01 April 2013 @ 05:19 pm
HP: The Beginning and the End (and After) (Harry/Draco, R, One-Shot)  
Title: The Beginning and the End (and After)
Author: [info]sdk
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Harry/Draco, past Harry/Ginny
Rating: R
Length/Word Count: One-Shot, 3,130 word
Warnings/Content: semi-explicit sex, flangst
Notes: This was written for HD_remix's volume 5.0 and is a remix of [info]megyal's ficlet Later, in fragments with several lines of dialogue and a turn of phrase directly quoted from her piece. Thank you to [info]torino10154 for the preread and [info]train_tracks for the beta! <3 Originally posted here.
Disclaimer: The following is based on fictional characters I don't own doing fictional things in a fictional world I did not create. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: Harry touched Draco with such familiarity, as if he'd been doing it for years, as if it was nothing—and yet it was everything. Based on Later, in fragments by [info]megyal

The Beginning and the End (and After)

The sight is like an ice-cold blade to his chest. Harry walks into the ballroom in his haphazardly dashing way, robes slightly askew, hair frighteningly tossed asunder. A warmth—not altogether unexpected, but most certainly a new experience for Draco where Harry is concerned—blooms, having only a mere moment to form before a woman slips her arm into the crook of Harry's elbow and Draco's chest goes impossibly tight as if his whole body has forgotten how to breathe.

Weasley. Of course it's the girl Weasley, her ginger hair flowing like a silken mane, her eyes bright and her cherry-red lips pulled into a smile.

The couple is in high demand as the function is for W.O.M.M. (War Orphans Muggle and Magical), and Potter is well-known for being a most generous contributor. Draco's own is nothing to balk at, securing his invitation to the event. He kept it a secret as a surprise, but apparently the joke is on him.

He wants to leave, but his feet are firmly rooted to the spot as he watches Potter and his ex-girlfriend make the rounds. It's not until they're all sat for dinner though does Harry finally notice him.

His eyes flick from shock to surprise to guilt all in the space of three seconds. Look away, Draco tells himself. It doesn't matter if his insides are twisting themselves into a tighter knot each time Weasley brushes her hand over Potter's. Potter doesn't need to know.

And yet Draco can't tear his gaze away, not even long after Harry's already left his.


The first time they kissed came out of nowhere. Draco had seen Potter at the Ministry before, of course, and they were in the habit of giving each other nods when their paths crossed, which at some point had graduated into quick "Hullo Malfoy" and "Potter" along with them, but never anything more. But one day as Draco was closing up his office and stepping out into the corridor, he found himself with two armfuls of a stumbling Potter.

Potter used Draco's shoulders to straighten himself as he mumbled apologies, but the moment Potter looked up, eyes flashing in recognition, he made no effort to move away. He just stood there, way too close, the green of his irises so all-consuming that Draco couldn't move, much less breathe. Potter remembered himself a moment later and inched back. Pinkness coloured his cheeks.

"Sorry," he said again as if shaking himself out of a daze. Draco was speechless, heart thumping so hard in his chest, he was certain Potter could see.

"You smell nice," Potter murmured, then gave a sheepish smile. "Just getting off? Fancy a curry?"

Before he could process the request, Draco nodded; Potter rewarded him with a wide smile. "Come on then."

It wasn't until they Flooed out of the Ministry and were heading to the Muggle world that Draco finally spoke. "It's my shampoo."


"Infused with mangos."

"Oh?" Harry stopped him mid-stride with a brush of Draco's arm. He moved closer and grazed his fingers over the loose strands at Draco's forehead. "Soft, too."

Harry touched him with such familiarity, as if he'd been doing it for years, as if it was nothing—and yet it was everything all at once—it struck a chord inside Draco and he couldn't decide if he needed to bolt or slap Harry down with a cutting word or two, his usual weapon of choice. But Draco's lips were turned up despite himself and instead of running, he leaned forward ever so slightly. It was enough to cause Potter's expression to flicker with surprise, and a frisson of pleasure bloomed inside Draco at the sight. I did that, he thought.

"Perhaps you should try washing yours."

Harry eyes sparkled and he barked out a laugh. "Perhaps," he answered.

And then Harry kissed him.


Draco expects Harry to find him at the Ministry in the morning, so he shows up for work early, robes impeccably pressed and the dark spots under his eyes from the sleepless night before hidden behind a glamour. He takes out a contract he's due to sign off on that afternoon, but the words are meaningless. All he can think about is Harry knocking on his office door, then bursting through when Draco doesn't immediately answer. He'll be full of Gryffindor apologies and common-sense reasons that have nothing to do with him and the ginger getting back together, and Draco will let him go on at least fifteen minutes longer after he decides to forgive him.

And then perhaps let Harry blow him to make up for everything.

But it's not until Draco's stomach rumbles that he realises he's daydreamed all morning and nearly missed lunch.

And Harry hasn't come.


The first time Draco ever saw Harry completely naked, he was eating take-out chicken in the middle of Draco's bed. Draco let his gaze wander where his hands had been only minutes before—along the sparse hair of Harry's chest and down over his narrow hips. They were normally too rushed to take off too many clothes—their trysts usually more of the frantic fumble sort in one of their offices during lunch or towards the end of the day. This was the first time Harry had ever been to Draco's flat, despite the fact that they'd been doing...whatever it was that they were doing for at least two months.

Not that Draco had been counting.

Harry lay in the middle of Draco's bed and gobbled up the take-out they'd meant to eat before they'd become too distracted with one another to think about food. His hair was a mess and come-splatter was drying on the slight curve of his stomach.

"What?" he asked around a mouthful of rice and chicken. At Draco's narrowed glance, he forced a swallow, then gave Draco a cheeky grin. "I'm starved."

"Which is why I picked up dinner on my way home," Draco reminded him. "Perhaps next time, we should try to..." His voice dried up in his throat as he realized he'd uttered the two words he'd sworn he'd never say.

But Harry smiled and cocked his head, slid his thumb along Draco's jaw and kissed him, and the tension in Draco's chest eased.

"I agree," Harry murmured against Draco's lips. "We should do this again."

"We always do this," Draco said, forcing a casualness he didn't feel.

"No, I mean this." Harry leaned back and gestured with his chopsticks. "Dinner, properly."

Draco's heart jumped into his throat, but he managed a slant to his lips. "Not if you're going to get rice all over my bed again."

Harry laughed and the sound washed over Draco, warming him like a fleece blanket. It had annoyed Draco—the way Harry laughed—but now he flushed with pride like a first year with a crush and thought, I did that, before his disgust with himself chased the warmth away.

"I should go," Harry said as he stood, summoning his clothes with a flick of his wrist. "Early day."

"Yes, me as well," Draco lied. He scooted back to lean against the headboard and pulled the sheet to his waist. As he Vanished the near-empty food cartons littered across his bed, he pretended he wasn't watching Harry dress out of the corner of his eye.

Draco swallowed down the question he most wanted to ask, but wouldn't. Potter, though, saved him the trouble.

"Oh," Harry said as he tucked his wand into his belt. "So tomorrow. I've got a thing—W.O.M.M. benefit, but I was thinking after..."

His words lingered promisingly and Draco bit back his grin. He was thinking more like during actually...


Draco sees him sometimes, in the crowded corridors as everyone rushes for the Floo queue at the end of the day and occasionally in the morning when Draco dawdles and catches Potter arriving late with an armful of parchment, his to-go coffee perched perilously on top. But it's clear Potter is avoiding Draco's office suite and Draco can find no reason to wander over to Potter's. Once, he tried, taking the long route to the bank of lifts leading to the Atrium, but instead of spotting Harry, he ran into Granger. Her surprised glance went narrow and sharp; it was enough to deter Draco from ever trying again.

It's been a fortnight since Potter has even looked at him, a week longer since he was in Draco's bed, for the first and only time.

Forget him, Draco tells himself. He was doing just fine before Potter had decided Draco would make a nice diversion—and that's all it had ever been: a diversion. A way to break up a boring day full of useless Ministry red-tape and boring paperwork, nothing more than that.

Draco stops hovering in places where he'll know he'll see Potter. He comes to work early and leaves hours late. And when that familiar twist in his gut becomes nearly unbearable, he reminds himself how easily he was tossed aside.

He's successful at avoiding Potter, but one night, going on seven, he hears Potter's unmistakable laughter outside his office door. Only it's not as carefree as Draco recalls—more sarcastic and bitter—and though he tells himself it's been so long that he has no way of being certain, the memory of Potter is seared all over his insides; he can never forget, no matter how he likes to fool himself.

Draco tip-toes to his door and cracks it just enough to catch a sliver of the corridor. Two doors down, Potter is walking with Granger. Though Draco can only see Potter's back, the sight of him makes Draco catch his breath. He's arguing with her, hands gesturing wildly. It sets Draco's teeth on edge.

"...it was just sex, Hermione—leave off. I don't want to talk about this, not with him and not with you."

"I know you better than that," she is saying, but Draco barely hears her, his heart is thudding in his ears so loudly. "It wasn't for you—how do you know he didn't--"

"He would have tried to talk to me, don't you think? This isn't the right way to the lifts—you've got me so twisted up, I'm lost on our own floor."

Anger burns inside Draco's chest. His wand slides to his palm as if it has a mind of its own, but Draco's head is spinning too quickly to even think of a proper hex. And Potter is walking away swiftly now, nearly three strides ahead of Granger.

Draco's vision goes blurry when Potter turns the corner.

It was just sex...not with him. The words race in a dizzying circle around Draco's brain. He angrily wipes the tears prickling his eyes. He hasn't cried yet—he's not about to start now.

Draco takes a deep shaky breath, willing himself to calm down. The harsh sting fades, but a lingering ache takes its place, settling into his bones as if it's found a home there. He grips the edge of his desk as suddenly it's Granger's words echoing in his head now.

How do you know he didn't... Draco can finish the question himself: 'How do you know he didn't feel the same?' Because he did, apparently. Feel the same. But Potter wouldn't have known, would he? Draco made bloody certain of that.

"Fuck, bloody fucking, fuck."

Draco pulls out a piece of parchment, and before he can properly ask himself whether this is a good idea or not, his quill scrapes across the page.

Thursday 7pm. Dinner at my flat. You know the address. Floo will be open.
- DM

He folds the parchment into a small square, and before he can change his mind, strides with all the confidence he can muster to Potter's office and slips it under the door.

He would have tried to talk to me.

"There, Potter," Draco says under his breath. "I'm trying."

It's the least he can do. It's all he can do.


The first time they fucked, Draco was bent over Harry's desk with his robes hiked up to his waist and his trousers down around his ankles. They'd given each other hand jobs and blow jobs, and even frotted against Harry's office door once or twice, but that day Harry had invited Draco for a long lunch. Draco never did make it back to work after.

"Get on with it," Draco threw over his shoulder as he gripped the edge of Potter's desk so hard his knuckles had already gone white. But Potter was taking his time, stretching Draco with a lazy thrust of his fingers enough to ramp up Draco's pleasure, but not nearly enough to make him come.

"I thought Slytherins were all about patience, biding their time," Harry teased.

"I thought Gryffindors were all about rushing in with little preparation—I'm ready to be rushed into already."

Harry half-laughed and half-snorted, and the sound tickled Draco's insides.

"That was horrible, even for you," Harry said

"What do you mean, even for me? I'll have you--oh--" Draco bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a moan as Harry replaced his fingers with his thick, hot length and gave a maddeningly slow thrust. The burn was more like an afterthought, just hovering around the edges of the simple pleasure of being full.

Harry stilled, hands coasting over Draco's hips. His breath was ragged and slow and Draco barely heard his whisper, "God, Malfoy..."

The tremors started low in Draco's belly; they were uncontrollable and spread rapidly to his chest, his legs, and along his tension-filled arms. He closed his eyes and willed them still.

"You feel—" Harry murmured, but Draco snapped his jaw, chopping Harry's words in half.

"If you're about to say something sappy, my arse and I will find another place to have lunch. Now move, Potter."

"Demanding sod, aren't you?" Harry said, a shock of laughter tightening his voice.

But he finally started to move, and finally Draco could breathe.


It's five till seven when Draco's Floo roars to life. Potter's early, but Draco's been wearing out his carpet for nearly a half hour if not longer, waiting for him to arrive. The sight of him stepping into Draco's flat and dusting off his robes is enough to erase the speech Draco had spent practically the whole day preparing. His mind is frustratingly blank and the seemingly permanent ache inside his belly flares.

Potter, though, saves him the trouble of speech. He holds out a dark glass bottle. Draco takes it wordlessly.

"It's... well, wine," Potter says.

Draco glances at the label to keep from staring at Potter, but his eyes slide back up, unable to stay away.

"Apparently so," he finally manages. The circles under Potter's eyes are nearly as dark as Draco's, and when Harry's gaze softens, Draco realises his own glamour has faded.

"Malfoy—" Harry says, but Draco turns away—he can't take Potter's sympathy. He needs a table between them, and food, and perhaps a generous helping of this wine before he's ready to hear whatever words Potter has to say.

"Potter," he begins, wincing at the fear so apparent in his voice, "I can't be expected to maintain a civil conversation with you if—"

Potter's hand on his forearm stops Draco in his tracks. He spins at Potter's insistent tug, and suddenly they're so close and Potter is pulling him into a kiss; Draco tells himself to resist—to pull away—but the moment their lips touch, the pressing ache inside him melts and a pulsing urgency takes its place.

It isn't a soft kiss like their first one, nor demanding like most of the ones in between, but it consumes Draco and heals him all at once. The bottle drops to the floor, forgotten; instead Draco's hands are bunched into Harry's robes, tearing them off Harry's shoulders. Harry's fingers fumble down the line of Draco's buttons, until he finally gives up and with a spell, they're Vanished and Draco's shirt joins Harry's robes on the carpet.

Harry clutches at him as they stumble to the floor; insistent fingers tugging at each other's trousers and pants, until they're finally naked and sliding over one another. Draco can't get enough of Harry's mouth as he tries to convey what words have failed to, his pressing need to do so radiating from his core. Harry pulls him on top, whispering spells against Draco's skin that make him slick and ready.

Draco hovers over him, and inch by inch, Harry pushes inside. His thumbs dig into Draco's waist, his grip nearly painful, and his eyes shine, unguarded and clear.

"Sorry," Harry says. Draco touches his cheek. He doesn't need Harry's words, not anymore. Draco knows.

Harry grasps Draco's hand and brings it to his lips, and the last stubborn knot in Draco's chest loosens.

Later, as they lie in a tangled heap on the floor, Harry takes Draco's hand and twines their fingers together. Draco never would have allowed it before, but he's letting his walls down now, isn't he? He tries, for Harry's sake, to relax and lets out a shuddering breath.

"I meant it...before," Harry says. Draco doesn't have to ask to what he's referring. It was the only word spoken between them since Draco dropped Harry's wine. "I should have told you. I just thought—I don't know what I thought. But we're not—we weren't—we aren't ever getting back together. I wouldn't have done that. It was just a—favor, and...fuck, this is why I just kissed you. I'm rubbish at this."

"Yes, you are," Draco says, but he gives Harry an easy smile and Harry nudges his shoulder.



"Ferret boy."

Draco raises an eyebrow in a poor imitation of Harry's old head of house. "I thought you were in the middle of begging me for forgiveness."

"Hard to when you look like an utter plonker." Harry does an even worse imitation and Draco means to slap him even as his lips are twitching with barely contained mirth, but Harry catches his hand first and all traces of humour vanish from his face.

He presses his mouth to the inside of Draco's wrist, lips grazing against Draco's skin with his words. "I am sorry. Next time..."

"Next time just tell me," Draco interrupts before his chest grows too tight to speak for an altogether different reason than it has for the last month.

"No. Next time, I'll take you. If you'll go."

Draco nods because it's all he can manage. Harry brushes back the loose strands of hair along Draco's forehead, fingers tracing down Draco's cheek, and kisses him.


The first time Harry and Draco made love, it was in the middle of Draco's flat on the carpet next to a forgotten bottle of wine.

The second time, too.


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