The Gryffindor Common Room falls silent for a split second when Harry walks in, then erupts in a fresh round of whispers. Just like it has every bloody day for this entire bloody week. Just like the Great Hall has, and the corridors between classrooms, and… Damn Anthony Goldstein. Harry’s going to hex his bits off the next time he sees him.
Harry flops down onto a sofa and tries to ignore it. Rise above it all, as Hermione said. If he doesn’t respond, the gossip will eventually run its course. A nearby group of third year girls erupt in twitters of laughter, and Harry glowers at them. They all look away, but five seconds later they’re back to giggling. Harry slides his fingers under his glasses to rub at his eyes. What a nightmare.
“Hey, mate,” Ron says as he drops onto the chair sitting kitty-corner to Harry’s sofa. “Are… you alright?”
Harry yanks his hands away from his face. “No, Ron, I am not alright. And I’m going to get a lot worse before too long.”
“Worse?” Ron asks hesitantly, as if he doesn’t really want the answer but feels that as Harry’s best mate he’s supposed to ask anyhow.
“Yes, worse. Because they’re sure to throw me in Azkaban after I bloody well murder Goldstein.”
Ron sighs. “I know it’s bad, but I’d have thought you’d be used to people talking about you by now.”
“All that rubbish with Voldemort,” The third year girls flinch at the use of the Dark Lord’s name, and Harry fixes them with another glare. “Voldemort,” he repeats louder, “was bad, but this is so much worse. This is personal, and it’s just humiliating.” Harry buries his face in his hands and mumbles a muffled “Gonna murder Goldstein,” into his palms.
Ron’s hand claps down on his shoulder, large and warm and reassuring. “Look, I know you didn’t want to be outed just yet,” he says.
“Too right,” Harry mutters.
“And probably not in this much detail. I mean, I for one could have lived quite happily without knowing how much you like to…” Ron trails off as Harry lifts his head and scowls at him. “Right. Yes. That’s beside the point. My point is that this is shit, but it’ll all blow over soon enough. You just need to…”
“I swear to god, Ron, if you tell me to rise above it I’m going to go to Azkaban for two counts of murder,” Harry grumbles.
“I was going to suggest getting away from it, actually,” Ron says.
“Yeah,” Ron says, and leans close to continue in a much lower voice. “If you go down to the Great Hall for dinner, it’s just going to be more of the same, people staring and whispering, and then you’ll get so wound-up and anxious that you’ll hardly be able to eat a bite.”
Harry thinks back to breakfast that morning. He’d barely been able to choke down a slice of toast while the gossip flew around him. Ron and Hermione were wonderful, sitting on either side of him and sending dark looks to any of the Gryffindors who dared say anything about him. But they couldn’t stop the rest of the Hall from talking.
Stupid bloody Goldstein. It was just meant to be a bit of fun. They’d been meeting up for a few weeks in empty classrooms and deserted corridors, and for the first time in his life, Harry felt like a normal student, having normal teenage trysts with another student. But then Goldstein had wanted to make their relationship public. Harry had resisted, because they’d only been together for a few weeks and he wanted to make sure that this was something stable and long-term before going through the hassle that coming out would cause. And besides, a few quickies in dusty old classrooms did not a relationship make.
It might’ve been a mistake to point out that last bit, in retrospect.
In revenge, Goldstein had told everyone, in agonizing detail, exactly what he’d gotten up to with The Boy Who Lived to Shag Other Boys. And the entire school had eaten it up. Harry doesn’t even want to know what the Prophet is saying about him. He’s refused to look at the papers all week.
“What do you suggest, then?” Harry asks Ron.
“Grab something in the kitchens, and then go take a bath,” Ron says, then leans a bit closer and lowers his voice even more. “The password to the Prefect’s bath is ‘purple thistle.’ There shouldn’t be anyone there during the dinner hour.”
Harry feels his mouth quirk up in the first genuine smile he’s given since all this mess started on Monday. Times like this, he’s reminded why Ron’s his best mate. “Ron, that’s really thoughtful of you.”
“Yeah, must be Hermione’s influence,” he says, then grins. “And if you still feel like murdering him later, well, what are best mates for if not to help you Vanish the body afterward?”
Harry laughs. “Thanks, Ron.”
Things seem a little brighter already.
The Prefect’s bathroom is just like he remembered it. The line of toilet stalls tucked against the left side, the row of cabinets holding towels on the right, and the monstrous bathtub with all of the jeweled taps around its edge. Harry switches some of them on at random and strips down as the tub fills. He kicks his clothing into a haphazard heap on the tiled floor, then slips into the tub with a deep sigh. There’s a ledge that runs around its perimeter at just the perfect depth for sitting on. When the tub fills and the taps switch themselves off, the water just covers the tops of Harry’s shoulders. He sighs again and lets his head lean back against the lip of the tub.
As Ron had suggested, Harry feels the soothing warmth of the water leach away his tension. Harry lets his eyes fall shut and for a while there’s no school, no rumors and gossip and staring, and no Goldstein.
He soaks for almost twenty minutes, until the grumbling of his stomach grows too much to ignore. Ron had suggested a stop at the kitchens first, but Harry had come straight here. Maybe next time he’ll eat first and then have a longer soak.
And there will definitely be a next time, Harry thinks as he hauls himself out of the tub and sets it to draining with a flick of his wand. This is the most human he’s felt all week. As the water and bubbles whirl away down the drain, Harry briskly rubs himself dry with a towel, then dresses. The last of the water vanishes as he ties his shoelaces, and he stands and stretches.
He makes a mental note to thank Ron for this as he settles his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders. Not wanting to get his friend in trouble for abusing his Prefect privileges, Harry doesn’t want to take any chances with being seen entering or exiting the bathroom. He undoes the locking spells he’d placed on the door, and is just reaching for the handle when the door swings open.
Harry leaps back just in time to keep from being hit, and Malfoy walks into the room, balancing a rolled-up towel and an armful of bottles and jars, clearly intending to bathe. Harry should have spoken up right then and there, but instead he hesitates while Malfoy’s shrewd gaze sweeps over the room. The last time he’d startled Malfoy in a bathroom, it hadn’t exactly ended well.
But just as Harry makes up his mind and opens his mouth to speak, Malfoy turns to the door and begins to ward it shut. Not just with a few simple locking spells to ensure his privacy, but really advanced stuff that even the Professors would have to work at to get open. Harry shuts his mouth. What’s Malfoy up to that he needs to keep people out so badly?
Harry intends to find out.
He hasn’t seen much of Malfoy after returning to Hogwarts. They only share two classes, and eighth year students aren’t allowed to play Quidditch. But from what Harry has seen, Malfoy appears to have straightened himself out. He no longer taunts other students, just keeps his head down and does his schoolwork. He and Harry have come to a sort of truce, though they’ve never discussed anything like that. They’ve never discussed anything at all, just settled into ignoring each other, and it’s the best he’s ever gotten along with Malfoy with each of them pretending the other doesn’t exist.
But what if that’s just a ruse? What if Malfoy is only playing the reformed Death Eater and model student so he can…
Harry’s mind draws a blank there, because the war is over and he’s known for a while that Malfoy’s not really evil, just misguided, and with a father like Lucius Malfoy who wouldn’t be? But now Malfoy’s finished warding the door, and Harry’s pretty sure that some of the spells he used aren’t quite legal, and when he turns away and walks toward the tub, Harry follows him without thinking.
The soles of his trainers make no sound on the tile floor as he crosses the room and presses himself into a corner by the cabinet full of towels where he’ll have a good view of the room. He watches as Malfoy bustles around, purposefully switching on taps and lining up his bottles and jars along the rim of the tub. He sets his rolled-up towel just beside them and then begins slipping the buttons of his robe open one by one.
Harry’s stomach twists at that, because Malfoy’s not doing anything but getting ready to take a bath, and maybe he just really likes his privacy. Harry nearly opens his mouth to tell Malfoy he’s not alone, but then he thinks of all those spells Malfoy cast on the door. He clearly doesn’t want to be disturbed, and he’ll absolutely lose his shit if he finds out that Harry is here, and they may not be friends or anything even close to it, but Harry really doesn’t want to shatter the fragile peace they’ve reached this year. Malfoy’s robes fall from his shoulders, and he folds them up into a neat little square before setting them aside and reaching for the hem of his sweater.
Well, alright then. Harry will just close his eyes until all of this is over, and when Malfoy leaves Harry will sneak out, and Malfoy will never have to find out about this because Harry will never breathe a word of it to anyone. He’ll take this secret to his grave.
He shuts his eyes and listens to the gentle rush of the tub filling, and it’s a relief that he can’t hear the soft rustle of Malfoy undressing. Harry imagines him taking off his jumper, loosening his tie, flicking open the buttons of his shirt and shrugging out of it. Maybe he could take just one quick peek? That would be okay, wouldn’t it? It’s just that Malfoy’s really fit – he may be a git, but he’s a really pretty git, and Harry’d have to be blind not to notice – and even though Harry knows he shouldn’t, well, just one peek wouldn’t hurt anything. It’s not like he’s some sort of pervert or something. Just someone trapped in a room with another very attractive person who is, right at this moment, getting naked. And he’s only human, isn’t he? And not just human, but an eighteen-year-old boy. Surely no one could blame him for…
No. Harry bites the inside of his cheek and squeezes his eyes shut more firmly. He’ll be a gentleman about this if it kills him. Which it won’t because it’s not that hard to keep his eyes to himself. He’s done if for years, after all, at urinals and in the showers after a Quidditch match, and—
The taps switch off, and in the perfect silence that follows, Malfoy’s breath catches.
Harry can’t help it; his eyes fly open.
Malfoy’s naked now, and standing on the ledge that runs around the inside of the tub with the water lapping at his thighs. His half-hard prick catches Harry’s attention first and it’s just as long and perfect as the rest of Malfoy. Then Harry notices Malfoy’s face, and the way he’s staring enraptured at his towel, how his breathing speeds up a little, and his prick twitches and fills a bit more.
That’s Malfoy’s secret, that he gets off on towels?
But then Harry realizes that Malfoy’s looking at something inside the towel, and he edges a bit closer to get a better look. He needn’t have bothered, because Malfoy picks it up just then and Harry stops dead in his tracks because it all makes sense, the secrecy and the warding of the door, and Harry really should go back to his corner now and shut his eyes.
He really should, but all he can do is stare at the large dildo that Malfoy holds up. The thing is dark purple, and nearly as long as Harry’s forearm and about as thick around as his wrist. He’s sure he’s staring at it every bit as transfixed as Malfoy is and for a moment he can’t breathe, because he knows exactly what Malfoy’s going to do with that thing, because what else would he do with it? Dildos are for fucking, and Harry had no idea Malfoy’s even gay.
Right. None of his business. Corner, closed eyes. Now.
Instead, Harry edges closer as Malfoy sets down his toy and palms his prick slowly with his right hand while he gently trails the fingertips of his left hand up and down his inner thigh. He’s teasing himself, dragging it out, and it’s driving Harry half-mad. He’s starting to get hard watching this, even though he knows it’s wrong and guilt is already gnawing at his ribs, but he can’t look away.
Malfoy’s breath hitches as his left hand cups his bollocks and gives them a gentle squeeze, and Harry has to reach down and adjust his prick where it presses painfully against his zip. Malfoy leans forward so that the tops of his thighs press against the lip of the tub and he picks up a little jar and twists it open. He dips the fingers of his left hand in, and when they come out they’re coated in something shiny. Leaning forward and bracing his right hand against the tile floor, Malfoy reaches behind himself and…
Oh god. Corner, corner corner corner. Corner, eyes shut, now. Harry’s turned around and on his way back there, fully intending to sit down and close his eyes and plug his ears and pray that Malfoy finishes soon, but a low groan brings him to a stop. Against all his better judgment – which, to be honest, has mostly abandoned him anyhow – he risks a peek.
Malfoy’s eyes are closed and his lips are parted and a delicate blush colors his cheeks, and as Harry watches, he arches his back and shifts his hips. The muscles of his forearm jump beneath his skin as he works his fingers in and out of himself, the skull and snake of his Mark twitching faintly, and somehow even that’s unbearably arousing to Harry. Malfoy groans again, this sound softer and breathier than the first, and before Harry can stop himself his feet are carrying him back to the tub. His shoe squeaks on the tile.
Malfoy’s eyes fly open and he freezes as Harry does his best impersonation of a statue beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Malfoy glances around and Harry tries not to breathe, then Malfoy lets his eyes slip shut again and goes back to it. Carefully now, Harry edges around the rim of the tub so he can get a look at what Malfoy’s doing to himself.
He’s got three fingers in himself, and as Harry watches Malfoy adds a fourth. He takes them easily, but even so, Harry’s got no idea how that monstrous purple thing is ever going to fit back there. Harry presses a palm to his aching prick. Obviously it must, if Malfoy was staring at it with such longing. Obviously he’s done this before.
Malfoy is completely hard now, and a drop of precome glistens at the tip of his prick, but he doesn’t touch it. He slowly withdraws his fingers from his arse, dips them in the little jar again, then slicks the purple cock with them. A swell of nervous excitement thrums in Harry’s belly as Malfoy lines up the toy and slowly, so slowly, presses it inside. Harry squeezes his prick through his trousers as inch after inch of that thing disappears into Malfoy, and he’s rocking his hips back in small thrusts and he’s making the most captivating little moans.
He stops when the dildo is only halfway inside him, which Harry is somewhat relieved by. If he’d shoved the whole thing in, the tip of it would have to be somewhere up by his lungs, and Harry doesn’t think that’s supposed to happen. Malfoy’s breathing heavily, and it’s all Harry can do to keep quiet, though at this point he doesn’t really think Malfoy could hear him anyhow. He slides the purple cock in and out of himself a few more times before he wraps his free hand around his own prick and strokes it firmly.
“Yeah, just like that,” Malfoy murmurs to himself. His eyes are shut and he rocks his hips, one hand working his prick while the other guides the dildo in and out of his arse.
His movements are smooth. He’s obviously done this many times before, but still Harry can’t help but admire his coordination. Harry’s never even been able to pat his head and rub his belly at the same time, and this looks way more complicated than that.
Malfoy groans. “Oh, just there. Come on, just like that,” he says. “Please, don’t stop. I love it when you… oh, please.”
It takes Harry a moment to work out that Malfoy’s not just talking to himself, he’s envisioning someone there with him. Harry’s done that a time or two himself, when he got particularly caught up in a fantasy, and talking out loud makes it seem just a little more real. Harry presses the heel of his hand against his aching cock, and is torn between moving to one side and getting a better look at Malfoy’s arse stretched around that toy, or moving to the other and getting a better look at him wanking himself. Harry really wants to see Malfoy come.
“Potter,” he says.
“What?” Harry says back, startled, before he can stop himself, and thank god he didn’t say it that loud because Malfoy let out a sharp little cry just then and doesn’t seem to have heard it.
“Oh fuck, yes, right there, Potter, just like that!” Malfoy cries.
Harry’s brain is desperately trying to process what’s going on. Malfoy’s saying his name. Whilst wanking. With a giant fake cock stuck up his bum. And fantasizing about someone. And saying his name. The logical answer is that Malfoy’s fantasizing about him, but that feels a bit like thinking about one plus one and coming up with three. Malfoy can’t be fantasizing about him whilst wanking with a giant fake cock stuck up his bum. Malfoy hates him.
“Come on, Potter, fuck me harder!” Malfoy gasps.
And Harry’s really got no choice but to rapidly reevaluate the depths of Malfoy’s hatred toward him. Teaspoons and paper plates come to mind. Saucers. Soap dishes. Tea bag holders. Malfoy groans again and Harry has no idea why he’s thinking about shallow kitchen accessories at a time like this.
Malfoy’s got his eyes squeezed shut and a delicate pink blush is creeping down across his collarbones. The hand on his cock speeds up, the hand holding the dildo slows down, and his hips are jerking helplessly.
“Potter, Potter,” he whimpers.
Abruptly, Harry wishes it were him behind Malfoy, him instead of that big fake cock. He wants to be the one making Malfoy fall apart like that, wants to make him whimper and beg and tremble. He presses his hand harder against his own throbbing prick and he wonders what would happen if he were to throw off the cloak and…
He doesn’t get any further than that before the answer hits him: Malfoy will hex him viciously and then drown him in the bathtub. Harry keeps the cloak on.
Malfoy’s hand speeds up more and more until it stops and clenches hard around his shaft, and then he’s coming with a high sharp cry, his release splattering the tile floor. He sighs, deep and pleased, then pulls the dildo from his arse and tosses it aside before he lets himself sink back into the water where he floats for a few minutes before sitting up. He uses a handful of soapy water to scrub his come from the tiles, then sets about cleaning himself.
Malfoy’s quick about it, to Harry’s initial relief. He soaps himself up, paying careful attention to his arse (which really doesn’t help Harry) before shampooing his hair. He rinses off, then scrubs off his dildo and sets it aside to dry while he briskly towels himself off, leaving his skin rosy pink. Tucking the towel around his waist, he gathers up some of the bottles and jars and saunters over to a nearby sink, where he rubs several creams into his face, dabs a bit of a different salve onto a spot that’s just beginning to form on his chin, and turns to his hair. After drying it with his wand, he pours a dollop of liquid into his palm and rubs it between his hands before working it into his hair, leaving it shiny and smooth. He cleans and trims his nails. He cleans out his ears.
By the time he finally drops his towel and begins massaging moisturizer into every inch of his skin, Harry’s about ready to throttle him. Harry’s still sporting the fiercest and most unrelenting erection he’s ever had in his life, and he can’t deal with it until Malfoy leaves, and if he takes any longer to bloody well finish then Harry absolutely can’t be held responsible for his actions.
Mercifully, when he screws the cap back onto the jar of moisturizer, he reaches for his clothes and Harry bites back a sigh of relief. Malfoy dresses quickly, rolls up the dildo inside his towel, gathers up his bottles and jars, takes down the wards on the door, and leaves the room.
The door’s barely swung shut behind him when Harry throws off his cloak and hits the door with a locking charm of his own and yanks the fly of his trousers down, pushing them just barely out of the way before he grasps his cock. He doesn’t take the time to tease himself – Malfoy’s already teased him more than enough – and his strokes are quick and rough. He comes barely a minute later, his orgasm hitting him so hard that he hunches over with the force of it, his toes curling inside his shoes and a half-strangled moan wrenches itself out of his chest.
He looks down at his hand, shiny and smeared with come, as he tries to catch his breath. He starts to raise it to his mouth, pauses as he debates for a moment, then settles for one small lick. His tongue curls around the musky, bitter flavor of himself and he closes his eyes. A few seconds later, he uses his wand to clean himself off, refastens his trousers, drapes the cloak over himself, and gets the hell out of there before anyone else can come in.
Later that night, with the snores of his roommates echoing off the stone walls of their small room in Gryffindor Tower, Harry can’t stop thinking about Malfoy. He tugs his bed curtains closed and casts silencing charms around himself before sliding his pajama bottoms down his hips. His prick is already half-hard, and he wraps one hand around it, stroking firmly, relishing the way his palm drags along the sensitive skin. It hardens quickly and he lets his eyes drift closed.
“Malfoy,” he says, testing the way the name sounds when his breath catches on it.
It sounds strange, but not nearly as strange as it would have sounded before he’d seen Malfoy in the Prefect’s bathroom today. He wonders if Malfoy thought Harry’s name sounded strange too when he said it like this for the first time. Harry thinks about Malfoy fucking himself with that big fake cock, then imagines Malfoy bent over the rim of the tub and himself standing behind, pushing into Malfoy’s arse in long, slow, deep strokes, pictures his fingers curling around Malfoy’s hips while Malfoy makes those low pleading noises in the back of his throat.
“Malfoy,” Harry says again, and this time it comes out as a groan.
His other hand slides down to cup his bollocks, like he saw Malfoy do, and Harry rolls them gently between his fingers and thumb as he continues to stroke himself. He wonders what it’d be like to snog Malfoy, if he’d let that harsh mouth soften beneath Harry’s. He wonders whether Malfoy would let him kiss the long slope of his throat, and what Malfoy’s skin would taste like, and if it’d really be as soft against his lips as it looks like it would be. He imagines sliding his hand through Malfoy’s hair, tugging gently, the strands sliding between his fingers as soft and fine as silk. He pictures Malfoy’s hands, those long fingers wrapping around his cock, curling around the back of his neck, sliding up the inside of Harry’s thighs, splayed over Harry’s stomach. He remembers how Malfoy’s pale skin flushed with arousal and the way he whimpered Harry’s name sounded just before Malfoy came.
It’s too much.
“Oh god, Malfoy, oh, Mal—” The words slide into a low moan as he comes, his fist closing around the head of his cock to catch every drop of his release.
When his nerves finally stop tingling and his breath returns to something resembling normal, Harry massages his softening prick a few more times to squeeze out every drop he can, then brings his hand to his mouth and drags the flat of his tongue over his palm. He tastes warm, salty skin and bitter come, and he moans again.
Instead of a nameless, faceless man, this time Harry pictures Malfoy, pretends that it’s Malfoy’s hand he’s licking, Malfoy’s come he’s sucking from the soft swell of flesh at the base of his thumb, as Malfoy watches him with wide grey eyes with a delicate pink blush sweeping over his cheeks. Harry slides his thumb into his mouth and sucks hard, his tongue flicking across the tip before releasing it and sweeping down into the tender valley between thumb and forefinger and across the row of Quidditch calluses at the base of his fingers. He draws his pinky into his mouth and sucks it clean, letting his teeth scrape gently over his knuckles as he slides it back out and moves on to his ring finger.
Harry’s always thought of his hands as capable, with their square palms and strong fingers. They look best wrapped around a broom handle or gripping a wand mid-duel. But Malfoy’s hands, just as thin and narrow as the rest of him, with long fingers and the delicate tracing of blue veins across the backs, look more appropriate when they’re neatly slicing potions ingredients or deftly spiraling his wand through a complicated charm. Harry’s always thought of Malfoy’s hands as clever, and he’s always liked them, even while he wanted to punch the stupid git right in his smirking mouth.
It’s ridiculous to go from that to wanting to suck come off Malfoy’s fingers, but Harry’s half-hard again by the time he finishes. And that’s fine, really, because he doesn’t have to like Malfoy to want to shag him into next week.
Harry reaches for his wand and casts a few cleaning charms and a breath-freshening charm over himself and pulls his pajamas back into place. By the time he’s finished, the beginnings of his renewed erection have faded and he rolls over and closes his eyes. He thinks about Malfoy fucking himself in the Prefect’s tub today, and with his libido sated, there’s plenty of room in his head for guilt.
Well. It was an accident. One that Harry has no intention of making a second time. He’ll just pretend it never happened and get on with his life.
Plan in place, he shuts his eyes and lets himself tumble into sleep. When he wakes in the morning, he’s not entirely surprised to find that he’s dreamed of Malfoy.
Harry’s determination to never spy on Malfoy again only lasts into the next week. By the end of the month, Harry’s learned Malfoy’s routine with the aid of the Maurauder’s Map, and has fallen into it right along with him. He still feels guilty about it, and every time he goes he swears it’s absolutely the last time. So far, he hasn’t been able to make himself stop stalking Malfoy to the Prefect’s bath.
Malfoy visits the Prefect’s bathroom several times a week. He comes up from the Dungeons ten minutes before the dinner hour and goes to the kitchens where he stays for precisely half an hour. Then he goes straight to the Prefect’s bathroom and spends the next thirty minutes bringing himself off and attending to his appearance.
He always visits on Tuesdays. Usually on Thursdays. Occasionally on Saturdays, and only once on a Monday that Harry’s seen. He doesn’t always use the purple dildo, either; he’s got a much more modestly sized red one that he uses just as often, and a blue one that vibrates, which Harry has only seen twice. Maybe it’s just for special occasions or something.
Malfoy also doesn’t say Harry’s name every time. Twice it’s been Aidan Kiely, the Keeper for the Kenmare Kestrels – which Harry can’t really fault him for; Kiely’s fit as hell – and once it was Gilderoy Lockhart, which Harry mostly tries to forget he ever witnessed. But, yeah, otherwise it’s been all about him.
Harry rushes into the Prefect’s bathroom on a Thursday. Hermione had gotten him caught him up in conversation and he’s running late, and he didn’t have time to check the Map under her watchful gaze. She doesn’t approve of Ron’s sharing the password with him, and he can only imagine what she’d say if she knew what he was really up to in here.
He locks the door behind him, hits it with a couple of warding spells for good measure, then switches on some of the taps at random. While the tub fills, he pulls out the Map and murmurs the incantation to activate it. He flips to the section with the kitchens, because dinner started five minutes ago so Malfoy should be there by now if he’s planning a visit here tonight. But his little table in the corner is deserted. Harry sighs, disappointed. But on the bright side, he supposes that he won’t have to rush his bath tonight.
As he’s folding the map up again, his gaze catches on the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, and he can’t resist scanning it for Malfoy’s name. He reads it over twice as a feeling of dread swells in his belly before he accepts that Malfoy’s name isn’t there. Oh fuck, maybe Malfoy’s running early tonight. Harry refolds the Map to the Prefect’s bathroom, intending to trace through the hallways from there to the kitchens to see if maybe Malfoy’s en route, but what he sees has him freezing as he stares in disbelief.
There’s his own little scroll, just beside the bathtub. And there’s a second one, just in the corner by the towels, marked Draco Malfoy. Harry’s back is to the corner and he clamps down on the urge to spin around and stare. Instead, he very carefully refolds the map and whispers, “Mischief managed,” as he taps it with his wand.
Why has Malfoy deviated from his routine? Why didn’t he say anything when Harry walked in? Why hasn’t he said anything now? Is he really just going to sit there while Harry bathes?
Belatedly, Harry remembers his own rationalizations when he was in Malfoy’s position all those weeks ago. How he sat quietly as Malfoy stripped and…
A new idea forms in Harry’s mind. He watched as Malfoy wanked over him, so maybe he ought to return the favor. His cock gives an excited twitch at the idea of Malfoy watching him, and Harry makes up his mind.
He turns slowly, pushing the buttons of his robe open one by one as he lowers his head and peers up through his lashes at Malfoy’s corner. Now that he’s looking for it, there’s a strange distortion in the air just beside the cabinet. Malfoy’s cast a rather shoddy Disillusionment Charm over himself, and Harry can’t quite believe he missed it when he came in.
Harry drops his robes to the floor and hesitates, feeling like maybe he should be trying to put on more of a show for Malfoy. He quickly discards the thought. Malfoy’s been wanking over Harry for at least a month now, and Harry’s too nervous to really perform anyhow. Besides, the real show will start once he’s got his clothes off.
He jerks his tie loose and pulls it off, then peels off his jumper before toeing off his shoes. The buttons of his shirt take a little more time, and Harry’s pretty sure he’s blushing by the time he lets it slide from his shoulders. Maybe Malfoy will assume it’s from the steamy bathwater.
He peels off his socks and tosses them in the vague direction of his shoes before unfastening his trousers. He pauses, steels himself, then hooks his thumbs under the waistband and before he can stop to think about what he’s doing, he pulls his trousers and pants down in one swift motion.
He thinks he hears a small gasp from the corner, and it takes every ounce of willpower he’s got to ignore it. He steps into the tub, but doesn’t sit. If he sits, Malfoy can’t see him
And Harry really wants Malfoy to see him.
Fighting down a grin, Harry uses his wand to Accio a towel from the cabinet, and the air beside it wobbles for a moment. Malfoy’s charm is too weak to hold up when he moves, and he must have flinched. Harry casts a cushioning charm over the tile floor and spreads the towel over it. Turning, he sits on the edge of the tub and slowly lowers himself to stretch out on his back, his feet and lower legs trailing in the warm water and bubbles.
Harry thinks of how he likes to watch Malfoy tease himself, and so doesn’t reach straight for his cock. Instead, he tilts his head back and trails his fingertips down his throat, over the hard ridge of his collarbones and down his chest. His thumbs rub gently over his nipples and he lets his back arch a little. Down farther, he spreads his fingers and slides his palms down his belly, over his hips, and down the inside of his thighs. He lets out a little gasp, and lets his nails drag over the sensitive skin as he brings his hands back up.
The whole time, he strains his ears at the corner, listening for any sign of Malfoy. Nothing.
He reaches for his prick and curls his hand around it. He’s not fully hard yet, but it won’t take long at this rate. With his other hand, he reaches down to trace the curve of his arse. He briefly considers fingering himself, but he hasn’t brought any lube with him and he’s sort of embarrassed by the idea so he settles for fondling his bollocks. He strokes harder and moans softly.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, Ma—unf.”
It feels incredibly stupid to be talking like this, pretending he’s talking to an imaginary Malfoy when the real Malfoy is right there watching him. Harry curls his fingers a little tighter around his prick and reminds himself how bloody hot it was to hear Malfoy saying his name.
“Oh yes, that’s so… Oh, M—um, mmmm!”
God, what the fuck is wrong with him. It’s just one word. Just two little syllables. Just say it, Potter, just fucking say it.
“Malfoy,” he says, and from the corner Harry could swear that he hears a startled “What?” in response. He lets out a loud groan, and says again. “Malfoy.”
He really hopes that Malfoy will assume that the blush sweeping over his face is from wanking. This was a stupid idea. Quite possibly the stupidest he’s ever had, and that’s saying something coming from the boy who took on a basilisk by himself at the age of twelve. But he’s too far in it to quit now.
“Malfoy,” he says a third time, as he drags the pad of his thumb over the tip of his cock and his hips jerk up in response. He should say other things, right? After all he’s pretty sure he’s gotten the point across with Malfoy’s name. But he has no idea what to say next.
Part of him wants to say all the filthy things he wants to do to Malfoy. He wants to say how hard he wants to fuck Malfoy, wants to fuck him until he’s a begging, writhing mess who can’t say anything but Harry’s name. And how afterward he wants to lick every spurt of Malfoy’s come from his skin, from the flat plane of his belly and every one of those clever fingers, lick him clean and know that he was the one to bring him off. Harry likes the idea of Malfoy walking around with Harry’s come in his arse, and Harry walking around with Malfoy’s come in his belly, like even after the sex is over, they’re somehow still connected.
Even as the words flood his mind, Harry can’t bring himself to voice them aloud. He’s such a freak, normal boys don’t like eating come, and he doesn’t want to scare off Malfoy, even though he’s undoubtedly heard all the rumors by now anyhow.
“Malfoy,” Harry says again, stalling for time while he thinks of something to say that isn’t either freaky or idiotic. “I want to… oh, I want to fuck you.” There, that’s nice and safe. “And, uh… wanna fuck you so hard.” And now that sounds ridiculous, but he can’t stop himself from adding, entirely unnecessarily, “With my cock.”
Really, with his cock? As opposed to what, a cabbage? Harry wants to beat his head against the floor. He settles for dragging the pad of his thumb over the head of his prick again. Maybe he should just make himself come and get this humiliation over with as quick as he can. His strokes turn rough as he intends to do just that.
But then from the corner he hears a soft gasp. Harry holds his breath, and in the perfect silence that follows, there’s another one, just the faintest inhalation. Harry moans at the thought of Malfoy in his corner, watching Harry, trembling with the need to hold perfectly still to maintain his Disillusionment Charm. He’s probably hard by now, and it must be torture not to be able to touch himself.
“Oh, Malfoy,” Harry groans, imagining the way Malfoy’s prick presses against his zip. “Fuck, this is so hot. I can’t believe how much I want this.” Another shaky inhalation from the corner spurs him on. “I can’t believe how much I want you.”
Harry feels his orgasm beginning to build and he tugs on his bollocks with his other hand to slow himself down. Suddenly, he wants this to last. He pictures Malfoy’s hands, those long, elegant fingers twitching toward his prick before he stops himself.
“I want you to touch me, god, I love your hands. I want to see those fingers of yours wrapped around my cock. I want you so much. Fuck, Malfoy, I want you.” Harry feels his orgasm building again, and it strikes him how ridiculous this all is. Malfoy wants him, and he wants Malfoy, and they’re both here so why the fuck not? “Malfoy, I want to fuck you,” he says, louder. “Now. I want to fuck you now.”
There’s another small gasp from the corner, and Harry realizes that if he can’t place where exactly in all this he stopped putting on a show and started talking to Malfoy, then Malfoy probably hasn’t figured it out either.
“Malfoy,” Harry says again and stops stroking himself. He looks over at the cabinet. “Malfoy, I know you’re there.”
“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, will you just come out?” He’s not thinking straight, and the only thing he wants right now is to bury himself inside Malfoy as deep as he can get. “I know you’re there,” he says again, half-desperate with wanting. “Please. Please come out.”
The air wobbles and then goes fuzzy and suddenly Malfoy’s standing there. “You knew I was here?”
Harry sits up and presses one hand to his prick. “Yeah. The whole time.”
Malfoy frowns at him. “And you didn’t say anything?”
“You didn’t say anything either,” Harry shoots back. “Look, I meant it. I really want you."
Malfoy swallows, his gaze slipping down to Harry’s groin. “Now?”
Harry nods, and he doesn’t breathe until Malfoy nods back. It feels entirely surreal as Malfoy shucks off his robes and unbuttons his shirt. He doesn’t bother to fold his clothing this time, and by the time he approaches Harry, entirely naked, Harry still can’t believe this is happening.
“You know,” Malfoy says slowly as he unscrews the lid from his jar of lube. “I didn’t really believe the rumors about you were true, until now.”
Harry reaches out and takes the jar from Malfoy. “Well, uh, yeah. They are.”
Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “All of them?”
“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry mutters as he finishes slicking his cock.
Harry offers the jar to Malfoy, who takes it and dips his fingers in before setting it aside. He reaches back behind himself, and Harry wishes he could watch the way Malfoy’s slick fingers disappear into his arse. When he finishes, he wipes his fingers against his thigh and hesitates. Harry raises his eyebrows and grabs his prick by the base to give it a little waggle of invitation.
Malfoy rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything as he straddles Harry’s hips and lets Harry guide the head of his prick into Malfoy’s arse. He’s still loose from earlier, and Harry slides easily inside. He obviously used the purple one today, and Harry’s tempted to comment on it, but he refrains because he thinks that Malfoy hexing the everloving fuck out of him would probably spoil the mood. He’ll tell Malfoy later about watching him. Er, someday. Eventually.
Malfoy’s so impossibly hot around him that it takes everything Harry’s got to keep from slamming into him as hard as he can. Malfoy’s prick isn’t quite hard yet, and Harry reaches out with his slick hand and strokes it, buying himself time to adjust to the surreality of being inside Draco Malfoy, of lying here naked on his back with a very naked Draco Malfoy atop him, of his prick pressed as deep into Draco Malfoy's arse as it'll go. It’s completely insane. Harry strokes Malfoy’s prick harder, and feels it swell in his fist.
Malfoy lets his head drop back. “I thought you wanted to see my hand around your cock?”
“Mine is otherwise occupied,” Harry says and rocks his hips up. “I work with what I’ve got.” He brushes the pad of his thumb over the tip of Malfoy’s prick, just the way he likes to do to himself. By the way Malfoy's body twitches, Harry guesses that he likes it too. He does it again.
“By all means,” Malfoy says, and it comes out low and breathy. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Harry has no intention of stopping. When Malfoy’s fully hard, Harry lets go of his prick to take a firm grip on his hips, and the sharp jut of his hipbones fit perfectly into Harry’s palms. He sets up a quick, sharp rhythm, using his hold on Malfoy to tilt him slightly, a little at a time until, finally, Malfoy’s body jerks and he cries out. Harry can’t fight back a grin, doesn’t even try as he keeps hitting that same spot, and now Malfoy’s writhing and begging, babbling nonsense with his eyes shut tight. One of his hands goes to his cock and he fists it hard. Come on, Harry thinks at him. He’s getting close himself and he needs Malfoy to come first.
“Close, I’m so close, I’m gonna, oh…” Malfoy pants.
Harry wraps his hand around Malfoy’s and clamps it tight around the head of Malfoy’s prick to catch every spurt as Malfoy’s back arches, his other hand clenches around Harry’s wrist and then he’s coming with a high wail that echoes off the tiles, his inner muscles squeezing around Harry’s cock in rhythmic flutters.
“Oh,” Malfoy says, sounding drowsy and pleased. He’s flushed and a little sweaty, his hair is mussed and he’s smiling.
Harry carefully pries Malfoy’s hand open and his mouth waters at the sight of his palm and fingers smeared with his release. There’s not much of it, since he’d already brought himself off just earlier, but what’s there is more than enough for Harry.
He stops fucking Malfoy as he brings Malfoy’s hand to his mouth and drags the flat of his tongue over the shallow basin of Malfoy’s palm. His come tastes different than Harry’s, muskier but not quite as bitter with the salty taste of his skin layered just beneath, and Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of that taste. He groans aloud as he sucks Malfoy’s thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the knuckle, tracing the tip of his fingernail before releasing it and sweeping his tongue over the base of Malfoy’s fingers. His hand has the same familiar Quidditch calluses that Harry’s got, and they seem out of place on his elegant hands.
Harry starts on his fingers and sucks them clean one by one, pinky to index finger, and by the time he’s finished, he’s so hard it hurts. He presses Malfoy’s palm over his mouth as he grabs Malfoy’s hip with the other and thrusts up into him in hard, bruising strokes. Malfoy takes it without complaint, his dark eyes watching Harry intently, and Harry comes harder than he ever has in his life, so hard that everything drops away except the exquisite backlash of tension flooding through him. He might’ve said Malfoy’s name, but he really has no idea.
Malfoy waits until he catches his breath, then shifts his hips until Harry’s cock slides free. He turns and lowers himself into the tub, his back to Harry. At a loss for what else he should do, Harry joins him, settling in on the ledge just beside Malfoy.
After a few minutes of silence slip past, Malfoy says, “So, I guess the rumors really were true. About how you like to…?”
“Um, yeah.” Now that it’s over, Harry finds the whole thing sort of embarrassing. He can’t wait to do it again. He hopes Malfoy will let him do it again. He can still taste Malfoy and he swallows hard.
“Goldstein said you’re a brilliant fuck. Nice to see he wasn’t wrong about that, either,” Malfoy goes on, flicking a sidelong glance at Harry. “It’s really a shame you’re such a tosser.”
“I don’t like you either,” Harry mutters. In the hazy afterglow of his orgasm, he’s having a hard time remembering just how much he dislikes Malfoy, though the more Malfoy talks, the easier Harry finds it to remember.
“You liked me well enough a few minutes ago,” he says smugly.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I like your arse. Then you ruin it by opening your mouth.”
“Hm,” Malfoy says, leaning closer. “I bet I can get you to like me just fine with my mouth open.” He smirks suggestively at Harry as his hand brushes against Harry’s thigh under the water.
Harry thinks about Malfoy’s mouth stretched around his prick. This needs to happen. All of this needs to happen again. “So, er, what do we do now?” he asks. “Are we boyfriends now?”
For a moment, they look at each other in alarm. Harry has no idea where that question came from. He doesn’t want Malfoy for a boyfriend. He doesn’t even like Malfoy at all, except with his clothes off.
Malfoy recovers first. “I heard you weren’t really into that sort of thing.”
“I’m not,” Harry says quickly, scrambling for an explanation. “Just, this was really good and I want it to happen again. But I heard that you’re getting engaged to Greengrass and I can’t do this if you’re with someone else. So I thought…”
“Ah, yes,” Malfoy says. “That. Well, the marriage negotiations will take some time yet. At least through the summer. So, we’ve got a while. There’s no need to slap a label on this for it to keep happening.”
Harry’s stomach gives a flutter of excitement. “So, this’ll be happening again, you think?”
“I intend for it to happen many more times,” Malfoy says. He slides a little lower in the tub and leans his head against the rim. “As long as you don’t ruin it by being you,” he adds. “For now, let’s just see where it goes.”
“Right,” Harry says, and while he should be happy with that, it doesn’t seem like enough. He absolutely doesn’t want a relationship, much less one with Malfoy, but at the same time he can’t stand the thought of Malfoy with anyone else. They don’t have to actually date in order to fuck each other exclusively. “Um, so say no strings attached until after Christmas hols, maybe? Then maybe we can…” He can’t bring himself to say ‘boyfriends’ again. “Er, make this a more permanent arrangement?”
“Hm, you’ll have to ask me again then,” Malfoy says as he cracks one eye open and gives Harry a wicked smile. “But in the meantime I’ll be more than happy with taking a lot more baths."
For now, Harry supposes that he's more than fine with that.