Touching the Untouchable

Author’s note: Alright, I have a couple of quick warnings for you. The first two chapters do not contain actual sex (gay or straight). It will have, but I apparently suck at writing hot gay teen sex scenes between Harry and Draco…so it doesn’t right now, but it will have. **WARNING** for angst/abuse/language. The rest of the chapters aren’t written yet, so if you don’t mind waiting, continue on. If you’re like me, though (and hate waiting for updates) I hope to finish the story tomorrow…hope to. I just hate coming to the end of a chapter and realizing that I have to wait for an update, so here’s your warning for that.

This story takes place mid-way through their first semester back at Hogwarts for their seventh year. (It’s not the beginning of the semester, but it’s not to Christmas either.) Harry killed Voldemort that summer (between his sixth and seventh years).

This IS a Harry/Draco story, but the other pairing in here is Ron and Hermione (as a couple). Also, I haven’t read any of the HP books or seen any of the movies, so if you see something that is just blatantly out of character, please let me know. I have my own opinions on things, but I also want this to be believable and realistic.

And lastly, no pressure to review it. If you feel so inclined to review it, of course, your reviews are appreciated, and any constructive criticism is absolutely welcome. Also, when you get to the end, if you have an idea of where you’d like this story to go, let me know. Enjoy!
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Touching the Untouchable by Graballz Chapter 1 Unforgivable


Harry sat on the cold stone floor, his bare back against the wall, the heels of his hands grinding into his eye sockets, trying to make himself stop crying. The wall was biting cold, and Harry pressed his hot flesh to it, stifling the gasp of pain at the contrasted icy feel of the stone, trying to atone for the unforgivable act he had just committed. While there was real shame and regret at the core of his problem, it had been caused and exacerbated by the Butterbeers and Firewhiskey he drank earlier at the Gryffindor house party. Gryffindor didn’t have the ‘party house’ reputation that Slytherin had, but everyone was feeling rather cheerful after Harry’s victory over Voldemort the previous summer. He had been a hero and was awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class, along with Ron and Hermione, his two best friends in the world. No, wait; make that former best friends in the entire world, because Harry was sure that, because of tonight, they wouldn’t want anything to do with him ever again.

They had come back to Hogwarts for their seventh year. They were at the top of the food chain this time, but the three of them never treated the first-years the way they themselves had been treated, or the way Draco Malfoy treated his first-year Slytherins. Harry had always felt uncomfortable being the center of attention, but it was something that he had grudgingly tolerated; it was a side effect of being the Boy Who Lived and now the Savior of the Wizarding and Muggle Worlds. Every time someone shook his hand or clapped him on the back, thanking him for saving their collective asses, he wanted to scream and ask why they didn’t thank Ron or Hermione or the Weasleys or any of the other heroes who had gone down fighting. He hadn’t asked for this; it had been dropped in his lap, and he had dealt with it as best he could. Now, his destiny was fulfilled, and Voldemort was dead. Now, Harry had to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. Obviously, there were job offers galore that made his head spin. London, Paris, New York, Rome, Berlin, Moscow, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Rio de Janeiro…he could have his pick from any number of top wizarding positions in any city he chose. And he didn’t even have his fucking academic degree yet!

Every time he received another job offer, he would crumple it into a ball and drop it, usually onto the floor of the Great Hall as he sat with his friends at mealtimes. Every time he tossed one away, Hermione would be under the table, snatching the paper and unfolding it, smoothing it, and cheerfully admonishing him for disregarding these splendid opportunities. It made Harry livid; not Hermione, of course, but the fact that it seemed like every single company and every single wizarding order in the world tried to outdo each other in attracting his attention, while Ron and Hermione had nothing! Well, Harry knew that they could and, in all likelihood, would take jobs at the Ministry, being Aurors or administrators, or perhaps at Hogwarts, stepping into the shoes of a retiring professor. It just burned him that they had done as much or more than he had in the War, and he was the one receiving all the credit. Okay, yes, so what if he HAD been the one to kill Voldemort? Harry had been hearing about that all of his life, so it didn’t even seem like that big of a fucking deal anymore. It was just one more thing on his to-do list. But Ron and Hermione had given up any hope at normal lives to befriend him, help him, protect him, and support him, even at the expense of their own health or grades. When he learned all kinds of ancient spells and curses to fight the Dark Lord, who had stayed up all night translating the documents and explaining them to Harry? Who was constantly sore from being Harry’s target practice, no matter how many Healing Charms were cast? Hermione and Ron had been there for him, unfailingly, through it all; now they weren’t even acknowledged, and that’s what burned Harry more than anything.

As seventh years, they could pretty much do anything they wanted, within reason, of course. Ron and Hermione had both been Gryffindor’s prefects since their fifth year, so that status alone afforded them their due respect, but being Harry’s right and left hands had rendered them untouchable. If you asked anyone who the most influential Slytherin was, hands down, it was Draco Malfoy: prefect. Same for Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff: the prefects. If you asked who the most influential Gryffindor was, you would receive the answer, usually whispered in awe, “Harry Potter.” If you asked who the prefects were, by name, you would generally get a confused face, followed by a stammered, “That one girl and the redhead.” Harry was the most powerful person in Gryffindor, and most would say in all of Hogwarts, and he wasn’t even a bloody prefect! In the back of his mind, he knew that Ron and Hermione, though they might be prefects, wouldn’t be able to pull rank on him like they did when forced, because of who he was. In the back of his mind, he resented that, even though he knew he wouldn’t have done anything to instigate a confrontation between them…until tonight. And that had been a completely fucked-up accident.

The party hadn’t been any one person’s idea; they just kind of decided to have one. Slytherin was infamous for debauched and spectacular parties, but this was the first year another house had even dared to emulate. They all had just felt so damn relieved that Voldemort was dead and they could get on with their lives, and they wanted to celebrate. Hermione hadn’t wanted the Butterbeers and Firewhiskey to be part of it, but Ron and Harry had convinced her it would be fine. The first few parties had been absolutely brilliant, especially since a couple of Butterbeers had given Ron the courage to profess his love for ‘Mione in the middle of the first party, which had led to an embarrassing amount of snogging and giggling. They were now a couple, and Harry couldn’t have been happier for them. Sometimes, yes, it made him wonder if he would ever find someone; being the One made it hard to be part of a twosome, but Hermione especially was ever-watchful, making sure that he didn’t feel left out.

The parties after that had been grand; Harry had more than his fair share of admirers, but he wanted something more than just a drunken one night stand, and because of that, didn’t act on any of the invitations he had been given. Gryffindor’s parties weren’t anything like the drunken orgies that were rumored to take place at Slytherin’s parties; drunken fistfights happened, of course, but Ron and Neville always took care of those swiftly. Everyone left their wands in their rooms, just to be on the safe side that no one was the recipient of a drunken hex. Except that not being within range of a wand to protect herself had very nearly been Hermione’s downfall tonight, and it was all Harry’s fault.

* * * * * *

Harry sat on the cold stone floor, trying to pull himself together. The alcohol had chipped away at his self-control, like now, and that was why he just couldn’t stop shaking and crying. It had been a hard week; Gryffindor had lost their Quidditch match to Hufflepuff, and Malfoy had scarcely let a moment pass when he hadn’t mocked Harry about it. The teasing had been harmless enough; Malfoy wasn’t near the prat he used to be, now that he wasn’t next in line to be Marked. It also didn’t hurt that he was now Lord Malfoy, since Lucius had been sentenced to the Kiss right after Harry killed Voldemort. Returning to Hogwarts without the pressure to spy on everyone and everything had done worlds for Malfoy’s mood, and instead of tormenting the three Gryffindors, he was actually more-or-less civil, with only occasional bouts of teasing or insults, but even those were more in jest than actual malice.

Harry liked the change in Malfoy more than he wanted to admit, but the Slytherin’s teasing had grated his nerves this week. On top of being off his Quidditch game, all of the pressure of being the Golden Boy had added up and added up; then Snape had failed him on a Potions pop quiz that Harry knew he should have passed, even by the slimmest of margins. The breaking point had been at dinner, right before the party was scheduled to start. Another job offer had arrived from a new place—Sydney, Australia—and Hermione had been less-than-cheerful in scolding him this time, chastising him for acting so ungrateful when he had the world at his feet. She confided that she had always wanted to go to Sydney, but being from a Muggle family, it was highly unlikely she would ever have the money. Ron was from a pure-blooded wizarding family, but they didn’t have money either. Hermione usually cooed over all of the exotic locations Harry might have the chance to visit or live, but because it was Sydney, she had actually gone so far as to imply he was being like Malfoy! He had glared at her and stormed back to his room, fuming that she could even think such a thing.

He had avoided Ron and Hermione at the party, preferring to sit on his conjured chair in the corner and downing Butterbeers like they were water. Ron had talked to him, trying to make light of the disagreement earlier, and that had helped Harry calm down. He wasn’t upset with ‘Mione anymore, but once the anger had faded and apologies made, all that was left was depression and self-loathing. The two of them had drifted back and forth between Harry in the corner and the rest of the party in the commons room, stealing a little private time every now and then for a romantic snog that just reeked of being in love. After witnessing what seemed like the millionth kiss, Harry had traded his Butterbeers in for Firewhiskey, which he had never drank before, but he was tired of drowning in loneliness and longing; he just wanted to make it go away; he just wanted to be numb for a while.

He didn’t really remember stumbling up the stairs to his room; he wasn’t a prefect, but he had gotten his own room anyway…one more fucking reminder that he was above the rules, just for being the fucking Chosen One. It was supposed to be Ron’s room as the second prefect, but Ron and Hermione had opted to shack up together in Hermione’s prefect suite on the girls’ side, even though Ron technically wasn’t supposed to be there. None of the Gryffindor girls minded; Ron wasn’t a threat to anyone, and he only had eyes for his love. They had announced it happily, graciously giving Harry the luxury on the boys’ side, thinking they were doing good. Harry had faked happiness, but truthfully, it was just salt in a wound that would never heal, because he could never just be Harry Potter. He would always be ‘Saint Potter’, and that just plain sucked. He also couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of abandonment, since Ron and Harry had excitedly made plans to “always be mates” as giddy first-years. Harry had taken it to mean best friends and roommates and thought Ron felt the same way, until they both realized that Ron was in love with Hermione. That had changed the nature of their promise, and even though they were still best friends, Harry sometimes wondered why it felt like everyone he had ever been close to was destined to abandon him at some point in his life, whether it was willing on their part or not.

Being in the room brought back all of those feelings, brought back the pain that he had been trying to wash away with the alcohol, and he had savagely kicked at his trunk and nightstand until he felt better. The room had suddenly become unbearably hot, and Harry had stripped down, pulling on just his satiny pajama bottoms that soothed his skin. He had just sat down on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, when Hermione had come in, shutting the door behind her to drown out the noise from downstairs. She had hugged Harry, had kissed him on the forehead, and had given him a backrub, trying to make him feel better and to make up for being so cross with him earlier. It felt like Heaven, or what Harry imagined Heaven should feel like, just being close to another human being. Truth be told, Harry thought Hermione was pretty, even if he personally wasn’t attracted to her. He was overjoyed with the thought of his two best friends making each other so happy, even if a shadow of jealousy flitted through his heart when he watched one of them talk about the other; seeing the Look on their faces; knowing that they were utterly and completely in love with each other.

His disastrous week and being plied with alcohol almost to the point of not being able to keep his balance, combined with Hermione’s damned need to check on him and soothe him, had left Harry in the throes of desperation, and he shamefully remembered the anguish in his voice as he asked Hermione if he could hold her, just this once, just to be close to someone. He remembered the slight anxiety in her eyes, probably due to Ron’s possible reaction, but this was Harry. She couldn’t refuse him, especially when those tender green eyes had looked up at her, begging for contact, and Hermione just didn’t have the heart to tell him no. They had lain on the large prefect’s bed, the one that should have been Ron’s bed, and Harry had slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest, intertwining his fingers with hers. He had slipped his other arm under her neck and across her body to hold her bicep. She was fully dressed in her party clothes, and he was naked from the waist up. He had sighed with relief as waves of comfort washed over him; she had shivered as his breath rushed past the sensitive parts of her neck and ear. That was when his self-control had failed him, inhibited by the alcohol he had consumed. He felt a stirring in his groin, a familiar hardness caused by Hermione’s body shuddering against his. The fingertips on her bicep had started to caress her arm lazily, almost of their own accord. His other hand, the one with their fingers intertwined, unfolded and softly stroked her palm, pushing her fingers apart as he threaded his fingers the length of hers, ever so softly back and forth.

* * * * * *

She had shivered again, snuggling back into him for a split second before the compassionate and comforting scene took an abrupt turn through Hell. Hermione had stiffened suddenly; the first thing she was aware of was a very uncomfortable erection that had begun to jut into her backside. Then horrible understanding dawned as Harry’s caressing fingers moved from her bicep toward the bed…Harry’s fingers were playing lightly over her left breast! Hermione had been too shocked to move or protest and her mind reeled when Harry dropped her hands to cup her right breast with his other hand!

Harry shifted behind her, to her relief, rising up on his right elbow, which meant he had to stop caressing her. She rolled onto her back, fully intending to look him in the face and confront him, but that was when the real nightmare began. In changing positions, she had placed her head directly on his right palm, and she felt him make a fist, a good chunk of her hair wrapped inside. Now, she couldn’t rise up. Drunk off his ass and horny as hell, Harry pinned her down more effectively by throwing a leg over her hips; oh god, she could feel his erect cock pressing into her hip! He then leaned over and planted a very wet and sloppy kiss on her lips. His breath reeked of Firewhiskey, but any protests were crushed by the forcefulness of his tongue as he practically shoved it down her throat. His other hand, the one not gripping her hair in an iron fist, had opened, palm down, directly on her chest, as he circled his palm over one breast, then the other. Her shirt fit snugly to her body, and Harry quickly became frustrated in trying to put his hand under her shirt from the hem. It was cut in a “V” shape, not shamefully low, but he grabbed one side of her collar and ripped the front of her shirt in half, allowing him easier access to the silk of her bra and her trembling stomach muscles. It was then that she snapped back to her senses and tried to push him off, but Harry hadn’t killed Voldemort by being weak. His muscles quivered with unreleased tension as his kisses turned hot and demanding.

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock when her best friend slid a calloused and tanned hand under the cup of her bra to fondle her bare breast, pinching the nipple into an aroused point. That was when he began slowly thrusting against her, and she knew that, due to his altered state of mind, she was about to be raped by one of the people she trusted most.