lalejandra (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} lalejandra) wrote,@ 2004-05-18 16:51:00 |
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"Now that we've sworn a blood oath, *I* get to fuck *you*, Malfoy," said Potter.
Today isaddictedkitten's 21st birthday. She asked for unusual H/D, and I tried, but it just kept slipping away from me. Many happy returns, and all that rot, darling; there's lots of porn in here, even though neither of them die.
“You know, Potty,” said Draco, “mortal enemies generally don’t do this sort of thing.”
Potty looked up at Draco, his eyes blurry because his ugly glasses were fogged up. His mouth was stretched out, lips almost the same pinkish-red as Draco’s cock, and Draco pushed his hips a little harder into Potty’s mouth, and came.
His eyes never left Potty’s face, and his left hand never uncurled from around his wand.
Blood Oath (HP. Harry/Draco. NC-17. Lots of kink.)
“You know, Potty,” said Draco, “mortal enemies generally don’t do this sort of thing.”
Potty looked up at Draco, his eyes blurry because his ugly glasses were fogged up. His mouth was stretched out, lips almost the same pinkish-red as Draco’s cock, and Draco pushed his hips a little harder into Potty’s mouth, and came.
His eyes never left Potty’s face, and his left hand never uncurled from around his wand.
*
“You know, Draco,” Blaise said on their way back to the Slytherin dungeons. “Mortal enemies generally don’t do that sort of thing.”
“What would you know about it, Zabini?” Draco sneered at Blaise. “You’ve never had a mortal enemy.”
Blaise rolled his eyes. “There’s a handbook,” he replied.
*
Draco lit books on fire until one of them told him who checked out How to Kill, Wound, Maim, and Otherwise Deal with Your Mortal Enemy by Vendetta Rache. He should have known Granger would have it. He Owled his father for the family’s copy—because the family must have a copy. And they did, in fact, a first edition, and it arrived the very next day with a note that said, I hope you aren’t thinking of swearing a blood oath on anyone I don’t like. Since his father didn’t like anyone, Draco figured it was a joke, and ripped the note up.
*
Draco bent Potter over the toilet in the Quidditch shed, jerked down his pants, and spit on his arse. He wrapped Potter’s hands around the exposed piping, then put one hand on the back of Potter’s head for leverage, and pushed his cock in. He hummed a little at the tight fit. But slick. “Prepared this time, I see, Potty.”
Potter groaned, and Draco heard one of the pipes creak.
“You—know—” Potter said, grunting between each word, in time with Draco’s thrusts. Draco reached around and grabbed Potter’s dick. It had a curve in it, and was thick. Draco squeezed it until Potter gasped. “Mortal—enemies—generally—don’t—do—this—s
He came all over Draco’s hand, and licked it off while Draco continued to thrust into him.
*
Granger came up to him in the corridor after Potions, clutching a scroll Draco recognized very well. “You know, Malfoy,” she said, “Mortal enemies aren’t supposed to do this sort of thing!”
Draco smirked and ran a hand over his hair. “What do you know about it, Mudblood?”
“More than you, apparently.” She waved the scroll at him. “It’s all right here, in How to Woun—”
“Wound, maim, blah blah blah.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Catch up, Granger; that book is so three centuries ago.”
Granger walked faster and stopped in front of him. “Now listen, Malfoy—”
“You will notice that in the fourth paragraph from the bottom of the second page, it specifically says that when one has sworn a blood oath against a particular mortal enemy, one is obliged to work in a different fashion in order to achieve one’s ends.” Draco folded his arms across his chest, his favorite imposing stance. Being twice the size of Granger helped. “Blood Oaths and Other Nasty Things With Which One Shouldn’t Fool Around is a completely different book, as you would know if you came from a Wizarding family. Alas, you are merely an ignorant Muggle.”
“You haven’t declared a blood oath yet, Malfoy. What are you going to do after that, fuck him to death?” Granger asked acidly. She threw the scroll at him, spun on her heel, and walked back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.
*
Draco overslept, missed breakfast, was late for Arithmancy, and it was all Potter’s fault.
“I can’t believe you let that Mudblood fuck you,” said Blaise under his breath as Draco slid into his seat.
“I didn’t,” said Draco. “Don’t be ridiculous. And even if I did, it would be none of your business.”
“I’m worried about you, Draco,” said Blaise. “Mortal enemies just aren’t supposed to engage in this sort of behavior. Did you read the handbook?”
*
“I, Harry James Potter, do therefore swear a blood oath against you, Draco Malfoy, and—what comes next?”
Draco sighed. “And agree to bind our futures together until the end of time or until we kill each other.”
“Right.” Potter repeated the sentence and dripped his blood into the cauldron.
“I, Draco Glorificus Belial Thomas Misericordia Malfoy, do swear this blood oath against one Harry Potter, and hereby bind together our futures until I kill him.”
“Hey!”
“Shut up, Potter, or you’ll ruin it.” Draco dripped his blood into the cauldron, added one pinch of dragon’s blood and one of powdered unicorn horn. There was a small pop, and Draco felt an uncomfortable burning on his forehead.
“Is that it? Because my scar hurts,” said Potter. His scar was so flushed it was almost purple, and Draco scowled at him.
“I think so.” Draco consulted his scroll. “Now we just kill each other.”
“Can we do that another day?”
“I suppose. You’ll have to get rid of those horrible glasses first, or everyone will think I’ve killed you for your crimes against fashion.” Draco tucked the scroll back into his robe. “We should go. I don’t want to be late for Potions.”
“Why do you even care? Snape won’t take points from your house, even though your fa—”
“It is base and common to be late for engagements.” Draco paused and turned to him, the cauldron under one arm and his wand in his other hand. “Make sure you walk at least three steps behind me. I don’t want anyone to think I’ve been talking to you.”
*
“Now that we’ve sworn a blood oath, I get to fuck you, Malfoy,” said Potter.
“Just try it.” Draco pushed him into the wall. “I dare you.”
“You’re such an arseface, Malfoy!” Potter pushed back, and Draco noticed for the first time that Potter’s shoulders were wider than his. He shoved Potter back against the wall and leaned on him, pressing his hips and chest into Potter’s.
But Potter leaned back and grabbed Draco’s wrists before he could reach his wand. He bent Draco’s arms back and twisted them around until it was Draco pressed against the wall.
It wasn’t a bad move. For a Gryffindor anyway. Draco’s stomach kind of dropped a little when he realized that Potter might actually hit him—but he didn’t, he just kneed Draco’s legs apart and stepped between them. He did sink his teeth into Draco’s neck, though, when Draco bucked to try to dislodge him, and he held Draco’s wrists up with only one hand so that his other hand could pull up Draco’s robe and push down his pants and slide up and down his cock.
*
“I have decided to consider Hermione Granger my blood enemy,” announced Blaise during lunch.
“You’re such a follower,” replied Draco.
“She’s very smart, for a Muggle-born, and she’s quite round, and I think she’d make a clever blood enemy.” Blaise tapped his wand against his teacup to heat the water. “I’ll approach her later and declare myself.”
“It’s not marriage, Blaise.” Draco knocked over Pansy’s tea with his elbow, and pulled her hair when she started to scold him. “You’re almost as stupid as Crabbe and Goyle were.”
“Perhaps, but they’re dead—I’m not. And as Granger is still alive too, I believe this means she is also not quite as stupid as Crabbe and Goyle were.” Blaise sipped his tea.
“The Weasel is still alive, too, Blaise,” said Draco. “Obviously life proves nothing.”
*
Draco pushed him to his knees. “Do something useful with that mouth, Potter. Your talking bores me.”
“Fuck you, Malfoy,” snarled Potter.
“Do it,” said Draco, and unzipped his own pants. His cock was more eager than Draco was quite comfortable with, but Potter’s mouth was just as anxious to get going, and slid happily down Draco’s length. A nice length, if he did say so himself. “You’re learning well; hardly a gag that time.”
Potter pulled up and tilted his head to look at Draco. “Fuck. You.” he said, and dug his fingernails into Draco’s hips.
*
At the next Quidditch match, Potter knocked Draco off his broom—using some sort of Muggle device that Draco wouldn’t know to look for, because Draco obviously didn’t contaminate his life with dirty, disgusting, Muggle devices—and broke Draco’s nose. Mistress Olasta fixed it, the same as Madam Pomfrey used to, right there on the field, but kept Draco out of the game.
That was okay, because afterwards, after everyone had left the showers, Draco pushed Potter’s face into the tile until Potter bled, and then fucked him using, instead of lube, the peppermint soap that fizzed and burned. And Potter loved it. And Potter cried out for more even though Draco knew he didn’t want to.
And it was the first time Draco ever called him Harry.
*
“When are you just going to kill him?” asked Granger.
“Half scoop of newt eyes.” Draco poured the glittering eyes into the cauldron. “Stir twice widdershins; two pinches of crushed velvet dust—”
“Malfoy,” said Granger. “This isn’t fair.”
Draco finally turned away from their potion and looked at her. “Fair?” he asked. “You must have me mistaken for someone else. Tell me—how do you like it?”
She blushed.
“Do say hello to Blaise for me, as I haven’t seen him since he declared his love—I mean, his blood oath for you,” Draco added, and turned back to the potion. “Poke twice. Add three spoons of Belgian chocolate.”
*
“Don’t ever talk to Hermione again.” Harry punched Draco in the stomach, and when Draco was doubled over, pushed him onto the ground. “Don’t look at her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t go near her. Have Snape switch your lab partner. Don’t—”
“Are you going to do this to Blaise, too?” Draco asked gasping.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” said Harry, and threw Draco’s robes over his head. “Just shut up, Malfoy!”
Draco heard Harry’s zipper, and thought about reaching for his wand, but Harry’s knee was in his back, and Draco’s face was in the ground, and everything hurt from Harry’s punches, and then Harry was poking at him with his wand, and then—and then—
*
“I am retracting my blood oath on Ha—Potty,” said Draco to Blaise.
“Draco, did you read the blood oath handbook the whole way through?” Blaise had his feet up on Draco’s desk. Normally that would mean a hex, or at least a jinx, but Draco didn’t feel like moving. His back was bruised, and he couldn’t get his wand to point at the proper place to heal it.
“Of course I did,” said Draco.
“Then you would know that the only way to retract a blood oath is to kill the person you swore to kill,” said Blaise. “It is like marriage. Just less expensive.”
“You smell like Mudblood arse,” replied Draco, and turned onto his other side.
*
“I hate you, Potty,” said Draco. “I hate you.” He stared at himself in his mirror. “I hate you.”
“Dear, you might want to try snarling a little more,” said the mirror helpfully. “It makes you look awfully sexy.”
*
Potter’s trousers were already unzipped and around his hips and Draco’s fingers dug into the material. His throat felt swollen and his chest burned and his eyes teared, but he took all of Potter’s cock down his throat and sucked, and pulled off, and went back down. Potter’s fingers in his hair twisted and pulled, and Draco spared a thought for Polyjuice potion, and all the curses that needed the hair of the recipient, but then Potter twisted his hips and moaned, and Draco had to concentrate to remember—to remember—
“I hate you,” snarled Draco, as he shouldered Potter into the wall. Potter slid down to the floor and then used his legs to trip Draco.
Draco fell hard, and his shoulder tingled.
“I hate you!” he shouted.
“I hate you too!” Potter shouted back, and grabbed Draco by the hair. “I fucking hate you, Malfoy! I hate you!”
*
“I hate you,” Draco whispered into Harry’s mouth.
“I hate you too,” replied Harry, and licked Draco’s top lip.
“I’m going to kill you.” Draco ducked his head and bit Harry’s neck until he tasted blood. Harry drew in a breath quickly, through his teeth.
“Not if I kill you first.” Harry paused, ran his hand over Draco’s hip. “Turn over.”
Draco stayed put, his tongue laving the wound he left on Harry’s skin.
“Turn the fuck over, Malfoy,” said Harry, and when Draco still didn’t move, Harry moved him, turned him over, pressed his face into the feather pillows. Draco spread his legs a little, lifted his hips, pressed his hands into the mattress, held his breath until he felt Harry push in. He exhaled and pushed back.
“I hate you,” he choked out as Harry started to thrust.
Harry put one big hand in the middle of Draco’s back, pressed Draco flat. Draco ground his hips into the mattress, into the 750-count Egyptian cotton sheets his father had imported for him, and came all over the silky green fabric.
Harry sunk his teeth into Draco’s shoulder. “That’s right,” said Harry. “You hate me.” He sped up his thrusts, and Draco cried out.
*
“Draco and Harry, sitting in a tree,” sang Blaise.
Draco flicked a small piece of fried onion at him. “Do shut up, Zabini. Your prattling is making my stomach shrink.”
“Draco,” said Pansy. “You have been spending quite a bit of time with Potty. Does your father know about this?”
Before Pansy’s face could get any more squinched into her erroneous idea of what an evil, cunning, I’m-making-a-plan face should look like, Draco flicked an entire spoonful of pumpkin custard at her eye. Direct hit.
“I hate you!” she choked, and fled the table. Draco looked each person sitting around him in the eye—most of them were snickering, like Blaise, but some looked crafty, and that just wouldn’t do. He took another spoonful of custard.
“Would anyone else like to comment on my virulent hatred for Harry Potter and all he stands for?” asked Draco.
“I would,” said Harry. Draco refused to turn around, which would imply to Harry that he’d won. That he could distract Draco from his purpose.
“Please,” said Blaise graciously. “Give us your opinion.”
“I think Draco’s virulent hatred makes for better sex.”
Draco smirked at the occupants of the table. Harry walked away whistling—but he won anyway, because he patted Draco on the head before he left. Draco flicked his custard at Nott, who was licking his lips, just for being disgusting and lecherous, and allowed himself a moment of longing for Crabbe and Goyle. Poor dead sods, they’d have crushed Harry into little bits and pieces for touching Draco’s hair in public.
*
“I am tired of this.” Draco turned his head to face Harry, and was disgruntled that the deep Slytherin green of the pillowcases set off Harry’s pale skin and dark hair in a way it never did for Draco’s own white and silver countenance.
“I’m tired, too.” Harry yawned, pushed his face deeper into the pillow.
Draco scowled. “I am far more tired of you than I am of being awake.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means—” Draco stopped. Harry wasn’t even looking at him. “It means that I poisoned your tea, is what it means, you Mudblood-loving twat!”
“Uh-huh.” Harry turned over a little and his breathing evened out, and Draco knew that he could yell for the next hour and Harry wouldn’t wake up. Deep-sleeping git. Draco kicked the bedpost with the ball of his foot, then crossed the room to have more tea. He fingered the note in his dressing gown from his father. Someone must have told—Blaise, probably, looking to gain points with the Clades (an absolutely ridiculous name for the new evil cabal, and therefore Draco had refused to be involved, despite his father’s high placement and sardonic, “‘Death Eaters’ was better?”), or Pansy, for revenge—or anyone, really.
Draco didn’t even try to count his enemies.
He reread the note as he sipped his tea. Really, Draco. A Potter? Please tell me it’s a cruel joke. Draco almost sighed, but held it in. The tea was too sweet, and his father’s note was far too innocuous. What made Draco more nervous than his father’s non-reaction, however, was his—was his whatever it was.
Draco did not want his father abusing his blood oath for his own nefarious ends. The blood oath was Draco’s to use for nefarious ends, damn it.
*
Dear Father, wrote Draco. Please calm yourself. Harry Potter and I will be enemies until death.
*
Dear Draco, came the response. How, from my loins, was such a stupid child produced? Death—and beyond.
*
Dear Father, wrote Draco. You’re embarrassing yourself.
*
Dear Draco, came the response. You are hereby disowned. You will never receive another cent from me. I am the laughingstock of the Clades! You’re lucky the Dark Lord isn’t around to see this!
*
Dear No-Longer-My-Father, wrote Draco. I never supported the Dark Lord, I have my own inheritance, and, the Clades is a stupid name for a cabal. Draco would have added that his father should watch out, because eventually, if Draco ever found the energy, he would be taking over the world himself. But what was the point of giving the enemy advance notice?
*
“You have ruined my life.” Draco kept his voice soft and hopefully menacing. But Ha—Potter didn’t look menaced. He looked bored. Or maybe a little turned on. Draco pushed him harder into the stone wall of the potions classroom, dug his fingers into Ha—Potty’s waist. Potty, Potty, Potty, he chanted.
“What?” Harry asked, and he sounded exasperated, and Draco bared his teeth—but the effect, of course, was lost, since Harry was facing the wall.
“Nothing, you Muggle-lover,” said Draco, and pushed away from him. Harry turned—quickly, quicker than Draco was expecting, and pulled, and suddenly Draco was the one against the wall. But he was facing Harry, his chin slightly tilted up in deference to their height difference. Of course, it wasn’t bad enough that his house hadn’t won a Quidditch match in three months, he was disowned, and even his mother wouldn’t respond to his Owls. No, Harry bloody Potter had to be taller, and more handsome now that he’d had his eyes fixed and no longer wore those ugly Muggle glasses, and—
Draco scowled at him.
“Don’t walk away from me,” said Harry, and his voice was definitely menacing. Draco shuddered. Harry pushed him harder into the wall, and the cold stone pressed into the still-sore spot on Draco’s back.
“I’ll walk away from you if I want to, Potty.” Draco sneered at him, and pushed against him, and Harry caught his arms up and pinned him, ground their hips again.
“You will not.”
Draco shrank back as much as he could—being hit against a wall was not fun, because it meant his head would snap back and hurt in two places instead of just one. But Harry only rested his forehead against Draco’s. His eyes were closed, his lashes almost as long as Draco’s own. His scar was hot against Draco’s skin; his breath smelled of pumpkin juice.
“Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy. Fifteen points from Gryffindor.” Draco opened his eyes to see Snape’s robes sweeping into the room. Harry let go of Draco and stepped back, nodded to Snape, and left the room, without even protesting the unfairness of Gryffindor being punished while Slytherin was let off.
“Thank Morgana you came in, Professor,” said Draco, and he adjusted the collar of his robes. “Potter was—”
“I’m dead, Mr. Malfoy, not stupid,” said Snape dryly. He strode up the aisle between desks and sat down in his chair.
Draco watched him for a moment before turning to leave.
“Did I excuse you, Mr. Malfoy?”
“Uh. No, sir, but—”
“Shut up.” Snape didn’t look up from the papers he was grading. “Do you know how I died, Mr. Malfoy?”
“My father killed you, sir.” For being a traitor to the Dark Lord. Snape’s ghost sometimes pushed his sleeves up—no Dark Mark. Snape did not die as he had lived, Draco knew—his father used to bemoan that Snape had died valiantly! By Lucius’s own wand! The irony! The horror!
Draco had never quite realized it before, but his father was quite the one for melodrama.
“Your father…” Snape paused, make some sort of curly flourish with his pen, and looked up at Draco. “It’s come to my attention that your father has finally cut you off at the knees.”
“I have my own inheritance.”
“Sir,” prompted Snape.
“Sir,” said Draco.
“Without the Malfoy name, you’re just another rich, pureblood brat.”
”Yes. Sir.”
“It has come to my knowledge that you and Mr. Potter have declared—”
“Yes, sir. Blood enemies. With the war over, I thought it important to—”
“I was going to say a truce, Mr. Malfoy. Ten points from Slytherin for interrupting me. And five points for allowing yourself to be caught snogging your blood enemy.” Snape paused again for a particularly impressive flourish—they must be first-year papers, thought Draco—and then looked back to Draco. “Do you and Mr. Potter realize exactly what it means to declare a blood oath? Neither of you are particularly brainy, and—”
“Sir—”
“Five more points!” snapped Snape, and slapped his hands down onto his desk. It would have been more impressive, of course, if his desk was corporeal, but it was still intimidating. “You're an idiot!”
Draco scowled. “I am not! I'm going to kill Harry Potter or die trying!”
”How do you plan to do that?” sneered Snape. “Snog him to death? You'll certainly die, you stupid boy! What do you think a blood oath means? You're going to live together until you die—it will grow more and more painful for you to be apart, until you realize you can't go anywhere without each other. If you kill him, his ghost will haunt you, and vice versa. If someone else kills him, you'll die too. You're going to spend eternity together. You will never be separated, not ever.”
Draco leaned on one of the desks. “Oh.”
“Exactly the eloquent response I was expecting from you.” Snape picked up his quill and dipped it in the pot of ink. “Dismissed.”
“No—wait—Professor—”
“Mr. Malfoy, I have better things to do with my time than counsel you through your mistakes.”
“Professor, it didn’t say any of that in the book!”
“The title of the book is THINGS WITH WHICH YOU SHOULDN’T BE FOOLING AROUND, YOU STUPID CHILD!” roared Snape. “Now you are dismissed! And fifteen points from Slytherin for your utter lack of judgment!”
*
“Did you know about this?” Draco demanded.
“Of course.” Blaise frowned at Draco. “Didn’t you read it the whole way through.”
“Of course I did! Twice! There was nothing about—”
“Blaise told you it was just like marriage,” said Hermione. She was curled up next to Blaise, who was stroking her puffy hair. Draco scowled.
“Shut up, Mudblood.”
“You can’t talk to my blood enemy like that!” Blaise stood up, but Draco didn’t back away. Blaise, at least, was shorter than Draco.
“Sit down, Zabini.” Draco rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Blaise. Don’t let him get to you.” Hermione stood up, threaded her fingers through Blaise’s, frowned at Draco. “Did you want something, Malfoy?”
“If I wanted to get rid of the bond, how would I go about doing that?”
“If you kill Harry, I will kill you myself,” said Hermione coolly.
“I love it when you talk dirty,” said Blaise, and kissed her neck.
“I’m going to be sick,” said Draco, and left the Slytherin common room.
*
“Didn’t I tell you to leave Hermione alone?” snarled Harry.
Draco broke his grip easily, and pushed him across the room. He fell into Draco’s writing desk, and it collapsed. Draco sniffed. “Shoddy Wizard work,” he said. Harry struggled to his feet; ink dripped off his backside.
“I told you—”
“Oh, shut up. Did you know about this? Did you know that we’d be bound together forever?”
“Isn’t that what we swore? Wasn’t the that bloody point?” said Harry. He took a step toward Draco, fists clenched. “Hereby bind our futures together, blah blah blah?”
“Until we kill each other!” howled Draco. He kicked the bedpost, then did it again. “For the love of Morgana, it’s not supposed to be after death!”
Harry shrugged. “Why do you care?”
”I care because now I’ll never be rid of you!” Draco closed his eyes and leaned against the bedpost he had just abused, let out a deep sigh. The Malfoy predilection for melodrama was obviously surfacing.
“You want to be rid of me?”
“We’re enemies, Potty,” said Draco. “Don’t you want to be rid of me?” He kept his eyes closed, and didn’t look over at Harry standing against the wall.
“I—I’ve rather gotten used to you. Like a pet or a boil on my arse,” replied Harry. Draco heard him walk across the room, and cringed when he thought of all the ink being dripped on his green and silver carpet. Harry put his hands on Draco’s shoulders. “You could even say I’ve grown a bit—attached.”
“That’s not the way you really feel,” said Draco. “It’s just the oath.”
Harry leaned in, aligned their bodies, ran one hand down Draco’s side, and around to the front of his robes. He palmed Draco’s robe open—very clever—and slid his hand into Draco’s pants.
“So it’s the oath,” said Harry. “It’s worked out all right so far.” His breath was hot on Draco’s ear and then his teeth were sharp on Draco’s ear, and Draco cried out. “I’m not going to beg you,” Harry continued, and licked a line across Draco’s neck. “I just want to make sure that what you really want is for me to leave.”
“Leaving won’t work. Killing won’t work. Nothing—” Draco swallowed. “Nothing will work. I’ve checked. Nothing will break the oath.”
“Unless I swear a blood oath against another Wizard,” said Harry.
“Who would you swear a blood oath against?”
“I could swear against Ron,” said Harry. His hand moved up and down Draco’s cock, and Draco’s hips moved into the rhythm. Harry was hard; Draco pushed up against him, then pushed forward. Harry’s hand was hot and tight and painfully dry, and Draco’s cock was leaking fluid.
“The Weasel?” scoffed Draco. His voice was hoarse. He opened his eyes and looked down. Harry’s hand was pale against the flushed skin of Draco’s cock, and Draco had to hold his breath to keep from coming.
“He has a big dick. Bigger than yours.”
Draco ground back against Harry’s cock, hard, and dislodged Harry.
“That’s disgusting,” he said. “I feel sick and soiled. Trust a Gryffindor to come up with such a stupid plan.” He reached up and grabbed Harry by the hair—he had to stand on his tiptoes, so very not distinguished at all. “Suck me.” He pulled Harry down, and Harry went easily onto his knees, tugged down Draco’s trousers and pants, and sank his mouth onto Draco’s cock.
“That’s right,” said Draco. He pulled his robes over his head, tossed them to the side, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You actually do this quite well. I suppose I might as well keep you around.” Harry made a muffled noise. His eyes were closed, and Draco couldn’t help staring at his eyelashes again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the post.
Harry pulled off, and the rush of cold on Draco’s cock made him shiver. “Don’t stop,” demanded Draco, but Harry grabbed one of Draco’s wrists. He turned Draco around, somehow, and pulled Draco’s other wrist behind his back, and bent Draco over the small footboard. Draco winced when his dick was squished between his body and the wood, and bit his lip.
Harry unzipped his pants and Draco held his breath and Harry spit on Draco’s arse twice—not any lube at all, almost, that bastard, when usually he made sure there was plenty—and then pushed his cock in. It burned, it burned, and Draco cried out, and Harry kept pushing, and leaned over Draco until his whole body covered Draco’s and Draco’s shoulders hurt and his body was on fire—
“I might as well stay around,” said Harry. “You do this well.” He bit Draco on the neck and Draco groaned, and when Harry began to thrust, Draco had to thrust back, even though it rubbed his own dick against the wood, and when Harry used his hand to twist Draco’s head about and touch their lips together, Draco opened his mouth and pushed his tongue into Harry’s and moaned.
#
Author note: I have been writing this story for over a month.hackthis, ethrosdemon, queenofalostart, and serialkarma all answered the beta howl and went above and beyond the call of duty. Extra kisses to serialkarma, the first person to read this and not say, Of course, you have to kill them..., and to queenofalostart, because she listened to me whine on IM every day for the past three weeks, as I tried to make them do what I wanted. Finally, I just gave the fuck up, and let Draco have free rein.
Happy birthday, Sara!
Today is
addictedkitten's 21st birthday. She asked for unusual H/D, and I tried, but it just kept slipping away from me. Many happy returns, and all that rot, darling; there's lots of porn in here, even though neither of them die.“You know, Potty,” said Draco, “mortal enemies generally don’t do this sort of thing.”
Potty looked up at Draco, his eyes blurry because his ugly glasses were fogged up. His mouth was stretched out, lips almost the same pinkish-red as Draco’s cock, and Draco pushed his hips a little harder into Potty’s mouth, and came.
His eyes never left Potty’s face, and his left hand never uncurled from around his wand.
Blood Oath (HP. Harry/Draco. NC-17. Lots of kink.)
“You know, Potty,” said Draco, “mortal enemies generally don’t do this sort of thing.”
Potty looked up at Draco, his eyes blurry because his ugly glasses were fogged up. His mouth was stretched out, lips almost the same pinkish-red as Draco’s cock, and Draco pushed his hips a little harder into Potty’s mouth, and came.
His eyes never left Potty’s face, and his left hand never uncurled from around his wand.
*
“You know, Draco,” Blaise said on their way back to the Slytherin dungeons. “Mortal enemies generally don’t do that sort of thing.”
“What would you know about it, Zabini?” Draco sneered at Blaise. “You’ve never had a mortal enemy.”
Blaise rolled his eyes. “There’s a handbook,” he replied.
*
Draco lit books on fire until one of them told him who checked out How to Kill, Wound, Maim, and Otherwise Deal with Your Mortal Enemy by Vendetta Rache. He should have known Granger would have it. He Owled his father for the family’s copy—because the family must have a copy. And they did, in fact, a first edition, and it arrived the very next day with a note that said, I hope you aren’t thinking of swearing a blood oath on anyone I don’t like. Since his father didn’t like anyone, Draco figured it was a joke, and ripped the note up.
*
Draco bent Potter over the toilet in the Quidditch shed, jerked down his pants, and spit on his arse. He wrapped Potter’s hands around the exposed piping, then put one hand on the back of Potter’s head for leverage, and pushed his cock in. He hummed a little at the tight fit. But slick. “Prepared this time, I see, Potty.”
Potter groaned, and Draco heard one of the pipes creak.
“You—know—” Potter said, grunting between each word, in time with Draco’s thrusts. Draco reached around and grabbed Potter’s dick. It had a curve in it, and was thick. Draco squeezed it until Potter gasped. “Mortal—enemies—generally—don’t—do—this—s
He came all over Draco’s hand, and licked it off while Draco continued to thrust into him.
*
Granger came up to him in the corridor after Potions, clutching a scroll Draco recognized very well. “You know, Malfoy,” she said, “Mortal enemies aren’t supposed to do this sort of thing!”
Draco smirked and ran a hand over his hair. “What do you know about it, Mudblood?”
“More than you, apparently.” She waved the scroll at him. “It’s all right here, in How to Woun—”
“Wound, maim, blah blah blah.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Catch up, Granger; that book is so three centuries ago.”
Granger walked faster and stopped in front of him. “Now listen, Malfoy—”
“You will notice that in the fourth paragraph from the bottom of the second page, it specifically says that when one has sworn a blood oath against a particular mortal enemy, one is obliged to work in a different fashion in order to achieve one’s ends.” Draco folded his arms across his chest, his favorite imposing stance. Being twice the size of Granger helped. “Blood Oaths and Other Nasty Things With Which One Shouldn’t Fool Around is a completely different book, as you would know if you came from a Wizarding family. Alas, you are merely an ignorant Muggle.”
“You haven’t declared a blood oath yet, Malfoy. What are you going to do after that, fuck him to death?” Granger asked acidly. She threw the scroll at him, spun on her heel, and walked back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.
*
Draco overslept, missed breakfast, was late for Arithmancy, and it was all Potter’s fault.
“I can’t believe you let that Mudblood fuck you,” said Blaise under his breath as Draco slid into his seat.
“I didn’t,” said Draco. “Don’t be ridiculous. And even if I did, it would be none of your business.”
“I’m worried about you, Draco,” said Blaise. “Mortal enemies just aren’t supposed to engage in this sort of behavior. Did you read the handbook?”
*
“I, Harry James Potter, do therefore swear a blood oath against you, Draco Malfoy, and—what comes next?”
Draco sighed. “And agree to bind our futures together until the end of time or until we kill each other.”
“Right.” Potter repeated the sentence and dripped his blood into the cauldron.
“I, Draco Glorificus Belial Thomas Misericordia Malfoy, do swear this blood oath against one Harry Potter, and hereby bind together our futures until I kill him.”
“Hey!”
“Shut up, Potter, or you’ll ruin it.” Draco dripped his blood into the cauldron, added one pinch of dragon’s blood and one of powdered unicorn horn. There was a small pop, and Draco felt an uncomfortable burning on his forehead.
“Is that it? Because my scar hurts,” said Potter. His scar was so flushed it was almost purple, and Draco scowled at him.
“I think so.” Draco consulted his scroll. “Now we just kill each other.”
“Can we do that another day?”
“I suppose. You’ll have to get rid of those horrible glasses first, or everyone will think I’ve killed you for your crimes against fashion.” Draco tucked the scroll back into his robe. “We should go. I don’t want to be late for Potions.”
“Why do you even care? Snape won’t take points from your house, even though your fa—”
“It is base and common to be late for engagements.” Draco paused and turned to him, the cauldron under one arm and his wand in his other hand. “Make sure you walk at least three steps behind me. I don’t want anyone to think I’ve been talking to you.”
*
“Now that we’ve sworn a blood oath, I get to fuck you, Malfoy,” said Potter.
“Just try it.” Draco pushed him into the wall. “I dare you.”
“You’re such an arseface, Malfoy!” Potter pushed back, and Draco noticed for the first time that Potter’s shoulders were wider than his. He shoved Potter back against the wall and leaned on him, pressing his hips and chest into Potter’s.
But Potter leaned back and grabbed Draco’s wrists before he could reach his wand. He bent Draco’s arms back and twisted them around until it was Draco pressed against the wall.
It wasn’t a bad move. For a Gryffindor anyway. Draco’s stomach kind of dropped a little when he realized that Potter might actually hit him—but he didn’t, he just kneed Draco’s legs apart and stepped between them. He did sink his teeth into Draco’s neck, though, when Draco bucked to try to dislodge him, and he held Draco’s wrists up with only one hand so that his other hand could pull up Draco’s robe and push down his pants and slide up and down his cock.
*
“I have decided to consider Hermione Granger my blood enemy,” announced Blaise during lunch.
“You’re such a follower,” replied Draco.
“She’s very smart, for a Muggle-born, and she’s quite round, and I think she’d make a clever blood enemy.” Blaise tapped his wand against his teacup to heat the water. “I’ll approach her later and declare myself.”
“It’s not marriage, Blaise.” Draco knocked over Pansy’s tea with his elbow, and pulled her hair when she started to scold him. “You’re almost as stupid as Crabbe and Goyle were.”
“Perhaps, but they’re dead—I’m not. And as Granger is still alive too, I believe this means she is also not quite as stupid as Crabbe and Goyle were.” Blaise sipped his tea.
“The Weasel is still alive, too, Blaise,” said Draco. “Obviously life proves nothing.”
*
Draco pushed him to his knees. “Do something useful with that mouth, Potter. Your talking bores me.”
“Fuck you, Malfoy,” snarled Potter.
“Do it,” said Draco, and unzipped his own pants. His cock was more eager than Draco was quite comfortable with, but Potter’s mouth was just as anxious to get going, and slid happily down Draco’s length. A nice length, if he did say so himself. “You’re learning well; hardly a gag that time.”
Potter pulled up and tilted his head to look at Draco. “Fuck. You.” he said, and dug his fingernails into Draco’s hips.
*
At the next Quidditch match, Potter knocked Draco off his broom—using some sort of Muggle device that Draco wouldn’t know to look for, because Draco obviously didn’t contaminate his life with dirty, disgusting, Muggle devices—and broke Draco’s nose. Mistress Olasta fixed it, the same as Madam Pomfrey used to, right there on the field, but kept Draco out of the game.
That was okay, because afterwards, after everyone had left the showers, Draco pushed Potter’s face into the tile until Potter bled, and then fucked him using, instead of lube, the peppermint soap that fizzed and burned. And Potter loved it. And Potter cried out for more even though Draco knew he didn’t want to.
And it was the first time Draco ever called him Harry.
*
“When are you just going to kill him?” asked Granger.
“Half scoop of newt eyes.” Draco poured the glittering eyes into the cauldron. “Stir twice widdershins; two pinches of crushed velvet dust—”
“Malfoy,” said Granger. “This isn’t fair.”
Draco finally turned away from their potion and looked at her. “Fair?” he asked. “You must have me mistaken for someone else. Tell me—how do you like it?”
She blushed.
“Do say hello to Blaise for me, as I haven’t seen him since he declared his love—I mean, his blood oath for you,” Draco added, and turned back to the potion. “Poke twice. Add three spoons of Belgian chocolate.”
*
“Don’t ever talk to Hermione again.” Harry punched Draco in the stomach, and when Draco was doubled over, pushed him onto the ground. “Don’t look at her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t go near her. Have Snape switch your lab partner. Don’t—”
“Are you going to do this to Blaise, too?” Draco asked gasping.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” said Harry, and threw Draco’s robes over his head. “Just shut up, Malfoy!”
Draco heard Harry’s zipper, and thought about reaching for his wand, but Harry’s knee was in his back, and Draco’s face was in the ground, and everything hurt from Harry’s punches, and then Harry was poking at him with his wand, and then—and then—
*
“I am retracting my blood oath on Ha—Potty,” said Draco to Blaise.
“Draco, did you read the blood oath handbook the whole way through?” Blaise had his feet up on Draco’s desk. Normally that would mean a hex, or at least a jinx, but Draco didn’t feel like moving. His back was bruised, and he couldn’t get his wand to point at the proper place to heal it.
“Of course I did,” said Draco.
“Then you would know that the only way to retract a blood oath is to kill the person you swore to kill,” said Blaise. “It is like marriage. Just less expensive.”
“You smell like Mudblood arse,” replied Draco, and turned onto his other side.
*
“I hate you, Potty,” said Draco. “I hate you.” He stared at himself in his mirror. “I hate you.”
“Dear, you might want to try snarling a little more,” said the mirror helpfully. “It makes you look awfully sexy.”
*
Potter’s trousers were already unzipped and around his hips and Draco’s fingers dug into the material. His throat felt swollen and his chest burned and his eyes teared, but he took all of Potter’s cock down his throat and sucked, and pulled off, and went back down. Potter’s fingers in his hair twisted and pulled, and Draco spared a thought for Polyjuice potion, and all the curses that needed the hair of the recipient, but then Potter twisted his hips and moaned, and Draco had to concentrate to remember—to remember—
“I hate you,” snarled Draco, as he shouldered Potter into the wall. Potter slid down to the floor and then used his legs to trip Draco.
Draco fell hard, and his shoulder tingled.
“I hate you!” he shouted.
“I hate you too!” Potter shouted back, and grabbed Draco by the hair. “I fucking hate you, Malfoy! I hate you!”
*
“I hate you,” Draco whispered into Harry’s mouth.
“I hate you too,” replied Harry, and licked Draco’s top lip.
“I’m going to kill you.” Draco ducked his head and bit Harry’s neck until he tasted blood. Harry drew in a breath quickly, through his teeth.
“Not if I kill you first.” Harry paused, ran his hand over Draco’s hip. “Turn over.”
Draco stayed put, his tongue laving the wound he left on Harry’s skin.
“Turn the fuck over, Malfoy,” said Harry, and when Draco still didn’t move, Harry moved him, turned him over, pressed his face into the feather pillows. Draco spread his legs a little, lifted his hips, pressed his hands into the mattress, held his breath until he felt Harry push in. He exhaled and pushed back.
“I hate you,” he choked out as Harry started to thrust.
Harry put one big hand in the middle of Draco’s back, pressed Draco flat. Draco ground his hips into the mattress, into the 750-count Egyptian cotton sheets his father had imported for him, and came all over the silky green fabric.
Harry sunk his teeth into Draco’s shoulder. “That’s right,” said Harry. “You hate me.” He sped up his thrusts, and Draco cried out.
*
“Draco and Harry, sitting in a tree,” sang Blaise.
Draco flicked a small piece of fried onion at him. “Do shut up, Zabini. Your prattling is making my stomach shrink.”
“Draco,” said Pansy. “You have been spending quite a bit of time with Potty. Does your father know about this?”
Before Pansy’s face could get any more squinched into her erroneous idea of what an evil, cunning, I’m-making-a-plan face should look like, Draco flicked an entire spoonful of pumpkin custard at her eye. Direct hit.
“I hate you!” she choked, and fled the table. Draco looked each person sitting around him in the eye—most of them were snickering, like Blaise, but some looked crafty, and that just wouldn’t do. He took another spoonful of custard.
“Would anyone else like to comment on my virulent hatred for Harry Potter and all he stands for?” asked Draco.
“I would,” said Harry. Draco refused to turn around, which would imply to Harry that he’d won. That he could distract Draco from his purpose.
“Please,” said Blaise graciously. “Give us your opinion.”
“I think Draco’s virulent hatred makes for better sex.”
Draco smirked at the occupants of the table. Harry walked away whistling—but he won anyway, because he patted Draco on the head before he left. Draco flicked his custard at Nott, who was licking his lips, just for being disgusting and lecherous, and allowed himself a moment of longing for Crabbe and Goyle. Poor dead sods, they’d have crushed Harry into little bits and pieces for touching Draco’s hair in public.
*
“I am tired of this.” Draco turned his head to face Harry, and was disgruntled that the deep Slytherin green of the pillowcases set off Harry’s pale skin and dark hair in a way it never did for Draco’s own white and silver countenance.
“I’m tired, too.” Harry yawned, pushed his face deeper into the pillow.
Draco scowled. “I am far more tired of you than I am of being awake.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means—” Draco stopped. Harry wasn’t even looking at him. “It means that I poisoned your tea, is what it means, you Mudblood-loving twat!”
“Uh-huh.” Harry turned over a little and his breathing evened out, and Draco knew that he could yell for the next hour and Harry wouldn’t wake up. Deep-sleeping git. Draco kicked the bedpost with the ball of his foot, then crossed the room to have more tea. He fingered the note in his dressing gown from his father. Someone must have told—Blaise, probably, looking to gain points with the Clades (an absolutely ridiculous name for the new evil cabal, and therefore Draco had refused to be involved, despite his father’s high placement and sardonic, “‘Death Eaters’ was better?”), or Pansy, for revenge—or anyone, really.
Draco didn’t even try to count his enemies.
He reread the note as he sipped his tea. Really, Draco. A Potter? Please tell me it’s a cruel joke. Draco almost sighed, but held it in. The tea was too sweet, and his father’s note was far too innocuous. What made Draco more nervous than his father’s non-reaction, however, was his—was his whatever it was.
Draco did not want his father abusing his blood oath for his own nefarious ends. The blood oath was Draco’s to use for nefarious ends, damn it.
*
Dear Father, wrote Draco. Please calm yourself. Harry Potter and I will be enemies until death.
*
Dear Draco, came the response. How, from my loins, was such a stupid child produced? Death—and beyond.
*
Dear Father, wrote Draco. You’re embarrassing yourself.
*
Dear Draco, came the response. You are hereby disowned. You will never receive another cent from me. I am the laughingstock of the Clades! You’re lucky the Dark Lord isn’t around to see this!
*
Dear No-Longer-My-Father, wrote Draco. I never supported the Dark Lord, I have my own inheritance, and, the Clades is a stupid name for a cabal. Draco would have added that his father should watch out, because eventually, if Draco ever found the energy, he would be taking over the world himself. But what was the point of giving the enemy advance notice?
*
“You have ruined my life.” Draco kept his voice soft and hopefully menacing. But Ha—Potter didn’t look menaced. He looked bored. Or maybe a little turned on. Draco pushed him harder into the stone wall of the potions classroom, dug his fingers into Ha—Potty’s waist. Potty, Potty, Potty, he chanted.
“What?” Harry asked, and he sounded exasperated, and Draco bared his teeth—but the effect, of course, was lost, since Harry was facing the wall.
“Nothing, you Muggle-lover,” said Draco, and pushed away from him. Harry turned—quickly, quicker than Draco was expecting, and pulled, and suddenly Draco was the one against the wall. But he was facing Harry, his chin slightly tilted up in deference to their height difference. Of course, it wasn’t bad enough that his house hadn’t won a Quidditch match in three months, he was disowned, and even his mother wouldn’t respond to his Owls. No, Harry bloody Potter had to be taller, and more handsome now that he’d had his eyes fixed and no longer wore those ugly Muggle glasses, and—
Draco scowled at him.
“Don’t walk away from me,” said Harry, and his voice was definitely menacing. Draco shuddered. Harry pushed him harder into the wall, and the cold stone pressed into the still-sore spot on Draco’s back.
“I’ll walk away from you if I want to, Potty.” Draco sneered at him, and pushed against him, and Harry caught his arms up and pinned him, ground their hips again.
“You will not.”
Draco shrank back as much as he could—being hit against a wall was not fun, because it meant his head would snap back and hurt in two places instead of just one. But Harry only rested his forehead against Draco’s. His eyes were closed, his lashes almost as long as Draco’s own. His scar was hot against Draco’s skin; his breath smelled of pumpkin juice.
“Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy. Fifteen points from Gryffindor.” Draco opened his eyes to see Snape’s robes sweeping into the room. Harry let go of Draco and stepped back, nodded to Snape, and left the room, without even protesting the unfairness of Gryffindor being punished while Slytherin was let off.
“Thank Morgana you came in, Professor,” said Draco, and he adjusted the collar of his robes. “Potter was—”
“I’m dead, Mr. Malfoy, not stupid,” said Snape dryly. He strode up the aisle between desks and sat down in his chair.
Draco watched him for a moment before turning to leave.
“Did I excuse you, Mr. Malfoy?”
“Uh. No, sir, but—”
“Shut up.” Snape didn’t look up from the papers he was grading. “Do you know how I died, Mr. Malfoy?”
“My father killed you, sir.” For being a traitor to the Dark Lord. Snape’s ghost sometimes pushed his sleeves up—no Dark Mark. Snape did not die as he had lived, Draco knew—his father used to bemoan that Snape had died valiantly! By Lucius’s own wand! The irony! The horror!
Draco had never quite realized it before, but his father was quite the one for melodrama.
“Your father…” Snape paused, make some sort of curly flourish with his pen, and looked up at Draco. “It’s come to my attention that your father has finally cut you off at the knees.”
“I have my own inheritance.”
“Sir,” prompted Snape.
“Sir,” said Draco.
“Without the Malfoy name, you’re just another rich, pureblood brat.”
”Yes. Sir.”
“It has come to my knowledge that you and Mr. Potter have declared—”
“Yes, sir. Blood enemies. With the war over, I thought it important to—”
“I was going to say a truce, Mr. Malfoy. Ten points from Slytherin for interrupting me. And five points for allowing yourself to be caught snogging your blood enemy.” Snape paused again for a particularly impressive flourish—they must be first-year papers, thought Draco—and then looked back to Draco. “Do you and Mr. Potter realize exactly what it means to declare a blood oath? Neither of you are particularly brainy, and—”
“Sir—”
“Five more points!” snapped Snape, and slapped his hands down onto his desk. It would have been more impressive, of course, if his desk was corporeal, but it was still intimidating. “You're an idiot!”
Draco scowled. “I am not! I'm going to kill Harry Potter or die trying!”
”How do you plan to do that?” sneered Snape. “Snog him to death? You'll certainly die, you stupid boy! What do you think a blood oath means? You're going to live together until you die—it will grow more and more painful for you to be apart, until you realize you can't go anywhere without each other. If you kill him, his ghost will haunt you, and vice versa. If someone else kills him, you'll die too. You're going to spend eternity together. You will never be separated, not ever.”
Draco leaned on one of the desks. “Oh.”
“Exactly the eloquent response I was expecting from you.” Snape picked up his quill and dipped it in the pot of ink. “Dismissed.”
“No—wait—Professor—”
“Mr. Malfoy, I have better things to do with my time than counsel you through your mistakes.”
“Professor, it didn’t say any of that in the book!”
“The title of the book is THINGS WITH WHICH YOU SHOULDN’T BE FOOLING AROUND, YOU STUPID CHILD!” roared Snape. “Now you are dismissed! And fifteen points from Slytherin for your utter lack of judgment!”
*
“Did you know about this?” Draco demanded.
“Of course.” Blaise frowned at Draco. “Didn’t you read it the whole way through.”
“Of course I did! Twice! There was nothing about—”
“Blaise told you it was just like marriage,” said Hermione. She was curled up next to Blaise, who was stroking her puffy hair. Draco scowled.
“Shut up, Mudblood.”
“You can’t talk to my blood enemy like that!” Blaise stood up, but Draco didn’t back away. Blaise, at least, was shorter than Draco.
“Sit down, Zabini.” Draco rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Blaise. Don’t let him get to you.” Hermione stood up, threaded her fingers through Blaise’s, frowned at Draco. “Did you want something, Malfoy?”
“If I wanted to get rid of the bond, how would I go about doing that?”
“If you kill Harry, I will kill you myself,” said Hermione coolly.
“I love it when you talk dirty,” said Blaise, and kissed her neck.
“I’m going to be sick,” said Draco, and left the Slytherin common room.
*
“Didn’t I tell you to leave Hermione alone?” snarled Harry.
Draco broke his grip easily, and pushed him across the room. He fell into Draco’s writing desk, and it collapsed. Draco sniffed. “Shoddy Wizard work,” he said. Harry struggled to his feet; ink dripped off his backside.
“I told you—”
“Oh, shut up. Did you know about this? Did you know that we’d be bound together forever?”
“Isn’t that what we swore? Wasn’t the that bloody point?” said Harry. He took a step toward Draco, fists clenched. “Hereby bind our futures together, blah blah blah?”
“Until we kill each other!” howled Draco. He kicked the bedpost, then did it again. “For the love of Morgana, it’s not supposed to be after death!”
Harry shrugged. “Why do you care?”
”I care because now I’ll never be rid of you!” Draco closed his eyes and leaned against the bedpost he had just abused, let out a deep sigh. The Malfoy predilection for melodrama was obviously surfacing.
“You want to be rid of me?”
“We’re enemies, Potty,” said Draco. “Don’t you want to be rid of me?” He kept his eyes closed, and didn’t look over at Harry standing against the wall.
“I—I’ve rather gotten used to you. Like a pet or a boil on my arse,” replied Harry. Draco heard him walk across the room, and cringed when he thought of all the ink being dripped on his green and silver carpet. Harry put his hands on Draco’s shoulders. “You could even say I’ve grown a bit—attached.”
“That’s not the way you really feel,” said Draco. “It’s just the oath.”
Harry leaned in, aligned their bodies, ran one hand down Draco’s side, and around to the front of his robes. He palmed Draco’s robe open—very clever—and slid his hand into Draco’s pants.
“So it’s the oath,” said Harry. “It’s worked out all right so far.” His breath was hot on Draco’s ear and then his teeth were sharp on Draco’s ear, and Draco cried out. “I’m not going to beg you,” Harry continued, and licked a line across Draco’s neck. “I just want to make sure that what you really want is for me to leave.”
“Leaving won’t work. Killing won’t work. Nothing—” Draco swallowed. “Nothing will work. I’ve checked. Nothing will break the oath.”
“Unless I swear a blood oath against another Wizard,” said Harry.
“Who would you swear a blood oath against?”
“I could swear against Ron,” said Harry. His hand moved up and down Draco’s cock, and Draco’s hips moved into the rhythm. Harry was hard; Draco pushed up against him, then pushed forward. Harry’s hand was hot and tight and painfully dry, and Draco’s cock was leaking fluid.
“The Weasel?” scoffed Draco. His voice was hoarse. He opened his eyes and looked down. Harry’s hand was pale against the flushed skin of Draco’s cock, and Draco had to hold his breath to keep from coming.
“He has a big dick. Bigger than yours.”
Draco ground back against Harry’s cock, hard, and dislodged Harry.
“That’s disgusting,” he said. “I feel sick and soiled. Trust a Gryffindor to come up with such a stupid plan.” He reached up and grabbed Harry by the hair—he had to stand on his tiptoes, so very not distinguished at all. “Suck me.” He pulled Harry down, and Harry went easily onto his knees, tugged down Draco’s trousers and pants, and sank his mouth onto Draco’s cock.
“That’s right,” said Draco. He pulled his robes over his head, tossed them to the side, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You actually do this quite well. I suppose I might as well keep you around.” Harry made a muffled noise. His eyes were closed, and Draco couldn’t help staring at his eyelashes again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the post.
Harry pulled off, and the rush of cold on Draco’s cock made him shiver. “Don’t stop,” demanded Draco, but Harry grabbed one of Draco’s wrists. He turned Draco around, somehow, and pulled Draco’s other wrist behind his back, and bent Draco over the small footboard. Draco winced when his dick was squished between his body and the wood, and bit his lip.
Harry unzipped his pants and Draco held his breath and Harry spit on Draco’s arse twice—not any lube at all, almost, that bastard, when usually he made sure there was plenty—and then pushed his cock in. It burned, it burned, and Draco cried out, and Harry kept pushing, and leaned over Draco until his whole body covered Draco’s and Draco’s shoulders hurt and his body was on fire—
“I might as well stay around,” said Harry. “You do this well.” He bit Draco on the neck and Draco groaned, and when Harry began to thrust, Draco had to thrust back, even though it rubbed his own dick against the wood, and when Harry used his hand to twist Draco’s head about and touch their lips together, Draco opened his mouth and pushed his tongue into Harry’s and moaned.
#
Author note: I have been writing this story for over a month.
hackthis, ethrosdemon, queenofalostart, and serialkarma all answered the beta howl and went above and beyond the call of duty. Extra kisses to serialkarma, the first person to read this and not say, Of course, you have to kill them..., and to queenofalostart, because she listened to me whine on IM every day for the past three weeks, as I tried to make them do what I wanted. Finally, I just gave the fuck up, and let Draco have free rein.Happy birthday, Sara!
