Memories in MagicAuthor: trysloraCharacters/Pairings:
Draco/Harry (background Harry/Ginny)Rating:
anal sex, virginsOther Warnings:
infidelity, memories, fantasy, rimming, ambiguous endingWord Count:
Harry rarely gets the chance for privacy, and when he does, some memories are easier than others to relive.Author's Notes:
So, a while back eidheann asked for this story (well, she asked for the bittersweet story of Harry’s holographic magical room and his fantasies of Draco). So this is not only my fic for July’s themes of anal sex and virgins, but also a birthday gift for her. <3 to eidheann for keeping me on track for years now.
“Good morning, Mr. Potter.” The holoroom’s tinny voice is light and cheerful, almost too human for Harry’s tastes, particularly this early in the day. He doesn’t have to be at work for two hours yet, but this is the only time he has to himself during the day. Ginny is still asleep and won’t emerge from the chrysalis she has created out of the blankets until ten minutes before she has to be at practice, and with all three children now at Hogwarts, the house will be quiet until that moment when she awakens.
It’s peaceful, and more importantly, it’s private
, and privacy is something Harry so rarely has the opportunity to enjoy.
“Good morning,” he replies quietly. “Breakfast, please.”
“Of course.” A table appears, along with a pot of coffee and a plate piled high with fresh bread. There is a small tin of sweet butter, and an accompanying pot of marmalade. After a brief hesitation, a plate of bacon appears. “Shall I prepare for company?” the room inquires.
The company would be an illusion, even if the food is real. Harry licks his lips, tries to decide if he wants that this morning, if he dares.
Why else would he come here?
He pulls out one of the chairs, drops into it. “Yes please. Male. Domestic.”
Two plates appear on the table, and two mugs for the coffee, along with a small pot of cream and bowl of sugar. Harry reaches for the furthest mug, spilling in sugar and cream before he pours the coffee, then nudges it back into place. His own he leaves black, sipping it and trying not to watch the door that has appeared while he eats a piece of bacon.
The door pulls open and Malfoy walks in, his usually perfect hair perfectly disheveled, askew from sleep and falling in his face. There is a print from the sheets on his cheek, and he is still shirtless, his body pale and scarred, traced by marks that Harry knows intimately. He groans softly, and ducks his head to avoid staring.
Malfoy sinks into the other chair, lifting the coffee and taking an appreciative long swig. “You aren’t supposed to spend the night, Potter,” Malfoy says dryly. “It’s against our agreement. On the other hand, you might make the best cup of coffee known to man, thus, I shall overlook it this once.” Another long sip, and Malfoy tilts his head. “Don’t let it happen again. It’s becoming a habit for you—third time this week, and more than half the days already this month. You are getting attached.”
“Not this conversation,” Harry mutters, half as a plea and half as direction to the room.
Malfoy freezes, the mug pressed to his lips.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Potter, would you prefer a different program?” The voice echoes from all around him.
“I said domestic
“You are having coffee and breakfast, is that not domestic?”
It’s his own fault, Harry knows. He created these programs and his memories seeped in, which is the way of magic. He toys with the remains of his bacon, sighs. “Domestic with fucking, okay?”
There is a faint shift in the lighting, as if the seasons have changed outside the windows of the room. Malfoy lowers his mug, leans his elbows on the table. “So, Potter, have you any plans for the day?”
Harry licks his lips, feels a stirring in his pyjama pants just from the smirk Malfoy bestows. He knows the script, answers without thinking. “I had a date, but Ginny canceled. Something about Bill and Fleur and an unexpected visit. She invited me—”
“And yet you had me fuck you last night and stayed here instead.” Malfoy tilts his mug towards Harry. “Should I see this as significant?”
“I’m not getting too attached.”
“I should hope not.” Malfoy comes to his feet, pants dangerously low on bony hips as he moves around the table. He ends up behind Harry, his fingers over his shoulders, lightly stroking along the side of his neck. “This is just sex, Potter. We have obligations. Needs.”
Needs for each other as well as needs that the other can not possibly satisfy. Harry groans and turns towards Malfoy, hooking a finger in those pants and lowering them just a bit more, enough to expose the soft trail of darker hair leading downwards like a path for Harry’s fingers and tongue. “I know,” Harry agrees, because he understands and he remembers this time. Neither of them can do this publicly. Malfoy is engaged to Astoria and Harry will marry Ginny in a few more months. This is almost the end of what they were.
He hears the fireplace spring to life as a distant sound and suddenly knows exactly
what scene this is. “Clear program!” He pushes back from the table, leaves Malfoy with his half-hard prick hanging out, the moment frozen in time and not progressing to the horror of someone else walking in. Of discovery.
Of the end.
“This is not why I’m here,” he says quietly, shoving both hands through his hair, knowing it is probably messy beyond repair but just so frustrated
that he doesn’t know what to do. “I love my wife, you know that, right?”
“Of course, Mr. Potter. Would you prefer a fantasy involving the Harpies locker room?”
The room is not human, it doesn’t know
him, and yet it still sends a shiver down his spine the way it seems to twist his world back upon him. “No,” Harry says firmly. “Go back to the beginning. Give me the club, and the first time. Nothing else.”
The room shifts so abruptly that it leaves him reeling, wobbling in place and reaching out to grab onto a nearby table to hold himself upright. He feels the echo of the music in his chest, pounding in time with every beat, and for just a moment, he feels eighteen again, like the whole world is laid open at his feet, about to begin.
He takes a cautious step further into the club, inhaling the scent of sweat and musk, feeling the humidity in the air. A server brushes by him, almost naked aside from a loin cloth covering the front of his groin, and Harry’s prick stirs in response.
His first time in Penumbra
was an eye-opening experience, from the erection he sported after stepping in the door to the first time he was fucked in a back room. He remembers it all vividly—how overwhelming it was—and he misses it. Oh God, how he misses it.
Everyone else is shirtless, so when he checks his outer robes at the counter, he checks his shirt and shoes as well, leaving himself barefoot and wearing jeans so tight they could be painted on. He is absolutely positive that everyone here can see the erection as a hard ridge down one leg, but no one says a word. One man lets his gaze linger, eyebrows raising when he looks back at Harry before moving on. Another one gropes him on the way by with a quick squeeze and an invitation for later, darling
, but Harry remembers the fear and nerves, and heads for the bar to steel himself with drink.
Two beers fall quickly, then a shot of something bright red and spicy hot that he doesn’t know the name of and isn’t sure anyone ever mentioned. He feels loose enough after that to make his way to the dance floor, into the crush of bodies where he doesn’t have to acknowledge any one particular person, can just shift and gyrate and press against them all while they do the same to him.
He thinks some of them might be getting off, from the groans that underly the music, but he doesn’t care. He feels good
and for the first time in a long time, he feels like himself. Not a hero, not Ginny’s boyfriend (husband), not a wizard. Just plain old Harry.
He needed this.
He finds a partner and dances with them until they turn to someone else, then he finds someone new. He ends up with his hand on someone’s hip, feeling the ridges and angles of his bones, the fine ripple of scars under his fingertips when he lets his hand drift across to his stomach, fitting this man back against him. He nudges his hips forward, lets his hardness drag against the other man’s arse.
When the stranger
pulls away, he lets him go.
“You do not fuck me, I fuck you,” the other man says, just loud enough to be heard over the music, and Harry is spun around, fit back against someone else who presses up against him. Harry’s jeans are tight enough that he can feel the hardness almost between his cheeks, rocking against him, and he groans in response, letting his head fall back.
He is taller than Harry, more slender, his skin far more pale. Harry closes his eyes and turns his head, prays his glasses won’t get in the way as he reaches back to turn the his head and claim his mouth for a kiss.
Everything seems to stop, but in truth, it all goes on. Music plays and people dance, surrounding them with their rhythm as he and Malfoy stand stock still in the middle of the floor. Harry’s body is still hot, lit with pleasure and vibrating from the shock of who it is that he just kissed.
His gut clenches, and he realizes that he might just be sick.
Malfoy is going to out him. He’s sure of it.
“Come with me.” Malfoy grips his hand and tugs, stopping when Harry doesn’t move. Grey eyes narrow, lips pressed thin. “I said come with me
,” Malfoy repeats slowly. “We need to talk, and this isn’t the place.”
They end up in a back room, the door quickly locked behind them. It is dingy and dim, and Harry thinks it probably isn’t cleaned often enough to be comfortable. But there’s a sofa and a fireplace with a warm fire burning, and a rug in front of it. It looks as it’s meant to feel inviting, even though it falls short in his mind.
“Let’s get a few things straight.” Malfoy backs Harry up against the door, one finger tapping him on the chest. “One: neither you nor I were here tonight. We do not speak of it to each other, should we meet, and we certainly don’t mention it to anyone else. Two: no kissing. Kissing is for lovers, not for fucking, and that’s all we are going to do. Three: I top, you bottom. There are no other options, and I promise I will make it worth your while. I have it under good authority that I am an excellent fuck. And four: this never happened, nor will it happen again. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Harry agrees, and Malfoy steps closer, his hand palming the hard line in Harry’s jeans. “Oh fuck.”
“Exactly, yes, but there’s no hurry. Is this your first time?” Malfoy lowers his head, nips at the skin just over Harry’s collarbone, and he’s never felt that sort of a rush. He doesn’t know if it’s the location or the fact that’s a man and Malfoy. He makes a mental note to tell Ginny (and remembers that she never was able to replicate it, not the same way Malfoy did).
It’s like having a bottle of cold water tossed over his head, and Harry pushes at Malfoy, trying to get some breathing room. “With a bloke,” he says. “Ginny and I fuck all the time.”
“You like both, then?” Malfoy’s eyebrows raise. “You’re lucky; it’ll be easier for you when the time comes to settle down and have a family.”
“You don’t?” It’s a strange conversation to have, and Harry remembers the way Malfoy faltered in that moment, the brief flash of something human
in his gaze.
“I don’t.” Malfoy lets his hands drift to Harry’s arse, squeezing tightly, yanking their groins together. “I like prick, Potter. I like it when a bloke wants to take it up the arse. I like seeing a bloke on his knees, love shoving my cock down his throat until his eyes water and he chokes, and I can fill his mouth up. I’m not going to make you do that today, not when it’s your first time. But I am going to show you just how much better cock is than fanny. Take these off.”
Malfoy steps back, freeing Harry, and begins to work the buttons on his own slacks. He undoes them, pushing them and what looks like silk boxers down over slender hips. His prick is as long and thin as Malfoy is, hard and dripping at the end, and Harry feels an ache in his bum with wanting it.
It was a moment of decision, something he could never go back from, and even now, immersed in the memory, Harry hesitates. His thumbs hook in the waistband of his jeans, holding on for just a moment before he shoves them down, catching on his rigid dick before it bounces free, leaving a small trail of pre-cum dripping.
“Turn around, Potter,” Malfoy orders, and Harry hesitates, remembering this moment clearly.
“Afraid of looking me in the eye?” he taunts, and Malfoy pushes him back against the wall.
“I am not afraid of fucking you,” Malfoy murmurs against his chest, teeth grazing over his nipple. “I am going to fuck you until you forget who you are. I am going to fuck you until you scream, until you are begging
to come all over that wall. It’s just going to be a lot easier on you if you face away from me.”
Harry turns away slowly, leans against the wall, his legs spread slightly and bare arse on display. Malfoy kneels behind him, hands spreading his cheeks as he noses in, and there’s a soft swipe of wet
over Harry’s hole and he almost comes on the spot.
“Fuck,” he swears, and Malfoy just laughs
“I said, I’m good
.” Malfoy laps at Harry’s skin until he wants to cry, this first rim job he ever had still better than anything since. He loves the way Malfoy takes his time, as if he actually cares
when he summons lube and gently works Harry open. Malfoy lingers over it, teasing at Harry’s hole until he takes three fingers easily, his cock swaying as he rocks back on his heels, begging for more.
Harry almost cries when Malfoy stands, fits in behind him. He feels so empty, and he begs with his hips, with wordless grunts, pressing back and reaching for Malfoy, stopping only when Malfoy takes his hand and puts it back against the wall.
They both hesitate there, frozen for a moment, and Malfoy’s head drops against his shoulder.
“Couch,” Malfoy orders, and when Harry doesn’t move, Malfoy takes him there, rearranges him bent over the back, arse out, arms comfortable. His cock sways in the breeze when Malfoy fits in behind him, slowly presses into his virgin arse for the first time.
It’s hard to take, opening him up, burning just a little at the rim. He feels so full that he wants to push him out, and at the same time, he wants to take him more deeply. “More,” Harry begs, and Malfoy obliges, pushing the last inch in with a groan until he bottoms out, then twitches his hips to move just enough to make Harry feel even more full than before.
Malfoy reaches around him, wraps his fingers around Harry’s prick and tugs, slick with lube and spit, along his length. He rolls over the head roughly, strokes his flagging erection back to full hardness. “This is one hell of a prick,” Malfoy murmurs into a press of lips against Harry’s shoulder. “The little Weasley must love it when you shove it in her fanny, when she has to stretch to ride you like a fucking broom.”
He closes his eyes against the image, bites his lip. “I don’t want to talk about Ginny right now.”
“Don’t want to think about how you’re being buggered over the couch in the back of a gay club?” Malfoy murmurs. “Or you don’t want to think about how much better it feels to have your arse filled by a good cock, to have a hand around you, wanking you like someone who knows
cock, knows exactly how it feels.” He moves slightly, and Harry sees spots, whining with frustration at not getting more, until Malfoy laughs again.
“I want to hear you,” Malfoy says quietly. “Be loud
, Harry. Scream obscenities, scream my name, scream to your God, I don’t care
. I just want to know that I can take the savior of the wizarding world apart, that you are nothing more than pure pleasure in my hands. I am going to fuck you until you can’t walk straight, until you wake up in the morning hard and aching and when you shove yourself inside of her, you wish you were with me, being buggered all over again.”
There is nothing Harry can do but hold on, cling to the couch as Malfoy pushes into him rough and quick, over and over. Malfoy pulls out and slams back in hard, stroking something inside of Harry that makes him see stars, makes him want more. The burn and ache are nothing compared to the pleasure, to the scream that is building as he starts to babble, to beg, to cry out for a chance to get off, but every time he gets close, Malfoy’s hand closes around the base of his prick, keeping the orgasm at bay.
Harry loses track of time, of his words, of everything around him, the world narrowed down to Malfoy’s prick in his arse and a desperate need to come.
It rushes over him eventually and he can’t stop it, entire body going tense as he bows his head and groans, tears at the corners of his eyes as he mutters Malfoy’s name over and over until he feels the man stutter behind him, warmth in his arse as Malfoy finds his own release.
They part slowly, Malfoy withdrawing with a slick pop. Harry’s knees are weak as he turns to lean back against the sofa, letting it takes his weight while Malfoy cleanses himself carefully.
“I didn’t think I’d see anyone I knew here,” Harry says. He’d chosen Penumbra
as a place where he’d be unknown. He wanted anonymity, no fear of reprisal in the wizarding world.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Malfoy sneers. “If you’d like to avoid me in the future, I’m generally here on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the occasional Sunday if dinner doesn’t run late.”
Harry nods, says softly, “I’ll see you on Thursday, then,” smiling when Malfoy stops with his hands on his pants, pausing before he draws them up to hide his body from view.
Malfoy stares at him, lifts his chin slowly, words tight when he replies. “Perhaps you will.”
Harry ends the program as soon as Malfoy exits the room, leaving himself standing in the midst of a white, empty room, clothes spilled around him, his prick limp and sticky. He feels old now, twenty years later, a part of his mind still lost in memory.
He locks the program with a whispered word and leaves it, knowing that his secret is safe, dresses quickly, then makes his way into the living room. He hesitates when he passes the writing desk, pausing with his fingers over the quills.
It never amounts to anything.
It never could
amount to anything.
But he sits down anyway and writes I’ll see you on Thursday
on a piece of parchment, tucking it into his pocket. He can use one of the post owls from the office down the road from the Ministry, send it on his lunch break.
Thursday is only two days away. Anything could happen.