when Draco left. That might be even worse than the knowledge that he’d failed at sex.
Maybe Harry and Astoria could start a club. People who’d been willing to have sex with Draco Malfoy before a sharp realisation about how fundamentally unfuckable he was.
Harry was still cuddling him to within an inch of his life. Draco hid his hot face in Harry’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a while.
Harry’s grip tightened. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s me. I should’ve been more careful, been sure you were okay. You trusted me.”
“I do trust you. And I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me.”
“I would’ve, though. So. I guess we just need more practice.”
Draco winced, feeling thoroughly inadequate, before he registered the shy smile in Harry’s voice.
“Practice?” he said into Harry’s skin.
“Y’know.” Harry sounded a little embarrassed himself now, and Draco grinned. “I could. We could. Blowjobs, maybe, with. With fingers. Or -- something. I dunno, but I thought...”
“Maybe.” Draco slid the backs of his fingers down Harry’s arm, hoping to communicate definitely.
The embarrassment faded slowly as they lay there together. Draco nuzzled into Harry, and they rearranged themselves until they were face to face.
Harry kissed the side of Draco’s face and whispered, “next time’ll be better. Promise.”
And One Time He Did
“I thought you wanted me to bottom.” The words came out sharp and spiky, and for a moment Draco was sure that they’d hit Harry too hard and hurt him. But Harry just smiled, and Draco supposed that maybe if you were a hero, you could bravely face harsh words and not be hurt. Maybe Harry would teach him the trick of it, so he could visit Hogsmeade again.
But then, if that happened, there wouldn’t be these secret Saturdays when everyone else went to the village. Harry was too famous and Draco too notorious to follow their classmates, and instead they found little parts of Hogwarts’ grounds and stayed there all day, just them.
Besides, Harry’s smile, and his squinting eyes that looked so unprotected without his glasses, looked like Harry wasn’t just being tough. Perhaps it was just that Harry saw what Draco meant, underneath the spikiness.
“I do want you to bottom,” Harry said. He was blushing, on the very edge of stammering, tracing meaningless patterns into his duvet as he sat on his bed. “But I want me to bottom too. And I don’t want you to be nervous.”
Draco nearly said that he wasn’t nervous and he could bottom as well as anyone, and he was going to do it and he’d rock Harry’s world, he’d show him. But Harry already knew the truth.
Anyway, what was the point in going out with a Gryffindor if you couldn’t make him try the scary parts first?
He didn’t want to have failed at bottoming --
But that thought was interrupted by Harry’s sly grin, the way his green eyes were alight. He looked embarrassed, but not just that. “And I - I want to. Y’know. It’s -- I’ve been thinking about it. Yeah… really hot.”
Harry laughed awkwardly and Draco felt a cauldron melt somewhere in his brain. Harry had been thinking about him; Harry had been fantasising about having Draco fuck him. Amazing.
And Draco had been fantasising about it too, ever since Harry’d brushed a warm hand against Draco’s lower back during their third kiss and made Draco’s hips jerk and his mind go momentarily white.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
Draco smiled back at him, and kissed him down into the Gryffindor-red pillows. Harry caught the back of his head, sliding his fingers through the short hair at Draco’s nape. They kept kissing, slow and full of promise, as Harry played with his hair and sent shivers down his bare back.
He pulled back with some difficulty. “Where’s the…?”
Harry scrabbled for his wand and pulled an Accio. Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Dangerous, in a dorm. If I’d got beaned in the head by Longbottom’s lube I wouldn’t have forgiven you, you know.”
“Oh, you would’ve eventually,” Harry said, grinning, and Draco wanted to argue except that Harry was wriggling out of his boxers, and his cock was hard and flushed and the space behind Harry’s balls seemed like the most important thing in the world.
It went easier this time. They’d been experimenting together, going slow. It’d been fun, Harry teasing him inside while he sucked Draco off, working out how to do it. Draco doing the same, and finding that Harry seemed to be better at relaxing into being fingered. That had shamed Draco a little; he was a coward even here, it seemed.
Except that now Harry was opening up for him, warm and soft and smiling. The smell of Harry was all over these sheets, and Harry shivered as Draco stroked his cock, played with his balls, and slid slick fingers between his cheeks. There was too much lube -- Draco always did that -- and it wasn’t very smooth, but Harry was still hard and eager and so hot inside.
It made Draco glow to think he could do this. He could make Harry feel good, he could make him come and not hurt him and be worthy of this trust.
They’d skipped over foreplay -- they always did, impatient and knowing people’d be back from Hogsmeade before too long. Still, Draco knew he could do better. He lingered over Harry’s face, drinking in every twitch, still working out how to do it right, how to get those -- yes, oh, like that. Those perfect little moaning breaths, Harry’s dark eyelashes fluttering.
He sunk down, licking eagerly at Harry’s cock as he fingered him. Harry’s cock twitched when Draco’s hot tongue met the head, and his thighs clenched round Draco’s ears. Yes.
Draco’s heart pounded. Anxiety was fading, all those speeded-up thoughts about whether he could be good enough and what it all meant; it couldn’t last, there wasn’t room for it in his head when Harry was moaning and Draco’s heart was thumping at the soft, hot clench of him round his fingers. He was going to be inside that.
“Stop, stop.” Harry pushed gently at Draco’s head, and he let Harry’s cock pop wetly out of his mouth. It slapped against Harry’s stomach, a silly sound. “I’m gonna go off like a rocket, should wait til you’re actually - til we’re -- ”
Draco nodded, excitement quivering in his chest. He kept stretching Harry, stroking him inside, trying to keep some kind of rhythm, to remember how to find Harry’s prostate. The practice helped; it took him a while, but he knew he’d done something right when Harry gasped, tensing, pushing himself back against Draco’s fingers.
Draco kept going, ferociously focused on making Harry gasp and groan, putting everything he’d learnt to use. His mouth was dry from the way Harry’s hips rolled against his fingers and how Harry’s flush spread all the way down his chest. He didn’t touch himself because he knew he’d never last if he did.
“Harry,” he gasped at last. “Can I - ”
“Yes,” Harry said immediately, reaching out for him, drawing Draco up his body. Harry tipped up his hips, Draco pushed at the back of his thighs, and then Draco’s cock was rubbing against Harry’s arse. He aimed himself with a hand and then he was in, in, head and then half the shaft and at that he had to stop, gasping. Harry was clenching round him rhythmically, and Draco whimpered as he tried to think about astronomy -- the Arrows’ position in the league -- shepherd’s pie -- anything other than the look in Harry’s eyes.
Don’t come don’t come don’t come --
They both managed to relax into it a little, and Harry grinned. Draco burst into a little fit of giggles, and Harry laughed too, nerves and excitement bubbling up through it. Harry shifted a little as he giggled, then clenched, and Draco half-choked on his laughter.
Harry’s eyes were such a bright, deep green, and his cheeks were so flushed.
Draco withdrew a little, then pushed back in. He kept going, trying to keep something like a steady rhythm, and then abruptly he was all the way in, Harry’s arse pressed against him. He wanted to grope Harry lewdly, but he wasn’t quite sure if that would come across badly, especially the first time. He saw Harry swallow, and Harry was so hot around him; Draco buried his face in Harry’s chest, finding one nipple with his mouth just to distract himself.
It didn’t work for long; it made Harry gasp, and those noises did the opposite of distracting Draco. Harry was tight around him, Harry was moaning because Draco was inside him. They were both sweating, and Draco was trying very hard to keep a rhythm but it wasn’t really working. He didn’t know how to keep control when this heat was scorching through him and Harry’s body was pressed against his, skin on skin sliding and finding new angles all the time. They shifted awkwardly against each other, not quite in sync. Draco groped desperately, found Harry’s cock, and immediately Harry’s groans redoubled and he jerked his hips into Draco’s rhythm once -- twice -- and Draco came, instantly, unstoppably.
He groaned his way through it, panting helplessly against Harry’s skin. He tightened his grip around Harry’s cock before he’d finished, stroking Harry even as he jerked inside him, determined to bring Harry off. Harry moaned, sounding tense but not in a bad way -- like he wanted to come, like Draco had wound him up. Draco kept going, and managed to peel his eyes open. He wanted to see.
He found Harry with his eyes closed, twitching and shuddering. Draco added a few twists as he reached the head of Harry’s cock, thrusting a little with his softening cock. Harry caught at the sheets, white-knuckled, and then groaned a little louder as he started to come.
Draco was barely inside him now, but it was enough to feel him tighten; to feel Harry’s orgasm from the inside. Harry fumbled, and drew Draco’s head down so they could kiss through it. The kiss was gorgeous; it felt like he could taste Harry’s fulfilled desire on his tongue, as the kiss went from passionate and messy to just touches of lips, just breathing together, as Harry calmed. As they both did.
Draco withdrew a little, just enough to pull out properly. He slumped on top of Harry, adjusting a little as his cheek was prickled by Harry’s sparse chest hair.
“That was really good,” Harry whispered eventually. “Thanks.” Draco lifted his face to find Harry had his eyes on the canopy above them, his expression a little embarrassed. Shy, maybe. Draco melted.
“I’m glad,” he murmured back. “It was good for me too. You were. Yeah. Excellent first time.”
Harry nodded. He still wasn’t looking at Draco, but his smile turned pleased and a little sly. “But you know what? The first time you do something isn’t ever the best.”
Once Draco’s feathers would’ve been well and truly ruffled by that, but he knew what Harry meant now. He smirked. “We’re going to practise.”
I know it’s meant to be Five Times. I’m DECONSTRUCTING THE FORM OKAY. :P
Title: Six Times Draco Malfoy Didn’t Have Sex (And One Time He Did)
Word count: ~9200
Characters/pairings: Harry/Draco (with mild Pansy/Draco, Blaise/Draco, Greyback/Draco, Astoria/Draco and George/Draco)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: See title.
Warnings: attempted rape, dub-con touching, quite a bit of angst before the end despite my joy in writing awkward teenagers who like each other a lot
Author’s Notes: The pairings are demarcated into sections, so you can skip particular parts if you like: the attempted rape comes in the Greyback/Draco section, which is third. The fifth section (George/Draco) is highly dub-con. Just control + f for ‘one’, ‘two’ etc.
On AO3
One
“That was the best beating anyone’s ever been given. Ever.”
Pansy laughed as she always did at his jokes, her dark eyes bright with vicious glee and something sweeter. “I don’t think that’s how most people think of it, Draco.”
“Well they should!” he insisted, jerking his broom to punctuate his words. He was still in his Quidditch robes, his hair sticking sweatily to his face. McGonagall had sent him to the hospital wing, but even her glare couldn’t dim his mood. He felt like he was still flying.
“I know we lost this match, but without Potter and the psycho Weasleys the Gryffindors are dead in the water! And I can beat the Ravenclaws without much trouble, I usually do, and the Hufflepuffs aren’t even in the running. The Cup’s in the bag!”
She caught his smile and gave it back to him, bigger and brighter. There was a dimple in her left cheek, the one that only appeared when she smiled widely. “It had better be,” she agreed. “Potter’s the only one who ever beats you, so if we lose now there’ll be hell to pay.”
“We won’t!” he said, ignoring the slight clench of anxiety between his ribs. “Umbridge has seen how crazy Potter and those twins are – ”
“Like recognises like,” Pansy snorted, but Draco grandly ignored her.
“So as long as she’s about, we’re fine. The curse just has to hold off until we’ve won the Cup.”
“Fingers crossed,” said Pansy, but she sounded a little distracted, her eyes moving over his face. Draco frowned at her, and she sighed in response. “You do look rather battered, Draco.”
“I’m not battered,” Draco protested. “I’m fine. Sturdy.” He felt rather damaged, in fact; there were spots on his face that felt swollen and hot, and his left eye seemed tender. At least Pansy had done a few healing spells on the simpler things – she wasn’t very good at it, but self-healing was usually a mistake. He felt better, and besides, impending victory was better than Pepper-Up.
Anyway, he wasn’t going to wail about his injuries. He was going to be manly and stoic about them, and maybe Pansy would get that look she got when she spiked and drank the Christmas punch and she let him see her in her pink bra.
She didn’t have that look right now, though. She’d raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, and at any moment she was going to cross her arms and start telling him off. And irrespective of that dream Draco had had about Professor McGonagall in fourth year, he was not in the mood for such things when he’d hoped for kissing.
“Draco, don’t try to be all square-jawed about it. I saw Potter walloping you – ”
“Potter, hah,” Draco said. “He couldn’t hit his way out of a paper bag.”
“Oh yes? Because the way you wheezed when he punched you in the stomach suggests otherwise.” While Draco was still mouthing silent fury, Pansy glanced down, pink cresting in her cheeks, and said, “I bet your stomach’s all bruised, if you showed me.”
Her voice was huskier than normal and a little shy, and she was glancing up at him from beneath her dark lashes. Draco strangled the momentary urge to correct her grammar and hoped she wasn’t expecting scary abdominals before he started to remove his elbow guards.
Pansy’s lips were parted, and very pink. Draco hoped for strawberry lip-gloss. He’d licked Daphne’s all off her mouth once at a party and she’d told everyone he kissed like an overeager crup. Pansy had hexed her with jellylegs.
She really was the best. Draco beamed at her as his head cleared his Quidditch jumper. Her eyes were on his now-bare chest, but they were not wide with admiration. She looked horrified. “Oh, Draco!”
She put an arm round his shoulders and a hand gently on his bruised stomach. “You poor thing,” Pansy exclaimed.
Draco could smell her sweet-smelling shampoo, and he was shirtless and she was touching him. He bet nobody was touching a shirtless Potter, the violent tosser.
He smiled at Pansy, and she smiled back. He slid an arm round her, and a hand into her dark hair, and kissed her. The kiss was slow, the way they did best; she sucked gently at his lower lip and his hand twitched slightly against her back.
They kept kissing for long minutes, and a warm haze filled Draco’s mind. He heroically kept kissing as Pansy’s hand stroked up his chest. She hesitated for a moment, then gently tweaked his nipple.
Draco made a slightly embarrassing sound and decided it was time to take some manly initiative. He slid a hand about Pansy’s waist and shifted up the bed onto his side. Pansy moved with him, and for a moment it was like learning a new dance and her body followed his and it was so easy. He slid a hand up to her breast and she let him; she made a breathy sound as he licked her neck and her hand was sliding a little under his waistband, thumbing the length of his hipbone.
Their bodies slid close. Draco felt his cheeks burn for a moment, but then she moved in a way that made him groan. It wasn’t quite right, the pressure not very good, but she wasn’t horrified by his Perfectly Normal Reaction and even seemed rather pleased. He smiled into the kiss and felt her lips curve, wicked, in response.
It was at this point that McGonagall cleared her throat.
They both shot up, almost banging their heads together. McGonagall was standing at the foot of the bed with her arms folded and a glare that could have stopped Professor Snape at twenty paces.
Pansy and Draco got off the bed on different sides. Draco wished he was less shirtless.
“Madam Pomfrey has been detained,” she said. “I came to tell you so, Mr Malfoy, and to request that you wait. Which is apparently not a talent of yours.”
Draco flushed still harder, all the blood from his cock apparently taking up residence in his cheeks. Pansy looked she was going to die of mortification.
“Thirty points from Slytherin each. Miss Parkinson, please come with me. I think we need to have a talk.”
Pansy shot him a horrified look as she followed McGonagall from the room. Draco pulled a sympathetic face back. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to talk to McGonagall about sex.
Or so he thought until that evening, when Professor Snape asked for a word.
Two
It was quarter past one when Draco returned to the Slytherin common room, and his eyes were burning from staring at the cabinet for hours. He’d searched every inch of the wood, every line and swirl and warp in the grain, trying to find something he could use as a starting point for a portal. He’d failed.
The room was dim, the fire reduced to a banked pile of coals. Everyone else had gone to bed, apparently. Draco felt his shoulders slump with tiredness and relief – he wouldn’t have to try to put off Vince or lie to Pansy. He could go to bed.
He was headed for the stairs when a dark form rose from an armchair. Draco jumped and saw teeth flash in the gloom.
“Hi Draco. Out late again?”
“Obviously,” Draco returned, hoping he sounded composed. “Lying in wait again, Blaise?”
“Absolutely.” Blaise prowled closer. Draco couldn’t see his face properly – the fire was behind him – and he knew what light there was, was falling firmly onto his own face. He tried to look calm, like his father had when Draco was small. “I’m not sure what all this sneaking is in aid of... you were so proud at the start of the year. D’you have a girlfriend outside Slytherin?”
“No!”
Blaise was only a foot away now. “Good,” he murmured, and reached for Draco’s elbow. He drew him close with that slow, lingering touch, and Draco’s eyes widened.
He was –
Blaise kissed him. No fear, none at all, and Draco had never seen this coming. He kissed back in sheer surprise, at first, and gratitude for a surprise that wasn’t painful and for Blaise’s lack of fear. Blaise took his time, his tongue slow and his lips sweet, and finally Draco moaned into his mouth.
Oh God, this was everything he’d been needing. There was a polite space between Blaise and him still, but it was shrinking with every moment until they were chest to chest. Draco’s stomach swooped. Blaise’s fingers scrabbled at the cotton of his left sleeve, his fingernails scratching slightly at the material over Draco’s blackened skin.
No. No –
“No!” Draco pushed at Blaise’s chest. Blaise went, his dark eyes widening in incredulity. Draco felt his face stinging with the rush of blood, as if he’d been slapped. “Blaise, I can’t.”
Blaise frowned at him. “Why not?”
“Because...” Draco trailed off, the silence falling between them like a shroud. Because I don’t want anyone to look at the Mark.
Because danger’s coming here, and I’m going to bring it.
Because you know I fancy you and all you’ve ever seen is how to take advantage of lust.
But shame and guilt and suspicion weren’t things he could say. Not even when he knew his friends could see the fear that drained the blood from his face and the confidence from his movements.
And Blaise had only been his friend properly for a year. He wasn’t like Pansy who adored him or Greg who’d been his friend forever. Blaise wasn’t dressing up in bloody girl’s clothes to support him.
He’d always wanted power over Draco. Draco knew that, and – and –
Blaise’s hands were on him again, big hands sliding around his waist and pulling him tight against Blaise’s body. Draco went; it was lovely to relax for a moment, to let someone else take charge and to be doing something nice. Blaise nipped Draco’s lower lip, his hands tightening on Draco’s waist, and Draco moaned.
Blaise’s hands slid from his waist to settle firmly on Draco’s arse. Draco shivered a little, caught between unease and arousal. Blaise’s lips were soft, moving slickly across his mouth and jaw. Then he sucked on Draco’s neck as his hands squeezed Draco’s arse and Draco couldn’t hold back his rather tragic little sound.
Blaise’s lips curved against his sensitive skin.
The only sounds in the room were the muted crackling of the dying fire and the slick sounds of their lips, and the sound of their breathing as it slowly sped up until they were panting. Draco dug his nails into Blaise’s back as Blaise licked the underside of his top lip, and had the satisfaction of feeling Blaise’s hips jerk unmistakably forward.
Blaise’s hands kneaded his arse slowly as they kissed. Draco was a little embarrassed by how much that turned him on, but it helped. He shut his eyes, sucking on Blaise’s tongue, and oh Blaise’s hand was slipping under his waistband.
Draco shuddered at the feeling of a hand on his naked arse. Blaise made a blurred, encouraging sound and ran one long, teasing finger between Draco’s cheeks. Draco cried out, his fingernails digging into Blaise’s back once more. Blaise chuckled.
Draco flinched at the sound and finally made his body shift: he backed away, pulling himself out of Blaise’s arms.
“What’s wrong?” Blaise didn’t sound like a ruthless schemer or someone planning to manipulate him: he sounded a little breathless, and turned on, and young.
But Draco was all of those things too, and he was going to be a murderer. You couldn’t trust someone just because they were young. Not any more.
So he said, “I need to sleep,” with his voice dry and cracking like dead leaves and fled for the dormitory.
He was still sitting up in bed when Blaise came in. Blaise didn’t pause, simply climbing straight into his own bed, and Draco said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Draco waited until Blaise’s breathing evened out, and then he crept out and went back to the cabinet.
Three
Draco heard the sounds of the night of Dumbledore’s death over and over again in his head. Not the sound of his aunt’s laughter or Dumbledore begging; instead he heard the whoosh as Hagrid’s hut caught fire and Snape’s snarl as they’d fled: run, Draco!
He wished it would stop. There was nowhere to run to.
Greyback bared his teeth at Draco across the dining room table. After a moment Draco thought that maybe this wasn’t just a predator thing, and attempted a smile back.
Greyback’s eyes flashed amusement, and Draco heard a snigger from somewhere down the table. He flushed and felt his mother squeeze his forearm.
Stupid. He kept making mistakes, missing cues. This wasn’t one of his mother’s dinner parties with her tinkling laugh and Father murmuring to important men over brandy. These were pack interactions and he kept showing his belly.
Greyback’s yellow eyes stayed on him all through the meeting. Draco felt sick.
When the Dark Lord left Draco felt his body huddle into itself. The painful tension that had kept his back straight and his shoulders taut had almost gone. He stayed curled into himself, with his arms tight against his chest and his legs pressed together, as the room emptied. His mother put a hand on the nape of his neck, and he looked up at her.
“We’re going to bed,” she said softly. Draco nodded: there were wards on the master suite which meant that no one could get in without their permission, whatever else happened. Unfortunately the heir’s suite did not work the same way, and his mother’s attempt to suggest that Draco start sleeping in their room had been met by the barest hint of the Dark Lord’s glare. “You’ll go soon as well, won’t you?” Mother asked. “Bella’s planning to have a drink or two tonight with some friends.”
Draco nodded again. He couldn’t quite make himself speak or move. It was all right, he told himself; he could stay here for a few minutes, just until he felt he could move without drawing instant, terrible attention. He watched his father slide an arm around his mother – needing her support, not offering her protection. Draco kept his eyes on them as they left the drawing-room and the doors shut behind them.
“Draco.”
He looked up at Greyback without daring to meet his eyes. Greyback was moving towards him, mouth open enough for Draco to see his pointed teeth. Draco could feel the attention of the room focusing on them, malevolent energy sparking as the Death Eaters went quiet, and now Greyback was close enough for Draco to smell raw meat on his breath.
Draco panicked. He barrelled backwards, his chair clattering to the stone floor. Greyback smiled, horribly, as Draco retreated in blind fear.
“Running from me, little one? I haven’t done anything nasty to you.”
“Yet,” Draco blurted, then winced. Greyback was laughing, a horrible hoarse sound like a dog panting in the heat.
“Yet,” he agreed. Draco kept backing away.
His back hit the stone wall with an audible slap, and Draco flinched. Idiot.
Greyback gave his awful snuffling laugh again. “Stupid boy. So much for wizard strategy.” He prowled closer, and Draco’s hand clenched uselessly around the space where his wand should be.
He’d lent it to his father. Greyback knew it, too.
“I’m not a boy,” Draco said. His voice quavered, but he tried to sound adult -- too adult to interest Greyback.
Laughter rose from the assorted Death Eaters. Draco flushed. They were watching, eyes bright with interest, teeth showing. They were predators as much as Greyback was. They weren’t going to help him.
Draco’s stomach was so tight he felt sick. Please, if Greyback got what he wanted, please... they couldn’t stay and watch Greyback rape him. Surely.
His aunt tittered, her caustic giggle loud in the silence. “Stalemate is boring, boys. Aren’t you going to try something, Draco? See if you can get away!”
Unthinking, Draco stepped forward and Greyback shoved him back. The strength in that one movement terrified Draco, and then Greyback was on him. He didn’t hold Draco’s arms down or hit him; he didn’t need to. Greyback simply held Draco against the wall with his bulk, and touched him as he wished.
He stroked Draco’s face in a horrible parody of gentleness, his long, yellow nails scratching Draco’s skin. “Calm down, runt.” Draco’s fingers scrabbled against the marble wall, and he strained pointlessly against Greyback’s warm weight. “If you piss yourself, your mother won’t be pleased.”
“Don’t talk about her!” Draco spat, before wincing. Laughter rose around the room. The sound seemed to fill Draco’s ears.
His mother had known Bellatrix and the others planned to celebrate tonight. These noises wouldn’t draw her attention even if she heard them.
Greyback grabbed Draco’s shoulders and spun him, forcing him face-first to the wall. Draco groaned as his front smacked into the marble, and Greyback gave a rumbling chuckle.
Cold horror shook Draco as he felt Greyback’s erection against him. A choked whimper forced itself past Draco’s teeth as he struggled uselessly and heard men snicker.
A growl rumbled through Greyback’s chest as Draco wriggled, and his body went limp without conscious direction. Draco’s mouth tasted sour with fear and the knowledge of his own cowardice, but he didn’t dare move. Instead he pressed his cheek to the chill marble and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to risk meeting anyone’s eyes at this moment of utter humiliation.
He could feel Greyback scenting him; his rough face was rubbing over Draco’s neck and shoulders. Draco’s shoulders were hunched, but he could do nothing to stop Greyback from pressing his nose into Draco’s neck. It was a little thing -- nothing, really, Draco told himself, innocuous for Greyback -- but it made Draco feel terrifyingly vulnerable.
He gave a thin, whining scream as Greyback grabbed his nape. Greyback sank his claws into Draco’s skin, agonisingly, until Draco felt blood trickling down his neck. The men were still snickering, and Bella’s cackle echoed against the marble walls. Draco cried out again, his nose full of the smell of Greyback and his ears full of the Death Eaters’ laughter and his body caged by Greyback’s limbs. The searing heat of Greyback’s body was burning him. He curled against the wall, wanting to hide from everything, trying to protect his stomach and throat.
Greyback didn’t allow it. Greyback’s left hand was heavy on Draco’s shoulder; the other insinuated itself between the wall and Draco’s stomach, pressing threateningly against him through the thin cloth.
Draco choked out a sob as Greyback’s nails began tearing at his robes. Then he heard the door swing open, through the panic filling his head. Draco wished hopelessly for his mother, dreaded the Dark Lord, and then --
“You flea-ridden, sordid cur, get off him,” Snape ordered. His voice filled the room without the need to shout. Greyback went rigid. His hands stopped moving, but stayed in their invasive position on Draco’s body.
“Off! Or the Dark Lord shall hear of this,” Snape said, his voice authoritative and powerful in its own right, even as he called on the Dark Lord’s name to make Greyback stop.
Greyback snorted, but he backed away. Draco almost collapsed as his inescapable weight and heat vanished, leaving Draco in torn robes, trembling against the wall.
“He’s hardly worth the time anyway, idiot whelp that he is.”
Draco kept his eyes on Snape despite Greyback’s snarling; but Snape only looked over the Death Eaters scattered about the room, sneered, and left the room.
Draco trotted after him, reminding himself inescapably of being eleven and knowing that all his enemies would fade away in the face of Snape’s black glare. Of knowing that all his nightmares -- even the stupid second-year ones about Potter setting a snake on him -- could be defeated, because Snape would let Draco have hot chocolate in his office and explain how very unimpressive Potter was.
“Professor!” Draco gasped as Snape swept down the corridor. “Wait!”
Snape paused. Still shaking, Draco rushed towards him; he felt he would be safe in the range of Snape’s cold gaze. “I want -- thank you, Professor, he would’ve -- don’t tell my mother, please.” A moment of silence, and Draco desperately reached for calm. “I just -- thank you. I know you didn’t have to. Thanks.” He paused, then forged on. “I knew you weren’t like -- like him.”
The noise of the Death Eaters’ renewed celebrations filtered through the heavy door. Snape looked at him with empty eyes, nodded, and left without a word.
Draco was left alone in the dark corridor; now the spectacle was over, he was too unthreatening to be worthy of the Death Eaters’ attention. He was trembling; his knees were shaking so hard that Draco thought he might fall over. He tried to draw a calming breath, and it came out sounding like a sob.
It wasn’t because of what Greyback had done. That didn’t have the power to make Draco feel this isolated. Greyback’s attack, now that Draco was as safe as he ever was these days, wasn’t what made Draco want to cry. Greyback would leave him alone now, and his attempt meant no more than Draco’s second-year nightmares.
Snape had tried to help Draco last year, when Draco was having nightmares again; but he’d refused to go to Snape’s office, afraid to trust him or his potions. Even after the years where Draco’s forbidding head of house had been the one teacher the Slytherins could count on to stand between them and the rest of the confusing, frightening world. And now....
Draco stood trembling in the corridor of his invaded home, and was certain that tonight had been Snape’s last rescue.
Four
For most of Draco’s seventh year, eyes were on him constantly: Ginny Weasley’s glare, the heavy glower of most of the school, the mistrustful gaze of the Slytherins. Draco felt scoured by their stares, as if they were a heavy wind eroding him. Snape never looked at him at all and that made it worse.
After Easter, they stopped. The Slytherins had heard whispers of the Malfoys’ final disgrace; when he came back to Hogwarts bearing the proof in a black eye and awkward movements, they turned away. The rest of the school seemed to decide he was no longer a threat, and saved their stares for the enemies they needed to be ready for.
There were four exceptions. Vince glared at Draco; Greg gave him shifty, guilty looks from the corner of his small eyes; Pansy stared at him, wet-eyed and crumple-mouthed, for long moments before she turned away. And a mousy fifth-year girl stared.
She was Daphne’s little sister and a member of the Charms Club. Draco knew nothing else about her and hadn’t the faintest idea why she was staring. He hadn’t felt much like looking in the mirror recently but he knew he was thin and grey as an old bone.
Some of the other Slytherins patrolled the corridors for the Carrows, searching out Dumbledore’s Army. Their eyes were bright and angry, sparking in the night like curselight, and their wands were constantly out, ready to hex and curse. Draco tried pretending; but he was so tired he moved like he was already dead, a stumbling Inferi wandering the dungeons and trying not to think about the Unforgivables.
He was patrolling one night – he had to, their position was so tenuous, and anyway at least all Dumbledore’s Army did was stun – when he heard a scuffle of footsteps behind him. Draco turned, glaring through aching eyes. “I heard you. Go and shuffle off somewhere else to daub graffiti.”
Daphne’s little sister stepped into the mouth of the corridor. She was still in her uniform, and under the mousy fringe her eyes were wide awake.
“It’s me, Draco.”
“Hello, Astoria,” he said on a sigh, feeling his shoulders slump in relief. “What’re you doing out past curfew?”
“Looking for you.” She walked towards him with her chin raised and her hips swaying. He knew what she was offering: he could hardly miss it, when she’d undone so many of her shirt buttons that he could see the white lace of her bra.
Astoria’s bright blue eyes were anxious, and her newly made-up lashes were fluttering as she blinked nervously. But she smiled slowly at him, an approximation of the slow-burning smile Pansy could bestow these days, and her voice sounded calm. Far calmer than Draco’s ever did, now. “I thought, since you’d be up anyway patrolling, we could... have a late night?”
Draco didn’t want to. She was pretty -- he glanced again at the long bare legs under her skirt, and her blue eyes -- but he didn’t want to. Everyone thought he was broken and strange already, and Draco knew there were rumours about what had happened between him and Greyback. The fact that he’d turned down Astoria Greengrass wouldn’t change much, he thought, if she even told anyone.
“Astoria -- ” Draco met her eyes and froze. She looked scared still, and it wasn’t because this was new; she wasn’t an anxious younger girl attempting seduction. For a moment Draco recognised the fear in her eyes and it was just like his. She was old enough to be frightened because her world was crumbling, and old enough to be looking for a certain kind of oblivion.
He shut his eyes and moved forward. His chest pressed against hers and his legs tangled with hers and they half-fell into the wall as they kissed. Astoria matched him movement for movement: her hands tugging at his hair, her mouth opening, her whole body pushing against his. The constant ache in Draco’s muscles, born of stress, stayed; but Astoria was making noises and her right hand was sliding appreciatively over his shoulders. As if he still played Quidditch, when he’d given it up last year in favour of murder.
Draco clenched his eyes shut and kissed Astoria harder, as if bruising her mouth would let him forget it. Half the seventh years were escaping reality with sex. Draco could do it too. Astoria was pretty, and she’d come to find him, and she kept one hand in his hair as though to keep Draco’s mouth against hers. It would be good, Draco thought.
Astoria rolled her hips against Draco’s, and he was soft. He just couldn’t.
She made a shocked, inquiring noise against his mouth and he pulled back. She was pale, staring at him, and how could Draco explain? And she was a Slytherin, but that was all. Her family wasn’t involved with Voldemort; she wasn’t involved with this. So he couldn’t be involved with her.
Draco made an ugly sound and turned, half-staggering away, wordless. She didn’t follow.
Astoria still watched him after that, but in a different way; and he hunched down and tried to ignore it. He couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Five
Draco sat huddled between his parents and wished he could lie down. Or go flying. Or run away and never see any of the people in this room again, except maybe his parents, Goyle and Pansy. But his father’s body and face looked crumpled, and his mother was pressed against his right side so that he could feel how thin she was. He couldn’t make them move, not yet. This moment was for sitting together and letting the knowledge that they’d all come through this alive seep into their weary bones.
Draco could hear each of his own rasping breaths; he could feel the air moving painfully through his scorched throat and lungs. There was something awful about feeling it when his mother was pale with the loss of her sister and bodies lined the Hall; but he was alive, and each breath was matched by the expansion of his parents’ lungs, their bodies pressed to his. Draco shut his eyes for a moment, overcome by sheer, animal relief.
They sat for what seemed like ages while Draco listened to the sobbing and occasional wails and the sound of Madam Pomfrey giving orders through her teeth as she tried to save someone wearing school uniform. There was a crowd of Weasleys clumped together around a body, their bright hair discoloured with soot and soil and mingled as they bent over some lost brother.
Draco’s mother groped for his hand. He tried to hold hers hard enough that she’d stop shaking.
It didn’t work, and Draco felt panic rising in his chest in response. He was too used to being unable to protect her. And now none of them had wands.
Draco’s parents had taken on his habit of staying still and quiet and hoping that if you didn’t move, no one would notice you. But with the black horror of Azkaban lurking in the back of his mind, Draco couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit here as if he were already locked up.
“Mother,” he said under his breath. She started.
“Yes, darling?”
“Do you mind... I need some air. I’ll be back in a little bit. Okay?”
Mother nodded, and even found the ashes of a smile for him. “All right, darling. Stay close.”
Draco nodded and scrambled off the bench. He left the Great Hall without looking at anyone. The Entrance Hall’s blackened state made something twist in his chest, and he left it as fast as he could.
Despite Draco’s desire to escape, he ended up wandering through the corridor by the Room of Requirement. He paused outside the scorched door. His throat was thick with the thought of Crabbe as he reached for the door.
Draco’s fingertips touched it, and he jerked backwards. He couldn’t go in there. Draco turned and left -- not quite running, but walking too fast and not daring to look back.
He passed an enormous hole in the wall. It was surrounded by the scorched stone that had been blown everywhere, but no one else was around. The place was quiet, and the Room of Requirement was safely round a corner. Draco felt as if steel bands wrapped around his lungs had relaxed, and he could finally draw a deep breath.
Then he heard heavy, irregular footsteps behind him -- like someone was drunk, or injured -- and turned.
A Weasley twin. Draco felt fright spangle through his chest even before he remembered tonight’s events: the Weasley twins could’ve killed Montague, Draco had almost killed Ron Weasley, they hated Slytherins so...
“Malfoy?” Weasley demanded. He sounded half-angry, half-incredulous. “What’re you doing up here? It’s too late for you to betray Hogwarts again!”
“Nothing,” said Draco. “I was just walking. It’s nothing. I’ll go.”
He hated himself for being so craven; but he’d come out of this alive, and almost unharmed. He wasn’t going to be crushed at the eleventh hour by a Weasley.
Draco backed away instead of turning tail: he couldn’t make himself turn his back on the Weasley twin. He kept his eyes down -- chest burning with the knowledge of his own cowardice -- and noticed that Weasley’s shoes were burnt. He thought they might have been purple once, which was just typical of the Weasleys’ nouveau-riche ludicrousness.
“Malfoy!”
“What?” Draco snapped. He stood still, unsure if he was taking a stand or too nervous to keep moving, and raised his eyes.
“D’you know who I am?” Weasley demanded, face reddened and eyes swollen and mouth snarling. He advanced on Draco blindly and Draco backed away without knowing what he was doing. He felt his own eyes widen in response to Weasley’s raging blue glare.
Weasley followed him, crowding him against the wall. Draco was panting thinly, his mouth open. Weasley gave off great waves of heat, and he was shorter than Draco but much broader, and how had he pinned Draco in so fast? Weasley’s hands were against the wall on either side of Draco, and he was so close that their chests brushed with each of Draco’s panicked breaths.
“Do you know who I am?” Weasley repeated.
“One of the Weasley twins,” Draco said, hopelessly wishing that it was what Weasley wanted to hear. He wondered if there was anyone around to hear him shout.
Weasley gave an awful choking laugh. “I’m the Weasley twin. There’s only one of us now.”
Draco’s stomach dropped as he understood. Words dried up in his mouth. He stood, staring down at Weasley, hands clenching into helpless fists as he waited for what Weasley would do. The blue eyes were bleary, half-mad with grief.
Weasley’s hands grabbed his shoulders. Weasley stared at him, fury flickering behind the mist of despair, and Draco wanted to shut his eyes.
“You’re all alive, aren’t you, Malfoy? None of your lot died.”
“Yes,” Draco whispered. He understood about hating someone because they were lucky.
Weasley’s hands flexed against his shoulders. Then Weasley’s gaze dropped to Draco’s chest, and one hand clumsily ran over his chest, fisting Draco’s shirt over his heart. Draco swallowed, feeling Weasley’s fist heavy against his skin as he breathed. Weasley’s blue eyes were ice-bright and fierce.
“And you’re just walking around like... You always survive, Malfoys.”
“You survived too.”
“So I guess we should celebrate,” Weasley said, with another dry, awful laugh.
Draco swallowed. He wanted to squirm away, to escape Weasley’s blue eyes and his grief and his broad, strong hands.
“C’mon,” Weasley muttered. His breath scalded Draco’s face as he leant in. “Everyone knows you kept Greyback happy, Malfoy, why not me?”
Draco flinched back at the words. For a moment panic rose up in him as his shoulderblades smacked against the wall. He fought it back down, somehow; Weasley’s hands, exploring him, held him in place. He barely breathed, holding still like a prey animal waiting, as Weasley’s fingers slid over his chest, his sides, squeezing his hips.
Weasley’s kiss was awkward and painful, hurting Draco’s mouth. He froze under it, unsure what to do: the heat of Weasley’s body was threatening, but it was another bit of proof that Draco was alive.
Weasley didn’t seem to care that Draco wasn’t responding. His mouth stayed on Draco’s, his hands running down Draco’s back, squeezing his arse. Draco’s eyes were open; Weasley’s were scrunched determinedly shut.
He was looking to forget: like Astoria, like everyone. Like Draco, maybe. It was like he barely noticed Draco was there. Weasley touched him blindly, hot hands worming their way under his clothes, and at least he wasn’t getting angry that Draco was just staying still. He wasn’t really resisting, after all.
Then Weasley’s eyes flickered open for a brief moment, and the bright blue gaze met Draco’s. For a moment Weasley saw him, remembered who he was, and lust chased anger across his face as his grip on Draco tightened painfully. One hand clenched around Draco’s wrist, so hard that Draco could feel his speeding pulse there. The only sound was their breathing. Draco needed to distract him, but he couldn’t make himself move, only wait for what Weasley would do.
Weasley’s eyes flickered over him again, and he drew back. Draco could still feel the living heat of his body, could follow it with his - Weasley sucked in a deep breath and their chests touched as they breathed -
And there it was - the sign that this was life, that he was alive and not consigned to oblivion. He grasped for that feeling, grabbing at Weasley’s shirt and pulling him back. Draco kissed Weasley, a kiss like breathing him in, and his arms and legs drew Weasley closer. Weasley grabbed at him, half-mauling him as they dragged each other closer, panting into each other’s mouths. Draco’s back was forced bruisingly hard against the chilly, hard slabs of stone as they kissed. He tried to ignore it, ignore the cries they could still hear from the Great Hall, the thin threads of miserable sound around them. That would be for later - if he got a later - for now he was free.
He rubbed his hands over the muscles of Weasley’s back, moaning appreciatively as Weasley groped his arse. There’d be bruises later, but what did that matter? Draco bit Weasley’s neck, trying for every gasp and hitch in breath and moan he could have. Weasley’s thigh was rubbing against his hardening cock, and Draco rolled his hips, chasing the spark of pleasure. He had to get it now, before the misery and the numbness, before they took him to Azkaban -
Draco’s panting breath hitched in a sudden sob as Weasley’s mouth left his. For a moment all he could feel was the chill.
And then it was worse, because Weasley drew back, his eyes suddenly cogent. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Malfoy, I didn’t - ”
Weasley was gone in a moment, running back to his family. Draco would have to follow soon. Draco’s family was still there too. Still surviving, like Weasley had said. That was something.
And really, thank God he hadn’t fucked Weasley, that would’ve gone wrong in a million different ways -
Draco pulled back the sleeve of his robe, and joy rushed through him in a painful shock. The Dark Lord didn’t own him any more. The Dark Mark was gone.
Draco stayed slumped against the wall, panting. Tears trickled down his face, itching, but he paid them no attention; he was busy listening to the rush of blood in his ears and his own panting breaths, and reminding himself with each beat of his heart that he’d come out alive.
Six
When Draco was thirteen, he had sworn to himself that he was going to use Potter’s Invisibility Cloak one day, that bastard. At seventeen, he had achieved this goal.
When he was thirteen he’d never have thought he’d be using it to sneak across the Gryffindor Common Room with his hand on Potter’s arse, but then change was good.
They’d tried this, once before. Harry had kissed the scars on his chest in apology as he worked his way down Draco’s body. Draco had relaxed into Harry’s hands, knowing he could trust him; he’d shut his eyes, just feeling Harry’s hot tongue sparking fire along his nerves, his fingertips stroking the soft skin of the small of Draco’s back, Harry’s hair brushing his chest. Harry had slipped a thigh between Draco’s, and Draco had held himself taut against the urge to thrust up against it. Then Harry’s weight had fallen more heavily on him, Harry’s body between Draco’s legs. Harry was still kissing him, Draco could breathe in the scent of him, but that weight --
Draco’s whole body had twanged with tension. For a moment the weight against him was Greyback’s, and he shoved against the body on his, against the weight and unwanted intimacy he’d spent so long avoiding. For a moment Draco couldn’t get Harry off, he was too heavy and Draco was helpless. Then Draco got the right angle and shoved just as Harry realised and moved, and Harry ended up sprawled gracelessly on the carpet with Draco staring at him, trying to think of something to say.
Harry had apologised a lot, and Draco still hadn’t known what to say. The next night he’d brought firewhiskey with him to Harry’s dorm, having already drunk most of the bottle in an attempt to settle his nerves and not be pathetic. They didn’t have sex then, either; Harry had taken the bottle away and put Draco to bed. Draco whispered, “Harry?”
“Yes?” Harry muttered back, kneeling by the four-poster. “D’you need to be sick?”
“No, I… I’m sorry. About yesterday. Greyback.”
Harry closed his eyes, looking nauseous. “Yeah.”
“He didn’t -- he never r-raped me, Harry, Snape stopped him -- ”
“That doesn’t make it any better,” Harry snapped. He huffed out a breath. “Shit, I mean, obviously it does, and thank fuck for Snape, which I really never imagined I’d say this much, but. It must’ve been terrifying. I just wish I’d saved you, I wish…”
“You’re doing it now,” Draco said to his pillow, embarrassed even through the Firewhiskey haze. But Harry heard him and his green eyes went soft, and then Harry conjured a bucket and left him to sleep it off. Occasionally Draco woke that night to hear Weasley grousing about Harry’s cold feet and sharp elbows, and Harry hissing at him to shut up cos Draco needed to sleep. In retrospect that might have been when Draco fell for him.
But this would be it. Third time lucky. Draco was hard already, which made navigating the stairs win the shared Invisibility Cloak even more awkward.
They kissed their way across the room, which had the added benefit of causing Longbottom to make a horrified sound and flee. Draco snickered and Harry slapped his arse. Draco pulled his hair in answer and Harry made a sound that melted Draco’s bones and they fell onto Harry’s bed together. It was like fighting, rolling over and over, except when Draco landed on the bottom he didn’t feel he’d lost. At all.
He opened his thighs and Harry knelt between them. Harry was flushed, his reddened mouth open as he breathed, as he scrambled in the bedside table and produced lube. Draco raised his eyebrows and Harry flushed. “We don’t have to -- ”
“Oh yes we do.”
Only it was awkward and uncomfortable. Harry put a finger inside him and it felt strange, and big. It felt like the angle was wrong, or maybe Draco was just too tight, but he couldn’t work out how to relax properly. It didn’t feel good, Harry poking awkwardly at him with no rhythm as Draco tried to adjust. Harry looked uncertain, biting his lower lip in concentration, eyes trained firmly on Draco’s arsehole. Why had no one ever said how embarrassing sex was?
Oh, right, because purebloods didn’t believe in sex ed beyond “don’t get anyone pregnant.”
Shit. Okay. He could get the mood going. “More,” he said, voice artificially breathless. “Yeah, Harry, come on.”
He hadn’t quite thought that through, because when Harry obeyed and tried to put another finger in Draco flinched. Harry must have felt it, because he glanced up in time to see Draco’s face before Draco could hide his expression.
“I’m hurting you,” Harry said, his face all crinkled up in concern.
“No you’re not, Potter, don’t be an idiot - ”
“I can tell!” Harry withdrew his fingers, pulling back. Draco sat up indignantly.
“What’re you - ”
“Draco, let’s not do this, not tonight.”
Mortification hit him. “Harry, it’s - ”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Harry was wiping the lube off his fingers already, turned away as if that would hide his erection.
No. Fuck this. This was his archnemesis, they should be able to have slightly rough sex without it going all wrong.
“We can try again, it’s not -- Harry -- ”
Harry shook his head again, not turning round. Draco felt cold and thoroughly ludicrous lying there naked on Harry’s Gryffindor-red sheets, not having sex. His chest jangled with hurt and humiliation. He couldn’t even do this right.
Then Harry lay down beside him and subjected him to a near-violent degree of cuddling. Harry was still hard, Draco could feel it, but he couldn’t quite bear to offer a blowjob or handjob in the face of this rejection. Draco was still hard himself but it was disappearing rapidly in the face of his mortification.
Draco wanted to leave. He wanted to go away and hide under his bed, or possibly change his name and move to New Zealand. But if he did that he’d have to get Harry Potter, Secret Octopus off him, and also see Harry’s face when Draco left. That might be even worse than the knowledge that he’d failed at sex.
Maybe Harry and Astoria could start a club. People who’d been willing to have sex with Draco Malfoy before a sharp realisation about how fundamentally unfuckable he was.
Harry was still cuddling him to within an inch of his life. Draco hid his hot face in Harry’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a while.
Harry’s grip tightened. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s me. I should’ve been more careful, been sure you were okay. You trusted me.”
“I do trust you. And I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me.”
“I would’ve, though. So. I guess we just need more practice.”
Draco winced, feeling thoroughly inadequate, before he registered the shy smile in Harry’s voice.
“Practice?” he said into Harry’s skin.
“Y’know.” Harry sounded a little embarrassed himself now, and Draco grinned. “I could. We could. Blowjobs, maybe, with. With fingers. Or -- something. I dunno, but I thought...”
“Maybe.” Draco slid the backs of his fingers down Harry’s arm, hoping to communicate definitely.
The embarrassment faded slowly as they lay there together. Draco nuzzled into Harry, and they rearranged themselves until they were face to face.
Harry kissed the side of Draco’s face and whispered, “next time’ll be better. Promise.”
And One Time He Did
“I thought you wanted me to bottom.” The words came out sharp and spiky, and for a moment Draco was sure that they’d hit Harry too hard and hurt him. But Harry just smiled, and Draco supposed that maybe if you were a hero, you could bravely face harsh words and not be hurt. Maybe Harry would teach him the trick of it, so he could visit Hogsmeade again.
But then, if that happened, there wouldn’t be these secret Saturdays when everyone else went to the village. Harry was too famous and Draco too notorious to follow their classmates, and instead they found little parts of Hogwarts’ grounds and stayed there all day, just them.
Besides, Harry’s smile, and his squinting eyes that looked so unprotected without his glasses, looked like Harry wasn’t just being tough. Perhaps it was just that Harry saw what Draco meant, underneath the spikiness.
“I do want you to bottom,” Harry said. He was blushing, on the very edge of stammering, tracing meaningless patterns into his duvet as he sat on his bed. “But I want me to bottom too. And I don’t want you to be nervous.”
Draco nearly said that he wasn’t nervous and he could bottom as well as anyone, and he was going to do it and he’d rock Harry’s world, he’d show him. But Harry already knew the truth.
Anyway, what was the point in going out with a Gryffindor if you couldn’t make him try the scary parts first?
He didn’t want to have failed at bottoming --
But that thought was interrupted by Harry’s sly grin, the way his green eyes were alight. He looked embarrassed, but not just that. “And I - I want to. Y’know. It’s -- I’ve been thinking about it. Yeah… really hot.”
Harry laughed awkwardly and Draco felt a cauldron melt somewhere in his brain. Harry had been thinking about him; Harry had been fantasising about having Draco fuck him. Amazing.
And Draco had been fantasising about it too, ever since Harry’d brushed a warm hand against Draco’s lower back during their third kiss and made Draco’s hips jerk and his mind go momentarily white.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
Draco smiled back at him, and kissed him down into the Gryffindor-red pillows. Harry caught the back of his head, sliding his fingers through the short hair at Draco’s nape. They kept kissing, slow and full of promise, as Harry played with his hair and sent shivers down his bare back.
He pulled back with some difficulty. “Where’s the…?”
Harry scrabbled for his wand and pulled an Accio. Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Dangerous, in a dorm. If I’d got beaned in the head by Longbottom’s lube I wouldn’t have forgiven you, you know.”
“Oh, you would’ve eventually,” Harry said, grinning, and Draco wanted to argue except that Harry was wriggling out of his boxers, and his cock was hard and flushed and the space behind Harry’s balls seemed like the most important thing in the world.
It went easier this time. They’d been experimenting together, going slow. It’d been fun, Harry teasing him inside while he sucked Draco off, working out how to do it. Draco doing the same, and finding that Harry seemed to be better at relaxing into being fingered. That had shamed Draco a little; he was a coward even here, it seemed.
Except that now Harry was opening up for him, warm and soft and smiling. The smell of Harry was all over these sheets, and Harry shivered as Draco stroked his cock, played with his balls, and slid slick fingers between his cheeks. There was too much lube -- Draco always did that -- and it wasn’t very smooth, but Harry was still hard and eager and so hot inside.
It made Draco glow to think he could do this. He could make Harry feel good, he could make him come and not hurt him and be worthy of this trust.
They’d skipped over foreplay -- they always did, impatient and knowing people’d be back from Hogsmeade before too long. Still, Draco knew he could do better. He lingered over Harry’s face, drinking in every twitch, still working out how to do it right, how to get those -- yes, oh, like that. Those perfect little moaning breaths, Harry’s dark eyelashes fluttering.
He sunk down, licking eagerly at Harry’s cock as he fingered him. Harry’s cock twitched when Draco’s hot tongue met the head, and his thighs clenched round Draco’s ears. Yes.
Draco’s heart pounded. Anxiety was fading, all those speeded-up thoughts about whether he could be good enough and what it all meant; it couldn’t last, there wasn’t room for it in his head when Harry was moaning and Draco’s heart was thumping at the soft, hot clench of him round his fingers. He was going to be inside that.
“Stop, stop.” Harry pushed gently at Draco’s head, and he let Harry’s cock pop wetly out of his mouth. It slapped against Harry’s stomach, a silly sound. “I’m gonna go off like a rocket, should wait til you’re actually - til we’re -- ”
Draco nodded, excitement quivering in his chest. He kept stretching Harry, stroking him inside, trying to keep some kind of rhythm, to remember how to find Harry’s prostate. The practice helped; it took him a while, but he knew he’d done something right when Harry gasped, tensing, pushing himself back against Draco’s fingers.
Draco kept going, ferociously focused on making Harry gasp and groan, putting everything he’d learnt to use. His mouth was dry from the way Harry’s hips rolled against his fingers and how Harry’s flush spread all the way down his chest. He didn’t touch himself because he knew he’d never last if he did.
“Harry,” he gasped at last. “Can I - ”
“Yes,” Harry said immediately, reaching out for him, drawing Draco up his body. Harry tipped up his hips, Draco pushed at the back of his thighs, and then Draco’s cock was rubbing against Harry’s arse. He aimed himself with a hand and then he was in, in, head and then half the shaft and at that he had to stop, gasping. Harry was clenching round him rhythmically, and Draco whimpered as he tried to think about astronomy -- the Arrows’ position in the league -- shepherd’s pie -- anything other than the look in Harry’s eyes.
Don’t come don’t come don’t come --
They both managed to relax into it a little, and Harry grinned. Draco burst into a little fit of giggles, and Harry laughed too, nerves and excitement bubbling up through it. Harry shifted a little as he giggled, then clenched, and Draco half-choked on his laughter.
Harry’s eyes were such a bright, deep green, and his cheeks were so flushed.
Draco withdrew a little, then pushed back in. He kept going, trying to keep something like a steady rhythm, and then abruptly he was all the way in, Harry’s arse pressed against him. He wanted to grope Harry lewdly, but he wasn’t quite sure if that would come across badly, especially the first time. He saw Harry swallow, and Harry was so hot around him; Draco buried his face in Harry’s chest, finding one nipple with his mouth just to distract himself.
It didn’t work for long; it made Harry gasp, and those noises did the opposite of distracting Draco. Harry was tight around him, Harry was moaning because Draco was inside him. They were both sweating, and Draco was trying very hard to keep a rhythm but it wasn’t really working. He didn’t know how to keep control when this heat was scorching through him and Harry’s body was pressed against his, skin on skin sliding and finding new angles all the time. They shifted awkwardly against each other, not quite in sync. Draco groped desperately, found Harry’s cock, and immediately Harry’s groans redoubled and he jerked his hips into Draco’s rhythm once -- twice -- and Draco came, instantly, unstoppably.
He groaned his way through it, panting helplessly against Harry’s skin. He tightened his grip around Harry’s cock before he’d finished, stroking Harry even as he jerked inside him, determined to bring Harry off. Harry moaned, sounding tense but not in a bad way -- like he wanted to come, like Draco had wound him up. Draco kept going, and managed to peel his eyes open. He wanted to see.
He found Harry with his eyes closed, twitching and shuddering. Draco added a few twists as he reached the head of Harry’s cock, thrusting a little with his softening cock. Harry caught at the sheets, white-knuckled, and then groaned a little louder as he started to come.
Draco was barely inside him now, but it was enough to feel him tighten; to feel Harry’s orgasm from the inside. Harry fumbled, and drew Draco’s head down so they could kiss through it. The kiss was gorgeous; it felt like he could taste Harry’s fulfilled desire on his tongue, as the kiss went from passionate and messy to just touches of lips, just breathing together, as Harry calmed. As they both did.
Draco withdrew a little, just enough to pull out properly. He slumped on top of Harry, adjusting a little as his cheek was prickled by Harry’s sparse chest hair.
“That was really good,” Harry whispered eventually. “Thanks.” Draco lifted his face to find Harry had his eyes on the canopy above them, his expression a little embarrassed. Shy, maybe. Draco melted.
“I’m glad,” he murmured back. “It was good for me too. You were. Yeah. Excellent first time.”
Harry nodded. He still wasn’t looking at Draco, but his smile turned pleased and a little sly. “But you know what? The first time you do something isn’t ever the best.”
Once Draco’s feathers would’ve been well and truly ruffled by that, but he knew what Harry meant now. He smirked. “We’re going to practise.”