Under Construction

Under Construction

By Alwayzefree


Disclaimer: Belong: To JKR, Goddess of all things HP. Money: None.

Pairing: H/D

Warning: Adult, Slash

Summary: Harry and Draco are building a friendship together. Will it stand? Or will it collapse under the pressure?

Originally written for Irana Snape in the HPValensmut2006 fic exchange

Harry James Potter, clad in a lime green, stain resistant robe, proudly sported the wand and bone emblem of St. Mungo’s on his left upper chest, as he walked briskly down the dimly lit corridor of the fourth floor. He raised his wrist and squinted his eyes to discover that only fifteen minutes had passed since the last time he had checked his watch. Two hours left.

As he mentally completed a checklist in his head, he stumbled over a leg that seemed to suddenly appear out of nowhere. The tray of potions that he had been carrying soared into the air. Catlike, Harry managed to twist his slight, wiry form so that he landed on his back and caught the tray of potions before it could reach the floor.

“Bitch,” a soft, raspy voice said.

Harry looked up into dull brown eyes. He smiled gently at the gaunt faced woman seated out of sight in a small, dark alcove.

“Caroline,” said Harry. “How nice to see you too. What are you doing here on your own?”

The disabled Auror leaned forward, hiding her face behind limp, shoulder length gray
hair, ignoring Harry’s presence.

Harry moved to his feet. “Shall I help you into the dining room?” Vacant brown eyes lifted to his.

“Bitch,” she repeated.

Harry charmed her wheelchair into moving and pointed it in the direction of the dining hall, following slowly behind her.

As he headed down the corridor, he couldn’t help peeking into Ward 50. It was a small room, and could only hold four beds; it still smelled of lavender and eucalyptus though it had long been empty. Ward 50 is where the Ministry had decided to place the three surviving seventh year Slytherins who had fought with the Order. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, though seriously injured, had quickly recovered from their wounds; Draco Malfoy had not.

When they had brought him in, according to his medical record, he had been pale and lifeless. While Harry spent six months hibernating and licking psychic wounds in the Muggle world after the war, unbeknownst to him, Malfoy was at St. Mungo’s. Harry had spent almost two years in training before he had arrived on the Long Term Ward and discovered what the war had done to Draco Malfoy.

Every time he passed Ward 50, Harry was unable to prevent a smile of remembrance as he recalled how apprehensive he had been when he learned that Draco Malfoy was one of the patients assigned to him. Madame Burns had been thrilled when Harry let it slip that he and Draco had attended school together. Apparently, the infamous enmity and rivalry between the two of them hadn’t reached Healer Burns ears and Harry was not about to enlighten her. She was especially looking forward to seeing how Draco responded to Harry’s presence.

Harry had entered Draco’s room that first morning wondering how Malfoy would exploit the fact that Harry Potter was now literally at his beck and call. He was certain that Draco would be on the call button every five minutes, with demands for service, as though Harry were his very own personal mediwizard version of a house-elf.

He walked into the room slowly, nervously wiping damp palms on the pristine white robes that all mediwizards in training were required to wear. A sick feeling of dread cramped his lower gut as he wondered if he would be encountering the angry, spiteful Draco from Hogwarts or the distant, subdued Draco with whom he had entered into a wary truce during the war.

Draco sat in an armchair next to the window, clad in grey silk pajamas and quietly reading. Morning sunlight filled the room, highlighting the faint, purple shadows beneath his eyes, and forming an almost blinding halo around shoulder length, neatly trimmed, white blond hair. He greeted Harry with a polite hello.

Draco looked incredibly frail and vulnerable. His thin, pink lips, always in Harry’s recollection wearing a nasty sneer or supercilious smirk, were grim and unsmiling. But it was his eyes, so intensely grey, and shimmering with such burning intelligence that stunned Harry into stillness. They held innocence and a lack of recognition that Harry had been told about, but refused to believe until he saw it for himself.

Even so, Draco held himself with the natural confidence that made him unmistakably recognizable as Draco Malfoy. However, it seemed even that had changed. His self-confidence faltered slightly beneath Harry’s unblinking, startled green gaze.

Draco looked down at himself. “Is something wrong?”

Harry shook himself out of his stupor, silently reprimanding himself for being so unprofessional.

“No, not at all,” he said. “It’s just,” he hesitated then continued awkwardly, “it’s my first day on the unit. I’m in training,” he added, waiting to see how Draco would use his words against him.

“Oh. Well then, I suppose I should tell you how to go on.” Draco straightened his shoulders and ran a lazy hand through silken, perfectly groomed locks, once again poised and self-assured.

”I just need you to stand by while I shower. I sometimes have dizzy spells and lose my balance. They won’t allow me to shower alone.”

As he spoke, he studied Harry closely. He tilted his head to the side and inquired, “Do I know you?”

Before Harry could respond, he added, “Did they tell you I’ve lost my memory?”

Harry moved forward into the room. “Sorry. I should have introduced myself as soon as I arrived. Look, I’ve bungled this whole thing. Can we start over?”

Draco nodded his head, an unconsciously autocratic gesture; a prince granting a subject permission.

“Hi, I’m Harry”, Harry took a deep breath. “Harry Potter. We attended Hogwarts together. I’m a mediwizard in training and I’m going to be working with you today.” He held out his hand.

Without hesitation, Draco grasped Harry’s hand in his own. His long, thin fingers were dwarfed by Harry’s much larger hand. His grip was strong, though his fingers felt brittle, as though they could be easily broken. His skin was warm, dry, and smooth to the touch. Harry was suddenly very conscious of his own strength and hyperaware of Draco’s surprising defenselessness.

A warm, sticky feeling of wanting to hold on and never let go caught Harry in its web. No matter what had happened between them, the man in front of him was a bittersweet reminder of so many memories and a part of him would have been elated to see the old Draco Malfoy suddenly appear, uttering one of his ingeniously sarcastic and cutting Malfoyisms.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco asked.

Harry immediately dropped Draco’s hand and stumbled backwards until he bumped into the wall.

“What???”

“Are you scared?” Draco repeated. He gestured elegantly with one hand.

“This is your first day; aren’t you a bit nervous?” Metal grey eyes were lit with curiosity and polite inquiry.

Harry’s tense body relaxed. “No. Actually, this clinical rotation will be my last. I’ve been in training for the past two years.”

“Ah.” Draco stood gracefully and unselfconsciously began to remove his clothing. Harry’s slowly rising color elicited an amused smile. “I apologize,” he said ruefully. “One loses all modesty after being here for as long as I have.”

As Draco made the teasing comment, Harry hurriedly averted his eyes away from the sleek, lissome form in front of him and looked around the room. In that brief instant, the damage had already been done. Harry couldn’t help but notice the long, perfectly formed muscles beneath creamy, porcelain and what must surely be edible skin, the tautly ridged abdomen and the long, though flaccid penis, nested below flaxen, silky pubic hair.

He mentally kicked himself for being unable to view Draco as just another patient. Despite his best efforts in the months that followed, he had never been able to erase the vision from his memory.

He could never figure when his feelings for Draco changed from protectiveness and wanting to heal to something more. He only knew that St Mungo’s was the place he had learned to like and respect the former Slytherin. Saint Mungo’s was also the place where Harry began to understand there was more to Draco and his Slytherins than Harry had ever considered, that Pansy and Blaise and the other Slytherins weren’t loyal because they feared Draco but because they loved him.

Soft chimes emitting from Caroline’s wheelchair indicated that they had reached their destination, pulling Harry from his reverie. He looked down at his watch and cursed. The last few hours of his shift had dragged on interminably. Now, it was suddenly almost time to leave and he had to catch up on his charting and finish delivering potions. After everything he had done to coerce Draco into letting Harry attend the Ball with him, he knew if he were late, Draco would probably use that as an excuse leave without him.

========================

Potter was going to be late. Again.

Draco strode over to the mirror, straightened his tie, and smoothed his hands down the very expensive silk emerald green robe he was wearing.

“You look fine, dear, gorgeous in fact,” the mirror observed soothingly.

Draco ran a long, slender hand through his hair. The platinum strands instantly fell back into place. He found no pleasure in a compliment he had heard at the very least a thousand times before. He knew he was gorgeous. His physical and intellectual superiority had been drilled into him from such an early age that he accepted it as fact; compliments meant nothing.

Potter had probably forgotten.

He paced back and forth impatiently. Potter wouldn’t forget, he chided himself. He was being foolish. He was placing a ridiculous degree of importance upon this ball, just because he had imprudently allowed himself to be persuaded to participate in its planning.

He had also allowed Harry Potter to convince him that they should attend the Ball together. It was a Valentine’s Ball, at Hogwarts of all places. Potter had started with an elaborate argument in the middle of Draco’s favorite television show, saying that since he wasn’t going with anyone and since Draco wasn’t going with anyone and since they were best friends, they should go together.

Draco had only been half listening to Potter’s attempts to talk him into attending yet another dull, interminable event. When he heard the words “best friends”, he had taken his hand out of the popcorn and his eyes away from the telly.

“Okay, Potter, you’ve finally got my attention. Even though you’re making me miss the best part. We’re not best friends Potter, that’s just some crazy line you tell people to explain why you’re always dragging me to those boring engagements and awards ceremonies you get talked into attending.”

“I’m not talking about another event. I’m talking about the Valentine’s Ball,” Harry said patiently. “And Draco, we are friends”, he added stubbornly. He had shifted uncomfortably and raised uncertain eyes to Draco’s. “We’re together a lot. All the time, even. I think we could call us best friends.”

Clearly, Potter had been thinking about this. About the two of them. Draco flushed self consciously, realizing that he was sitting in Harry Potter’s flat for the third night that week, watching telly like he’d been doing it all of his life instead of barely six months into a friendship that was never meant to happen.

“Look, Draco,” Harry said earnestly, “friendship is like building a house. You have to start off with a solid foundation and then take it from there. You keep adding bricks and mortar until you have something that’s solid and keeps you safe and warm. Building a friendship and sometimes something more.”

He sat back with a self-satisfied smile and grinned at Draco who sat there, unmoving and silent, as though someone had thrown a Petrificus Totalus at him. Draco was able to outmaneuver and outthink him most of the time, hence the reason they were watching some inane soap opera instead of the game. But every now and then, Harry was able to get his own in. His smug expression goaded Draco into saying with exasperation, “Potter, you know about as much as I do about building a bloody house.”

He grabbed the sofa pillow from behind Harry’s head and whacked him over the head with it.

Draco looked as stunned by his actions as Harry felt.

Harry recovered quickly and said, “Draco, you know I’m right. We’re best friends AND we’re going to the ball together”, as he snatched the pillow out of Draco’s hand and whacked him on the head with it in retaliation. Harry looked at the astonished glare on Draco’s face and laughed so hard he fell off the couch.

Draco’s mouth was curved downward with disapproval. He made an impossibly dignified sound of displeasure and then muttered, “Nutter”.

Harry laughed even harder.

Draco jumped as he heard the noisy, rattling sound that usually heralded Potter’s arrival by Floo.

“You’re late, Potter”, he said coolly. His casual demeanor belied the anxious moments he had spent waiting for Harry to arrive.

“Just a few minutes”, Harry countered breathlessly as he stepped hastily out of the fireplace.

He dusted himself off and then looked at Draco. He took another long, slow look then swallowed. “You. Um. You’re looking fit, Malfoy,” he said softly.

Draco’s lips lifted in a faint half-smile of acknowledgement. He struggled to keep the heat out of his cheeks while resisting the sudden rush of pleasure he felt at Potter’s words. Compliments meant nothing, except when they came from Potter. A fact he resolutely vowed to erase immediately from his brain.

He walked over to Harry. “Merlin, Harry, you are so….untidiness just comes naturally to you doesn’t it?”

He straightened Harry’s robes with a quick wave of his wand and courteously asked, “May I?’ before charming Harry’s thick, ravens locks into order, after receiving a brief, affirmative shake of the head. For a long moment, they stared into each other’s eyes.

“Draco…,” Harry murmured

Draco stepped back quickly. “Come on, Potter. Hurry, now. We don’t want to be late.”

=========
Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall had called on the surviving 7th years from Harry and Draco’s year to help with the Valentine’s Ball. It was part fund-raiser and part reunion. Most of the seventh years had scattered after the war. Hogwarts had been decimated; there had been no graduation that year. Draco had been assigned to bring all of the purebloods back into the fold. No one else could accomplish the task except Draco, Snape had argued persuasively.

Draco had been unmoved by the argument but felt an obligation to do a favor for Snape. After all Snape had done for him, he could not refuse the man any request. He looked around after Harry strode off to bring him a glass of punch. The room was full of the glitterati of the Wizarding world. His doing, he knew. The name Malfoy still meant something in the Wizarding world, in spite of his father. It saddened him, in a myriad of ways, that it no longer meant much to him.

He smiled and nodded as he made his way across the room, ignoring the curious glances and whispers. Once he would have given anything for that type of attention; positive or negative, it hadn’t mattered. Now, he preferred the shadows. He found a dark corner and stood there quietly, watching and waiting.

He observed Snape holding court in the far left corner of the room, surrounded by former Slytherins of all ages. Snape now held the position he had always wanted; having redeemed the reputation of Slytherin House, he was viewed as a respected elder statesman and a venerated Potions Master.

He studied the Slytherins with an affection that would astonish anyone but his fellow snakes. They were still his, all of them.

No one really got it but them. Everyone else surmised that Draco, Blaise, and Pansy were typical Slytherins, hedging their bets, going for the winning side. Or some thought that Draco just didn’t want to get his lily white, rich boy hands dirty.

He had decided that he couldn’t afford to care what they all thought. He had looked at himself in the mirror after Harry had split him open, after Dumbledore had been killed, after those insane months on the run with Snape and had seen that he was just a pawn. Being a pureblood, being Lucius Malfoy’s son had no real meaning at all.

He had always found strength from somewhere out of himself; he had no inner resources to rely upon. His only skills were flying and potion making. His only power his innate magical core; the same as every other wizard. He had nothing, really.

Even he couldn’t cite a definitive moment when things had changed for him. He supposed that it had been a gradual process. Maybe, finally, all of the lectures from Dumbledore about choice had taken root.

Maybe it was the realization that he must be worth something, if Professor Snape someone he admired, was willing to risk his life to save him. Or, perhaps it was remembering looking into the eyes of that creature and realizing that the mark on his arm was a brand of slavery, not a symbol of superiority and exclusivity. Or, the slow, gradual realization that there were worse things than death.

He took a deep, sobbing breath and ran a shaking hand down his face. He shouldn’t have come. Entering Hogwarts tonight had triggered an earthquake within his soul. He raised his eyes and found Harry studying him intently before becoming distracted by someone calling his name. As always, Harry had found him, even in the small alcove that no one else seemed to notice.

Harry turned back towards him, eyeing him with concern. He gave Harry a nonchalant nod. Harry’s eyes lightened with relief. He sent Draco a sweet, apologetic smile. He was halfway across the room, waylaid by yet another admirer.

Though his memory and health were restored over a year ago, Draco still didn’t feel comfortable in this type of setting. Before Harry arrived on the Long Term Resident Ward, there were dark, hazy days, one bleeding into another. Moments of clarity intermixed with moments of not knowing who he was or where he was.

After Harry arrived, during the episodes when he’d feel like he was disappearing into nothingness, he would look into verdant green eyes and somehow know that he was safe. Sometimes in the present, he still felt as though at any instant, the dizzying, confusing whirlpool of shattered thoughts and memories was waiting to suck him within. Those green eyes remained his anchor in a world that still seemed treacherous.

He continued to watch Harry move across the room like a bee pollinating a garden of flowers. People seemed to come alive when in Harry’s presence. When his attention turned to them they stood straighter, smiled wider.

Something about Harry made people better than who they were. Something about him made them feel better. Each smiling face made Draco’s stomach clench. Every slouched form that stood taller made him want to rush over and say, Don’t do that, he’s mine, not yours.

Draco’s mouth turned downward with self-disgust. That look Harry had on his face right now, earnest and attentive, was the very same look that had been his anchor on the unendurable, endless days and nights, when he had been lost in a maze of nothingness. Those eyes had filled him with an inexplicable longing that he hadn’t understood until all of the memories and accompanying emotions had reassembled themselves. Even then, he had refused to acknowledge what he was feeling.

He watched Harry work the room. Traces of the small, awkward, and shy boy were visible only to those who knew him well. Most would never notice the faint color highlighting his cheeks whenever he was referred to as the boy who lived or the great savior, or the bitten nails Harry usually kept hidden in robe or trouser pockets. The powerful, confident man, who moved so gracefully across the room, effortlessly concealed the impetuous, easily wounded boy within.

Potter was the one who was able to calm Draco down, at Saint Mungo’s, when his magic would manifest in destructive bursts of power he despaired of ever being able to control. It was Potter who was never afraid of him and who taught him the meditation techniques that enabled him to reach and heal the magical damage at his core.

He looked up and was once again ensnared by that mesmerizing green-eyed stare. His anchor. The hum of conversation faded in the background, the warm, blazing torchlight disappeared. Everything and everyone else faded into the shadows surrounding him. Harry’s eyes held his and time slowed; Harry’s face and eyes were emblazoned in his view with achingly sharp clarity.

Harry blinked and long, silky black lashes shielded the emerald green gaze temporarily. They rose again and those vibrant green eyes remained intently on his. Draco was relieved when Harry was distracted once again.

That look cut through all of his defenses. He looked down at his chest, almost expecting to see himself cut open and laid bare once again. He felt as though every thought and feeling was visible to all of those in the room. How could this have become so big without his even realizing it? How could these damn feelings have grown so out of control without his being aware?

He had once hated Harry so much. The legendary animosity had disappeared with his memory. Even after he had consumed the potion that returned his memory, the animosity had not returned at its previous degree of virulence. Instead, it was mixed with reluctant gratitude and an unshakeable feeling of security whenever Harry was in the room.

Now, he couldn’t remember ever not feeling this way. He wanted Harry so. It was a burning, aching, driving, and all encompassing feeling. He’d rather hate him.

He felt stifled, closed in. He couldn’t breathe. Ice Prince, if only they had known, their ice prince was a roiling mass of rigidly controlled emotion. If he let go, he felt as though he’d unravel like piece of twine.

Head down, he walked across the room, willing himself invisible, needing to get away.

==============

It was a bitterly cold night. The air was crisp and laden with the earthy scents of heather and burning wood. Stars shone brilliantly overhead, easily lighting the way as Draco walked towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He inhaled deeply, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes trying to remember all of the things Harry had taught him. He tried to visualize a favorite place, a quiet place. His hands were shaking, his heart racing. He couldn’t do this. Grey, misty puffs of air revealed his rapid, anxious breathing.

Being here hurt; every rock in this place conjured some sort of memory. The smells, the terrain, the rooms, the people; all assaulted his memory until the distant past was as real as the present. The guilt, the shame, the terror, he remembered them now, and felt them anew. When Snape’s potion had helped him recover his memory, it was as though the events had happened to someone else.

The memories had been distilled and diluted by their dissolution and long absence. Being at Hogwarts gave them a horrible, chilling immediacy. He hated himself all over again.

He twirled around rapidly, wand at the ready, when the muffled sound of footsteps upon fresh snow finally registered.

“Can’t get away from you can I, Potter?” he snarled more harshly than he intended.

Harry’s eyes darkened with hurt. He didn’t try to hide the hurt but he ignored the comment; he knew that Draco was his most cutting when he was afraid. He was like a wounded animal lashing out at anyone who tried to come close.

“Draco, did someone say something to upset you?”

“No one said anything to me, Potter. They never do.”

“Draco,” Harry said in the patient tones he frequently used to reason with Draco, “You never speak to them either. That’s why no one speaks to you. You stand there looking all cold and intimidating. They’re all scared of you.”

Harry’s words elicited a gratified sneer.

Harry almost smiled. “Now tell me why you’re out here.”

Draco put his hands to his face. “Why I’m here….why I’m here.”

His voice was muffled and for one frightening instant, Harry thought he was crying.

Draco’s lowered his hands until only his eyes, sad and haunted, were visible. A soft, bitter snort escaped him. He folded his arms in front of him and said quietly, “No, you tell me, Potter. You tell me why we’re here.”

“Draco…”

“Why are we here? Why in bloody hell are we here together, at Hogwarts, tonight of all nights?”

Harry crunched his way noisily towards Draco. Draco took a few steps backward. He flushed with humiliation when he realized what he had done.

“Don’t move, Harry,” he commanded. “Just tell me. Tell me.”

Harry paused and refrained from taking another step. His hands clenched and released, clenched and released, a gesture Draco knew meant that he was nervous.

“You know, Draco,” Harry said steadily. “You know why. You’re the one who’s been running, not me.”

His eyes were dark, and tired and old in his youthful, lightly freckled face. He looked about twelve still, with his glasses on. Draco wrapped his arms around himself to keep from wrapping them around Harry.

“You love me,” Draco said hoarsely.

Moving cautiously, Harry shortened the distance between them. Slowly and carefully, he touched his hand to Draco’s face. “Yeah, I do,” he confessed softly.

Draco had never been touched this gently before.

His eyelids fluttered nervously before gradually closing. He shifted restlessly, wanting to get away but unable to move away from Harry’s touch. He hated that Harry could affect him like this, that he was able to gentle him as though he were a wild animal.

He was torn between the voice that told him to run as far away as fast as he could and the desire to stay just like this, forever. Slowly, infinitesimally, he turned his lips towards Harry’s palm and nuzzled his mouth against the center of Harry’s hand. He pressed small, feathery kisses across Harry’s palm and then against Harry’s wrist. He heard a faint, whisper of a sound and opened his eyes. Harry’s eyes were locked on Draco’s face and his teeth were clenched around his bottom lip.

Harry raised his other hand and tenderly cupped Draco’s face between the palms of his hands. Draco allowed Harry to gently, but insistently, pull Draco towards him. He knew that nothing good would come of kissing Harry Potter in the moonlight beneath the stars but he had to do it, just this once.

He had to know what Harry tasted like, what it felt like to kiss someone so powerful his magic was noisy, humming with life and energy, so potent that Draco could feel Harry’s presence and essence before he even entered a room. When their lips met, Draco was assailed by a jolt of vibrant heat and a burst of textures and flavors that buckled his knees. He felt as though he had drunk a gallon of lightening. Harry caught Draco against him, keeping him upright and made that soft, hungry sound once more.

He kissed Draco like a blind man navigating an unfamiliar room, warily and terrified of making a move in the wrong direction. He cradled Draco’s face lightly between his hands, afraid to hold on too tight and scared that Draco would come to his senses or that he’d change his mind and make Harry stop. He didn’t want to stop, wouldn’t be able to stop, not after finally being allowed to do what he had longed to do for so long: touch Draco Malfoy as though he was Harry’s very own.

Draco’s mouth yielded so sweetly to his, opening and welcoming Harry’s tongue so very eagerly, that Harry’s need and desire escalated exponentially. He groaned, long and low, a tortured, anguished sound that twisted Draco’s gut. Harry held Draco’s mouth firmly to his, moving and twisting so their mouths locked into an intense, fierce kiss that seemed as though it would never end.

Draco could feel Harry’s body tensely coiled against his. Like Harry, he was straining to get closer. He placed his hands on Harry’s hips and ground himself against the other man, frantic for relief. Harry tore his mouth from Draco’s with a sharp, frustrated cry. He rested his lips against Draco’s neck, shuddering within the circle of Draco’s arms.

More. He needed more.

He sank to his knees in the snow, blazing with an inner heat that obliterated the outer chill. He lifted Draco’s robes, scurrying quickly beneath and allowing the heavy folds to descend over top of him, cloaking him in the humid darkness beneath. He nuzzled into Draco’s groin, rubbing his face against Draco’s dick and pressing moist kisses against Draco’s thighs. Draco groaned heavily, thinking dazedly that they were both mad, out here like this, in the frigid cold, burning each other up.

Then there was warm, moist heat, as if his prick had been dipped into warm syrup. His head fell backwards slowly as his muscles melted like hot wax. Harry’s large, firm hands clasped around his thighs were all that kept him upright. He groaned again as the tip of his dick bumped against the back of Harry’s throat.

Vivid, intense sensation drew the air out of his lungs; his mouth was open wide as he struggled for air. His arms hung lifelessly at his sides. He couldn’t move, completely and utterly enthralled by the motion of Harry’s hot, hungry mouth on his aching dick.

Harry tried to slow the pace, afraid that he might never have the chance to do it again. He tried to savor the experience and tried to make it last longer. His attempts were futile; he had been waiting for far too long. His thought processes shut down; all he could do was relish the taste of Draco’s flesh in his mouth, velvety soft, and firm with blood. He sucked fervently and tirelessly, needing desperately to bring Draco to completion.

Draco’s thigh muscles firmed beneath his hands and Harry sucked harder. Moments later, Draco’s dick twitched violently and began to gush a torrent of white fluid. Harry swallowed rapidly, gulping noisily. He stayed on his knees, holding Draco up with one hand now, pressing down on his own erupting penis, emitting muffled groans and swallowing until Draco was finished. He held Draco’s penis tenderly in his mouth until it softened.

Afterwards, he rose stiffly to his feet, looking everywhere but at Draco, taking a moment to collect himself. Draco’s clear drawl broke the uneasy silence. “I suppose that was more house building.”

Harry looked up at Draco, brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Help me out here, Potter. Should I be afraid to touch you? Idiocy isn’t contagious is it?”

House building?

Oh. Ohhhh.

Harry smiled slowly.

“Uh, yeah, something like that.”

“I see, so I guess, that was doing what? Laying the foundation?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Harry heard the word, “Nutter,” whispered almost too softly to be heard and his smile widened.

Draco,” Harry held out his hand.

“Come with me. Back inside. Where you belong. With me.”

Draco placed his slender hand inside of Harry’s broader hand and entwined their fingers.

“Two nutters together, eh, Harry?”

“Yeah.”


Fin.