Title: Adagio in G Minor
Challenge: #5: Harry or Draco go to Neville or Blaise, or both, for relationship advice.
Summary: Seven years after Hogwarts and the war, life continues in the wizarding world. Draco Malfoy is rich, bored, and slightly jaded. Harry Potter is famous, busy, and somewhat disillusioned. They've not seen each other since school ended. What would happen if they were to cross paths again? What if it involved music?
Warnings: Sexual situations, mention of character deaths, some angst and crude language.
Notes: Written for the second wave of Bound and Shagged: The H/D Fuh-Q-Fest. Endless thanks and adoration to my wonderful beta-readers: Vel (goneril), K-Dawg (evilsource), and Penumbra (pen_and_umbra). You ladies rock. Any remaining mistakes are all mine.
After shutting the door, Draco leant back into it and banged his head against it in frustration. Potter? The man who lived next door was Potter? Potter was the source of his inspiration, the one person to whom Draco was willing to concede in the ability to make music? What had Draco ever done to deserve such a cruel slap from fate? Potter, Harry Potter, who'd always bested Draco in everything that mattered, had bested him in this, too?
Had Potter tracked Draco down for the purpose of showing him up again? Was it not enough for Potter that he was unmistakably the famous brilliant poster child for everything that was good in the world? Was he that bitter and resentful of Draco's lack of hero worship? Had he known what kind of impact he would make on Draco with music? Had he somehow intuited that Draco would be willing to surrender to whomever made him feel this way?
If he were alone with his thoughts any longer, he might do something he'd later regret, like wreck his flat. He needed to talk to someone, now. Yanking his wand out of his pocket, Draco Apparated to the doors of Zabini Hall. Light streamed out of the dining room window and children's voices gabbed excitedly over the clinking of silverware and dishes. Scowling, Draco lifted the heavy brass ring on the front door and let it drop with a loud bang. The voices in the dining room died down for a moment. The door opened a fraction and a house-elf peeked out with a curious look on its bug-eyed face.
"Come in, Mr. Malfoy, sir!" it squeaked, then backed away with a deferential bow.
Draco pushed the door open all the way and strode through the front hall, making a right turn next to a carved umbrella stand. He walked into the dining hall and glared at Blaise and Pansy, who were both looking at him with guarded curiosity.
Pansy was the first to recover. "Goodness, Draco, you look like you've seen a ghost!" she exclaimed. "Come sit down, have some roast beef, there's extra."
Draco needed to stay on her good side so she would let him talk to Blaise in peace. He offered her a thin smile, cast a meaningful look at Blaise, and sat down in an empty chair next to Pansy. The twins, Clark and Joseph, peered curiously at him from across the table. He nodded at them and helped himself to the roast beef and some potato salad. The food would have probably tasted excellent if only Draco hadn't been in a right state. They'd just started dinner, it seemed, late though it was, and the twins were soon chattering about Quidditch and gossiping about their tutors. The adults made meaningless small talk.
Draco's ire was like a cloud over the room, he could feel it. He didn't particularly care -- he enjoyed having such a thorough effect on other people. After dinner, Pansy gave Draco's shoulder a squeeze and started to usher the twins off to their wing of the Hall.
"Come on, you two, make it snappy. I'm going to read you stories and check your homework. Chop-chop," she intoned, walking out after them.
"Will you come see us before bed, Dad?" Clark -- or was it Joseph? -- said.
Blaise beamed at him. "Of course. Go on, I'll be there later."
"Good night, Mr. Malfoy," both boys said politely.
"Good night," Draco said quietly.
When they were gone, Blaise leant back in his chair and tilted his head to one side. "What's going on?"
"Remember my neighbour?"
"The one you've been vicariously in love with for the past month?"
Draco winced. "You can't be in love with someone you don't know."
"Well, you've certainly been quite starry-eyed about his musical prowess. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the shortest way into your pants is through music."
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking, too," Draco said, picking at the sheet on the table.
"What happened, did you meet him? Is he hideous?"
"Worse. It's Harry Potter."
The expression on Blaise's face was absolutely priceless. Draco would have laughed if he hadn’t suspected that his own expression upon seeing Potter at his door had mirrored Blaise’s current one.
Blaise leant forward in his chair. "Come again?"
"You heard me. It's Harry. Sodding. Potter."
"Please, Blaise. I just had dinner. Hearing 'Potter' and 'bugger' so close together does nothing for my digestion." Telling Blaise had been an excellent idea. Draco felt some of the feeling return to his chest and the angry buzzing in his head was receding.
"But how? Why?" Blaise looked genuinely bewildered. "I mean, I see Potter at the Ministry every once in a while, when I have business on their floor, but he's never mentioned--"
"That's because he didn't know until tonight, either." Draco put his elbows on the table and linked his hands together behind his head.
"Oh, that's priceless. You and Potter were living next to each other for a bloody month and managed to not only coexist but bond over music? Brilliant."
"We did not 'bond' over music. Well, we did, but that was before I knew he was Potter."
Blaise's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. "Bloody hell, Draco. If I ever again say that your life is boring, please feel free to remind me of this incident."
Draco fumed. "Would you listen? I'm in a quandary here."
Blaise shook his head and looked up at him, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I'll say. You just found out you've wanted to shag Harry Potter senseless for a month."
"I did not."
"Oh yeah?" Blaise pursed his lips and stuck his chin out in a reasonable imitation of Draco. "'I swear, when I meet him, and he's gay -- he'd have to be, wouldn't he, I mean, honestly, violin? -- I'm never letting him go, Blaise. This is it. This is the one I've been holding out for,'" he mimicked.
Draco scowled. "That was before I knew it was Potter," he spat.
Blaise's smile faded a little. "Why does it matter?" he asked.
Draco gaped at his best friend. "You have to ask? Hello? You cannot think of a reason I would be disinclined to shag Potter?"
"Well, to be honest with you, no, I really can't. You've got nothing to fight over any more, not unless you're secretly planning to try out for reserve Seeker in the nationals or to apply for the position of Head Auror. Rumour has it Potter's short-listed for it."
"Of course I'm not planning on doing any of that rot, and spare me the office gossip. The point is, it's Potter, Blaise. I hate Potter."
"You do? I didn't realise you still did. Your hate runs deep, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it does."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know, Blaise. I really don't know."
Harry stared at the polished oak door in front of him for a minute. Had he just seen Malfoy standing behind that door or had he just had a really vivid daydream? He almost knocked again, just to make sure, but there was a thumping sound at the other side of the door, as though someone had just banged their head against it. Definitely not a daydream, then. He turned around and headed back to his flat, walking in a kind of daze. How was this possible?
He sat down on the sofa and stared at Neville's head in the fireplace. Why was Neville's head in his fireplace?
"Hi, Harry," Neville's head said in an agreeable tone.
"Neville! What's going on?"
Neville's face took on a pained expression. "Ginny's been called to a staff meeting and I'm hungry. I thought I'd see if you wanted to come to the Leaky Cauldron. They've got a special on steak and kidney pie tonight."
Harry smiled. He could use a distraction. "Go on, then. I'll join you in a few."
Neville's head disappeared and Harry took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. He put on his shoes and ran a hand through his hair in front of the dresser mirror, making it stick up even worse than usual. Waving his hand in resignation, he crossed over to the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from a dusty bowl, and headed for the Leaky Cauldron.
Harry hated travelling by Floo powder. It always made him feel sick, but he didn't trust himself to Apparate considering the turmoil in his mind. He shook out his robes, stepping out of the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron, then headed downstairs to the dining room. Neville was waiting for him at one of the tables, pudgy hands curled around a tankard.
Harry greeted him and sat down, looking around at the people in the dining room. There weren't very many: a group of giggling young women and a grizzled-looking warlock with a pipe. There were considerably more customers in the bar beyond the doors on the left; bursts of laughter occasionally punctuated the relative silence of the dining room. The landlord ambled towards their table with his usual toothless grin.
"What can I get for you, young master?" he rasped at Harry.
"Just whatever my friend's having, thanks," Harry said, avoiding looking at him. The last thing he needed was for the people in the room to realise who he was.
"So, Butterbeer, steak and kidney pie with chips, then?"
Harry nodded. "Thanks," he said.
"On its way," Tom said, and shuffled off towards the bar.
"You're in a right state today," Neville commented, taking a sip of his Butterbeer.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I am?"
"You're all fidgety and morose. Didn't think I'd notice?"
"Didn't think, is right," Harry said amiably.
Neville had been a quiet source of support for Harry ever since their seventh year, when Ron had started to act weird due to Harry's newly-announced sexual orientation. Harry knew he could tell Neville anything and it wouldn't go beyond that, but he didn't like to abuse this. There were things you talked about with friends, and there were things you were supposed to work out on your own.
Harry was sure that you didn't tell your friends about weird feelings you were developing on your piano-playing neighbour, especially if the neighbour was Draco Malfoy. Neville didn't press the issue, but it came up anyway, when they were eating and discussing something Ginny had said at Harry's housewarming party. Neville poked the air in front of Harry with his fork.
"So, did you get to meet your neighbour?"
Harry's mouth twitched. "Er, not exactly," he said, pushing the chips on his plate around.
Neville grinned. "What's going on, Harry?"
Harry stared at him for a moment. If there was anyone with whom he'd ever be able to talk about this, it was Neville. Neville was quiet and unassuming and he always had his friends' best interests at heart. Harry wished he could talk to Ron but Ron wasn't exactly an expert in matters of the heart. Harry made a face. Did he really just think about matters of the heart and Draco Malfoy in the same breath? Ugh.
"My neighbour's Malfoy," he said suddenly, surprising even himself.
Neville's eyebrows rose to an impossible height. "Draco Malfoy?"
"I know." Harry put down his fork and leant back in his chair.
"What are you going to do?"
Harry shrugged. "Probably nothing. I mean, the only reason I saw him today was that I went over to introduce myself."
"That can't have gone over very well," Neville said with an amused grin.
"It didn't. He slammed the door in my face."
"Not really. I mean, it's Malfoy." Harry gave another half-hearted shrug and picked up his fork again. "It's weird."
"So you're not going to do anything about it?"
Harry gave him an incredulous look. "What should I do about it? Invite him over for tea and catch up on old times?"
Neville didn't seem put off by his sarcasm. "The setup's ideal, isn't it?"
"The setup? Ideal? For what? You're not making any sense."
"Seems really convenient, is all," Neville said around a mouthful of steak-and-kidney pie.
Harry resumed eating. It did seem very convenient, that Harry should move next door to Malfoy of all people. Had Malfoy somehow found out that Harry was looking to move from Godric's Hollow? Had he bribed the proprietor of Magical Homes to sell Harry on the Baker Street flat? It seemed like an awful stretch, but there it was. He finished his dinner and excused himself, leaving enough money with Neville to pay for them both. He used the Floo to return to his flat.
Once home, he sat down on the sofa again and put his head in his hands. He was almost sure that Malfoy was up to something, but what? At the housewarming party, Nott had casually mentioned that Malfoy played the piano, but what did Harry really know about Nott? What if Malfoy had somehow found out about Harry's violin and decided to use it against him? What if he'd told Nott to tell Harry that Malfoy played the piano? Maybe he didn't even play at all; maybe he was using magic to trick Harry into thinking he'd found a kindred spirit?
It seemed almost too convoluted even for Malfoy, but what did Harry know about Malfoy and his attitude towards Harry? Maybe he blamed Harry for the death of his father; he'd certainly blamed Harry for Lucius' imprisonment. He wouldn't put it past Malfoy to carry a grudge through all those years and try to get back at Harry the first chance he got. But why had he shut the door in Harry's face then? The questions swarmed around his mind like so many angry bees. Everything came down to the piano -- if Malfoy really had one, and knew how to play it, that would at least mean the music had been real.
He got up, deciding that he would just go over there and demand an explanation. There was something eerie about the entire situation and Harry knew he could make Malfoy talk. Wand at the ready, he crossed the landing for the second time that day and knocked. He waited for five minutes before knocking again, but no one came to the door. Harry strained his ears to listen for any sounds from behind the door, but everything was quiet. Malfoy must have gone out. Well, that made things even easier.
There were no anti-Apparition wards on Malfoy's flat, which meant that he probably Apparated into and out of it a lot, but it was still a bit odd. If Malfoy knew that Harry lived next door, wouldn't he have protected himself from an intrusion? Dismissing the thought, Harry grabbed his father's old invisibility cloak and put it on to avoid being seen by any portraits Malfoy might have in his flat. There were certainly times when his Auror training came in handy in mundane situations.
He Apparated next door and the first thing he noticed was the piano. It was obviously the most important object in the room. Harry didn't know whether he should feel disappointed or relieved. He walked over to it and ran a hand along the smooth black top. Well, he'd got what he came for and he needed to get out.
Malfoy was home.
Draco Apparated to his flat in a slightly better mood, if only because Blaise had broken out the Firewhiskey. They didn't tell Pansy about Potter but instead made up a story about an art dealer who'd shafted Draco. Draco was prone to fits of angry indignation for good and bad reasons and she'd accepted the excuse without question. He glanced at the portrait above the fireplace; his mother wasn't there and neither was Lucius. His gaze fell onto the piano and Draco sniffed, listening for sounds from next door. There were none; Potter must have gone to sleep already.
Well, Draco wanted to play to clear his mind and he certainly wasn't going to take Potter's rest into consideration. He sat down at the piano and lifted the cover. A strange noise came from the back of the instrument and Draco frowned. He got up and walked over to investigate, but there didn't seem to be anything wrong. He must have imagined the noise. He really needed to see about placing some anti-Apparition wards on his flat now that he knew who his neighbour was.
Draco pursed his lips, thinking about what to play. Chopin's Ocean Etude seemed rather appropriate under the circumstances, the thought. He closed his eyes and recalled the rhythm, then struck the keys in front of him.
Harry backed away quickly as Malfoy came around the piano to see what had caused the knocking sound -- it had been Harry, of course, accidentally scraping a knuckle against the top of the instrument. Malfoy studied the area with narrowed eyes for a moment, then went back to his stool. Harry's heart hammered in his chest, and he was glad that Malfoy was about to sit down and play something; it would give him time to calm and steady his breathing enough. Top Concealment and Disguise marks here or there, Malfoy had taken him by surprise. Harry leant against the wall.
When Malfoy started playing, it was like a punch in the solar plexus and Harry forgot all about his predicament -- there was no soft lead-in, just a relentless drive that got progressively more urgent. It made Harry think of a tempestuous storm suddenly appearing in calm ocean waters, wind and water careening together in angry eddies across the surface of his mind. Malfoy's eyes were closed as he played, his face a study in concentration, yet at the same time he seemed oddly relaxed.
As his fingers danced across the keys, Malfoy's upper body swayed, pale blond hair sweeping across his cheeks and nose. There was powerful emotion in the music and in Malfoy. Harry's breathing quickened and his mouth went dry just looking at him play. Malfoy hit a wrong key -- the discordant sound made Harry flinch -- and he suddenly stopped playing and got up, slamming the cover shut on the keys. He stalked through a door on the right, breathing loudly through his nose. Harry followed and stood in the doorway of Malfoy's bedroom.
"Fucking Potter," Malfoy muttered as he sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes.
It pleased Harry that he could have such an effect on Malfoy. It pained Harry to think that he had been the cause of that discordant note. It had only ever been Malfoy who could incite such conflicting emotions in him, Harry realised suddenly. Even at school, when emotions were simpler and grudges fresher, he'd always been torn between pounding the hell out of Malfoy with his fists and pressing up against Malfoy's slender frame. Not that he'd ever admitted it to anyone.
He watched Malfoy take off his robe and toss it carelessly on the floor. Malfoy was lean without seeming effeminate, though his muscles lacked definition. Malfoy stripped off his underwear and crawled under the light green coverlet, affording Harry a rather unusual view of his rear end. With some horror, Harry realised that parts of his body other than his eyes were taking an interest in the proceedings. He dug his fingernails into his palms, pressed his lips together and tried not to breathe too loudly.
This was very easy. He couldn't walk out through the door because he couldn't risk having Malfoy find it unlocked in the morning. He would wait until Malfoy fell asleep, then Disapparate -- he'd done this many times while on missions. Even if the sound of Disapparition woke Malfoy up, he wouldn't be able to place it; London was a noisy place, and it wasn't even that late yet. Harry closed his eyes and leant his head back against the doorframe. He didn't even have to be near Malfoy; he was trained enough to know from a distance if someone was sleeping or not.
Week-long minutes passed, and Malfoy's breathing became even; Harry could see his chest rising and falling rhythmically, the contours of his face in shadow. Harry really needed to get out of there, yet at the same time he longed to have a closer look at Malfoy. He was curious about Malfoy's face when it didn't feature a sneer, scowl, or cruel smirk. Harry didn't think he'd ever caught Malfoy looking, well, normal during all their years at Hogwarts. He was always contorting his face into some kind of grimace, either to take the piss out of someone or to exaggerate an emotional expression.
Slowly and laboriously, Harry made his way across the bedroom, carefully sidestepping the robe Malfoy had thrown down earlier. He stood over the bed, trying to see its occupant, but it was dark and Harry's shadow obscured the moonlight from the window. Harry sat down on the bed beside Malfoy, acting on pure impulse. The only thing that kept him from jumping up immediately was the knowledge that Malfoy would surely wake up if he did. The other man' s head turned towards him suddenly and Harry froze for a moment, but it was just Malfoy shifting in sleep.
He traced a path from Malfoy's temple to his chin with a finger -- the gesture took him by surprise. He needed to get out of there. The other man's face was peaceful, the sharp lines around his mouth softened, eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly against his pale skin. Harry wondered what Malfoy was dreaming about. Was it the music? Was it Harry? No, it could not be Harry. Why did the only person who understood his music have to be Draco Malfoy, the person Harry had hated for so many years and studiously ignored for an even longer time?
Malfoy freed an arm from under the coverlet and threw it back, knuckles knocking the headboard slightly. Malfoy gave a little moan and pressed his face to his upper arm in an almost catlike manner. Harry tensed. There was something about Malfoy -- something get-under-your-skin sensual -- and he felt his cock stir under his clothes.
Harry swallowed, then licked his lips -- his mouth was dry, he hadn't even noticed. He made up his mind to leave at once but as he rose, Malfoy turned away from his arm and he was facing Harry, eyes still closed, chest still rising softly under the covers. He sighed softly and his mouth came partially open, giving him a pained, sorrowful look. He looked like someone out of a painting Harry had seen in St. Petersburg while tailing Dolohov.
Harry stared at Malfoy's face, hypnotised. He moved aside slightly and soft moonlight fell across Malfoy's eyelids, his slightly flaring nostrils, his lips. His bottom lip quivered slightly and Harry lost the plot. As though drawn by an unseen force, he leant down and brushed his lips against Malfoy's, eyes falling shut. His mind was screaming for him to get out before Malfoy woke, to run before it was too late but his body was a dead weight, frozen in shock. He went even more still as he realised that Malfoy was responding to the kiss, lips pressing firmly against Harry's, tongue sliding across Harry's bottom lip. Harry went a little mad.
His mind was fighting a losing struggle against his body and just as he thought he had summoned the strength to pull away, Malfoy moaned into his mouth and his arm was on the back of Harry's head, meeting the material of the invisibility cloak. There was no hesitation: Malfoy grabbed the cloak and ripped it off. It pooled on the bed around Harry. Malfoy's hand plunged into Harry's hair then ran back down to the nape of Harry's neck. Harry shivered -- his control was almost gone; Malfoy's fingers were so soft and cool against his heated skin.
Malfoy broke the kiss and opened his eyes.
Draco was having a wonderful dream. His neighbour (Potter) had paid him a night-time visit and was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him sleep. He couldn't see him, but he knew he was there. Draco was sure he was just as he'd imagined him -- tanned skin, dark hair, light-coloured eyes surronded by lashes thick enough to pass for eyeliner. (It's Potter, stop dreaming. You know it's Potter.) He sat there, tracing a lazy finger down the contours of Draco's face.
Draco arched into the touch with a soft sigh. He turned away from it at once, feeling slightly abashed, feeling -- well, unworthy, which was a feeling Malfoys weren't accustomed to. Then the stranger (Potter) was on the other side of the bed, and he was kissing him. (Potter)... was... kissing him. The kiss was so soft, gentle, tentative -- it made Draco's chest swell up with pure emotion. He moaned.
He reached with his arm and felt silky, almost liquid material -- a cloak of some kind. Who wore a cloak in August? Draco banished the thought as he grabbed the material and tugged, throwing the cloak aside. He reached with his hand again, almost expecting to meet the cloak again -- this was a dream, after all -- but his fingers plunged into soft, close-cropped hair. He ran his hand up then back down a hot neck -- it felt so real: the stranger was shivering at Draco's touch. Draco's mind gave a reeling jolt. He was not sleeping. He broke the kiss and exhaled.
When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a pair of brilliant green eyes staring at him from behind thick round glasses. For a moment, Draco thought his dream had turned into a nightmare -- he knew those eyes. He knew them so well: he'd studied every photograph from every book and magazine so closely that the hated eyes burned in his mind when he'd thought of his adversary. Harry Potter. Man Who Lived. That haunted look Potter always had in photographs was right there, only now there was fear added to it -- fear and something else. Draco could only stare for a few moments then he lunged for his wand on the bedside table. Potter was too quick for him, however -- he caught Draco's wrists in a firm grip and stared down at him.
"Malfoy," he said in a shaky voice.
Draco struggled against Potter's grip, but it was like being in manacles. Where did Potter hide the muscle? He stopped moving and stared up at Potter, his eyes narrowed. Why was he here? Had he really been kissing Draco, or was it all a bizarre dream? Draco wanted to pinch himself but couldn't on account of his wrists being held.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Potter?" he ground out, his voice harsh.
"I was curious," Potter said.
"Curious? You illegally tracked me down because you were..."
"Illegally?" Potter blinked a few times, his grip on Draco's wrists almost loosening. Almost.
"Well, how did you find me?" Draco had to keep him talking. Potter was obviously barking; the pressure must have got to him.
"I wasn't looking for you," Potter said in the same shaky voice that Draco didn't remember.
"I didn't know you lived here when I moved in," Potter said, and Draco felt like he was punched in the gut.
Harry felt Malfoy's arms go slack in his hands as the other man's eyes widened in shock. They stared at each other for a long time.
"You..." Malfoy finally whispered.
Harry just stared at him. He hadn't realised that he was hard before, but as he once again became aware of his body, he exhaled, trying to coax himself away from the uncomfortable state of arousal.
Malfoy's slack mouth formed a sneer. It looked half-hearted, Harry noted with a strange certainty.
"So all this is by chance," he said.
Harry made no reply. How ironic that the one human being with whom Harry thought he would find peace had to be Draco Malfoy, a thorn in Harry's side if there'd ever been one. He released Malfoy's wrists, reeling with a mixture of emotions that threatened to spill from his throat in an angry shout.
He rose from the bed, shaking his head, turning away, but strong arms pulled him back down. He landed in a clumsy heap, falling across Malfoy's chest. A moment later he was on his back and Malfoy was on top of him, eyes flashing with danger, hands on Harry's robe. Slick, pulsing heat rose from his groin to his chest as Malfoy pulled his robe off. His glasses clattered to the floor somewhere in a different dimension. Another moment, and he was naked save for his socks and Malfoy's mouth was on his, long fingers running along his ribs, cock pressing into Harry's thigh.
Harry tried to suppress a moan, failed, and then his hands were running down Malfoy's back, tongue moving against Malfoy's. He tried to pull him even closer, eliciting a gasp as Malfoy began to grind against his thigh. Harry wanted to melt into the embrace and disappear. Malfoy's heart was beating against his own and Harry heard their music in his head, as though a wizard's wireless was playing nearby.
He thrust upwards with his hips, mirroring Malfoy's movement, and Malfoy froze. He stared down at Harry, his expression inscrutable in the scant light of the moon. Harry looked back up at him -- he hadn't realised how vulnerable he was: naked, wandless, his glasses and invisibility cloak somewhere on the floor. His trepidation must have shown on his face, because Malfoy's mouth twisted into a vicious kind of smile. Harry tried to think, but it was hard to form coherent thoughts, not when Malfoy's teeth flashed in the darkness like that. Would it hurt if they scraped across Harry's nipple?
Harry reached out with his hand and caressed Malfoy's neck. The other man's eyes fell shut and he threw his head back. Harry dragged his fingers lower, down the smooth skin on Malfoy's chest, down the soft patch of hair below his navel. Malfoy looked at Harry again and licked his lips. His breathing had become ragged, his nails were digging into Harry's shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was like static from a faulty wireless.
With a snarl, Draco descended on Potter, kissing and licking and biting at every scar. Potter was pale, almost as pale as Draco. He had imagined sun-kissed skin and light olive-coloured eyes: someone like Blaise. Instead, he'd got Potter. Perfect Potter with his pale skin, violently green eyes and messy hair. Potter and his scars. Draco flicked his tongue across a dark nipple, causing Potter to arch upwards, arms flying backwards. Draco lifted his head to look at Potter, who was looking down at him with a desperation that told of many things: lust, loathing, longing... hope.
A jolt of vengeful anger surged through Draco. He slid down swiftly, pressing his chest against Potter's squirming body, placing his palms flat against the other man's thighs, spreading them. He paused right above Potter's cock, which was jerking as Potter moaned and threw his head back. Draco licked experimentally, reaching out a hand to pull back the foreskin. Potter gave a broken sound and arched up, forcing himself into Draco's mouth. Draco obliged, taking the head between his lips and sucking gently. Potter thrashed and groaned, one of his hands fisting into Draco's hair, pushing him down. Draco nearly gagged at the pressure and bared his teeth, causing Potter to hiss and stop moving.
Potter's cock was twitching against his palate, and Draco spat it out, steadying it with his hand and running his tongue up its length. Potter was making pathetic mewling sounds now and Draco knew it wouldn't take long. He moved his hand swiftly several times and Potter came all over his fingers with an anguished cry, one thick drop landing on Draco's cheek. He dragged the back of his hand across it and wiped his palm on the sheets. Potter's head was still thrown back, his chest rising unevenly, breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Draco slid between Potter's legs, licking up along Potter's stomach, up towards his chest. Potter lifted his head slightly and reached for him, trying to pull him up. Draco freed himself from the embrace and continued sliding up until his own cock was in front of Potter's face. Draco kneeled around Potter's head and stared down at him expectantly.
Potter started reaching up with his hands but Draco shook his head, hair falling into his face.
"No hands," he rasped, pushing against Potter's mouth.
Potter ignored him and put his hands on Draco's thighs, forcing them apart even more. Draco fell forward and barely managed to avoid bumping his head against the wall. He threw his hands out to brace the fall and he was leaning against the wall using his forearms, palms flat against the cool stone.
"Potter, what--" He didn't get to finish as Potter took Draco's cock into his mouth and teased the head with his tongue. Draco gasped -- part of him hadn't expected Potter to comply. Another, much more dominant, part of him abandoned all pretence at grace. Heedless of the fingers digging into his thighs, Draco began to fuck Potter's mouth. It seemed that Potter had other ideas, however.
He pushed Draco roughly away, causing him to nearly lose his balance. Potter wriggled out from under him and pushed him again. Draco fell onto his back and bit back a moan as Potter ran the tips of his fingers down the insides of his thighs, alternating the caresses with slow licks until Draco was nearly out of his mind with want. Potter's fingers closed around his cock and stroked, slowly at first, then faster, faster, until Draco was nearly there, then he stopped. Draco growled and thrust upwards with desperation. A moment later, Potter's mouth closed around his cock, sucking so hard that Draco forgot how to breathe for a moment.
Draco's fingers tugged uselessly on the sheets as he came seconds later, eyes shut, pressing his lips together tightly so he wouldn't cry out. He sat up, shaking a little. Potter sat up as well, drawing the back of his hand across his bruised mouth. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Draco made up his mind.
"Get out," he said in a low voice.
Potter's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he was off the bed. Draco blinked several times and Potter was dressed; there must have been some truth to those rumours about Auror training involving putting on clothes really quickly. Before Draco could make up his mind whether he should ask, Potter had Disapparated, wand in his right hand and those awful glasses clutched in his left.
Draco stared at the spot where he'd just stood, surprised to find that a part of him wanted to burst out laughing, bang on the wall and call out that he was only joking; a treacherous, weak part of him wanted it to be a joke. Still, he closed his eyes with pleasure as he recalled Potter's face, the betrayed look in his eyes, the unnatural brightness. After all these years, Draco had won -- he'd wrested something from Potter, a moment of pure feeling the other man would never forget.
Draco ignored the trilling laugh somewhere in the back of his mind, where his conscience told him that he'd lost as much as Potter had tonight. He pulled his covers closer about him and snuggled into his pillow, shutting his eyes tightly. He did not dream of flickering green flames and light fingers on his face. That night, Draco dreamt of music.
Harry watched smoke snake upwards from the tip of his cigarette. He stared at the darkened windows of the building across the street. The evening air streaming in through the wide-open window felt wonderfully refreshing against his skin. His traitorous skin, which would break out in gooseflesh every time he thought about Malfoy. The scent of him still clung to Harry, and Harry couldn't figure out why it all made him feel so miserable. He took a long pull of his cigarette and expelled the smoke in a steady stream, watching it get flung about by the breeze.
It wasn't that he was hurt -- he could take rejection, and he could definitely take Malfoy's rejection, having had considerable practice with being on Malfoy's shit list. No, he wasn't hurt. He just felt spent and empty, devoid of real feeling, as though a tap had been turned off somewhere inside his soul. Harry had spent many years wishing he could stop feeling. He allowed himself a bitter smile. If only he'd known that all he'd needed was a night with Draco Malfoy.
Harry bit his lip, feeling his cock stir as memories barely hours old replayed in his mind. He needed to wash the smell off him, even if he couldn't stop imagining Malfoy's hands every time his eyes closed. He flicked his cigarette butt out onto the street, watching it falling in an arc until it, too, was picked up by the breeze and thrown aside. He needed to get away.
A week was all it had taken for Draco to change his mind. He decided he did want Potter around. It would be like having his own pet Gryffindor, really. Studiously ignoring the mirthful little gnome inside his mind who kept chortling and calling him delusional, he knocked on Potter's door.
Several moments later, the door opened. Draco stalked past Potter and into the sitting room. A trunk lay open in the middle of the floor, nearly filled. Draco looked at Potter with something akin to disbelief -- he was leaving?
"I don't recall inviting you in, Malfoy," Potter said, his voice like acid.
"No, but then, I didn't invite you in last week," Draco retorted.
Potter looked at him, blinking. "What do you want from me, Malfoy?"
Draco looked down at his feet. This was the easiest and hardest thing he'd done in a long time. It was easy because he was telling the truth about what he wanted. It was hard because of what that truth meant. "I want you to stay."
"Why? I mean-- oh for fuck's sake, why am I even talking to you?" Potter said, and walked over to a dais in the corner, picking up a dark, scuffed travelling case.
Draco didn't know what else to say. He couldn't explain to Potter why he wanted him to stay -- it would take hours, maybe days. He hadn't thought this through. He'd thought it would be easy: bound by the memory of their night together, Potter would not be able to resist Draco. He'd thought that the minute he would tell him not to go, Potter would drop everything and run to him.
Draco had built quite a card castle, actually, when it came to himself and Potter -- not because it was Potter, but because Draco was used to getting his way. He had got used to men falling for him and wanting to please him beyond all other callings. Potter, however, was reticent and this puzzled Draco more than anything else.
Potter was putting the travelling case into his trunk, handling it with near-reverence. He suddenly stopped and flung the case open, extracting a ratty-looking violin. Draco's breath caught. Potter lifted the violin to his shoulder and picked up the bow. Draco stared at him, uncomprehending -- he didn't seem to have any technique, or at least Draco didn't recognise the bowhold. Potter lifted the bow and dragged it across the strings. A horrible screeching sound came from the violin and Draco put his hands over his ears, wincing.
"Still want me to stay, Malfoy?" Potter asked with a savage look.
"What are you doing?" Draco demanded.
"This violin -- it's magical. It creates music from feelings. It feeds on latent emotions and channels them into music. It's like a wizarding version of the stress ball. Nothing more."
Draco frowned. What in blazes was a stress ball?
"It was a dream, Malfoy," Potter said, his voice dull. He put the violin back into its case and snapped it shut, pulling the trunk cover over it.
"Are you saying you can't really play?"
Potter straightened up and faced Draco, raising both eyebrows. "Why, you're quick on the uptake."
Draco took a step closer. The bitterness he felt was fading. After all the years Draco had spent wanting to best Potter at something -- anything -- he'd finally done it. The music was his, he owned it, he'd mastered it. He was better at it than Potter; he didn't even have to try -- he just was. The music was also Potter's in a way, because it was Potter's feelings that had produced it in the first place, and Draco was quite sure he was not ready to give that up.
"I want you to stay," he said, stopping inches from Potter.
He could almost feel the tension between them, and he could smell Potter -- an equal mix of generic aftershave and exhaustion. An image flickered across Draco's mind; Potter's dishevelled head bent over a chessboard, cigarette smoke curling from his nostrils, a flash of white teeth as he smiled. In a rather overwhelming and altogether unexpected realisation, Draco knew that he didn't want Potter to smile for anyone else. Not like that.
"Look, Malfoy, I know you're used to getting what you want--" Potter began, but Draco seized the front of his robes and kissed him. Potter's hands pressed against Draco's chest and he broke away, scowling. "What are you playing at?"
Draco focused on the smiling Potter in his mind, willing himself to keep calm. He was, indeed, used to getting what he wanted and at this moment he wanted Potter to stay. He knew he couldn't simply reason with the other man -- this was Potter, after all, and Potters didn't listen to reason. He brushed a stray lock of hair out of his face and looked Potter in the eye.
"Isn't it obvious? I'm trying to convince you to stay."
"Why, Malfoy? What do you gain if I stay?"
Potter's eyes widened with pretty bewilderment. As quickly as it came, the look was replaced with a slight curl of his lip and an expression of disbelief. He gave a harsh, barking laugh and tilted his head to one side. Draco wanted to slap him.
"Really, Malfoy, you'll have to do a lot better than that. You seriously expect me to believe that I've got anything that would be even remotely interesting to you? So why don't you cut the crap and tell me what it is you want from me? I'll give you anything if it means you'll leave me be."
"Fine, Potter. You asked," Draco said, making a decision and stepping closer so he could talk into the other man's ear. "I want to hear you tell stories about your stupid co-workers. I want to play chess with you and watch you lose valiantly. I want to share jokes and laugh at you when you don't get the more piquant ones. I want to watch you blow smoke-rings out the window as we stare out onto the street in the evenings." Potter's breath had quickened and there was a flush spreading across his neck. Draco leant even closer, inhaling his aftershave. "I want your cock in my mouth every night," he murmured, and licked Potter's earlobe.
Potter made a noise and turned to face him, eyes wide. "What--?"
Draco kissed him again, on the corner of his mouth, and this time Potter didn't resist. "You heard me," Draco said.
Potter shut his eyes. "You're not making any sense."
"I know. Sense takes time, Potter."
"Oh fuck yes. God, yes. Like that. Ohhhh. Do that again."
"Look at me, Draco. Say my name."
"I -- ah -- ohfuckyessogood -- oh -- Harry!"
"Watch me. I want you to watch me. Tell me to come for you."
"I -- sss -- come for me, Harry, god, yes -- ah -- now."
"Do you think it would cause a stir if we showed up together at Hermione's wedding?"
"Together as in holding hands, or together as in standing in the same room?"
"Not with you around."
"Do you think they'll miss us?"
"No, they're too busy getting drunk. Besides, Theodore and Granger already left for their honeymoon."
"Hermione. And she's a Nott now."
"Don't remind me. Ohhfuckyes, remind me all you want, just -- ah -- keep doing that."
"Fuck -- fuck -- Harry -- yes -- feels -- oh -- yesss."
"You know, sometimes you make a lot more sense when talking in nonsense syllables. Ohgod. Do that again."
Six months later, Draco Vanished the wall that separated their flats.
1. The dance number that reminded Harry of old movies is Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer".
2. The piece that resembles May rain hammering on a tiled rooftop is Brahms' Hungarian Dance #5.
3. The contemplative piece that makes Harry think of rosebushes is Beethoven's Sonata #8 "Pathetique".
4. The soft tune that brings to mind evening lights and padding cats is Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2.
5. The painting Harry remembers when he looks at Malfoy is Saint Sebastian by Tiziano Vecellio.
6. Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor inspired this fic and it's what I used to represent Harry and Draco's melody.