Drarry microfic - by yourlocalbadgerscales on tumblr/E. J. G ~ Dance
Harry sat in his seat at the theatre, feeling uncomfortable as ever. But whenever he squirmed, even the slightest, his teacher would look up from her seat next to him and lock eyes, lips pressed together in a silent don’t you dare make a single noise or you’ll be in big trouble, boy.
Harry sighed softly, looking over at the stage. Any time now the whole show thingy would start, and the faster it did the faster it would end and he could leave along all his classmates. He couldn’t at all understand why everyone in his grade was forced to go watch people dancing at the theatre, they had never done that before, but here he was. His classmates whispered to each other and giggled every now and then, but no one looked over at him. Not once. How much he might hate it, Harry was a lonely ten year old, and he couldn’t see himself ever making friends in the future. He sighed again. He was destined to being lonely, he had to face it.
Now, now something was happening on stage. Harry straightened his back and stared as the lights turned on, and kids his age and older entered the stage. They all seemed to know exactly what to do and where to go, as they split up in pairs. Harry was disappointed at first. Kids his age? Wasn’t this supposed to be a dance to take seriously?
He quickly learnt that this, in fact, was a dance to take very seriously. Harry could barely breathe as the music began playing, and only seconds into the performance his knuckles whitened as his hands balled into fists in his lap. Harry leaned forward, not being able to take his eyes off of what he was seeing.
Harry wasn’t educated in different types of dances or different genres of music, but he didn’t need to know much more than what he was seeing and hearing and feeling in the moment. The music was quiet but so loud, and the dancers moved slowly, softly, gracefully. Two boys in particular caught Harry’s attention very quickly. They were dancing together, their backs to the rest of the pairs on the dance floor. Every pair followed the same choreography, but these boys were the only two boys on stage, dancing together. Could you do that? Harry tilted his head and watched with interest.
Both boys were his age. One of them was a brunette, his hair curly and put up in some kind of small ponytail. He was smiling softly the whole time while he danced. Harry felt a tug in the pit of his stomach at the sight of him.
The other boy was staring directly into the brunette boy’s eyes, his mouth in a thin line but his eyes smiling, glittering in the stage lights. There was something mischievous about his expression. Harry forgot to breathe for a moment, and quickly, all his attention was on this boy. He was blond, his hair kept neat and tidy, so unlike Harry’s own. His eyes, still focused on his dance partner, were dark, but when the light hit right they glowed silvery.
Harry was still not breathing. He leaned forward, in a desperate attempt to come closer to the boy on stage. The brunette seemed to enjoy the dance with his whole being, and so did the blond, but there was a difference. Harry couldn’t really pinpoint what exactly, but there was something. He kept his eyes on the blond, saw the way he hastily tilted his head to force one strand of hair out of his eyes. Then he smiled quickly at his dance partner, looking nervous as he bit his lower lip and took the brunette’s hands. They started dancing even faster, facing each other. The odd feeling in Harry’s stomach grew stronger and turned into something else. Stop the dance, he thought, growing more and more frustrated by the second. They can’t touch like that. He knew boys couldn’t touch like that. That’s what Aunt Petunia always told him.
So why were those two boys looking at each other like that, holding hands lighter than the other dancers in stage, trembling like that as they spinned around and took swift steps over the stage… it was hypnotising to watch… Harry furrowed his eyebrows. Why was the brunette so close to the blond, why, why, why? Why wasn’t Harry a dancer? Why wouldn’t Aunt Petunia let him have hobbies, oh God, why didn’t she? He’d do anything to be on that stage right now, and he couldn’t figure out exactly why.
I’d be in the brunettes place, he reasoned to himself. I don’t know why, but I would. Maybe I could dance like him. Be as graceful as him.
Catch the interest of another boy like him.
Maybe that’s how friends were supposed to be? Close, nervous around each other? But it seemed wrong. Why wouldn’t Aunt Petunia let him be close to boys like that then? Why would she tell him off for looking at boys for too long? He only wanted to make friends. That couldn’t be the reason she stopped him, right? Harry was so confused.
And so… so curious of the blond boy, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.
Inspired by this post (You have the power of invisibility, that only works when you’re feeling flustered. You are also an undercover spy, about to invade a strip club)
Also available on AO3 :)
Harry gulps, his gaze fixed on the bright red neon sign that seems to be screaming at him to turn around and go back to the Ministry. Why Robards thought it was a good idea to send Harry to this place really is beyond him. He’s pants at glamour charms and after what happened on his last mission, it should be a given that he should be the last person to investigate a gay strip club. Then again, Robards seems to think Harry’s straight and Harry doesn’t really feel the need to correct him.
Taking a deep breath, he walks across the street and waits for the bouncer to open the door. He does, and to Harry’s surprise, there are no comments about The Boy Who Lived entering a strip club. Huh. His glamour must be working.
He presses his lips into a tight line as he descends the stairs. He walks into a dimly lit room, the music vibrating through him. There are only a few customers scattered around the stage in the middle of the room. Harry picks a seat in the darkest corner, far away from the others and orders a firewhisky. He peeks at the dark haired dancer and slowly relaxes. Maybe he can do this after all.
His eyes scan the room, taking in every detail. There are several doors with hearts painted on them; Harry assumes they’re reserved for private dances. Rumour has it the dancers are selling illegal potions in there. Harry has to get into one of them. His mind races, trying to come up with a plan, while he pretends to sip at his firewhisky.
He only realises the stage is empty when the music suddenly stops and the spotlights are pointed at the red velvet curtain. He doesn’t know why, but a weird sense of foreboding and anticipation builds in the pit of his stomach as a new song starts blaring through the speakers and the curtain is suddenly wrenched apart.
Harry inhales sharply and nearly drops his glass when he catches sight of white blond hair and a lean, toned body he remembers all too well from the Quidditch showers.
“What the actual fuck,” he splutters. He can already feel his cheeks heating up and it’s only going to be a matter of time until he—Great. He’s already done it. He’s invisible. Fuck. Then again, maybe it’s for the best. Even if he’s wearing a glamour, he wouldn’t want Malfoy catching ogling him.
Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Malfoy approaches the pole and grabs it with one hand. His tight black boxer brief leave very little to the imagination and the sight of his bare chest has Harry gasping for air.
Malfoy moves skilfully, swinging his hips in a way that should definitely be illegal. Harry can’t suppress the gurgling sound in the back of his throat as Malfoy wraps one of his legs around the pole and starts spinning. Damn it, he has to concentrate. He’s here to work, not to drool over Draco sodding Malfoy. What is the git even doing here?
Harry closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths. He wills his pulse to slow down and tries to shove Malfoy and his beautiful body out of his mind. He peeks down at his hands and sighs in relief when he finds he isn’t invisible anymore. Good. He straightens himself, avoiding the stage and letting his eyes roam the rest of the room instead. Everybody seems to be mesmerised by whatever Malfoy’s doing. Did he… take off his boxer briefs? Is he—No! Harry can’t risk it. He can’t look. He can’t—Damn it!
His gaze inadvertently flicks over to Malfoy’s arched back. Merlin’s fucking beard. Well, at least he’s not naked. Yet. Harry can’t help but stare at him as he rubs his body against the pole, his lips stretched into a smug grin. He knows exactly how alluring he is.
Harry’s grip on his firewhisky tightens. This is absolute torture. He nearly chokes when Malfoy bends down and runs his fingers over his legs; that’s when their eyes finally meet. Something flickers across Malfoy’s face, but it’s gone so quickly, Harry wonders if he only imagined it. He takes a swig, knowing full well how unprofessional it is, but the burn of the firewhisky is such a welcome distraction, Harry doesn’t really care. He slams down the glass and curses under his breath. He made himself invisible again. Fantastic. Ugh. It’s no use. He’ll have to abort the mission.
Internally grumbling, he jumps out of his seat. Before he even reaches the stairs, however, he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Going so soon?”
Harry stiffens.
“Didn’t you like my performance?”
He slowly turns around and tries not to show any reaction when he finds Malfoy smiling at him.
“Wait, you can see me?”
Malfoy’s smile widens. “We’re trained to see more than the usual wizard notices. You wouldn’t believe how many people try to sneak in here using poorly executed charms.”
Harry blinks. Does that mean Malfoy can see past the glamour? No, there’s no way.
“You’re cute,” Malfoy says and casually brushes his fingers against Harry’s arm. “Could I maybe interest you in something… a little more intimate?”
Harry gulps. Shit. This is a really bad idea. But it’s why he’s here, isn’t it? As soon as he nods, Malfoy drags him to one of the doors with the hearts on it. Trying to act very discreet, Harry quickly casts a Patronus and sends it back to the Ministry. If something happens to him, at least the others will know.
“Take a seat,” Malfoy says sweetly, gesturing to the red sofa on their left before he slams the door shut and locks it with a nonverbal spell. Dear Merlin. Harry has to concentrate. He has to stay focused.
“So, um, how much?” he mumbles.
“Hmmm, that depends,” Malfoy grins, pushing Harry down on the sofa and climbing onto him.
Harry’s heart nearly jumps out of his chest. Draco Malfoy is straddling him. And he’s playing with his hair. What the actual fuck.
“A quick one is usually fifty Galleons,” Malfoy says. “Anything that’s more than five minutes starts at a hundred Galleons.”
“Five minutes?” Harry frowns, trying to ignore the movement of Malfoy’s hips. “What exactly are we talking about here?”
Malfoy laughs and puts his hands on the back of Harry’s neck. “This.” He moves his hips even more suggestively, pressing his crotch against Harry’s. Sweet Mother of Merlin.
“Oh!” Harry closes his eyes, gripping the edge of the sofa. “I—I thought, um—”
Malfoy snorts and Harry can feel his breath on his face. “This isn’t a brothel, you know.”
“Of—Of course,” Harry stammers. “That’s not what I—Oh!” Damn it, he has to focus. He blinks, unwelcome heat coursing through him as Malfoy continues grinding against him.
“Here, drink this,” Malfoy says, shoving a vial at Harry’s chest.
“What—What is it?”
“A simple antidote. It should reverse whatever spell was cast on you.”
“How do you know—”
“Let’s just call it a hunch.”
Harry squints at the vial and shakes his head. “I can’t drink this. I don’t know what’s in it.”
“It’s an antidote,” Malfoy repeats and lets his hands slide down Harry’s chest. “I brewed it myself.”
“You did?”
“I’m about to become a Potions Master,” Malfoy shrugs.
“What are you doing here, then?”
“Making some extra money,” Malfoy grins. “People have told me I’m quite good at my job. Both of my jobs.” Malfoy does some sort of body roll that leaves Harry utterly breathless.
“Ah, so you—you sell your potions here?”
“Sometimes. Mostly medical potions.”
“Oh.” Harry lets out a shuddering breath, unable to fight the urge to touch Malfoy. He groans as his fingers dig into the soft fabric of Malfoy’s boxer briefs.
“Well, okay, maybe I’ll let you grab my arse once, only once, after you drink this.” He nods at the vial in Harry’s hand.
Harry hesitates. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But he needs to know more about these potions. And, if he’s being honest, he really doesn’t want Malfoy to stop doing… what he’s doing. Even if this turns out to be poison, his colleagues know where he is. He sent a Patronus. They’re probably already on their way.
Mentally berating himself, he uncorks the vial and downs it in one gulp. It doesn’t taste like anything and… he doesn’t feel any different.
“Ah, much better,” Malfoy grins. “I was getting a headache from having to squint at you.”
Harry’s mouth falls open when Malfoy buries his hands in his hair and moves his hips with even more determination. Fuck, he’s getting hard. This is… too much. But who can blame Harry? Malfoy is beautiful. The way he’s moving is beautiful.
Harry bites back a moan, his hands automatically fumbling for Malfoy’s arse, when Malfoy pushes his own erection against Harry’s.
“So, you—Ah! You do that with all your clients?”
A smirk pulls on the corner of Malfoy’s mouth and he leans closer, his lips grazing Harry’s ear.
“Not really,” he whispers. “I made a special exception for you, Potter.”
“W—What?” Harry freezes. No, it can’t be. He can’t know— “Damn it, the potion!”
Malfoy sniggers and shakes his head. “I knew it was you before you drank the antidote.”
“What?”
“Your glamour was awful.” He leans in again and Harry shudders as Malfoy brushes his fingers through his hair. “I’d know you anywhere, no matter what you look like.”
Harry swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Oh.”
Malfoy’s lips stretch into a grin while his fingers wander down to Harry’s cheek, his jaw. “Are you here to arrest me, Auror Potter?” Malfoy whispers. His tone is playful and innocent; it makes Harry want to grab him and snog him senseless.
“I—”
“Yes?”
“I’m not here to arrest you.”
“Oh?”
Harry shudders once more when Malfoy brushes his fingers against Harry’s neck. He should be embarrassed that his body is so receptive to Malfoy’s touch. He should be embarrassed that he’s panting and staring at Malfoy’s lips. But somehow, that is the least of his concerns right now. He’s far more interested in the tiny mole on the right corner of Malfoy’s mouth. He’s far too absorbed in the sensation of Malfoy’s body pressed against his.
“Why are you here, then?” Malfoy asks, moving so close that his nose brushes against Harry’s.
“I—I—”
“You were never good with words,” Malfoy smirks before he tilts his head and presses his warm lips against Harry’s.
Harry groans, feeling his heartbeat in his throat, and wraps his arms around Malfoy. His skin is smooth and so incredibly soft it seems unreal.
“Hmmmm,” Malfoy practically purrs. He opens his mouth and Harry nearly chokes when he traces the line of Harry’s bottom lip with his tongue. Harry desperately wants to return the favour. Unfortunately for him, it only results in him biting his own tongue as at this very moment, the door springs open, revealing a horde of agitated wizards.
“Harry! Harry! We came as fast as we could! We—Harry?”
“Ron!” Oh boy. Suddenly, Harry wishes he was invisible after all. Seems like Ron brought the whole Auror Department with him. Great.
“Oi, Malfoy!”
Malfoy twists around, keeping his hands in Harry’s hair. “Yes, boss?”
“We’re not that kind of club! You’re fired!”
Malfoy merely rolls his eyes.
“Um, Harry? What the fuck is going on?”
“Ron, I can—”
“Your Patronus said to come find you.”
“Oh, you wanted them to watch?” Malfoy smirks. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Oh Merlin, someone stun me,” Ron groans.
“Just, um—Wait outside for me,” Harry says. “I’ll be out in a sec.”
“Not in my club!”
“Relax, boss. We weren’t doing anything,” Malfoy says and slams the door shut with a flick of his wrist. “Yet.”
Harry blinks at him. “What?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Potter. You’re not getting it that easily.”
“What do you—”
“Take me out on a date,” Malfoy says, leaning in.
“Um, you know I have to bring you in for questioning, right? You were selling illegal potions in here.”
“Medical potions,” Malfoy points out once more.
“Still.”
“Not the kind of date I had in mind, but alright.”
“Well.” Harry bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe I could take you out to dinner afterwards?”
Harry’s heart stops when Malfoy smiles at him.
“That’s more like it.” He pulls Harry into another kiss and hums when Harry presses his hand against the small of his back. “But you’re buying.”
“What?” Harry laughs.
“You got me fired.”
“Weirdly enough, I don’t feel that bad about you not having to dance half naked in front of strangers anymore.”
“Jealous, Potter?” Malfoy snorts.
“Not exactly, just—” He reaches up and strokes Malfoy’s face. “Not everyone deserves to see you like that.”
For the first time, Malfoy looks speechless and taken aback.
“And you do?” he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Oh, I—I didn’t mean—”
“Merlin, Potter,” Malfoy sniggers and wraps his arms around Harry’s neck. “You get flustered so easily. You’re an awful spy.”
Harry narrows his eyes at him but quickly forgets about feigning indignation when Malfoy cups his cheeks.
Harry heaved an impatient sigh, glancing around the swamp that is his room. Clothes were strewn haphazardly throughout the place, draped along chairs and furniture that were barely visible through piles of laundry. What the hell is somebody supposed to wear to a ballet, anyway?
He snatched his Ever-Inking Quill™, courtesy of Cho’s newly opened stationary shop in Diagon Alley, and scratched a brief note to Hermione, which read:
What the hell is somebody supposed to wear to a ballet?
- HP
“Take that to ‘Mione, please, Reggie.” He whispered to his new barn owl, clicking his teeth gently. He cooed lightly, taking the parchment in his beak. Harry gave his wing a light stroke, and sent him off.
It wasn’t long before he returned, parchment tucked gently in his talons, and Hermione’s neat print scrawled along in bold ink.
Wear that white collared shirt you have, with black trousers and a black tie. Nice shoes as well. Dress smartly, at least.
- HG
“Thanks, Hermione,” He mumbled to himself. “And thank you Reggie, you handsome bird.” Reggie chirped appreciatively, pushing his beak against the ball of his palm. He smiled a little. Reg was a great owl, he really was, but Harry still missed Hedwig dearly. He only got a new bird out of necessity.
Harry finished getting ready, thanks to Hermione’s help, and stared at his mirror reflection. God, his friends were right. He did look like he needed a night off work.
The bags under his eyes were heavy, and prominent. His eyes looked sunken into his school. Even with all the extra product, his hair was a wild tangle of curls, grown out for far too long. His lips were chapped and cracked, and his shoulders looked heavy, slumped over and exhausted. He looked exhausted.
Ever since he and Draco split up- he winced at the thought- which was over a year ago, work has consumed him, in a way.
He walked out of his apartment with a determination to have one good night. At least one. It’s been too long.
The London air was chilly, and bit at his ears until they went numb. He walked along an old, damp sidewalk, riddled with weeds, and counted the cracks. He could smell stale cigarettes and perfume, and watched the ground for shadows cast by the sunset-colored street lights. The walk to the theatre wasn’t bad.
“Hey, mate, good to see you,” Ron grinned, clapping him on the bag on sight. His giddiness was contagious, and Harry found himself laughing a little.
“Harry! You look great,” Hermione wrapped him in a warm hug. For a second, the familiar scent of old books and apples confronted him. Hermione always did smell like home.
He hugged her back tightly, “Hey, guys.”
“So, let me give you a quick rundown on this event,” She said with business-like professionalism, and Harry felt himself melt into the familiarity of it. He was glad his friends never changed. “This company is world-famous. They’ve won several international competitions, and are known to be one of the most competitive and aggressive in the nation. So just, be respectful.”
“Yes, m’am.” Ron jokingly saluted her, wearing a teasing smile. She hit his shoulder, but laughed along anyway.
They quickly found their seats, and the ballet started shortly after. Harry wasn’t as bored as he expected to be. The dancers graced the stage in beautiful, synchronized movements that were beyond impressive. The group dances, however, were not nearly as interesting as the final event.
“And finally, a highly-anticipated solo from one of the UK’s most talented dancers: Draco Malfoy himself.”
A wave of applause overtook the crowd, just at his name. Harry blinked vacantly, and everyone around him suddenly became a blur of unfocused faces and far-away people. Draco Malfoy. He swallowed hard, and ignored Hermione and Ron’s concerned whispers.
Had he been smart, Harry would have left the theatre then and there. But echoes of memories played over in his head, uninterrupted by the heavy claps from either side of him. Slow dancing in the kitchen to Elvis. Kissing and grinding against each other, music blasting from the muggle speakers, almost loud enough to draw out their moans and whispers.
Their song. A muggle song, called “Old Money.” Lana Del Ray. Draco loved her voice.
Harry thought he was imagining it when that song started quietly through the speakers, but he wasn’t. Draco walked slowly across the stage, though ‘walked’ doesn’t feel like the right word. He might as well have been floating.
The words started, and Draco began. Harry took a harsh breath in. Draco’s body become fluid, powered only by rhythm and momentum. His muscles rippled under his skin, and a forlorn sort of longing crossed his features. He leapt and spun slowly across the stage, and every audience member held their breath. He moved like a flame: pure heat, flickering carelessly, but carefully at the same time. It was stunning.
The lights reflected in the paleness of his skin, and he became a shining pool of moonlight, and Harry felt a mask of warm tears welling in his eyes. Anger and jealousy seized him, because how dare this audience sit here. They don’t deserve to see him in all this beauty- when Harry knew him. Knew what this song was to him. Knew that this was not acting- that wistfulness that he embodied in his dancing- that was real.
The song came to an end and Harry had barely noticed the tears rolling in silent sobs down his face.
“Harry- Harry, are you okay?” Hermione was shaking his shoulder gently, but Harry didn’t bring himself to move. Couldn’t bring himself to move. Same thing.
“Did you know?” He whispered. “That it was him.”
“No, Harry, of course not.”
“Really? Really? You had no idea? It was just- just some happy fucking coincidence?” Harry whispered, a manic expression morphing his face.
“Harry, I’m so sorry,” Hermione said with a tight voice.
“Forget it.” He stood up abruptly, in the middle of a standing ovation, leaving the venue. Just one night. That was all he asked for.
Before he left, he threw one careless look back. Just before a bow, Draco’s eyes met his. The wind was knocked from his lungs as he lost himself in that gaze for the first time in a year. Draco froze, just for a second, and his winning smile was replaced with an open, parted expression. Harry turned and left.
-*-
He decided he didn’t want to go home. So he stayed outside, half-hoping that his friends would come looking for him, half-hoping they fuck off for a very long time. They never came.
He threw a half-hearted punch at the brick wall. Cold wind prickled against his skin. Everything fucking hurt. He leaned against the wall, silent cries shuddering through his lips.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” He whispered to an uncaring moon.
“Take a drag,” a voice suggested from behind him.
He did his best to wipe the pathetic tear tracks from his skin, but he knew it didn’t matter. He turned around, and Draco was holding out a cigarette, one already hanging from his teeth.
He opened his mouth to say something, but just took the cig wordlessly, instead. He held it between his teeth and let Draco light it. “Thanks.”
“Why’d you come tonight?” Draco whispered, not looking at him. Harry watched curls of smoke float into the night.
“Hermione invited me,” Harry whispered, taking the cigarette in his hand. “She thought I needed a night off from work.”
“You look like you need more than just one night off from work,” Draco muttered, sparing a sideways glance at him. “Jesus, look at the state of you.”
“You’re a real dick, you know that?” Harry said, half-angry and half just wanting to cry, before taking another long drag.
Draco didn’t protest that. He didn’t say anything for a long time, actually. Until Harry started walking away, with the intention to walk home. There was nothing left for him here. Just a ghost of what used to be home.
“Wait, Harry.” Draco called. Harry turned. “What, um, what did you think? Of the dance.”
Harry stared at him. He gave Draco a cruel look, the cruellest he could muster, and dropped the cigarette to the ground, stomping out the flame against damp pavement. “I thought it was fucking amazing. Brought me to tears, you piece of utter shit.”
“Wait, Harry.” Draco took his cig between his fingers. “Harry. Harry.”
“What?” Harry turned and snapped.
Before he knew it there were soft, hungry lips against his, and cold fingers pulling at his hair. Harry gasped, sliding his tongue against Draco’s, remembering and revelling in his smell. His mouth tasted like cigarettes but Harry couldn’t bother himself to care. The velvety feel of his flushed cheeks. God, he missed this.
Draco pulled away too soon. “I choreographed that bloody dance for you.”
“What?”
“It’s for you, Harry. All of it. I hate it, but I’m still so hopelessly fucking in love with you.” He choked on the words and fell into pieces right in that alleyway. “I can’t dance without thinking about you. I can’t do anything without thinking about you, Harry, and I resent you for that.”
Harry kissed him, and fluorescent light from the streetlamp clung to their silhouettes.
“I haven’t ever stopped loving you,” Harry whispered, pushing him against the brick wall, pinning him by his wrists Draco’s lips brushed lightly against the shell of Harry’s ear as he whispered, “Then prove it.”
Draco’s leather jacket was the first item of clothing to fall on the ground, and Harry’s mouth devoured the skin of his neck. Draco’s knees threatened to buckle and tiny whimpers blew into the wind at every touch. His trousers were next, as Harry pushed them to his ankles, then his pants.
His erection sprang free, all red and needy. Harry tenderly stroked the length of it, and Draco’s hips bucked against the brick with a heavy groan. Harry kissed him again, hard, with teeth clashing and hands grabbing.
Harry sank to his knees, looking up at Draco through his eyelashes. Draco moaned loudly, “Get on with it, Potter.”
Harry’s tongue darted out to lick away a bead of precome, and Draco thrusted against his lips. Harry smiled, before licking a fat stripe along the shaft.
He took the whole of Draco’s length into his mouth at once, and bobbed his head to an invisible beat, his tongue twirling and working itself around the tip.
“Fuck,” Draco said.
Harry dug the heel of his palms into Draco’s thighs, and lapped away at his stiff, swollen cock. Draco yelled out, curling his hands into tight fists.
Harry took as much of Draco in as he could, and used his hands to tug at his balls teasingly. “Shit, I’m gonna- oh, fuck-”
He came in spurts, with a satisfied groan. “Oh, Harry.” He mumbled.
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