Title: November First
Warnings: Explicit sexual activity, and slash
Summary: The morning of November first dawned painfully for Draco. He couldn’t his dreams, couldn’t remember anything before he’d woken up this morning with come coating his chest and penis in an icy blanket; a memory of green and ice-heat dissipating too fast to catch.
Sequel to Halloween.
The morning of November first dawned painfully for Draco. He’d had far too much sugar last night, and hadn’t slept well, and his dreams had been funny. He couldn’t remember them, couldn’t remember anything before he’d woken up this morning with come coating his chest and penis in an icy blanket; a memory of green and ice-heat dissipating too fast to catch. He shuddered and wiped himself clean, and dressed in far more layers than usual to get the remaining chill out of his bones. If he felt anything when he looked at Potter, he suppressed it, ignored it, and within a few days it was gone. But that was when the new problems started, because now he was seeing something else when he looked at Potter.
When he first noticed the strange looks Potter was sending him, Draco had been highly suspicious. Strange looks from Potter tended to mean he’d be in a lot of pain, trouble or embarrassment sometime soon. After a few weeks, he began to cautiously lower his guard again, but he remained suspicious until Christmas came with no sign of anything from Potter. Obviously he wasn’t actively planning anything (and he used the term “planning” for a Gryffindor very loosely), because Potter was far too impatient to have waited this long for anything. So he began to think, and when they returned in January, he began to look back, to really analyse the looks Potter was sending him for the motive behind them.
These looks were particularly unusual – different, at least, from Potter’s usual looks. They were still laced with Potter’s peculiar brand of hatred, but there was something else, a different kind of passion simmering underneath, and all of it coated in a shiny gloss of embarrassed confusion. The boy wasn’t sure why he was looking, Draco had realised, and wasn’t sure what he was looking for. It was delicious, watching him squirm, even as the facts of his looks horrified him. Potter had a crush. Worse, Potter had a crush on him.
For weeks, Draco avoided Potter as actively as possible; something he realised was actually very difficult for someone who had spent six and a half years actively seeking someone out for punishment and pain (and pleasure). Everywhere he went, Potter was there – he went to the Great Hall for lunch at a time he knew Potter usually went at, he liked to study in that corner of the library because Granger studied nearby and dragged Potter and Weasley along often enough to force them to study. He liked to sit in that particular seat in Potions so he could see how big a mess Potter was making, and if he was getting it right, try to sabotage him. In fact, in every class he shared with Potter (and why was he realising now that he’d taken Care of Magical Creatures because he knew Potter would?) he’d chosen his seat carefully to be as close to Potter as possible without looking like he was sitting close to Potter.
Hatred was an overwhelming, personality-changing thing, he realised. He’d structured his entire life around moments to torment Potter in, and moments to plan to torment Potter in. This was very, very bad.
It wasn’t like he could change anything now, either. If he dropped Care of Magical Creatures, he wouldn’t have enough NEWTs; he couldn’t move his seats in class; his minions would get distressed and confused (and, more importantly, suspicious) if he changed his lunch and study habits now; and, above all, he only had a few months before his NEWTs, and he knew very well that any big changes would probably mean trouble. He was stuck trailing around after Potter like one of his lovesick fans, and without the urge to do anything to Potter (thinking about him now was faintly distressing) a huge chunk of his time suddenly had no use or meaning.
Despite his aversion to the idea of looking at, touching (most especially touching, and how had he not noticed that most of their conflicts involved getting physical?!) or thinking about Potter, he couldn’t help it. He found himself glancing, under lowered eyelashes and the sides of his eyes, at the other boy, hoping for and dreading that look, wondering what it was Potter saw in him that put it there. It couldn’t be physical attractiveness, as much as he liked to pretend he was Merlin’s gift, he was well aware that he looked like a pointy anaemic ferret – and Potter had reminded him of it enough. It obviously wasn’t personality, Potter still hated him and everything he (pretended that he) stood for. So what? The thrill of fucking his rival? Somehow he doubted that, or Potter’s arse would have been shagged a long time ago.
Somewhere in his meandering, horrified thoughts, Draco had noticed another change in Potter. It was as subtle as the first, and he missed it for long enough that it was embarrassing when he caught it. Potter was blushing a lot more, and his looks had started to linger, become contemplative. Every time Draco glanced at Potter and he caught it, the other boy blushed, looked away. A lot of the time he looked back quickly, his eyes narrowed a bit and his lips pursed; a signal that he was thinking about something. Thinking about him, but why?
Fuck, bugger, crap, Merlin’s frilly nightgown! Potter thought Draco had a crush on him! And the little prat obviously hadn’t realised his own crush, hadn’t realised the way he’d sometimes go out of his way to see Draco, the way he’d say something just to get a reaction so Draco would hit him and touch him, the way he’d look, his eyes lingering a little too often. Probably thinking he was trying to figure out what Draco was up to now or something, not realising that his eyes were wandering places other than Draco’s hand, and his eyes were softened in contemplation instead of suspicion. Thick-headed pillock.
Draco groaned, steeling himself against another discussion with Potter, reminding himself that they wanted to do this without the fists this time (so stop provoking him!) and turned around. Potter was rushing to get to him, flushed and a little sweaty. His eyes glittered like they did after Quidditch practice, but Draco knew the Gryffindors practiced on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and this was a Wednesday. The boy’s uniform was ruffled like he’d been running, and as untidy as it usually was; he hadn’t even bothered to tuck his shirt in. HIs lip curled a little in disgust at such a blatant disregard for general fashion.
“What do you want, Potter?”
“To… To talk… If you don’t mind.” Potter replied, surprisingly polite. Draco sighed, contemplated saying something biting, and decided not to. If they talked, he could walk away from here without touching Potter and needing a trip to the Hospital Wing.
“Not out here… In here.” He grabbed Draco’s sleeve (touching!) and pulled him into the classroom, settling nervously against one of the desks.
“Alright, so you’ve dragged me in here – by my clothes, might I add, and I realise you wouldn’t know decent clothing if they strangled you, but this is expensive, so don’t do that again – talk. What do you want?” Potter had blushed again when Draco snarked at him, and he could tell that this time it was a nearly-angry, one-more-push-and-he’ll-hit-me kind of blush. He manfully pushed his anger down and forced something that vaguely resembled a smile onto his lips.
“I just… Ah… I’d noticed you were… Looking at me, a lot… And I wanted to ask if you… You know…” Potter trailed off, and it took Draco a good few moments to realise what, exactly, he was implying.
“What? Potter, just because you’re fantasising about my arse doesn’t mean I’m thinking of doing anything to yours except kicking it!” Draco exclaimed, shifting back onto his own desk to put more distance between himself and Potter. Trust the self-absorbed celebrity to think everyone and their dog fancied him!
“What? Are you saying…? Ugg, Malfoy, you can’t think I want you! You’re so… Pointy! You’re the one who fancies me, it’s so obvious!” Potter yelled, his blush back in full force and his lips twisted in something that wasn’t exactly revulsion.
Draco sneered at him and viciously as possible. “Come off it Potter, you can’t be that blind! All the looks -”
“You keep looking at me!”
“You were looking first! And you keep finding ways to be around me! Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re studying more with Granger just so you can sit near me and spoil all my study time!”
“The NEWTs are coming up; of course I’m studying more! It’s nothing to do with you, you self-absorbed ferret!”
“And! And you keep saying things like that to get me to hit you just so you can press your body up against me -”
“How else am I supposed to restrain you, you’re a vicious little bitch sometimes!”
“And hold me for far longer than necessary and touch me!”
“You don’t provoke me at all, of course! Don’t say nasty things just to get me to hit you, at all, do you Malfoy?”
“So you admit you’re saying things just to get me to touch you?”
“What? No, stop twisting my words, you… you…” Potter’s voice squeaked off in impotency, his face scarlet with fury and passion. He’d moved during the argument, his fists were twisted in Draco’s (expensive!) collar, his face too close. He was too close, too powerful, too passionate. Draco wanted to get away, now, but he couldn’t move, and Potter looked like he was going to hit him, hurt him, touch him, but instead he was kissing him, they were kissing, gloriously.
He groaned and arched, pushing up into Potter and turning him around so he was the one against the desk, the one being held. Their tongues were battling as fiercely as their words and fights usually did; neither giving or retreating, but somehow Draco was winning, and Potter’s moans were softening a little, down from the angry grunts to the softer passion of desire, and his hands had untwisted from Draco’s collar to his waist, pulling him closer. Draco groaned.
“This is wrong…” Kiss, nibble, “Why are we doing this?”
“Because you want to.” Potter replied, leaning his head back for Draco’s mouth on his collar. “Because I want to.” Draco wanted to feel a smug satisfaction that Potter had admitted it, that he really did want him, but he couldn’t. Because Merlin help him, but he wanted him too, wanted Potter’s passion and his pleasure just as fiercely as he had wanted his pain. He wanted this.
That November morning, Draco woke to glorious heat burning along his side and around his cock. He’d fallen asleep wrapped around Harry, but now Harry was wrapped around him, his hand curled tightly around and bleary green eyes looking up at him. He smiled and kissed him gently, arching into the hands on him. He couldn’t remember his dreams, but he thought they’d been as strange as they had been the last few years, since his last Halloween at Hogwarts. Usually all he could remember was a flicker of green, and he’d always be icy-cold for the rest of the day. Today, though, he was nice and hot, and getting hotter as Harry kept the stroking touches going. They hadn’t done this for so many years, not since those fumbled days at Hogwarts. Draco had gone off and married a proper pure-blood woman who’d given him a son then returned to France, leaving Draco happily raising Scorpius. Scorpius was nearly five now, the same age as Harry’s second son. Ginny had left him after their daughter had been born, preferring a career to motherhood and a man who wanted her to one who’d settled for her family. Harry had been happy with the arrangements and happier still when he’d been assigned to work with Malfoy six months later.
And now they were here, in bed together again, no more the fumbling, confused virgins they were at seventeen. Draco sighed voluptuously, rolled his hips into Harry’s far more experienced touch and smiled when Harry groaned as well. He reached up for his lover’s face and pulled him into a light kiss, marvelling at how right this felt. Like he’d done something right, and this was his reward, this warmth.