1 How to Handle an Enemy
"I think," Blaise said airily, stretching out on the
sofa and looking at us with a smug expression, "we should play truth or dare."
Pansy snorted and wrinkled her nose. "What fun is that?" she asked, looking down at her nails
appraisingly, before smiling. Evidently they pleased her. "You know we all always pick truth, and
then lie through our back teeth."
Blaise looked even smugger. He took a vial out of his pocket and tossed it lightly from one hand to
the other.
As a Slytherin I have a finely honed sense for danger, and it was at that point that I started to
get seriously worried. A colourless liquid? A game of truth or dare? If that wasn’t Veritaserum
then Blaise wasn’t the infuriating bastard that I knew and appreciated.
I mean, honestly. Who wants to tell the truth in truth or dare? Well, maybe someone from
another house. They’re usually so delightfully gullible, and ready to spill their deepest secrets.
Take your average Hufflepuff – and, oh god, please do take them, preferably somewhere far,
far away. He or she is almost guaranteed to be incomprehensibly honest. Almost takes the fun out of
it, really. A Slytherin, on the other hand, has a rather more flexible attitude to truth. Some
house stereotypes exist for a reason. This one? Happens to be true.
Blaise's suggestion - a game of truth or dare where we actually told the truth - was so
disgustingly Slytherin that it was quite, quite offensive. Why would I want to reveal my weaknesses
to those who would have no qualms against using them for nefarious purposes?
"Blaise," I began and then paused. It had taken a great deal of work to regain the respect I once
had amongst my fellow Slytherins, and I was well aware that I was still on rather shaky ground.
Objecting to a stupid game would make me look stupid. I am not, and never have been,
prepared to look like an idiot.
Blaise eyed me with an insufferable smirk on his face. "Problem, Draco?" he asked. "Scared?"
I attempted not to flush, but with such a pale complexion as mine, it's such an effort not to show
any colour. It was unthinkable that I should let him get away with calling me a coward, but unless
I was careful I’d find myself drugged up and spilling. And you know what? I didn’t particularly
care to share. What the hell was Blaise up to?
I shrugged, pulling my best disdainful expression. "No, I just think it’s a little childish."
Blaise flushed, and I hoped that I’d hit the right tone. Now if he decided to go ahead, he’d be
admitting that he was immature.
"Don’t be such a spoilsport, darling," Daphne said, flashing a smile in my direction. She looked
positively wicked, the bitch. "We haven’t had any fun at all since we’ve come back to Hogwarts. All
doom and gloom. This is exactly what we need."
This, you see, is the reason why you should always treat women equally. If you show more attention
to one, then the other kicks you while you’re down. I tried to look impassive, but it took some
effort to restrain myself from nudging Pansy. I’d treated her well; now it was time for her to come
to my aid, surely?
Pansy was still admiring her nails, seemingly unaware of the conversation.
I tried not to grind my teeth.
"Pansy, want to play?" Blaise asked, leaning over to catch her hand and tug her onto his lap.
She giggled and looked over at me, her expression shifting into something worrying. She looked like
a girl with a specific question on her mind. One that involved dress robes and – ugh – tender vows.
If she had the guts to ask my intentions in front of her friends, the answer would make her want to
garrotte me. She’d probably try, too, the charming bitch.
"Yes please, Blaisey," Pansy said, slapping Blaise’s hand away from her leg, but leaning into his
arms. "It could be fun. After all, everyone else is asleep so we have the common room all cosy to
ourselves."
Oh yes, it was completely private. Completely private, with three of the biggest gossips in the
whole of history, ever. How very reassuring.
Blaise smiled at me, but it failed to have its usual stimulating effect. He’s a sexy young man, is
Blaise, and his finely honed arrogance usually only adds to it. Right now, however, I felt a bit
like hexing him. I would have, too, if it weren't so contrary to my breeding to curse a fellow
snake.
It wasn’t that I was worried about them asking about Voldemort – I doubted that they would. Not
because they were worried about my mental stability, you understand. No, the petty details of my
time as the Dark Lord’s minion were simply not good enough blackmail material. Everyone knew what
I’d been; what I’d done. Truth or dare is for those dirty little secrets you’d rather die than have
your parents know. Merlin knows I have enough of them.
"Draco?" Blaise asked.
"Fine," I replied, trying not to scowl as I mentally catalogued the number of items I was wearing.
It wasn’t nearly enough. It is best to be clad as if one were travelling to an arctic region when
one plays any kind of game with Slytherins. One never knows when the dread words "strip poker" will
be invoked.
Pansy – damn her – reached into her bag and drew out a bottle of Firewhiskey, splashing four rather
generous measures into some glasses. Daphne giggled, covering her mouth, and Pansy joined in,
slopping the Firewhiskey about as she passed the glasses around.
"Bottoms up!" Daphne said, and she and Pansy giggled some more.
Did I mention how little I like girls?
I sat down on the couch opposite theirs and tried not to look petulant. The Firewhiskey helped a
little – warm and burning on its way down my throat – but not enough.
"Slughorn will hear us," I muttered, as I held out my glass for refilling. Slughorn was a good Head
of House and I doubted that he would care if he caught us – he’d probably want to join in, damn him
– but I was a desperate man, and if clutching at straws could save me, then I would bloody well
clutch at as many as I could find.
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Take the poker out of your arse, Draco. Relax." He cast a sturdy locking
spell on the common room door, and a silencing spell for good measure. It wouldn’t keep anyone out
for long, but at least we’d be warned if someone tried to intrude. "Right, who’s going first?"
There wasn’t exactly a rush of enthusiasm.
"It was my idea, so I think it’s only fair that I should," Blaise continued, smirking. "Draco? Why
don’t you ask me a question?"
A glimmer of hope rose in me, as I tried to work out whether this would be a good idea or not.
Blaise hadn’t made a move to introduce the Veritaserum into the proceedings. He was evidently
bargaining on the fact that if I brought it up then I would also have to take it. But if I didn’t…
then there was no reason why he couldn’t suddenly ‘remember’ it himself, and I would be screwed. It
was a tricky situation.
Pansy, damn it, solved it for me. "But Blaise, darling, did you forget the Veritaserum?"
Blaise looked rather taken aback for a moment and then smiled, deftly withdrawing the vial from his
pocket and tipping it to his mouth.
"Truth or dare?" I asked, suspiciously.
"Let’s hear the options first," he said with a lazy grin.
"Oh, Blaisey, that’s cheating," Pansy said, with a mock shocked expression.
"So sue me."
"Draco, dearest, may I ask?" Daphne said, leaning over to touch my arm with a seductive
smile.
I shrugged and motioned her to go ahead. I liked this less and less. The whole thing smelled like a
set-up.
"Do you fancy me?" Daphne asked, with nary a blush.
Blaise grinned. "I’ll take truth, my dear. The answer is…" He paused dramatically. "I do."
Daphne laughed. "You fancy all women."
Blaise smirked and held his arms wide. "You’ve got me there, Daphne." He turned to me, his smile
suddenly sharper.
That's when I realised that I hadn’t actually seen if he’d drunk any of the sodding Veritaserum.
Sure, he’d tipped the vial up against his mouth, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And now
he’d dripped a quantity into my Firewhiskey and was holding the glass out to me.
"Drink," he said, without even the decency to look ashamed.
Not seeing what else I could do, I drank. I held the liquid in my mouth for a moment, but the taste
was really quite disturbing and, unless I spat the vile stuff all over Pansy, there was no way out
of it.
"I want to ask," Pansy said.
"Fine," I replied, before Blaise could object. Anyone else was preferable at this point.
Then Pansy looked at Daphne and giggled, and I regretted my decision.
"I want to know the options first," I said, using my haughty voice.
Daphne laughed. "Truth. Or dare. Honestly, Draco."
I scowled. That was the problem with friends: they could see right through you, half the time. "You
know what I mean."
Pansy took a big swig of Firewhiskey from the bottle and I winced. Daphne had shifted closer
towards Pansy, a protective arm slung around her.
I steeled myself. If she asked if I was planning to marry her… I didn't dislike her, as such. She
was all right as far as girls went., and an adequate ally in many ways. But we hadn’t even gone as
far as kissing – though she’d made it perfectly clear that she was willing to lock lips with me.
The problem was: I wasn’t. Not with her, and not with any other girl, sod it all.
"I want to know…" Pansy said, and blushed.
"You need to phrase it as a question, or the Veritaserum won’t work," Blaise grinned.
Pansy looked at Daphne, and Daphne nodded. They broke into a fresh round of giggles. My blood ran
cold. Surely she wouldn’t be giggling about something so serious to her future? What in Merlin’s
name were they planning on asking?
"Tell me, darling, whom you picture when you touch yourself," Pansy finally said, between snorts of
laughter. "Whom do you fantasise about when you wank?"
I could feel the Veritaserum tugging at me, demanding that I tell the truth and tell it now. I
managed to squeeze out, through teeth gritted in anger, "the dare?"
Pansy looked disappointed for a moment, and then smiled at Daphne. "Kiss Blaise. With tongues,
boys."
Blaise looked horrified, and turned to me in appeal.
I shrugged. Kissing him was infinitely preferable to confessing whom I pictured in the throes of
self-pleasure. Which was, come to think of it, something I would rather die than let either
of those two harpies know. Not that Blaise was much better, damn him. This entire situation was his
fault.
I launched myself at him, pressing my mouth hard on his and pushing my tongue against his lips
until he opened up with a faint splutter. He tasted of Firewhiskey, pure and undiluted as far as I
could tell. No Veritaserum, the bastard. I prolonged the kiss as far as I possibly could, taking
amusement from shoving myself against him until I felt him harden. He was as straight as straight
could be, but I rather prided myself on the quality of my kisses. Not that I've had that
much practice, but a Malfoy is expected to be the best at all he does, and I had read up a great
deal on the subject.
I pulled away and looked down with a raised eyebrow at his crotch. I was, thankfully, unmoved in
that way. Even a small victory can be a meaningful one.
Pansy and Daphne looked rather flushed and they were whispering to each other. Blaise evidently
thought it best to take his revenge in kind, and soon Pansy and Daphne were kissing each other in a
manner that seemed nicely calculated to send Blaise’s – and, no doubt, my own – blood pressure
through the roof. It was mildly entertaining and I made sure I looked interested just in case any
of the three decided to glance at me. They didn’t, of course, but one can never be too careful.
Daphne pulled away and looked speculatively first at me, and then at Blaise. I took the opportunity
to grab the Firewhiskey bottle and take a large swig. The small quantity of Veritaserum was still
very much present in my system, but I thought I could fight it if I diluted it enough.
"Blaise, truth or dare?"
Blaise shifted slightly, evidently under the erroneous impression that that would hide his
erection. "Dare."
Daphne didn’t look surprised. When her eyes flickered, all my misgivings came back to me. She
looked like a girl with a plan. "As Draco refused to tell us whom he wanks over…" She gave me a sly
look. "I dare you to bring whomever you think it is to the common room, now. Use whatever means
necessary."
I snorted. "That’s hardly fair."
"Nothing’s fair in love and war," Daphne replied, a touch cattily, I thought.
"Blaise?" I asked. It was too much to ask that he’d refuse the dare, of course. The fact that it
was completely against the spirit of the game only made it more likely that he’d accept.
Blaise frowned, glancing from myself to Daphne. "I have to confess, darling, that I’m not sure whom
you mean me to collect."
Daphne beckoned him over. "I’ll whisper."
I looked at them suspiciously. Pansy was smiling, like someone who knew exactly what was coming.
This did not bode well.
Blaise’s jaw all but dropped, and he turned to stare at me. "Never?"
Daphne laughed. "Oh, yes. Pansy and I are certain."
Blaise shrugged. "Okay, but if they murder each other then I’m not taking any responsibility."
Blaise whispered something in Pansy’s ear, before leaving the room. I grabbed the Firewhiskey
bottle and had a rather large swallow, before setting it back down on the table.
"Do you know how painful your deaths will be if he’s gone to get who I think he has?" I announced,
glaring at each of the girls in turn. This was no time for subtlety. "I have no idea how you know –
if you know – but I swear to you…" I managed to catch myself just in time. I still had
hopes, you see, that they had screwed up badly and some awful Hufflepuff girl would enter through
the door.
The problem was, you see, that my girls were Slytherins. Slytherins are observant. They take your
innermost desires, the things you think you’ve kept hidden, and they pull them into the light and
smile sweetly as they fuck you over.
The idea of my father finding out that I…
"We won’t tell anyone," Pansy said, sounding almost upset. She got up, and wrapped her arms around
me, pressing my head against her chest.
Many men would have found that a wondrous thing. I just found it suffocating. I tried not to push
her away too quickly, for politeness’ sake more than anything else, but eventually it was either
that or choke.
When she kissed me on the side of the head, her lips damp, I repressed a shudder and reached for
the whiskey bottle. I took a long draught, and only noticed the odd sour taste of Veritaserum when
it was too late. For a clear, odourless liquid it packs a surprising punch on the taste-buds. Which
wasn’t really the point.
"Fucking hell, Daphne, you’ve spiked the whiskey." It was a statement, not a question. I’m usually
quite polite with the fairer sex, but at this moment in time I was ready to commit murder most
horrid. A few curse words was restrained, let me tell you.
"Language, Draco," Daphne said, a vicious look in her eye, and I knew that this was her revenge for
my not choosing her as my almost-girlfriend, for choosing Pansy. What Pansy got out of this
arrangement other than an odd kick at my downfall, I had no idea. I suppose that was enough.
Blaise entered, and my blood ran cold. Absolutely fucking chilly, let me tell you. They had got it
right.
It was Harry fucking Potter.
Although how they’d managed to clue into something that I’d done my utmost best to hide even from
myself, I had no idea. And now I was brimming with Veritaserum, feeling my mouth already trying to
open and let me sing like a canary. In a game of truth or dare. I was absolutely fucked.
Harry's face was absolutely furious. He looked as if he would have been shouting, if he hadn’t been
in an obvious full body bind, that is. His eyes were most expressive.
"We’ll let you go if you promise not to yell," Daphne said. "We’re playing truth or dare. Sorry to
kidnap you like this. We don’t mean any harm."
Harry didn’t move because, rather obviously, he couldn’t.
Blaise relocked the door before he reversed the spell on Harry who, to my surprise, didn’t yell,
just stood there looking bemused if anything. Certainly cockier than I’d be if I’d been kidnapped
by a group of Gryffindors, and was trapped without a wand in their common room.
Then Harry pulled out his wand.
"Fuck," Blaise said, and we all tensed.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hex you all into tiny pieces," Harry said, rather
reasonably, in my opinion.
I hoped he would. Then I wouldn’t have to confess my, frankly disturbing, sexual fantasies about
him. The ones I’d been having ever since he saved my life; saved me from being burned to death. My
fucking hero. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from launching into them without even being
asked. How much of the sodding Veritaserum had Daphne put into the whiskey?
"Have a drink," Pansy said sweetly, handing him a glass of the tainted alcohol.
"What are you, nuts?" Harry said, and I died a little inside at the idea that Harry Potter, lord of
impulse idiocy, was cleverer than I was – in this respect at least. "I don’t know what the hell
you’ve put in that stuff. Although I bet Malfoy put you up to it, whatever it was."
"I didn’t," I ground out, and then wished I’d bitten my tongue. If he asked me anything – anything
at all – I’d be compelled to answer it with utmost sincerity.
Daphne waved her hand at Harry. "Be a dear and don’t speak to Draco right now. He’s drugged up to
the eyeballs with Veritaserum, and I’d rather we kept him on the edge for a while longer."
I bit my lip and tried not to explode with anger. Harry looked at me, and his expression was
speculative. I knew he would ask me something awful. I almost hoped he would. At least then I might
not have to tell him how I felt about him.
"Mind you," Daphne said with an evil glint in her eye. "It is Draco’s turn to answer a
question."
I scowled at her. If she asked me a question I would be compelled to answer it before I even had
the option of dare, and she knew it.
"Did Blaise get it right?"
I was so relieved at the idea that Harry wouldn’t know what she was talking about that I nearly
forgot what I was confessing to. "Yes," I breathed, and would have given anything to take it
back.
Harry looked confused. "Can I go now? I don’t know what sick game you’re playing, but I’m not sure
I want to be part of it."
"We’re only playing truth or dare," Pansy said. She looked sad for a moment. "I never did get the
chance to apologise for what I said, you know, before. I was thinking only of my family and myself.
I just didn’t want there to be war."
Pansy looked slightly shifty as she spoke, which convinced me that she was actually telling the
truth. Not that telling the truth in a calculated fashion really counts as telling the truth, I
think. Only a Gryffindor would fail to see through such a blatant attempt to ingratiate.
"Oh," Harry said and looked uncomfortable. "Right."
"You should play," Pansy said with a sweet smile. "We’re playing with Veritaserum, but we won’t
make you take it if you don’t want to. Come on. For the sake of House unity."
Harry seemed unconvinced for a moment and then, to my absolute dismay, sat down next to her. "I
suppose it can’t hurt. Though I really can’t believe I’m doing this."
"So, Harry, truth or dare?" Pansy asked.
Harry frowned. "What's your question?"
The girls exchanged glances. "I want to know," Daphne said, nudging Pansy and committing some more
of that infernal giggling, "if you fancy Draco."
I tried not to flinch. Harry’s expression remained remarkably impassive. "Or the dare?"
Daphne shrugged. "Oh, I don’t know. Strip down to your boxers."
A faint pink colour stained Harry’s cheeks. Then, to my absolute surprise, he stood up and quickly
stripped off the dressing gown he had wrapped around him, so that he was wearing only his pyjama
bottoms.
"I’m not wearing any pants," he said, and had the grace to blush. "So I’ll leave these on if that’s
okay."
All three of us stared at him. He looked back, appearing slightly embarrassed, but not nearly as
much as he should be. My mind was working frantically. He had chosen – voluntarily – to strip off
in front of a group of people he no doubt thought of as enemies, rather than answer a question to
which the answer was obvious to all of us. Or, as it turned out, not quite so obvious after
all.
Pansy smiled at me, a small, slightly uncertain smile. She moved her lips as if to say "are you
okay?" and I wondered if she’d suspected that Harry would react that way. How much of a set-up was
this? I rather wished I’d never been born.
"Um, I think it’s my turn," Harry said, and I tensed. "So, Blaise," he said, and I relaxed
infinitesimally, only to stiffen again as he continued, "why did you hex me and drag me over here
to join in with some stupid game? It is the middle of the night," he added pointedly.
Blaise grinned wickedly. "There are two answers to that," he said, and the little fucker actually
winked at me. "I was dared to." He paused and I hoped I’d been let off. But it was too much to ask
for, really. "Mainly, though, because we want Draco to tell you something."
I glared at him, and he shrugged, stretching out. "My turn. Draco…"
"I’ll take the dare," I interrupted, and then blanched at the smug expression on Blaise’s face.
"Well if you’d taken truth, I would have asked you what you’re thinking about when you make those
amusing noises when you wank."
I’m sure – absolutely certain – I went bright red. It was an effort to keep from looking at Harry,
but I managed it with a struggle.
"But as you’re going for the dare, I think we should have a performance of it, instead."
Daphne and Pansy squeaked almost in unison and clapped their hands, giggling madly.
I think it would be fair to confess at this point that I wished for nothing other than the floor to
swallow me up whole.
"Since, you know," Blaise continued mercilessly, "the object of your affections is now in the room.
Never say that we’re not your friends, helping you to fulfil your every fantasy and so on. You owe
us, Draco."
On second thoughts, I didn’t want the floor to swallow me up whole. I wanted a Norwegian Horntail
to descend upon Blaise and incinerate him, before I sank into the depths. Incinerate him twice, for
good measure.
"Because you do think about Harry here, when you’re knocking one off, don’t you?" Blaise
continued.
Scratch that. Incineration is much too quick and painless a death. Possibly turning him slowly on a
spit over a hot fire would do the job more pleasingly. Then again, there was something to be said
for pulling out his innards and coiling them around a stick. Or filling his bones with snake
venom.
"Yes," I replied. I didn’t want to, I think you probably realise. The Veritaserum made me. It’s
most often used in torture sessions, I’m sure you know. This felt no different. "Fucking hell, is
there not any alcohol which isn’t spiked?"
I didn’t dare look at Harry. I’m not a coward, but I do have some feelings, whatever you may think.
I dislike public humiliation intensely. Perhaps if I said nothing, then we’d all just go to bed,
nothing more said? Blaise, Pansy and Daphne had surely done what they intended to do – grand
humiliation on an impressive scale. Wasn’t enough enough?
"I’m going to bed," I said, rising to my feet with only a slight wobble when no alcohol was
offered.
Blaise tugged me back. "No you’re not. Not until you’ve done your dare."
"You expect me to have a wank, right in front of you?" I asked incredulously.
"No," Blaise said, grinning, and spun me round. "In front of Potter, here."
He shoved me hard and I nearly fell on top of Harry. I managed to keep myself upright without
touching him, but looking him in the eye was unavoidable.
Harry was biting his lip and looking rather… disturbed. Not in a disgusted way. Just, well,
embarrassed, I thought. At least he hadn’t fled for his life, but then it’s not every day your
enemy confesses he thinks about you when he spanks the monkey. And not in a sick way either. Just
a… regular, I think you’re hot way, I suppose. Of course, I am insane for this. I expect to be
carted off to the loony bin at any given moment. Of all the people… But I digress.
"No," I said, wishing I could look away from Harry but finding it extraordinarily difficult. Harry
has these rather amazing green eyes, you see. I tried to sneer, but my lips felt like they weren’t
exactly paying attention. After a moment I forced myself to move away and sat back down on the sofa
behind me.
Harry frowned. "I…" he said, and then stopped.
Daphne hooked an arm around him and pulled him closer to her on the sofa. "Sit back, darling. Enjoy
the show."
"You have thought about Harry watching you, don’t you?" she asked, turning to me, and I blushed
furiously.
"Yes," I bit out through a clenched jaw.
"Well, then."
"My fantasy failed to include you, Pansy and Blaise," I felt moved to add.
Blaise rolled his eyes. "I’m hurt, Draco." He shrugged. "What if we fucked off and left you two to
it?"
"Yes," I said firmly. "That would be an excellent plan."
Pansy smirked and nudged Daphne. "Tough. A dare’s a dare."
"I already answered the truth part," I countered.
"Only after you’d accepted the dare."
I’m not sure what came over me at that moment. I think perhaps it was that when I glanced over at
Harry he was looking rather red-faced. When I caught his eye he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple
bobbing. He had his arms wrapped rather tensely around his bare torso, but when I looked down…
sweet Merlin… there was a bulge that signified a rather interesting reaction.
"Pants on," I said firmly.
"Agreed," Blaise said, and the girls smirked and whispered in each other’s ears.
"I’m going to kill you all for this," I muttered.
Blaise grinned at me, and I scowled back. It seemed there was no retreat. Not without significant
damage to my reputation, that was.
So then I did something I’d never done before in mixed company. Never done in company at all, come
to think of it, unless you count my bed in the dormitory in the darkness. Which hardly counts at
all. I shifted about a bit until I was comfortable – I’m not used to doing it sitting up, you see –
and slid my hand under the waistband of my pyjama bottoms.
I looked over at Harry – all my dignity suddenly dissipated, it seemed – and, fucking hell, his
eyes were locked onto my crotch. As were all eyes in the room, it looked like, but his were the
only ones that mattered.
I had, of course, always rather liked the idea of having a wank while Harry watched, possibly tied
up and unable to deal with his own growing erection. Not my favourite fantasy, which was certainly
more lewd and involved several different orifices, but certainly my favourite wanking fantasy. I’d
never expected to actually do anything about it. Us Slytherins can be rather traditional and coy
when it comes to the sexual act, believe it or not. But mainly because it was Harry, and why the
hell should I give him the opportunity to have one over on me yet again?
Nevertheless, when he looked up, and caught my eye – his face flaming with something that was more
arousal than embarrassment – I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so turned on.
It would have been better if Daphne and Pansy hadn’t been whispering, but they both were rather
wide-eyed and red-faced, so I didn’t think they’d put me off too much.
It’s an odd feeling to have your cock in your hand in a room full of other people. Perverts, I
suppose, have done it. Those who like orgies. A certain type of public school boy. I had never
particularly fancied the idea, but, feeling all eyes upon the movement of my hand beneath my thin
pyjama bottoms, I began to see the point.
The head of my cock was damp from pre-come, and when I swirled my thumb across it I couldn’t stop
myself from jerking with pleasure. I’ve always appreciated a wet wank rather than a dry one. The
sensations are… stronger, perhaps. Skin gliding smoothly against skin; the sensation is divine.
Plus, if we’re being crude, the liquid prevents chafing. But I could hardly ask for lube in
company, could I?
I slid my hand up and down my cock a few times, already biting my lip and starting to sweat. Which
was ridiculous. I had to slow right down for fear of embarrassing myself completely. When I looked
up I found myself staring right into Harry’s bright green eyes. His tongue poked out between his
lips for a fraction of a second as he licked them and I had to clench all my muscles extra hard to
stop myself from coming then and there.
A thought occurred to me, and I wondered if I dared. But hey, in for a knut in for a galleon, as
they say.
I slid my hand out of my pants and got up, trying not to blush at the way my trousers tented at the
crotch.
Blaise started to speak, but Pansy shushed him quickly.
I took a tentative step towards Harry and then sank to my knees in front of him.
He looked extremely nervous and this gave me heart. The more embarrassed – and yes, complicit, I
suppose – he was, the less likely he was to share this interesting experience with the whole
school.
I held out my hand. "Spit," I said. A little tasteless, I admit, but sometimes a blunt way of
phrasing is the best.
Harry looked uncertain for a moment, and then interested.
"I will if you, you know, pull them down," he mumbled.
I thought about it for, oh, at least a split second.
"If you do it for me." I wondered if he would. If he realised quite what he would be admitting to
if he did so.
"Okay," he said, and blushed, leaning forward and tugging my pyjama bottoms down in one deft
move.
I shuddered as the material caught on my cock, before it sprang free from its confines. Harry’s
hands trailed down my sides with more care than I would have thought possible, his fingers
lingering for a fraction of a second too long.
I hoped he wouldn’t ask me any questions, because who knows what awful mush might come out of my
mouth. It was ironic, I suppose, that the one man I had the most reason to hate had become the one
man with the greatest capacity to undo me. I’d tried not to examine my attraction to Harry too
closely, for fear I would be so revolted by my own passions that I'd have to scrub my brain out
with soap, but I think it was safe to say that – in a sick kind of a way – I admired him, as well
as desired him. It was, Merlin help me, the first pangs of love, I suspect.
I held out my hand to Harry’s mouth. "Go on," I said, when he hesitated.
His mouth twisted with embarrassment for a moment before he did as requested. His spit was
bizarrely cool against my palm, and when I slicked my length with it I couldn’t help but shudder
from the cold, wet sensation. I looked up at Harry. His mouth was ajar and his eyes were locked on
my hand, watching me coat my aching cock with his spit.
"Do you really… you know… think about me, while you?" Harry asked, his voice low and quiet.
"Fuck, yes," I said before the words were hardly out of his mouth, and couldn’t even feel
embarrassed by it. Because really, if he didn’t believe that when I was on my knees in front of
him, cock out, trembling with lust, then he really was the idiot I used to think he was, and there
was no hope for either of us. Insanity beckoned. But since Harry sodding Potter looked like he was
absolutely transfixed by the sight of my hand slicking up my cock with his saliva, I was quite
happy to take the fast Floo to the Janus Thickey ward.
There was silence for a bit. Well, apart from the delicious squelching noise that a wet cock makes
when it’s being thoroughly pleasured. I was trying to take my time, but when you’re as aroused as I
was it’s a bit of a challenge.
Mind you, I’m a Slytherin. We aim to impress at all times. So there was no way I was going to let
myself come in an embarrassingly short amount of time. Some things are worse than death, you see. I
am nothing if not proud.
I gritted my teeth and managed to slow down, reaching down to fondle my balls. The sensation was
pleasurable, but not enough to tip me over the edge. My cock was rock hard and throbbing, and even
the faint breeze circulating through the room was both torture and bliss.
I looked over at Blaise. He had the heel of his hand pressed hard against the crotch of his pyjama
bottoms and he was biting his lip as he watched me. Yes, Draco Malfoy, turner of straight boys by
the power of my cock, that’s me. "Go on, rub it," I said, with a sneer in his direction. Which was,
very possibly, a mistake. Given that I was still very much under the influence of the Veritaserum,
fuck it.
Blaise’s expression twisted, and then he looked wicked. As wicked as a straight boy can, when he’s
surreptitiously rubbing his cock through his trousers as he watches another boy wank, that is.
Which is still quite wicked if you’re a Slytherin. We do well.
"I think Draco needs to follow some instructions. I think you’d like Potter to tell you what to do,
wouldn’t you?" Blaise said.
Oh, the humiliation. My face burned. "Yes," I ground out from between clenched teeth. The idea of
Harry talking, telling me what to do, ordering me about… Well. It was both a torment and a total
turn-on. Surrendering myself to my greatest rival. I’m not sure what that says about me, but it
can’t be anything particularly good. I know I’m a bit fucked up after the war, after… But
honestly. Sometimes I can’t believe the way my mind works.
"Go on, Potter," Blaise said mercilessly, and I realised that this was as embarrassing for Harry as
it was for me. Blaise was taking his revenge on the Boy Who Got Our Families Interrogated,
Humiliated and Imprisoned.
Harry was red-faced, but he looked back at Blaise with a kind of cocky confidence that I admired.
"You’re just jealous he doesn’t want you," he said simply, and then looked a bit surprised at his
words. Hell, I bet I looked surprised at his words.
"Give me your hand," Harry all but whispered to me.
My face flamed as I offered it to him, damp from his saliva and my pre-come.
He licked it speculatively, swirling his tongue over my palm and sucking gently at my fingertips.
The movement of his tongue over my hand sent shivers directly to my groin, and I bucked into the
empty air, desperate to rub my aching cock against something – anything – to gain relief.
Harry spat on my hand. "Rub it all over," he said in a ghost of a voice. "Slowly."
I did as requested. Honestly, if I’d moved even a fraction faster, I would have come. As it was, I
was clenching all my muscles, my balls tight and my cock throbbing, aching, begging for a
firm grip and a quick release.
"I want you to, you know – but stop before you come," Harry muttered, shifting in his seat.
I bit my lip, and curled my hand tight around my cock, taking long, slow strokes, as gently as I
could.
"Harder."
"Fucking hell, Harry." What was he trying to do, kill me? I could only take a couple of hard tugs
before I had to stop, feeling rather shamed.
When I glanced at Harry he was biting his lip, his forehead beaded with sweat. He’d made no attempt
to touch himself, however, and I was slightly offended. A quick glance at Blaise showed that he’d
abandoned all pretence, and was rubbing himself hard through his pyjamas. Even Pansy and Daphne
could have been up to anything under their voluminous dressing gowns, but I didn’t particularly
care to take a closer look. There are some things that will wilt an erection even under such
circumstances as these, and I was in no mood to be put off my stroke.
"Aren’t you turned on?" I asked Harry, and wanted to kick myself. I was a little drunk, sure, but
not that drunk. Merlin.
Harry wet his lips. "Completely," he murmured. "Now count to ten and start again."
I did so. And again. And again. And again. Until it got to the point – fucking, fucking hell
– where I could barely take one stroke before I had to stop, and I was aching, dying, absolutely
screaming for release.
"I hate you," I muttered, feeling a bead of sweat run down the side of my forehead, my whole body
quivering.
"Do you?" Harry asked mildly, and I could have kicked myself for such an amateur error.
"No," I had to reply, the Veritaserum pushing my answer screaming to my lips. "I don’t."
Harry leaned forward slightly, his eyes wide, his tongue sliding out to coat his lips with the same
wetness that slicked my throbbing penis.
Honestly, kill me now.
"I’d like to watch you come now," he murmured, and his eyes dropped to my cock.
Hell, I wasn’t going to complain. I fisted my cock hard and fast, arousal spreading and building
until my thighs were shaking. I could barely keep myself upright. My face was burning. I could hear
– almost like another person – myself pant and groan. A few hard strokes and I tipped over the edge
into orgasm. I gripped my cock close to my body. My come splashed onto my stomach, across my chest,
throbbing spurt after throbbing spurt. It was divine – and it was horrendous. On one hand, Harry
fucking Potter had directed me to orgasm, and left me on my knees before him, coated in his saliva,
splashed with my jizz. Charming, I know. And on the other hand, well… Harry fucking Potter had just
talked me into coming, and … well, so on. Willingly.
In other words, the situation could go either way. Either I was doomed to complete humiliation, or
– and it was a big or – I was going to get some very hot sex in the near future. It seemed unlikely
that Harry would just let it go. I know that I wouldn’t have, if I were in his situation. And that
was entirely discounting how Blaise and the girls wanted to play it. If Harry decided that silence
was the way to go, then I was in for some fairly hefty blackmailing, no doubt about it.
Although, when I looked at Blaise, I made sure he noticed that I had noticed the spreading wet
patch at his crotch. Two can play a game of blackmail, after all.
And then, something unexpected happened.
Harry Potter only went and leaned forward, tugged my hand towards him, and – get this –
licked it. Harry fucking Potter, licking my come off my hand. Funny how a soft, warm tongue
– oh Merlin – is a bolt of pure arousal, zinging directly to the groin. I was hard in an instant.
Embarrassing, perhaps, but seriously showing off my excellent staying power and stamina.
Then he dropped my hand, leaned further forward and, for one delirious, heart-stopping moment I
thought he was actually going to touch my cock. But the bastard simply bent down – his face far too
close to my genitals for my own sanity – and tugged up my pyjama bottoms with a quirky grin.
And then he whispered something in my ear and sauntered out of the common room, making short work
of the locking spell on the door with a quickly muttered spell.
I turned to Blaise and the girls, trying to keep my face impassive. They all looked a little
stunned.
After a short silence Pansy laughed. "Well, that was something different, darling. It’s lovely to
see a new side of an old friend, I always think."
That certainly broke the tension in the atmosphere.
Blaise grinned. "Watching you two girls watching Draco was certainly a turn-on," he said
pointedly.
I snorted. "You know you want me, lover boy. You couldn’t take your eyes off me." I smiled sweetly
at him. "I never knew you had it in you."
Blaise rolled his eyes and I knew I had him by the balls. He wouldn’t tell anyone, for fear of what
I’d reveal in return. A straight boy turned on by another boy wanking? Dear me, what would his
mother think.
The girls, on the other hand, were a different story. What did they have to lose by spreading
tales?
"It was certainly an… entertaining show," Daphne said with a glint in her eye. "I think we should
play truth or dare more often."
Her suggestion hung in the air, and the unspoken request behind it.
"I wonder what dares Harry would carry out?" Pansy said thoughtfully, and Daphne snickered, setting
Pansy off too.
"Well, he won’t carry out anything if you two don’t keep this a secret," I said slowly.
"Is that a promise?" Pansy said and looked surprised at her own daring.
I nodded. So that was the game they were playing. They wanted to… sweet Merlin, watch a repeat
performance. What a pair of tarts. Not that I minded, come to think of it. Not much. Not if it
meant… I flushed at my own thoughts.
"Shall we to bed?" Daphne asked, stretching and yawning.
Pansy nodded, and the two quickly broke the locking spell and sauntered out of the room, leaving
Blaise and myself staring at each other.
I smiled seductively at Blaise and, as I predicted, this made him nervous enough to leave me in the
common room and go up to bed alone. I slung on my robe and stood up, my heart beating wildly.
After all, I now had the password to the Gryffindor dormitories and I wasn’t afraid to use it.
It was time for a repeat performance. By special request of Harry fucking Potter himself, no less.
It would have been rude to turn down his invitation to come.
Sometimes, the best way to treat your enemies is with politeness, don’t you agree?
2 Turnabout Is Fair Play
When I woke up – or, rather, came to – in what I presumed was the
Gryffindor common room, I realised I had made a terrible mistake.
Unfortunately, purity of blood and the finest heritage in the wizarding world do not make one
immune to errors of judgement, from time to time. However, I was pleased to discover – when I
attempted to move, and found myself bound, both hand and foot, a Weasley so close I could peer up
his nose – that this was no small stupidity I had committed. Perverse though it may sound, I would
rather commit an act of unspeakable idiocy than some petty, menial error that would make me look
ridiculous. A Malfoy aims high at all times.
I am not referring, you understand, to the incident that had taken place a matter of minutes – or
perhaps hours – before, when I had been coerced into committing an act of public indecency in front
of my greatest rival, the Boy Who Lives to Annoy. This was not my mistake. It was the hideous plot
of my so-called friends and, as such, no blame can be possibly be apportioned to me. But I had
acquitted myself admirably in the trial and had emerged triumphant – with the password of the
Gryffindor Tower, and the accompanying implication that Potter wasn’t as immune to my personal
charms as I had hitherto believed.
The terrible mistake I had made was, upon receipt of the aforementioned password to the Gryffindor
Tower, actually going there. And – not only that – simply speaking the password and
entering, without a thought as to what kind of reception party would be waiting within. Idiot that
I was, I had believed that Gryffindors retired to bed at a reasonable time, and that Potter – the
utter moron – would not have invited me to his own territory without being sure that his friends
were sleeping the sleep of the smugly superior. Thus, waking with a throbbing headache – limbs
bound, as previously mentioned, and a sight up a Weasley nostril that would turn the stomach of a
stronger man than I – was an unwelcome surprise indeed.
The only blessing was that, when I managed to shift my head and take in a wider view, Potter was
conspicuous by his absence. There is only so much abject humiliation I can take in front of the
aforementioned Gryffindor bane of my life. I believed that I had fulfilled my quota for the rest of
my existence earlier that evening – but, alas, now apparently I had to sit about uncomfortably
while a selection of the students I disliked most interrogated me regarding my presence in their
territory. I believed I could resist the remnants of the Veritaserum still swimming in my system
more or less – but I would have preferred not to have to put it to the test.
“Malfoy!” Weasley – the most useless member of Potter’s little gang, who seems to have no purpose
other than to remind one of carrots and be an easy target for derision – hissed my name accusingly,
and took – praise Merlin – a good few steps away from me.
I tested my bonds, very gingerly. I was sitting on a wooden chair with a high, slatted back. My
wrists were tied behind me, the cord looped through the chair in several places. My ankles were
similarly tied, legs spread and strapped to the chair legs in a manner that was both uncomfortable
and faintly lewd. “Enjoying the view, Weasel?” I asked, intending to infuriate. The thing about
Gryffindors, you see, is that while they are quick to anger, and easy to provoke into violence,
they do so love to appear as the heroes of the hour. Either Weasley would hit me, showing himself
to be the sort of pathetic coward who only attacks when his enemy is defenceless, or he wouldn’t –
although he’d want to terribly. Both scenarios had a pleasing feel to them. Obviously, I did not
relish the idea of being attacked – but I doubted Weasley would try very hard before his conscience
kicked in, and besides, glorious revenge is something that a Malfoy excels in.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Weasley said, his fingers clenching into fists by his side.
I considered this. “You’ll get expelled for this little trick,” I said pleasantly, enjoying the way
that Weasley’s face reflected his thoughts – a combination of smug delight at my situation mixed
with something that suggested he rather wanted to wet his pants. I would have made a bet that now
he’d captured me, he had no idea what to do with me, the unimaginative oaf. If the situations had
been reversed, I could think of at least a dozen little humiliations and tortures I could inflict,
and that was just for starters.
I would have made another bet, too – that the Weasel was more worried by me than I was by him. I
hoped he was dwelling on just how many house points he’d be docked if he was caught.
I pulled at the bonds a little harder, but didn’t seem to get anywhere. They didn’t give – and they
didn't hurt either, which I confess did introduce a minor note of concern into the
proceedings. It suggested they’d been charmed not to chafe – and thus charmed not to let me go. Was
it too much to ask that these Gryffindors be inept at taking prisoners? Honestly. It was hardly
playing by the rules.
Then I remembered that Granger was about; well, the bitch was adequate at wandwork, I’d give her
that. I presumed I had her to blame for the chair as well; a quick glance around the circular room,
to catalogue potential exits, had also confirmed that Gryffindors preferred their armchairs large
and squishy. I tried not to shudder at the eyewateringly bright décor. No doubt these tasteless
buffoons thought it cosy, rather than vomit-inducing.
“Stop struggling, Malfoy,” Weasley said – completely misinterpreting my movements and sounding
annoyed. “We’ll let you go once – and only once – you tell us what you’re up to.”
“I’d be more likely to confess if you hadn’t given me brain damage,” I said tartly. I wanted to rub
my skull and see if it was split. It throbbed. “Did you hit me with a broomstick? Do you
want me to ask my father to drag you through the courts for assault?”
“Your father deserves to be in Azkaban,” the Weasel all but yelled, prompting Granger – who was
perching on a sofa off to one side, looking her usual annoying self – to ‘shhhh’ at him.
“Which is where you will soon be if you don’t release me,” I replied mildly.
The Weasel’s face went a marvellous colour, and I wondered if his head would explode.
Unfortunately, with Granger’s intervention, Weasley stopped talking, in favour of subsiding onto
the sofa beside Granger – I was pleased to see him flail a little as the thing threatened to suck
him down into its fluffy depths – and muttering under his breath.
“What are you doing here?” Granger asked, rather coldly.
“I came here to get fucked by Potter,” I said. I couldn’t be bothered to fight the Veritaserum for
something so petty. There was no way they’d believe me, and it was worth it, to see the look on the
Weasel’s face.
Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that Granger – the bushy-haired cow – had a brain. She narrowed her
eyes. I realised that perhaps I should have phrased it as fuck Potter rather than the other
way round.
Luckily for myself, even as I saw the wheels of Granger’s brain turning, my own powers of
observation kicked in. Granger was wearing a rather skimpy dressing gown – certainly not Hogwarts
regulation – and the Weasel was in a similar state of undress.
“Sneaked down to screw, did you?” I commented, wrinkling my nose. The thought was entirely
nauseating. I was more than a little glad that, if I had come across that revolting scene – Granger
and Weasel copulating on the common room floor – at least they’d bashed it out of my brain so that
I could no longer recall it.
The matching blushes on their faces confirmed my suspicions. Vile.
“That’s none of your business, Malfoy,” Granger said, very sharply.
“I’m right, though,” I said, and couldn’t resist a childish insult. “Bet he’s got a small dick.
Tell you what, Granger, if let me go, I’ll show you a real man's—“
The Weasel leaped up – at least, he attempted to extract himself from the depths of the sofa – and
there was an amusing struggle as Granger tried to restrain him. Finally, with a few loud words, the
Weasel scowled and sank back down, arms folded. I couldn’t prevent myself from being mildly
impressed; she had him right under her thumb, and no mistake about it.
“Watch your mouth,” Granger said, turning back to me and frowning. “And tell the truth.”
“About what?” I asked, smirking my patented Malfoy smirk, guaranteed to infuriate. “The size of the
Weasel’s penis? I’m glad to say I haven’t—”
“Oh, do be quiet, Malfoy,” Granger interrupted. “I meant about why you’re here, of course.” She
stared at me expectantly, as if she actually expected me to tell the truth.
I smiled, very sweetly. “I told you. I’m here for Potter’s cock.”
The Weasel pulled a face. “Can we kill him, Hermione?” he asked, turning to her. “Please?”
Granger smiled, very slightly. “Tempting as that is, I’m afraid not.” She wrinkled her nose. “I
think we should get Harry. Come on.” She walked towards a door which, presumably, led further into
the Gryffindor lair. I couldn’t see the circular entrance-way I’d so blithely stepped through, so I
assumed it – and freedom – lay behind me. Though a fat lot of good that knowledge was while
magically bound to a chair.
“Get Harry? What, and just leave Malfoy here?” Weasley said, looking outraged. “Harry’ll need our
help, besides. We can’t leave him alone with that fucker. Who knows what’ll happen?”
“Want to watch Potter stick his dick in me, do you, Weasel?” I sneered. “Would that turn you on?
Would the sight turn you on more than your Mudblo—”
“That’s enough!” Granger snapped, waving her wand. I found myself – the absolute bitch –
with a mouthful of some kind of material, a heavy gag holding it in place. It tasted repellent and
the sensation against my tongue was rough and unpleasant. I could already feel my open mouth
beginning to fill with water. I was going to drool. In public. The frizzy-haired cow
would die for this.
I supposed, vaguely, I had brought it upon myself for calling her a Mudblood. One does not like to
question one’s upbringing, but there were times I wished certain values were not so ingrained. I
had been taught the error of my ways – Merlin knew I had – but old habits died hard. A certain sour
feeling settled in my gut, an unaccustomed self-loathing.
Fucking hell. This was why I avoided Gryffindors. Why had I come here to expose myself to
this? I really had been unspeakably dim; honestly, I was almost on Longbottom-level stupidity
here.
“Just one kick,” the Weasel said to my distaste, eyeing me with longing. “Between the legs. No-one
else’ll know. Go on, Hermione, let me.”
“Oh, just go and get Harry,” Granger said, a similar look of longing in her eye. I hoped she’d hold
back. The Malfoy equipment is more precious than platinum. Technically, if she ended the Malfoy
line with a swift kick, I could have her life terminated in forfeit, according to ancient wizarding
laws.
The Weasel went. This had its upside – in that I no longer had to look at him – but also its
downside. In short, I was now alone with Granger. And now, instead of looking at me in a way that
suggested imminent violence, her expression was . . . disquieting.
“Why are you here?” she asked, leaning forward a touch and staring at me in a disturbing
manner.
I did not answer: proving not only my mastery over the remnants of Veritaserum in my system, but
also that even big-headed know-it-alls like Granger can make fundamental errors. I raised an
eyebrow, hoping to convey, in as disdainful a manner as possible, that it was no use asking
questions of someone with a gag in their mouth.
“You’re in your pyjamas under your school robe,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “And don’t think
that I didn’t notice you’re not wearing any shoes.”
All the better to creep about suspiciously, my dear. I hadn’t hitherto realised that Granger
was one of the deeply annoying types who likes to talk to herself. I am more than aware – through
long and tiresome experience – that, as a breed, Gryffindors enjoy the sound of their own voices,
but I had thought Granger only piped up when she had an opportunity to demonstrate she was more
library than woman.
“So that suggests you didn’t come here to attack us,” Granger continued.
Yes, silk pyjamas are an international sign of peace, I wanted to add, in a deeply sarcastic
manner, but couldn’t, for reasons already mentioned. I almost looked forward to the return of the
idiot-carrot, as I began to suspect I was in for a rather boring monologue. Except that the arrival
of the Weasel would also signify the arrival of Potter – and that was a reunion I was now keen to
put on hold.
“Wait here,” Granger said, rather unnecessarily, and then headed out of the same door the Weasel
had vanished through.
Surprisingly, as soon as she was out of sight, I wished she weren’t. Not, you understand, because I
missed her bright, shining face. But, to my own shock, I discovered that there was only one thing
worse than being gagged and bound in the middle of the Gryffindor common room: being gagged and
bound and alone in the middle of the Gryffindor common room. For the first time since I’d
come to, I felt uneasy. There were still Gryffindors in the school who felt a grudge towards me; if
an insomniac idiot came across me, disgustingly vulnerable and unable to defend myself, what in
Merlin’s name was I going to do? The Malfoy raised eyebrow has a powerful effect on the unwary, but
that only goes so far.
Since I was now alone, I devoted myself to testing my bonds a little more energetically.
Unfortunately, as the sole effect was to dishevel my robes, I regretted the effort – there is no
point in putting on a show of nonchalance in the face of one’s enemies, if there is physical
evidence to the contrary. So I gave up the attempt, grit my teeth and tried to at least get my body
temperature and breathing in control. And tried not to dribble. Ugh.
A further scan for potential exits yielded nothing – unless, that was, I wished to leap like a
salmon out of the window and crash seven floors to the ground, still bound to the chair. I thought,
on the whole, I would rather not.
When, in a matter of minutes, Granger re-entered the room – clad, I was glad to see, in more layers
than previously – I was disconcerted to feel relieved. And – even more disconcertingly – to feel
overwhelmed with dread when the voices of the Weasel and Scarhead filtered through the open common
room door. They were evidently hot on Granger’s heels. I told myself I was simply nervous that the
morons were talking so loudly they would awaken the entire house, and I would then find myself
captive to not just three idiots but a whole herd.
It was not a thought that pleased. Again, I was reminded that a proportion of Gryffindor – a large
proportion, my traitorous brain informed me – despised Slytherin, despised my family and, most
particularly, despised me.
I did not care overly much. Putting on a brave face is so much more attractive than self pity, in
my humble opinion. But there is a significant difference between not caring and being downright
suicidal.
“I can handle—” came the voice of My Hero.
“—not leaving you alone with that untrustworthy ferret,” replied the Weasel, entering the
room, his face a dull brick-red. It did not coordinate in harmony with the colour of his hair. Nor
did his red Gryffindor pyjamas. It was entirely distressing.
It occurred to me, somewhat uncomfortably, that I was forcing myself to look upon the Weasel merely
to avoid looking at Potter. What a truly vile state of affairs this was.
“Shut the door,” said Granger in a reasonable tone. “You don’t want to wake anyone else up, do
you?”
“If you both just go back to bed, I can deal with this,” Potter said, leaving the door open. I
snuck a look at him. To my dismay, he appeared unfazed – irritated, if anything. It wasn’t that I
wanted him blushing and stammering and making the pair of fools suspicious, you understand. It was
just . . . It was Potter! Why the fuck should he remain so calm and collected, when my stomach felt
like a gaggle of Cornish pixies were having a fight within it?
I began to wonder, not for the first time, if House stereotypes really were a complete load of
bollocks, after all.
“We’re absolutely not leaving you alone with him,” Granger said to Potter, at the same time as the
Weasel snorted something incomprehensible.
Potter glanced over at me, and to my embarrassment I found myself completely unable to hold his
gaze.
“He’s up to something,” Granger said – reasonably, in my opinion. “And how did he get our password?
We can’t just let him go.”
“I’m not going to just let him go,” Potter said, his tones even. “I’ll sort out what he’s up to,
and then get rid of him. But there’s no reason why you two can’t just go back to bed.”
I tried my best not to nod frantically; it was an effort.
The Weasel’s eyes narrowed; I could practically see the cogs whirring behind his eyes. “Got it!” he
said, far too loudly for comfort. “The slimy git’s put some sort of spell on you. Why else would
you want to be alone with him?”
A blush began to creep up the side of Potter’s throat and over his cheeks. I watched it, my horror
at his telling lack of self control mixed with a tinge of amusement.
“Don’t be silly, Ron,” Granger said, to my relief. But then she added, “We’ll just remove the gag
and ask him.”
“But he might repeat those . . . those . . . what he said before about Harry,” Ron
spluttered.
Hermione rolled her eyes and waved her wand.
I spat out the gag and felt remarkably undignified. “What, about wanting Potter’s cock?” I said,
taking the offensive.
It was almost worth it, to see look of surprise on Potter’s face.
“You shut the hell up!” Ron snapped. “As if Harry would ever go for someone as . . . as . . .”
“Untrustworthy? Amoral? Cowardly? Weak?” Hermione supplied.
“. . . as you!” Ron finished.
There was a moment of silence.
“Cat got your tongue, Malfoy?” Ron sneered.
I’ll confess I wasn’t feeling quite my usual perky self. It is not often I find myself at a loss
for words, but hearing myself so unflatteringly described in such a passionless, analytical way by
Granger somehow had more sting than anything the Weasel could ever come up with.
And, to make it worse – dear Merlin, why did it make it worse? – Potter said nothing.
And continued to say nothing.
“Well, as lovely as this conversation is . . .” I hinted, trying to sound snide and wincing when it
merely came out – at least, to my finely-attuned ears – small and hurt.
“How did you get our password?” Ron demanded.
“None of your business,” I said, pleased to find I was able to get the words out. The Veritaserum
lingered at the edge of my mind, and while I suspected it wouldn’t allow me to say any literal
untruths, evasions appeared to be allowed.
Potter blinked and frowned, and I wondered why.
Then it hit me: he thought I was protecting him.
It was a ludicrous notion, but I was completely unable to think of a compelling reason why I hadn’t
merely told the truth and watched him sweat as he found himself unable to explain himself to his
best friends.
“I gave it to him,” Potter said.
Now it was my turn to blink and gape at him like a moron.
“You . . . what?” the Weasel said thickly.
“I needed to speak to him privately,” Potter said. He didn’t blush. He didn’t stammer. He sounded
entirely in control of himself. He looked it, too – until I noticed his hands, fingers so tightly
woven into his robe that his knuckles had turned yellow. “I didn’t expect he’d come by right
now though,” he added, an edge to his voice.
No shit, I thought.
I snuck a glance at Granger. She didn’t look convinced, her jaw very set. Finally, she sniffed. “I
wish you’d said, Harry.” She turned to me, a very . . . knowing look in her eye. I didn’t
like it much. “Come on, Ron,” she said, still staring at me, as if she could tell exactly what I
was thinking.
I found myself practising my – admittedly poor – Occlumency, just in case.
“But, Hermione . . .” Ron said. He waved his arms in an aimless way, until Hermione rose, gave me
another hard look, and tucked one of the Weasel’s flailing arms under her own, in order to drag him
– still protesting – towards the open door and push him through. Then she turned, sniffed again as
she closed it after him, and headed to her own dormitory.
The click of that door closing behind her was very loud in the quiet room. The fireplace was
unlit, so there wasn’t even a merrily crackling fire to break the tension, damn it. It seemed
unlikely to me that the Gryffindors had passed up the chance to add a little more red colouring to
the room, but there it was.
I very studiously did not look at Potter.
“Are you some sort of idiot, Malfoy?” Potter suddenly said, and then followed this up by muttering
several privacy and warding spells – the doors made several satisfying clicks that put my mind at
least somewhat more at ease – while I spluttered and thought Bad Things about him.
I may have said a few Bad Things too.
Potter turned back to me when he was done. “I mean, seriously?”
This did not seem fair. “You gave me the password!”
“I didn’t think you’d actually USE it!”
This gave me pause for thought. And Potter evidently didn’t like that I was thinking. I opened my
mouth.
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
I smiled as sweetly as I could. “Eloquent as ever, Potter.” And, while he spluttered and frowned at
me, “May I ask why you did give me the password, if you didn’t intend me to use it?” I expanded on
my theme. “Surely even you aren’t so vindictive that you thought a suitable revenge would be for me
to catch Weasley and Granger in the throes of passion and have my head stove in for my
trouble?”
“I . . . what?” His mouth opened, and then he shut it firmly. He raised his eyebrows as if asking a
question – though what that might be, I had no idea.
“Weasley. Granger. Fucking,” I repeated, as if to an idiot. I shifted in my chair; I wasn’t
uncomfortable, precisely, but it was wearing on the spirit to remain in place for such a long time.
And I’ll admit I would have felt a little more comfortable having this conversation if I were able
to actually extract myself from it at some point, rather than the tedious, faintly terrifying
notion of being trapped here until Potter actually made sense – which I rather suspected would be
the end of time.
“Yes, yes,” Potter said, waving away the mental image of his two friends fucking with a faintly
nauseous expression. “But . . . your head? Are you okay?” He frowned, and his glasses slipped down
his nose a fraction.
This struck me as ludicrous. “It has been a long and ridiculous evening, Potter. Please, for the
love of all things holy, let me go. Or are you waiting for me to beg?” I added spitefully. Maybe, I
thought, a little traditional sparring would infuriate him enough to put an end to this.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy,” Potter said. His voice sounded like a yawn. He ran one hand through
his hair, and tufts sprang up at all angles. He really was a disgrace. “I only meant, do you need a
healing potion? I could take you to Madam Pomfrey.” As he spoke, he came closer, and before I could
protest he was leaning over me, pushing his fingers through my hair, and—
“Ouch!” I said as he probed a painful spot. “Fuck’s sake, Potter.”
“Sorry,” Potter said, not sounding sorry at all, and prodding around a bit more. “Doesn’t look too
bad. I think you’ll live.”
“Of course I’ll live, you—” I found myself unable to complete the sentence when Potter drew
back a touch, his hands still lightly tangled in my hair, and looked me full in the eye.
I wet my lips and decided that if he cupped my face in his hands I’d bite him. “What?” I most
decidedly did not like the way he was looking at me. Sort of hungry, and lost and . . . and I
couldn’t quite tell. I presumed the worst. It seemed unlikely that he would be entirely happy with
the notion of desiring someone like me – and it did seem clear, at this juncture, that desire me he
did, however reluctantly.
Potter dropped his hands, his gaze slithering away from me. As my stomach fell, I wondered if his
hands on my cheeks would have been so bad after all. Probably. Possibly. I did a little more
surreptitious testing of my bonds; they held.
I began to wonder if rocking myself, avec chair, towards the window and out of it would be
an option after all.
“I shouldn’t—” Potter started, then shook his head, biting his lip. His shoulders were high and
tense.
“Shouldn’t what?” I asked sharply. I knew, of course; I am not an idiot, despite these
circumstances perhaps proving I am not always as in control of my faculties as would be to be
wished. It seemed a particularly low blow that desire had brought me to such a sorry pass; there
were no circumstances under which I wished to discuss anything relating to the Dark Lord or the war
with Potter, and yet it seemed that we were teetering on the brink of just such a repugnant,
unwelcome conversation.
I should have known it was all too good to be true; that Potter – noble, heroic Potter – wouldn’t
be able to hold down his distaste for what I am, what I’ve done, long enough even for a quick,
never to be repeated fumble with the Big Bad Malfoy.
Potter sighed, and his shoulders dropped. He shrugged slightly. “I . . . Its tricky,” he mumbled.
He pushed his glasses up his nose, his hand snaking round to scratch at the back of his neck. “I
didn’t expect . . . It’s not . . .”
He mouthed something that could have been not right, but what the fuck that meant I had no
idea.
“What the hell are you babbling about?” I snapped. Despite Potter’s incoherence, I had no trouble
in reading between the lines. Not right? Well, I was hardly jumping for joy that I felt the way I
did about him. Merlin knew I’d tried my best to stop myself. “Just because I want you in my bed,
does not mean I like you,” I said, cutting off whatever further drivel was about to come out
of his mouth. I attempted also to look as if I meant it.
Potter failed to look hurt; instead, he stared back blankly. Then he frowned, as if he were working
something out.
I found this indifference entirely infuriating. I caught Potter’s eye and gave him a death glare.
Except, it didn’t quite work right, and we seemed to be locked in some kind of perverse staring
contest. My eyes started to sting.
I couldn’t keep it up; I had to swallow the ball of tight, hot, rage in my throat, and I couldn’t
do that without blinking too. The room swam a little, and through a haze I could see Potter’s
expression shifting into something so horrendous I couldn’t bear it: pity.
This would not do. I was not going to have Potter pitying me, thinking that my tears of
anger were anything more pathetic.
“In fact,” I managed, between quick, shallow breaths – I couldn’t seem to get enough air, no doubt
because I was so furious, “I’d go so far as to say that I hate you.” I clamped my lips together –
for no reason, really – and set my jaw. I focused hard on one of the godawful tapestries on the
wall because . . . well, because I might as well look there as anywhere.
“Right,” Potter said. “Right.” Then, after a moment, he said: “So why are you crying?”
“I am NOT! My eyes are watering, Potter. WATERING,” I snapped, giving the tapestry a death
glare. The heat was back behind my eyes, and there was an uncomfortable tightness in my throat;
more anger, no doubt.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him step back, but instead of setting me free and then pissing
off – my dearest wish at this present moment – he grabbed one of the squishy armchairs, dragged it
opposite me, and flopped down into it.
I decided to glare at the carpet under his feet instead. Joy, I thought. A tête-à-tête. What could
be better? Apart from ANYTHING EVER—
“I know you’re just gearing up to say something spiteful, Malfoy, but just don’t, okay?” Potter
said, tucking his legs under himself.
“Well, what the hell do I . . .?” I faltered as my eyes snapped up to meet his. I lost an
iota of my poise as we looked at one another. His eyes really were remarkably green. They were also
excruciatingly kind.
Fuck’s sake.
“Why don’t you tell the truth for a change?” Potter said, surprising me by constructing a full
sentence that made sense and everything.
I focused on the school jumper he’d evidently thrown on over his pyjamas. It was less disconcerting
than his expression. “I don’t care to,” I said. Well, wasn’t that the truth.
“Did you really take Veritaserum?” he suddenly asked, again to my surprise.
“Yes. I’m an idiot, remember?” I blinked hard and tried to regulate my breath as my brain whirred.
The hot, scratchy feeling behind my eyes was subsiding, thank goodness. Perhaps I’d merely suffered
an allergic reaction; the décor was certainly enough to give anyone a fit of the vapours. “Why the
hell would I have said – done – that stuff otherwise?” The front of his jumper really was
fascinating. All that wool and all those stitches. Marvellous.
“I have absolutely no idea why you did . . . what you did,” Potter said. “Nothing you’ve ever done
has made sense to me.”
Oh. The seemingly unflappable Potter now seemed slightly flapped. This curious line of inquiry had
given me back a touch of my poise – enough to be able to tear my gaze away from his jumper and look
at him without flinching. Still, I longed to be able to wipe my face. The way that Potter kept
glancing at my cheeks was giving me the creeps. It was almost as if he gave a fuck – and thinking
that was bad for my mental health.
It seemed that now it was Potter who was unable to look directly at me. “. . . a trap,” he
mumbled.
“Pardon?” What was the idiot babbling about now?
“I’m not saying it again, Malfoy,” Potter said firmly, squaring his chin and looking bravely at my
ear.
“Then we are at an impasse,” I said tartly, even more myself again, “for I haven’t got a fucking
clue what you’re talking about. A trap? What trap? And why, for the love of all that’s holy,
would I set one for the hero of the wizarding world? I am not willing to risk what little is left
of my reputation for something so pathetic.”
Potter’s eyebrows drew together and he bit his lip. “Then you really do . . .” He trailed off, but
seemed to be thinking of what to say next.
I could sense the words ‘like me’ on the horizon, and there were some dark paths I didn’t
particularly wish to tread, particularly while – for the love of Salazar – trussed up, and with
Potter erroneously believing I had been blubbing. I recalled the last time Potter had seen me in a
state; that had hardly ended well.
The memory, although unpleasant in the extreme, served me well. I was able, at last, to pull myself
together. Last time, Potter had nearly killed me. It reminded me that while I had things to be
ashamed of, so did he; Perfect Potter was not quite so perfect after all.
“For goodness’ sake,” I told him firmly, before he said the inevitable, “will you either get on
with the foul tortures or let me go, if you’re too chicken?”
To my relief, this completely derailed Potter’s train of thought. “Foul tortures?” he said, his
entire forehead a frown.
I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. “I am tied to a chair, Potter. Helpless,” I said. A
muscle in his jaw twitched. “Unable to defend myself.” He swallowed, very visibly, to my
satisfaction. “Here, in fact, to be ravished,” I continued, putting cutting emphasis on the final
word. “Kindly tell me you hadn’t forgotten?”
“Oh!” Potter coloured up and looked away. “Um . . . Do you?” he inquired of the floor.
This time I really did roll my eyes. “Do I what?”
“You know . . .” he said. I’d heard he was planning on applying to be an Auror after school; if he
was this good at interrogating suspects, I feared for the future of the wizarding world.
I braced myself, hopeful of potential ravagings. It would mean, at the very least, I could give my
brain a rest from the torture of trying to decode Potter’s torturous mumbles. But he just folded
his arms, squared his shoulders, and schooled his face into an expression that suggested something
Noble and Gryffindor-appropriate would come out of his mouth.
“Malfoy, you look like shit, you’re probably concussed, and I made you cry—”
“You did not!”
“—so, hard though it may be to believe, I’m not particularly in the mood right now. It really
wouldn’t be right.”
I . . . what?
We stared at each other for a bit. Was I going mad? Did Potter object to a
potential liaison between us not because of who I was, what I’d done, but . . . but because I –
sweet Salazar – had a headache and . . . and . . .
Surely, Potter wasn’t moronic enough to think it wasn’t right for him to touch me because I hadn’t
agreed to be tied up? Oh God. He was a Gryffindor, he really was. It was so noble I
wanted to vomit.
I decided to pray that I would be entrusted Potter, all tied up, one day soon; he’d soon learn the
fundamental differences between Gryffindor and Slytherin – and he’d like it.
“Plus, you hate me, remember?” Potter added, completely derailing my train of thought.
“Well, I am untrustworthy, amoral, weak and cowardly, so I hardly see how it matters,” I
snapped. And then wished I hadn’t. Potter had that kind look in his eyes again.
I was beginning to feel extremely discombobulated; every time I thought I had a handle on the
situation, it slipped away from me.
“If you ever acted like you were sorry, Hermione would forgive you, you know.”
I bit down the insult about Granger that threatened to spill out. I didn’t want to be – wouldn’t
be, refused to be – that person any more. But that didn’t prevent me from feeling entirely
humiliated that I’d just shown Potter – a man slower on the uptake than . . . than something very
slow on the uptake – that I had taken Granger’s criticisms entirely to heart.
If Potter noticed that I didn’t respond with profusions of joy, he hid it well. “I forgave you a
long time ago,” he added, almost offhand.
I failed to respond to this too. This really was getting to be beyond the pale. Midnight
confessions of weakness have never been, and never will be, my style – when they relate to my own
weaknesses, that is. And Potter was, always had been – and, ugh, probably always would be – one of
mine.
How utterly, utterly vile. I closed my eyes and hoped that when I next opened them Potter would
have emulated his mighty hero, Goderic Gryffindor, and let me go, so I could leave with a smidgen
of my dignity intact. I evidently wasn’t going to score anything more pleasurable than a lecture
this evening, and I wanted it over with.
Potter cleared his throat. I tensed, waiting for something dreadful to come out of his mouth.
“Draco, are . . . er . . . are you in, you know . . . love with me?”
I nearly choked. And there was Veritaserum in my system still, and I was tired and
overwhelmed and angry and half concussed and, really what was the fucking point of demurring? So:
“Yes.” And now it was out, there was no taking it back. Despite the fact that it wasn’t even close
to how I felt – obsession and desire and sheer need, so strong I sometimes wondered if there
was room in me left for anything else. “Although I hate you just as much,” I added as the silence
stretched. Also true. As if that made things better. “And how dare you ask me such a thing?”
I said, in an attempt to regain at least some minor control of this complete clusterfuck of a
situation.
“Er, right,” Potter said. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat again. “But . . . it’s okay, you
know.”
I couldn’t stop myself from looking at him incredulously. I don’t know what I expected to see; but
it certainly wasn’t Potter struggling out of the armchair, stumbling over and kneeling in front of
me.
“What . . .?” The fuck?
“Hold still,” Potter said, leaning in and reaching behind me. We were practically cheek to cheek;
every time he took a breath, I felt it against my hair. His hands fiddled with the bonds around my
wrists, he muttered something and I felt a tingle of magic against my skin. Immediately the
pressure around my ankles lessened. I would have said the same for my wrists, except . . . Potter
was reaching up with one hand around his neck, and . . .
“There’s something not quite right about you,” I said, trying not to tremble but instead sound
stern. Apparently we weren’t going to talk about my sordid little confession. Apparently he’d made
the decision we were going to skip right over to the next part.
Well that was abso-bloody-lutely fine by me. Maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could fuck the memory
of that particular part of the evening right out of his brain. Or perhaps at some point Potter
would be relaxed enough that I could swiftly Obliviate him. Yes. An acceptable solution.
Potter tightened the knot around my wrists and leaned back a touch. He didn’t seem sure whether to
smile or not. Then he took a visible deep breath, and his expression changed. There was a new
alertness about him – about the set of his shoulders – that made me shiver. His eyes narrowed
behind his ugly glasses, and his piercing gaze made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I flexed my wrists experimentally. Potter’s school tie was almost tight enough to cut off the blood
circulation, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibilities that I could get myself loose if I
wanted to. It was a touch ignominious, I’ll confess, being bound by a Gryffindor tie, of all
things, but I rather thought I could overlook it, when considering the wider context.
Particularly as – oh Merlin, how revolting – Potter was now gently kissing down my cheek, in a
tender manner that suggested he was following the trail of one of the drops of water that I had
been unable to prevent from sliding down my face.
It was – oh Merlin, oh Merlin . . . I wanted to protest, again, that they’d been tears of
anger – ANGER! – but I couldn’t get the words out or stop myself from trembling as he nuzzled at my
neck, his hands parting my robe, yanking at the hem of my pyjama top and sliding under to rest
lightly against my sides.
“Mmmm,” Potter said, his grip tightening a fraction, almost possessive. I shuddered. If he should
suspect how I felt . . .
I wanted him to own me. Oh God.
“Potter,” I said weakly, “don’t you think—”
I felt him smile against my neck. “Occasionally, yes,” he interrupted, his breath a hot tickle
against my skin. “But you were saying?” His hands slid fractionally lower, fingers nudging at my
waistband.
I decided I didn’t particularly care to chat right now, after all. This, however, seemed to inspire
Potter to further speech. It was a pity it didn’t also inspire him towards clarity.
“It’s your turn, by the way,” he said, one hand reaching up inside my top to stroke along the line
of a rib.
I squirmed, trying not to arch towards him. “What on earth do you mean by that, Potter?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” he said quietly. Ominously, more like, I thought. I wet my lips. “I
had to order you about. Now . . . your turn. Just so we’re clear.”
“Hate to break it to you,” I said, trying for sarcasm, “but there’s a limit to what I can do while
sitting on a chair, my hands tied behind my back.”
Potter’s hands skimmed over my hips, and I had heart palpitations when his thumbs grazed down my
inner thighs. “Oh? So there’s nothing you want me to . . .?” He trailed off and, pulling away from
my neck, his eyes dropped – the little fucker – to my crotch.
Then he licked his lips.
I momentarily lost the power of speech. When I regained it, I had evidently lost the use of my
brain too. For, instead of saying a simple, “Yes, please,” I found myself babbling, “Not in the
middle of the Gryffindor common room with Weasley and Granger lurking outside, ready to brain me
again!”
Potter grinned. It didn’t, somehow, seem an appropriate reaction.
“Explain yourself,” I said testily. I wondered if I had a hitherto undiscovered talent for undoing
knots with my teeth. I required it, so I could punch the fucking prick-tease.
“I was just thinking,” Potter said, his lips quivering, “that as half of Slytherin house saw you
with your cock out, it seems a little silly to be stressing over whether Ron or Hermione are on the
other side of a pair of firmly warded doors. By the way, stop wriggling. If you want me to untie
you, just say so.”
I had a little Moment. When I had recovered, I managed to say, “Three of my closest friends are
not the same as the whole of Slytherin! And they are not, in any shape or form, comparable
to Granger or the Weasel.”
“Ron and Hermione, you mean,” Potter said. He had a disturbing glint in his eye.
“Whatever, Potter.”
“Harry, you mean.”
It was far too soon to have another little Moment, but I had one all the same. “Harry?” I said,
attempting to sound cutting.
“If we’re going to . . . you know . . . the least you can do is call me Harry.”
“My back aches,” I said tartly. “My head aches. My arms ache.” I sniffed, in attempt to suggest –
nonchalantly – that I said these sorts of things out loud all time: “But most of all, my sodding
cock aches. So maybe you could get on with dragging me to your bed now, if it’s not too much
trouble? You can even tie me to the fucking headboard if you must, since you seem to get off on
this kinky shit.” I paused and added: “Harry.”
I wouldn’t have said that Potter – Harry, my mind amended for some reason – went red, exactly;
instead, he turned a species of purple, and I was perversely glad that he seemed more embarrassed
hearing my little speech than I’d felt making it. I wouldn’t have sworn to the colour of my own
face, but I doubted I was quite the usual lily white shade I pride myself upon.
However, the idiot surprised me once again. Despite the hue of his face, he gave the good
impression of a man more or less in control of himself. “My bed” Harry said thoughtfully, “is next
to Ron’s. And yes, he probably is lurking around outside wondering why the hell I haven’t
come back yet.”
I tried not to grind my teeth. “Us Slytherin eighth years have our own rooms,” I said. “I’m
surprised you Gryffindors didn’t think to ask for that yourself. Or do you enjoy the scent of the
Weasel’s socks?”
Harry laughed – laughed! – and came towards me. “We’ll go there then. Upsy-daisy,” he said as he
shoved one arm under my legs and one under my armpits, hoicking me up into his arms in a
spectacularly ungainly fashion and nearly breaking my arms off as my body parted from the
chair.
"You are not carrying me anywhere like this," I protested, my face tucked into his chest. He
smelled of clean laundry, with a hint of something darker, dirtier. I shivered, despite myself.
"Okay," he said peaceably, and put me down, facing the round exit. He hooked one finger into the
tie binding my wrists. "Lead on."
I dithered for a moment. I longed for the darkness and comfort of my own room. But never, even in
my wildest, filthiest daydreams, had I imagined being led there – past my sniggering housemates –
like some species of farmyard animal.
Fuck it. "I am not walking into the dungeons with a hard-on so big it'd take your eye out,"
I managed.
I could hear Harry clear his throat behind me and move a step nearer; his breath was hot against my
ear, his body trembling so close to mine that our clothing touched. "No?" he said.
"So . . ." I could hardly believe I was going to say something so ridiculous out loud
"you'll have to take care of it for me now instead." I squeezed my eyes tight shut and tried not to
sink into the floor.
"H-h-how?" Harry said against my neck, and I wanted to scream. Then he added – oh God –
"Hands or . . . m-mouth?"
There was a good chance I'd have to use a quick Incendio on this particular pair of pyjama
bottoms later; there was no way in hell I'd be entrusting them to the house elves.
My heart thudded, and my cock pulsed in time with each beat; it was as if all my nerve endings had
spontaneously relocated themselves to my groin. The light touch of my silk pjs against me was
simultaneously erotic and unbearable. I could even smell my own arousal, sharp and
salty.
Harry nuzzled up against my neck. "Well?" he murmured, and took a long lick of my throat that made
my legs threaten to buckle.
“Mmmm,” I breathed, tipping my head to expose my neck even further.
Harry nipped at a spot just below my ear; it stung, a pleasure/pain that had me gasping. Then he
jabbed me – hard – in the ribs. “Well?” he demanded, his right hand then snaking round to my hip,
fingers digging in.
“I . . . oh,” I managed, as he tongued further bruises to my throat. I was going to look
appalling. I was almost – not quite – past the point of caring.
Harry blew lightly over the spot he’d been tonguing, and I shivered.
“Draco,” he said, very low. “Tell me.”
It appeared I was coyer than I’d thought. Oh god. I summoned my manly courage; I knew I had
it somewhere. “Pretty please, Mr Potter, will you be so good as to apply your mouth to my nether
regions,” I said snidely. At least, I tried to sound snide – to my own ears I sounded strangled and
ludicrous. And loud. It was a big, quiet room, after all. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, blow me,”
I added, in case I hadn’t been clear enough.
I felt Harry smile against my overheated skin. “Your wish is my command,” he murmured, and I heard
rather than felt him sink to his knees, before he tugged me round, none too gently, and . . .
fuck. He pushed my robes aside, then pressed his face right between my legs, gently nuzzling
my cock through the silk fabric of my pyjama trousers. The fabric felt slick and slippery, and
Harry’s breath was so hot . . . It was the most exquisite torture.
Harry’s hands reached up to anchor themselves on each hip, and he placed a series of hot, wet
kisses along my shaft, where it strained against the fabric. My cock, pulsing, added a little
wetness of its own, my legs shaking as his tongue flicked against the head, silk and saliva sliding
against me . . . oh, unbearable. Remarkable.
I looked down, only to be caught in the intensity of Harry’s gaze. I felt my lips part at the sight
of him staring right at me. He puckered his lips and, his eyes locked on mine, blew over the
damp fabric.
“Ohhhh.”
The sensation was . . . I had to clench my muscles not to fall over, which only made it worse. The
feverish breath over the cooling, damp fabric taut against my skin . . .
He was a bastard. I swallowed hard. “I said blow me,” I managed.
Harry’s face was flushed, but he had a positively evil twinkle in his eye.
I drew on deep reserves of Malfoy pride; I would not let him get the better of me. It was
him between my legs, not the other way around, so I refused to be embarrassed. “As in, take
my clothes off and suck my dick, you— what are you doing?”
“Taking your clothes off—” Harry said as he slid the robe backwards over my shoulders – he’d sprung
up and away from my needy cock like a coiled spring – and went for the buttons of my pyjama top.
The robe caught at my wrists and hung down behind me; it was joined swiftly by my top when Harry,
evidently too much of a Neanderthal to have mastered buttons, divested me of it by the method of
snapping them off.
“—and sucking your dick,” Harry continued thoughtfully, running a thumb over my left nipple and
forcing my legs further apart via the decidedly unthoughtful method of pushing at my left
inner ankle with his foot, until it was either take a wider step or fall on my arse. The position
had the negative merit of tightening the fabric at my crotch; I did my very best not to hump the
air. “Via the scenic route,” he added, taking half a step back to examine me, head to toe, with his
eyes.
Heat flooded me.
“Mmm, you’re blushing,” Harry said, a touch too delightedly, running a finger over my chest, where
I knew I must be blotchy. It is not always an advantage being quite so pale.
I raised my chin. “Scenic route, Potter? Since when did I give you permission for that?”
Harry’s own colour rose, but he smiled and sank down again, catching my pj bottoms and dragging
them down, gently shoving at me until I’d managed to hop my way out of them, and then pushing my
legs apart once more to – oh – kneel between them.
I had the sudden presentiment that I was going to last about nought point one seconds.
“Uh,” I said, in a panic as Harry parted his lips. “I mean . . .” The sight of Harry staring at my
cock in that way really had turned me into a gibbering moron. “Kiss it, first.” Just saying that
nearly had me coming.
Harry’s lips quirked, but I could hear his breathing quicken too. He leaned forward and pressed the
whisper of a kiss against the base of my cock.
And stopped.
Oh God.
“M-more,” I managed. “Softly. All the way up.”
He did so; I curled my toes and wished he— “Hands. On my arse,” I grated out.
His hands slipped up and over my hips, sliding to rest against my arse cheeks. And – oh – pulling
gently to part them. My stomach knotted. He didn’t go further though; just continued pressing
kisses gently, maddeningly, against my cock, his hands a soft pressure against my backside.
If I wanted . . . I’d have to ask for it.
I didn’t know if I did. I couldn’t think. Could hardly breathe. I needed . . .
“L-lick it,” I stammered.
Harry’s soft, damp tongue flicked against my shaft, and I shuddered.
“L-l-longer. Harder.”
He took one long, wet lick from the bottom of my cock right to the tip. My eyes all but rolled back
in my head.
“Again.”
Harry let out a shaky breath, his hands tightening against my arse, and did so, swirling his tongue
over the head of my cock. I stumbled slightly, and nearly tripped over the pile of clothes at my
feet, only Harry’s steadying hands stopping me from falling.
“Oh,” Harry said quietly, and swirled his tongue again.
I felt a gush of heat in my groin, and my cock twitched and throbbed. I looked down in time to see
Harry lick a droplet of liquid away.
“Suck me off, please,” I begged.
Harry looked me in the eye as he slid his lips over my cock. And then he sucked. Firm and
hot and tight. I was going to . . .
“More,” I pleaded. “Oh please more. Fuck—”
His mouth moved up and down my cock. The pressure built. And built. The hot. Wet. Firm. So
close. I needed . . .
“Touch me. Behind,” I panted. “Oh god oh god oh god.”
Harry’s mouth slowed on my cock. I trembled with the effort not to fuck his mouth. He dropped his
right hand to his side, then reached between my legs and behind me, his palm warm and firm against
the top of my arse, his arm against my arse crack.
It was too fucking intimate. But – Merlin. He was still sucking on my dick, but so slowly I thought
my brain might dribble out of my ears. I didn’t think it was possible to be this turned on and
still be conscious.
And then he . . . moved his hand. He slid it down very slowly, parting my arse cheeks, one finger
pressing against my skin. Slowly, oh so slowly, but he was eventually going to reach . . .
Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck—
I clenched my muscles as his finger pressed gently against my arsehole. And relaxed. And clenched
again. His mouth kept sucking. His finger stroking – now in firm, small circles. I relaxed . . .
and tightened around his finger.
Harry had his finger up my arse. He crooked it, and—
—the coil of pressure in my groin tightened . . . and exploded. I came, shuddering, shouting, in
helpless, unstoppable bursts. I couldn’t stop shaking, my body on fire. The fingers of Harry’s free
hand dug in so tight to my hip and arse cheek it hurt. Somehow, that made me shudder even more
helplessly into his mouth.
He withdrew his finger, but kept sucking, very softly, until tears sprang to my eyes. So sensitive.
“S-s-stop,” I managed, through a haze of hormones and satisfaction. He led my cock slide out of his
mouth and – my mouth went dry – swallowed.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pressed a kiss to the tip of my cock. I was
still half hard, and I couldn’t stop myself from gasping.
“And now?” he said, using me to lever himself up from the floor.
I suddenly felt very self-conscious. I was, after all, tied up and naked, while Harry was merely .
. . dishevelled. He licked his lips idly and his eyes dropped to my mouth.
“Cleaning spell,” I said, trying to remain cool.
Harry flushed and muttered a spell that left my skin feeling tight, but also removed the smell of
sex from the room. I tried not to react to his effortless control of wandless magic, but couldn’t
suppress a shiver.
“Cold?” Harry said, misinterpreting. He took a step closer.
“No,” I said, my breath catching. Now I thought about it, I wasn’t – and I sensed the warm fizz of
a heating spell in the room. Well, wasn’t Potter the considerate one.
His hands reached out to rest lightly on my sides, thumbs stroking circles against my skin.
I swallowed hard. “You didn’t kiss me,” I said accusingly, raising my chin a little.
Harry’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “You didn’t ask me to.”
“Do you really need to wait for an invitation?”
Harry mumbled something and – oh, bliss – the knot of fabric round my wrists loosened and
unravelled, the tangle of tie and robe and ruined pyjama top slipping off. I found that rather than
wanting to punch him for forcing such indignities on me, now that I could, the only thing I wanted
to do was cup his face between my hands and pull him towards me.
“God, Draco,” Harry murmured. He sounded poleaxed, and he had a ridiculous, dazed expression on his
face. “You’re so beautiful. I don’t know why I never—”
At this point I kissed him, mainly to shut him up. Well, maybe not mainly. A bit. Plus, with my
hands free, now I could wrap my fingers in his stupid hair and tug, hard. The noises he made were
encouraging. And – I sighed into his mouth – I could grind myself against him.
He moaned and kissed me sloppily, hungrily. It was not unpleasant. He pulled me so close I could
hardly breathe; hands hard on my back, on my arse, his cock a hard lump against my stomach. He
kissed me like he’d die without me.
I began to feel a little smug. I wouldn’t have thought I could feel smug whilst butt naked and in
the company of a fully clothed Harry Potter, but there it was. I also began to feel more than a
little turned on again. I was going to be sore.
I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I broke the kiss – Harry made a bereaved noise; his brow was slick with sweat – and I tugged one of
Harry’s hand up to his mouth. “Spit,” I said.
He began to look a little wild-eyed. It matched his hair, at any rate. He spat.
I pushed his hand down between us, wrapped it around my dick. Helped him slick it up, get the right
rhythm, then left him to it. I was too busy gasping against his mouth as his leg slid between mine,
my balls a heavy weight against the thick fabric covering his thigh.
I felt raw, and vulnerable, and . . . and . . . and my throat hurt from gasping so hard, and
Harry’s hand sped up, his strokes hard and fast, and oh so tight and after a few minutes I
came all over him in one – two – aching spurts.
His hand stilled, and my head fell against his. I could feel his heart beating quick quick
quick in his chest, even through his jumper. He kissed the side of my head, and an unaccustomed
warm feeling flooded through my insides.
“Hmmm,” I said, my throat scratchy. I wondered if I’d been making a racket. “Not bad.”
Harry laughed, a little shakily. “Thanks.”
I pulled away and regarded the ruin of my clothing for a moment, before dressing as best I could.
The robe was whole, at least, and that would get me back to my room if no one looked too closely.
But first . . .
I straightened my shoulders and looked over at Harry. “Your turn.” I crossed my arms.
Harry’s brow wrinkled. “Ummmm . . .”
I rolled my eyes, grinning on the inside. Honestly; he was such an idiot. “I don’t have all day;
get on with it.”
The Knut dropped. At least, in part. Harry’s cheeks went pink.
“Well, come on,” I said. “Be thankful I’m not asking the Weasel and Granger to look on.”
Harry’s colour rose even higher, but he grinned. “Cheers, Draco. You’re a real mate.”
I suppressed a smile. Instead, I tapped my foot and looked meaningfully at his crotch.
“Oh. Right.” Harry bit his lip, slid his hand under his pyjama bottoms, and started pumping. His
lips parted. “So . . .” he said, then cleared his throat. He was trembling slightly now. “What . .
.”
“You want to chat? Right now?” I said, unable to keep my eyes away from his hand, moving
with purpose beneath the fabric.
“I . . .” Harry managed. “I like it when you . . . uhhhh . . . actually talk to me.”
He – what? His eyes were certainly fixed on my lips, that was for sure. “Perhaps I could talk you
through our latest potions homework,” I said. “Though knowing you, you’ve probably cribbed it from
Granger. She really is the most annoying bookworm, Potter.”
There was a bead of sweat on Harry’s brow. “You’re just . . . jealous. Better than you,” he
managed, seemingly not put off his stroke.
I evidently wasn’t achieving my aim here. I strode over and yanked Harry’s trousers down over his
hips. His cock was thick and reddened in his fist, dripping from the tip. He faltered for a moment,
but carried on manfully. I watched for a moment. His thighs were shaking, and his fist sped up.
“What would dearest Ron think to see you now?” I said airily. “Or Granger, for that matt—”
“Hnnnnnnnng,” Harry said eloquently and his cock squirted a copious amount of fluid all over his
hand and, quite possibly, all over the room. I was irritated to have missed the face he pulled
while he came; I’d been far too busy enjoying the show. Still, it pleased me that the next
Gryffindor who came into the room would risk sitting in a small puddle of Harry’s spunk. I hoped it
would be the Weasel.
“Goodnight, Harry,” I said. I pulled my wand from the pocket in my robe, quickly dismantled the
wards, and went towards the round doorway that led to freedom.
Harry had tucked himself into his trousers by the time I looked back. I was a little annoyed that
he’d managed to pull himself together for long enough to call me a git – charge accepted – but then
he fell apart again into bumbling incoherency. “Um . . .” he said, meaningfully. “What are we . .
.?” He ran his left hand through his hair, leaving it more dishevelled than when he started. “Um,
you know . . .” He trailed off, a touch unhappily. He shot a glance towards the inner door, as if
concerned a Weasel would burst through at any moment and spoil our sweet nothings.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that Harry only became coherent while I was naked; this was
going to make things challenging. It crossed my mind to wonder whether his umms and errrs indicated
that he . . .
No. No. I did have a little sense of self-preservation left, despite all appearances to the
contrary. I was wholly unconvinced that once Harry had stopped thinking with his cock, rather than
the pitiful organ that was his brain, he would find me quite so entertaining.
I firmly pledged to myself that at our next encounter – if I felt up to the torture of arranging it
– I would be firmly, entirely, in control of the situation – and entirely, completely free of
Veritaserum.
Harry, on the other hand . . .
Hmmm. It was an idea worth considering. But I wasn’t sure I was quite brave enough to hear the
answers to the questions that bobbed up insistently in my mind. Oh well.
“I am not nearly so stupid as to give you the password to the Slytherin dungeons,” I said,
straightening my robe. “Nor am I planning on taking you there right now. But,” I added, reaching
the doorway and pushing the portrait aside, “if you were to make it to my room tomorrow night, I
might just let you fuck me six ways to Sunday.”
I didn’t look back as I left, thinking it would spoil my dramatic exit, but I heard Harry mutter
something appropriately frustrated before I slammed the portrait door shut behind me, to the
irritation of the fat bitch within it.
I allowed myself to commit a childish act – I stuck my tongue out at her – and legged it, as fast
as I could, to my room, clutching my robes around me as tight as possible. I was lucky – the
hallways were completely deserted – and I shut and warded the door behind me with a sigh of
complete relief.
As I cast a cleaning spell over myself and changed into fresh pyjamas, I thought that if Harry
couldn’t find his way here tomorrow night, well, he wasn’t the man I thought he was. But, really –
after what he’d put me through this evening, I couldn’t find it in my black, evil heart to feel
sorry for the trials he’d no doubt be put to . . . particularly if my Slytherin lovelies happened
to get to him first. I almost wondered if it would be worth my while arranging.
After all, turnabout is fair play, don’t you agree?
End
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