Chapter Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Chapter Summary: Wherein Draco gets another lucky turn, "Lolita" ain't just for kittens any more, Quidditch tryouts loom, Draco performs an unintended striptease, and Harry Potter is officially insane.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
Chapter 6 - What You Wish For
Nott and Zabini saved the day. Or, more accurately, evening. After dinner, Nott took Draco aside and asked him if he fancied a trip to Hogsmeade, just to have a few drinks at the pub and take the piss out of the villagers. Draco agreed, careful not to appear too eager, but he was elated that he wouldn't have to sit in the common room. He certainly didn't dare roam the castle, where Potter could be lurking anywhere in his Invisibility Cloak.
It was quite warm outside, too warm for mid-September in Scotland. The three boys walked to Hogsmeade, and only when they reached the railroad tracks did it occur to Draco that they could've Apparated and saved themselves some time. Adult life would certainly take a lot of getting used to. How did one go from having his daily life strictly regulated to having complete control over his time?
The Three Broomsticks was busier than Draco remembered. He hadn't been here since early in his sixth year, when he'd drunk Polyjuice to get into the girls' bathroom and put Katie Bell under the Imperius Curse. Had that really happened almost two years ago? It felt like a lifetime. Back then, he'd thought he'd been so clever with his little plans. Back then, life had been easier. Sometimes Draco wished he could go back. Then he remembered the dreams the Dark Lord had sent him, dreams about his mother dying in a hundred different ways.
Chills ran up Draco's sides and he shook the grisly memory off, focussing on the present. Nott and Zabini were headed towards a corner booth, and Draco followed them, hands in his pockets. There was a wizard's wireless hanging over the bar now, flanked by two large speakers. A mournful, ghostly man's voice sang about his brother who'd gone to war and never returned. Draco made a face at the device. The war was over, for crying out loud.
"Shouldn't you boys be at school?" asked a woman's voice, slightly mocking.
Draco's stomach flipped and he looked up, expecting to see Madam Rosmerta. Instead, he saw a round-faced young woman with laughing eyes and a pink apron that clashed horribly with her canary-yellow hair.
"Where's Rosmerta?" Draco blurted.
The woman shrugged. "Dunno. She sold the place to my Da and moved away, didn't you know?"
"No," said Draco. Faint guilt edged its way into his mind. One night during the war, when his life had seemed forfeit, Draco had promised himself that he would one day make it up to Rosmerta. That one day he would be able to look into her eyes without immediately thinking about what he'd done to her. The Imperius Curse had been the worst thing he'd ever experienced, worse even than the terrible Dark spell Potter had thrown at him once...
Fucking Potter and his fucking constant presence in every train of thought Draco pursued. He suddenly felt irrational anger towards the new barmaid, though perhaps it was himself he was angry at. Nevertheless, Draco gave her a cold glare. "Well, are you going to just stand there and ask us stupid questions or are you going to take our orders?"
"Is he always this polite?" asked the barmaid, turning to Zabini.
Zabini tore his gaze away from the woman's chest and assumed a look of haughty indifference. "Only on Sundays," he replied. "Usually, he's quite rude."
Nott made a sound between a snort and a low-pitched giggle. Draco glared at him, and then at Zabini, who had in the meantime gone back to staring at the barmaid's tits.
"I suppose they don't teach you manners up at the school, do they?" asked the barmaid, and took out a pad of pre-cut parchment.
Draco had had enough. "You see this?" he asked, pointing to the Order of Merlin on his robe's collar.
The barmaid leaned in, squinted, and her jaw slackened. "You're Harry Potter! Only I thought--"
She didn't get to finish her sentence, because Nott and Zabini roared with laughter.
Draco fumed. "No, I'm not Harry Potter, you unfortunate dimwit," he spat. "And I'm not Neville bloody Longbottom, either. All you need to know is that you are not to treat us like we're delinquent children." Even if my two companions are doing a good job of acting like delinquent children, Draco didn't add. He didn't need to, anyway: Zabini caught himself mid-chortle and pretended to have a coughing fit. Nott followed suit.
The barmaid let her notepad float next to her head and put her fists on her hips. "You don't have to be so rude," she said, somewhat defensively. "How am I supposed to know who you are? You look like a few kids from the school yonder."
"Don't you read the paper?" Nott wanted to know.
"I can't read," she said, her prominent cheeks flushing faintly. Zabini raised an eyebrow and stared at the notepad. The barmaid flushed. "I just talk to it and it takes notes for me."
"Never mind who we are," said Draco impatiently. "I'll have a Gillywater with a shot of apple brandy."
"Gillywater, apple brandy shot," repeated the barmaid. The words appeared on the topmost sheet of parchment, inked in bright green.
"Why can't you read?" asked Nott. "I've never met anyone who couldn't read."
The barmaid gave a one-armed shrug. "Never learned. What'll you be having?"
"A Butterbeer, no ice," said Nott.
"Butterbeer, no ice. And you?" It might've been Draco's imagination, but something very like interest sparked in the barmaid's eyes when she turned to Zabini. She must've noticed the tit-staring, too.
"Just your name," said Zabini, grinning like a well-fed cat.
The pink flush reappeared in the barmaid's cheeks. "Lolita," she said. "And I'll bring you a house special."
It was Draco's turn to snort. As Lolita the barmaid walked off, hips swaying, he turned to Zabini. "Are you sure you aren't going to confuse the cat and the lady?"
Zabini rolled his eyes. "You're just jealous she's more impressed by my impeccable manners than by your Order of Merlin."
"Jealous? Of what? Possibly pulling a bird who can't even read?"
"At least I'm pulling someone," drawled Zabini. "You and Daphne seem to be stuck at the fifteen-year-old standard for--"
"Wait, what about Pansy?" Nott cut in. "Aren't you and Pansy--"
"No, we're not," muttered Draco. How many times did he need to have this conversation?
"Oh." Nott's interjection had been useful in one way: it had defused the atmosphere somewhat.
"Looks like we aren't the only ones, Dean," said a somewhat familiar voice, and Draco turned to find Seamus Finnigan standing next to their booth, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a Muggle t-shirt loose over a pair of jeans and Draco found himself noticing the faint outlines of Finnigan's biceps just before the t-shirt sleeves ended. He had a sudden, strong urge to touch the skin there, run his fingers along the taut muscles...
He was going fucking insane.
"So, since you're the only other Hogwarts people and everywhere else is full," said Finnigan, "d'you mind sharing the booth with me and Dean?" He gestured towards Thomas, who stood off to the side, admiring Lolita's rear. Draco rolled his eyes. It was as though Rosmerta never existed. Give these hooligans a pretty arse and a set of tits, and they'd sell their own mother.
You sound like a bitter old queen, Draco told himself. "Yeah, why not," he said to Finnigan, and moved closer to the wall. "Thomas will need to pull up a chair, though."
"I don't mind," said Thomas. "Long as I get a table to put my shot glasses on." He waved his wand at an empty chair that stood next to a nearby table. The burly warlock at the table gave Thomas a disapproving look.
"It's not like you were using it," said Thomas, and hopped onto the chair. "I'm going to get completely hammered," he announced.
Finnigan, who had in the meantime settled in next to Draco, made a sceptical noise. "And then you'll go back to your dormitory and have a nice long wank, since you don't have a girlfriend--"
"And you do?"
"Why didn't you tell me you had more friends joining you?" It was Lolita, back with the Slytherins' drinks.
Finnigan's eyes were in that most predictable of places, Lolita's bosom. Draco wondered why he didn't feel compelled to stare at the woman's tits, whilst Finnigan's strong arms seemed so distracting.
"Clearly they wanted to hide you from us," said Finnigan with a roguish wink. Lolita blushed and giggled.
After Finnigan and Thomas ordered their drinks -- a Flaming Merlin and four shots of Firewhisky -- and everyone except for Draco had their fill of staring at Lolita's retreating buttocks, the conversation turned to Quidditch.
"I'm trying out," said Thomas. "I played for Gryffindor, you know."
Draco wondered if Thomas knew who'd been responsible for Katie Bell's hasty departure and thus Thomas's short-lived Chaser career.
"I'm going to play Seeker," he said out loud.
Finnigan clicked his tongue. "Not with Harry around, you won't."
Draco felt irritation tug at him. "And why on earth not?"
"Harry's the best," said Finnigan simply. "Everyone knows that."
"We'll see about that," mumbled Draco. He suddenly wanted nothing more but for Seeker tryouts to start. At least it gave him something to look forward to, rather than dread. He wouldn't care about Potter on the pitch.
They stayed at the pub until Thomas was so sloshed that Finnigan had to use Side-Along Apparition to get him back to the castle gates. When they reached the entrance hall, Draco started to walk towards the dungeon, but caught himself halfway there. "I hate this," he muttered, to no one in particular, as he turned towards the marble staircase.
"Won't be s'bad aftrrr while," said Thomas happily. "Get ussssed to usss, we getsss ussssed to youse."
Finnigan grunted and heaved Thomas's upper body higher towards his shoulder. "Shut up and try to walk."
Once they got upstairs, Draco dawdled in the common room until everything was completely silent. Potter was sure to be asleep by now, he decided. He was beginning to get drowsy and he didn't fancy sleeping in the common room. Not when it was accessible to Hufflepuffs.
When he tiptoed through the door to the dormitory, he was greeted by loud snores. Immediately, Draco began to relax. He stopped next to his bed and waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The air in the dormitory smelled like old parchment and, faintly, Firewhisky. Draco loosened his collar and pulled his robes off. There was no place to hang them, so he draped them over his trunk. As he straightened up, he saw a ghostly-white shape looming above Potter's bed.
The ghostly-white shape was Potter, and he wasn't over the bed, he was sitting on it, cross-legged. Watching Draco undress. Heat spiked in Draco's stomach, unexpectedly, and he wondered how ridiculous it would look if he pulled his robes up to cover himself. Extremely ridiculous, he decided. Not to mention incriminating. Boys weren't supposed to be squeamish around each other, at least not that Draco knew of.
He settled for folding his arms across his bare chest. "Yes, Potter?"
"Potter," hissed Draco as Potter's warm fingers found his cock again. "Going to--"
"Yeah." Potter's breath smelled like cloves and cinnamon, and Draco pressed closer to him, shuddering as release claimed him, spilling over Potter's knuckles, screwing his eyes shut and gasping.
"God," breathed Draco. The alcoholic haze began to lift, and his mind raced as he realised what just happened.
"I hear the Three Broomsticks has a new barmaid," said Potter.
"Yeah. She's got the same name as Zabini's cat." Draco stepped to the side so that the bedpost would block Potter's view of his rapidly swelling cock. Fucking memories.
Potter shifted on the bed. "Is it true that you and Pansy broke up?"
Draco froze. "What does that have to do with the new barmaid?" he asked, trying to buy time.
"Nothing. I just wondered."
There was no point in lying. Now that they all lived in the same space and were one big happy Hogwarts family, Draco couldn't pretend as though he and Pansy were still an item. "Yeah, we did. She thought I fancied Daphne Greengrass." Draco paused for effect, then added, "She was right."
"Oh." Potter actually sounded disappointed.
"Well, um. Good night, then," said Draco. It was as though Potter didn't even remember their confrontation in the library, as though...
"Good night," echoed Potter.
Draco could feel Potter's eyes on him, and his face began to heat up. As quickly as he could, he climbed onto his bed and drew the curtains around himself, welcoming the darkness that erased the world from his sight. He lay quietly for a long time, listening to the chorus of snores from Longbottom, Finnigan and Thomas. It felt alien and slightly unreal -- like his first night at Hogwarts all those years ago.
Just as Draco felt his mind slipping quietly into that hazy, uncertain place between wakefulness and slumber, he heard someone -- Potter -- whisper, "Malfoy?"
Involuntarily, Draco's breathing began to speed up. Potter must've heard him, because he whispered again, louder this time: "Malfoy?"
Don't respond. Don't respond. "What do you want, Potter?" he whispered back.
"I can't sleep. Going to go for a walk. D'you want to come?" Potter's voice sounded like it was right on the other side of the curtain.
Draco pulled his blanket up to his chin. "What kind of ridiculous question is that? Why would I want to go waltzing around Hogwarts with you at one in the morning?"
"Because I want to show you something," said Potter. He was no longer whispering; his voice rang quiet but firm. Longbottom's snores abated for a moment, then resumed, even louder.
Despite himself, Draco was curious. What could Potter possibly have to show him? "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"
"It can. But I'd like to show you now."
Draco didn't know how or why he ended up walking alongside Potter down a quiet pathway behind the greenhouses. Perhaps it had been idle curiosity, perhaps something else, but for some reason, he'd got out of bed, put his robes back on, and followed Potter through a series of passageways he hadn't even known existed.
As they approached greenhouse three, Draco suddenly remembered the younger Slytherins smoking coltsfoot there. There was a faint tinge of the sharp smell in the air and suddenly Draco wanted to run away. The smell reminded him of something else, something sinister and unnameable, something he never wanted to face.
"So what is it that you wanted to show me?" asked Draco, stopping a foot away from the greenhouse wall.
Potter turned to him and fixed him with a stare, his green eyes cold in the moonlight.
"You don't have to stare at me like I've grown a tail and whiskers," muttered Draco. "The only reason I came was--"
"You remember it all, don't you?" interrupted Potter. "That night."
"I-- you-- we-- Potter-- I don't know what the hell you're talking about." Draco began to panic.
"You do remember it," said Potter, absolute certainty in his voice. "You're just scared."
Draco was back on guard now. There would be no more stammering. "Scared? Of what? You're making no sense."
"Stop lying to me," Potter hissed. "You've been avoiding me ever since that night. I couldn't work out why, but now I understand. You remember. You lied about not remembering because you don't want to--"
"You're delirious. Wait here," said Draco. "I'll fetch Madame Pomfrey."
He started to walk past Potter, but Potter seized him by both wrists and slammed him against the greenhouse wall with a dull thud.
"Don't lie." There were uncharacteristic pleading notes in Potter's voice. He was bearing down on Draco with all his weight. It felt comfortable, and Draco didn't want him to ever move.
Which was all the more reason to make Potter move, because five more minutes and Draco would do something stupid.
"Don't be absurd," he wheezed. "And let me go. You need help."
"I do," whispered Potter. He nuzzled the side of Draco's face. Draco exhaled, a sharp gasp, and felt heat flooding his belly. His traitor of a cock was up and ready, and then Potter sucked Draco's earlobe into his mouth. "I want you so fucking much," Potter mumbled.
Draco's breathing turned to quick gasps as he felt Potter's hard cock press against his thigh. He didn't mean to, he didn't want to, but he bucked forward, and Potter moaned low in his throat, running his hands down Draco's sides.
Draco felt the night wind around his legs and shivered, but not with cold. Potter's hand around his cock felt wrong and foreign, and yet it was the best feeling in the world. Potter squeezed the tip gently; Draco gasped and pressed his forehead to Potter's shoulder, inhaling the scent of his sweat. He ached to touch Potter, desperately, wantonly, but he couldn't concentrate, couldn't think, couldn't breathe...
"That's all I think about," Potter whispered to him after Draco was done. "Making you come. Like this."
"You're mental," replied Draco, fumbling with the belt on Potter's jeans. He wanted--
Potter reached down and closed his hand over Draco's. "You do remember."
"I don't know what you're talking about," growled Draco as he wrapped his hand around Potter's cock. That made Potter stop talking. Draco let him fuck his fist, feeling his own arousal creeping back to him, slowly.
He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't afford to ruin his life like this. He thought he might die if he couldn't watch Potter come apart like this, just once more. Hot, slippery fluid coated Draco's hand as Potter cursed through his teeth.
Afterwards, they cleaned themselves up without a word. Potter released Draco and leant back against the wall next to him, closing his eyes and lifting his face moonward. Draco watched him out of the corner of his eye, noting the straight, long nose, the sarcastic curve of his mouth. He couldn't believe he was studying Potter as he would a woman. He couldn't believe he'd been so fucking stupid.
Why hadn't he stayed in bed? Why had he agreed to go on this thrice-cursed walk with Potter? Why had he let Potter provoke him into reaction, let Potter touch him again? Why had he not run, hidden, Disapparated? Why was he wasting his time researching memory charms when really he needed to find a cure for his own reckless stupidity?
Then it hit him.
"Yeah?" Potter turned to him and opened his eyes, brighter than the stars.
Draco almost felt terrible for what he was about to do.