Of Bravery and Happy Trails

My first foray into slash! Hope you enjoy, and let me know how I do!

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Draco peered round the corner and into the sitting room of number twelve, Grimmauld Place for the third time in as many minutes. Yes, Potter was still there, still lying on the floor near the Christmas tree, supine, staring at Merlin-knew-what on the ceiling as the fire popped and licked at the logs with a crackle. Fairy lights lit the room in a soft glow, throwing little iridescent star-like patterns across the walls, somewhat incongruent with the dark, gloomy atmosphere the place usually exuded.

Clutching the book in his hand and wincing at the scraping noise his manicured nails made against the cover as he did so, Draco let his eyes be drawn, once again, to the small expanse of skin exposed by Potter’s jumper and shirt riding up his abdomen. He could just make out his former rival’s hipbones, he wore his trousers so low. But it was the vertical trail of dark hair from navel to plaid boxers that made his palms sweat, the book slipping in his too-tight grasp. It fell to the rug-covered floor with a muffled thump, and his heart leapt to his throat as he hastily crouched to retrieve it, grumbling a few choice words and hoping Potter assumed he’d only just got there.

“Don’t let Hermione see you treating a book that way.”

Rising and resuming his usual haughty manner, Draco strode into the room, looking down his sharp nose at Potter, who had (regretfully—no, thankfully) propped himself up on his elbows, thus obscuring the object of the Slytherin’s temporary fixation.

“If she loves books that much, I’m afraid to think what she does to them. Or with them.” Draco smirked, rather proud of his sick little innuendo. And of his ability to be clever in the face of, well, distractions. For Potter was now reclining once again, folding his arms back and using them as a cushion for his head.

And there it was again. Potter’s navel. His hipbones and that “V” they formed, the line of wispy hairs pointing down . . .

“You know, now we’re no longer enemies, Malfoy, I can tell you honestly and know you’ll understand I’m not being a git when I say you’re really not as funny as you think you are.”

Potter’s voice was conversational, casual, and even if he was indeed being a git, Draco couldn’t help feeling curious about and drawn in by this side of the Gryffindor he’d only recently been privy to.

Mostly he was just relieved Potter seemed not to have noticed him staring where he oughtn’t.

Draco smiled congenially, his grin like syrup—too sweet and heavy—and tossed the book on the sofa behind him. “That’s still twice as funny as you, Scarhead.” He turned and sat, arranging himself carefully to look as if he hadn’t, one arm stretched across the back of the sofa, the other on the armrest, a foot propped on the opposite knee.

Potter chortled, rising to his elbows again. “Scarhead? Honestly, Malfoy, we’re 17, not 12.”

Draco’s face grew warm. Must have been his close proximity to the fire. “Some things never go out of style, Potter. Not that you’d know anything about that.” He gave the boy a dismissive once-over, taking in the messy black hair, ridiculous glasses, horrid Weasley-knit jumper, worn corduroys, and beaten trainers. Really he should take them all off. No, that’s not what he meant. Or wanted. Merlin, Potter’s addled me! Has he cast Confundus? Doesn’t trust I’m on the straight and narrow yet?

“By the way, what was all that wandering past the room business before? Trying to rile Mrs. Black?”

Shit. Potter had noticed his stupid stalking earlier. Think, Draco, think! He stalled by shifting his position on the sofa, turning his body to stretch his legs out on the cushions and toeing the book onto the floor as if to spite Granger.

“I wanted to sit somewhere and read, and this is the only room in this blasted house that’s warm,” he explained in his bitchiest voice, immediately wanting to smack his forehead. Lame! As if there weren’t a handful of other rooms with fireplaces Draco could easily have used his wand to set aflame. As if they hadn’t learned warming charms ages ago. He hastily went on. “But I didn’t know what you were doing in here on the floor, staring off into space. Thought maybe it was some weird Dark Lord-fighting-related thing.” Merlin, shut up, Draco. He looked down at Potter to see his reaction to this blatantly idiotic explanation, but the firelight was glinting off his glasses in such a way that Draco couldn’t see his eyes.

“Just looking at the reflection of the fairy lights,” Potter said, tilting his chin upwards. Draco followed his gaze, noting the arcs of colored light painting the ceiling. He heard the other boy take a deep, contented-sounding breath and lowered his eyes, watching as Potter settled onto his back again, jumper pulling up to reveal his flat belly drawing in with his exhalation.

Draco swallowed and faced forward, settling back against the lone pillow on the sofa as he stared into the orange flames of the fire. How could Potter be so calm when there was a war on, a war he was at the center of? How could he just . . . look at fairy lights? Draco’s own father was out there, on the opposite side, his mother caught between. And while Draco was excellent at compartmentalization, his “mission” for the Dark Lord the previous year—the one that had finally resulted in his defection to Potter’s side—had broken down some of the mental barriers he had used for years to ignore parts of himself and his life he hadn’t the desire or courage to deal with.

“I love the smell of Christmas trees,” he heard Potter muse in a quiet voice. Draco risked a glance over and saw him plucking a few pine needles, rubbing them between his fingers, and bringing his hand to his nose.

“Me, too,” Draco replied honestly, almost without meaning to. “At the Manor, we’d put a tree in almost every room of the ground floor. For a few years I had one in my bedroom as well.” He missed that. Third year was the last for that little tradition. After that, when the rumors of the Dark Lord’s return grew, much in his home changed.

Potter dusted the pine needles off his hands with a few brisk claps. “So what were you going to read?”

Draco sighed with relief, happy Potter had put a stop to the “sharing.” “Some novel. The main character is an Animagus.”

“Really?” Potter sat up and crawled over to the sofa, picking up the small hardcover. Draco arched a brow at the Gryffindor’s obvious interest. He watched as the other boy scanned and flipped through the first few pages. Oh, right, Potter’s godfather, Sirius Black, was an Animagus.

Draco studied his longtime nemesis until he realized that, should Potter look up, it would appear inappropriate. Tearing his eyes away from the crown of tousled hair, the glasses slipping charmingly down the boy’s nose, the lips slightly parted, Draco pulled his hands to his lap and examined his nails as if they were notes for a History of Magic test. Yep, still clean.

“Uh, Malfoy?” Draco looked up, his palms inexplicably sweaty again. The fire behind Potter left his face shadowed, except for the spare, inconstant flashes of the fairy lights. He was kneeling beside the sofa now, at Draco’s calves.

When Draco said nothing, frozen by the solemn, but nervous tone in Potter’s voice—Was this it? Was he going to toss Draco out on his pure-blooded behind?—he continued, “I just want you to know, from me, that I believe you. I believe you’ve changed and you’re really with us. I saw you on the Astronomy Tower that night—” Draco flinched imperceptibly, looked away, “—and I know you didn’t want to do it, that you wouldn’t have. And the way you escaped, that was incredibly brave—”

“Stop!” Draco sat up abruptly, nearly kicking Potter in the face accidentally. He didn’t know why, but he was furious. He gripped the sofa cushions convulsively and gritted his teeth, breathing harshly through his nose.

If he weren’t so angry, Draco would have laughed at the stunned look on Potter’s face. Stupid bloody Gryffindor.

“I don’t—” he began, but Draco cut him off.

“Just shut up, Potter. You think you know everything. You and your lot, you think—” But Draco stopped. He had no idea how he meant to finish the sentence anyway. All he knew was that Potter’s look of confusion had transformed into one more familiar to him: anger. Firelight no longer hiding his eyes from Draco, he could see them sparking emerald, the set of his mouth tightening, hands balling into involuntary fists. He made to stand, but Draco reflexively grabbed his arm, and Potter yanked back, pulling the blond from the sofa into a heap on the floor.

Draco’s fingers twisted in the carpeting as he glared at Potter, affronted and frustrated. For his part, the Gryffindor looked slightly abashed, but eyed Draco warily. The Slytherin pushed himself up on his knees and shoved the other boy hard. “Why do I have to pick sides? Why can’t this whole thing just be over? Why can’t it end?” he cried.

“Sorry, I’ll die faster so you can get on with your life, Malfoy,” Potter fairly shouted.

Draco growled, shaking his head. “Always have to be the martyr, don’t you?” There was a glare on Potter’s glasses again, so Draco snatched them off and tossed them aside. He’d never seen the boy without them on; it was like looking at a different person.

Potter launched himself at Draco, knocking him backwards and pinning him down with his weight. Both were equally scrawny, however much Molly Weasley’s cooking may have restored some of Draco’s health after the trauma of the previous year. But the fight had suddenly gone out of the blond, without reason, just as it had started, and he didn’t even attempt to throw the other teenager off him. Sensing this, Potter looked down at him, panting, face close, Draco supposed, to study his expression.

Draco looked back, noting the twin indentations on the bridge of Potter’s nose where his glasses must rest, the thick, dark, long eyelashes, the dilated pupils. He closed his eyes against the sight, before he forgot himself and stared at Potter’s mouth. Merlin knew what would happen then.

But shutting out sight only enhanced his other senses, the sound of Potter’s breath huffing but slowing, the feel of it on his face, the smell of it—peppermint. His arms haphazardly holding Draco’s down, his heart beating at Draco’s chest, Draco’s own heart thumping away madly, dangerously.

And, Potter’s hipbones digging into his.

Draco’s cock twitched and he bit back a whimper. Oh, fuck, no.

Then, Potter . . . shifted. Against him. Into him. And was that—? No, it couldn’t be. But just to be sure, Draco opened his eyes, the bravest thing he’d ever done in his life, and lifted his hips, rotating them slightly.

Potter—Harry—gasped, eyes going wide, brilliantly green around the massive pupils. Mouth dropped open, he licked his lips, then bit the lower one before rocking back against Draco, no mistaking the hard line of his cock alongside the blond’s own rapidly swelling erection.

Draco let a moan escape, tossing his head restlessly as they continued rubbing against one another, building a sloppy rhythm. Having closed his eyes again, Draco was startled to feel Potter’s lips pressing softly but insistently against his, and he eagerly opened his mouth, meeting Harry’s questing tongue and sucking it. He was answered with a groan that reverberated through his own chest and stomach, and Draco lifted his arms out from under Harry’s, reaching down with one to palm his arse, clutching the other boy even tighter to him. With his other hand, Draco tugged on Harry’s jumper, drawing it up to finally touch the warm skin there, feel the slightly coarse texture of those hairs, dip his thumb into his navel.

In response, Harry’s kisses grew aggressive, deep, searching thrusts of the tongue coupled with his own hands tangling in Draco’s fine platinum hair, holding his head in place and plundering his mouth. He broke the kiss when Draco awkwardly attempted to unbutton his trousers with one hand, and the blond paused, wondering if he’d gone too far, broken the spell.

Harry pulled back, still panting, and shook his head as if to clear it. “You’re such a prat,” he declared. “But I still want—” he broke off, sitting atop Draco and looking down at himself. He brought his hand to the bulge in his trousers and squeezed, biting his lip.

White noise thundered in Draco’s ears to the beat of his frantic heart, to the blood pulsing in his painfully trapped cock. “You want--?”

Harry hunched over him, lip raw now, utterly still. Then, his hands suddenly flew to Draco’s trousers, deftly undoing the fly and zip and reaching into the Slytherin’s pants to tug out his cock. Draco yelped, hips jerking in response as he thanked Merlin and any attendant gods that the pack of Weasleys, Order members, and other two thirds of the Golden Trio were out making various holiday (and war) preparations and weren’t expected back for a few more hours.

Harry stroked Draco’s eager flesh, holding him firmly, running his thumb over the moistened head, and watching both his own ministrations and the other boy’s reactions with wonder. Draco bucked and moaned and squirmed, hardly believing Harry Potter, the little sod who’d had the gall not to befriend a Malfoy more than six years ago, was about to see him come all over himself.

That is, if Harry hadn’t chosen that moment to stop and make Draco hate him all over again instantaneously. Because really, what could be more petty?

But the Saviour of the Wizarding World made no move to dismount Draco, instead hastily pulling his jumper and t-shirt over his head at one go, then undoing his trousers and drawing out his own flushed, hard length, thick and beginning to ooze precome.

Draco swallowed the extra saliva moistening his throat and practically ripped his (much better fitting, tightly woven) jumper from his body, sitting up to grab at Harry’s shoulders and smashing their mouths together. He scooted forward, bringing their erections into contact and eliciting sharp, embarrassingly high pitched sounds from (thankfully) both of them. Harry worked his arms between their bodies and shoved Draco down, tugging the blond’s trousers and pants to his knees before rising to swiftly and somewhat comically divest himself of his own, and then resituated himself, straddling Draco’s thighs high up and encircling both cocks with his other hand, their sacs nestling hotly against one another’s. He sat there, squinting at Draco but looking no less fantastically gorgeous, and shook his head again, a small smile tugging at his abnormally red lips.

“What? Don’t stop, don’t stop. I mean, go on. Potter. Potter?” Draco was whining now, but he never had any qualms about whining in the past, and he wasn’t about to start having them at this precise moment.

“D-draco. I can’t believe— I, God, I want—” And with that utter nonsense, Harry began vigorously stroking the two shafts in his hand, twisting, spreading the leaking wetness from the heads and groaning. Draco added his own wanton moans to Harry’s, not caring that he likely sounded ridiculous, watching as the Gryffindor squeezed his eyes shut and fell forward a bit, bracing himself with a hand on Draco’s chest.

Thrusting up against Harry’s delicious weight on his lower body, Draco threw his arms out and scraped his knuckles along the threadbare carpet, turning his hands over to pull at the ancient pile with sweat-slick fingers, a faint ripping sound signaling that he’d managed to grasp the fiber so hard some had torn free. He wanted this to never end, and he wanted to come, and he wanted Potter to flip him over and fuck him so hard Granger and Weasley and all the stupid Order members would notice him walking and sitting funny and know their Golden Boy had been the one to do it to him.

Harry settled the matter for him, crushing their pelvises together as he strained forward, hand on Draco’s chest moving to his shoulder as he fisted their cocks ever faster and more tightly, until Draco thought all his internal organs had liquefied and rushed south, the pressure in his scrotum building, building until, with a final sloppy and ineffectual arching of his hips, Draco came in great, hot spurts across his stomach and chest, a gasp taking the place of the string of expletives streaming through his useless brain—shit fuck god bloody fucking hell yes!

Above him, Harry panted, wide-eyed, looking down at the pools of milky come painting Draco’s body. He released his partner’s spent cock and sat up, licking his lips, near-sightedly fixating on Draco’s half-shut eyes before giving himself what looked like a painfully tight squeeze.

“Ah! Draco,” he groaned and clambered up the blond’s torso to perch lightly on his belly, knees gripping the other boy’s sides. Still out of breath and utterly mindless, Draco could only watch, transfixed, as Harry resumed frantically stroking his prick, the head now an angry red, shaft glistening with his own (and Draco’s) precome, a wet smacking sound accompanying each furious jerk of his wrist.

The Slytherin reached up, slid a hand across Harry’s trembling stomach in wonderment, the damp patch of hair tickling his palm.

Then, Harry was crying out his orgasm, warm splashes of semen striping Draco’s chest and neck, some hitting his chin, before The Boy Who Lived collapsed next to him, rolling over onto his back and breathing a chorus of gasps.

And Draco, sated, stared at the ceiling, each fairy light a strange beacon in the near darkness now the fire had burned low, twinkling asterisks like hundreds of notes to self he had yet to write.