A Dark Time For The Light

11

They split up shortly afterwards. Draco and Harry, by candlelight, purged their quarters of the smell of Ron’s feet and washed their bedding. There were two identical desks, which, when pushed together would make more than a serviceable bed. They laid the mattress atop them, then Harry grinned at his beloved, “Shall we make sure?. Test it, like?”. His large green eyes caught the sparkle from the candles and Draco was intoxicated. He bit his lip and advanced, his irises translucent in the low light, his pupils opening to fathomless black. He tipped his head, inhaled a gasped breath, then Harry was kissing him and he was returning it, being bent back over the desk, head and shoulders on their mattress.

He felt Harry’s urgency pressed against his hip, his own cock springing to life in response. He relaxed and sighed, “Fuck me, baby. Take me, just like this”. In the half dark, he felt his jeans tugged down, then off. Boxers followed. He was laid out, stretched over backwards for his lover. Who drew back at the sight of his beloved’s wantonness, his throat closed, he barely managed, “You sexy bastard”, as he launched himself atop his Dragon and took him, hard, face to face, until they dripped in sweat and come. As they recovered, Harry flipped his beloved on to his belly and took him again, Draco’s arse in the air, all invitation and shuddering want. This time, he screamed as he came, shouting Harry’s name. Harry followed him, pulsing hot come into his lover as he screamed his Dragon’s name severally into the stale air.

They scuttled and climbed onto the mattress and collapsed against each other, half-dressed, they held each other tight and crashed, hard, clutching each other as they would a liferaft in a stormy sea.

On another station, A brunette teasingly let a redhead seduce her. Their mattress was bare of bedding, but neither minded, shed clothes making a bed for them both as they dissolved around each other’s hot tongue and probing fingers, coincidentally timing their screams of joy to passing trains. They drifted towards sleep. They both were happier than they had been in years.

In the bunk room it was quiet. A vague snore from Kingsley Shacklebolt as he slept. He’d done the night shift and needed his rest. Ron was quiet about his task. He drew from his pocket the wrap of smack from ‘Mione’s tin, a small sliver of tinfoil, a lighter. He shook half of the powder onto the foil making a line, dug in his pocket for a fiver and made a tube, then set the lighter to burn under the foil, chasing the smoke, not missing a drop. He held it fast in his lungs, felt the hit start to bite, then let go, exhaling through his nose, felt the clutching sensation in his gut, didn’t puke, then tucked himself under his covers as the hit took and he laid his head back, a big grin across his face. It had been over a year. He had kicked it by now, surely?. But as he felt the euphoria and the warmth spread to every part of his mind and body, he remembered. And rejoiced. He had his friend back.