1  Dirt

Draco angled his broom downward and to the left and crashed into Harry Potter at the perfect trajectory. He could not have planned it better using a slide rule. Potter's broom spun backward and dislodged the surprised Gryffindor. Rather than save himself, Potter's rage apparently got the better of him and he snatched at Draco as he went down. A Gryffindor death grip attached itself to Draco's trouser leg.

Draco shifted to pull out of his kamikaze dive—he would have made it but for the unexpected addition of Potter's full weight as the prat abandoned his spinning broom.

They plowed into the ground and landed in a plume of dust. Draco lay still for a moment, wondering if any bones were broken. He could barely breathe through the cloud of dirt in the air.

Draco had gone to the Quidditch pitch for some solitary practice and unhappily discovered Potter there before him, obviously with the same idea. The pitch itself was completely torn up—the grass had been devoured by some rampant pet of that fool Hagrid and a series of large holes had been dug in an attempt to recover the creature. Draco had immediately leaped on his broom and engineered what should have been a spectacular crash on Potter's part, damn his Gryffindor luck.

"Malfoy! Potter!" someone shrieked. Draco sat up and saw Potter next to him, sitting in the settling cloud of dirt and glaring at Draco through glittering green eyes. His glasses were askew. And filmed with dust. Draco smirked.

Their names were repeated and Draco glanced over to see Madam Hooch stalking toward them.

"Mr. Malfoy! That was the most unpleasant bit of malfeasance I have witnessed in quite some time! Twenty points from Slytherin! You two must learn to dispense with this foolish rivalry before one of you is seriously injured. Now get yourselves cleaned up immediately and get back to the castle!"

Draco levered himself out of the dirt and Accioed his broom, noting that Potter did the same.

"And no flying!" Madam Hooch snapped as Draco prepared to mount. He scowled. Potter stalked toward the Quidditch locker room.

Draco trailed behind him, amused to note that Potter's robes were the color of dust, as was his normally shiny black hair. That thought made Draco pause and he quickly shot a spell at his own hair to strip the dust and restore its platinum perfection.

Potter stamped to the showers and yanked his clothes off. He tossed them haphazardly on the floor and walked to the shower at the farthest corner of the room. Draco removed his own clothing and Scourgified each item before folding it carefully. He watched Potter surreptitiously. Draco had been in the showers with him before, but never alone—always with both Quidditch teams present, taunting and harassing one another.

Potter obviously expected Draco to use the nearest shower, kilometers away from the Gryffindor hero. For that reason, Draco walked the long distance to the shower closest to Potter. The green eyes shifted toward him warily.

"Want me to wash your back, Potter?" Draco taunted.

"I'd rather die," Potter said blandly.

"Afraid?" Draco sneered and let the water cascade over his face.

Potter snorted. "Afraid of you? Hardly."

"Then let me wash your back, pillock."

"What? Why?" Potter burst out. He really had that mistrusting, suspicious glare down pat.

"Because it would annoy you. You're probably afraid you would enjoy it."

"No, I'm afraid you would enjoy it," Potter countered.

"I dare you," Draco said suddenly—the Gryffindor equivalent of waving a red flag in front of an enraged bull. They simply couldn't resist. Potter's face went scarlet.

"You know what? Fine. Wash my back, you poncey perve."

Draco took the soap with a grin of triumph and stepped close to Potter. He ran the bar over Potter's back and then dropped the soap to slide his hands over Potter's skin. The suds made his back slippery and smooth. Draco started at the nape of Potter's neck where the black hair was dribbling dirty water down his back in rivulets.

Draco scrubbed thoroughly, taking his time while Potter stood tensely, unmoving.

"Finished?" Potter asked in a hopeful tone.

"Yes. Now I'll let you do my front."

"No fucking way."

"I touched you without dying. Let's see that exalted Gryffindor bravery." He added, "I dare you."

Potter snarled over his shoulder. "You're a sick bastard, Malfoy."

Draco Accioed the soap and held it out.

"Scrub."

Potter reluctantly held out a hand and Draco slapped the soap into his palm. Potter turned around and roughly dragged the soap across Draco's chest. He kept his livid gaze on Draco's face, but did not quite meet his eyes.

"Fuck, Potter, leave some skin," Draco snapped.

"You never said I had to be gentle."

"Well, I'm saying it now."

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

"Not the wisest choice of words at the moment, Potter."

"You're really disgusting, you know that?"

"Just wash."

The soap slipped out of his hands and Potter let it go. His jaw was set in determination. His touch eased a bit, though, and began to slip over Draco's flesh, starting at the tops of his shoulders. Draco lifted a hand to wipe at a dark smudge on Potter's cheek.

"Your face is filthy," he commented.

"So is yours," Potter snapped. His hands glided in circular motions over Draco's pectorals. To his surprise, Potter wasn't rushing—although he definitely wasn't lingering on the task, either.

Dirt had caked on Potter's forehead and turned to mud in the shower. Draco wordlessly conjured shampoo—a spell he had perfected at age six—and began to scrub Potter's hair.

"What are you doing?" Potter asked and tried to duck away.

"Shut up and enjoy it. I'm an expert at this," Draco retorted. He worked his long fingers through Potter's raven locks, slicking the hair back away from forehead and scar. He slowly massaged Potter's temples and the tense places over his ears, lingering there for long moments. Potter's hands stilled on Draco's abdomen and when he stepped closer to work on the back of Potter's head, the hands moved to grip Draco's waist.

Potter's eyes were shut and Draco took the opportunity to study his opponent. Without the ugly spectacles marring his face, Potter was astoundingly handsome. He had a straight, strong jaw, smooth skin and high, delicate cheekbones. His nose was straight over perfect, bow-like lips… and could his lashes get any longer? They lay against his cheeks like sooty slashes.

Draco swallowed hard. Now was not the time to be thinking of Harry Potter as good looking.

He scrubbed the caked mud from the back of Potter's hair and dug stiff fingers into the tight muscles of his neck. Potter actually made a tiny sound of pleasure that sent an electric thrill up Draco's spine. The poor, deprived virgin had never had his hair washed by another person, obviously.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Draco murmured and tipped Potter's head back into the water to rinse. He was immediately sorry as the sensual line of Potter's neck was exposed—the taut skin there begged to be kissed.

"Mmmm," Potter agreed mindlessly. Draco bet the Gryffindor did not even realize his fingers were gently caressing Draco's waist. Draco's mouth was dry and his breathing was uneven. The blood that should have been in his brain making it ask what the hell he was doing had gleefully retreated to another part of his body, which was becoming rigid with delight.

Draco combed the last of the suds out of Potter's hair with his fingers and watched as the shower of water poured over his face. Potter's pink lips were slightly parted.

"Fuck it," Draco said and captured that gorgeous wet mouth with his.

Potter went instantly board-stiff. His hands tightened on Draco's waist and Draco sensed his panic, but he still held Potter's hair. He gripped it tightly and launched his assault.

Draco's tongue tangled with Potter's, caressing and stroking the length of it, and sliding across the sensitive areas expertly. Draco knew how to kiss and Potter had only been snogged by inexperienced amateurs. Draco's tongue glided across the roof of his mouth—exploring every part of it. It seemed to be Potter's undoing.

Draco felt a shiver run through Potter's body—easy now that their torsos were pressed together—and his hands slid to the center of Draco's back, pulling him closer.

Draco half-feared some Gryffindor trick, but Potter seemed to have taken it as another challenge. He began to kiss back, using the same tricks Draco had applied. Draco felt Potter's tongue tentatively slide over his, tasting and teasing.

Draco's hands left Potter's wet hair and traveled down his back. He grabbed Potter 's hips and pulled him closer while thrusting his groin against Potter. Their duel erections rubbed together and Potter gasped. The sound was like a drug to Draco, who released Potter's hip with one hand and quickly took both their throbbing members into his hand.

Potter broke the kiss and actually whimpered when he breathed, "No…"

"Yes, yes, yes," Draco countered and kissed him again as his hand began to move. Draco stroked and was pleasantly surprised to finally have victory over Harry Potter. The Gryffindor surrendered completely and his body responded to Draco's touch with delicious shivers and incredible, erotic gasps and moans against Draco's lips.

Potter came first and the throaty whimpers he made as the hot fluid poured onto Draco's wet skin triggered his own explosive orgasm.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes!" Draco said and nearly crushed Potter with his free arm. He buried his face in Potter's neck and let the water cool his flushed skin. Draco half-expected Potter to pull away in a burst of Gryffindor self-loathing, but he was compliant in Draco's embrace. Draco held him wordlessly for a moment and then pulled him under the spray to wash away the traces of their activity. Potter's eyes were half-lidded and he said nothing as Malfoy's hands moved intimately over his skin. Draco wondered if the Gryffindor would slip into a catatonic state.

He grinned ruefully and kissed Potter delicately on the lips once more as he released him.

"That was fun. Call me next time you feel dirty, Potter," he said suggestively and chuckled.

He walked back to his clothes, dressed, and went out, already plotting other ways to cover Harry Potter in dirt.

2  Dirt Revisited

Harry left the dungeon and crossed the Great Hall, which was mostly deserted. He was feeling annoyed after his detention with Snape, which had been the usual atrocious task of cleaning old jars crusted with noxious, sticky, poisonous, or simply revolting potion ingredients. The task had been peppered with the never-ending supply of Snape sarcasm, forcing Harry to bite his tongue ten thousand times to stop a retort before it led to more late-night detentions.

He took the stairs, wishing for nothing more than a hot bath to wash the lingering stink from his hands, and then a soft bed. As he approached the fifth floor, he paused with one foot on the staircase, feeling that he was being watched.

Harry glanced around, shrugged, and started up the stairs again when he was suddenly buried in what felt like a massive, thundering weight that nearly brought him to his knees. When the muffled din subsided, Harry found himself knee-deep in a huge pile of dirt that had been dropped from above. His glasses had been knocked off and now resided somewhere in the mass of soil at his feet. Harry knew who to blame.

He yanked out his wand and Accioed his glasses. It took a couple of tries, but the spectacles finally dislodged from the grime and snapped into his hand. They were filmed with dirt. Harry Scourgified them and put them on, feeling the grit scape his nose where the glasses rested. He expected Malfoy to be nearby, enjoying the spectacle and smirking happily.

Draco Malfoy had been making "dirt" references for the past two weeks, ever since Malfoy's ambush on the Quidditch field had led to an ambush of a different sort in the locker room shower. Harry blushed at the memory—again—and was glad the dirt concealed it when a couple of Ravenclaw girls walked by, giggling. They skirted him and the soil, and went upstairs.

Harry extracted himself from the pile and cursed Malfoy. Draco considered it some sort of victory that he had been able to… able to… God. Harry's mind tried to shy away from what Malfoy had done to him in the shower, but the memory of Draco's body slick with soap, the feel of Malfoy's hands in his hair, the taste of Draco's tongue in his mouth—

"God damn it!" Harry yelled aloud, not caring who heard. He started up the stairs, leaving a trail of dirt in his wake. Fuck, he was even dreaming about the Slytherin bastard these days. Just seeing Malfoy in the halls brought an uncomfortable fist-in-the-stomach sensation and difficulty breathing. Draco's smirk had taken on epic proportion and Harry wished to hell he didn't want to slam the bastard up against the wall and kiss the fucking grin off his face…

Harry spied the entrance to the prefects' bathroom as soon as he reached the fifth floor landing, and made the instantaneous decision to divest himself of his dirt blanket.

The place was completely deserted, for which he was thankful. He did not feel like explaining why he had been deluged with dirt. It was Malfoy's little idea of a joke, no doubt. Harry shed his filthy clothing as he walked.

The swimming-pool sized tub was already full of water and covered with a thick layer of lavendar-scented foam. Harry set his glasses and wand on the edge of the pool and stepped into the water. He sank down and allowed it to cover his head. Harry kept his eyes shut as he scrubbed at his face and dug his fingers roughly into his hair. He emerged to breathe and paddled to the edge of the pool. Harry tried to remember which of the multitude of golden taps released shampoo.

A face suddenly emerged from the foam in front of him, startling an involuntary cry from his lips.

"God damn it, Malfoy, you nearly gave me a fucking seizure."

The grey eyes glinted at him as Draco smiled.

"Bubble Head Charm, Potter," Malfoy said. "Took you long enough to get here."

Harry flushed scarlet when he realized several things at once. One, Malfoy had set him up. Two, Harry had walked straight into the trap like an idiot. Three, Harry was completely naked. Four, Malfoy, being Malfoy, was probably also completely naked. Five, Harry should get out of the tub and escape as fast as humanly possible…

"Thinking about running, Potter?" Draco taunted.

"No," Harry lied angrily. He blushed again, realizing he had wiggled out of one trap and into another with that statement.

"Good. You seem to have had a dirty mishap."

"Imagine that," Harry said dryly.

"You've got mud in your hair again. Would you like me to wash it for you?"

"No!" Harry said adamantly and cursed himself when he heard the edge of panic in his voice.

"All right." Malfoy smiled and Harry wished to hell his teeth weren't quite so straight and white, and his lips weren't quite so perfect. "I'm just going to assume that everything you say tonight is a lie. Dunk your head, Potter."

"Absolutely not. Why are you even here? I think you should—" Harry's words were cut off when Draco shot a fountain of water up and over his head, drenching him. Harry sputtered. He felt Malfoy's hands in his hair a moment later. He could not form a coherent sentence after that, because Malfoy's hair-washing skills were brain-melting. Damn it, how did he know about that tense spot just above Harry's temples? And was it absolutely necessary to slide his thumbs… oh, God, that felt so good…

"Rinsing time," Draco said in a sing-song voice and Harry was deluged in water again. Before he could breathe properly, Malfoy kissed him and pressed Harry against the edge of the pool with his lithe body. Draco was naked, and just as aroused as Harry. Potter groaned miserably. This was wrong, so very, incredibly wrong. Draco's hands were in his hair again and Potter banished the annoying voice of reason—fucking hell, where had Malfoy learned to kiss like that?

Draco broke the molten kiss and pulled back to look at him smugly—a look he had earned, the bastard. Malfoy suddenly vanished the foam. He cast an Accio and a small vial snapped into his hand. The silver eyes gleamed wickedly as Draco set his wand next to Harry's.

"Water breathing potion," Draco whispered and pulled the stopper with his perfect teeth before sending it across the floor with a quick purse of his lips and a puff of air. God, he even managed to make that simple gesture look sexy. Draco tipped the contents into his mouth. His throat moved as he swallowed and then he pressed his lips to Harry's—wet and tasting of lemon and something bitter from the potion. Harry squeaked when he felt Malfoy's hand grip his erection, and then the silver head slipped beneath the water.

Harry yelped when his erection was covered by Draco's mouth and his teeth scraped gently on Harry's flesh.

I should really stop him doing that, Harry thought absently and his hand tightened on the lip of the pool, but he gasped and thrust his hips forward involuntarily.

He felt Draco's hands on his pelvis, pressing him back against the stone and holding him in place. Draco's mouth, lips, and tongue caressed, teased, and coaxed Harry's cock. Harry had never felt anything so incredible in his life. Malfoy's hair tickled Harry's abdomen as it floated around his head in a pale cloud. Harry put one hand down to touch it and felt it twine through his fingers like a gossamer net.

The delicious friction built the pressure until Harry could not hold back and he tried to muffle his shout as the orgasm sent his body scraping hard against the stone of the pool. Fuck; Draco kept it up until every last spasm ripped though Harry and he sagged like a wet blanket, panting. His arm shook from holding the edge of the pool so tightly.

Potter was suddenly dragged under water and Draco kissed him again, tasting of salt and extract of Harry. Malfoy held him down until Harry's lungs screamed for air and he wondered if the Slytherin planned to drown him.

Draco finally released him and Harry surfaced gratefully to inhale the steam-laden air. Malfoy climbed from the water on the other side of the pool and coughed painfully until the water emptied from his lungs and his body readjusted to breathing air. Harry was surprised, and almost flattered, that Malfoy would go to such lengths just to… to… what? Prove to Harry that the Slytherin could turn him into a melted puddle of mindless lust?

"I still hate you, Potter," Draco said roughly as he got to his feet and walked to his clothes. An absent Accio snapped his wand into his hand.

"I hate you, too, Malfoy," Harry said lightly, watching the Slytherin's bare ass and lithe body as he pulled his clothing on. Draco smirked over his shoulder and Harry flushed at being caught admiring the bastard. He shut his eyes tightly.

Harry sighed in relief when he heard the door close. He leaned his head back against the stone, realizing he felt absurdly content, and more relaxed than he had in days. He rolled his head slightly and looked at the empty vial that lay next to his wand. He picked it up.

Water breathing potion, eh?

Oh, the possibilities…

Harry thought it was about time for Malfoy to get dirty.

3  Dirt Revamped

Draco walked slowly across the courtyard, lost in thought. He was having a bloody miserable day, and the damned snow currently falling was not helping matters any. Early October was an unusual time to have a massive dumping of snow. Draco had looked forward to several more weeks of decent weather, and he felt betrayed by Mother Nature, who could be quite a wicked bitch, at times.

On top of the snow, he had received unwelcome news from home that had caused him to drag Crabbe and Goyle on their daily walk, regardless of how they protested leaving the crackling fire in the Slytherin common room. Draco had taken to daily walks the prior year, as it was the best way to divulge plotting instructions without being overheard.

Today there were no plots to discuss, merely Draco's bad mood and his desire to freeze the buttocks off of Crabbe and Goyle in the spirit of shared misery. Draco pulled his thick ermine cloak more tightly around his neck and carefully placed his white boots in the pristine snow as he walked. He was dressed all in white today—mainly because he looked damned good in it, but also in order to blend with the scenery. And because he felt very cold and it felt right to look the part. Snowflakes clung to his lashes, and he wondered when the snow planned to stop falling.

Draco sighed and stopped short as he felt a sudden swirl of magic about him—like a wind. Wait, it was a wind! The air spun around him, faster and faster, lifting his hair and swirling his cloak. Before he could react, it seemed to collapse in on him and all was still. He blinked for a moment, wondering what the hell had happened, and then he heard laughter.

Harry Potter stepped from a nearby alcove, chortling gleefully.

"Not so pristine now, are you Malfoy?" he taunted, prompting Draco to look down. Bloody hell! His white cloak was now brown, as was a circle of snow surrounding Draco. He felt something trickle down the side of his face and reached up a hand, half-fearing to find blood. His fingers came away with a dark coating of mud. Potter had hit him with a Dirt Devil spell, which had reacted quite nastily with the wet snow, turning everything to mud.

Mud! He had mudin his hair!

"POTTER!" Draco bellowed and launched himself forward. The cowardly Gryffindor spun on a heel and bolted.

"Eh, Draco, wait for us!" Goyle cried behind him, but Malfoy's rage spurred him onward. Bloody Potter! If he'd ruined Draco's beautiful,expensive ermine cloak, he'd extract the price from Potter's hide!

Harry disappeared around a corner and Draco pelted after him. He had barely rounded the corner when a hand reached out and dragged him into a dark alcove. Draco's momentum caused him to slam—hard—into the wall.

Before he could catch his breath, warm lips pressed into his, muffling Draco's snarl of rage. Crabbe and Goyle huffed by outside. Draco watched them pass with a flash of annoyance. Did the idiots not notice Draco'stracks? He was distracted by a tongue being thrust halfway down his throat, and he melted slightly under the erotic onslaught.

Potter pulled back after a moment and wrinkled his irritatingly cute nose.

"Ew, you taste like dirt," Harry said. His mouth and nose were smeared with mud.

"I wonder why, Potter, you stupid prat. You had better hope to Merlin my cape comes clean or I'll—"

His pronouncement was cut off by Harry's lips again, and he noticed Potter's hands did not seem to mind the grime, because they were underneath Draco's cape and sliding over his ribs.

"I'm not in the mood for this, Potter," he said when the Gryffindor's mouth withdrew once more, although that was something of a lie, because Potter was getting quite good at the kissing thing—Draco felt a flash of rage when he wondered if Potter had been practicing on the side—and his hands were now beneath Draco's shirt. Although they were cold enough to make Draco wince, they evoked heat in all the right places. "I'm having a very bad day," he continued petulantly.

Potter pulled away immediately, and Draco nearly snatched him back when those lovely hands disappeared from Draco's flesh.

"Poor baby," Potter crooned. "We'd best get you cleaned up, then, so you can get back to… what was it you were doing outside?"

"Walking," Draco snapped, though his mind was rather insistently replaying the endearment Potter had used.

"Really? It looked more like sulking to me."

Before Draco could snarl a reply to that, Harry walked farther into the recesses of the alcove. "Come along."

Draco knew he should walk back into the snow. He should definitely not follow Potter into the dark unknown.

"Don't be frightened," Potter goaded from the shadows. Bastard. Draco followed.

Potter had opened a hidden door that led to a cobwebby corridor, dark even though lit by Harry's wand. It reeked of dust and disuse.

"How did you know this was here?" Draco asked.

"Map," Potter said and padded down the hallway. Draco was forced to hurry after him, or be lost in the darkness.

"What map?"

"Never mind," Potter said as he opened a door at the end of the corridor. The portal revealed a small room that smelled old and musty, though it appeared dust free. Several candles had been lit here and there. The place contained sparse furnishings—a huge tub of water took up much of the center of the room. A table sat against one wall, accompanied by a single chair. In one corner rested a small bed, hardly larger than a cot.

Harry turned and began to work the fasteners that held the cape shut at Draco's throat, causing the breath to lock up in Draco's chest. Potter eased the filthy ermine cape from Draco's shoulders.

"Scourgify?" Potter asked.

"Hell no! You'll damage it!"

"Want me to send it out for cleaning? I'll buy you a new one, if you'd like."

Draco sighed. With Potter's wretched fashion sense, it was easy to forget the prat was rich, as well as attractive. He stifled that thought by strangling it and banishing it to a dark, unused portion of his brain.

"All right," Draco said mildly, more curious to see what Potter planned to do next than worried about his wardrobe. Potter hung the cape on a wooden peg near the door and returned to stand before Draco. His face was expressionless, and he met Draco's eyes for only an instant before moving his hands to the buttons of Draco's shirt—once white, but now streaked with dirt.

Draco neither moved nor spoke as the tanned fingers undid one button and then another, moving from Draco's neck to the waistband of Draco's formerly pristine trousers. He unfastened the cuffs and slipped the shirt from Draco's shoulders. Potter cast a Cleaning Charm on the shirt, and Levitated it to hang on another peg.

Potter knelt then, to remove Draco's white boots. Draco braced himself with a hand on Potter's head, making an effort not to fondle the dark locks. The boots were similarly cleaned and placed against the wall.

Potter stood and looked steadily into Draco's eyes as his hands worked at unfastening the white trousers. There was no smirk, nor even the hint of a smile, on Potter's lips. Draco found it difficult to breathe, a feat that grew even harder when Harry pushed the pale material over Draco's hips and knelt to help him step out of them. The trousers went the way of the other clothing, and Draco wondered how far Potter planned to go, but the Gryffindor seemed suddenly nervous, and he gestured to the bath.

"I'll… wash your hair for you," he said quietly. Draco offered him a half-hearted smirk, stepped around him, and dropped his boxers. They were white, of course, like everything else.

The bath was the perfect temperature, just hot enough to sting until his body adjusted. It was scented with something—mulberry? As he sank into the water, Draco asked, "How did you know? The scent, I mean." He turned in the bath until he faced Potter, who blushed slightly.

"I noticed… in class and in the halls…"

Draco felt an irrational flush of pleasure at the thought of Potter noticing Draco's scent. He wondered if he had noticed Harry's, and shut his eyes for a moment. Oh yes, it was something woodsy… like spruce, or cedar… He caught a whiff of it, with a flash of satisfaction at being correct, as Potter moved behind him.

"Wet your hair," Potter ordered. Draco dutifully sank beneath the surface. He scrubbed the mud from his face while he was under. When his head cleared the water, he felt Potter's hands slick over his hair with sweet-smelling shampoo. Potter must have remembered the day in the showers when Draco had washed his hair, for his hands were slow and soothing. Potter spent extra time on Draco's temples, working on a headache Draco did not even know he'd had.

A moan of pleasure escaped him before he could stifle it. Potter leaned over suddenly kissed him—upside down—nibbling at Draco's lips. Draco reached up and put a wet hand into Potter's hair, feeling the silken strands catch on his fingers. He turned his head to deepen the kiss, wondering how Potter could turn him on so easily with a shampoo and a kiss.

Bloody damned Gryffindor.

Draco felt Potter's hand on his chest, caressing over a nipple—brushing over it lightly with his fingers—and smoothing over Draco's ribs. The hand trailed lower and stopped.

"Time to rinse," Potter said against his lips. The hand disappeared as Potter stepped back. Draco fought back a snarl of frustration. It was the dirt. The bastard was getting revenge for the dirt.

He went under the water and released a groan where Potter could not hear it. He raised his hands to rinse the suds, but Potter's were already there, massaging gently. For only a moment, Draco wondered if Potter planned to hold him down and drown him, and then grinned at the foolish thought. The Golden Boy wouldn't drown his worst enemy. Well, perhaps his worst enemy—he could clearly envision Potter holding old snakeface under water until the twitching stopped.

Potter's hands disappeared, and Draco surfaced. When he blinked the water from his eyes, he saw Potter standing beside the tub, holding a thick towel. Draco stepped out of the tub and Potter enveloped him in the soft fleece.

"Want me to dry your hair?" he asked quietly and Draco nodded. He couldn't fathom Potter's motives. The Gryffindor was being positively… sweet. Draco expected a Drying Spell, but a smaller towel was pressed onto his hair and Potter squeezed, giving Draco yet another massage while standing close enough that Draco could breathe in his woodsy scent.

"Sit down and I'll brush it for you."

Draco bypassed the chair and elected to sit on the bed. Only because it looked more comfortable. Potter grinned and crawled onto the bed. He parked behind Draco, kneeling with a leg on each side of Draco's hips.

Draco felt the brush in his hair, starting properly at the ends, to work out any tangles, and then scraping over Draco's scalp in a delight of sensation. God, he so loved having his hair brushed. Potter was surprisingly good at it, considering his own hair looked like it had never been touched by brush or comb. Potter pressed a kiss into the side of Draco's neck and he shivered. Potter did it again, nipping slightly with his teeth, and the towel slid from Draco's shoulders, giving him wordless access to more flesh.

Potter ignored the invitation and continued to brush. Fucking tease. It felt good, but Draco wanted more. He turned around and pressed himself against Potter, who overbalanced at the sudden movement and fell onto the bed with Draco atop him.

He looked into Potter's glowing eyes for a moment. The Gryffindor smirked.

"I thought you weren't in the mood," Potter whispered.

"Fuck you, Potter."

"Or fuck you, Malfoy," he replied suggestively.

Draco froze, uncertain if his brain were riding the same track as Potter's.

"Are you suggesting—?"

Potter's arms went around Draco's back, and the Gryffindor kissed him hard. His thighs were on either side of Draco's hips and his erection was obvious beneath Draco's flank. Draco groaned at the rush of sensation. God.

Draco suddenly decided Potter was wearing far too many clothes. Draco's wand was across the room, but Harry's was on the bed. Draco picked it up and vanished the buttons on Potter's shirt, one at a time.

"I like seeing your fingers wrapped around my wand, Malfoy," Potter said hoarsely.

"Would you like to see them wrapped around your other wand?" Draco retorted seductively, and smirked when Potter drew in what sounded like a tortured breath. Draco dropped the wand and smoothed both hands down Potter's chest, spreading the shirt wide. He pressed himself against Potter—flesh to flesh in intimate contact.

Potter trembled beneath Draco's hands as he moved his fingers over Harry's waist to the button on his jeans. While Draco's hands were busy, his tongue lapped across Potter's chest and Draco took one of Harry's nipples into his mouth. The Gryffindor arched and gasped and Draco felt the blood throb in his veins.

He kissed Potter to smother any possible protest, and opened the denim trousers. He tucked a hand inside and sighed happily at Potter's whimper. The hard flesh was pressed wantonly into his palm, and Draco stroked it obligingly. After a few caresses, he released Harry long enough to remove the jeans completely, followed by the undergarments.

Draco grinned wickedly at the sight of Potter clad only in an unbuttoned shirt, begging for Draco's touch. He wasn't sure what was more arousing, the rush of pure lust, or the heady sense of power he felt when Potter's body arched upward to meet his hands. The Dark Lord be damned, Harry Potter belonged to Draco Malfoy.

He pushed Potter back onto the mattress, and slid his hands over every bit of flesh he could reach, quickly following the hands with his mouth. He saved Potter's lovely cock for last. The shaft was throbbing, weeping, and hard with need when Draco finally took it into his mouth. Potter actually cried out, although the words were unintelligible. By the feel of Potter trembling beneath his hands, Draco knew it wouldn't be long before the Gryffindor came.

Potter surprised him by wrapping a hand in Draco's hair and pulling hard. Draco bit down in annoyance. Potter yanked with both hands, so Draco released him and allowed the Gryffindor to haul him upward.

"Potter—" he started, but Harry silenced him with a rough kiss. Draco felt Potter's thighs on either side of his hips again. The long legs tangled in his and Draco was quickly rolled over. Green eyes bored into his, and Potter smiled wickedly.

"This was myplot, Malfoy, remember?"

Draco's breath caught in his throat, and then released with a groan when Potter's hands copied Draco's actions, roaming over his skin with rough tenderness. Potter's hot mouth followed, licking and—Draco gasped—biting! Bloody hell, Draco never would have guessed that teeth could feel so good. The nips nearly distracted him from Potter's hands, which had not ceased their caresses, and now found parts of Draco that had been unexplored before today.

Potter's fingers were wet (had he cast a spell between bites?) and, oh god, insideDraco, who suddenly tensed, even though it was far too late for that.

"Potter," he asked raggedly, "Do you know what you're doing?"

"I haven't a clue, Malfoy, but I think you should relax," Potter murmured, and then his mouth was on Draco's cock, not biting now, but laving and sucking. Oh god yes. Draco not only relaxed, but opened his legs and fucking invited the Gryffindor inside. And Potter obliged. The fingers disappeared, to be replaced with something larger, harder, and hotter. Draco moaned the loss of Potter's mouth on his cock, even though it was exchanged with a firm grip.

Draco tensed again when Potter's length began to press inexorably into him, but Potter's lips were on his neck. Teeth scraped over Draco's flesh and the soft voice whispered, "Is this okay?"

Draco nearly laughed. He wasn't sure if it was okay. It didn't really feel okay, but he thought it might become okay if they worked at it a bit. Draco knew if he even hinted that it wasn't okay, Potter would withdraw and probably waste valuable time and energy on apologizing, and that would definitely not be okay, so Draco said, "Yes." He thrust himself upward to prove it, gasping aloud at the pain.

It was so unpleasant that Draco spared a moment to vow revenge, and he wondered why any man would submit to the torture of being fucked, until he opened his eyes and caught sight of Potter, who seemed to be locked in a position of astonishing bliss. His head was thrown back and his white teeth were clamped onto his lower lip. The dark lashes were closed over his green eyes, and his face was flushed. Potter's black hair curled like midnight over the collar of his open shirt—god, what a beautiful sight he was.

Potter moved slightly and Draco's brows shot up, because that had been… different, and not unpleasant at all. His fingers dug into Potter's arse, wordlessly urging him to do it again. He did so and Draco moaned. Potter whimpered and started to move in earnest. Draco lost himself in sensation, drinking in the feel, scent, and taste of Harry Potter. It was almost too much to bear.

"God, you're gorgeous," Harry murmured thickly.

Draco arched and Potter's teeth grazed his neck again before biting down on his shoulder—almost too hard. Potter's hand stroked in rhythm with his thrusts and Draco felt an impending implosion. Potter cried out suddenly and jolted against Draco, who sank his teeth into Potter's shoulder—partly in retaliation, and partly to muffle the scream of bliss that burst from his throat when the brilliant orgasm tore though him. The tremors seemed to last forever. Draco knew for certain he had never come so hard in his life. He'd never felt anything so… Draco shied away from the thought.

Potter was a dead weight on his chest. A very pleasant dead weight. Draco's arms were wrapped around Potter like a lifeline. He felt Potter's lips against his hair, nuzzling softly. Draco felt a rush of warmth that was frighteningly intense. He fought it by removing his hands from Potter's back, although he allowed himself to do it by sliding his fingers over the smooth skin, evoking a shiver from Potter. Draco bit back a groan.

"Up, Potter," he said hoarsely, and bit his lip when the Gryffindor pulled away gently. Draco avoided Potter's eyes, and took the wand from the bed once more. He cast a cleaning spell on both of them, pleased when the sting brought a bit of clarity to his senses. He stood up and tossed the wand on the bed before walking to his now-clean clothing.

Draco dressed quickly, ignoring Potter, who lounged on the bed and watched him. He left the ermine cloak on the peg, trusting Potter to have it cleaned properly, or replaced. Draco paused with his hand on the door. He glanced back at the Gryffindor.

"Hate you, Potter," he said quietly.

"Hate you too, Malfoy," Harry replied, and a grin quirked his lips.

Draco went out. In the darkness, he smiled.