Archive of Our Own

“Mine! Up yours, Boot!” Seamus’s voice rings out over the pitch. Harry slows in his pursuit of Anthony Goldstein and the Quaffle, turns to look and sure enough, Seamus has the Snitch; Harry can see the golden wings poking between his fingers, flapping feebly.

A victory cry goes up from his team, groans from the rest, and everyone circles in for a landing.

Saturday morning Quidditch has had become something of a tradition over the past year. At first it had just been Harry and a few of his friends blowing off some steam and enjoying the autumn sunshine. But they’d attracted more and more players as the weeks ticked by, and not only Gryffindors. First had come the Hufflepuffs, then the Ravenclaws. By spring, even the Slytherins were in on the matches and, though they'd got off to a rocky start, now it is all easier than anyone would ever have guessed.

The Quidditch isn’t serious. There are no set teams, and they rotate positions according to whim. It’s casual, just school brooms and whoever feels like flying that day. They play in their regular clothes, jeans and t-shirts, jumpers if the weather turns cool, and no gear other than wrist guards (because even when you’re playing for fun, Bludgers can break your wrist before you even know they’re there) and helmets for the keepers. Though they intend to keep score, they always seem to lose track and so the game is usually called by whoever catches the Snitch.

Today, that happens to be Seamus, though Terry Boot - the opposing Seeker this week - is apparently displeased with this turn of events. Even though it’s all in fun, tempers occasionally flare - it is Quidditch, after all.

Terry lands with a growl, throwing aside his broom almost before his feet have touched the ground. He stalks over to where Seamus, having landed, is accepting congratulatory hugs and back slaps from his teammates. They draw back as Terry approaches, leaving him a clear path to Seamus.

Harry touches down and watches from a safe distance.

Terry’s face is like a thundercloud. “Finnigan, you bloody cheat!

Seamus’s hands are up, placating, Snitch still clenched in one fist. He’s backing up, but there is a grin on his lips and his eyes are bright with laughter. “Ah, now, Boot. Don’t be that way. It’s just a friendly match amongst mates, yeah?”

“That doesn’t mean you can cheat like a bastard!”

“Hey now! That kind of language is uncalled for. There are ladies present.” Seamus nods to where Ginny and Daphne Greengrass stand watching, their amusement plain.

Greengrass clasps her hands in front of her and puts on a moue of distress. “Yes! Our delicate sensibilities must be protected from such vulgar proclamations.”

“Verily, his coarse manner is making me feel faint,” Ginny adds, pressing the back of her wrist to her forehead. “Quick, conjure some salts!”

Harry laughs at them as he flops down onto the sun-warmed grass of the pitch, wiping sweat from his forehead. More often than not, Harry’s been foregoing the expected role of Seeker and trying his hand at Chasing. He loves it, enough that he thinks maybe McGonagall did him a disservice by making him a Seeker back in first year, but it’s hard work and after almost two hours of it he’s tired.

Ron comes to stand beside him, pulling off his Keeper’s helmet and rolling his eyes at the girls’ antics. “Please,” he says to his sister. “You have the mouth of a sailor on shore leave.”

“Do you even know what that means?” she shoots back, just as Hermione arrives, having come down from the stands where she was watching the match with Luna and Neville.

“Course I do!” Ron splutters, noting Hermione’s arrival. He straightens up, stands a little taller, shoulders back, chest out. Harry has to work to hide a laugh at his friend’s obvious posturing.

Ginny, too, is struggling not to laugh. Harry can see her lips twitching before she crosses her arms in front of her chest, flips her hair back with a toss of her head and says, “Oh? Explain it to me, then.”

Ron’s eyes flash with a momentary panic but then he shakes it off and gives it his best shot. “Well, a sailor is a Muggle who, you know, lives on a boat out at sea and hardly ever comes in and when he does he, er, doesn’t know how to act normal-like with the people who live on land.” His eyes dart toward Hermione, gauging her response.

Hermione shakes her head slowly. “Oh, Ronald,” she says with a sigh, but her voice is full of fondness.

“What?” he protests. “That’s what it means!” He looks around him beseechingly, seeking back-up.

He finds no support, however, and everyone is covering snickers now.

“What?” he says again.

“Seriously, Weasley,” Malfoy says, plunking down gracelessly beside Harry, and Harry’s pulse picks up in response. “Even I can do better than that.”

“What would you know about it, Malfoy?” Ron retorts, but it doesn’t have the same bite it would have had a year ago. “Come on, Harry, tell them I’m right!”

But Harry doesn’t answer, barely hears him, because his attention has been entirely captured by Malfoy, who is using his mouth to untie his wrist guards. His lips are pressed, soft and open, against the leather as his even, white teeth work the laces, pulling them loose.

No one notices Harry’s lapse, however, because Anthony comes over and claps a friendly hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Just forget it, mate. It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s right!” Terry shouts. “None of that matters. What matters is that Finnigan cheated!

Terry’s tirade continues, long and loud. It’s all lost on Harry, though, because Malfoy’s got his guards off now, his forearms free. Malfoy’s arms aren’t big but they’re strong, the muscles defined. There are red indentations in his skin from where the guards had bit in and they stand in sharp relief against the creamy whiteness of his skin. The Dark Mark, too, contrasts dramatically with Malfoy’s pale flesh and Harry doesn’t know if it is a testament to how far they all have come or his own level of infatuation that he barely even sees it, his eyes far more drawn to the corded muscles and alabaster skin. Draco chafes his hands over his arms and the marks left by his guards. Harry stares at the motion of Malfoy’s long, blunt fingers, thinks how it would feel to run his own hands over Malfoy, to drag his own fingers over all that perfect skin and hard muscle.

He feels the weight of eyes on him and looks up from Malfoy’s forearms to find Malfoy watching him with a bemused expression. Harry hastily looks away. He can feel heat creeping up the back of his neck but hopes he is too flushed from flying for it to be noticeable. He doubts he’s that lucky though; he can still feel Malfoy looking at him.

There is a sudden shout, followed by laughter; Terry has sent a Stinging Hex towards Seamus. Seamus has dodged it but Terry is determined, chasing him back towards the castle, wand out, hexes snapping. Seamus, it seems, had taken it as a challenge, and is yelling taunts over his shoulder as he jogs across the lawn in an erratic pattern that thwarts Terry’s best efforts.

Many of their friends are laughing at the scene but Hermione is watching them with a frown on her face. “Maybe someone should go talk to Terry. Seamus is going to get hurt.”

“Nah,” Anthony says, shaking his head. “Terry’s hexes haven’t got any bite to them.”

But Hermione doesn’t look convinced.

Ron slings an arm around her. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll go help him out.” He looks at Harry and nods his head towards the castle. “You coming?”

“I’ll be along in a sec. You go ahead,” he says, waving them on.

Beside him, Malfoy stretches his legs out in front of him and reclines back on his elbows, not going anywhere either.

It has been happening more and more often, he and Malfoy being the last of the group to leave the pitch. Sometimes they take a little longer to catch their breaths. Sometimes they are slow gathering their gear. Sometimes they get distracted while cleaning up, still talking over the match when the others are heading back to the castle. And sometimes there is no reason. Like today, when everyone else is getting to their feet and starting for the Great Hall, lunch on their minds, and he and Malfoy are just sitting, watching them go.

Harry knows why he lingers; he fancies Malfoy like a mad thing. He’s not sure when it started but for the last month it’s been almost all he can think about, no matter how many times Hermione lectures him about NEWTs. He’s less clear on Malfoy’s motivations. Harry’d like to think they’ve become friends - or at least friendly - over the last few months, but Malfoy’s hard to read. He’s still sarcastic and arrogant and Harry recognises that part very well. But other times he’s charming, quick-witted, and surprisingly insightful. And occasionally, he’s actually quite kind.

Not to mention he’s attractive as hell all the time. And sometimes, when it’s just them, he looks at Harry in a way that makes him think maybe it’s not totally one-sided.

Harry has no idea, though, not really, and whenever he thinks about trying to find out, he wants to throw up.

Harry watches as Hermione and Ron disappear across the lawn, the last of the stragglers following soon after, and just like that, Harry and Malfoy are alone. Harry feels suddenly nervous, butterflies in his stomach that embarrass him. He’s faced dragons, a Dark Lord, his own death; somehow it all seems less frightening than sitting on the pitch with Malfoy on a warm May day.

He seems to be alone in his nerves, however. When he glances over at Malfoy, he finds him with his eyes closed, face tipped up towards the sun. He looks relaxed, more relaxed than Harry can remember seeing him in years. He’s gained weight this year; they all have, their bodies recovering from the stress and deprivation of the year previous. The circles under his eyes have faded, too, and Harry finds that the idea of Malfoy sleeping peacefully makes him feel hopeful about pretty much everything, though he suspects this doesn’t fully make sense. He decides not to question it too closely, to just enjoy the feeling and let it calm the flutters in his stomach.

“I can’t believe Finnigan didn’t land in Slytherin,” Malfoy says after a moment, opening his eyes and looking at Harry. “He cheats worse than Flint. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to cheat worse than Flint.” He grins as he says this and brushes his hair out of his face with a lazy hand.

Malfoy’s hair is long, the longest it’s been in all the time Harry’s known him, anyway. It frames his face, almost reaching his jaw. It’s thick and blond and sweaty and messy and Harry wants to bury his hands in it, bury his face in it, breathe it in, feel it against his skin and his lips.

Instead Harry forces himself to look away, casting his gaze out over the pitch as he replies, “Yes, well, there’s a reason he never made the team. He couldn’t even pretend to play clean long enough to get through the try-outs.”

“Shit.” Malfoy laughs. “We’d have made him captain.”

Malfoy’s laugh rolls over Harry, and he wants to hear it again. He can’t think of a single funny thing to say, though, and they both lapse into silence.

At first it is comfortable, but as the silence stretches on, it begins to feel awkward. Malfoy isn’t looking at him but Harry still gets a feeling of expectancy from him, as though he’s waiting for Harry to say something, do something. Harry doesn’t know what that something is, though, and, christ, he never was any good at this sort of thing.

After a moment, Malfoy sighs. He starts to gather his gear, startling Harry into a quiet panic.

“You’re heading back?” he asks, and his voice is much too squeaky for his liking.

He can’t tell if Malfoy notices; he just looks at Harry and shrugs. “Not yet. I’m not ready for lunch and it’s too nice out to be in the dungeons.”

Harry has no idea if it was intentional, but Malfoy’s left him an opening wide enough to drive Sirius’s motorbike through. Harry chickens out, though, and just nods.

“Think I might take a walk down to the lake,” Malfoy continues. He stands, brushing grass from his jeans. There is a tear in the right leg, just above the knee, and more perfect white skin peeks out at Harry.

Harry swallows. “Oh, okay.”

Malfoy face shifts into a scowl but it’s fleeting, leaving his face in a flash. He takes a breath, looks at Harry with a neutral expression. “Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” Harry says, nodding a bit too eagerly, probably, but still managing to get this much right at least.

Malfoy nods, too, seems pleased, but maybe that’s just Harry projecting.

They take their brooms over to the storage shed and toss them in with the others before turning towards the lake. Malfoy carries his wrists guards and his shoes; his feet are bare. They’ve been bare all morning. Malfoy had shucked his shoes when he'd arrived at the pitch and played barefoot the entire match. Harry hadn’t thought much of it before but now he notices and it leaves him feeling unsettled and strange, sets something hot coiling at the base of his spine. He does his best to think of something else besides Malfoy’s stupidly erotic bare feet, but the pulse of his cock tells him he isn’t succeeding.

They fall into step as they move across the grounds.

“I’ve been visiting the lake a lot lately,” Malfoy says. “We’ve only a few weeks left and I’m determined to see the giant squid before I go.”

This startles a laugh out of Harry. It’s so normal, the kind of thing generations of Hogwarts students have probably hoped for, and Harry finds himself utterly charmed that, after everything, Malfoy can still wish for something as wonderfully uncomplicated as a glimpse of the squid.

“Have you ever seen it?” Malfoy asks him.

Harry nods. “Yeah, a couple of times.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Well, I mean, I saw a tentacle or two. I’ve never seen the whole thing.”

“I’ve never seen it at all. I look every time I’m down here but I’ve never seen him. I used to think he was just a story and that others were only saying they’d seen him to get under my skin.”

Harry thinks of the thestrals and the Acromantulas and the Basilisk, and all the other creatures that have share their space at Hogwarts. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Hogwarts, it’s that the stories are all true.”

Malfoy nods. “It just seems like everyone else has seen it. So now it’s my turn. Even if I have to bloody camp out until the end of June.”

Harry laughs again and Malfoy brightens, smiling. Harry’s heart turns over in his chest. Bloody hell. How had he never noticed how gorgeous Malfoy is before this year?

As if their conversation has spurred his eagerness to see the squid, Malfoy’s pace increases and Harry lags behind a step, trying to catch his breath after that smile. His plan fails spectacularly, however, as all he achieves is a lovely view of Malfoy from behind.

Malfoy in Muggle clothing is infinitely distracting. He doesn’t know why Malfoy made the switch, if he’s just following post-war trends embracing all things Muggle, or if he’s trying to send some kind of message. What he does know is that Malfoy’s thin t-shirt clings to him like a second skin, emphasizing his broad shoulders, strong back, and narrow hips. That, and his worn jeans hug his arse in a way that is so obscenely compelling it should be illegal.

Malfoy looks back over his shoulder and Harry starts at being caught out. He makes a show of giving his head a shake and scrubbing a hand over his face, pretending he’d been lost in thought rather than contemplating Malfoy’s arse. Then he takes two long strides to bring himself back in line with Malfoy. His arm knocks into Malfoy’s as he does so and Malfoy looks over, quizzical but not unfriendly. Harry feels awkward as hell, quirks half a wry smile at him, and Malfoy returns it somewhat uncertainly before looking away again.

Harry manages not to make an arse out himself again in the time it takes them to reach the lake and feels profoundly grateful for this.

Malfoy goes straight to the water’s edge when they get there. Crouching down, he skims his fingers over the water’s surface, making soft “psspsspss” sounds that at first confuse Harry but then make him laugh.

“You can’t call it like a cat, Malfoy,” he says.

“You don’t know,” Malfoy says with a sniff. “Maybe I can.”

Harry joins him, watching Malfoy as he tries to beckon the squid. “I know it likes to sneak up on people. Maybe if we just hang out, act like we’re not looking for it.”

Malfoy mulls this over. “Yeah, I can do that.”

They find a comfortable spot and stretch out, being sure to keep their feet temptingly close to the water. Harry takes off his shoes, too, and the idea of being barefoot together with Malfoy is doing dangerous things to his head. He has no idea when feet became a kink for him but the inexorable southerly flow of his blood makes it clear to him that they are.

Lying by the water’s edge, Harry closes his eyes, and tries to calm down. He focuses on the feel of the sunshine on his skin and the warm breeze that ruffles his hair, hinting at the summer that is just around the corner. He breathes in the smell of the lake and the grass and all the fresh, green, aliveness of it, lets it settle in his chest and ease his nerves. Because Malfoy is right, they only have a few weeks left in this place and it is, despite all the horror he’s seen there, his first and only real home.

Malfoy is talking about the squid again, asking Harry to tell him more about the times he’s seen it. Harry obliges, doing his best to entertain Malfoy, though he isn’t a storyteller by nature. He does tend to talk with his hands, however, and every now and then his gestures bring him into contact with Malfoy, his hand brushing against the soft cotton of Malfoy’s t-shirt or worse (better) the bare skin of his arm. Though Harry jumps at these small touches, Malfoy doesn’t and when Harry opens his eyes to look over at him, Malfoy seems content, easy.

It all goes to hell, though, when Malfoy says, “I can’t believe how warm it is today. Going to be an early summer for sure.”

And then he sits up and pulls off his shirt.

Harry swallows and doesn’t know where to look because it shouldn’t be a big deal, right? Blokes are shirtless around each other all the time and especially here at school where they live together, where they dress and shower and sleep together and have spent every day of the last eight years seeing each other in various states of undress. It shouldn’t be a bit deal to see a bloke’s bare chest, except that it is because it’s Malfoy and his chest is so perfect that Harry can’t help but stare. Flat plains of hard muscle, a dusting of fine, golden hair, a shade or two darker than the hair on his head. Small pink nipples that seem to pebble even as Harry watches, stiffening into peaks as a breeze blows over them.

Perfect except for the thin, silvery scar that bisects it neatly, throat to navel.

Harry’s throat closes and, hell, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t -

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Draco snarls. “I give up.”

“What?” Harry looks at him and knows his eyes are a bit wild, his panic still clawing at him. Malfoy’s glare cuts through, though, and the past recedes enough that he is able to take in Malfoy’s obvious anger. “What’s wrong?”

“Me, apparently,” Malfoy mutters, which Harry doesn’t understand at all. His confusion must be obvious, because Malfoy snorts and says, “Never mind, Potter.”

He snatches up his shirt and then he’s on his feet and turning back towards the castle.

Harry’s on his feet, too, reaching out to grab Malfoy by the wrist, to stop him, because he has a bad feeling he’s just fucked something up, something important. Malfoy shakes him off, but he stays put.

Harry moves to stand in front of him, waits for Malfoy to meet his eye, and says, “Tell me.”

Malfoy’s lips twist in a scowl and, god help him, Harry even finds that sexy as hell, the way Malfoy’s pink lower lip pouts out-

“Would you stop doing that?” Malfoy snaps.

Harry blinks. “Doing what?”

“Sending me mixed signals, you wanker! You’ve been doing it for weeks!”

Harry blinks again because he has no idea what Malfoy is talking about.

“You agree to come for a walk with me,” Malfoy continues. “You give every impression of checking out my arse. You lie down beside me closer than is strictly necessary, your hand all brushing against me, driving me nuts, but then I take off my shirt and you physically recoil. So, fine. You’re not interested? Fucking fine. But then you’re grabbing my arm like you don’t want me to go and you’re looking at my bloody mouth like you want to devour me and I just give up.”

For a minute they just look at each other as the implication of Malfoy’s words sink in.

And then the heat that’s been coiling low in Harry seems to shoot up his spine, pushing him closer to Malfoy. Malfoy, whose chest is still bare, all creamy skin and hard, cut muscle. Whose jeans are hanging low on his hips, barely staying on, hipbones standing out in sharp relief, grabbable, lickable, biteable. Whose pink lips part on a soft, sudden intake of breath as the energy between them shifts, sharpens.

His eyes find Malfoy’s even as his hand reaches out, snags the waistband of Malfoy’s jeans, his knuckles brushing the soft flesh of Malfoy’s stomach. Malfoy’s eyes widen in surprise, but only for a moment. Then he is smirking.

“You’re a bloody idiot, Potter,” he says.

And Harry can’t disagree but he thinks they have much better things to be doing with their mouths than talking about his stupidity.

He jerks Malfoy closer to him, bends his head, finds Malfoy’s mouth with his own. Malfoy’s lips are soft and warm. They part under Harry’s, opening, moving, and then everything is hot and wet and, god, so good. Malfoy’s hands slide up Harry’s back, over his shoulders, and into his hair. His tongue is in Harry’s mouth, licking, stroking, and all Harry can think is more and now and want. Harry’s hands grip Malfoy’s hips, his palms pressed against those hipbones as he pulls him closer, closer, and it’s still not close enough, even though he can feel Malfoy’s cock hard and hot against him through their clothes. He grinds into Malfoy, deepens their kiss and thinks maybe Malfoy was right, maybe Harry does want to devour him. From the way Malfoy groans, his fingers tightening in Harry’s hair, Harry suspects Malfoy might not mind all that much.

Harry hands are just starting to creep around to the back of Draco’s jeans, fingers skimming under the fabric, when Malfoy shouts into Harry’s mouth and jumps half a foot, their teeth and noses bashing together painfully.

Harry pulls back abruptly. “What the hell, Malfoy?” He tastes blood. He puts a hand to his mouth and his fingers comes away red.

But Malfoy isn’t paying attention. He’s fallen on his arse and is shouting, “Oh my god! Bloody fucking hell!”

“What?” Harry asks, bewildered, but then he looks down and sees it.

A fat, red tentacle has snaked out of the water and is tickling Malfoy’s feet.

“It’s the squid, Harry! The squid!” Malfoy shouts and though Harry doesn’t think Malfoy realises what he’s just said, Harry does.

Harry sits down beside him, drinking in the delight in Malfoy’s eyes and the careless joy in his laughter as the squid tickles him, and that hopeful feeling is back, growing bigger and bigger, and suddenly it’s as though Harry’s body isn’t big enough to hold all he is feeling.

“It certainly is,” he says, and his voice is rough with emotion. He clears his throat and laughs. “I always knew that thing was a pervert.”

“Shut it, you,” Malfoy says, but when he looks over at Harry, his eyes are still full of wonder. “I shall not let you cheapen this moment. I’ve waited eight years for it and it’s bloody perfect.”

Harry thinks that sounds just about right.

♥