This is how it started.
Fifth year, nothing changed. Voldemort wasn’t really back, and it was just that Potter boy, seeking attention as usual; don’t worry dear, You Know Who won’t get you.
Voldemort wasn’t really back, except he was, and Harry couldn’t sleep.
Peeves took to popping out of unexpected places, around corners and through walls, and howling “Death Eaters!” and no matter how many times he did it, the people in the corridors still jumped. Some students would nervously clutch at their inner arms, and Harry always wondered at that. He wondered what would happen if a student was found to bear the Dark Mark. Expulsion? Detention? An hour cleaning cauldrons in the dungeons with Snape, and then off to their dorms to plot Muggle torture? He didn’t think there was a school rule concerning what the consequences were for being a Death Eater. Perhaps he would ask Hermione.
At night he tossed and turned and eventually got back up and wrote lists in the dim light cast by his wand. Lists of students he thought might be Death Eaters, lists of students whom he saw nervously reaching for their inner arms when Peeves came around, lists of all the Death Eaters he saw in the graveyard when Voldemort killed Cedric and tried to kill him. The last list he had at least fifty copies of, stuffed haphazardly into the deepest corner of his trunk. He kept rewriting it until he could recite it from memory in alphabetical order, and then reverse alphabetical order, and eventually he was able to close his eyes and write it all out perfectly without ever looking at the paper. If his friends wondered about the inkstains on his hands, they never mentioned it.
“If you want to talk, Harry, I’ll listen,” Hermione said to him once, concern in her eyes. But Harry didn’t want to talk, he wanted to think, and it was never quiet enough around there to even do that.
In class, he watched the students he suspected. Hannah Abbott wore long sleeves no matter what the weather and her fingernails were painted crimson. Terry Boot spent a lot of time twisting the feathers of his quill, wetting them with his tongue and shaping them carefully into thin spikes. Millicent Bulstrode drew stars in black and red ink on the insides of her wrists, and never pulled her sleeves up far enough for Harry to see if she was marked.
Cho Chang scratched nervously at her inner arm, fingers often rubbing it unconsciously, thumbs stroking over the fabric of her robes. She bit her lips red and ran in the other direction whenever she saw Peeves, and she didn’t talk much to Harry anymore.
She was still beautiful, and seeing her still made Harry’s heart beat just a little faster, made him want to push up her sleeves and lick at the skin he found there, no matter if it was unblemished and pale or scarred with thick red lines shaping a skull and a snake. He wondered what that said about him.
Yvette Rosier, a seventh year Ravenclaw, helped Harry find a book in the library once and they had been casual acquaintances since. When she smiled and waved at him in the hallway, he watched closely to see if he could see inside her sleeve, while smiling and waving back. She was a nice girl, and didn’t deserve his suspicion, but, since it would have been impolite to ask if she had any plans to exterminate Muggle-borns after graduation, Harry kept waving and wondering.
Draco Malfoy came back to Hogwarts modeling a brand new icy-cool exterior and a shiny Prefect’s badge, favoring few but his friends with his calculated, low drawl. His hair grew a bit longer into soft-looking blond curls brushing the back of his neck and falling into his eyes whenever he leaned forward. His lack of suspicious behavior made Harry extremely nervous, and he longed for the days when he hated Malfoy freely and with greatly justified reason.
“Watch where you’re going, Malfoy,” Harry said venomously when they accidentally bumped into each other in the hallway, and Malfoy just cocked his head to the side like a curious puppy and kept walking. Harry clutched his wand and resisted the urge to throw his books at Malfoy’s head.
No one was dying, and everything was quiet. The threat of Voldemort hung over their heads but so long as they didn’t think about it they were fine. Harry thought about it constantly. What he could do. Preventative measures. Constant vigilance. Sound advice from an unsound source but he followed it nonetheless, and the line between vigilance and paranoia grew ever blurrier.
“I think you need to relax, Harry,” Ron kept telling him, but Harry didn’t need to relax. He needed to act.
He searched numerous spellbooks in the library (Yvette helped him again, and he did not find an excuse to touch her arm, though he wanted to) until he found what he wanted. After a bit of practice, he was able to charm his glasses to see through things, first through stone walls and then through skin to bones, and finally he was good enough at it to see only through layers of clothing. He was reluctant to try it at first because the thought of seeing a classroom full of students in nothing but their underthings was, while on some level quite amusing, really rather intrusive and not something he felt comfortable doing.
Then he was paired with Hannah in Herbology, and it seemed so easy; he just tapped his glasses with the corner of his wand and he could see her, pale freckled skin and pastel green bra and underwear, and arms entirely unmarked. She caught him staring and smiled, raising an eyebrow until he started and then smiled sheepishly back at her, and she probably left the class thinking he fancied her. But at least she wasn’t a Death Eater.
He tried it a few more times over the next couple of days, on Queenie Greengrass from Slytherin, while trying to examine her reflection in his glasses, looked nervously back at him and asked if there was something amiss with her hair, and Terry Boot, who looked amused and proceeded to stand much closer to him than was actually necessary.
His suspicions so far unfounded, Harry was working up to a more ambitious plan: trying the charm in the hallway between classes. He wouldn’t have much time to look around, but it would be a good way to eliminate or implicate several students at once.
The corridor outside of the Potions classroom seemed like the optimal place to try, and he planned to mainly focus on the Slytherins as they headed into class. He hadn’t figured out what he would do should he find that they were all marked, but he was sure he would come up with a good solution if that occurred.
Monday, he decided; then the day rolled around and five minutes before class started, he stood outside the door. A quick tap on the edge of his glasses and then Pansy came around the corner with Millicent. Harry stared, losing his train of thought as he noticed that they both seemed to have an affinity for black lace. Already he was wondering what exactly he had been thinking trying this spell in the hallway. But he looked again, away from the swirling patterns of lace and tiny red bows in the center of their bras (they matched, Harry noted dimly). Their inner arms were unmarked.
The girls brushed past him, walking into class as more students began spilling into the hallway. He glanced at each of them, trying not to be too obvious and probably failing, all the while growing progressively more surprised. None of them had the Dark Mark. The sound of quiet laughter rang out, coming closer, and then there were Crabbe and Goyle, Malfoy between them. Nothing on either Crabbe or Goyle (and please could that image leave his mind right now, thanks), but he couldn’t see through Malfoy’s robes at all. Harry blinked, and tapped his glasses again. Malfoy’s robes remained completely opaque, even as Harry got an uncomfortable close-up of Goyle’s blue plaid boxers.
“Staring problem, Potter?” Malfoy said softly, and Harry could only open his mouth slightly before Malfoy disappeared into the classroom.
He stared after Malfoy, completely confused. Why hadn’t the charm worked, when it had worked just fine on everyone else? He frowned. Perhaps Malfoy had some sort of blocking charm on his robes, maybe they were enchanted to repel spells. Clearly, Malfoy had something to hide.
Just then, footsteps echoed behind him. He turned around quickly, and there was Cho, hurrying past. She sent a slight smile in his direction, and he stared at her, at her dark red bra and black panties (were they satin? He couldn’t tell for sure), at the shining silver ring in her navel, and finally at the thick cotton gauze pad taped over the inside of her forearm. He stared after her until she was out of sight, and he kept staring until he heard Ron’s voice calling him into the classroom.
Another glasses tap and the charm was off, thereby sparing him the sight of Ron’s polka-dotted boxers, which he’d seen enough times in their room.
“What were you doing out there?” Ron whispered, nudging Harry in the side as he sat down.
“Nothing,” Harry said shakily.
Ron looked skeptical. “Okay.” Any further questions were prevented by the beginning of class.
That evening, Harry sat in his room and slowly crossed names off his list. When he finished, the only two not crossed off were Cho Chang and Draco Malfoy.
Cho Chang and Draco Malfoy.
Harry breathed very slow, calm breaths. It didn’t mean they were Death Eaters, either of them. Well, Malfoy probably was. But there had to be some explanation for Cho. She couldn’t be marked, she couldn’t, not after—
Harry closed his eyes, crumpling the paper into a ball in his fist. Not after Cedric. She wouldn’t. There had to be some other explanation.
But if Malfoy was a Death Eater – which he most certainly was – then it was Harry’s duty to find out for sure. He had to know. It was a danger to them all, having him there, and Harry owed it to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to his fellow students. He had to find out. He just didn’t know how.
Or, he did, but. He wasn’t sure how to go about getting Malfoy out of his robes.
Harry winced. There was just no better way to put that. Maybe the changing rooms after Quidditch- but no, that wouldn’t work. The Slytherins had their side and the Gryffindors had their side and generally the two didn’t cross. Not being a Prefect, he couldn’t get into the Prefect’s bathroom. There really wasn’t any way, short of sneaking into Malfoy’s room and watching him undress.
And that, of course, was a bad plan.
A very, very bad plan.
Scowling, Harry tore the crumpled list into little pieces. He couldn’t just knock on Malfoy’s door and then slip in beneath his invisibility cloak. That was too - what was the word he was looking for? - easy. No. Stupid. That was a very, very stupid plan.
Unfortunately, it was the only plan he had.
Harry watched the crumpled C, H, and O flutter to the bed sheet and wondered when the best time would be to go for it. It was already nine o’clock. Malfoy was probably already in bed. Except no, he probably wasn’t. Harry frowned. He didn’t want to do it now, but he really had no reason not to. Might as well get it over with, find out for certain and then Malfoy could be expelled, or reprimanded, or stoned in the village square or whatever.
Before he could change his mind, he reached beneath his bed for his invisibility cloak. He dimly recalled the location of the Prefects’ rooms. It was the reason that the Prefect position was so coveted- your own room, with its own entrance, plus an entrance to the Prefects’ study. He’d been to Hermione’s room, of course, but he remembered the rooms being fairly well spaced out along the corridor. It was some trick of Hogwarts architecture, Hermione had said, that the rooms were all near to their House entrances yet still opened into one common room. She’d explained how that worked, he was sure, but he’d gone a bit off after she mentioned reading about it in Hogwarts: A History.
Smoothly, he covered himself with the cloak and made his way out of the room, which was quite fortuitously empty. He tiptoed quietly through the common room and snuck out through the portrait, heading down the hallway in the general direction of Hermione’s room and then passing it by. A few minutes later, he passed a door with the Ravenclaw crest etched into the wood above a nameplate proclaiming it the room of Elizabeth McGovern, Ravenclaw Prefect. Pleased, Harry hurried along.
Once he reached Malfoy’s room, however, he paused. Suddenly his plan didn’t seem like an actual plan so much as a deeply misguided play at being the hero. Again. But that was what he was supposed to do, he reasoned with himself. He couldn’t just let a Death Eater roam free in their midst. It was too dangerous. Not to mention practically suicidal for him.
Harry leaned against the stone wall, debating with himself. He could get into serious trouble for this, he realized. Of course, it wasn’t like that would be a new experience. Nervously, he twisted the cloak in his hands. All he had to do was knock, slip in, wait around for a little while, watch Malfoy undress, and then leave. It wasn’t even a complicated plan.
He had just taken a deep breath and raised his fist to knock when the door began to open. Harry stepped back, slamming up against the wall as Draco strode out and headed away from him. His heart racing, Harry grabbed for the door, catching it just as it was about to close. He glanced each way down the hall and then slipped inside, shutting the door as quietly as he could behind him.
Malfoy’s room was dark, but as Harry’s eyes adjusted to the light everything gradually became clearer. There was a large bed in the center of the room, hung with dark green curtains, near a dark cherry wood wardrobe and matching desk. Various glints of silver kept catching his eye, only to disappear when he looked at them straight on.
“Lumos,” he whispered, and the tip of his wand lit up, throwing a pale yellow circle of light out in front of him. He headed for the desk. A few issues of The Daily Prophet were stacked on the corner, along with a thin red glass container full of quills and two bottles of ink. Harry reached for the stack of papers in the center of the desk, then drew his hand back. What if Malfoy had charmed them somehow? He didn’t think anyone would be that paranoid, but if Malfoy was nervous enough to not want people seeing beneath his robes…
Sighing, he rolled his eyes. It looked like nothing more than a few essays, anyway, surely nothing to worry about. He pulled open the drawers, one by one, not sure what he was looking for— knives, lists of Muggle-born students, secret evil plans, fan letters to Voldemort. Maybe a diary of some sort; Malfoy was just girly enough to go in for that sort of thing. Harry smiled to himself. Okay, Malfoy wasn’t girly, not really, though his looks were definitely more pretty than strictly handsome. He wasn’t boyishly cute like Ron or generically handsome like Cedric, he had his own look, with the full lips and blond curls, and-
Harry stopped, horrified. He was in the middle of Malfoy’s bedroom, searching for evidence, and he was considering Malfoy’s prettiness? Maybe Malfoy’s things were enchanted after all.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps outside the door and a muttered word. Alarmed, Harry arranged the desk as best as he could and then hurried to the empty corner near Malfoy’s wardrobe. He had just enough time for a whispered “nox” before Malfoy was walking in and flicking his wand at the candles on the wall, which lit in a sudden, feverish blaze of light.
Nervously, Harry tugged the cloak tighter around him, suddenly feeling very, very foolish for even attempting this plan. He was in Malfoy’s bedroom. He might have to stay there for hours. And now Malfoy was looking around the room as if he suspected something was amiss, and this was a bad plan.
Then Malfoy smiled, and Harry’s heart rate increased so quickly he felt like he had been thrust into an open flame.
Harry watched with increasing alarm as Malfoy slowly walked around the room, peering beneath the bed, under the desk, and finally reaching the wardrobe. Smirking, Malfoy caressed the wooden handles before pulling the doors open wide and very nearly smacking Harry in the arm. Harry sank to the floor, petrified, as Malfoy rifled through the closet, pushing aside hangers and glaring at his clothes, as if furious that they were not the intruder he was apparently looking for.
“Fucking useless charms,” Draco muttered, clearly enraged. He loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes, sending one flying across the room and crashing against his desk. His robes came off just as quickly, the fury with which he tore them off causing his Prefect’s badge to detach. It skittered across the wooden floor, stopping in the shadows not two inches from Harry’s foot.
A frantic litany of curse words ran through Harry’s head, none of which he was normally impolite enough to say aloud.
“Fuck,” Malfoy said again, and crouched down in front of Harry, clearly not seeing the badge. Harry stopped breathing, his heart pounding so hard and fast that he was certain Malfoy would hear it. He hugged his knees closer, trying to make himself as small as possible, and then Malfoy spotted the badge and reached for it, and-
His hand brushed Harry’s shoe.
Malfoy paused, very briefly, as if considering the situation. Then he touched Harry’s shoe again, sliding his hand up Harry’s shin to his knee before grabbing a handful of cloth and pulling it roughly away.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, Malfoy speechless with rage and Harry finding himself physically unable to say anything, be it denial or an explanation or a plea for amnesty. Then Malfoy’s hand fisted in Harry’s shirtfront, hauling him up bodily only to slam him roughly against the wall, so hard that Harry’s hands shook and his vision blurred.
“What,” Draco said, his tone hovering somewhere between murderous and insane with fury, “are you doing here?”
Harry opened his mouth to speak, his hands coming up to grip Malfoy’s forearms for balance as he tried to stay upright on his tiptoes. “I-“ he started, and then Malfoy pulled him away from the wall, sending him stumbling forward then pushing him onto the bed. “I have an explanation for this, Malfoy-“ he began again, backing up onto the bed and against the headboard, not sure what he was doing except that it seemed like a very good idea to get far away from Malfoy, who was stalking toward him predatorily, his eyes intent as his fingers caressed his wand.
“Is that so?” Malfoy said. He crawled to Harry, his knees rumpling the heavy velvet coverlet, so dark a green that it was almost black.
Harry’s heart was threatening to burst out of his chest and sweat was gathering at his temples. His hands felt like they’d been run through with ice water as he scrabbled for his wand. “Malfoy, look-“
“I don’t think so,” Malfoy responded almost pleasantly, and then he muttered something in Latin, pointing his wand at Harry. The curtain ties instantly wound around Harry’s wrists, the thick silver and green ropes spreading his arms almost painfully wide, rendering him unable do much more than squirm around.
Harry wondered if it were possible to die from an adrenaline rush, because if so he expected his heart would just stop any moment now. He stretched his fingertips as much as he could, trying unsuccessfully to get a hold of the ropes, and finally he could do nothing more than stare at Malfoy, trying his best to slow down his breathing because the unevenly-spaced pants were starting to make him feel somewhat lightheaded.
Malfoy watched him, his face twisted in sadistic amusement. Harry kicked out weakly, but Malfoy just grabbed him by the ankles and held him down, almost smiling.
“Harry Potter, breaking and entering. What a new and delightful hobby you have there, Potter. Though perhaps you could have chosen a room that wasn’t enchanted against unexpected visitors. Rather shoddy planning on your part.” Harry winced at that piece of information as Malfoy stared at him, his eyes glittering. Malfoy’s cheeks were red and flushed from the exertion, his hair slightly tousled. The loosened tie dangled in front of him, brushing the bedspread as he leaned forward to look more closely at Harry. “But of course this wasn’t a random choice, was it? You had some reason for being here. Enlighten me, Potter.”
Determinedly avoiding Malfoy’s eyes, Harry concentrated his gaze on Malfoy’s neck, the white collar unbuttoned and revealing more flushed, pale skin. “I was…investigating,” he said haltingly.
“Investigating. How quaint. Why were you doing a thing like that?” Malfoy said, his voice deceptively gentle. He rubbed his thumbs over Harry’s ankles, pushing the soft fabric of his socks in circles, tracing along the edge of his shoes.
“What are you going to do to me, Malfoy?” Harry asked quietly.
“I’m still deciding,” Malfoy said reflectively. “What were you investigating?”
Harry squirmed, trying to tug his feet from Malfoy’s hands, which were now unlacing his shoes. “I was investigating you,” he said. “Why are you taking off my shoes?”
“I don’t like shoes on my bed,” Malfoy said easily, throwing them negligently onto the floor. “So you were in my room, investigating me. You Gryffindors certainly are brilliant strategists, aren’t you. Were you looking for something?”
“I was waiting for you,” Harry said, gasping as Malfoy ran his hands up Harry’s legs, extending his fingers behind Harry’s knees and tickling softly.
“Really,” said Malfoy.
Harry shuddered. “I wanted to see if you were-“ he shifted, trying to get away from Malfoy’s fingers rasping over his trousers, sending shivers across his shoulders and down his spine. “If you were-“ he swallowed.
“Do I have to hold you down, Potter?” Malfoy said softly.
Weakly, Harry thrashed in Malfoy’s grasp. “What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly.
Ignoring the question, Malfoy released Harry’s legs, then slowly climbed over his body, straddling Harry’s waist. He settled back comfortably, resting on Harry’s thighs. “What did you want to see?” he asked.
“If you had the Dark Mark. I had to know.” Harry closed his eyes, unable to handle the unbearable heat of Malfoy pressed against him. His shirt was sticking to his back, slick with cold sweat. He took in a shaky breath, the heat and adrenaline and Malfoy, who had begun to rock slowly back and forth against his groin, completely overwhelming him. When he opened his eyes, Malfoy was still staring at him.
Thoughtfully, Malfoy licked his lips, taking his lower lip into his mouth and sucking on it lightly. Harry watched as he tugged at his sleeves, unbuttoning the cuffs, still keeping up the slow rocking motion that was gradually getting Harry hard.
“You had to know, did you?” Malfoy inquired. He reached up, slowly undoing the buttons on his shirt, dropping his tie onto the bed in a satiny green and silver rush of fabric. His fingers worked at the buttons, sliding each one in and out, revealing successive inches of candlelight pale skin stretched tight over muscle and bone.
Harry strained against the bonds keeping him in place as Malfoy undressed with painful and deliberate slowness. He didn’t want to push his hips up, really he didn’t, but Malfoy was grinding against him now, harder and harder and Harry couldn’t help it. His hips bucked, his erection pressing against Malfoy’s ass, and Harry gasped aloud, unable to keep himself from whispering Malfoy’s name.
Carefully, Malfoy adjusted his hips, drawing them closer together and pushing them against each other, hot and hard through layers of fabric. “Look at me, Potter,” he said, and tipped Harry’s chin up with a finger while letting the shirt slip from his shoulders.
The white fabric clung to Malfoy’s skin, slightly damp with sweat as he carefully pulled it off, and all Harry could think was that Malfoy’s nipples were hard, a tight dark pink in the hazy candlelight, and he wanted very badly to find out what they tasted like. Malfoy had risen to his knees as he disrobed, and Harry was just close enough to stretch forward and catch one between his lips, his tongue stroking the hard tip and then sucking gently.
Malfoy started to say something, but it turned into a moan as Harry sucked harder, learning the feel and taste of it (salty and warm, with the faintly bittersweet scent of sweat), and then Malfoy’s hands were clutching at the back of Harry’s neck, urging him forward as he pressed his chest to Harry’s mouth.
Harry mourned the loss of the delicious pressure against his cock, but this was almost as good, unable to touch Malfoy except with his lips as Malfoy’s hands threaded into his hair, running his fingers through it as he gasped out Harry’s last name. Malfoy’s erection pressed hard into his stomach, and he suddenly wanted, needed to taste that too. To taste all of Malfoy.
“Malfoy, please,” he murmured against Malfoy’s chest, still mouthing at his nipple, “untie me.”
After only a moment of hesitation, Malfoy reached up and undid the ties, releasing Harry’s reddened, slightly chafed wrists. They locked eyes for a moment, then their hands both went for Harry’s waist, and together they pulled his shirt over his head, hands clasping briefly before Harry pushed Malfoy onto his back. His hands trembled as he undid Malfoy’s trousers, pulling them off of Malfoy’s lifted hips and then tossing them aside. A curious silence had fallen between them, interspersed with shuddering breaths and the occasional gasp or moan, and Harry felt no need to break it. They looked at each other, green eyes into grey, and then Malfoy reached up and pulled off Harry’s glasses, setting them neatly on top of his tie.
Harry wanted to speak then, wanted to say something, but suddenly Malfoy’s fingers were running over his lips and he licked at them gently, nipping lightly at the short nails. He stared at Malfoy’s naked body, slim and pale and beautiful as he arched up to Harry, his other hand pulling Harry down and replacing his fingertips with his lips. Their mouths pressed hesitantly against each other, tongues darting out and sliding together as they kissed deeper and harder, Harry settling his full weight against Malfoy’s body.
Malfoy’s hands moved to Harry’s hips, pressing their groins together, his tongue thrusting into Harry’s mouth as he gripped Harry’s hips with his thighs, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist. Harry clutched at Malfoy desperately, gasping against his mouth, tangling his fingers in Malfoy’s hair.
With a sudden rush of movement, Malfoy flipped them over, slamming Harry onto his back and straddling him again, his fingers working clumsily at Harry’s trousers, breathing heavy and fast as Harry watched him open-mouthed. Impatiently, he jerked the pants down Harry’s legs, not even bothering to remove them all the way before taking Harry’s cock into his mouth.
Harry whimpered incoherently, bucking his hips and kicking off his trousers. Everything around him was a blur of dark green and silvery candlelight with Malfoy standing out in harsh relief, blond hair falling into his eyes as he moved up and down on Harry’s cock, the length of it disappearing into his mouth as Harry watched. Malfoy’s thumbs stroked at Harry’s inner thighs, sliding along the slick creases of skin as he swallowed Harry’s cock again and again, swirling his tongue around the head, his mouth hot and wet with saliva. When Harry came, he wasn’t sure if it was because of the feel of Malfoy sucking him off or the sight of it.
One thing he knew for sure, though, was that the sight of Malfoy, flushed and sweating, lips shining with the few drops of Harry’s come that he hadn’t been able to swallow, was definitely something that he would remember until the end of his days. Harry was once again overwhelmed with the urge to taste Malfoy, only now it was joined by the urge to make Malfoy feel as good as he was feeling, that low buzzing joy that tingled along his skin and concentrated around his cock.
Breathlessly, Harry held out his hand, twining his fingers with Malfoy’s and pulling him forward and down on top of him. The heat of their skin pressed together was just as satisfying as he remembered. He kissed Malfoy’s neck, hard, bruising, licking kisses that he hoped would leave a mark while his hand ran down Malfoy’s side, over the curve of his hip and to his straining erection, grasping it tightly. He felt Malfoy’s gasp against his lips before he heard it, and then he pushed Malfoy back, forcing him to collide with the headboard.
Malfoy closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the dark wood as Harry kneeled between his legs, licking up his thighs, exploring, tasting. It didn’t take much for Malfoy to come; just the brush of Harry’s lips against his cock and then his eyes snapped open and Harry was gasping, his fist gripping the base as Malfoy came into his mouth, the fluid dripping from the corners of his lips and sliding down his chin. Curiously, Harry licked his lips, sliding his fingers over his chin and into his mouth, sucking at his fingers.
“Harry,” Malfoy said, sounding impressed and just a little awed, and then Harry was kissing him again, hands on his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones softly, reverently.
“Draco,” Harry whispered against his lips, going with it. It felt strange to say it, intimate, like a trespass almost. The name sounded wrong coming from him, too familiar, and Harry slowly began to realize that the divide between the Malfoy he knew and the Malfoy he’d just had quite smashing sex with was wider than he ever could have imagined.
“What are you thinking?” Draco asked, then frowned. “Pretend that didn’t sound incredibly girly.” Lightly, he ran his hands down Harry’s back, settling against the curve of his ass and pulling him closer.
Harry went for a diversionary tactic, carefully tracing his palm down Draco’s arm. “You’re not marked,” he said softly.
“Good of you to notice,” said Draco. “Why were you so desperate to know, anyway?”
Harry sighed. “No reason.” He paused. “I’m tired.”
Suspiciously, Draco regarded him. “Right,” he said, but his tone suggested the matter wasn’t going to be completely dropped. “Come on, sit up.”
Harry did so, yawning and stretching. Draco lifted the covers and gestured for Harry to join him beneath them.
“I probably shouldn’t stay here,” said Harry, pulling the sheets up to his shoulders.
“Certainly not,” Draco agreed. He snaked a hand around Harry’s waist and dragged him closer.
“Mmm,” Harry said nonsensically, cautiously submitting to the snuggling. “Goodnight.”
“Nox,” Draco muttered, casting the room in darkness. “Goodnight, Harry.”
But Harry was already drifting off to sleep, and a few minutes later, Draco joined him.