An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 3/3
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter
Additional Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Bullying, Fuck Or Die, Consent Issues, see a/n for more detail, poor communication, the communication gets way better though, the consent also gets way better, Anxiety, Regret, Self-Loathing, Self-Esteem Issues, Brief mention of unhealthy eating habits, Body insecurity, Scars, Hurt/Comfort, Drinking, Sexually Inexperienced Draco Malfoy, Sexually Experienced Harry Potter, POV First Person, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, origami animals as a vehicle for sexting, First Times, Kissing, Blow Jobs, Facials, Anal Fingering, Rimming, Anal Sex, Crying During Sex, (not when you'd expect given the premise), Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Soft Harry Potter, Cheeky Harry Potter, Boys In Love
Draco is dosed with a consummation-compelling potion, with Harry Potter as his intended. It’s a cruel irony, because he’s wanted Potter for years. But not like this.
In which the boys try to deal with the fallout from an excruciating fuck-or-die, and end up with much more than either of them expected.
“I’ve never done any of it.”
He gapes at me, dead silent.
“How—” he starts, and then, “Sorry, I’m not trying to make you feel bad—”
I keep my eyes trained on the floor. “I snogged Blaise once in fifth year. I was hoping to discover that I was not gay, so when that turned out to be… decidedly not the case… I wasn’t ready, I suppose, to try anything else. I didn’t want it.”
There’s a long pause. Potter doesn’t say anything.
“Then, you saw me in sixth year,” I can’t help curling in on myself, a little, “I wasn’t exactly thinking about sex… And I suppose it was the same last year—extreme stress, mortal peril… not libido enhancers.” I manage a short laugh. “And now of course there’s the matter of a willing partner.”
That last bit is harder to get out but I relish it a little, my own embarrassment, throwing it in Potter’s face that no one’s ever done this to me before because no one wants me. It gives me some sick satisfaction, forcing him to confront the vast chasm of experience between us and the reasons for it. Not letting him look away from the fact that it’s me he’s about to pity-fuck on this bed covered in rose petals. I want to make him see me, see how low I am, make him squirm with it. I want him to know that I’m terrified and pathetic and completely at his mercy. I want his mercy.
“So you’ve never…none of it?”
I shake my head. He runs a hand through his hair.
“Fuck. Okay. I’ll be—careful. I’ll, erm, talk you through everything.”
I nod again. Of course he will.
“Just let me know,” he says softly, “when you’re ready.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I really wish he weren’t being so fucking kind. Reminding me how he’s a good person and I’m not, and that’s why I’m here, about to live the nightmare version of my wildest fantasies. His kindness is wearing me down, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to get through this without crying, confessing, asking him to pretend, just this once, please.
“Now,” I say. I don’t look at him.
He takes the wine from my hand and leans across me, setting both glasses back down on the tray. He doesn’t lean back out of my space. Instead, he turns, shifts his body toward mine, leans in—oh, he’s going to kiss me. The shock of it freezes my spine in place, sends a dizzy rush of fear through my veins. I don’t think I could move if I tried, all my muscles gone weak with anticipation. I should close my eyes, tilt my head or something, but I’m frozen here, with my hands fisted in the duvet cover, staring down at my knees, holding my breath.
His nose knocks against mine, a gentle nudge, tilting my chin up so he can get at me, like a dog nuzzling its snout under your arm. He huffs out a rueful little breath, warm, and then his lips are on mine. Just like that, soft, after everything we’ve been to each other, soft. He breaks the kiss after a moment and somehow slots our faces closer together, nuzzling again. I hear the quick intake of breath, and it’s different this time. It’s still soft, much more hesitant than I’d expect Potter to be—I’d always imagined him wild and crackling with passion, ravishing me. But he just shifts a little closer, parts his lips, and I open to him, helpless.
He moves even closer, our legs pressing together, and threads a hand around the back of my neck, twists the tips of his fingers into the ends of my hair. I try not to make any noise. It’s so sweet, the feeling of his mouth against mine. It’s so much more awful than I could have imagined, Potter kissing me when I know it isn’t real.
He tugs me toward him, murmurs against my mouth, “Can we get more comfortable—” He scoots back on the bed, drawing me in, motioning that I follow, straddle him, sit in his lap. I’m awkward about it, stiff and stilted as I try to position myself so that our crotches don’t line up, so he doesn’t notice I’m already hard. But then he tilts his face up to kiss me again, and it occurs to me that I could wind my hands around his neck, slide my fingers into his hair. I do it, and I can’t quite tamp down the moan rising from the back of my throat. It comes out soft, on a sigh, and I feel my cheeks flame in horror but then Potter makes an answering sound, a low sort of rumble, and he slides a hand around my lower back and pulls me in flush against him. He’s hard too, I realise with terrifying, swooping relief, and I roll our hips together experimentally and accidentally make another noise, but Potter does too so I don’t feel quite as embarrassed this time.
I start to allow myself to think that maybe this won’t be so bad. Potter stops kissing me for a moment to shrug off his robes, and I do the same, and then he pulls me back in and I get greedy. I let my hands wander down the hard planes of his chest, around his back, feeling the bones of his shoulders and spine. He goes for the buttons on my shirt, and I freeze. I can’t let him see—and, oh god, I’ve let myself forget that Potter cut me open, that he despises me. That I didn’t earn this, and it isn’t going to be something good for me. I scramble back, off the bed.
