Seekers at Play

When coming off the pitch, having been soundly trounced by the Gryffindor eighth years, the last thing Draco Malfoy wanted to hear was that the Slytherin showers were mysteriously flooded.

He glared at his teammates—all fellow refugees from the past, determined to force their way into wizarding society if it killed them—eighth year Slytherins, in short—and did a smart about-face.

“Draco? Draco! You can’t—”

Ignoring Pansy, he jerked open the door to the Gryffindor changing room and headed for the showers.

To say that there was some confusion would be an understatement.

To say that Draco, soaked from the freezing rain, irritated, and frustrated, gave a shite would be a vast overstatement.

He stripped off his leathers, dropping them amidst the nests of scarlet and gold uniforms with careless ease. His fellow Slytherins did the same, courageous in the face of Gryffindor grumbling.

And then Draco caught sight of that particular wild bush of black hair and set course for one particular shower stall.

“Don’t even start, Potter,” he growled, closing the door, taking Potter’s washrag from his shocked-limp hand and scrubbing his armpits. “The one thing you must never tell a Malfoy is ‘You can’t.’ Peasants.”

Potter snatched back his washrag, then eyed it oddly and tossed it aside. “You daft bastard.”

Draco smirked and gave Potter a long glance, working his way slowly over the bits which counted most. There was a lot to count: Draco wasn’t certain he had enough numbers to do biology justice. “Such sweet talk. Hand me the soap so I can drop it, eh?”

Potter, who had looked baffled—though not as if he needed to defend his chastity—seemed to reconsider. His answering smirk was devastating. “You know what Quidditch Through the Ages hints they used to do with losing Seekers?”

“I suspect it might be something like the right corner of World Cup 1565 Tapestry in my bedroom. Amazing what they can do with a bit of wool and a keen eye for detail.”

For the first time in Draco’s experience, Potter seemed keenly interested in wizarding culture. “Your parents let you keep... that... in your bedroom?”

“Well, it was easier than explaining strange stains to visitors when it was hanging in the green parlor.”

“Uh, is that the wizarding equivalent of asking me up to look at your etchings?”

Draco sneered. “I didn’t invite you, that would be much too Hufflepuffian. But if you’re a good boy you might come to yourself tied to my bed in an artistic fashion. I was a wizarding scout, I know all about knots.”

Potter seemed to get his mental feet back under him. He actually leered. Vanquishing the Dark Lord had certainly unstoppered Harry Potter—and the rest of the wizarding world, especially the youthful bits who had a lot of living to make up for. “And are you always prepared?” Potter inquired, pressing himself very much into Draco’s space.

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “Why don’t you find out?”

Potter pressed closer. Draco was a little taller than the Boy Who Lived Twice, but not enough to sprain his neck when the snogging began. Hands moved, stroking over water-smoothed skin, still flushed from the game. Potter went for Draco’s neck, Draco went for Potter’s eager cock. Neither of them said anything silly, like ‘I’ve been dreaming of this all my life, baby’ or ‘Let me take you away from all this’. There was just that perfect moment when their cocks aligned and slid by each other, tentatively at first, enough to bring soft gasps, then faster, harder, as Potter’s hand, slicked with shampoo, clenched around both.

Draco drew back from their heated kiss and began to whisper. “I want you to pin my wrists to the tiles and fuck me so hard both our teams have to look in to make sure murder isn’t being done. I want you in my mouth—” He gasped and shuddered.

Potter licked his collarbone and moved those two delicious fingers which had invaded his bum. “I kind of like this way,” Harry breathed. “Hot and fast. And you’re going to come screaming like a banshee, I promise.”

“But I like—Merlin—things in me,” Draco muttered, clenching around those wonderful, vile fingers, that weren’t doing anything. “It’s... an unfortunate affliction, drove Mum absolutely mad when I was a child, though mostly I put things in my ears then.” He brutally pinched Potter’s nipple and Potter returned the favor, crooking those fingers just so and just pressing until Draco was shivering from overstimulation.

Potter chuckled like a true-born Dark Lord and didn’t relieve the pressure, just leaned in to snap at Draco’s collarbone. “Talk to me, Malfoy,” he hissed. “Tell me...”

Words were fast deserting Draco’s mind, but, hell, who needed to think to talk? “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going back to my dorm and take out the biggest Muggle fake dick I have. I’m going to twirl my tongue around it like this—” he helpfully demonstrated by dragging Harry’s mouth to his and licking circles around his tongue, “then I’m going to just barely lick the slit like this—” he darted at Harry’s lips, “then take it all—” he pulled back, “the way—” he began to drop to his knees, shuddering at the loss of those capable fingers, “down.” He met Harry’s eyes and proceeded to demonstrate exactly how much he liked inserting non-food items into certain orifices.

As he worked his way around Potter’s lovely girth, Draco experimentally tugged a few pubic hairs—Potter certainly enjoyed having his nipples savaged, so he wasn’t averse to pain—and was rewarded with a hand clenching in his hair and a helpless thrust.

Then he was snarling as Potter hauled him up and crushed his body back against the still-cold tiles, crushed his mouth with his—and then was pulling them both, as hot and fast as only near orgasm could demand.

No more words, no more demands, just hot, living flesh against flesh, nails rending two pale backs, moans half lost beneath the water’s spray.

And then the break as all the tension was released in jets of stringy white liquid.

They slumped against each other, only then noting how very quiet the room had grown.

Their eyes met. Draco silently bet on Weasley. Potter hedged. The door opened.

Longbottom stared at them, his mouth slowly forming a moue of utter horror.

“If you shut that door,” Pansy breathed from her enraptured position—which happened to have the best view—“I will hex your bits off.”

“Me, too,” Finnegan added from beside her.

Surprised by this agreement, Finnegan and Pansy eyed each other. They smiled. How rich a relationship could be when the people involved had the same hobbies.

Longbottom stepped back, waved his hands a bit, opened and shut his mouth, and settled for bolting. Everyone but Pansy and Finnegan followed suit. Harry cruelly shut the shower door and smirked at the somewhat thwarted—the shower door was clear, if wavy, glass—voyeurs’ curses.

Then Harry and Draco slumped against each other, shaking with silent laughter, until the new soul mates finally gave up and left to compare their fantasies in peace.

Harry stroked Draco’s fringe out of his eyes. “Think any of them noticed some of the scratches are half-healed?”

“I certainly hope not—how I stalked in and had my way with you makes a much better story than some stupid thing about bonding over months over the minutiae of wizarding etiquette.”

“Don’t speak ill of your mother’s ideas—that was a novel way of repaying your life debt to me. You don’t really want your date using the wrong fork at all those Ministry balls, now, do you?”

“Merlin, having a boor in the family would be nearly as bad as being Dark—worse, in some circles. But, speaking of balls...”

Harry grinned and set about making Draco’s—apparently infinite—fantasies about the Quidditch showers come true.