Of New Years...

Originally, I was going to write this as a stand-alone one-shot sequel of sorts to my other H/D, "Of Bravery and Happy Trails." BUT, my porny muse would not be silenced, so I will attempt to keep it going.

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The little snitches whirred around and among the branches of Draco’s miniature Christmas tree, jostling tiny fairy lights and occasionally skimming the magically twinkling star at the top. He closed his eyes and listened to them zing this way and that, inhaled the crisp, clean scent of the fir, its needles, sap, and bark.

New Year’s Day. He supposed it was time to get rid of it. Even if The Boy Who Lived had been the one to give it to him, one of a small handful of Christmas presents he’d received here with the Order of the Phoenix at Grimmauld Place. It certainly wasn’t safe for his mother to send him anything, or him her, what with his location carefully guarded to protect him from the wrath of the Death Eaters he’d betrayed. Death Eaters like his father.

So, there’d been a rather pathetic, largely depressing effort to include Draco in the holiday gift-giving on Christmas Day: Molly Weasley had knit him some hideous socks, gloves, and a hat, likely in an effort to shut him up about being cold all the time. Really, it wasn’t his fault he’d run from the Death Eaters in summer and been unprepared for fall and winter.

The Ginger twins gave him a box of sweets from their shop, making a crack about Draco’s mum sending him chocolates at school on a weekly basis, but Draco had the good sense not to eat them this time around; he remembered the chaos those two had caused fifth year with their products. He’d been civil about the gift, though, much as it pained him, thanking them politely and mumbling something about not wanting to squander the sweets at one go.

Granger had handed him a book, some ancient tome on potions he was pretty sure his family already had a copy of in the Manor’s library, but he offered a small smile and flipped through a few pages perfunctorily, smile growing genuine (and amused) when she insisted it came from Ron as well. Weaselbee looked distinctly red in the face, freckles nearly disappearing, as Granger elbowed him and he nodded sharply in confirmation. Right, Draco thought. If Weasley had a hand in this I’ll spell my hair black.

Finally, Potter had set a bizarrely wrapped gift on the carpet in front of Draco, leveling him with an unnervingly steady gaze and murmuring, “Happy Christmas, Malfoy.”

Ah, then Potter wanking them both into oblivion on Christmas Eve hadn’t been Draco’s gift.

Draco’d felt his face flush at the recent memory and hurriedly lowered his no doubt panicked eyes in order to set about unwrapping the strange present. It was the last time he’d made eye contact with Potter for going on a week, and, now, reclining on the bed in his room, he could barely believe he’d had the ability for those few fleeting seconds then. Stupid Potter and his stealth gazing and stealth gift-giving.

He’d taken as quiet a breath as possible to steady himself, hating that he even had to do so, and over Potter, and tugged at the ribbon tied around the base of what appeared to be a pyramid. Carefully, he removed the loosened paper—gold with red bells because apparently everything had to be Gryffindor around here—and blinked mutely at the small tree, its phalanx of tiny snitches taking flight with a charming hum, the fairy lights and treetop star sparkling delicately.

“You said you always had a lot of Christmas trees at the Manor, so I had Hermione help me transfigure a branch from ours and make the decorations. I thought you might like to keep this up in your room until New Year’s or something, since you spend so much time there.”

I’m going to kill him, Draco had thought, snapping his gaping mouth shut, teeth clacking. I’ll do the Dark Lord’s job for him, rejoin my parents, and all will be right in the pureblood world. It was the first time Draco’d ever considered the idea that Potter’d been sorted into the wrong house; clearly, this was a crap Hufflepuff thing to do, so touchy-feely and-and thoughtful. How dare the wanker (Draco grimaced at his own choice of insults) care about him—and in front of other people!

He’d swallowed a sarcastic remark about Potter wanting to remind him that Draco had never once caught the snitch while playing Quidditch against him and instead offered as sincere-sounding a “thank you” as he was capable at the moment, given the thick cloud of nonsensical but potent outrage that bubbled up in his belly. He’d raised his eyes as high as Potter’s mouth before quickly focusing on his tree again, the other boy’s chapped lips reminding him of how the Gryffindor had bitten them as he’d brought them both to climax the night before.

And that’s how Draco had spent the rest of the morning, sitting and watching the snitches and fairy lights on his personal Christmas tree, gazing at the star which pulsed with its bit of magic, figuring it would be rude to adjourn to his room as usual, until they were all called in to an early Christmas dinner where Draco sat and ate silently, grateful when it was time for yet another Order meeting to which he was not invited.

Because then he could finally, finally, take his tree upstairs, find some solitude, have a bath…and wank his brains into liquefaction.

He’d told himself it would just be that once, the one time he’d allow the images of his little tryst with Harry bloody Potter to run across the back of his eyelids, starting with that first glimpse of happy trail, then skipping to Draco pinned, the feel of Potter hard against him, the shock of it, the frottage, kissing, moaning, stripping, his fellow Seeker’s hand wrapped around their cocks, shafts held tightly together as Potter wanked them, Draco coming, and then, most deliciously filthy of all, Potter straddling his abdomen and shooting onto his chest, neck, and chin.

Then he’d have gotten it out of his system, so to speak, the images and desire for a repeat performance floating in the bathwater along with his spent semen. After all, Draco was highly skilled at disciplining his mind; in fact, “discipline” was too strong a word it came to him so naturally. Like the time he’d inexplicably begun fantasizing about Goyle, which was unacceptable. So he’d found a hulking beater from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, seduced him, and bribed him. Troublesome Goyle fantasies gone, problem solved. Draco expected his similar…difficulties with Potter to go much the same. Which is to say they would end, through the sheer power of his will.

Except they hadn’t.

The morning after Christmas found Draco in his bed, wanking frantically, the sound of Potter’s moans, the heat and slickness of his hand, the green eyes squinting down at him without glasses but still devouring him—these and more rushed unbidden to Draco’s mind as he arched off the mattress, toes curling as he orgasmed with a jaw-clenched whimper.

The next five days passed much the same, with Draco rising early, casting a Silencing charm, wanking, cleaning up, going down to breakfast (he’d learned that Potter liked to sleep in relatively late), returning to his room to read, stare at the tree, write letters to his mother he knew would never be delivered, lie on his bed or sleep, then possibly wanking again before supper, only to have his bath and wank once more as he settled in for the evening. Potter and his cohorts, especially Granger, had attempted to talk with him the little he was downstairs, but he kept his responses short, though polite, and escaped to his room again as soon as would not be deemed rude.

With such a schedule, he’d managed quite successfully to avoid having a single conversation with his former nemesis.

Draco had vowed, just that morning upon waking, cock stiff as ever, that with the New Year there would be a new routine. One that would not include wanking to images of Harry Potter. And there he’d sat, wondering if he could touch himself at all anymore without thinking of the Gryffindor, deciding he’d better not risk it, and taking the most frigid, wilting of cold showers, emerging disgruntled but determined, confident in himself and the added incentive the New Year gave him.

Only he’d missed his usual breakfast time. What if Potter was down there? Eating? Sipping tea with those bitten lips of his? Brushing crumbs away with those hands…

And just like that, ridiculously, Draco’s traitorous cock had sprung back to attention, tenting the towel wrapped around his waist. Fucking bloody hell. Was he going to have to live up here?

Thankfully, sometime after Draco had dressed, refusing to touch himself and thinking of repulsive images like Hagrid in garters, he’d heard Moody’s booming voice calling some “strategy” meeting to order, and he’d been able to sneak down to the kitchen, grab a few things to quiet his voracious stomach at least, and return to his room unnoticed.

Now here he lay, staring at the bloody tree and hoping the House Elf would still bring his tea without having been asked at breakfast. He’d summon the thing, but it seemed to have specific instructions regarding him, and he didn’t want to ruffle any Order of the Phoenix feathers. He was an outsider yet, not to be trusted with much. And where would he go, what would he do if forced to leave this place, leave Potter and his band of righteous goody-goodies?

They probably thought he was plotting something up here, sequestered alone for hours on end. How long before someone . . .

Knock knock knock.

Shit. Draco scrambled to sit up in bed, grabbed the potions book Granger’d given him, opened it to a random page halfway through. At least the knock had been quiet, almost tentative. Not an “about to throw your arse out” sort of pounding.

“Yes?”

The dark wood-paneled door creaked open and Potter stepped through, a small, though pleasant enough smile on his face. He nodded in greeting, dark hair unkempt as ever. “Hi, Malfoy. Um, don’t mean to bother you, but um,” he turned, closing the door behind him, then shoving his hands in his pockets before facing Draco again and continuing, “You don’t leave me much choice.”

Draco’s heart thudded in his chest, his stomach, his throat. He hadn’t known there were three in there, ready to thump around. Why in bloody hell had Potter closed the door? Draco swallowed thickly, palm sweaty against the page he was holding open, and searched every corner of his mind not filled with naughty thoughts of Potter doing naughty things to him—or of himself doing naughty things to Potter—for something to say. It was a short, fruitless search.

Instead, he clapped the book shut, sat up fully, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, arching a quizzical eyebrow and hoping his silence would be read as impatience or nonchalance. Anything but the terror it was.

Potter shuffled his feet. “Wearing your new socks, I see,” he said rather lamely, gesturing at Draco with one shoulder.

Draco’s trouser legs had ridden up, revealing the thick, woolen socks Mrs. Weasley had made. He bent to adjust his cuffs and stood, unaccountably embarrassed. “It’s cold,” he stated, throwing his arms wide as if Potter had just made the dumbest observation in the world, thus forcing Draco to give a similarly dimwitted explanation in return.

Potter sighed, gripping his thighs in his pockets. “You could start a fire,” he suggested.

“I know,” Draco replied somewhat snidely, looking out the frost-dusted window. “But only my feet were cold.”

“Right,” Potter mumbled, and Draco risked a glance at the Gryffindor only to find him eying the way the blond now hugged himself, arms folded across his chest.

The Golden Boy took a few steps forward and paused when Draco immediately, reflexively backed up, maintaining the distance between them. Another exasperated sigh, and Potter removed one hand from his pocket to run it through the thick, black mop he called his hair. “Look, Malfoy, was it not…did you not…like it?”

Fuck yes, Draco thought before the panic of Potter broaching the topic seized him. There went his three hearts again, and his lungs seemed to be having a hard time keeping up. He stared hard at a spot on the wall just over Potter’s shoulder, waiting for his mental discipline to kick in. He could manage one syllable, couldn’t he?

Having worked up the courage—or, perhaps, sense of pride that’d been missing since his father had been sent to Azkaban the year or so before—to answer Potter with a resounding “No” and put an end to this whole ridiculous, masturbatory nonsense, Draco had barely opened his mouth before the other boy rudely decided he had more to say first.

“I mean, I know you liked part of it at least, or you wouldn’t have, you know,” Potter shoved his hand back in his pocket, flushing.

“Come?” Draco supplied with a smirk, happy to witness his former rival’s Gryffindor courage crack in the face of such frankness. It gave his own waning fortitude just the boost he needed, and he unfolded his arms, taking a stride forward and meeting Potter’s suddenly shy, green gaze for the first time in a week. Draco shrugged casually. “It was all right.”

Making eye contact had been a mistake, for Draco watched as Potter’s diffidence abruptly evaporated, shifting first to confusion, then incredulity, before the green of his irises darkened fascinatingly in aggravation. “‘All right’? Having someone—let alone your nemesis for the past six years—shoot his load all over you strikes me as the sort of thing one would feel strongly about in one direction or the other!” he grit out, voice rising with nearly every word. He whipped his wand out of his back pocket and cast a Silencing charm, followed by Colloportus on the door. Taking another step closer—only about a foot between them now—he tucked his wand away and glared at the blond, hands clenching at his sides.

Draco swallowed drily, moving to back away but coming up against walls on either side, cornered. Of course it had been better than “all right”—what had he been wanking over this past week, and, face it, what was he going to continue to wank over for who knew how many days to come?—but he wasn’t about to admit that to Potter. Exactly where would that get him? It’s not like he…fancied him or anything. And even if he did, the moment Draco hurt his big, dramatic Gryffindor feelings, the Slytherin would likely be blamed and mistrusted by the entire Order all over again. Shoved out the door and left to fend for himself. He’d be captured or dead in less than a week.

Regrouping, Draco assumed the arrogant posture he thought of as his trademark, leaning one shoulder against the wall and looking around the room disinterestedly. “I can see you’ve imagined some elaborate drama going on between us, Potter, but it was just a bit of fun, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Which in no way explains why you’ve been going to such great lengths to avoid me,” Potter countered smartly.

“What?! What, is that what you think?” Draco nearly forgot for a moment that the foolhardy git was right. He pushed off the wall, standing toe-to-toe with the scruffy-looking Saviour of the Wizarding World, and glared down his nose at him. He was only a couple inches taller, but it was better than nothing. “I’m not avoiding anything, Potter! What do you expect me to do? I’m the bloody black sheep around here, in the House of Black, no less! And no matter how many Christmas presents you give me, that’s not going to change!”

“You know, for a Slytherin, you’re a terrible liar, Malfoy,” Potter declared, not backing down. He narrowed his eyes, appearing to consider something. “Or, maybe you’ve been waiting for me to provide the opportunity for a fight. Is that it?” Somehow, he managed to get closer without touching Draco, one foot wedged between the blond’s. Draco could feel his warm breath on his face, smelled a hint of peppermint. “Is that what you need to ‘get in the mood’? Is that why you’re so civil to me all the time downstairs? Don’t want to get hard around company?” Potter’s voice had gone low and gravelly, and he stepped into Draco, moving a hand to his waist, mouth to his ear. “How long have you been getting off on our mutual animosity, all our little scraps and skirmishes?”

Draco shivered as Potter’s breath caressed the length of his body from the inside, the cool fire of it contrasting with the searing heat of the hand at his waist. It took every ounce of his meager willpower, every last shred of his dignity, not to moan, beg the boy to touch him more, or tackle him to the ground and rip his ill-fitting clothes off.

As it was, his nervous energy manifested in a small chuckle, brittle and painful to his own ears, but potentially devil-may-care to Potter. “I must say it was satisfying to stomp on your face at the start of sixth year. The sound your nose made when it broke…yes, that I liked,” Draco purred. In truth, he’d never found Potter attractive until he’d been trapped with him in this blasted house. He really, honestly couldn’t stand the boy all through school, the favoritism Dumbledore clearly showed him, the whining about his fame, all the Quidditch wins, the inferiors he associated with. Although, a few times he’d allowed himself to wonder what it would have been like if the Gryffindor had accepted his offer of friendship, been Sorted into Slytherin, or both. They could have ruled Hogwarts together…

“There you go again, trying to provoke me. Shameless,” Potter hissed in his ear and, with a Seeker’s speed, gripped the inside of Draco’s arms at the elbows and shoved, pinning him.

Draco gasped as his head thunked dully against the wall behind, stars shooting across his vision, and Potter closed in, mouth wetly, clumsily assaulting his own. His cock had been interested in the proceedings from the moment the other boy had stepped into the room, but now, in response to actual physical contact, it hardened fully, straining insistently against his fly.

Bloody fucking—how did this-- Draco mentally stuttered as Potter pressed forward, maneuvering one thigh between his, bodies now flush, the buttons on the Gryffindor’s shirt digging into his ribs. At least he knew how much the presumptuous prat wanted this—well, of course he did; Draco was a right good fuck, and Potter didn’t even know the half of it—judging by the erection the blond could feel practically bursting through the other teenager’s trousers. The Slytherin couldn’t help but rotate his hips, hungry for the friction, and Potter made a noise of approval, running his tongue along the roof of Draco’s mouth before finding and tangling with the blond’s.

Just as Draco began kissing back in earnest, Potter pulled away, releasing his arms and removing the divine heat and pressure of his thigh and cock. Taking off his glasses, he tossed them on the bed behind, and Draco once again marveled at the sight of those large green eyes peering at him with no barrier between. The Slytherin pulled in his lips, saliva from the messy kiss cooling around his mouth, and stared, curious, eager, and a touch scared, as Potter tilted his head like something had just occurred to him.

“You didn’t give a gift to anyone. You didn’t even make an effort, did you? Well I’m going to make a gift of you, Malfoy.” And Potter’s hands found Draco’s belt, undid it, savagely darkened eyes never leaving his as the Gryffindor lowered himself to his knees.

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I cut it at what felt a natural (read: cliffhanger-y) stopping point (sorry, I know it's super-evil!). I should be able to write and update more in a few weeks. I hope it's enjoyable so far!