We Are the Champions

Title: We Are the Champions (1 of?)
Author: pir8fancier
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Summary: Draco hates to lose and Harry needs a remedial lesson on what consitutes a socks
Rating: NC-17
Beta: A host of wonderful writers have betaed this story. Special thanks to fauxwen.
Author\'s Notes: This is a the silliest story I\'ve written and also the most fun to write.
Warning: If boys jerking off offends you, READ NO MORE. LOTS and LOTS OF JERKING OFF.
Disclaimer: I do not receive any money for this endeavor, just a lot of free pleasure.

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Christ, what a cock-up. If he didn’t need Crabbe and Goyle to do his bidding (code word for beating up people he didn’t like), he’d have hexed their faces off for their utter incompetence. What was the point of having minions, for god’s sake, if they couldn’t follow simple orders?

Draco Malfoy was indulging in a colossal temper tantrum. Trying to right the world by shattering glasses with a flick of his wand, each pinpoint of rage dissipating with a ping and a pop as the glass disintegrated to shards and dust. That was how it was supposed to work. This bout had done nothing for him short of giving him a sore wrist. He had wanted to win that Quidditch game in the worst possible way. As usual, that insufferable git, Potter, had aced him out once more, the snitch a hair’s breadth away when Potter snatched it out from under him. If Crabbe and Goyle had killed him with the bludgers, as instructed repeatedly before the match in the Slytherin locker room, they would have won the match. Really! How difficult was it to understand?

“Kill Potter with a bludger.”

Five simple words and they fucked it up.

Potter got the snitch; Draco was thoroughly humiliated yet again. And the worst part. The absolute worst part. Potter came lumbering up to him after the game, with all the grace of some rabid sheep dog, for Potter’s obligatory I-fucked-you-over-once-again-Draco-Malfoy handshake of victory, and when Draco shoved his hand out, Harry shook his hand but then held on to it. Then. THEN. Potter leaned in and said very distinctly, “You played a beautiful game, Malfo…” P…” Potter was going to say something else but was pulled away by hysterical, frothing-at-the-mouth Gryffindors for some post-match celebration. Bastard. Draco smashed another glass with a flick of his wand. He imagined he could hear the whoops and screams of victory from the Gryffindor common room ahe whe way down here in the dungeons. How dare he! Had Draco given him permission to compliment him? Bastard, again! Another glass appeared, hovering about eye level in the far corner of the room. He raised his wand. Zap! Glass number forty-nine glass blown to smithereens.

There was a knock and then the door to his bedchamber opened. A disembodied voice asked, “Draco, you still smashing glasses?”

“No, Blaise, they’ve decided to self-destruct on their own to save me the trouble. I hope Crabbe and Goyle have immigrated to Mozambique within the last hour because there’s no telling what I’ll do to them when I see them. I have a wand and I know how to use it.” Blaise’s head peeked around the edge of the door. At the very thought of the two of them, he raised his wand again—zing—and Blaise ducked his head back around the door as another glass shattered.

“A forty-glass night, huh?” asked the voice from behind the safety of the door.

Draco threw his wand on the bed. “A personal best. Fifty. You can come in now. I\'m done. Some snotty little house elf told me that’s my daily limit.\"

Blaise stepped out from behind the door and surveyed the shards of glass littering the floor of Draco\'s room. Cocking his head to one side, he studied Draco. \"You\'re still wound tighter than a drum. Why don\'t you just conjure up some more?\"

Merlin, give him patience. He was surrounded by idiots. \"It\'s not the same,\" he growled. Blaise got that look on his face that Draco hated. The one that shrieked, “humor him, just humor him, he\'s in one of those moods.” Draco began kicking the leg of his bed. \"I hate,\" kick, \"this miserable,\" kick, \"excuse for a school. Limited to fifty fucking glasses. After all the money my father’s donated? I should be able to shatter as many glasses as I want.” Draco stamped his foot. “It’s all Potter’s fault.”

“Sure it is, Draco,” Blaise tried to mollify him. “Come on, it’s time for dinner
“F
“Forget it, Blaise,\" Draco snapped. \"The only thing possibly worse than having my eyes gouged out with a blunt fork would be to listen to Gryffindors hooting and hollering like a bunch of deranged banshees. One word from the Weasel in the mood I’m in and I’d curse him and be in Azkaban by morning snogging some dementor. Which is no doubt Potter’s evil cunning plan. But I’ve seen through his ruse and have no intention of becoming a dementor’s boytoy.”

Blaise sighed. “Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a completely unhealthy fixation on Harry Potter?”

Draco narrowed his eyes and reached for his wand. “Your point?”

“Fine, be insane.” Blaise threw up his hands in defeat. “Have your fucking chocolate bars for dinner. Again.”

Draco waved Blaise away. When the door had shut, Draco opened the drawer where he kept boxes of chocolate for emergencies just like this one. Belgian or French? Dark or milk? Fuck it. Not even the chocolate would work tonight. He slammed the drawer shut and reached for the bottle of firewhiskey hidden under hed. ed. “Fucking Potter,” he murmured and raised the bottle to his lips.

*****

The hangover was Potter’s fault, too. Somehow. Draco resolutely clung to the fantasy that Malfoys, by virtue of their bloodline, were somehow immune to hangovers; therefore, he was always stunned whenever he woke up with one. Life just wasn’t fair. What was the point of being a pureblood if it didn’t ensure that you always won the games you played and never got hangovers? Stumbling into the shower, he announced to the room at large, “I will maim the first person who utters a single sound in my direction.” Now he wouldn’t have to listen to the snivelings and grovelings of Crabbe and Goyle, who had not yet fled to Mozambique. He must speak to Blaise. His instructions had been quite clear.

The heat of the shower, and the sudden appearance of a glass of what smelled like hangover potion that Draco downed immediately and thereby felt a million times better, restored him to near normal. Well, as normal as Draco Malfoy could be. Considering. He even felt well enough to do the list: flawless hair, check; near genius, given; and phenomenal physical beauty, you\'re so bloody right. He began to wrap the towel around himself when he smugly noticed that his cock looked especially sassy this morning. Yes, he must still be a little hung over because he forgot perhaps the most important part. Perfect dick. Oh, double check with a cherry on top.

Slytherins were, by and large, spectacularly endowed. Goyle had an especially nice cock. Too bad he had the face of a constipated warthog and the personality of a cucumber. No Slytherin had any reason to slink around the showers searching for a towel to cover up the lack thereof. Oh. Except for Crabbe. Draco frowned. Hard to say what happened there. Vitamin deficiency, perhaps? Crabbe was the exception, living proof that the old saw correlating foot size with dick size was full of shit. Didn’t bear thinking about. We all had crosses to bear.

Draco had always been insufferably cocksure until he got a gander at Blaise. Jesus, it was nearly the size of Wales…

…hmmm, which perfectly pressed white shirt should he wear today? This one…no, god, had the hangover caused permanent brain damage? No white shirts before May…

Not that Draco would ever consider being anyone’s bottom, but one glance at that monster...before Blaise even laid a hand on him Draco informed him in no uncertain terms, “I am a top, most definitely a top. Hell will freeze over before I even consider letting you near my arse with that thing.” Fortunately, Blaise was a natural, if pushy, bottom. Not that Draco minded. He liked his partners with a little bite to them. Completely submissive fucks were boring...

...these gray flannels or those gray flannels. Or *those* gray flannels. Bugger...

Which is why he found himself fucking fewer and fewer girls. In fact, when was the last time he had a girl? He paused, one leg in his trousers, one leg out. Quite a long time. Months, perhaps? A Ravenclaw bint whose name he couldn’t remember. All he could remember was how boring it was.

Blaise was anything but boring, but their affair was short-lived as even a simple blow job required several healing charms to restore Draco’s voice. He’d never believed one could be *too* big, but several trysts later, he began to revise that notion. Draco liked his vocal cords, thank you very much; he had no intention of sacrificing them in the name of wanton sex. Thank god that fling ended fairly soon, with no physical or emotional repercussions. They remained the best of friends, Draco shooing Blaise in the direction of Pansy. Who, after one night with Blaise was so grateful to Draco for more or less bequeathing Blaise to her, promised to name her first born after him. Now Pansy waltzed around Hogwarts happy as a pig in mud, notwithstanding her near-chronic case of laryngitis.

He pulled on a pair of black wool cashmere socks and, in another morning ritual, ran an elegant finger along the length of the monogram, which completely circled his ankle.

DBCLGLJMKFTDM:

Draco Black Cesarus Lucius Guillaume Lorenzo Jean-Franc Maximillius Klaus Frederick Tertian Dromenico Malfoy.

Yes, that drinking binge *had* destroyed critical brain cells, because for some reason seeing his perfectly monogrammed socks made him think of the Potter/socks episode in potions last January. He should have killed Potter then when he had the chance.

The two of them were paired in double potions, as usual. Draco suspected that Snape was more than just a little bit of a sadist; otherwise, why inflict two people on each other whose absolute mutual hatred was already becoming the stuff of legend, and they hadn\'t even graduated yet? They’d wor working on a particularly difficult potion for over two weeks, and a major portion of their grades was riding on its successful completion. Both of them were in the process of chopping up mandrake roots when that utter moron Longbottom blew up his caldron for the second time that week. Despite it happening nearly every class, this had been a rather spectacular explosion, causing Draco to drop his knife in surprise. Bending down to pick it up, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

The horror.

Straightening up slowly, he leaned toward Potter and said in a low voice, “Potter, tell me that you’re pulling my leg. That I’m not seeing what I’m seeing. That this is some twisted plot on your part to screw up my NEWTS for this class.”

Potter stopped chopping and put down the knife. “What are you nattering on about this time, Malfoy?”

Draco pointed.

“My shoes?” Potter said, clearly confused. “Just trainers. What’s the big deal?”

“Not the fucking trainers, you imbecile. The socks,” Draco hissed.

Potter pulled up his pant legs and looked at his socks.

“What’s the matter with them?” he asked. “They’re just socks.”

“You,” and here Draco couldn’t suppress a shudder, “are a disaster walking; a train wreck, Potter. I used the word ‘socks’ for want of a suitable term. There isn\'t a word in the dictionary that adequately describes those *things* that you are trying to pass off as socks. First, those are so *not* socks. Socks actually have a shape. Second, I may be going out on a limb here, although I highly doubt it, but most people actually wear colors that match. For a reason. Socks that do not match usually indicate insanity or stupidity. In your case, both may apply. They\'re puddling around the base of your ankles like wet noodles. You should pitch them in the rubbish bin this instant for that reason alone. Your appalling lack of any sort of style other than ‘if it’s six sizes too big for me and is completely hideous I’ll be happy to wear it’ is now beginning to make a hell of a lot of sense. You are not only blind but also colorblind to boot. Although that doesn\'t explain why you wear clothes so enormous that even that oaf Hagrid would be swimming in them. Perhaps a mystery better left unsolved.”

Potter rolled his eyes, picked up his knife, and began to chop again. “Honestly, Malfoy, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Draco felt a headache coming on and began rubbing his temples. “Please don’t tease me anymore. Tell me you’re joking,” he pleaded. “Puddling aside. Tell me that you dress in the dark. Tell me you know that one sock is blue and the other green, and that you’re just pulling a supreme mind fuck on me for the sheer hell of it.”

“Whatever, Malfoy. Here, I’m done with these roots.”

“Fuck the roots. One sock is blue, one sock is green. Admit it.”

Potter hiked up the legs of his pants one more time and then let the pant legs fall. “Both look sort of blue to me. Maybe not the same blue. But close enough.”

“Oh, Merlin’s balls, since when did sort-of-blue become a color?” Draco muttered, and whipped out his wand and flicked his wrist. “At least now they’re the same color. I refuse to do anything about the puddling,” he sniffed. “I’m warning you. If I see those pathetic imitation socks again, I’ll hex them off your feet.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Malfoy. When do I put in the roots? Now?”

Draco stared at Potter, then stared at the socks. With a sigh, he raised his wand and charmed the elastic back in them so that there weren’t flopping around Potter’s ankles anymore.

Potter looked down as his ankles and laughed. “Thanks. You’re a complete nutter, Malfoy. Absolutely balmy. You do you know that?” Potter had called Draco a number of names over the years, nutter being a standardult,ult, but this wasn’t said with the usual rancor. Indeed, it was followed by a small but genuine smile, perhaps the first smile Potter had ever directed right at Draco.

It wasn’t until the end of class that Draco noticed that he’d charmed the socks so that they matched exactly the color of Potter’s eyes.

*****

It was while fussing with his tie, Draco musing absentmindedly over his own rather fulsome charms, moving on to Blaise’s dick, and then that nice bit of Goyle’s, when he got the idea. Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant if he did say so himself. Sometimes he astonished even himself. Yes, he had checked near genius off his list this morning. “Go me,” he said out loud, and gave his tie a nice smart tug. If he couldn’t best the Gryffindors in Quidditch, he would best them in an area where he absolutely knew Slytherin could win.

On Monday morning, notices were posted in the dormitory rooms of all seventh-year males in all four houses.

Slytherin House to Host

The First Annual Cock Olympics

Saturday Night, April 14, 7:00 pm
Old Charms Classroom
BYOW (bring your own wood)

Which house has the longest and most “eager” cocks? Judges will be assigned from all four houses. Contestants will be expected to wank (proof in the pudding optional) to determine the total length of cock to receive full points. The house with the highest total centimeters wins. The winning house will be hosted by the losing houses for the next three Saturday nights at The Three Broomsticks, as much butterbeer as the winning house can consume.

1. Contestants will be allowed to jerk off for five minutes, at which point a judge will measure in centimeters the length of said contestant’s cock.
2. Stopwatches and hand lotion will be provided.
3. All wands are to be confiscated at entrance to room.
4. Any contestant discovered using an engorgement charm will result in the entire house being disqualified.
5. The length of each cock will be measured at the end of the five-minute grace period. The house with the greatest total centimeters wins the match.

May the Best House Wank

Blaise had persuaded Draco that he really *had* to include the Hufflepuffs, although Draco knew that they’d all be thrown out within the first round. What a complete and utter waste of time,co sco snorted. There couldn’t possibly be a decent dick in that whole house, or his name was Scarhead Fuckface Fashion Victim Shit-for-Brains Oh-and-I\'m Colorblind-Too Potter. But Blaise insisted, giving Draco pause. Had the Sorting Hat made a mistake? Sometimes Blaise displayed a shocking and very uncharacteristic notion of fair play for a Slytherin. Then Draco thought of Blaise’s cock. Naturally he’d been put in Slytherin. What was Draco thinking? He’d been half inclined to not include the Ravenclaws as well, but after having caught a glimpse of Terry Boot\'s cock in the shower three years ago, even Draco had to concede that brains didn’t necessarily cancel out brawn in all the right places.

The turnout was incredible, surpassing even Draco’s expectations. A total of fifty boys showed up, nearly all the seventh years. Draco wasn\'t sure this was a bid for free booze or a desire to strut one\'s stuff. No matter. As long as they dropped their pants and went at it, who cared why they were here.

Draco had exempted Crabbe from the contest by naming him time keeper. No sense in humiliating him. Blaise was so well-endowed that they could afford to lose the couple of inches. And some nameless Hufflepuff sent word that he couldn\'t make it, claiming to have chicken pox, but no one believed him. Fucking coward. After a shaky start, the judges got the hang of measuring the finished product, and things were moving along swimmingly.

With supreme satisfaction, Draco noted that the Hufflepuffs had the smallest dicks in creation. At some point early on in the game, just as the last Hufflepuff was hustled off to the side lines, he leaned over and whispered into Blaise’s ear, “Told you so.” Could he call them or what? As he predicted, they were all knocked out in the first round, relegated to standing at the edges of the room, watching other boys wank off, the cocks getting larger and larger as the contest progressed. He didn’t know how any of them would be able to hold their heads up in the Great Hall ever again. Although he supposed if you were showering with a bunch of people all of whom had dicks the size of cocktail wieners, then it really didn’t matter. It was the context.

The Ravenclaws were surprisingly uneven; some built, some not. Draco once again was treated to the sight of Terry Boot’s quite decent cock. This time he could actually look without seeming like a complete pervert. Not long, but nice and thick. Draco filed that away for future reference.

The night wore on. Liters of hand lotion dispensed, trousers dropped, boxers were shoved down below the knees. Boys pulling their dicks, fondling their balls, the judges with rulers at the ready. Draco noticed that like the Slytherins, the Gryffindors were saving the big guns for last. Thomas went down first (“Color me shocked and amazed,” whispered Draco to Blaise), followed by Finnigan (which surprised Draco after last summer\'s extremely interesting holiday weekend in Dublin, where, based on the pubs he\'d frequented, he assumed all Irishmen were built like dray horses; but then he remembered that Finnigan was only half-Irish), and so on. Pretty soon it was down to Greg, Blaise, and Draco on the Slytherin side, Potter, the Weasel, and Longbottom on the Gryffindor side. Draco didn’t even bother to hide his smirk. Longbottom! If that completely sorry excuse for a wizard had a dick any bigger than a cornichon he’d eat his silk boxer shorts for breakfast. And why were the ginger-haired freak Weasel and the prat Potter both wearing shit-eating grins?

“Well, gentlemen, we are down to the last,” Draco drawled, “And the best?” Draco took a quick peek at the clipboard bearing the tally so far. Slytherin was ahead by two centimeters already.

How do you spell victory?

B.L.A.I.S.E.

The room reeked of the oily, heavy scent of hand lotion. Nearly all the boys were pulling on their pants and underwear in an effort to ease the erections that wouldn’t go away. Despite all the frantic rubbing, no one had come yet, although some looked like they had been close. A few boys were favoring their wrists. Casualties of war.

“Who’s up next?” Blaise demanded and slapped a ruler against the flat of his hand. Longbottom winced. Honestly, it was too pathetic.

The Weasel sauntered up and the room became quiet. He stepped out of his trousers, then lowered his boxers (Draco rolled his eyes; trust that completely pathetic tosser to sport white boxers) and began to stroke. Draco stifled a yawn, and then motioned to Goyle to get going. After a couple of minutes, Draco checked on Goyle’s progress, good, not bad. How was Goyle measuring up against Potty’s sidekick?

Argh! Why did he have to look?

Even the Weasel’s pubic hair was red. It’d be a fucking miracle if he didn’t have nightmares for weeks. Where’s that blunt fork when you needed it? Draco forced himself to concentrate on a particular large freckle on the Weasel\'s neck. He abhorred freckles on principle, but anything was preferable to an eyeful of Weasel pubes. Finally, Blaise announced Weasel\'s tally (not bad Draco had to admit, although wild thestrals wouldn\'t have pulled it out of him), but then Blaise grinned and said that Goyle was stile wie winner by three millimeters. Draco heaved a sigh of relief and leaned over to double check the tally. Still ahead, of course. He could taste the butterbeer already, all the colder and sweeter for having been paid for by that git Potter. And then Potter stepped up to the center of the room and began unbuttoning his pants.

Draco tensed. The amusement he’d gotten watching forty-plus boys tossing themselves off in public on the off chance of winning free butterbeer disaped ced completely to be replaced by knots of some indescribable tension that only Potter was capable of producing in him.

Hate.

Industrial-strength hate.

He hated the Weasel, hated Dumbledore, hated brussel sprouts, but these hates didn’t tear up up inside. These hates weren’t worthy of fifty glasses. Weasel wasn’t even worth raising his wand hand. Dumbledore? At the very most a five-glass man. Brussel sprouts? Never more than seven glasses. After last Christmas, Voldemort earned himself an astonishing twenty-glass minimum. But Potter? That night after the game, Draco could have smashed a hundred glasses, his hair, eyes, and skin shiny with glass dust as Draco pointlessly shattered glass after glass after glass in a fruitless effort to dissipate some of his rage.

Potter was such an utter klutz in every aspect of his life, he couldn\'t even match socks and was barely able to chop mandrake root without slicing at least one of his fingers, but put the fucking idiot on a broom and he transformed into grace and speed personified. Potter owned the broom, owned the air around him. Ever since their fifth year, Draco had snuck up to the Astronomy tower with a pair of omnioculars to watch Potter whenever the Gryffindors had the pitch. He told Blaise he was spying on them to discover their strategies for upcoming matches, but honestly. Gryffindor didn’t need a strategy. They had Potter. Watching Potter fly on his broom filled Draco with the loveliest sense of lassitude. As Malfoys do not do lassitude, this freaked the hell out of him, but he couldn’t stop himself. And he hated Potter for that, too. For his weakness. Because after watching Potter fly, Draco felt the same way he did after a particularly good wank. Lazy, happy, and calm. Draco liked feeling calm. And happy. He rarely felt happy; amused was about as good as it got. But it was more than that. Potter on a broom was sure, confident, brash, cheeky even. A lot more appealing than that “incompetents are us” routine. Completely. Fucking. Beautiful. If Draco were being honest with himself. Once, to his eternal shame, Draco had watched Potter for over two hours, circling above the Quidditch field, letting the broom take him where it would. Afterwards, Draco ran back to his room and wanked off to the most tremendous orgasm he’d ever had, groaning out a tortured “Harry,” as he soaked his sheets.

The next day he pushed Potter down the stairs.

Lately, Draco found himself hating Potter with such increasing venom that it frightened even him. He hated how Potter was morphing into a man so quickly that when he ran into him the other day, he didn’t recognize him. Draco was calling over his shoulder to Blaise, when he suddenly stumbled over a foot and began to fall. Simultaneously, strong arms caught him as Draco reached out to steady himself, his hands cupping a trim waist. Hellooooo. Who did this lovely body belong to? Draco pasted on his sexiest smile, and was about to look up and pour on the Malfoy charm when he smelled Potter’s particular scent. Vanilla. Potter always smelled of vanilla. Draco took one completely involuntary sniff and then elbowed Potter in the stomach while snarling, “Watch where you’re going, you blind idiot.” Draco was shocked to discover his hands tingled for hours afterwards. Like he’d touched magic.

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TBC