Of New Years...

My apologies for the wait; the semester was ending and hectic, and I\'m a sloooow writer as it is. But I won\'t abandon fics. To make it up, this chapter\'s pretty much ALL smut. Enjoy!



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Paralyzed with lust, panic, fear, glee—someone should figure out how to bottle this, he thought dimly—Draco watched, strange ripples of white noise in his head, while Potter tugged down his trousers and pants, freeing his, of late, more than attended to cock, which was nevertheless presently heavy and throbbing, practically pushing itself into the other boy’s Quidditch-roughened hands. Potter broke eye contact to grip the base of Draco’s shaft and leaned forward, lips parted, the blond giving a strangled groan before his tongue even made contact with the flushed head, still unable to believe this was really happening, that this wasn’t just some insanely vivid fantasy from which he’d wake to find himself, own hand on his prick, sheets sticky with come.



But Draco could not possibly have dreamt, imagined, or hallucinated the jolt that ripped up his spine at the first swipe of Potter’s pointed tongue, nor the soft slide of parting lips as they stretched around the head and moved down his length. The Gryffindor was clearly an amateur—Draco hissed at the brief scrape of teeth—but, still: hot, wet, sucking mouth. Harry Potter’s hot, wet, sucking mouth.



He would not turn into another fawning fanboy. Some bent version of Colin Creevey. Or, just, Colin Creevey. He would not.



Potter’s tongue wriggled against the underside of Draco’s cock, tracing the pulsing vein back up to the head and swirling around it like a lollipop. The blond gasped, one shaking hand automatically falling to clutch at the perpetually tousled black hair, and watched as Potter’s lips distorted into an awkward, face-stuffed smile before his mouth descended on Draco once again, eating up more of his length than the last try. This time, a low whine of appreciation issued from the back of Draco’s throat, and Potter actually chuckled, the vibrations of it rippling pleasantly along every last nerve of the Slytherin’s prick. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back, hips unconsciously straining forward to feel as much of that engulfing, wet heat as possible.



Instead, a heavy arm stretching across his abdomen and a sweaty hand on his hip firmly pushed him back against the wall, holding him there, Potter’s other hand squeezing sharply at the base of Draco’s swollen shaft in warning. The blond cried out and bit his lip, peering down as Potter’s cheeks hollowed, the cavern of the Gryffindor’s mouth tightening, Draco’s hand tightening in the thick, black locks in response. His head fell back again, eyes closing and, forgetting himself already, the Slytherin automatically made to thrust his hips forward, only to meet the unrelenting pressure of Potter’s grip on him, the arm pinning him to the wall behind. He moaned; he liked it, pushing against something unyielding, The Boy Who Lived’s lust-fueled strength, his stubbornness.



The hand not madly clutching at Potter’s mop of inestimably clutchable hair slid down the wall behind Draco as he scrabbled for purchase, for something to squeeze, shred, or simply grasp for dear life, but his sweat-slick palm encountered nothing but smooth, ancient wallpaper, not even one of the many peeling patches evident around the noble House of Black. The best Draco could do was curl his toes in his blasted Weasley socks, pant, and groan as Potter continued his increasingly competent assault. Beyond his own noises and the obscene slurping sounds of the Gryffindor’s mouth working away at him, the room, the whole house, was silent, except for that layer of white noise buzzing in Draco’s head.



Wait. It wasn’t inside his head.



Draco let gravity pull his chin to the side and opened his eyes. On the table beside the bed was Potter’s gift to him, the little Christmas tree with its twinkling fairy lights and whirring snitches. A new heat burned at the center of his chest, momentarily immobilizing his diaphragm, and his hand slackened a bit in Potter’s hair, instead palming the back of his skull, rubbing distractedly as he tried to catch his breath.



“Please…please.” The words rose up from beneath Draco’s sternum, where the soft parts began. He didn’t even know what he was begging for. “Potter…Harry…” He couldn’t get his breath. The snitches were dashing among the lights, he could swear they were speeding up, matching the rush of the blood in his ears and his cock, and now his pleas were a wordless, high-pitched sort of keen as Potter swallowed around him, and he thanked Merlin blow jobs appeared to be one of those few things the otherwise dimwitted Gryffindor was naturally skilled at.



Draco was going to die; this was going to kill him. If his balls grew any tighter they’d twist themselves off. He had to come. But this couldn’t end. Fucking hell. It was existential.



The hair beneath his hand had grown damp with sweat, and he looked down for the first time in minutes.



And Potter looked back, green eyes merciless, lights from the transfigured tree glinting in them, lips red and shining, and, with a shout, Draco came, endlessly and too fast, shooting thickly and gratefully into the waiting sheath of Harry Potter’s mouth.



Gasping, mouth gaping, eyes slitted with exhaustion, Draco slid down the wall and collapsed into a disheveled heap on the floor, bare bottom resting on the tattered rug beneath, legs awkwardly tangled in his trousers. He watched, dazed, as Potter crouched before him, casually wiping away a trickle of semen from his chin with the back of his hand.



He must have—he must have swallowed the rest, Draco realized through the fog of afterglow. Merlin, Potter swallowed my come. My come is inside-- Not bothering to finish the thought, he closed his eyes, hands resting on his shaking thighs (they had been tensed and under strain for some time), and caught his breath, the snitches a pleasant hum in the near distance.



Yes, pleasant. Calm. Until a pair of hands roughly hauled Draco back up onto his feet and fairly tore his one decent jumper over his head and off his body.



“Potter, what—” But clearly his erstwhile nemesis was in no mood to listen, grasping Draco by the shoulders and spinning him around. And just like that, he was panting again, everything inside him trying to find a way to burn through his skin as Potter placed one hot palm between his shoulder blades and shoved Draco up against the wall. Turning his head so as not to get a face-full of musty wallpaper, he blinked in stunned silence.



“As fun as hearing you beg and reducing you to a wanton slag were, Malfoy, you didn’t really think that’d be enough of a gift, did you?” Potter’s voice was at once frighteningly and arousingly steady. Draco heard the distinctive sound of a belt buckle coming undone. A zip.



Merlin’s garters. Potter was going to…fuck him?



Draco squeezed his eyes shut and let slip a small mewl, brought his hands up to claw at his new best friend, the wall, and licked his lips. He wanted it; he knew he did. He’d thought about it all kinds of ways this past week, wanked to dozens, if not hundreds, of images involving himself and the boy behind him.



Memories from Hogwarts cascaded through his brain—Potter humiliating him on the Quidditch field in front of his parents, getting turned into a ferret in his presence, Potter cursing him in a flooded bathroom the year before…how did this image fit? Draco up against a wall with his bare arse sticking out, trousers around his ankles, and Harry Potter getting his cock out and ready to shag him. How was this happening?



Moments passed, yet the only contact Potter made remained the hand on Draco’s back. The blond’s sweaty brow furrowed against the cool wallpaper, and he opened his eyes. By the bed, the snitches dove and feinted, zooming past the oblivious fairy lights and buzzing their mad chorus. But just above that, Draco could hear the huffing of breath, the slick sound of flesh-on-flesh.



Potter was wanking.



Oh.



Oh.



Draco bit his lip and sounded a groan, his insides going liquid. He tilted his head and stared down at the floor, at his fine trousers and less-than-fine socks. Potter’s trainer-clad feet behind.



“Spread yourself,” Potter grit out, voice strained, finally, but still commanding.



“W-what?” Draco honestly didn’t understand. Anything.



“Spread yourself. I want to see. Fuck, I’m close!” The hand on his back pushed harder; Draco’s collarbone was getting sore.



Finally understanding, Draco moved his trembling hands from the security of the wall and reached behind to the cheeks of his arse. Slowly, he spread them, arched his back, presenting himself as fully and lewdly as possible because, shit, he might as well. He might as well be the best gift he could be. A Malfoy excelled at everything.



Potter groaned and dug his bitten nails into Draco’s pale flesh. “Oh God, yes. Fuck. Malfoy…Draco…fuck.” His voice grew higher, breathier, with each word, the slick sounds and panting speeding up, and Draco whimpered in anticipation, swallowed saliva, swallowed more mindless pleas as they attempted to burst from beneath his tongue. He let them run loose in his head instead: Please, please, please, please…



And Draco got what he wanted, warm gobs of come spurting onto the small of his back and the swell of his arse as Potter cried out his release, hand fisting against the blond’s skin. It seemed to last forever, and Draco wondered if somehow Potter’d managed to avoid wanking before now, like he was storing it up or something. He felt the viscous fluid trickle hotly down between his still-spread cheeks and involuntarily clenched his hole as some dripped there, tickling the sensitive opening. Moving his hands back to the wall, he shuddered with the aftershocks of what had just happened, what the Wizarding World’s best hope had just done to him, what Draco himself had done at his impassioned demand.



“Mmm,” Potter sighed behind him, and Draco felt a sweaty forehead rest against his shoulder, the hand on his back sliding around front to his chest where the other soon joined, palms flat, warm, and still in contrast to the heart thundering beneath. Soft flannel brushed the skin of his back, the occasional button sliding and pressing its small pattern minutely into Draco’s flesh. A few arm lengths away, the snitches murmured, lazily flitting among the small branches. Fairy lights shone in the lenses of Potter’s discarded glasses.



They stayed that way for several long, breath-catching moments, and Draco suspected Potter was gathering himself. Thinking about how not to be awkward. After their last encounter, the Gryffindor had been sheepish, much like when he’d first stepped into the room this afternoon, though Draco hadn’t stuck around to give him a chance to say anything catastrophically unbearable. As soon as he could fasten his trousers and get his jumper on (inside out and backwards, he’d later discover), Draco had bolted (as in, strolled casually from the room, of course), retreating to his quarters where he’d dashed to the bathroom and stared into the mirror, panicked, for about fifteen minutes.



I should say something, he thought now. Catch Potter off guard, get on equal footing again. How did he turn things around so quickly? Draco almost snorted at the question, given his current position. I should be snide. Be myself. Be--



His train of thought was interrupted as Potter withdrew, and he heard the sounds of zip and belt. Right, then. Can’t gain ground when one is naked. Draco bent to pull up his trousers and pants, but before he could get them past mid-thigh, the prat was manhandling him again, turning him round and coming in for a kiss like he owned him or some bloody thing. Opening his mouth, he was sure, to issue a scathing, soul and ego-crushing dismissal, Draco found himself accidentally snogging the git back, Potter’s tongue slipping in to rhythmically stroke his own, thumbs tracing his jaw line, fingers finding notches in the vertebrae at the back of his neck.



A small voice in Draco’s head noted that this was the very tongue that had quite recently licked his prick, the very mouth that had swallowed (most of) his spunk. As if to solidify the connection, Draco felt some of Potter’s come trickle along the inside of his thigh and, against his disappointingly weak will, he whimpered into the other boy’s mouth, bringing the arm not clutching his trousers up to wrap tightly around his waist. Potter responded in kind, arms coming down to encircle his shoulders, tongue swiping tantalizingly at the soft, slippery underside of the blond’s. Draco’s cock stirred and he flexed his hips, bare flesh rubbing against denim, but before he could get anywhere, Potter was pulling away, stepping back, turning around and leaving him dumbfounded and indignant.



Again Potter had made him forget himself, rendering him a complacent, mewling little sex-starved kitten, for Merlin’s sake! It was humiliating! Right?



As Draco mutely fumed, confused but decidedly angry, Potter fetched his glasses from the bed and put them on, becoming once again the heroic Scarhead everyone knew and loved and hoped would save their Muggle-loving arses. Somehow seeing Potter as he usually was brought Draco to his senses enough to realize his own trousers and pants still hung at his thighs, gripped in one hand. Flushing, he yanked them up, fastening fly and belt and looking around for his wand so he could cast a cleaning charm and stop thinking about the semen likely drying on his skin.



“Here,” Potter offered helpfully, retrieving Draco’s wand from the small table beside the bed where the miniature tree stood. Draco grabbed the wand a little more forcefully than necessary and cast the charm, noting Potter’s blush as he did so.



How can he do such filthy things to me and then look so innocent?



Perhaps to hide his embarrassment (or to just be his normal, irritatingly intrepid self), Potter picked up Draco’s jumper from the floor where he had haphazardly tossed it earlier and held it out for him. Draco took it, without undue force this time, the Gryffindor’s returning shyness enough to defuse the blond’s temper. He pulled the shirt over his head, brushing some stray threads off and smoothing his hair back.



“You should try fixing your hair. It looks like, well, like someone’s been clutching at it in sexual ecstasy,” he smirked.



Potter’s hands went to his hair and began combing through it. “Erm, I’m not sure there’s much I can do. It doesn’t really…behave.”



“True, it’s not like you’re Mr. Well-Groomed. Still,” Draco came forward into Potter’s personal space, “It’s a little more bedheaded than usual, even.” He ran his fingers through the thick, rebellious locks, patting, tugging, smoothing. Finally, Potter was presentable, which was to say he looked like he normally did.



Glancing at the famous scar, Draco made to step away, but Potter took his forearms in his hands, thumbs wrapping around to press at the pulse points in his wrists. Arching a brow, Draco met the other boy’s earnest gaze, eyes still startlingly green even behind glasses.



“We’re having a wizard chess tournament downstairs later. I heard you bragging to Ron that you were good, so come down and play. Be social. No more isolating yourself. No more avoiding me.” Releasing Draco’s arms, Potter withdrew his wand, removed the silencing and locking charms, tucked it away, and left, closing the door behind him.



The nerve, ordering him to be social, of all things. In Slytherin House, it wasn’t a party until Draco arrived. Before sixth year anyway. But this wasn’t Hogwarts. And it definitely wasn’t Slytherin territory, despite the portrait of some decrepit old relative of his screaming her head off about blood-traitors in her home.



A trilling from beside the bed caught his attention, and Draco stalked over to the transfigured, miniature Christmas tree and stared down at it petulantly. The snitches were, as usual, zipping this way and that, the fairly lights floating noncommittally in their midst, star at the top glowing softly. Draco crossed his arms, frowning, and looked around. Finding what he was searching for, he Accio’d a threadbare blanket from a chair in the opposite corner of the room, unfolded it, and draped it over Potter’s gift to him. With one hand he picked the thing up at the base, and with the other, opened the doors to the wardrobe standing across from the bathroom. He set the tree down inside and shoved it gently to the back with one foot before shutting the doors again. Listening closely, he sighed in relief. Good. Not a sound.



But it felt wrong, the total silence. The stillness.



Draco turned back to the wardrobe, opened it, uncovered the tree, caught one of the tiny snitches in his hand, replaced the blanket, shut the wardrobe. He studied the little golden ball he now held clasped between thumb and forefinger, its wings even more delicate and feather-like than a full-sized snitch’s, its whirr higher pitched, sweeter.



Rifling through the bedside table drawer, Draco found the small pouch he’d always kept on hand for potions ingredients. Made of expensive dragon-hide and given to him by his mother for his fourteenth birthday, it was water-proof, everything-proof. He tucked the snitch inside and tightened the pouch’s strings before shoving it in his pocket.



Snitch fluttering faintly against his thigh, Draco headed downstairs to be social.



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Not quite as evil a cliffhanger as last time at least, eh? I will continue this, but I have to get started on another fic that has a deadline attached.