Harry Potter And The Genius Techno-wizard.

[pekeleke]

Title: Harry Potter And The Genius Techno-wizard.
Author: Pekeleke
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Draco Featured: awkward virgin!Draco (with a large dollop of prickly, resourceful!Draco) for This prompt
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: +/- 15.200
Warnings: EWE, Frottage, Loss of Virginity. Unbetaed.
Disclaimer: Don't own these characters. No money is being made out of this work.
Summary: 'Fucking figures. I finally fall for one hell of a hot, witty, wizard. One who isn't a right bastard and doesn't give a toss about my 'Savior' status, and he happens to be frigid.'
A/N: Written for shiftylinguini's thoroughly delicious 18+ year old, nervous, awkward virgin!Draco prompt. I was honestly trying to write a PWP this time around, but the feels on this thing kept on jumping onto the page, so this probably isn't as hot -or as detailed- as your prompt deserves, but I hope it gets the job done nonetheless.

Harry Potter And The Genius Techno-wizard.

Harry Potter may not be the genius paper-pusher, oops! sorry, ''techno-wizard,'' who'd put all paper-push—er ''techno-wizards'' to shame and became virtually irreplaceable within seventy-two hours of being hired as the new coordinator of assignments' data and resources for the auror department, but he has enough brain power to identify every mistake that led him to the giant mess he's currently immersed neck deep in without having to listen to the crisp tones of his usual handler, AKA, the genius paper-push—er ''techno-wizard'' himself, telling him exactly where he's gone wrong this time.

He swears under his breath as he contemplates the depressingly short list of items that led to today's particular debacle: Number 1 -and only- No matter how many times anybody reminds you that Draco Malfoy is NOT an auror, don't you ever allow yourself to forget how profoundly HE despises the idea of being rescued.

Once upon a time Harry had rescued Malfoy without any drama whatsoever. It had been a damned fine rescue, too. Escaping fiery death via flying broom had to be up there with the best rescues of them all, even if Harry said so himself. Unfortunately, though, the new and -supposedly- vastly improved version of Draco Malfoy doesn't share Harry's ridiculous fondness for that particular memory.

“I'm not a damsel in distress, Potter!” The prat hisses now at him, all snarly lips, glaring gray eyes and the kind of prissy belligerence that makes Harry want to kiss the bejesus out of him.

“You're not a damsel at all. Trust me, I know.” Harry mutters to himself, eyeing the way Malfoy's tailored trousers hug his delicious arse with the unwelcome awareness that he may want to bury himself between those perky butt cheeks with every beat of his lust-addled heart, but that doesn’t mean he's getting in there any time soon. Or ever.

Nope. Not him. Or anybody else, apparently, if what he's heard on the Ministry's grapevine is as correct as it usually is. Malfoy may have half the DMLA panting after him, but he himself seems to pant after no one. 'Fucking figures. I finally fall for one hell of a hot, witty, wizard. One who isn't a right bastard and doesn't give a toss about my 'Savior' status, and he happens to be frigid.'

“What was that, Potter?” Malfoy halts his angry stomping to whirl around in the middle of the path, giving Harry a glorious eyeful of his perfectly likable ribs through the slashes in his shirt. 'Urgh! Did those damned poor excuses of shitty kidnappers really have a proper reason to get 'His Techno-wizardness' out of his usual tightly buttoned, all-encompassing, robes or did they just disrobe him and ripped off the flimsy shirt he was wearing underneath just to take a pervy peek at all that deliciously pale skin? Merlin! What am I even thinking? The bloke has just been abducted. And roughened up here and there. They snapped his wand right in front of him, and I can't stop staring at his ripped abs. I'm sick in the head. Lust has made me hit rock bottom. Absolute. Rock. Bottom.'

“Nothing. Er—mmm… I know you're not a damsel in distress, Malfoy. But you are no trained auror, either. You may be the bloke who has singlehandedly reduced auror mortality with the 'revolutionary' introduction of specialized 'handlers' that 'guide' us while on the field, but that doesn't mean you're anything other than a civilian. A highly valuable civilian, mind, but a civilian nonetheless. We had no reason to even suspect that you'd managed to turn yourself into some sort of kick-ass ninja in your free time, so Dawlish sent me here. You didn't need me, though. You proved that fair and square when you escaped your kidnapers, wandless, no less, before I even made it here.”

“But?”

“But nothing, for Merlin's sake! Didn't you hear me just now? You got out all by yourself. I'm impressed. You're resourceful. Clever. A one-man fucking powerhouse. I have no problem admitting it, Malfoy. You didn't need rescuing. You knew that. Now I know it too, and I promise you Dawlish will find out as soon as my report lands on his desk, so he won't bother sending anybody else after you the next time some lowlife decides to throw the auror department into chaos by getting a hold of you. Now can we please get on with the business of making our way out of the Antiapparition Wards' range so I can get us both home, or is there something else you're just dying to fight with me about?”

“Don't treat me like a toddler prone to tantrums, Potter. I'm not in the mood for your usual nonsense today.” Draco says flatly and Harry bites his tongue to keep himself from blurting the thoroughly bitter 'Are you ever?' that wants to break out of him like the accusation it is. Unrequited lust is the pits. It really is.

“Fine! Sorry about being myself and behaving just like me, Your Highness. Are you happy now, Malfoy?”

Malfoy ignores him, whirling back towards the brambles-covered path they've been following since Harry stumbled across him, and sets off towards what Harry fervently hopes is an Antiapparition Ward free area at breakneck speed.

How the damned git even manages to fly down the slick mud path without freezing his bare -and oh-so-gorgeous- feet into next century Harry cannot begin to imagine, but since Malfoy's aversion to being rescued seems to have developed an equally frustrating aversion to being helped by wand-carrying, would-be-rescuers of the auror variety, as Harry had learned to his everlasting shock when he'd foolishly offered to transfigure a pair of warm socks and boots for the insufferable bastard, he decides to keep quiet about the whole barefooted thing and go where his handler is leading him. 'Business as usual, then. See if I care. Even the ministry's precious 'genius' can be a proud idiot, it seems. It's no skin off my nose if the gorgeous prat wants to freeze his dainty toes off in the middle of nowhere. My assignment was to bring the department's precious Malfoy back. Nobody said I had to bring all of him.'

“This path is a dead end.” Draco announces suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt about five paces in front of Harry and glaring at the steep slope that opens directly before them, leading down into a bridge-less -and heavily flooded- river.

“Damn!” Harry grunts, trying his best to glare down the muddy slope with similar fierceness instead of ogling the pale skin that peeks past the ripped edges of that flimsy white shirt, and the maddeningly long toes that have just taught him in no uncertain terms that he has a foot fetish. A huge, Malfoy-themed one, of course. 'Merlin! How is this my life?'

“We'll have to head back and go around the stream. There's no way to get across otherwise. We'll freeze to death if we try to swim that at this time of the year.”

“I can always transfigure us a couple of broomsticks with my wand. We'll fly over, easy as pie. Should be home in time for supper.”

“I do not fly.” Malfoy huffs in stately imperiousness, the ponce. He goes as far as to take a small step back, looking at Harry with the same kind of appalled horror he'd have shown if Harry had barged uninvited into his precious manor and gifted him a naked goblin ready to suck his cock right there, in the middle of one of his mom's fancy tea parties.

“What do you mean, you don't fly? You fly like a freaking butterfly, Malfoy! I've seen you. I've flown against you. You were one of the best seekers at Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts was a long time ago. I've changed. Not all those changes have been for the better.”

“I'll fly you over, then. It's not like we haven't done that already and least this time there's no fire.”

Malfoy's already pale enough features turn a nasty shade of lime-green as he shudders from head to foot in what must be the most thorough Victorian manly swoon Harry has ever seen. “No, thank you. But feel free to fly yourself across, Potter. I certainly don't need you to find my way around on foot. ”

“Don't be an arse! It'll take you ages to get out of here without a broom and, even if it doesn't, how, pray tell, are you planning to Apparate yourself home, Oh, mighty techno-wizard? Those thugs snapped your wand.”

“Are you finished?” Malfoy demands tightly, glaring disparagingly at the half frozen forest that surrounds them.

“That depends. Are you?”

“There were only two paths out of the bolthole I escaped. I chose this one because it led to high ground, but now I see I made that choice in error. I am not lost, though. I know exactly where I'm going and, once I get there, I will use whatever is at hand to trace an Apparition Circle on the ground. Contrary to what you seem to believe, wands are not the be all and end all of magic, Potter. Runes are equally powerful, as you would already know if you'd bothered to take Aritmancy at Hogwarts.”

Harry shoots him a dark look, wanting nothing more than to shut the sexy prat up with a snog or five hundred. 'I know you don't want me to, but I fancy the pants out of you, and I want to rescue you. It's not like I don't owe you, for Merlin's sake! You've 'handled' me right out of plenty of deathly scrapes since you took over Data&Resources. Why, if Ron is alive today is because you managed to guide him out of trouble when a routine assignment went to hell in a handbasket. Right now you're cold, half naked and wandless. You could have been seriously hurt, Draco. I could have lost you today. Why do you find my need to look after you so damned repulsive? I'd happily let you look after me. Hell. I'd happily fall to my knees and beg you to look after me, if I thought that had a hope of working.'
“I'm not heading back to London without you.”

“Oh, for fucks' sake!”

“That's enough, Draco!” Harry suddenly barks, having run out of all patience. “And yes, I called you Draco instead of Malfoy because I'm fucking tired of calling you by the same name I used to call your father. I hated that pompous arse and I don't hate you. There! I've said it. You can go ahead and sue me now.“

“I will not call you anything other than Potter, Potter.” Draco snaps.

“Suit yourself.” Harry shrugs, taking his wand out of his sleeve. “How about I transfigure some of this mud into a bridge? We could cross it on foot, then. Would that suit you, Your Highness?” He questions sarcastically, no need for the right git to catch how worried he's growing at the idea of being stuck here for much longer. The sun may be still shining in all his wintery glory, but its heat is faint at most. A wet breeze has begun to blow up in their faces now they're so close to the water. It's cold and getting colder by the second. And Draco isn't wearing anything substantial enough to protect him properly against the harshness of the elements. Fine silk may hug his chest -and arse- like a wet dream come true, but it sure as hell isn't warm enough for Harry's liking.

“Don't be ridiculous. You'd have to get down there to anchor a transfigured bridge or the magic won't be stable enough. The mud bank is too wet to be navigated safely.” Draco says, gesturing towards the crumbling walls of the slope that separates them from the river itself. “You could break your neck on the way down. Or lose your wand. Or both. If you can't be bothered to circumvent the river, then our best option is to stay here and wait for your handler to send in an extraction team, they should be able to counter the Antiapparition Wards on their way in.”

“That's not going to happen, I'm afraid. I'm not being handled at the moment.”

“You are not being handled. What the hell does that even mean? Every auror out in the field must have a direct connection to the D&R liaison managing their assignment. It's policy, Potter!”

“I had one, OK? Your precious second in command was with me all the way until I had visual on you and was able to confirm there was no need for immediate medical evacuation. I'd already seen how you'd dealt with your captors and assumed that getting out of here would be accomplished in a handful of seconds, so I cut off the connection with Zabini. I see now that was a mistake, and I promise not to do it ever again, so can we skip over the lecture you're dying to give me right now and concentrate on getting you home? Please?”

“You. Cut. Off. The. Connection.”

“Draco—“

“Call back in. Get headquarters in on this. Now, Potter!”

“No way. I told Zabini to go home. To his wife and newborn daughter, your godchild, remember her? He already stayed past his usual working hours because he was worried sick about you, but you're fine and I can get you home in no time flat. There's no need to involve headquarters at this point, Draco. Getting one of the back up handlers involved at this stage will only extend our stay in this godforsaken forest.” Harry grits out, forcing himself to take a deep breath and remain calm. It's hard, though. So bloody hard. Gosh! The git may be gorgeous, but he's so damned frustrating. Ron and Hermione never argued with his plans this much. 'That's Slytherins for you. It's all caution. Caution. CAUTION with the pesky bastards.'

“Look, we can't get out unless we cross over and I don't fancy being stranded here past dusk. Merlin knows its already cold enough and your friends back there might wake up at any moment and give us chase. You don't want to give them one more chance to rip what's left of your shirt off, do you?”

Draco shoots him a disparaging look: “Those idiots aren't waking up until I say so, Potter. Rune circles, remember? I was just telling you all about them.”

“Hmmm. We should get a move on, regardless.”

“Let's go, then. We'll probably make it around before it starts raining if we head back right now.”

Harry narrows his eyes and his voice is as dry as the sinking mud under his feet is wet when he repeats slowly: “Before it starts raining.”

“Ominous gray clouds, Potter. They're a dead give away of an approaching storm.”

“Right. Gray clouds. Storm. No time to waste, then. We'll go with my bridge idea.”

Draco's displeased look is so familiar that Harry doesn’t even need him to voice his displeasure out loud. Not that the git got the memo, since he starts arguing immediately: “Don't be stup—”

“I'm heading down now. Wish me luck.” Harry announces briskly, cutting Draco off and bypassing him with a skill he usually reserves for his most determined fans/stalker would-be-brides.

“Potter, get back here! Use your head, for Salazar's sake, and listen to me for once in your bloody life, you, idiot!”

The wet mud that forms the slope is softer than the one on the path and it sinks under Harry's standard auror-issued boots uncomfortably past his ankles. The dead branches that litter the ground everywhere snap in the angry silence that his refusal to answer Draco's outraged demand for his return has sparked. Harry stomps heavily onto them, relishing the loud snap, snap, snap they make as they break under his heels. The setting sun tints the muddy ground a lovely shade of orange that reminds him of the color of Ginny's hair whenever she suns herself in the back of her mom's garden.

Truth to be told, Harry misses the simple days when he'd imagined himself safely heterosexual and in love with his best friend's little sister. A woman who loved him in return. A gentle soul who'd have given him her love, her body and her entire future to boot, if only he'd wanted her as much she'd wanted him. But he hadn't wanted her. He'd been in denial. Unconsciously battling the pull he'd told himself he felt towards her even though he'd been still blissfully unaware of what -and who- he trully wanted.

Malfoy. Dear Merlin! He wants Draco Sodding Malfoy, frigid extraordinaire, instead of lovely, caring, Ginny Weasley. And, although he's known almost from the beginning that his heart's greatest desire is as hopeless as it is risible, the truth of the matter is that Harry can't help himself. He's in love. He's fucking in love with the stupid git. And there's no reasoning his idiotic heart out of those feelings.

Harry’s left foot hits a patch of extra-squelchy mud that sinks the heel of his boot further into the soil than he expects and he wobbles, tries to right himself, overbalances, and ends up tripping -head first- down the slope.

He curses a blue streak under his breath, disparaging the terrible luck that is making him look like a damned rookie right in front of his crush. Nothing has gone his way since he'd found Draco wandering up the path. He's made stupid mistake after stupid mistake, and now he's going arse over teakettle down the muddy slope. He tries groping for a handhold, but everything’s too slick, and he ends up sliding downwards way too fast, left boot catching on a rotting log as he tries to jam his leg into it in the hopes of forcing his careening body into a stop.

The heavy heel of his boot passes right through the rotting log and his entire leg is first painfully engulfed inside moldy wood and then wrenched sideways as his trapped limb drags the log along with him. With a startled shriek of pain, Harry slides down the muddy slope a few more feet and ends up slamming with a loud 'thump' and the almighty 'splash' to put most almighty 'splashes' to shame right into the freezing-cold shallows of the river.

The back of his head hits the soft soil of the embankment as he half-sits, butt deep, amid the algae-rich water. He can feel a dozen bumps and grazes of various shapes and sizes form along the lines of his back and arms, and he's wet from fringe to boots. There's also plenty of mud in places mud has no right at all to be when it comes to his body and, although the leg he's managed to get trapped inside that rotting log seems mostly fine, the ankle itself is not. The fit of the boot on that foot feels unusually tight, and Harry is acquainted enough with physical injuries after working in the field for well over six years to realize he's sprained it badly.

He shifts backwards experimentally, trying to get himself out of the water and can't contain the startled yelp that escapes him as a white bolt of pain shoots up his leg. He tries rolling to one side, using his arms to pull himself up and out of the water, and that is when he realizes he's managed to drop his wand. It's no longer in his hand or on his person. In fact it's nowhere to be seen.

“Acio Wand!” He cries out, desperately wrestling with some of his worst memories from the war. His voice cracks when nothing comes crashing out of either the nearby mud or the frigid water his rump is still sunk into. “Accio Harry Potter's wand! Accio Harry-Bloody-Potter's fucking wand!”

“Oh, for Salazar's sake! Stop the damned hysterics. Right now, if you please, auror.” Draco's calm and collected voice cuts through the anxious haze clouding Harry's mind like a knife cuts through butter, and he twists around and looks up, towards the lip of the mud bank, where his thoroughly unimpressed handler stands still as a statute under the pelting rain that's finally decided to put on an appearance.

“Draco, I'm sorr—“

“Are you injured in any shape or form that doesn't involve your ego?”

“I—er I've twisted my ankle.”

“That means you can't make it back here under your own steam.” Draco says flatly.

“That is correct.”

“I take it your wand is under the slow-release Accio spell my predecessor so wisely foisted onto every member of the auror division's one -and usually only- means of protection?”

Harry flinches at the tone, already more than familiar with Malfoy's unflattering opinion on the fine points of that particular spell.
“Having our wands Disapparate back home and return to our hand after a twenty four hour period, if we loose contact with them, is a very useful precaution. If I'd been kidnapped—“

“But you weren't kidnapped, Potter. I was. And thanks to that ridiculous ''precautionary'' spell the two of us are now stuck here without a wand to our name while you're injured, we're both cold, and the fucking freezing rain that's been threatening all afternoon long to drown the entirety of our fine nation has decided to join the party.”

“My wand will be back tomorrow.” Harry tries to point out cheerfully, but Draco doesn't seem to be in the mood to look on the bright side.

“That doesn't fix our problems today.”

Silence settles between them, tense and unpleasant, as the rain picks up. Harry tries to get himself out of the water, going as far as to push himself onto his feet, but his sprained ankle refuses to take his weight and he stumbles so hard he ends up tumbling back onto the muddy ground, butt first.
“I'll never get out of here without help.” He finally points out, a painful mixture of bitter resignation and professional embarrassment making his voice crack a little. He was supposed to come to Draco's rescue, shine like an heroic star and… well. Getting a grateful snog from the uptight bastard was never even on the cards, was there?

“I'm heading back to the hut, Potter. I hid my kidnapers' wands under a lose floorboard after I knocked them unconscious. They were a bad match for me and I thought I'd do better with runes. Ancient Arytmancy is 100 times safer than the dodgy magic that often results from a bad wand/wizard match. Now we have no other option but to risk it, though. Because If you can't make it out of there on your own, then you sure as hell can't hike half a damned mile to the other side of the river.”

Harry's mind is too numb to retort. He has nothing to add to that painfully clipped statement and no better plan to put forwards. To his credit, Draco gives him at least five minutes to come up with an answer before he prompts him for one:
“Well?”

Harry sighs, feeling muddy and as un-shiny as the unluckiest knight in battered armor that ever lived. “What do you want me to say? Go ahead, Malfoy. This was my brilliant plan and it blew up in my face, didn't it? You've always been better than anyone else I know at getting aurors out of all kinds of messes. I should have remembered that.”

The Slytherin is so stunned that even with the distance between them -and through the gray wall of rain pelting down on the two of them- Harry reads his gobsmacked disbelief loud and clear.
“Fine.” He finally says in the softest tone he's ever used with Harry: “I'll be back in a tick, then. Don't you dare drown on me, Potter.”

*****

Draco returns exactly ten minutes after Harry convinces himself the git has abandoned him.
“You took your sweet time.” Harry grunts, voice tight with a disappointed sort of anger that he now has irrefutable proof he has no business feeling. Draco did not abandon him, no matter how tempted he may have been to do so. He's right here, still half naked and probably already frozen to bits, holding aloft a wand that isn't his. One that, by the look of stubborn determination his gorgeous face is currently wearing, doesn't agree with his own magic in the slightest.

“This wand and I aren't exactly compatible, Potter, but it was the best match I could find with what was on offer.” Draco’s elegant tones sound strained in a way Harry isn't used to hearing them. The beautiful techno-wizard has been his handler for years and, as such, has been the voice of perfectly controlled calm in Harry's ear more times than he can count. Nothing has ever flustered the Slytherin to Harry's knowledge. Not dark magic. Not vile, cold blooded assassins desperately determined to kill Harry off. Not gore-loving scumbags with a penchant for torturing captive aurors. Not magical explosions, half-forgotten deathly hexes or anything else a life as the head of the D&R department for the DMLA must have exposed him to. Harry looks up, towards Malfoy, and his breath hitches as he catches sight of that pale, narrow face; mind suddenly awhirl with all the things that could have possibly gone wrong with Draco's plan of going back to his kidnapers' bolthole in search of a spare wand.

“What happened?” He barks. Angry, anxious, and feeling unbearably impotent.

“Nothing happened, Potter. They're still down there. Still hexed into unconsciousness. And they sure as hell look both drier and more comfortable than us, that's for sure. I'm starting to think my father was right after all. The straight and narrow path of moral superiority doesn't necessarily lead to better things in life, does it?”

Harry laughs weakly even though he's not 100% sure his handler is joking. “At least it won't lead us to Azkaban, no matter how cold and wet we may be getting right now. Any chance that wand and you will agree with each other long enough to get me out of here?”

To Harry’s unwelcome surprise, Draco doesn’t embark on a bout of flashy wand-waving immediately. Or at all. He takes a deep breath instead and kneels down on the lip of the slope, gazing down at him with worryingly sober eyes.
“I'm afraid our magical connection has already proved too weak to cast both a Patronus and a Communication Spell. The Warming Charm I tried on myself was feeble at best and the Impervious didn't take. There's no one coming for us, Po—Harry. At least not tonight. I'm all you've got, I'm afraid. And I'm—I may cause more harm than good if I try to levitate you out of there.”

“You've been all I've got in situations like this for ages now, Draco. And you've never let me down so far. Isn't that why Dawlish all but made it an unwritten policy that you have to be my handler whenever you're available?” Harry says, as softly as he possibly can, because no matter how calm and collected a man Draco may have grown up to become, the truth is that Harry has seen him scared shitless before. He wishes he hadn't, but he has. And he knows that a scared Draco Malfoy doesn't always remember to think first.

Draco blinks, temporarily speechless, and swallows hard enough for Harry to be able to spot the rapid bobbing of his Adam's apple. The rain is now falling in earnest. Cold, fat drops plastering their hair to their skulls and their clothes to their bodies in the most unpleasant way.
“I won't risk levitating you out of there with such an unresponsive wand. I'll have no control over you if the spell stops working while you're floating off the ground, so we'll have to think outside the box.”

“Think faster, please. All this rain is softening the mud even more. I can feel it sinking under my weight and washing away into the river one slimy chunk at a time.”

“Calm down. I've got it. But first hmmm—er... please don't take this question the wrong way, Potter: What, prey tell, are you wearing under your robes?”

Harry blinks, beyond shocked. “Well, this is hardly the right time to—”

“Let's not go there. Ever. Just—answer the question. Please.”

“Er—I've got jeans and a shirt on. One of those flannel button downs. A green one that matches my eyes, or so Ginny tells me.”

“The color is irrelevant.” Draco says tightly and, although something in his tone tells Harry that his handler is not best pleased, the auror doesn't get the chance to ask about it before the calm, businesslike voice he's grown accustomed to follow right into the jaws of hell issues forth. “Unbutton your robes, then, and lie down on top of them. I'm going to glue you to the cloth with a Sticking Charm and then drag the robes across the ground all the way back here.”

“That might work.” Harry says lamely, wriggling left, then right in an attempt to wrestle himself out of his robes. The sooner he gets out of the river bank, the better he'll feel.

The Sticking Charm takes three tries to stick, Draco's crisply pronounced vowels growing more and more frayed with every failed attempt.
“It's good. You've got me now.” Harry mutters reassuringly when he tries to shift slightly to the left and finds himself finally unable to do so. Draco swallows, all gray eyes and pale, oh-so-gorgeous features so reminiscent of their awful sixth year back at Hogwarts that Harry wishes he had the balls to wrap his arms around the git and hug him silly.

“Right. I'm going to cast Trahere Lente on the robes now. Try to keep your sprained ankle off the ground, please. I'd rather not damage it further, if it can be avoided.”

Harry nods his understanding and holds his ankle aloft, waiting for Draco's spell to do its job. He's not half as worried as Draco himself looks over his decision to place his safety on the trembling hands that hold that foreign wand. Harry's done this all before. And he's planning do it again, that's the nature of his work, after all. And that's how much he's learned to trust the man Draco Malfoy has become.

“It's working.” Harry says after a second because the silence is growing too uncomfortable for his peace of mind. Draco has never been overly chatty, but he's usually snarky with a side of obnoxious whenever he's trying to get Harry out of a pickle of his own making. The lack of cutting wit raining all kinds of hell down on him is starting to make Harry nervous, worse, he's beginning to entertain the ludicrous idea that he's managed to do what three kidnappers couldn't. He's broken Draco Malfoy, genius techno-wizard and giant pain in the arse bar none.

Draco peers at him through the thickening rain but keeps his silence, and Harry can't tell if he's displeased, or worried, or simply concentrating way too hard on maintaining a third year spell that he can probably cast with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back when he's wielding his own wand.
“You can take a break, if you need one.” Harry tries again, when the robe has inched around half the way up the slope. “Five extra minutes or so won't make me any less wetter.“

“Please, shut the fuck up, Potter.”

Harry bites his tongue on a sharp retort and concentrates on keeping his sprained ankle upright as the robes drag him higher. In addition to the relentless rain that's now pouring down on them with intimidating vigor, fat drops of flying mud keep splattering the lenses of his glasses, his face, his hair and entire body with squelchy 'plop', 'plop', 'plops' that make him wince. Draco drags him with excruciating slowness not only up the slope, but also all the way down the path and, finally, right inside the small, two-room hut his defeated kidnapers had chosen as their bolthole.

The door closes with a loud bang, but all Harry cares about is the fact that there's no more rain and no more mud attacking him from all angles. There's no more need to keep his cramping leg off the ground any longer, either. No more painful friction to endure as his poor robes snag on every little pebble, fallen branch and pointy rock that covers the ground.

Draco's Drying Charm hits him twice before it bothers to take hold and its effect is spotty at best, but not nearly as feeble as the Warming Charm that follows. They are both a vast improvement on being colder than ice and wetter than a half-drunk shark, and Harry groans out loud, half in welcome, half regretting having the knowledge of how much warmer and dryer he'd be feeling right now if the spells had worked properly.

”What's wrong?” Draco asks, falling on his knees beside him and searching Harry's mud-caked frame with frantic eyes. Slightly trembling hands drop the borrowed wand distractedly on the floor and fly over his body, checking him over for injuries. “I can't risk a Healing Charm on your ankle, Harry. First aid magic has never been my forte and I'd rather not find out what happens when I try to cast one with a badly matched wand.

“I'm OK.” Harry says, struggling to sit up before grabbing his handler's wandering hands with the kind of tenderness he's never allowed himself to use on the man before now. “It's all right, Draco. I'm all right.”

Draco stills and looks into his eyes with bewildered agitation. He's still soaking wet and his waterlogged clothes are so transparent that Harry has no trouble at all seeing the dusky aureolas that surround his erect nipples. He may have cast Drying and Warming charms on Harry as soon as he could, but Draco seems to have forgotten to do the same for himself.
“Where's the wand? You're wetter than I was, you, daft prat. And you've started to shiver.”

“You're shivering too, Potter. And I'm not the one who has a sprained ankle and had to be dragged all the way here like a huge sack of potatoes.”

“Shut it, you.” Harry snarks, inwardly groaning at that humiliating mental image even as he gropes the floor for the borrowed wand. The Finite Incatatem he throws at the Sticking Charm that's still keeping him glued to his ruined robes informs them both that he's as badly matched to the wand in his hands as Draco himself. He takes extra care when he aims it at the Slytherin next and, although his Drying Charm manages to at least turn Draco's shirt a shade or two less opaque, his Warming Charm doesn't take at all.

“Shite.” Harry grumbles, dropping the useless wand back down and thanks Merlin for the fact that Draco's landed them on the room that doesn't contain the three captive kidnappers he'd managed to knock unconscious and truss up like helpless turkeys before escaping the place. “We'll have to take off our clothes.”

Draco blinks at him stupidly. “Sorry, what?”

“You're turning blue from the cold. I'm freezing just as badly and this crappy wand doesn't work for either of us. Unless you plan to leave me behind and head out in this rain to try your hike around the river and Apparate with a rune circle thing right now, we're stuck here until my wand arrives in the morning. Even if we use those squalid blankets in the corner we'll have to share body heat if we want to make it through the night.”

“The night. You—you want to spend the night. Here.”

“You, yourself, said it first, genius. I can hardly walk the path with my foot like this, can I? And my wand won't be back until tomorrow. We'll take care of my sprain then, and I promise to listen to every suggestion you make until we're out of here. Come on, Malfoy, cheer up. The prospect of camping for one night with your favorite auror must appeal to your sense of adventure.”

“I have no sense of adventure, Potter. I like my dangers indirect and my comforts close at hand.” Draco says dryly and recoils like a snake the instant Harry starts tugging open the buttons that fasten his flannel shirt.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting out of these wet clothes. You should do the same. I mean it. The blue-faced look doesn't suit you at all.”

Thunderstruck doesn't even begin to cover the look of stunned horror that flits across Malfoy's features. Widened gray eyes stare helplessly at him as Harry pulls his shirt off and throws it towards the corner. He then turns his attention to the button on his jeans, flicking it off without letting himself think too much about what he's about to do before taking hold of the zipper. Draco's loud whimper interrupts him before he follows through, though, and he glances at the prat from the corner of his eyes, catching the adorable blush that's blooming all over his handler's pale cheeks a second before the poor bloke manages to voice his protest in a reedy stutter:
“Potter, wait. There must be some other way to—”

“Merlin, get over yourself, Malfoy! Your teeth are chattering a mile a minute and you're half frozen already, just like I am. It's raining buckets out there and the best wand we've got can't produce a Warming Charm worth the breath spent on chanting it. There's not even a hearth in this shitty hut, so building a fire to keep the cold at bay is out of the question. Face it, man: it's either hypothermia or naked cuddling for us and I, for one, will pick getting up close and personal with you over freezing my balls off any day of the week, OK?”

The shock of Harry's frustrated tirade keeps the git quiet through the next couple of minutes, so Harry manages to get rid of his jeans, pants and socks as well as wrapping himself within the dry -if scratchy- folds of one of the woolen blankets he'd pointed out earlier while his handler remains silent as the grave and still like a statue that's been glued to the floor. Draco's cheeks are fiercely red, his eyes tightly closed, his long fingers curled in two visibly trembling white-knuckled fists and his spine is so straight that Harry can't help but marvel at the fact that it hasn't already snapped in two under the unbearable pressure it must be under. Malfoy is still as wet as a fish and his lips have turned an unhealthy shade of purple so there's no way Harry is going let him keep his clothes, and the sooner the stubborn bastard comes to terms with that, the warmer they both shall be.

“Your turn, Princess.” Harry says as playfully as he dares, reaching out for the buttons on the git's shirt only to be thwarted by the arm the Slytherin lifts in startled protest. Harry is cold as hell, worried sick about the idiot, and having to cope with the unpleasant throbbing of his sprained ankle, so he's not in the right mood to have his chain yanked. “None of that, Draco. You're getting out of those clothes and into that extra blanket whether you want to or not. I refuse to be the auror who made you sick with pneumonia after failing to even rescue you. Am I making myself clear?”

“You and your ego, Potter.” Draco snaps back irritatedly, but he's opened his pretty eyes and is currently glaring at Harry with a familiar expression of long-suffering disapproval. Harry reaches for his buttons once again and pulls on the first one he grabs, forcing it open with a small tearing sound. Draco shoots him a dirty look before sagging with defeat. He looks down at Harry's hands and bats them away with an unfriendly thwack and a quiet, but curt: “I've been able to undress myself since I was four.”

“Go ahead, then.” Harry grits out, pulling his hands away only to end up staring helplessly at Draco's unhappily down-turned face and immobile fingertips. Despite that snarky assurance of mastery when it comes to the task at hand no further undressing is taking place, and Harry's temporary bout of frustration loses all of its steam in the face of Draco's obvious discomfort. He can't, for the life of him, figure out why the bloke is so bloody reluctant to disrobe in front of him, but his chest is getting tight with the kind of protectiveness that's urging him to curl himself around the bastard like the wildest-haired boa constrictor that ever lived.

“You realize I've got the same boy parts you have. Don't you, Malfoy?” Harry opts for snark in the end and even though Draco's startled huff of laughter sounds wishy-washy at best, there's enough of his usual self in the droll look he shoots at him for Harry to count it as a victory. “You should have shucked off your kit when I did. We could have made a race out of it. I bet I'd have gotten starkers faster than you even with my dodgy ankle.”

“Of course you'd have. I—racing people to nudity has never been a skill set of mine.”

“What, you've never practiced? Not even at Hogwarts? You sure make all the Slytherin blokes sound like a dull bunch of pansies.”

“Don't be an arse. Sexual curiosity floated around the dungeons just as healthily as it did everywhere else at Hogwarts, Potter. Unfortunately, I had other priorities at the time, so don't you dare blame all snakes for the dullness of just one.” Draco hisses, but his palpable discomfort makes Harry feel totally useless.

He resents his inability to swat his crush's awkwardness away like the annoying fly it truly is and when Draco averts his face, turns away those embarrassed gray eyes and adorably rosy cheeks as if the discomfort they betray is a secret worth protecting, Harry loses what's left of his self-control. And probably his dignity. He's less concerned with opening himself to Draco's potential derision than he's with the idea of enabling his proud, usually self-possessed handler to continue looking so lost. So… Un-Dracoish.
“You weren't the only one who had better things to worry about while he was at Hogwarts, you know? Why, I didn't even lose my virginity until I was halfway through my first year of auror training. Dullness doesn't even begin to cover that one, does it?”

Instead of perking up, roaring with slightly malicious laughter as Harry is expecting, Draco flinches where kneels, wilting like an over-watered orchid right before his eyes. The silence that grows between them is suddenly so tense and oppressive that Harry can barely breathe. His mind, though, whirls a mile a minute as it carefully catalogs every minute detail of Draco's telling reaction, even though he's hard pressed to concentrate on anything that doesn't feel like swiftly setting shock.
“What are you—? You can't possibly be implying you're a—“

“I haven't implied anything, for fuck's sake. I didn't even say a word, Potter!” Draco snarls defensively, glaring at him with the kind of viciousness that would count as a warn off in every language there is. Harry shudders on the receiving end of that fierce look, but can't afford to back down. This is the closest he's ever been to seeing a crack in Malfoy's carefully cultivated unflappable mask since the war. This is the first time he's seen a hint of the old Draco, his Draco, in years. And he knows without a shadow of doubt that, if he lets the git go now, he may never encounter him again.

“You are still a virgin.” Harry states calmly, voicing the truth out loud with the kind of delighted reverence that would have caught his clever handler's attention if the idiot wasn't so bloody determined to be mortified about his untouched state.

“So what if I am? Not every late bloomer out there managed to get out of Hogwarts a national hero, Potter. I spent my first year out of school on house arrest and the next two begging every techno-engineer worth the name to take me on as an apprentice.”

“Draco—“

“Don't you dare laugh at me, you bastard! I may be a lame little virgin who has never even been kissed, but I'm dammed good at what I do and I deserve your respect. I deserve the respect of every overconfident auror out there. Do you understand me?”

Harry’s temporary amusement at Draco's apparent need to descend into an award-winning imitation of a cornered cat's hissing withers as abruptly as it had arrived. “You think I'll spread rumors about you?” He growls, deciding to indulge in some thoroughly offended hissing of his own.

“You better not or you'll live to regret it. And yes, this is me, Draco Bloody Malfoy, threatening you, Potter. I've worked too dammed hard to drag my life out of the gutter just to let you ruin my reputation with a little well placed gossip. So what if I've been too busy with real life to bother with something as inconsequential as getting rid of my cherry? It's nobody's bloody business but my own.”

Harry doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to put his many -and very involved- opinions on the matter into the kind of words that could pierce the mile-thick emotional armor Draco is currently doing his very best to put on. He has to try, though. He has to break through to the git because if the Powers That Be are even remotely inclined to grant him the smallest chance to catch Draco's attention this side of ever, then this has to be it and, by Godric!, Harry is not going to waste it.

Words have never really been Harry's thing. He's not nearly as good at them as say, Hermione, so he's often shoved them aside in favor of a more hands on approach. He thinks about trying to make an exception to his usual modus operandi, just this once, but discards the idea as soon as he remembers that Draco doesn't share his failings in this area. Talking right now is out of the cards, then. Draco is afraid and feeling defensive; he'll run verbal rings around Harry's nervous stuttering until they end up fighting, or even worse: give up on each other for good.

Decision made, Harry lurches abruptly forwards, crashing into Draco's personal space with the grace of a Dementor demolishing the peaceful atmosphere of a summer party. He looms over Draco's startled form and, just like one of Azkaban's infamous soul-suckers, glues his mouth to his handler's petal-soft lips.

Draco is so shocked he jerks violently sideways, smashing a knife-sharp cheekbone so damned hard against Harry's nose that the Gryffindor has no other option but to retreat as hastily as he'd invaded.

“Potter, what the fucking hell—?” Draco's outraged protest is cut off when Harry plants a rough thumb across his lips, rubbing his mouth back and forth in a tender, soothing, gesture.

“That was supposed to be a kiss, you, daft bastard. It should have been a good one too, you know? It may not look like that to you right now, but I happen to reign over the amazing side of snogging.”

Draco stiffens even more, turns his face away from the touch of Harry's overly familiar thumb and shoots him a dark look that grows even darker as he grabs the borrowed wand still lying on the floor beside them. “That doesn't explain why you thought it was fair game to stuff your tongue down my throat, you, tosser. I swear to Merlin I'll hex you to hell and back if you try anything like that again. I don't need a pity shag. Or a boredom-induced snogging session. I'm not going to be anyone's fucking experiment, Potter. Not even yours!”

Harry is too stunned to move. He blinks very slowly and does his best to contain the aroused groan that tries to make it past his lips. Sore nose or not he can't help but want to pounce on the git all over again. Draco's all menace and drama like the school rival of yore. He's all enraged gray gaze, mused silver hair and flushed cheeks. He looks a million times better than Harry's three best wet-dream versions of him put together, and that's the kind of torture no man who has ever lusted as much as Harry still lusts should be asked to endure while he's stark naked and trapped inside a sodding hut with the sexy object of his every desire.

“I want you. I've wanted you for ages.” Harry gasps roughly and so bloody darned fervently that pure want literally drips from his voice. This amount of crazed lust isn't the sort of thing any mere mortal could fake, and Harry may be a hero. A savior. A pretty spectacular auror, even, but he's still a mere mortal and Draco seems to know that much.

“You want what—?”

“You.  I. Want. You.  I want to kiss you. I want to get you out of those clothes and inside this blanket of mine. I want to hug you until you're warm and then lick you all over. Gosh, Malfoy! I want to fuck you so hard you'll have the imprint of my dick inside your arse for the rest of your life.”

“You want to have sex. Right now. With me.” Draco says, his tone a strange mix of stunned bewilderment and mounting curiosity that cracks on the last two words.

Harry swallows, suddenly nervous. “Actually, we don’t have to do anythi—.”

“But you want to. Don't you, Potter?”

“I—yes. Of course I want to.” Harry confesses boldly and now it's his voice the one that cracks down the middle like a frightened teenager's.

“You won't breathe a word of this to anyone. Not even your Weasel, right?”

“Merlin, Malfoy—“

“I mean it. We've got to work together after this. I won't risk my career for a roll in the hay with you, Potter.”

Harry's breath stutters. His brain becomes a small, primitive thing that doesn't want to process anything beyond that absolutely glorious 'roll in the hay.' His fingertips literally itch to take a handful of shivering, waterlogged Slytherin and he groans under his breath; shifting restlessly on his haunches to better accommodate the growing arousal that's begun to throb hopefully between his legs.
“There's hardly any hay involved. But you're right. We've got to work together after this. And we will. I give you my word, Malfoy.”

Draco seems to have no idea whatsoever of what to do with that promise. Or his face, his lips, his limbs. He sits there for a veritable eternity, looking sort of stunned into position. A terrified bird on the verge of flight. Harry watches him impotently, fully aware that he'll lose the twitchy git if he so much as moves now. This has to be Malfoy's choice. His virginity is his gift to give. His heart even more so.
“Don't you dare hurt me.” Draco warns defensively at long last, but the snarl in his tone doesn't match the pure terror Harry can see, shining like a beacon, in the depths of his eyes.

“Hurting you is the last thing on my mind.” Harry says softly, easing close enough to cup that utterly pale face with his own calloused hands. Draco's first instinct is to pull himself free, but he aborts the motion halfway through and makes a conscious effort to stay put. Harry’s heart hammers as this man he's wanted for so long leans into his touch, strengthening a barely there connection that he feels all the way to his toes. “Let's try the kissing again, shall we? Leave my poor nose alone this time around, please.” He whispers, trying to make light of things, but he's edging ever closer and Draco's whimpering with nerves and it feels as if this is the least lighthearted moment he's ever lived.

Their lips touch at long last and there's neither blinding white light nor fluffy violins, but there's no nose-bashing, either. Draco's clothes are uncomfortably wet against Harry's blanket-warm arms, but he still clamps them around the git and hugs him closer, bringing their chests into alignment so their faces end up close enough for Harry to do more than rub his tight-lipped mouth against his handler's.

Draco is shocked into stillness, though. Utterly paralyzed and unresponsive to boot. It's like kissing a life-sized doll. Or a beautiful sculpture. Or a cold, wet, wispy dream. Harry sighs and his lips pull apart over Draco's trembling mouth. His hands slide up and down Draco's side, inching him closer, trying to soothe him into at least attempting a response. Their teeth click awkwardly together as the Slytherin comes to life with a groan, a full-body shudder and a small forwards jerk, but Harry's mind has already forgotten every single one of those imperfections because Malfoy, his Malfoy, is finally kissing him back.

Draco's tongue is nimble, if shy, and curious in the best possible way. It's also greedy, like all good Slytherin tongues should be, and has absolutely no intention of leaving a single inch of Harry's mouth unexplored. No one has ever devoted quite so much effort to learning the exact shape of Harry's gums before, but he's not going to complain. Not when he's hot. Bothered. Breathless. And so darned turned on he can feel his own blood pounding on the underside of his toes.

Harry groans out loud, quite desperately, and the sound startles Draco into a new -and unwanted- retreat. The git gasps and pulls back, blinking blearily as if waking from a dream. Then he raises one of his elegant hands upwards, traces the paper-thin skin of kiss-swollen lips with the tips of his fingers and stares at Harry with round, panicked, eyes.

They gaze at each other in the lengthening shadows that fill the hut. The moon hasn't come out yet and neither of them has bothered to find out if their borrowed wand will deign to respond to their Lumos. Harry decides to lurch forwards. He's, as always, perfectly willing to be the first one to step out into the breach. His sprained ankle throbs unhappily at the sudden motion, reminding him in no uncertain terms that he has a duty to be as careful with himself as he plans to be with Draco.

Draco shifts his gaze to the floor and Harry struggles to come up with the right sort of reassurances. His throat is desert-dry, though, and his mind has blanked out every single thought that isn't a loud version of 'OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygod, you've just kissed me, you, bastard' on a never-ending loop.

Shockingly enough Draco doesn't seem to need Harry's reassurances at all. He doesn't retreat any further. On the contrary, he smiles quietly to himself, throws a coy little sideways look Harry's way and leans forwards too. The kiss that follows is clumsy but thoroughly enthusiastic and its all the more magnificent because is Draco who starts it. Pure lust rears it's voracious head along Harry's every nerve-ending, making his breath hitch, his toes curl and his heartbeat race like mad.

Draco's hands flap uselessly at his sides, betraying his lack of true experience, and Harry's already besotted enough heart melts into a puddle at the feet of this man who doesn't have a fucking clue that he's doing it, but is still managing to undo him like he's made out of paper.

Harry's groan is thick and tortured as he pulls back long enough to take a few ragged breaths. Draco is trying to latch onto his lips again and Harry suddenly realizes that they'll never make it past the kissing if he doesn't divert his crush's attention somewhere southwards. He takes hold of Daco's pale hands and, kissing the very tip of each fingertip with utter reverence, guides them towards his heaving chest and settles them atop his nipples.
“Here. Have a go at these while I take care of your shirt.”

Draco whimpers as Harry pulls his shirttails out of his trousers and he stops breathing altogether when Harry's calloused thumb eases gently under the wet cloth, tracing the line of his waist as playfully as he can manage.
“Harry. Harry. Harry. I—I feel very strange.”

“Sush. I've got you, gorgeous. I've got you, and I'm going to make you feel amazing.” Harry promises, leaning upwards long enough to rub the tips of their noses together.

“I'm not gorgeous at all. I'm not a buff hero type like you, Potter. I'm just a run of the mill scrawny little geek and you know it.” Draco huffs, not entirely in jest, and Harry's heart breaks a little at the realization that there are things that this perfectly breathtaking monument to masculine beauty hasn't learned yet about himself. 'But you'll learn them all. I'll make sure of it. You're going to love yourself just as much as I love you, Draco.'

For now, though, Harry contents himself with kissing those silly pink lips silent once again; keeping his git's easily distracted focus entirely away from how fast he's losing his shirt. Draco's skin is still freezing cold, but it warms up easily enough once Harry gets rid of the wet silk that shrouds it. The Slytherin's hips are a bit on the lithe side, and his torso is mostly ribs, but there's a wiry, lean musculature to his abs and chest that feels absolutely perfect to Harry's worshipfull senses.

When their lips finally part on a new bid for fresh air Harry gently eases himself backwards, dragging his handler along. Draco topples over him like a blinking, half-dazed tree. He's a surprisingly heavy weight that sprawls and squirms against the skin of Harry's chest in some sort of panicked sensory overload. Harry feels the crazy speed at which Draco's heart begins to pound against his own, feels the small puffs of moist air that the Slytherin's agitated breathing keeps pushing against the side of his neck in short puff-puff-puffs that are too quick, too ragged, for his liking; and his last remaining neuron engages what's left of his ability to think rationally in order to inform him in no uncertain terms that they're going too fast for Draco.
“Potter, I—I'm half naked. How on Eart—when the hell did I lose my shirt?”

Harry winces in pure sympathy at the anxiety dripping off Draco's unnerved stutter. “That was all impatient little me, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Draco, but I want you so much I lost my idiotic head for a second or two. I'll go slower from now on. Or we could stop things altogether. Breathe for now, though, sweetheart. Just… breathe.”

Draco closes his eyes tightly and groans, utterly embarrassed.
“Merlin! I can't believe I'm managing to pull an honest to goodness Victorian blushing virgin routine on you, Potter. Your dick must be wilting with boredom as we speak.”

Harry laughs, startled out of his own growing guilt by that rather blunt, if risible, assessment and lifts a tentative hand to brush a small lock of hair away from Draco's flushed face. Draco half-flinches in place, but doesn't move away completely, so they end up staring deeply into one another's eyes; both suddenly shy and fully aware that they are a single step away from changing their relationship forever. One way or the other.

Harry knows it'd take very little effort to lift his hips up, rub his hard cock against Draco's, and bring them right back where they'd been. He also knows that's the easiest -safest- way to play things out. He'll have Draco for one night and he will remember it always. His feelings will remain his own. His dignity kept intact and, although his heart may end up a little bruised at its own cowardice, it'll also survive this encounter relatively unscathed. He's a greedy man, though. He has always been one, and has developed over time a practically suicidal tendency to give easy up if the lure for everything shows up. And it's showing up now. Right here, in this very moment, so Harry loops that silky-smooth lock of pale hair behind Draco's ear, looks deep into his eyes and bares himself completely in the hope of winning this man's heart with a bold gamble.
“My dick isn't the only thing I'd offer you. If you wanted me, Draco.”

Draco stills, swallows so hard that Harry hears the sound and points out quietly:
“I do want you. That's why I'm half-naked in the first place, you, idiot.”

“You don't understand—“

“Do I have to?” Draco asks, puzzled, and his eyes have begun to look blank and wary in that awful way that reminds Harry of the war, so he backs out hastily.

“Of course not. I was just—oh, forget it. Get those sexy lips of yours down here, Malfoy.”

Draco laughs once again and the sound is low and rumbly and a million kinds of sexy. He wriggles lightly atop Harry's chest, making their skins rub together, their nipples peak like tent poles and their relatively controlled breathing go to hell in a handbasket.

Harry doesn't want to think about what he's just been too fucking cowardly to pursue, so he lifts his wild-haired head just enough to catch his handler's bottom lip between his teeth. Draco groans and twitches some more before sinking into him like an unmoored ship. His weight is warm and welcome on top of Harry, and that's pretty darned good enough for him. It has to be.

They rock gracelessly together until they are a sweaty, riled, moaning mass of tangled limbs; all rock-hard cocks, and straining necks. Harry's hands roam all over Draco's back, groping everything he encounters regardless of whether it's the nape of a neck. Or a shoulder blade. Or a ticklish flank. Or the bony ridges of that incredibly supple spine.

Draco's hips push unconsciously downwards as he presses a desperate line of open-mouthed kisses over Harry's neck and all of a sudden their hips have finally aligned and all Harry has to do is open his legs, just a bit, and try not no implode from pure lust when Draco slides between them. A hard, still clothed erection drags over his own and twin moans of pure desperation rent the air. Harry almost bites his own tongue clean off when a tentative hand wanders lower than his ribcage, skimming over his frantically heaving belly and lower still, until Draco's pale, elegant hand is suddenly there, right at the center of him, exactly where Harry has wanted it for ages.
“Drac—Oh, my fucking God. Merlin, Godric and Salazar going at it like wild donkeys. Draco. My gosh! Draaaacccoooo...”

On the receiving end of Harry's lusty howl Draco blushes a bright red and bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, suddenly overcome with nerves. He doesn't retreat, though, and closes his hand around Harry's throbbing length, giving it an experimental pull.
“Am I doing it—Is it…? Is this all right, Harry?”

“God. You're going to kill me.” Harry half groans, half laughs, and somehow those words are enough to bring Draco's cocky confidence back to life.

“Am I now?” Draco purrs as his hand shifts, palming Harry's mighty rod from tip to root with just the right pressure to make him fear he'll black out from arousal like the firstie he isn't.

“Damn it!” Harry grits out under his breath, realizing the time has come to put his own moves on the git if he wants to make a good showing. It's time to teach his snake exactly how awesome it feels to have his own cock tucked inside a loving palm, sliding in and out of it so very slowly that he feels he'd go mad if something doesn't explode.

Harry dips a single fingertip inside the waistband of Draco's trousers, bringing his virginal tormentor's mind back to the fact that he's still wearing them. Draco stills abruptly atop him with that smug, exploring hand still plastered all over Harry's cock while those plump, kiss-swollen lips open in a little 'Oh!' of breathless shock.
“You—you're about to take my pants off, aren't you?”

Harry could say many things in response to the crystal clear trepidation that's weaved itself all over that question, but he chooses to go with lighthearted banter instead of heavy promises of love. He tried to do that already and had lost his nerve at the last second, so he settles for a small roll of his eyes and a naughtily playful: “It'd be bloody hard to work a proper deflowering with them on, don't you think?”

Draco laughs shakily and gives a long, near perfect pull to Harry's trapped cock in teasing retaliation. Even now he's Slytherin enough to try using every advantage he's got.
“Careful with that snark, Potter. You're not the one with your hands on the prize, so to speak. Are you?”

“You're a right prat.” Harry wheezes as soon as he gets his breath back, and pushes both hands inside Draco's wet trousers, and under the thin elastic of his underwear, seeking the globe-like perfection of his lovely arse. Draco yelps loudly in his ear while both of them shudder from head to toes, and then it's 'go-time' in a way that's all breathlessness and hotness and mindless, glorious teasing, rubbing, panting, clawing, licking, groaning, roaring and Oh!, Ah!, Urgh! And even fucking ARGH!

Draco's trousers disappear as if by magic. His pretty silky underwear ends up being ripped to pieces under offended huffy shrieks of 'Harry!' and 'you, heathen!' Harry doesn't really care. Not when their hips are still pressed together, their hands glued to each other's cocks, and there's slick heat and fever growing hard and fast and harder and faster between their bellies.

“Harry. Harry. Haaarrryyyy!” Draco moans mindlessly, clearly beside himself with arousal, and Harry honestly believes he can feel the git's heartbeat drum, frantic as a trapped rabbit’s, in time with his own pounding heart.

“Shush. It's all right. I've got you. I've got you, sweetheart. All you have to do is let go.”

Draco trembles from head to toes and bucks against him like a purebred stallion. His eyes are glazed, his lips chewed half to death, his cock hot and hard and throbbing in Harry's hand, but he's still fighting his orgasm, still unable to let go. He's probably too afraid. Or too self-conscious. Or both. Harry grinds up hard against him and sneaks the hand he's been using to soothe his sweaty flank all the way around his waist and down towards Draco's arse. His index finger dips between his very own set of twin moons, tracing a barely-there path up and down the humid little furrow he finds there. Draco whimpers against his shoulder when Harry's fingertip finally finds his untouched entrance and pushes down into it just enough to get himself past the wildly twitching rim.

“Harry. Harrrr—gah! OhMerlinOhMerlinOhMerlin, Harry!” Draco huffs and puffs and sighs, caught between fucking Harry's hand in earnest and rocking hesitantly back towards the invading fingertip. In the end he tries to do both and the pretty fantastic humping rhythm that's been working so many wonders for Harry's delighted dick is thrown completely out of sync. Draco's limbs flail around so wildly that one of his bony elbows clips Harry's ribs painfully enough to make his eyes water, but he grits his teeth hard and pushes the pain aside when that beautiful pale head drops down low enough for his handler to hide his face against the side of his neck as the darned stubborn git teeters right there, at the brink, but hesitates to fall down.

“I've got you.” Harry whispers against his ear, puling extra-tightly on Draco's cock at the same time as he moves his penetrating fingertip ever so gently inside that virgin hole. Draco howls and comes undone so abruptly that his full-body shake grinds Harry's poor spine against the blanket-covered floor. The sneaky little bastard bites the side of Harry's neck as he rides out his orgasm, and the combination of those pearly whites sinking into his skin and the warm wash of foreign come dripping onto his stomach is enough to push Harry past his own edge, and hurl him down the well traveled road towards a toe-curling orgasm.

Afterward they lie there, on the floor, like a pair of beached whales. They take giant gulps of air as their heartbeats start to slow down. Draco may look toothpick-slender, but his bones must have grown heavier by at least a hundred stone with the relaxation of orgasm. Harry twitches under him, barely able to breathe properly, but refuses to push the dammed git aside, lest he loses him all the faster.

'It's too soon to give you up.' Harry thinks despairingly when a meager two minutes later his handler's relaxed body finally rears back and to the side, sliding off his body into the bargain. Cold air hits Harry's now Draco-less chest and belly and hips and legs, and the sense of loss he experiences as he stares straight up at the ceiling and tries his best not to flinch in the face of his newborn heartbreak is so profound he just knows nothing will be able to heal it.

“I suppose this is when I say you're the best shag I ever had.” Draco says quietly and, although the words are blunt enough, the lack of snark bears testament to how far out of his comfort zone he has allowed himself to fall.

Harry laughs, for that's what his git expects him to do, but doesn't know what else to say so he keeps quiet. This is not the time to lie through his teeth for the sake of his pride. Not to this man who was never a one off. Who he can never forget. Who will forever remain his everyth—

“Harry. Say something.”

Harry looks over at Draco. Aims for a smile but fails epically, and ends up offering his crush the one thing he's failed to give him so far: honesty.
“You don't want me to do that, Draco. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Not about this.”

Draco stiffens beside him and his deft hands reach out for the scratchy blanket he'd refused earlier, wrapping it protectively around his pale body before focusing back on Harry.
“Why is that? Do you regret this already?”

“Regret it? Don't be ridiculous.”

“Then, what, Potter? You offered me your stud services to get rid of that pesky cherry of mine, and I accepted them. You said doing so wouldn't affect our working relationship and yet here you are, all hard jaw and flinty eyes, giving me a whole bunch of stupid Gryffindor platitudes instead of the fucking truth!”

“I told you I don't regret it. I even went as far as to tell you that my dick isn't the only thing I'd offer you, early on, Draco.”

Draco tilts his mussed blond head to one side and studies him for what feels like forever, frowning like a champ while he's at it.
“I still don't understand.” He says finally and Harry tells himself that laughing softly under his breath must be better than crying his eyes out.

“Surely it's not so hard, is it? You wanted this much and I've given it to you. I'd offer you more in a heartbeat, though. You are the genius, Draco. Do the math.”

“Math doesn't work on people, Potter! That's why I'm so damned hopeless at this.” Draco snaps, suddenly furious, and Harry's already broken enough heart plummets past the floor and keeps on going.

There's no way out of this, is there? He's offering himself on a silver platter and this idiot can't even see it. Unless he's trying to let him down gently. Merlin knows Draco is Slytherin enough to try playing dumb and deaf to the bloody obvious if he thinks that's the only way to save their working relationship. Harry's not sure either way, but a clever bloke like this one would have gotten a clue already, if he was at all interested, wouldn't he?

“Forget it. Just… forget it, all right? We'll be back home in a handful of hours and—”

“How can I forget it, you, daft bastard? I don't even know what the fuck I'm supposed to forget. Were you offering me a fling? A 'frenemies' with benefits sort of deal? A—”

“No. Just—no. Never. I—Oh, fucking hell, you, stupid arsehole! I'm idiotically in love with you, all right? I was offering myself. On a silver platter, for Chirst's sake! I was trying to tell you that I'd let you fucking have me any way you want me, Malfoy.”

Draco tenses from head to toes, all but boggling at Harry. He opens his mouth and tries to speak, but nothing comes out of it other than a faintly reedy wheeze.
“Draco, breathe.” Harry says, gripping Draco's wrist, and their eyes tangle together in a dance as old as time.

“Yo—you love me.” Draco stutters so badly that Harry's last dying hope perks up and takes notice.

“I do.” He agrees quietly, simple as can be, because the truth hardly ever needs corny ornaments.

“I—you do. Seriously? Why?”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm me and you're you, and I—“

“Yep. You're definitely a genius. Nailed that one right on the head. And on your first go, no less. I most certainly love you because you're you and I'm me, Draco.”

“But I—“

“Do you love me back, or at least like me a little?”

Draco blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. He blinks wildly, fairly panicked, and then looks demurely down; nervous fingertips playing mindlessly with the frayed edge of his blanket.
“I do. Li—like you that is. A little. Er—I mean a lot. Definitely more than enough to—shit. I don't know what I'm doing, Harry.” He finally acknowledges and his voice is the lowest and most wavering of all low and wavering whispers, but his gray eyes are silver-bright with a hope as strong as Harry's.

“I don't know what I'm doing, either.” Harry admits too, and his chest feels light and full in equal parts when he finally dares to open his arms wide for this man he loves so dearly and makes the one offer he's never made so far to anyone else: “Let's figure it out together, Draco.”

The End. Or is it the beginning? ;D