We Are the Champions

Summary: Draco is one happy motherfucker.
Warnings: If you\'ve read the earlier chapters, you don\'t need no stinking warning. For others, run, run, run as fast as you can, said the gingerbread man.
Beta: My betas: thanks shaggirl, snottygrrl, silentauror, and fauxwen, especially fauxwen. Greatly appreciate it.

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Draco strode through the hallways not caring where he was going, just heading anywhere in the direction of down. Eventually he’d arrive at the dungeons and the safety of his room and there would be glasses to smash and chocolate to savor and booze to guzzle and no Potter.

“Malfoy. Malfoy! MALFOY, YOU WANKER!”

“FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF! POTTER!”

He picked up the pace, abandoning all pretence at being cool because fucking cool went out the fucking window ten minutes ago when the Slytherins lost the contest because Longbottom has the cock that ate Europe and Asia and let’s throw in effing Africa as well. If he had to face Potter...Draco started flat out running, taking any corridor, scrambling down flights of any staircase that appeared in view, three four steps at a time. Had he ever scrambled in his life? This is what Potter had reduced him to. A scrambler. Scrambling sucked. This was how people broke ankles. Legs even. Maybe even both legs. And he’d end up in the hospital wing, with that total hag Pomfrey making smart remarks about soap and boys who used soap ended up with broken legs. He decided then and there he loathed scrambling and added it to the list of things to hate Potter for.

“Malfoy….”

The voice was fainter; he must be giving Potter the slip.

Draco didn’t believe in God, because wizards didn’t believe in God, and Draco wouldn’t have believed in God anyway, because he had enough on his plate believing in the omnipotence of being a Malfoy. There just wasn’t room for God on his checklist in the morning, and he’d be damned if he was going to give up one single item on his list. It was nearly full, and he needed to leave open at least one spot for possible epiphanies. After all, the appearance of the Malfoy arse had been a complete surprise (and a bloody welcome addition, and if ever there been a time to get on his knees and thank a deity it was that summer). What other delicious surprises awaited him? Absolutely no room for anything else.

But now, he sure pissed someone off and WOULD THAT SOMEONE, WHOMEVER OR WHATEVER, PLEASE STOP THIS SHIT RIGHT NOW?

What had Draco done to deserve this? Nothing justified this. Nothing! Not the time he forced his parents to sit through his rendition of “House Elves: the Musical.” Not the time he convinced Pansy that a black leather bustier was perfectly appropriate attire for tea at the Connaught. Not the time they raided the laundry, stole all the bras belonging to the seventh-year girls, and held a contest called “Witch Cup?” And wasn’t Granger a still-waters-run-large kind of girl?

Nothing justified this: him running through the hallways, trying to dodge Potter-of-the-perfect-cock-no-vitamin-deficiency-there-christ-I-didn’t-think-that-because-he’s-blind-and-dorky-and-why-the-fuck-didn’t-he-take-off-his-shirt-so-I-could-see-his-nipples-instead-of-that-crappy-sneaky-peeky-thing-I-had-to-do-out-of-the-corner-of-my-eyes-which-gave-me-a-headache-and-what-the-hell-does-his-arse-look-like….

He stopped, leaned up against a wall, and closed his eyes, trying to regain his breath. Why did everything these days come down to Potter’s arse?

“Malfoy…” a hand came down on his shoulder.

Draco shrieked and reached for his wand. No wand up his sleeve.

Because it was in Potter’s hand. Holding it out for him to take.

He wished he could tell Potter to go to hell, but he couldn’t. It was his wand.

And even Draco had to admit it was bad form to kill your arch enemy right after he’d returned your wand.

Granted. He’d get his wand, wait five minutes, and then he’d do it.

Before he could even finish snatching the wand from Potter’s outstretched hand, the git starting yelling.

“What in the fuck is the matter with you? It was a stupid wanking contest, and you’re acting like you’ve just lost the Triwizard Tournament. Why do you have to turn everything into some goddamn soap opera?”

Potter was furious, as furious as Draco. Between their combined rages, their magic went berserk. Walls began to spit pellets everywhere, whole stones twisted from side to side. He was going to be crushed to death. With Potter. Sorry, wrong again. It seemed they were going to be suffocated. The dust became so thick from the stones grinding against each other that Potter faded from view into a chalky grey void. Then a firm hand grabbed Draco’s wrist and started marching him back and forth along the corridor in the dust.

Potter had finally gone mad and had decided to take Draco with him. Draco ground his feet into the stone floor to no avail. Potter merely tightened his grip and pulled Draco behind him. Suddenly, Draco was pulled in a different direction and could it be through a door to safety?

His face hurt like hell from the pebbles pelting him and he’d have scars, he just KNEW it, and all that dust probably would give him spots and he’d never had a spot in his entire life. Malfoys just do not get spots. He’d be the first one—although to be honest, Great Uncle Roman Black looked like he was born to have halacious spots, must ask mother. And that space on his list was NOT for spot checks…oh my god, he couldn’t breathe. Draco bent over, coughing up dust so violently he was convinced his left lung had just hit the wall. Without that lung, would his chest be lopsided? More coughing, but he was determined to bloody well keep his right lung no matter what. Maybe Madam I-hate-soap Pomfrey could grow him a second one. Oh hell. Now Potter was slapping him on the back, an obvious attempt at forcing the second lung to fly out his mouth. Potter was trying to kill him.

“You okay?” Potter coughed.

And people said Slytherins were evil; they were just misunderstood. Gryffindors were the evil ones. Potter was a perfect example. Feigning concern only seconds after trying to dislodge his lung.

“Touch me,” coughcough, “again,” wheeze, “Potter,” pant, “and you’re a dead man,” Draco warned.

“Right. You’re being a complete prick, so you must be fine,” panted Potter.

A few hundred wheezes later, Draco stood up straight just as Potter muttered a Lumos. They were in a smallish room, nothing on the walls, not even a fireplace, with only a small waist-high table for furniture. Even the door had vanished.

This castle hated him. Stuck in a room with Potter and no door. He bet those flea-infested house elves did this. Revenge for all that grief Draco gave them vis a vis the fifty-glass limit.

“Where the fuck are we, Potter?”

“The Room of Requirement. I wished like hell for it while we were in the dust storm. Why I was walking back and forth, you stupid tosser. Not much help in that department, Malfoy. You’re heavier than you look. It’s a magical room.”

“Really? Do fucking tell? A magical room? Don’t tell me we’re in a magic castle? You big kidder, you. Go on, pull my other leg. Next thing you’ll tell me is that you can do magic tricks with a wave of that pointy stick in your hand.”

“Sod off, Malfoy. Pardon me for saving your sorry arse. This table is a little weird, just sitting here. I wonder what we’re supposed to use it for.” At some point, Potter must have cleaned his glasses because except for the lenses, he was entirely covered in white dust from his head to his toes. Draco must be equally filthy.

“It looks perfectly suitable for bashing your brains in. Let’s test it.”

Potter snorted. “Oh for god’s sake, are you still hacked off about that stupid contest? You are a total piece of work. Like it’s such a big deal. Losing the wank olympics. Like someone has any control over the size of their dick. Or their classmates’ dicks.” Harry rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to say something else, something no doubt irritating and annoying and all manner of Gryffindor tripe, and then he shut his mouth. Potter raised his wand and pointed it at Draco.

For some reason, lots of people, even the odd and very stupid Slytherin on occasion, seemed to think that Draco had no sense of humor and saw fit to comment on this fact. Ridiculous. This was patently false and proven time and time again when Draco bogey-hexed them for their ill-informed remarks. Draco had a marvelous sense of humor. Buckets of it. Ask Crabbe and Goyle. Really. What he did lack, and readily admitted to, was a sense of irony. He’d never given a rat’s arse before, but now one millisecond of irony all of a sudden seemed crucial because there was nothing to laugh about here because Potter was truly and absolutely going to kill him this time and a healthy dose of irony might make his death a little more bearable.

Draco closed his eyes and tried to dredge up irony.

Hmmm, why did irony make him feel so clean?

“There, that’s better.”

All the dust was gone from both of them. Potter wasn’t casting Unforgivables. He was casting cleaning charms.

In any other circumstance, Draco would have been pleased. He hated cleaning charms on principle; they were the provenance of house elves. No self-respecting wizard should even learn cleaning charms. But once again Potter upset the fucking apple cart. Why couldn’t the bastard be predictable? Be his enemy. Get with the program.

“You are a moron! Why did you do that?”

“Because you were covered in dust from your little temper tantrum, Mr. Poor Loser,” Potter huffed. “Want me to put it back?”

That didn’t even deserve a reply. Potter just didn’t get it. Arch enemies cast Unforgivables on each other, they do not cast cleaning charms. It was bad enough that his friends were idiots; apparently this applied to his arch enemies as well.

“Why did you follow me? To gloat, you sanctimonious prick?” Draco demanded.

Potter stuck his wand into hair and scratched that thatch masquerading as hair. A pebble dislodged itself and rolled on to the floor. Draco stifled the urge to start smacking Potter’s head. Idiot didn’t even know how to do a proper cleaning charm.

“You, uh, you left your wand in the room. I…I didn’t think you’d want to be without it. I don’t like being without mine.”

If ever there was a time for a headache, it was now. Ah, right on schedule.

“Let me get this straight.” Draco held up one finger. “I am so furious when Longbottom unveils that monstrosity he calls a dick, a cock so gargantuan it makes an elephant’s trunk look like a shoelace, that the windows in the room start shattering. We agree on this point?”

Potter shrugged.

Draco held up a second finger. “I am so furious at the certainty of losing the contest I devised, I organized, and that I wanted to win WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY FUCKING BEING that I race out of the room and stomp down the halls in a blind rage. Yes?”

Potter nodded.

Draco held up a third finger. “And the person responsible for this rage, the one person above everyone else who should, at the very minimum, be high-tailing his underwear-challenged arse to the Gryffindor Tower or even leaving the country—an idea I thoroughly endorse, by the way—THAT PERSON follows me to hand me my wand. You notice, Potter, that NONE of the Slytherins followed me. Not a one. Not EVEN Crabbe or Goyle. If that doesn’t speak volumes, I don’t know what does. DO YOU HAVE SHIT FOR BRAINS?”

“Why are you so worked up about this?” Harry challenged, matching volume for volume. “We thought it would be funny. I mean, Neville. That dick.” Potter chortled. Draco hated chortling. People chortled in response to ironic situations. And didn’t this cock-up prove how valid was his refusal to countenance irony? “Ron and I assumed everyone knew. I couldn’t understand why you looked so fucking smug the whole time, frankly. Hard to keep something that phenomenal a secret.”

“Slytherins don’t spend their time speculating about the size of other boys’ cocks.” A total lie. It was one of Draco’s favorite subjects; he brought it up at least twice a day.

“You don’t? We talk about it all the time. Not surprised about the Hufflepuffs. Were you? They make Seamus look hung. Anyway, you git, we didn’t know we were going to win until the end. It was a joke. Ha. You know? Ha. Ha.” Harry stressed the last words and repeated them very slowly as if Draco didn’t understand English. “If you’re going to be so effing stupid about the whole thing, I’ll pay for the butterbeers. You have no sense of humor, Malfoy.”

There it was again! That humor thing.

“It’s not about the money, twitwit. And nobody else found it funny,” Draco snapped. “Only your pathetic, childish Gryffindors.”

“You didn’t stay long enough to find out,” Potter snapped back. “Everyone else was in hysterics. Even your precious, evil Slytherins. They’re probably still laughing. Apparently you’re the only one who can’t see the humor in it. Forty-eight guys jerking off for butterbeers, and the one guy everyone thinks has a dick the length and width of a string bean sports a piece down to his knees. It was priceless.”

Noises that were suspiciously close to giggling or even laughing began to emanate from the direction of Potter’s mouth. Until he saw Draco’s face.

“This isn’t about the size of Neville’s dick, is it?”

“Fuck off, Potter.” Draco began turning around in a circle looking for the door before he remembered there wasn’t a door.

“Apparently, we’re not done. And don’t bother trying to use your wand, it’s hopeless. We’re in here together until we sort this out.” Harry pointed his wand in the direction of the Quidditch field. “Your stupid wanking contest was all about me catching the Snitch last week, wasn\'t it?”

Draco’s headache skyrocketed from twinges to moderately painful to severe agony, by-passing irritating, extremely annoying, and hurts like hell in one second flat. It was the type of headache that required an immediate infusion of eight chocolate bars eaten in rapid succession, followed by five quick shots of French brandy.

“Was not,” Draco retorted, and would have lied more vigorously, but he couldn’t. Because as much as Draco loathed Potter—and he didn’t think he’d ever hated Potter as much as he hated him this very second—Potter’s walking and arm-waving were causing Potter to sweat and, combined with Potter’s natural vanilla aroma, were causing increasingly horrible things to happen to Draco’s dick.

Like making it hard.

“Why can’t I be good at Quidditch, Malfoy? Why can’t we have the same size dicks? Your grades are better than mine in everything but DADA,\" Potter demanded. Dammit it all to hell; more pacing, more evil, wonderful arm-waving. Nipples getting hard from the cotton of Potter’s shirt riding over them. More sweaty vanilla-y smells. “You’re pretty good in Potions, and I wish to christ I could say it’s because Snape favors you to a disgusting extent, but that’s not true. Not that he doesn’t, but, well, you’re good. Arithmancy. You’re neck and neck with Hermione in that. I can’t make heads or tails of it. Why can’t you let me just let me be good at Quidditch without throwing a total bloody fit when I win?”

“Because I can’t,” Draco hissed. ‘I should be the best at everything. I’m the best at everything else, why not Quidditch? It only makes sense.”

“You are totally effing nuts. First of all, you delusional fucker, you are not the best at everything else. And second, that is so fucking unfair,” Potter threw his hands up. “One thing. I bumble through most everything else. I can’t see. According to you, I can’t even tell blue from green. Why can’t I be good at Quidditch?”

“You can. You just can’t be better than me.” Draco pointed his wand at Potter’s chest. “Not,” poke, “better,” poke, “than,” poke again, “me.”

“Touch me with your wand again, Malfoy, and I’ll shove it down your fucking throat,” growled Potter. Draco pulled it back but kept it aimed at Potter’s heart. Potter raised his wand and adopted the same aggressive posture. “You can’t even stand to have the same size dick as mine. I saw you trying to coerce Zabini to give you just an eighth of an inch more. What was with all that fucking eyebrow wriggling? You complete bastard. And, and…the wanking off. That show was for me, wasn’t it?” Potter’s voice plummeted at least an octave. “Not for anybody else. You were whoring yourself for me and me alone. You were thinking of me when you were jerking off weren’t you? Were you fucking me or was I fucking you? What were we doing, Malfoy? Did I have my hand wrapped around that gorgeous cock of yours?”

Draco couldn’t speak, couldn’t even shake his head. He lowered his wand because his hands were shaking so badly. It was a miracle he didn’t drop it.

Three beats and then Potter dropped his wand hand, too.

“No. Didn’t. Wasn’t.” Draco managed to croak in protest.

“Yes, you were. I heard you. My name. I don’t think anyone else did, but I did. You whispered ‘Harry’.”

Draco wanted to say no, but couldn’t because he wanted to die first. That simple. Die. He couldn’t move except to turn his head away. Oh, this was humiliation. Everything up to now had been but a trial run. A dress rehearsal for the real thing.

A hand that smelled of vanilla, hand lotion, and dust cupped his chin and forced his face forward.

“Malfoy, look at me,” Potter said, his voice gentle. “It’s okay. I thought of you, too.”

Draco opened his eyes, expecting to see triumph. Glee. Victory. And what he saw was the same look that Potter had given him earlier when Potter had finished jerking off for the contest. At the time Draco didn’t know what in the hell Potter was asking. Now he realized it wasn’t a question so much as a confession. And permission.

While Draco’s evil voice hopped up and down on his left shoulder screaming, “Mantra! Remember your mantra. No Potter. No Potter,” the rest of him surrendered quite willingly.

They lay their wands on the table. With nervous fingers, Potter undid the remaining buttons on Draco’s shirt and then pushed it off his shoulders. Draco straightened his arms, shook them a little, and his shirt fell to the floor. Draco then pushed Potter’s tee-shirt up over his nipples, a naughty finger catching one of Potter’s nipples in its ascent, bringing a hiss and a shy smile from Potter. Simultaneously unbuttoning and unzipping their pants, the rasp of zippers as they slid down the only sounds in the room. They let their pants pool at their feet. Draco was momentarily panic-stricken when he realized that his dick, now no longer confined behind his pants, was tenting out from his boxers, announcing loud and clear how aroused he was. He needn’t have worried. Potter’s dick was just as eager, with no pesky boxer shorts in the way. With one hand Draco cupped himself and with the other, he pulled his boxers down to his knees.

If it had been anyone else, anyone else, Draco would have preened, flaunted himself by putting an elegant hand on his hip and thrusting it forward for emphasis to showcase the lean line of his body, the taut belly, the hint of his arse. Then he would have drawled something along the lines of, “Like what you see?”

What he hated most about Potter was his irritating ability to rewrite Draco’s carefully crafted scripts. No smart come-ons, come-backs, or bon mots came to mind. Nada. In fact, both of them stood there silent, erections bobbing in front of them, checking out each other’s bodies from the corners of their eyes. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he felt this shy; bloody hell if he didn’t blush when Potter’s eyes lingered over one of his nipples.

In those shapeless pieces of cloth stitched together that Harry called his clothes, he looked skinny and forlorn, playing the orphan card to the hilt. Out of his clothes, in the harsh light of Potter’s carelessly spelled Lumos, skinny need not apply. Potter had had his own little metamorphosis over the summer. Draco longed to run two fingers over the tight coil of muscle lining the tops of Potter’s shoulder blades or wrap a hot hand around a hard bicep. Throw in the sharply defined waist sloping into slender hips and skinny went out the window, replaced by wirysinewybastardIwantthatrightnow.

Just as he was about to reach out, cup that waist with both hands, Potter murmured, “Just like earlier?”

Draco could only nod as they began a repeat performance for each other. This was almost impossible, because they both kept getting distracted while watching the other. At the sight of Potter’s hands cupping his own balls, Draco nearly came, and Potter was having the same problem if the grunt he made when Draco ran a wet thumb over his slit was any indication.

When Potter finally grabbed his cock and began the slow slide up and down with a spit-slick palm, Draco tried to follow suit, but he could only fumble with all the grace of a twelve-year old having his first wank. Because that wonderful unraveling in his earlier fantasy began to become real, the untying of a myriad of knots, one by one. That exhilarating disintegration of his personal wards, if you will, where Draco realized once again that this was something very close to happiness. Though that was something Draco had never really sought or missed, he now wondered why. Why had he been so content to be merely content? And why was this happening while doing something as mundane as jerking off in front of Potter?

Draco hated asking himself questions, hated not knowing the answers, and hated knowing there were more questions to be asked; now he found himself having won the Trifecta for all three. His own personal Triwizard Tournament. Fear—real fear—snaked through him as he watched Potter match him slide for slide, caress for caress. Somewhere between the time Potter first unzipped his pants and Draco tried to button his nearly button-less shirt, the game changed, and now something far more dangerous than getting off was happening. He jerked his head up, determined to take back control, to say something with the patented Malfoy sneer. But when he met Potter’s eyes, once again the motherfucker had hijacked the script. Because Potter’s face, a face that never met an emotion it didn’t want to broadcast, mirrored back at Draco all the emotions he was trying desperately to hide behind the snark. Fear, confusion, wonder, uncertainty, overwhelmed by desire. For him.

Potter stepped forward and clamped a sweating hand on Draco’s equally sweaty shoulder, never breaking eye contact. “Not enough,” he whispered, and shifted his hips forward until their cocks touched. If Potter hadn’t had a grip on his shoulder, Draco would have fallen to his knees. Oh, fuck. Fu… and all thought stopped as Potter wrapped a large hand around both their dicks and began to palm them in unison. Draco couldn’t even nod or answer at the Okay? in Potter’s eyes. He moved his hand to overlap Potter’s so that they were jerking off together. With the other hand, he cupped Potter’s chin, to watch that face validate his own conflict. His own desire. Like they were dancing, he played partner to Potter’s lead, letting Potter determine the rhythm. He’d lie to himself later; tell himself it was because he really wasn’t full on participating, just letting Potter have his way. A simple hand job he could have gotten from anyone else. They’d come, do the obligatory cleaning charms on each other, a “so long,” and that would be that.

But in the here and now he knew differently.

As hand jobs went it, was adequate. Blaise would be Undersecretary of Hand Jobs if such a job existed on merit. But bloody fucking hell, the knots were unraveling so quickly he wondered if his soul would just float away, with nothing to anchor it. He leaned into Harry’s hand to keep him on this earth as he let passion eat him. They warmed each other’s cheeks with their now furious panting, and when Potter’s eyes finally closed, and his fingers dug into Draco’s shoulder begging for purchase before the inevitable, and his knees bumped into Draco’s as Potter’s back began to arch, Draco held on fast to his orgasm with everything he had, determined to see the expression on Potter’s face as he came.

As Potter’s body arched into his orgasm in one long sweep of movement, he smiled. A smile of joy, surrender, joy at that surrender. Crying Harry as the last knot unraveled, Draco found himself coming and coming and coming, not in response to his own pleasure, but at the joy of witnessing another’s.

TBC