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Muggle Studies was compulsory for everyone returning to Hogwarts after the War. That's how Harry had found himself on a field trip, ambling about in the country. Verdant fields rolling in every direction except behind him, where the quaint little muggle village sat as picturesquely as the Constable paintings they had studied earlier suggested. The rest of the view was farms and some factories off in the distance, perfectly illustrative tokens of concepts they had briefly covered in class like agriculture and manufacturing.

Honestly there was little remarkable about the field trip, everyone had seen farms and factories and muggle villages before, the Hogwarts train set off from the middle of London after all and so most of the class had skeeved off to do whatever it is that twenty odd 18 year olds apparating outside a small village in the countryside tend to do when left to their own devices for a day.

That is exactly how Harry Potter, Chosen One and Wizarding Hero, arrived at that moment contemplating a clutch of willows rustling over an idyllic little pond formed by run off from a nearby tumbling stream. It looked inviting, especially to someone who had spent a lazy day ambling across fields under a transitional late spring early summer day.

He was severely tempted to dip his toes at the very least and so he took off his trainers, stuffed his socks in them and tucked them off to one side, giving the area a good look around for the errant brambles Hermione had warned about before dragging Ron off to— Harry didn't want to pursue that line of thought further.

Hermione and Ron dragged each other off all the time now, leaving Harry to frown by himself afterwards feeling much like the discarded third wheel he'd turned out to be.

He padded across the damp moss, muddy streaks painting over his previously clean feet and squelched his toes, committing himself now that making his white socks muddy after he redonned them was a given. Then he sat down on the bank and dipped his toes. The water was cold. The seat of his pants were damp. His hands were gritty. He hadn't truly anticipated how messy a little toe dip would be but he was too stubborn to admit that he had miscalculated.

Even the water was less than clear. It looked perfectly pristine earlier but now that he was calf-deep, there were weeds, sticks and pebbles and detritus brushing his skin and the moisture climbed up to make the edge of the trousers he'd rolled up damp too.

But if there was one thing Harry Potter was not, was a quitter. The other thing Harry Potter was not, was alone.

It seemed somehow even more important to turn this not-quite-thought-through venture into a singular stroke of genius, so that he wouldn't be alone in looking like something Crookshanks dragged in after the rain.

In fact it was suddenly viciously important that if Harry were going to return damp and streaked in mud, the sullen figure of Draco Malfoy he'd ended up dragging behind him, would not cut a pompous contrast - puffed up, polished and pristine with nary a white blond hair out of place. He found himself thoroughly committed to ensuring if anything, Malfoy would look worse between the two.

"Water's perfect." He said out loud, "my feet were getting sweaty. It's really such a relief."

They hadn't exchanged more than a handful of words all day, including excuse me, is this seat taken and nice to have the sun out. Actually that was probably the sum total of it.

Malfoy just drifted behind him like a ghost, silent and pensive as if carried by the breeze. He'd lost nothing in the War, as far as Harry was aware except the posse of hangers-on and that obnoxious bravado that had once made Harry want to punch his face into the mud. In fact if it weren't for the subdued interactions with the professors, Harry could almost be convinced he was haunted by a personal wraith. Other people could see and talk to him, they generally chose not to and Malfoy made no effort to change that.

He didn't respond right away but Harry knew the art of snaring him and predictably, a snapping of twigs, a sighing of moss underfoot betrayed his curiosity as he strolled closer, leaning over slightly to judge the pond with an unimpressed leer.

"There's mud up to your shins, Potter." He observed, tone factual but the slight emphasis on mud filled Harry with relish.

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“What’s it to you if I’m muddy or not?” Harry asked, his voice awash with both mischief and defensiveness.

Malfoy’s face remained impassive and glassy, like a windless sea, but Harry knew his school rival as a seasoned sailor knows the wind and water. He could sense the clouds building on the horizon.

“Malfoy,” Harry’s smile twisted like a hemp mooring line, “would you… prefer it if I were even muddier?” Malfoy’s grey eyes darkened as skies do with impending rain. ”Don’t worry, Malfoy. I like ‘em dirty too.”

The storm in Malfoy broke and it would soon become a raging tempest if Harry’s aeromancy was any good. Without moving from the bank of the pond, Harry motioned for Malfoy to come closer — a fisherman waits for the fish to come to him after all. He baited his hook with an alluring squelch of the moss as he shifted his weight onto his other hand, raising the other, crooking and beckoning with his fingers like the waving of kelp. Harry could hear Malfoy removing his shoes with sharp and precise sounds that made Harry wonder if Malfoy was any good at tying knots by hand.

He moved to crouch beside Harry, wary of the water — it was then that Harry struck. Like a Kraken, his limbs rose up, flailing, precise, and he grabbed Malfoy by his starched and perfectly white shirt, now sullied by the scummy mud of the pond and dragged them both into the deep. Which was only about a meter, but they were now both covered in muck and slime so it felt quite dramatic to Harry. Malfoy howled like the wind and Harry’s laugh was like lightning, electric and piercing. The sound carried beyond the pond, over the rolling fields and into the brambles, unheard by the others that were engaged in their own battles with nature.

Seeing Malfoy defiled in the mud, a surge of feeling flooded up through Harry and then cascaded down to pool low within him. He reached forward again to grip him, as though Malfoy were his lifeline in a hurricane. Harry wondered what it would be like to cling to Malfoy’s mast, to raise his sails and swab his forecastle.

Their eyes met, the steel of the sky and the green of fathoms below.

“You onboard?” Harry inquired.

Malfoy’s eyes darted too and fro, the flashing silver of his irises like a school of hunted fish, causing more desire to wash over Harry. It built up within him as the relentless pounding of the waves during an incoming tide.

“Yeah, ok.” Malfoy licked his lips nervously. He grimaced as he tasted the mud at the edge of his mouth. “Batten down your hatches, Potter!”

At this, Harry hoisted up Malfoy’s shirt, up and over his head, flinging it uncaringly into the mud. Malfoy’s hands pressed under Harry’s shirt in return, running them from bow to stern, his fingers tentative and tickling like the appendages of an anemone, each touch prickling slightly and mounting the anticipation within Harry. The want within him began to crest and he crashed his mouth together with Malfoy’s like a breaker trying to reach the shore. He reached up to Draco’s face, stroking it sweetly before sliding his hands back to monkey-fist Malfoy’s muddy hair in his hands.

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Harry tore his own shirt off and wrenched Malfoy's head back to display the long white line of his neck.

“Don’t move,” he commanded.

Malfoy hissed in pain and scrunched up his eyes letting his hands fall to his sides. With sure fingers, Harry grasped a clump of mud and used it to paint a long dark streak down Draco’s bare chest. He could see Malfoy's pulse fluttering in his throat and lowered his head to suck it into his mouth.

The moan that came from Malfoy’s mouth was like a balm to his soul. He loved that he was the only one who got to see him like this. Whether it was due to actual want and need, or Malfoy’s misguided sense of guilt and retribution, Harry did not know, but he was damned if he was going to let these opportunities pass him by. It had surprised him at first how much he enjoyed doing this to Malfoy. What had started as a joke had become something a little closer to an addiction. A need that filled his every waking thought.

He pulled off of Malfoy’s neck and surveyed his work. The skin was already purple and bruising and the long stretch of mud across his skin would most definitely, bleed through the pristinely white shirt when he put it back on. Harry felt a shiver of pleasure pulsate through him. He had always loved the challenge that Malfoy gave him, but nothing compared to how he felt when he actually got to mess him up.

Malfoy was very still as he looked up at Harry with wide pleading eyes. Harry could see his skin prickle in the cold and a shiver pass through him as his hands clenched and jerked toward him.

“Do you need something Malfoy?”

Malfoy's breath hitched.

“Please.”

In response, Harry wrapped a hand around his back and pulled him flush against him. Malfoy let his head drop forward until it rested on Harry’s shoulder a soft moan passing through his lips. Harry pressed his leg in between Malfoys and pulled him in until he could grind him against Harry’s thigh. Malfoy was harder than Harry thought possible, his oar pressing hard into Harry’s flesh. With a soft mewling noise Malfoy ground into him.

“You’re being so good for me.”

Malfoy gasped and pressed his face into Harry’s neck smearing his skin with the mud from his lips. Their bodies slid against each other in a deliciously wet drag of skin and sweat and mud. Harry let his hands fall down to Malfoy's hips and he pulled him in.

“Why?” Malfoy asked his breath coming short and fast in Harry’s ear.

“Why are you doing this to me when” – he stuttered and gasped – “when you hate me.”

Harry let his hand travel inward and skirt around the band of Malfoy’s trousers. Malfoy groaned and jerked in Harry’s arms, as Harry let his hand slip inside the waistband, and curl around Malfoy’s desperately hard wood.

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Harry nips at Malfoy's ear, taking in the lobe and delighting in the pitched whine he lets out in response, like a siren's call for more. 

Beautiful, he thinks, dragging his fist up and down Malfoy's prick, slicking it up with mud and moss. He thinks about his answer, mind hazy and slow as he watches the way their bodies slide so seamlessly together, dark splotches of moist soil mingling with their sweat. Harry drinks up every punched-out breath Malfoy lets out, before using his unoccupied hand to grip at his blonde locks and tugging him up for a messy kiss. The world narrows down to just the two of them, shaky and overwhelming and perfect. Much alike the ripples in the pond, ever changing yet, consistently flowing.

Malfoy groans, sucking at Harry's lip as his hips thrust wantonly against Harry's fist, and he can't help but let go of his hair and slide it swiftly down his arse. He pinches the fat of his arse once, and Malfoy yelps, before growling. His hands seem to have a mind of their own, feeling as much damp and hot skin around his calloused, seeking fingers.

Harry tsks, squeezing the base of Malfoy's wood, and that earns him a bitten lip, and a deeper flush of his cheeks. As Harry regains some of his upstairs function, he presses Malfoy closer; fair, unblemished skin grinding cheekily against dark rich brown. It's wet and dirty and Malfoy seems to really like it, based on the way he hasn't stopped pawing at Harry since this started. It suits him, Harry thinks dazedly, smeared and panting. Like a painting of candid pleasure.

"I hate you," Harry repeats slowly, testing out how it feels on his tongue after knowing Malfoy's taste. It doesn't sound quite right but it doesn't sound wrong either. He licks a long stripe of mud off his porcelain skin, absently spitting it back to the pond, before sinking his teeth into his neck, unable to resist.

Malfoy gasps, from his words or the bite, Harry can't tell. The ripples in the water catch Harry's eyes. It feels like a distant future, blurry, yet, their futures stay intertwined, always just at the corner of their eye, dragging their gaze away to stay at each other's life.

"I hate your face," Harry whispers, thinking of the Malfoy after the war before all of this. Vivid green to solemn grey. Someone quiet, walks by the walls, head down. Withdrawn, and reserved. Blank and stony, like a ghost waiting for a painter's gaze. His hand features a yearning he's too afraid to voice, slides up to Malfoy's cheek, and Malfoy leans into immediately, seeking him out. Harry's throat closes up, and he has to forcibly push himself against Malfoy, just to make him remember. He places his forehead on Harry's shoulder. Like he was a support only Malfoy could use.

He lets his hand drop. He doesn't miss the way Malfoy's shoulders slump, only slightly.

"I hate your hair," he tugs at it for a good measure, scratching his nails at the scalp. Harry felt more than saw the way Malfoy shivered. His hair, always attention-seeking in its near platinum color, gleaming in the sunlight and enchanting in the moonlight; there is no setting in which the strands don't fall around him like a halo. Harry has wondered more than once what it would look like, scattered above his dark maroon sheets. It has more than once distracted Harry, much to Hermione's exasperation. Harry squeezes Malfoy's wood, forgetting for a moment what they were supposed to be doing. What they usually do. This isn't usual. And yet, he can't help himself to say more, slowly picking up the pace again. Malfoy suddenly jerks his thigh, probably wanting to grind at Harry's neglected cock, but it only serves to topple them into the water, yelping.

They sputter as they get even more tangled up together, unwilling to let go even for a second as half their bodies are submerged into soil. Harry can't tell where they started and where they ended. Malfoy only glares at Harry, though it's weak and Harry can tell he finds it a little funny, if a little mortifying. But then Malfoy leans forward even more to kiss away the mud that got on Harry's forehead, and he doesn't move away then. Just places his arms on the mud beside Harry's hip, caging him below, and the little space between them urges Harry to close it. They take a little break, panting into each other’s breath.

"I hate your attitude," he continues and this time, he sees the way Malfoy's lips trembled, and Harry paused, blinking. For a moment, he thought Malfoy was crying. But then he realizes it was ticking to the left, a blasted attempt to not smile. You like me being a jerk, Malfoy once said, and Harry, at the throes of pleasure, could only whine yes. He wants to take that memory back, and shove it deep into his chest, keep it somewhere safe, replace the emptiness with him because the way Malfoy's looking at him is far too dazed, but so alert. Always alert, always attentive when Harry's nearby. He slaps Malfoy's hip as a response, and he yelps. Harry smiles.

He hums. "I hate," and more images swim into his head, like wisps of a Patronus spell. Malfoy's smirk, the way he laughs, the way he looks at Harry when he thinks Harry isn't looking. Harry's always looking. Malfoy's stupidly excessive outfits, his sneer, his reluctance to Muggle things. It's never refusal, but hesitance is there. Harry feels his chest swell, too big for his body to contain, and he lets out a breath. Malfoy's soft reassurances to his mother, his thoughtfulness that he paints as disdain, his competitive streak that never went away, especially when Harry is involved. The dimples on his hips, beauty marks on his back, the scars on his chest. 

Harry could only gulp down the words and reach out again, worn out by longing. The water, Harry just noticed, laps at their hips and their knees, filthy mud sticking to their skin. Malfoy only brings Harry back in the moment when he tugs Harry's glasses off, and he blinks. He didn't realize it was so dirty, but, well, he was in a muddy pond. With Draco Malfoy. Having sex. Said Malfoy looks at Harry intensely, contemplating, before leaning forward again and kissing him. Harry accepts it like the apology it is. Then, he moans into Malfoy's lips when he feels his dick being tugged.

"I didn't tell you to stop, Potter." He hisses, and Harry presses him for another kiss, deepening it immediately as he deftly fondles Malfoy's balls. But a nagging feeling starts up in his head, bizarre and out of place. He sucks at Malfoy's tongue, before pulling away, biting at his pointy chin. Malfoy continues to stroke Harry, but it's slow.

Then the words tumble out without his consent.

"Do you hate me then?" His voice is soft and tender, unfitting for the situation they're in, as if they're lovers and not— Harry stops his line of thought. Is it important to him to know?

Harry feels like it is.

Malfoy hides his face at Harry's neck, seemingly possessed as he bites and sucks bruises into Harry's skin, gripping at his dark skin with a vice grip. "Not— Well," he pants. His hand doesn't stop, but it slows down even more, somehow.

"No." He ends, done with the conversation as he kissed him again, swallowing Harry's groan into another kiss. Harry can feel Malfoy's other hand moving from his back to his arse, to his thigh and then back up his shoulders, nails scraping at the skin, as he maps out Harry's body, as if he hasn't memorised it by touch. Malfoy's tongue is on a similar warpath, licking everywhere and tasting Harry's tongue eagerly, leaving no spot untouched. But he pulls away, licking Malfoy's lips when he whimpers at the separation.

"Tell me," Harry breathes, needy and fascinated. Malfoy just grits his teeth and speeds up his hand around Harry's cock, but Harry squeezes his wonderful arse and Malfoy lets out a delicious gasp. "Tell me,” He repeats and it's firmer this time. He needs to know.

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Malfoy whines and squirms, arching for friction, but Harry uses his superior position to stop him from getting what he wants. He pouts, and even with the freckles and streaks of mud he does it prettily. 

“Tell. Me.” Harry’s all but growling now. 

In a surprising show of strength, Malfoy pushes Harry to his back and straddles him, sliding Harry’s mud-slick cock into the warm valley between his cheeks. He cants his hips and Harry moans uncontrollably at the delicious friction. 

“I hate you,” Malfoy grunts, digging his nails into Harry’s chest, silver eyes burning like fresh forged steel, “Like the night hates the day. Like the moon chasing the sun across the sky in hopes of an eclipse.” He bounces again, and Harry feels the head of his cock catch on the hot skin that would offer entrance to Malfoy’s body before slipping up again. “I hate you like the desert hates rain, and I hate that you get to be the rain and I have to be dry-” bounce, “-gasping-” bounce, “-desert.” 

Malfoy’s pert, pink cock is bouncing against Harry’s stomach, a sticky trail of precum threading their skin together. Harry reaches out and takes him in his fist and gives him a few hearty pumps in reward. 

His heart is in his throat and on his tongue, but he manages a sarcastic, “Is that all?” 

Malfoy sneers down at him, but it’s ruined a bit by the hot red of his cheeks and all the mud. “I fucking hate you, Potter.” His voice pitches high in pleasure on Harry’s name, head dropping back to reveal his long, pale neck marked with bites and mud, like a swan. A filthy, filthy swan. 

The water laps over Harry’s hips to kiss at Malfoy’s thighs, and Harry wishes he was the water. Wishes he was every fleck of muck marring Malfoy’s porcelain skin. Wishes he was the cool air raising bumps over his flesh. 

Harry slides his free hand up Malfoy's chest, taking a moment to tease his pretty pink nipples, until he can grip his jaw and draw his luscious pink lips down to his. 

“Tell me again.”

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“I hate…I hate…” Malfoy breathes against Harry’s lips, “I…hate this fucking mud, Potter,” he says, sputtering when a bit of mud gets into his mouth. “Might we continue this somewhere a bit cleaner, perhaps?”

Harry nuzzles his nose against Malfoy’s chiselled cheek, inhaling his sharp, spicy, and yes, slightly muddy scent. “Continue, hmm?” Harry says breezily. “Only if you tell me what exactly it is you were hoping to continue.”

He shifts his hand to grab Malfoy by the waist and pulls him against him roughly so that they’re chest to chest, cock to cock. Harry rolls his hips forward, and the uninhibited sounds that emerge from Malfoy’s mouth at the contact are like a siren’s song, driving Harry to sweet surrender. 

Malfoy clings to Harry as though he’s a raft in the middle of a vast ocean, his face buried in Harry’s neck, and tells him, “I want to put my mouth on you,” and Harry wants to die, “and then I want you inside of me,” and Harry is dead. Again.

Immensely turned on and beyond willing to give in to anything Malfoy wanted, Harry wraps his arms securely around the willowy blond. He turns on the spot and the two of them appear in the foyer of Grimmauld Place, naked and dripping all over the dark hardwood floors. He absently realises that they left their wands and clothes behind, but he’ll just send Kreacher for them later. 

Startled, Malfoy jerks out of his embrace and his eyes dart wildly around the old house.

“Is this…?” Malfoy says with dawning realisation. 

Harry’s already reaching for Malfoy’s hand and dragging him up the stairs towards his bedroom. “Yes it is, but who cares, come on.” 

They reach Harry’s room and he pulls Malfoy into the ensuite, immediately turning on the creaky old shower and adjusting the temperature to be hot, but not quite as hot as the man holding his hand is. He steps in and Malfoy follows, the two of them standing together under the spray, relishing the pulse of water against their dirty skin. 

Malfoy abruptly shoves Harry back against the slippery avocado-green tile wall, and Harry watches with unbelieving eyes as Malfoy, bloody Malfoy, sinks to his knees in front of him. He looks like the most sinful of disciples, worshipping at the altar of Harry’s body. And then—

Harry nearly cracks his head against the tiles when Malfoy wraps a hand against Harry’s cock and guides it to his puffy kissed-pink lips. He gasps out a litany of curses when he feels Malfoy’s tongue swirl deliciously against the head like it’s the tastiest of lollies, and he pounds a fist against the wall when Malfoy swallows him down and feels his cock hit the back of Malfoy’s throat.

Harry looks down and groans aloud at the way Malfoy’s looking up at him, his eyes wide and innocent despite his downright naughty actions. Maintaining their heated eye contact, Malfoy drags his wet mouth back up his cock, sucking hard. 

Harry, who is close, too close, pushes his hand into Malfoy’s soaked hair and grips hard. “Malfoy, wait,” he gasps out.

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Harry pulls Draco to stand, his nether regions throbbing, the deep pit of arousal heavy, touch-me-nots ready to burst in explosive passion, barely held by the stitches of his muddy sanity.  

He doesn’t want to end this just yet. 

Harry shoves Draco against the tiled walls-*Potter! Draco gasps*- turning him around to crowd the deliciously pale body with his. His dick slides along the line between the cheeks,the crack is a river of shadows, begging Harry to explore, inviting him to traverse its sinuous path, to venture into the heart of the meadow's secrets of Draco's lovely arse. Harry grits his teeth, fist clenched, it's almost *too bloody much*. 

Harry's throat dries, head delirious with aching desire. One hand gripping Draco’s hot rod. 

“Fuck,” Harry hisses, trembling, struggling to regain control. Lowering his lips to whisper a dark promise in Draco's ear, “If I come, it’ll be inside you.” 

Draco's head falls back, resting against his shoulder. Mouth open, pink lolly tongue peeking, toes dancing, literally undulating, melting, as Harry runs his hand up and down his shaft.

Lips tracing the curve of Draco's swan-like neck. “This is going to be fast," He promises heedily. 

The want in his loins, each drummed a fervent call of a warrior demanding to be released to the wars of the fray. *Almost, almost*. Harry conquers the urge to thrust. Gripping the side of Draco' s hips until an indigo sigh forms. 

Beautiful. 

Draco, thank heavens, spreads his legs without instruction, pushing back his arse unto Harry's thick and hard dick. 

Harry's other hand, wandlessly conjures lube and he mutters a spell to force the muscles on Draco’s tight, tight hole to relax. 

With renewed worship, he retraces the crack, sensuously, slowly, breathing stuttering at the delight of almost entry–fuck! His mind bites– delighting in the smooth expanse of porcelain skin, kissed by the wet caress of water.

Harry can’t help but gasp, eyelids shuttered close, and be caught by how wonderfully glorious, breaching Draco’s hole feels like–tight folds that resist, then relents him entry, parting in blissful submission.

“*Harry*,” Draco whines, and Harry presses another wet finger, yanking Draco’s hair so he can roughly inhale the sweet skin under his ear, dragging his tongue across the white expanse of Draco’s shoulder. Stabbing one, two–Draco’s moans are guttural, rising in crescendo with unabashed desire, *ungh, ungh, ungh*!

Harry bites his lip, as he scissors Draco to open wider. 

"Ngh!" Three fingers now. 

With a swiftness that defied the very fabric of time, he jabbs, circles and twistes his wet fingers, his hand a lightning bolt of ferocity, searching with a single-minded drive to stake, to take. All mine! 

Draco’s neck strained, harshly panting and –striking gold– jolts suddenly, ripping a shattering cry. 

“Fuck!” 

Harry grins in triumph, his chest roaring, his goal attained. 

“Potter, goddamn you! Just do it!” Draco brattily commands. 

Harry smirks, enjoying Draco’s torment a little longer before he pulls his fingers out. 

“Was that so hard?” He purrs.

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“I’ll tell you what’s hard —”

“I can tell for myself, actually,” Harry’s low, breathy voice oozes like syrup against the shell of Draco’s ear. Draco’s eyes flutter, then jolt open at Harry’s hand fondling his tight balls before curling around his cock, slow strokes that leave Draco gawping foolishly. 

Draco tries to spin around and shift the control, with no prevail. 

“Face the wall,” Harry commands, “Hands above your head,” But he doesn’t allow Draco the grace of obeying, pinning Draco’s wrists against the tiles before the boy even has a chance to register his submission. 

Draco squirms, gritting little noises that Harry knows are bitten back protests, but his cock says otherwise, spilling precum over Harry’s fingers. Harry drinks up every last drop of Draco’s neediness. The mist of the shower coats Draco’s water-jewelled skin, basting him in a sheen that allows Harry’s body to slide in slick like butter against the silk of Draco’s back. 

Draco slumps, forehead defeatedly pressed against the cold tiles. He arches, hips chasing, hungry for the taste for Harry’s meat.

“Potter! Ngh —are you trying to starve me of cock?” Draco whines. 

Harry bites his lower lip, not entirely sure why he’s famishing himself, either. Draco is not a passing appetiser, but a feast to be relished, to conquer the famine. And whilst Harry’s one hand is firmly gripped around Draco’s wrists, the other can’t resist kneading the plump dough that is Draco’s arse. Mud-stained nails score against the flesh, tenderising it. 

Draco whimpers, arching his arse up like a prize-winning peach—juices dribbling and all. 

“Keep your hands above your head,” Harry grits, and Draco nods in admission, choking out a gasp as Harry fucks into the channel of his thighs, slick, slapping noises filling the steamy air. “You want it?” Harry shudders, lining his cock up against the puckered hole, and it weeps for him, lube drooling down the back of Draco’s creamy thighs which pulls a delicious moan from somewhere in the back of Draco’s throat. 

Harry’s never been so hard in his life. Sizzling heat coils in his stomach, up his throat. He can feel it down to his ripe, aching plums. Lightheaded and drunk on arousal, if he doesn’t stuff Draco full with a hefty serving of cock in the next five seconds, he’s going to either pass out, or come. Or both. 

“Please…” Draco keens, trembling under Harry’s fingertips, “Pott— ugh!”

Harry’s a sucker for teasing, but even he’s done for if he drags this out any longer. Grasping for purchase at Draco’s waist, he looks down, choked-off at the sight of Draco stretching around his cock with ease. 

Draco’s mouth falls open, and he sobs , his spine arching at the roll of Harry’s hips. Harry feels Draco trying to fuck himself, equalling the score, but Harry drags out with maddening slowness, then slams deep and watches as Draco cries aloud and sinks his teeth into his forearm.

“Fuck, Malfoy, you’re so—” Harry rasps. Draco’s heat cradles him like the centre of a gooey, steamed pudding. Harry craves every part of it. Worships the pliant stretch of Draco’s fragile, spun-sugar body draping around him. 

And somehow, it’s overwhelming how intimate this feels. Fucking him up against the grimey avocado tiles, ghostly white amidst the shadows. Clean, flawless. Harry hitches a gasp, moaning as he rolls against Draco’s tight heat, tears pricking his eyes. There’s nothing about Draco that needs to be washed away. 

Harry hugs their bodies close, sprinkling kisses feverishly against Draco’s skin.

“Ngh—Potter! Potter—” Draco chants, quick and breathless, “Ah—Harry! Please… I want… I need…”

Chapter Text

“No,” Harry whispers, his mouth close to Draco’s ear. He can feel Draco groan underneath him, and he pulls his hips back then snaps forward. Draco is all tense, tight heat beneath and around him, pressed up against the cold tiles and all of a sudden it’s wrong . He doesn’t want it like this, hard and fast and over too soon.

Harry wants to touch and taste. He wants to spread Draco out like a picnic, to run his tongue over the divots of him and to consume him whole and in part. Draco is all angles and jutting corners, cracked edges and biting remarks. Harry wants to smooth him over, temper him with tongue and fingers. He wants to run his fingers across those too-sharp lines and rework them into something tender and malleable, reshape him into nothing more than simple need.

He pulls out with an effort, mourning the loss of it, and tugs Draco out of the spray. A drying charm and he’s pulling him along back to the bedroom. There’s still a smear of mud in Draco’s hair, fingerprints along the crest of his collarbone, but Harry doesn’t care.

“Potter,” Draco starts, the edge of a complaint, but Harry pulls him in close and kisses him silent, rolling their bodies together as he walks him backwards toward the bed, their knees tangling. A slight push and Draco falls back, landing hard on the bed, propped up on his elbows. His mouth is slightly parted on a gasp and his eyes are liquid silver, just a fringe of colour around pupils blown wide with need.

“Roll over,” Harry murmurs, and he can feel Draco’s shudder through the pads of his fingers as he positions him. He’s on his elbows and knees, and they press valleys into the velvet bedspread. Everything about him is soft like this, down to the breathy little moan that tumbles out when Harry runs a finger down his crease. That’s soft, too, the faintest trace of peach fuzz across his sac and the satin skin of his rim.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” Harry whispers against his spine, pressing faint kisses as he dips lower. His tongue darts out between the words, tracing the ridge of each vertebra. “I’m going to make you beg.”

“Try it,” Draco snarls, though the force of it is diminished by the deep, low moan that spills out of him as Harry bites , sinking his teeth into his hip. There are more words after that, a litany of quiet curses, barely audible between Draco’s panting breaths. They come quicker as Harry drops lower and Draco whines, low and plaintive, as Harry’s tongue rounds the curve of his arse.

“What do you need?” Harry asks, his voice gone slow. He traces Draco’s rim in delicate little circles, just a fingertip and a promise and Draco chokes in a breath. Harry repeats it. “What do you need, Malfoy?”

Chapter Text

“You know what I need,” growls Draco, his voice low in his throat. He bucks backwards, the movement instinctive, almost involuntary. Harry thrills at the wanting, but tries to keep control. He places a firm hand on the curve of Draco’s arse, keeping him still and obedient. 

“I was never that good at Legilimency,” he reminds Draco, “so you’re going to have to use your words.”

Draco whimpers. “You fucking tease,” he mutters. Harry laughs, pressing his fingers against the bite marks he’d raised on Draco’s hips: a ring of small violets against Draco’s creamy pale skin. 

He dips his mouth into Draco’s cleft, tongue now tracing the puckered ring still glistening with lube and a string of his own precome. Draco tastes like seawater and peaches, like the lingering aftertaste of coffee. Harry vaguely wonders if he could convince Bertie Bott to make it into a flavoured bean.

His tongue breaches Draco’s hole, earning himself a string of muffled curses. Draco bucks his hips again into Harry’s face, so Harry holds him down harder, tighter, one hand diving down to stroke at Draco’s neglected cock. It stands at attention like a flower stamen, silvery precome pearling at the tip. Harry rubs his thumb across the slit, harvesting the taste of Draco, smearing the slick down Draco’s flushed, pink shaft. 

Draco gasps at the touch, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the velvet bedspread. Harry thrusts his tongue into him for a moment longer, before pulling back for wider, more languid licks around the already well-used hole. He then runs his eager mouth down along smooth skin, sucking in one peach-fuzzed stone and then the other, before reuniting his lips and fingers at the underside of Draco’s cock.

“Yes, Potter, there,” breathes Draco, his breathing already heavy, already edging towards release. His pale-blonde hair is stark against his rosy cheeks; his swan-white neck is already flushed cherry blossom pink. His thighs are trembling with the exertion of holding himself up for Harry to taste. Delighted but unrelenting, Harry traces his tongue along the shaft of Draco’s cock, while his fingers circle and then thrust back into Draco’s greedy hole. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he wonders, when he pulls his mouth back to suck more little violets and roses into Draco’s skinny, angular thighs. “Just keep doing that, Malfoy. Tell me what you want. You used to taunt me with that mouth at Hogwarts… and now you can’t even bring yourself to—”

He’s nearly knocked back by the force of Draco’s hips ramming into his face. “Just shut up and fuck me, Potter!” whines Draco’s voice, muffled into the bedspread. He’s already so pink from being denied what he wants; it’d be way too easy to keep on taunting him until he snaps and takes it instead. 

But Harry’s already worked too hard at riling Draco up just to cede control at the last minute, so instead he pulls back and flips Draco around to face him, spreading his kiss-marked legs open for a better view of Draco’s pearl-tipped cock. Draco stares defiantly back at him, his teeth tugging at his lips until they’re blooming like roses.

Harry can’t resist them. He leans in, unfurling those petal-soft lips with a kiss. Draco’s hands come up, nails biting into Harry’s skin like he’s trying to punish him for teasing. Harry chuckles into the kiss, but when Draco bucks his hips again and rubs his eager, slick hole against Harry’s shaft, there is simply nothing else left to do.

He reaches down and lines himself up again, pressing back into Draco’s tight, welcoming heat. As he thrusts, he sucks more marks along the line of Draco’s neck, trailing necklaces of lovebites against his creamy collar. In turn, Draco rewards him with mewls and cries, his hands leaving their own marks against Harry’s back, tugging at Harry’s hair until he sees stars. 

He spent so much time teasing Draco that it doesn’t take long for release to hit, for the sparks—the magic—deep inside him to finally burst from its confines. With a sudden keen desperation for Draco to join him, Harry reaches down again and fists his hands around Draco’s cock, pumping him in time to his own thrusts. He’s rewarded only a couple thrusts later, when he spills into Draco and feels Draco’s own hot, creamy seed gushing out and coating his own fingers. 

Draco’s breathing eases as Harry finally pulls out again, his quicksilver eyes thoughtful as he brushes back Harry’s sopping black fringe from his forehead. Harry can see his eyes tracing the lines of Harry’s scars; he himself tries to pull back only to be met with Draco’s hands at his elbows, keeping him close.

“D’you think the others have noticed we’re gone?” wonders Draco, and Harry laughs as he remembers how they even ended up rutting in a mud puddle in the first place. 

“We left our clothes and wands there,” he points out. “I should probably send Kreacher to get them, before—”

CRACK.

“Filthy Mudblood and blood traitor scum mucking up the house of my ancestors—”

“Oi, shut up already, would you?!” Ron’s voice, distinct even through the floor, bellows at the portrait of Mrs Black. Draco’s expression grows wide, panicked. He scrambles underneath the velvet bedspread as Harry rolls out of the bed, cursing every body part of Merlin’s that he can think of as he struggles into a spare set of briefs and a large, faded Chudley Cannons t-shirt.

There’s the stomping of two sets of feet on the stairs, and then a knock at the door. “Harry, mate, you in there?” calls Ron through the door. Harry quickly makes sure Draco is well-hidden under the bedspread before tiptoeing over to answer the door.

Ron and Hermione’s concerned expressions melt into a mixture of relief and exasperation when they see him. “Oh, thank god,” says Hermione, holding out his glasses. Harry puts them back on, startled at how much clearer everything suddenly is. It’s a miracle, actually, that he managed to fuck Draco in the shower without causing them both a trip to St Mungo’s. 

“We just found your clothes and wand lying in a field,” says Ron, the colour now rushing back into his cheeks as he takes in Harry’s tousled hair and… the probably sizable amount of bites and bruises on Harry’s skin. That Chudley Cannons t-shirt probably doesn’t cover up very much. “Neville was convinced you got abducted by the fae or something.”

Harry clears his throat. “Something like that,” he manages. 

“Here,” says Hermione, handing over two bundles of muddy clothes and two wands. “And the next time you want to sneak off and get your leg over with Malfoy, at least let us know where you’re going? Professor Padgett was this close to calling the Aurors.” 

Harry’s cheeks are burning. “Thanks, Hermione,” he manages. Ron sends him a disbelieving look, as if he can’t believe that Harry thought he was being subtle at all. 

“Just get back to Hogwarts when you and Malfoy are done, all right?” he mutters, his ears bright red. 

“We look forward to a proper introduction,” adds Hermione, with a smile that bares all of her teeth. 

Harry has never been so relieved to close the bedroom door on his best friends, and he suspects they have also never been so relieved to Apparate away from him. With a sigh, he turns back to the bed, to find Draco peeking just a little bit over the top of the comforter, his cheeks still peony-pink from a mix of exertion and embarrassment. 

“Granger wants to meet me?” he queries, looking caught between guilty and sullen. Harry thinks back to their other clandestine meetings this year, in darkened corners of the castle, in spots where the rifts of their old hatred had cracked into war and death. 

They’ve said they hated each other for so long, and yet by now—now, after all these quiet, hateful little trysts, after all the parts of Draco that Harry had inadvertently memorised—they both must know that that’s a lie. 

“I think she thinks we’re, y’know.” Harry sets down the bundles and clambers onto the bed, brushing a softer kiss against Draco’s lips, his hands cupping Draco’s face like he’s terrified of cutting his fingers on the other boy’s cheekbones. “That there’s more than just hatred between us.”

Draco’s eyes are assessing. “Is that what you want, Potter?” 

How do you hop so quickly over from hate to… to this? Harry wonders. He traces his thumb against Draco’s angular cheek, marvelling at the softness of his skin. Draco’s hands settle at his waist, one hand sliding under the hem of the t-shirt to count Harry’s vertebrae. The other hooks experimentally, almost playfully, into the waistband of Harry’s briefs. 

The answer is almost instinctual, with a touch of inevitable. “Yeah,” says Harry, almost breathless, before he dips his head and punctuates the affirmation with a kiss. “What do you think?” 

“I think,” murmurs Draco against his lips, “that I haven’t had your cock in my mouth yet, despite the fact that I promised I would, and it’s sitting on my conscience like everything else we haven’t talked about.” 

Harry laughs at that. “Look at you, Malfoy, finally putting your words to good use.”

“Shut up,” says Draco, now yanking Harry’s briefs off his hips. And as that sinful, rosebud mouth finally closes over Harry’s shaft, he can’t help but tangle his hands in Draco’s flaxen hair and be thankful for mud puddles.