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Accio is an Impractical Spell, Anyway

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It was Charms class.


It was Charms class, and Draco Malfoy was not doing well.

“Fuck it all, Accio! Accio! Acci-bloody-o!”

His textbook stubbornly remained on his desk, unaffected except for an odd wiggle here or there that at least proved his diction was correct. It mocked him with its infuriating posture, lying there completely defenseless, plain for the taking if he could only get this blasted summoning charm to work. He took a deep, steadying breath, refocused on the book, and pointed his arm at it, adopting his best and most regal casting posture. You are a wizard, he thought, so make the world obey you. “Accio.”

A quiver of the binding, and that was all.

Draco pulled back his chair and sat heavily, chin in his hand as he looked around the room. Several other students appeared to be having his problem, but they were in the minority. Most had succeeded in at least shunting their books from the table; a few had even moved theirs in the correct direction. Only Potter, of course, had executed the desired effect perfectly. The absolute arsehole was even having Weasley hold the book to add extra resistance. At least, that was Draco’s presumed reason for why Weasley was wrestling with the book on the floor of the classroom while Potter stood, wand poised and concentrating.

Draco had always hated Potter’s casting form. The way he gripped his wand was positively lewd. Proper wand technique was to let it rest in the palm of one’s hand and channel the spell using direction of will. The way Potter went about it was akin to forcing the spell from the wood itself, which showed a clear lack of theoretical knowledge.

That being said, Draco was not the one successfully casting the Accio charm. He sighed a long-suffering sigh, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and brushed aside a few stray hairs that had fallen into his face. Ten paces away from the table and he turned, baleful glare fixed on his textbook. “Alright, you insufferable collection of pages, Accio!”

“Insults don’t make it work better.”

And suddenly Potter was much, much closer than he had been before, standing directly behind Draco with his hands on his hips. Draco could feel the tickle of his breathy laughter on the nape of his neck. He whirled around, face flush with surprise. “Potter! Don’t do that!” He glared back at the book. “I don’t need it to work better. I need it to work period.”

“Would you accept some assistance?”

“I beg your pardon,” Draco drawled.

“Help, Malfoy,” Potter clarified needlessly, brows raised, “You need it.”

“Oh, very well then,” Draco conceded, “Have at it. What’s wrong with me?”

“Accio,” Potter intoned perhaps louder than necessary considering his proximity to Draco’s ear. The book whizzed forward, and Draco ducked so as not to be struck on the back of the head. Potter clutched the book in one hand, which was a little impressive considering the heft of the tome. “Did you see?”

“No, I did not see. I was busy dodging for my life.”

Potter sighed. “Alright, well, watch closely this time.” He paced back to the table and reset the book.

Draco did watch this time as Potter fell into his horrid posture, wand grasped tightly. He set his shoulders, something in his joint popping, which appeared to satisfy. Expression determined, Potter brought his wand forward and then moved it in a scooping motion in the air with a jaunty upward flick at the end. He spoke the incantation like a demand, “Accio.”

This time, Draco was ready to step back entirely as the book, once more, jumped to life and into Potter’s waiting grip. Draco frowned, taking the book from Potter in both hands and resetting it. “Yes, very well, but that’s what I’m doing, too. Watch this.”

Draco relished the opportunity to show Potter what true spellcasting form should look like, although he felt it would have been a bit more impactful had the book actually obeyed his spell. A few pages were rustled, the cover opening just enough to allow slight movement. He swore under his breath in French.

“I think I see what’s wrong.”

“Oh, do you?” Draco mocked.

“You asked me for help, Malfoy,” Potter pointed out.

Draco clucked his tongue. “You offered, I obliged. I reserve the right to be verbally abusive towards you, now and in all things.”

Potter shook his head. “There isn’t enough power in your stance. You’re summoning something to you. It’s a little bit like having to pick it up. It’s much lighter, obviously, but it’s not weightless.”

“You didn’t seem to expend much effort.”

Potter’s face did a strange thing. He looked like he was about to laugh but seemed aware he shouldn’t. “I’m stronger than you.”

“These muscles not doing it for you, Potter?” Malfoy joked, raising his right arm in a flexing posture.

Potter crossed his arms. Draco was forced to consider them. Potter’s dress shirt was cuffed, as his own sleeves were, but there were clear bands of muscle straining against the tanned skin of Potter’s forearms. And the white, thin dress shirt fabric, worn thin from the wash, clung close enough to the muscles of his biceps to prove Potter’s point. He was, indeed, fairly brawny. And he was looking at Draco disapprovingly. Draco himself deeply disapproved of a spell that required physical effort to cast, but it seemed no one was asking him what he thought in that particular moment.

“Oh, very well, then. Your posture is all wrong, though,” Draco felt the need to point out, “Spellcasting isn’t about power, it’s about elegance.”

“Spellcasting is often about power, Malfoy. Who told you that?”

Draco sniffed. “Every wizard worth their salt.”

Potter shook his head. “Well, will you humor me, then?”

“I suppose I will, Scarhead. Just this once.” Draco assumed his casting form. “Fix me.”

Potter reached forward and twisted his grip on his wand. “You’ll probably be able to go back to your old grip once you’ve practiced this spell enough, but to learn, it just isn’t practical.” Next, he placed his hands on Draco’s shoulders and set them forward a bit. “Square your hips, as well, and rest your weight evenly between your feet. You need a firm grounding.”

Draco followed Potter’s instructions, and he felt sort of silly. The posture was downright heroic, and it felt wrong on him.

“Go ahead. Put some muscle into it. You’re lifting something up, so you need to really give it some energy.”

Draco cleared his throat. Having never really lifted anything much heavier than a quill in his life, he wasn’t entirely certain how to go about “putting some muscle into it”, but he felt voicing this would be more to his detriment than defense. He executed the wand movement forcefully, barking out the spell, “Accio!”

Draco fell heavily to the floor as the book slammed into his chest with enough force to knock him back several paces. The impact forced the air from his lungs, and he gasped, clutching at the place where that infernal fucking book had hit him. Potter was on his knees at his side in an instant. Draco felt his hands on him. His breath was returning too slowly to keep him conscious; his head felt quite fuzzy, and his vision was going foggy. The room was altogether too bright, but after some moments, things did begin to swing the other way, and he realized he probably wasn’t going to die, after all. That’s when he noticed Flitwick approaching, looking concerned. Draco propped himself up, shaking his head dismissively.

“He’s alright, Professor,” Potter said, “Just cast the spell a bit too well, is all.”

Draco dearly wanted to scoff, but he couldn’t waste the breath. Instead, he stared meaningfully.

“Yeah, just a bit uncontrolled on that one, but hey - it moved!” Potter clasped his shoulder. “With more practice, you’ll be better at this than I am.”

Draco’s entire consciousness was focused on the firm, calloused hand currently caressing his person. He only came back to himself when it was removed and Potter moved away, clearing his throat rather pointedly. Draco picked himself up off the floor, dusted the seat of his trousers primly, and put a hand to his hair delicately to smooth any pieces that may have gone astray. Then, he reset the book.

Controlling the spell wasn’t difficult after Draco knew what to expect. He managed to summon it to himself a few more times, but the bitch of it was really in trying to catch the damn thing once it came to him. He ended up having to cradle it a little bit like a poorly thrown Quaffle - direct its motion towards you with your free hand and let your midsection stop the momentum. Most others in the class were employing this tactic as well. All except Potter, who continued to summon it into a single outstretched hand, catching it deftly like its weight meant nothing. Draco watched his form with a purely scholarly interest, paying very close attention to the way his muscles coiled and shifted beneath that rather see-through dress shirt.

When class concluded, Draco had decided he would say something, though he hadn’t quite figured out what that something would be. Potter was about to exit the classroom with his friends when Draco realized he was missing his chance and had better say anything, really. “Hey, Potter!” he called across the room, “A word.”

Potter looked to Weasley then Granger before shrugging. He left them in the doorway and walked up to Draco. “Yes, Malfoy?”

“What’s the heaviest thing you can summon?” Draco blurted out, not necessarily having decided to say that in particular so much as he’d just allowed the first thought that came to mind to pass his lips.

Potter looked at him quizzically then rolled his gaze to the side, thinking. “Hm, well, I dunno. I suppose I haven’t really tried to summon anything before on the basis of how much it weighs.”

“Oh, come now, Potter,” Draco reasoned, “Surely a man of your following does things to entertain his fans. You’ve never executed a difficult summon to elicit praise from the masses?”

Potter gave him a withering look. “You know that isn’t my style, Malfoy.”

“Pity. I’d like to know.”

Potter’s look morphed into one of surprise. “You would?”

“Well, sure.” Draco shrugged. “I’d like some more practice, as well. The more I can work now means less effort I’ll have to put into things later.”

Potter snorted. “Interesting perspective. What are you driving at, Malfoy?”

Draco shrugged again, cocking his head to adopt an imploring look. “Be my study partner?”

Potter looked dumbfounded. Then, he looked suspicious. After that, he actually looked over his shoulder to where Weasley and Granger were still standing, waiting for him. He turned his gaze back on Malfoy, looking a little confused as he said, “Sure.”

“Fantastic,” Draco drawled, “Be waiting for me down in the spare potions lab tonight around eight?”

Potter seemed to quickly do a mental calculation before nodding his head. “See you then.” He turned and walked out of the classroom without a backwards glance.

“See you,” Draco repeated altogether too late to have been heard.

It was five past eight, and Draco was definitely not bothered. He paced about the classroom, adjusting tables and chairs, wiping dust off of beakers and vials. Surely, Potter would not stand him up. He was simply running a bit late, that was all. Although there was no compelling reason for Potter to spend his free time in Draco’s company, he had said he would, and Potter was a man of his word. Wasn’t he? People were always going on about that. Draco hoped they were right. He would die of shame if Potter failed to show up to their… appointment.

Why had he arranged this little meeting, anyway? His blasted impulsive streak would be the death of him someday. Draco picked up an Erlenmeyer flask and inspected it for smudges. He was curious about Potter, he would admit that much. Certainly, they were sworn enemies and all like that, but Draco wasn’t thinking about that now. He wasn’t thinking about Potter the persona, he was thinking about Potter the person. Potter, talented at charms and willing to lend him a hand with his spellwork for seemingly no personal gain. Potter, who tried to help him when he’d nearly been murdered by a stray textbook. And, of course, Potter’s arms were quite nice, and he was hoping to admire them again. Enemies or not, Draco knew a fine specimen of man when he saw him.

He stopped his thoughts in their tracks, rolling his eyes. Pansy’s more ridiculous qualities were imprinting upon him, it seemed.

Draco checked his watch, upset when he realized that it had now become quarter past. He shrugged off his jacket and folded it delicately upon a table before removing his cufflinks and rolling his sleeves to the elbow. The links then joined his jacket. He turned to the room searchingly. If Potter wasn’t going to show, Draco would just practice on his own. If he broke some things or hurt himself in the process, then that would just serve to teach Potter something about punctuality and manners. Possibly.

He set a few pieces of glassware down upon a table and began summoning them using his original casting posture. The objects’ weights really seemed to make a difference because he had no trouble making a tiny pipette move. The test tubes were also not much trouble, although it did require a bit of concentration to get them out of their wire rack individually without bringing the whole damn thing along for the ride.

But success was boring, which meant it was time to get more ambitious, and more importantly, heavier. Draco cast his gaze around before settling it on some spare cauldrons stacked neatly in the corner. Ye gods, but they were solid things. Draco couldn’t properly lift the top one to place it on the table. Instead, he readied himself in the stance that Potter taught him, screwed up his concentration, and shot a summoning spell at the pile. “Accio cauldron!”

The cauldrons, of course, did not know which of them he’d meant to summon.

Draco screamed as nine cauldrons came straight for his head at once. He dodged low and scooted quickly out of the way as they impacted with an incredible noise right where he’d been standing. The racket was positively deafening as the heavy iron met with the dungeon’s stone floor. Draco knelt on the ground for a moment to steady his breathing.

He became aware of another sound coming faintly from outside. Cries of his name, growing louder and louder as someone approached at considerable speed. It was Potter, who reached the doorway and plunged into the room to his side, eyes wild. “Are you alright, Malfoy?”

Draco stood, brushing his knees off. He looked at Potter and flushed in embarrassment. “Just a little accident, that’s all. I’m perfectly fine, if you must know.”

Potter looked at the cauldrons scattered around the room. One was still rolling away. It may have been Draco’s ears, but the room sounded like it was ringing from the impact. “What’d you do?”

Draco’s flush deepend. “I didn’t do a thing!” he protested, crossing his arms primly. “Don’t deflect my attention. Why are you fifteen minutes late?”

Potter, damn him, looked directly at the corner where the cauldrons had been. Then, he smiled. As he returned his gaze to Malfoy, his eyes became apologetic. “I’m sorry I’m late. Really, I am. I kind of got lost coming down here.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said. “Well, see that you don’t do it again.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “D’you want to practice summoning, or do you just want to punish me, Professor?”

Draco’s mind went to a wholly inappropriate place. Yes, he rather did think he wanted to punish Potter like the bad, inconsiderate man he was. “Well, but in this scenario, I’m the student, aren’t I?” he reasoned, definitely referring to Potter helping him with his spellwork and certainly nothing else.

Potter moved to retrieve the cauldrons from where they’d been flung. He shrugged off his pullover as he did so, revealing a horrible, new development: Potter had only worn a t-shirt to their tutoring session. A thin, white, cotton t-shirt that clung to his back musculature when he moved.

Something else was bothering Draco, though. “Potter, you’re a wizard, and you came here to teach me the summoning spell. Why in Salazar’s name are you picking the cauldrons up?”

Potter dropped the one that had been in his hands. It hit the ground with a terrible sound. Potter flinched, but Draco forced his eyes to stay level. Potter’s hand went to the back of his neck, scratching it sheepishly. “I suppose you’re right, Malfoy. It’s the force of habit, I suppose.”

Potter came back to Draco’s side and pulled his wand out of - Merlin - the back pocket of his jeans. He was so casually rugged, so masculine, it was difficult to be in his presence and not feel, well, affected. He cocked a hip and slid one hand into his front pockets. “The only trouble with summoning the cauldrons - and other heavy things, for that matter - is they won’t be easy to catch.”

“Yes, I’d had the same thought.”

“Though I suppose you don’t need to catch them. You only need to get out of the way.”

“Or summon them to you slowly,” Draco suggested.

Potter shook his head. “I don’t know how to do that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, give it a try. Maybe you’ll figure it out.”

“How?” Potter pressed, “By saying the incantation slower?”

Draco snorted. “No, you daft Muggle, by making your wand movements slower.”

“Wait, really?”

Draco stared at him.

“What?” Potter’s cheekbones had a nice, pink flush to them now. “I’ve never been taught that.”

“Or perhaps you weren’t listening.”

“I can’t believe I need to, but I’m going to remind you, Malfoy, that this isn’t about me.”

Draco tucked his wand behind his ear and crossed his arms. “I do believe I propositioned you to be study partners, not student and teacher.”

“Just a second ago, you referred to yourself as my student,” Potter pointed out.

Draco’s mind went back to that lewd place it had been before. “Shall I serve detention for you, Professor?”

The color of Potter’s face went spectacularly scarlet. “What are you on about, Malfoy?”

Draco’s mouth hung open slightly. He hadn’t entirely been aware of opening it, nor was he pleased at what had come out. But with Potter looking at him like that and standing there with that body, he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to shut it. But he needed to, needed to shake out whatever had gotten into him. It was wild that he’d been so flirtatious already. To say any more would be going too far.

“What are you on about, Potter?” Draco countered, resenting how petulant he sounded, “Nevermind, we need to refocus to the task at hand. We are practicing summoning charms.” He hoped the statement would be enough to convince his own mind. “Summon a cauldron, if you please.”

Potter was definitely still off his equilibrium as evidenced by the way he remained standing stock-still. Draco continued to stare at him, bored yet expectant, until he moved, unfolding into his casting stance. He executed a summoning spell at a nearby cauldron and caught it as it came sailing through the air, tossing his wand in order to catch it in both arms. The heavy iron fell against his chest with a solid thump and knocked him back a pace, but he had caught it, impressively enough.

Draco stooped to pick up Potter’s wand. “Not too shabby, Potter.”

“Not too shabby?” Potter echoed, setting the cauldron down on a nearby table, “I’d like to see you do better.”

“We’re here this evening because I cannot,” Draco pointed out, a touch offended. He had been trying to pay Potter a compliment. Suddenly, an idea came to him. “But I’ll bet I can summon something you aren’t able to.”

Potter’s eyes lit up. “Go on, then.”

Draco went over to the storage shelves and picked up the metal rack of test tubes he’d been practicing on earlier. It was half the size of a shoebox and full of little wire cubbies holding delicate vials upright inside. “I’ll bet you can’t summon individual vials out of here.”

Potter tilted his head to the side, examining the rack. “If I wanted only one little vial, and I didn’t want to spill whatever was inside it, I would use a levitation charm, not a summoning charm.”

Draco shook his head. “Yes, yes, but quit rationalizing. You’d probably also use a levitation charm to lift a ruddy heavy cauldron instead of turning it into a personal bludger, but you’re being too practical, Potter. It isn’t because we would, it is because we can. That’s why we are.”

Potter shook his head.

“Can’t you do it?” Draco needled.

“Quit being a dick; of course I can do it. Give me my wand.”

An hour later and Potter was angry. He hadn’t been able to summon the test tube without smashing something. It would’ve been vindicating for Draco had he been able to move the cauldrons more than three times without feeling rather out of breath. Perhaps there was something of a practicality to Potter’s physique, after all.

Exhausted, Draco slumped to the floor, his back to the wall. He watched Potter lazily as he, having frustrated himself on the more delicate work of tiny glass vials, began to summon the cauldrons again. Potter hefted them through the air with magic like it was effortless, but the air soon became tinged with the salt of his sweat. In fairness, some of it probably was also Draco’s, but his cologne would be masking much of the evidence of his hard work. And it wasn’t that Potter’s t-shirt was stuck to him, but it was clinging quite closely to all of him now, not just the breadth of his back. When he turned, Draco could see it outlining a set of rather well-developed pectorals. The sight made his mouth feel dry.

Potter moved towards him and slid down the wall to sit by his side, exhaling long and slow as he did so. “This is so much better than practicing in class.”

Draco sat silent. He was too focused on the way his body had begun to thrum with warmth when Potter had come near. It was like a drumbeat in the pit of his stomach.

“Everyone’s always watching me, you know. I mean, I know you know because you’re always making fun of me for it, but genuinely, when you have so many people looking at you, expecting so much of you, you don’t feel like you can mess up.” Potter rested his forearms on his knees. His triceps, clearly defined against the honey tan of his skin, bulged in Draco’s line of sight. “But I need to push myself, to try things I know I’m not good at. Like the whole test tube thing. I couldn’t have done that in class because then everyone would’ve seen me fail. Now,” he looked over at Draco, “You’re the only one who has to see.”

“That sounds,” Draco began slowly, trying and failing to tear his gaze off Potter’s arms, “rather like a problem with your own insecurities and not the expectations of others.”

Potter looked affronted.

Draco shrugged. “But who am I to judge?”

After a moment, Potter sighed. “I suppose that’s fair. You always were good at knocking me down a peg, Malfoy.”

“I never thought I’d actually succeeded in the task. Thank you for validating me.”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “Why are you always like that, Malfoy?”

Draco furrowed his brows. “Like what?”

“Sarcastic.” Potter swept his bangs from his eyes with his hand, revealing the scar beneath. “We’re having a real conversation here.”

Draco was sure Potter was used to people staring at his scar, but he still felt guilty for the way his eyes snapped to it. Then again, he’d never seen it up close before. Well, not this close, anyway. They were scarcely a half meter apart, and from here, Draco could see what an ugly thing it really was. The lines were clean, like they’d been done with a scalpel, but they appeared as angry and red as if it had just happened that morning and not some sixteen or seventeen years ago. There was no scabbing, no healing, just a vicious mark.

“D’you want to touch it?”

Draco was startled. “Beg your pardon?”

Potter looked away, then back. “You were just staring at it really intently. I thought maybe you were going to touch it, and I want you to know that’s okay with me.”

“Hn.” Draco tried to appear nonchalant, but the drumbeat had begun to thrum faster and harder inside of him as he contemplated touching Potter. He realized he had to do it now. He reached his hand out and slowly brushed just the pads of his fingers against the scar on Potter’s forehead. For how it looked, it was surprisingly smooth. There was a faint bump of raised skin where the actual cut was, but it bore none of the tactical characteristics of a standard scar. It made sense, since magic was what had caused it, but still, Draco had never seen something quite like it before. “Do you remember what happened?”

Potter shook his head. “Just a flash of green light.”

Draco let his hand drop to his lap. “You asked why I’m always sarcastic. I don’t really know. I suppose it’s probably got something to do with the way I was raised. Or maybe it helps me avoid conversations I don’t want to have.”

“Well, that’s,” Potter started, then faltered. He paused for a few seconds before finishing lamely, “Yeah.”

“Eloquent this evening, aren’t you?”

“You’re doing it again. Why this time?”

Draco was becoming irritated. “Well, that time, you sounded rather like an idiot. Sarcasm is an excellent tool to communicate to others when they’ve been doing that, as well.”

Potter was looking at him very strangely now. Their faces were close enough that Draco could see hazel flecks in Potter’s green eyes. He leaned in, of all things, and now Draco was forced to consider that Potter had freckles. “You know,” Potter said, slightly breathless, “There’s always been something about fighting with you that I enjoy, but I never knew what until now.”


Potter licked his bottom lip by pulling one corner of into his mouth with his top teeth. Draco, unable to stop himself, tracked the movement with his eyes, watching the flesh crease and redden from the pressure. Then, Potter moved closer still, and Draco realized those lips were descending on his own.

He became fully aware of the situation just in time to not be caught off guard as warm, pliant lips pressed against his. He moved on instinct, inhaling deeply through his nose and parting his lips, taking Potter between his teeth gently and sucking. Potter’s breath rushed sharply and he pressed closer, fitting his body against Draco’s and wrapping an arm around his shoulders to keep him there. Draco raised his hands to Potter’s chest and splayed his fingers wide on the soft cotton of his t-shirt, feeling the hard muscle underneath in slow, greedy touches. Potter moaned - loudly - and angled his head to slip his tongue into Draco’s mouth. His kiss was clumsy, but it was the best kind of clumsy, the kind that felt uninhibited rather than awkward. Draco met him with enthusiasm, running his own tongue along Potter’s and drawing it further into his mouth, sucking lightly. Potter moaned again, a little more of a groan this time, and his free hand found Draco’s ass. Uninhibited indeed.

For a moment, he was airborne as Potter - with one bloody hand - slid him off of the ground and into his lap. Draco scrambled in a way most undignified until he found his equilibrium, but the entire concept seemed very far away to him when he was currently straddling Harry Potter. Draco ran his hands through Potter’s thick hair and gripped, angling his head upwards. Potter obeyed with half-lidded eyes and a low hissing sound.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Draco growled.

Potter’s lips parted and his tongue went out to wet them again. “Malfoy,...” he began, but it was somewhat pleading, and then he didn’t say anything again for several seconds. “I,...” he tried again.

“Merlin’s sake,” Draco cursed, crushing their lips together in a kiss that was more teeth than anything, but Potter still moaned in satisfaction, both hands now firmly on Draco’s ass. Draco rose to his knees, forcing Potter’s head back to meet their kiss. He liked the angle, liked being above Potter; it felt powerful to him. And Potter, to his credit, was not even close to complaining. The hands on his ass pressed his body forward, grinding his growing erection into Potter’s chest, and now it was Draco’s turn to moan.

They fell to the floor, Draco on top. Potter’s back hit the stone with a thud, Draco’s hands behind his head to protect him. Potter’s hands roamed his body almost frantically, never stopping in any one place for too long, like he couldn’t get enough. Draco moved his lips to Potter’s neck, wondering if he would find a spot to draw more moaning from. The tendons in Potter’s neck strained against the skin, thick cords of muscle that Draco dipped between, finding soft flesh and nipping first, then biting. Potter cried desperately, hips bucking up into Draco like he really couldn’t help himself. Draco bit and sucked at the spot, and Potter yelled louder. Merlin, what a fucking perfect sound it was.

He sat up to get a good look at Potter, at his wide, wild eyes and bruised lips. His glasses had been knocked off somewhere, and Draco’s breath caught in his chest as he was hit with the full force of those green eyes, fixed on him and wanting.

Then, he was on the ground as Potter rolled them, reversing their positions. Hands stroked up his body and settled, one on his neck and the other on his hip as Potter’s teeth found his clavicle. The pressure of Potter’s grip on his neck wasn’t too hard, just enough to make things interesting. Draco moaned as he tested the bond, his pleasure evident in his groin when he found it unable to be broken. Potter had him, was holding him down and having his way with him on the bloody floor of a classroom. Draco could have finished right there, but it would’ve been too embarrassing, so he did his best to hold back as Potter pressed sloppy kisses to his neck and chest.

Almost too late, he became aware of the sounds of footsteps and voices. Voices he recognized. Cursing, Draco fumbled for his wand in the pocket of his trousers. He managed to slip it free and shoot a sticking charm at the door just as the handle was tried by the group of second years outside. The voices became discouraged and they moved on.

Draco looked back up into Potter’s eyes, but the disturbance appeared to have shaken him out of the urgent desire that had been possessing him. Now, he merely looked vaguely startled. He cleared his throat. “Erm, Malfoy, that was,” he said, pausing.

Draco looked up expectantly.

Potter pushed a breath of air out heavily through between parted lips. “That was bloody great.”

Draco couldn’t help himself; he grinned. “I could not agree more.”

“What, ah,” Potter paused again, “What does this make us, exactly?”

Draco took in the full sight of Potter: adorably confused eyes, deep crimson blush, chest heaving with nerves and desire. Draco looked into those dazzling green eyes, normally so confident but now full of trepidation, pupils dilated with lust. He reached up and grabbed the collar of his shirt, tugging him down. “Let’s talk later.”

The second before Potter obeyed - because of course he did obey - a shy smile crossed his lips that had Draco thinking he just might end up giving Potter anything and everything he wanted.