Princes in Exile

This chapter was written by literaryspell.


It was, Harry now reflected, a very foolish thing to do, telling someone he'd won a duel when he hadn't.

It was foolish and cruel and absolutely bloody fucking thoughtless, but Harry hadn't known what else to do. He prided himself on being good under pressure, but he'd never faced anything like Draco Malfoy and his slightly out-of-control magic and his stupid, confusing pale eyes.

Eyes through which Harry had read, just for the briefest moment, that Draco wasn’t capable of beating Harry. Not only because he wasn’t ready, which he wasn’t—but also because Draco didn’t believe that he was good enough. He had enough bravado to fill the room with hot air, but that meant nothing when it came down to two wizards fighting for supremacy.

The smart thing to do, after Harry had half-inadvertently slipped into Draco's mind, would have been to finish Draco—cast one final spell to end the charade of a duel, and then continue with the lessons until Draco was ready. Yes, that would have been the right thing to do, the thing that made the most sense.

But even at that moment, with Draco pausing in his gloating only to announce that he had to tell his father, Harry knew he would have done it the same way. Draco wouldn’t have beaten him if Harry hadn't thrown the fight. Defeated by Rictusempra—really, Draco shouldn’t have believed him in the first place.

As long as Draco's magic felt Draco won the duel, everything would be okay. And Draco had won—the concession of an opponent was still a win. Draco's magic would return, and everything would be back to normal. Meaning Harry could go back to his job and his life, and Draco could go back to doing whatever it was he did with his time. Poke small Muggle children with sticks or something. Harry ignored the unhappy knowledge that the issue bringing them together was solved.

Harry spotted Draco striding from the room, evidently fed up with Harry's lack of reaction to his win. Since Lucius wasn’t at the manor at the moment, Draco had no one else to talk to. Harry narrowed his eyes. Unless he planned on owling Pansy or maybe Flooing her. That would be totally typical of Draco—use Harry to his own ends and then celebrate with her.

Catching up with Draco in an attempt to waylay that potential development, Harry patted him on the shoulder, smiling broadly even if he didn’t feel it.

"Really, Draco. Great job back there."

Draco looked at him sideways. "I don't remember you being this good a loser at Hogwarts."

Harry shrugged. "No one likes to lose, but I can admit when I'm bested." Worse than bitter, the words tasted like a lie. And for good reason, since Harry hadn't even been close to giving up when he'd allowed Draco the win.

Draco grinned at him. "Glad to hear it, Potter, since you'll be admitting it again and again."

With nothing to say to that, Harry just stood there. Things were awkward between them, but Harry couldn’t quite decipher why. Draco was looking at him in a way Harry hadn't seen before—almost grateful—and stranger yet, Draco didn’t seem to realise what he was doing.

"So I suppose I'll be going, then?" Harry said, the words forming a question even when he wanted them to be assertive.

Draco nodded. "I'll help you pack."

Upstairs, Draco opened Harry's bedroom door and stepped inside. He took a moment to cast a derisive glance over the mess—it was quite impressive, Harry admitted, for having been there such a short time—and then pulled out his wand.

"Pack!" Draco said in a loud voice, pointing his wand at Harry's shambles of belongings.

Harry wanted to vomit when nothing happened.

Undeterred, Draco shook his wand out, took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes, and repeated the command. Not a single item danced itself into Harry's duffle.

No longer light-hearted, Draco set eyes so furious on Harry that he actually took a step back before planting his feet. The air in the room tasted like a storm. Harry had never seen Draco so angry, and he'd had many opportunities to witness Draco's displeasure.

"What did you do, Potter?" Draco said. His voice was low and dangerous, and he advanced on Harry, closing the distance between them like Harry was dinner and Draco was starving.

"Nothing," Harry said, too quickly. "I don't know why it isn't working. Try another spell."

Draco's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I can feel that it isn’t going to work! My magic is still gone, and it's your fault. " His lips twisted into a snarl. "Tell me what you did!"

Harry glared at him, unwilling to take abuse from someone he'd sacrificed so much to help. "It's not my fault you can't learn anything! Maybe you didn’t even lose your magic. Maybe it ran away!" Harry strode forward and pushed past Draco, leaving the room. He didn’t want to deal with the fight he knew was imminent.

Draco was on his heels, demanding that Harry tell him what, exactly, had gone wrong. Harry managed to ignore him until they were in the entrance foyer—he tried to open the front door but Draco wouldn’t let him, putting himself between Harry and his exit.

"All right, fine!" Harry shouted. "You want to know what I did, Draco? Are you so desperate to hear it that you'll let me say the truth?"

Draco said nothing, only waited with eyes flashing venom.

"I let you win." Harry paused and waited for that to sink in. "I let you fucking win!"

"No," Draco said, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "No, that was real."

Harry sighed. "You weren't ready, okay? There was no way you were going to beat me. And you knew it, too!" Harry didn’t mention the fact that the surety of Draco's defeat had come from Draco's own thoughts. "So I let you win, hoping it would end all this."

"Potter, I will kill you—" Draco broke off, a struggle on his features. He looked torn between lunging at Harry and running from the room.

"I honestly thought it would work," Harry said, trying one last time to settle the issue.

Something in Draco seemed to snap. With a growl—a real growl, Harry was alarmed to note—he closed the distance between them and slammed his hands against Harry's shoulders, pushing him hard against the foyer wall.

Harry meant to fight back, he really did—he had no intention of letting Draco best him in any way without defending himself this time. But Draco was breathing hard against Harry's mouth and his breath tasted like some fancy imported breakfast pastry, and his eyes were flashing hateful silver and Harry couldn’t control himself.

Without a single thought in the head on his shoulders, he pushed against Draco's hold until his mouth met Draco's lips. He got at least three good seconds out of the kiss—and one shocked slide of lips from Draco—before Draco tore his mouth away, looking angry enough to spit.

But that wasn’t what he did at all. Harry gasped when Draco slammed him once more against the wall, pinning him. Draco followed and the lines of their bodies connected, not a centimetre of space between them, which seemed to be Draco's intent.

There was no hiding Harry's arousal—he couldn't be certain when it had started, but seeing Draco in a fury made him react in the most inappropriate ways. He didn’t even have time to be embarrassed or laugh it off, however, because Draco was pressing his own suddenly insistent erection against Harry's hip, sliding a long leg between Harry's roughly enough to make him lose his breath when it connected with his balls.

He meant to object, to snap and snarl and tear himself from Draco's hold, but he couldn’t get his brain to stop long enough to devise a proper sentence or escape plan.

Then Draco was moving his leg in an infuriating way, teasing and drawing out a reaction, one that Harry willingly and immediately gave. He groaned deep in his throat, confused and a little appalled at the turn of events but not in any way objecting. Draco pressed closer, his cock grinding against Harry's hip in sharp thrusts, obviously driving himself toward climax mindlessly.

Harry let his head fall back, eager to allow orgasm to take away all of his concerns. He'd never let himself think what might happen if he ever gave in to his strange desire for Draco—he certainly never would have predicted that Draco would be the instigator. He could only imagine all the ways Draco would hold this against him when he came back to himself afterward. Harry was almost looking forward to it, because no matter how Draco denied it, this was all him.

The contact wasn’t enough anymore and Harry grabbed Draco's neck and hauled him in for another kiss—but Draco wouldn’t allow himself to be pulled. He tugged out of Harry's grip, grabbing his wrist and slamming it against the wall, holding it there with more strength than Harry thought he should be capable of wielding.

Deciding that what Draco was doing with his hips was infinitely better than a kiss anyway, Harry allowed himself to be held, moving only to rock his hips forward, searching and finding the friction that would bring him off in no time.

Even though kissing was off the table, Draco seemed to have no problem with using his mouth. He bit at Harry's neck, the sharp stings rushing Harry along instead of holding him back. Every now and then he felt the slick warmth of Draco's tongue on his skin, almost as if by accident, but it happened too often to be unintentional. Knowing Draco's sanity was likely tenuous, Harry didn’t say anything that would bring this strange pleasure to a disappointing halt.

Draco's movements became more furious. His rough, insistent pressing made Harry's breath catch, hard thrusts that were reminiscent of violence and not sex at all—at least not any sex Harry'd ever been familiar with. Despite the strangeness of it all, Harry was going to come—and soon.

His free hand reached for Draco's shoulder, and his fingers dug in as Draco's thrusts changed back to grinding, and it was enough. The easy friction and the frantic, half-dazed look on Draco's face brought Harry off, and he groaned as his climax tore through him—torn from him by Draco. He dropped his head and panted through, barely able to hold himself up.

Harry's sensitive and sated cock was grateful that Draco came right after. He buried his face in Harry's shoulder and grunted under his breath, as near to silent as possible. They breathed together, their bodies pressed tight.

Uncomfortable stickiness made Harry laugh breathlessly. "I haven’t come in my trousers since about third year," he said, shaking his head.

Draco went stiff for a long moment before pulling back, trying to arrange his clothing in a more dignified manner, but his silk shirt was irreparably creased, and his trousers showed a telltale stain. He took a deep breath, looking anywhere but at Harry. Despite the fact that he'd just had an orgasm, Draco still looked angry as hell, and the glare he levelled on Harry brought him from his post-coital bliss much too quickly.

Harry raised his hands up in front of himself. "Hey, don't look at me. You started it."

"Potter, you absolute cretin—" Draco couldn’t seem to imbue in his words the traditional venom. It didn’t help that his cheeks were pink and dewy, and his lips as bitten as Harry's own neck.

"Draco…" Harry wanted to tell him not to freak out, a reaction that seemed inevitable. He wanted to say that he'd wanted what had happened, exactly as it had happened. He wanted Draco, and as confusing and barmy as that was, he couldn’t help it. Draco was so… so fucking unexpected. "Don't," was all he could say.

"Shut up," Draco snapped. He seemed to realise he was still holding Harry's wrist against the wall. He snatched his hand back and wiped it on his trousers. Harry didn’t bother hiding how insulted he was at the gesture. "Just shut up. Don't you dare speak to me."

For a time Draco just stood there before Harry, trembling—with rage or passion, Harry couldn’t tell. It was possible there wasn’t a difference between the two when it came to Draco. It was true that whenever Draco was around, Harry had a hard time telling desire from disgust.

Then Draco turned on his heel, and with more dignity than a man with spunk in his pants should be able to muster, swept from the room without a glance over his shoulder.

Grateful for the wall supporting him, Harry stared at the doorway Draco had exited through for a long time before reaching up and burying his hands in his hair, tugging on the messy, slightly damp strands. What had he done? What had they done? Why was he so bloody drawn to someone he was pretty sure he couldn’t stand?

What was it about Draco?

Harry was at a loss as to his next move. Even ignoring the urgent frottage, there was still the issue of Harry letting Draco win. Had that set them back when it came to Draco getting his wand back? Would Draco ever be capable of beating Harry fairly? Most important, Harry supposed, was whether Draco would want him around to continue to practise.

Harry grabbed his wand and spelled away the come in his pants. He realised he should have done the same for Draco—it was only proper. But Draco had rushed out before he'd had a chance, and Draco didn’t have magic to clean it up so he was probably in the shower at that moment, washing away every trace of Harry from his body. Harry was decidedly not disappointed at that idea.

Malfoy Manor was doing strange things to him. He had to get out, get away from Draco and his confusing everything, away from the black hole of a house that he'd been unwillingly sucked in to.

Harry quickly made his way to the Apparition Point by the gates and spun on his heel, ending in Hogsmeade in front of the Three Broomsticks. He'd been pretty successful at cutting back on his alcohol intake since he'd drunkenly kissed Draco, but if ever there was a time for a drink, it was now.

He nodded to Rosmerta as he passed the bar and took a table in the far corner of the room. Thanks to the early time, the place was empty enough, and no one gave him a second glance.

After his mead arrived, Harry nursed it, determined to order only the one. He could feel Rosmerta's eyes on him, and he knew she was checking to see if he needed another. That even she knew he tended to drink too much embarrassed him.

When Luna Lovegood walked in the tavern, Harry was grateful because it meant a distraction from his depressing and circular thoughts. "Luna!" he called, waving her over.

She turned and smiled brightly when her eyes landed on him. She placed her order with Rosmerta and approached Harry's table, her sunny yellow robes drawing the bleary eyes of the daytime crowd.

"Hello, Harry!" she said, sitting down next to him. "What brings you here all alone?"

"Malfoy," he said without thinking. Well, there went the distraction.

"Oh, are you meeting Draco?" Luna checked the door as if he'd walk in that moment, but of course he didn’t.

"No, trying to escape him, more like."

She looked quizzical. "Why would you want to? I thought you two were getting along these days. You live together, after all."

Harry looked at her sideways. "We don't live together—"

"Yes, you do," she insisted. If she hadn't looked so adorably clueless, Harry would have thought she was having him on.

"No, I mean, yes, technically. My temporary living space happens to be in his house, but it's not like we go grocery shopping together or anything." The very idea made Harry smile; he just couldn’t picture Draco counting out exact change to pay for toiletries.

"Well, give it time," she advised, giving him a gentle smile.

Harry frowned. She seemed a little confused as to what his and Draco's relationship was, exactly. Not that he could blame her—he wasn’t up to date himself on what they were now. Just the thought of Draco's hand on his wrist, his body against Harry's, hard and demanding… Harry coughed and looked away from Luna lest she somehow divine the inappropriate direction of his thoughts.

"So, how's Draco doing at The Quibbler, Luna?" Harry asked, half to change the subject and half because he was genuinely curious at how Draco was managing to keep a real job.

Luna waved her fingers around in a way that Harry couldn’t decipher. "He's learning. It's a lot for him to take in, you know. I don't think he gets enough credit."

Harry rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to hear someone extol the virtues of Draco Malfoy at that moment. "So he's doing well, then?"

"He is managing. He isn’t the easiest person to know, though, is he?"

Laughing, Harry shook his head. "Not at all. In fact, I think he's one of the most confusing, infuriating people I've ever met."

"That's very interesting. He said something quite similar about you when I asked him how he liked having you live with him. He also made a big fuss about how you two weren't living together." She tilted her head to one side as she examined Harry, seeming to want an answer to her observation, but he didn’t know what to say.

"Well, it's no surprise that he can't stand me as much as I can't stand him," Harry said, scratching the back of his neck.

Rosmerta came by with Luna's order—some sort of fish on rice that looked surprisingly appetizing. "Another, Harry, love?"

Harry looked down at his empty glass. "No, thanks, Rosmerta. I think I have to be heading out."

She gave him a quick nod and returned to the bar. Luna gave Harry a most approving smile, and Harry reddened.

"Anyway, I don't think Draco can't stand you." Luna flipped the fish off her rice and kept the two very separate as she ate. "I just think you're both very confused."

Harry dropped his head into his hands. Confusion was the mode of the day. "You're telling me," he groaned. He needed to talk to Hermione and Ron. Luna was great but he needed real answers, not more questions. He decided to head back to his flat—he hadn't been there in some time—and see if he could catch either of them on the Floo. If not, an owl would have to do.

"Enjoy your lunch, Luna. I've got to run."

She nodded. "Tell Draco I say hello."

Harry shook his head. "It's likely you'll see him before I do."

"Oh, I don't think so…" Luna smiled, this time to herself, and speared a chunk of fish.

Feeling he'd been dismissed, Harry left the Three Broomsticks. Whether or not Luna was right, it was Draco's move now.