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Harry begrudgingly came back to Hogwarts at the behest of McGonagall, to complete his final year with no distractions, even though the castle hadn’t been completely rebuilt yet. There were still many places students couldn’t go, that had been reduced to rubble during the battle. But at least they had managed to remove the last of the bodies over the summer, just in time for returning students (though the number was much lower than in the previous years).
Even from the beginning, it was noticeably different from other years; there was a strained atmosphere amongst both staff and students. Now, unlike previous years, people walked around the castle silently, afraid to draw attention to themselves. Even the young, fresh-faced first years quickly caught on, and they too spoke to their new friends in only hushed voices. There were no Dark Lords to defeat and no mysteries to solve, but the presence of the war lingered.
On the train, Harry had tried to joke that he had no excuses for not finishing his essays this year. Although Ron huffed a laugh and Hermione managed a smile, he knew it hadn’t quite landed.
And to top it all off, he was roommates with Malfoy. Unexpected, to say the least.
Harry had tried not to think of his former nemesis since he spoke in favour of him at his trial, where had Malfoy sat chained and downcast throughout, barely answering above a whisper as the Veritaserum forced answers out of him. That desperate look in his eyes as they fought over the wands haunted Harry at night sometimes, but he mostly managed to not think about him at all. He certainly didn’t read the papers, although he sometimes glanced at the headlines, and the more malicious rumours surrounding Malfoy and the Death Eaters made him feel sick.
Other than a thank you note sent by Narcissa Malfoy, he hadn’t had any contact with Malfoy until he barged into his room and came face to face with him. Malfoy looked just as startled as Harry felt
Maybe in another year, or another life, Harry would have shouted at him, or argued with McGonagall until Malfoy was kicked out. But Harry was so tired , and instead he just collapsed face-down on his bed and listened, half asleep, as Malfoy pottered around the room.
It was the most civil encounter they’d ever had.
The thing is, even though he knows that Malfoy had been grateful for his testimony and that he probably wants to fly as low under the radar as possible, he keeps waiting for the moment he snaps. For the insults to start, for the hexes to be cast and the fighting to commence.
But it doesn't.
Malfoy hardly speaks to Harry - in fact he hardly speaks to anyone. Harry has Potions with him, and although they sit at opposite sides of the class, Harry knows he hasn't said a word since the start of term.
When Harry comes up to bed in the evenings Malfoy’s bed curtains are always pulled tightly shut, and the only sound Harry ever hears from him is soft snoring.
In a way, Harry is sort of grateful to be roomed with Malfoy, not that he would admit it. Something about the steadiness of always hearing that quiet breathing acted like white noise, and he finds himself falling asleep easier than since before the war.
They keep up the arrangement of ignoring each other until one night during the October half term holidays, when every other eighth year had gone home.
Harry goes to bed past ten the first night of the holidays, and it’s then when he notices that Malfoy’s curtains are still open. He tries to ignore it, but Malfoy is a man of routine, and something about the vulnerability of Malfoy sleeping with his curtains open makes Harry tiptoe across the room and take a peek at him.
Under the dull amber light of Harry’s lamp, Malfoy snores quietly on his side, baby-soft hair splayed over his pillow. One arm is wrapped around his stomach, and his other hand is by his mouth.
No, Harry realises as Malfoy’s jaw works - he’s sucking his thumb .
Harry looks closer - entranced even though he knows Malfoy would be horrified - and sees that Malfoy’s mouth is lined with spit, and that the bottom of his thumb is red, like he’s been sucking on it for some time.
Well. It’s certainly not what he expected. Has Malfoy always done this, Harry finds himself wanting to know. Did it start during the war? During his summer in Azkaban? Since he came back to Hogwarts?
Harry suddenly wants to shake Malfoy awake and interrogate him - not only because the idea of Malfoy sucking on his thumb is so alien, but also because there’s a sour-sweet feeling uncurling in Harry’s belly and he can’t figure out why.
Harry stands there for another minute as the feeling travels down to his groin and he becomes light-headed with the intensity of it. Then, without thinking, he pulls Malfoy’s thumb from his mouth, and as Malfoy moans Harry practically leaps into his own bed and throws the duvet over himself, heart pounding.
He hears the rustle of Malfoy’s sheets.
“Potter?” Malfoy whispers. Harry feigns sleep.
It works, because Malfoy settles back down and Harry curiously notes that he doesn’t shut the curtains. Maybe Harry’s hidden himself entirely with his duvet and Malfoy thinks he’s alone.
That must have been it, Harry realises a few hours later, when he hears Malfoy gasp in his sleep, and then hears him fumble with his bedsheets. It’s a strange sound to figure out in the dark, and it takes Harry a minute to realise that he’s stripping his sheets.
Malfoy definitely thinks he’s alone - he’s sighing in a way that Harry’s never heard him do. Harry wills every cell in his body into absolute silence and he’s not sure for whose sake it is.
Harry rolls over in relief when he hears Malfoy close the bathroom door behind him, and hears the shower turn on. Does Malfoy do this every night? Is that why he always looks like he’s about to fall asleep standing up? Is Malfoy a bedwetter and a thumb-sucker? A few years ago that knowledge would have delighted Harry, but now…
The sour-sweet feeling rears its head again, and Harry presses his legs together, knowing there’s something very off about this, but slipping his hand inside his boxers anyway.
It catches both of them off guard when Malfoy flings the bathroom door open, clad in fresh pyjamas with his hair dripping from the shower.
Harry freezes, even though he knows that Malfoy can’t possibly have the X-Ray vision required to see where his hand is, and Malfoy does a full body cringe, face spasming in what Harry knows must be absolute mortification.
Harry quickly rolls over, cock leaking between his legs, and he hears Malfoy climb into his own bed. Christ, he’s a pervert - all those teenage fumblings with Ginny and this is what gives him an instant hard on: Malfoy sucking his thumb. Fuck. Maybe some of Tom Riddle got left behind, this can’t be him.
“Potter,” Malfoy’s small voice breaks through Harry’s thoughts. “Don’t tell anyone. Please?”
“I’m not going to. I’m not like you .”
He rolls back over, trying to feel triumphant at getting one up over Malfoy, but all he can feel is guilty. And still hard, achingly so..
It’s going to be a long night.
It was.
In the days that follow, Harry decides that the best course of action would be to ignore Malfoy completely. Which isn’t that difficult; Malfoy spoke to almost no one unless he had to, and he seemed just as content to ignore Harry.
While Harry could, for the most part, ignore Malfoy’s physical presence, the Malfoy that existed within his imagination was becoming increasingly harder to ignore.
Anytime he felt the urge to wank, which as an eighteen year old boy was fairly often, the memory of Malfoy, specifically the memory of his mortification, would come floating back to him, unbidden, and he’d wank himself raw.
A month after the incident, Harry realised that he had some sort of fetish. It couldn’t be something normal: something like tits or big cocks or even feet, Harry was wanking to the embarrassment that had rolled off Malfoy in waves, and he couldn’t stop.
Still, it took another week before Harry had a chance to do anything about it. It had been a normal Saturday night, and he had gone up to bed past eleven, but when he entered his room he knew something was off.
Malfoy’s curtains are open, but the bed is empty, and when Harry takes a further step towards it he notices a dark stain on the mattress.
There’s a noise from the bathroom - a thud like something thrown. Harry presses his ear to the door and hears muffled, but deep breathing.
Harry had bad nightmares; it would be impossible for him not to have them, so Harry sent a couple of cleaning charms over the mattress. It couldn’t be healthy for Malfoy, having to wake up every night to clean his mess. Disrupted sleep was the worst. No wonder he looked so sick all the time.
Having cleaned Malfoy’s mattress the best he can, Harry sits on his own bed and waits, though what he’s waiting for exactly he isn’t sure. He can hear Malfoy brushing his teeth, and when he comes out of the bathroom, thumb deep in his mouth, he freezes like a deer in headlights, and Harry swallows, suddenly wishing he had just gone to bed.
Malfoy snatches his thumb away and refuses to look at Harry as his face burns as he takes in the sight of his clean sheets. He glances at Harry, and then away.
“Thanks,” He mumbles like it pains him to say, before collapsing into bed and yanking his curtains shut.
Harry turns the light off and waits for Malfoy’s breathing to even out.
“Does it happen a lot?” he asks.
“Piss off.”
Harry fiddles with a loose thread hanging off his boxers. “I’m being serious. It can’t be great for you, all that broken sleep. Have you thought about -”
“Fuck off,” Malfoy snarls nastily. Harry sets his jaw, Malfoy’s tone reminding him of the vitriol of their previous years.
“What if I told someone?” He says meanly, not because he would - he couldn’t do that, not even to Malfoy, maybe especially not to Malfoy - but because he can and he knows that Malfoy would have no way of stopping him.
Harry hears the hitch in Malfoy’s breath. “You wouldn’t.” He says, but he sounds unsure.
Harry shrugs, even though Malfoy can’t see it.
“Wouldn’t I? What would you do to stop me?” This nastiness is foreign to him, and it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but he can’t stop himself from asking.
“I - Do you want me to beg? Is - Is that what this is about? You’ve got some fetish or something?”
“No! Just… Why don’t you wear… protection?” He asks, to cover up that Malfoy's hit the nail on the head.
“I can’t, alright? Don’t you think I’ve tried? I can’t - it’s too embarrassing. Is that what you want to hear? Are you going to tell your friends that I started pissing the bed every night during the war and now I can’t stop?”
Harry feels a tidal wave of guilt crash over him. He pointedly avoids thinking about those terrible rumours of Death Eater abuses, and deliberately doesn’t connect the dots to Malfoy’s behaviour. “You’re right - I’m being an arsehole. I’m not going to tell.”
“Whatever.”
Harry doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. He doesn’t think Malfoy does, either.
Harry watches Malfoy with such intensity it’s like sixth year all over again. He watches him in the hallways, with his head down and books clutched to his chest, he watches him silently from across the classroom, he watches him push food around his plate in the Great Hall.
And Harry can’t put his finger on when it begins to happen, but Malfoy starts to watch back. Harry will glance at him in the corridors and find that Malfoy’s eyes are already locked onto him, and will feel eyes on him in the classes they share together.
It’s fine when Harry’s doing it. But now that Malfoy’s doing it back, Harry isn’t sure he likes it. It’s not right for Malfoy to do it back. Malfoy isn’t supposed to do it back.
One evening, he’s lucky enough to catch Malfoy alone in an empty corridor near Charms. Malfoy has become painfully thin since the war, and it doesn’t take much to grab his robes and shove him into an empty classroom.
Malfoy squeals like a pig, and Harry clamps a hand over his mouth.
He spins him around, and Malfoy relaxes minutely when he sees that it’s Harry. And then Harry shoves him against a wall and he tenses all over again.
“What are you doing, Malfoy?”
Malfoy’s eyebrows knit together in an expression of child-like confusion, and it’s almost genuine. Harry slams him back against the wall again, and Malfoy moans. The sour-sweet feeling spreads all the way down to his toes.
Malfoy mumbles behind his hand. “What?”
“What are you going on about? I haven’t done anything. Have - Have you told anyone?”
The desperation in his voice makes Harry’s cock tingle. It’s so, so wrong, but Malfoy’s panic is so, so delicious that even if his conscience is telling him to stop he can’t.
“No. But you’ve been watching me. I can tell, you’re watching me in all our shared classes in the corridors and in the Great Hall - tell me, Malfoy, why is that?”
Malfoy’s face twists, and then he snarls. “Tell me why you got a hard-on when I wet the bed then. During the holidays - I saw you.”
Harry splutters, and momentarily lets go of him, but it’s long enough for Malfoy to shove him off. “What the fuck -”
“Oh, please, Potter, don’t act like I don’t know what a bloke having a wank looks like. You get off on it, don’t you?”
“On what, you being a baby who can’t make it to the bathroom on time? On you sucking your thumb like a toddler? Get over yourself, Malfoy.”
Malfoy’s face spasms again, and Harry goes weak in the knees. “Shut up, I don’t - It’s not something I want to do - And you wanking to it -”
Harry shoves him against the wall again, this time so forcefully that Malfoy’s head cracks against it.
There’s something hard against his thigh, brushing against his own erection, and both him and Malfoy look down at the same time.
Malfoy’s tenting in his trousers, and they both freeze. It’s almost comical, the way they both slowly look back up at each other.
“Anything you want to say, Draco?”
The use of his first name startles Harry; it had slipped out without meaning to. Draco’s face is flushed crimson, and he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“I’m not… I don’t find it… hot.” He whispers, even as his dick twitches against Harry’s.
Harry slowly trails one hand down down Draco’s chest and then down over his belt until he cups him over his trousers, waiting for Draco to tell him to stop. Draco needs to tell him to stop. Draco should tell him, and he will. But Draco only gasps, and thrusts his hips forward even though he looks mortified.
Harry rubs him over the fabric, nudging Draco’s legs apart. Draco’s eyes roll, and he stares up at the ceiling.
“Do you want me to stop?” Harry whispers into his ear, unsure of whether he even could. “Do you want me to stop touching your cock, Draco, or do you want me to wank you off right here, in this classroom, where anyone could come in and see you with your little cock out?”
Even though Harry feels like he’s in a weird muggle porn film, Draco takes a deep breath, and nods.
“Say it.”
Draco wets his lips. “I - I… Want you to wankmeoffpleasepleasedon’tstop .”
Harry undoes his belt, Draco softly begging in his ear. Just as he touches Draco’s cock he shoves the fingers of his spare hand into Draco’s mouth. Draco pants around them but sucks his fingers like he does his own thumb.
Harry frees Draco’s cock from his pants and wanks it slowly, pumping once. Twice. Then Draco shudders and makes a high noise, his cock spitting out white globs of come over his boxers.
Harry’s still so hard that his dick is beginning to hurt, but he can’t stop looking at Draco’s flushed face, at the wetness around his mouth and then at the sticky mess in his pants.
Draco stares upwards, swallowing rapidly and still sucking on Harry’s fingers, and for some reason, Harry tucks him back into his underwear and then does up his trousers with one hand. He pulls his hand from Draco’s mouth and wipes the spit on Draco’s crisp white shirt. Draco seems to come back to himself and practically jumps away from Harry. He buckles his own belt quickly and grabs his bag.
Harry feels another wave of guilt collapse over him when Draco pauses, fiddling with the strap of his bag.
“You didn’t come,” he states.
Harry crosses his arms over his chest, letting Draco look. “No. I didn’t.”
Draco stares at Harry’s groin when he asks, “Do you want me to, um.”
“No. Off you go Malfoy, I can take care of myself.”
Harry shoos him away, and Draco swallows again, and then almost sprints out of the classroom.
Harry falls to his knees behind a desk and has the best wank of his life.
Hours later Harry is no longer sure where he stands with Draco, and he’s almost convinced that their encounter earlier was a vivid hallucination. He’s still disappointed when he sees Draco’s bed curtains are closed.
Harry falls into bed wearing his robes and doesn’t sleep all night. Draco doesn’t get up once.
Before, Draco had been staring at him, now he avoids Harry like the plague and some days Harry has to consult the map to even know if he’s still in the castle.
Harry feels awful, and then he feels like a pervert, and then he feels guilty, and then he feels angry. It hadn’t been the best start to wanking someone off, he knows that, but Draco had said yes , and then they hadn’t spoken about it at all.
For a week, Harry shares a dorm with a ghost. Before, their encounters had been minimal, but now there’s nothing. Sometimes he’ll catch a glimpse of white hair as it flits past him in the corridors or the Great Hall, but it’s only ever a glimpse.
Fuck. He’s fucked up. He can see it now that’s stopped thinking with his dick.
He feels so awful that one day Ron takes him aside and asks him what’s wrong.
“What would you do if you had a thing with someone and then they ignored you after, even though you thought they liked it?”
Ron squints at him. “Who’s this about?”
“No one. Well, someone, but I’d rather not say.”
Ron shrugs. “Well, that depends on who it is. I mean, have you asked them how they feel about it? Do you know them well or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing? Maybe you should just try and ask, and if they don’t let you then there’s plenty more mermaids in the lake.”
Harry sighs, falling back onto the wet grass. “I suppose. It’s just… this person’s pretty unique.”
Ron squints at him, and Harry begins to regret bringing it up with him. For a moment he thinks Ron’s going to ask more questions, in the past he’d be desperate to know who Harry’s sort-of-shagging, but then he just shrugs with an apathy that’s been infecting all of them since September. He flops down into the grass next to Harry, staring up at the white clouds.
“Seriously, just ask her.” Ron says after a minute of watching the clouds float slowly across the sky.
Harry swallows. “Sure. I should do that.”
“Good. Hermione’s going to be studying until dinner at least - wanna go hit each other with bludgers?”
As it turns out, Harry didn’t need to confront Draco about it at all.
When he gets back from Quidditch with Ron that evening, still muddy and sweaty from the game with the last vestige of adrenaline slowly draining out of him, Draco is perched on his bed, one leg crossed over the over, still wearing his uniform.
Harry stares at him, and shuts the door.
“Potter, we need to talk.” Malfoy starts.
“Oh?” Harry shrugs off his cloak and pulls off his boots, pretending to be half-listening.
“Yes, about what you did.”
“That? What about it?” Harry says casually, heart pounding.
“What - What do you mean, what about it? You - You touched me!”
Harry looks at him properly - Draco is so filled with nerves that he's bouncing slightly on the mattress, his fingers gripping his trousers so tight with white knuckles.
“And? You let me. And then after you ran off and wouldn’t even look at me; it’s only now that you’ve grown the balls to even look me in the face. God Malfoy, if you hated it just -”
“Do it again.”
Harry pauses in pulling his top over his head. Draco stares at the carpet between them.
“I liked it.” He confesses, voice barely a whisper.
“What did you like about it?”
Draco swallows, red-wine stains on his cheeks. “When you… I liked it when you put your fingers in my mouth.”
Harry pulls off his top and drops it in a heap on the floor. “And what else?”
“I like it when you, uh, when you make me… get embarrassed and then when you didn’t let me touch you. I wanted to touch you, but I like not being allowed to. I slept better, after.”
“You mean you didn’t wet the bed?”
Draco nods. Harry stalks towards him slowly, savouring the way Draco curls into himself with embarrassment at his own desires. Harry’s belly feels all sweet now.
“So, let me get this straight. You want me to humiliate you.”
Draco nods, staring silently at the carpet, the desire to be humiliated humiliating in itself. Harry, with new confidence, grips Draco’s chin in his fingers and forces him to meet his eyes.
“You want me to embarrass you, to belittle you? You want me to make you suck my fingers - and what else, I wonder? Is that what you’d want, to suck my cock? Do you want me to come on your pretty face and leave you there?”
Harry knows he probably sounds like a bloke from one of Dudley’s porn tapes, and he really has no idea where half the filth spilling out of his mouth is coming from, but Draco’s eyes are as wide as saucers and he’s nodding quickly, glancing up and down between Harry’s crotch and his face.
Harry lets Draco’s chin go and steps back.
“Tough. You’ll get that when I think you’re ready. For now - take off your clothes.”
Harry doesn’t tell Draco that the only reason he’s not allowing him to suck his cock is because no one has ever touched him like that before, not even Ginny, and he’s slightly nervous at the thought. For now, he focuses on Draco’s milky pale skin as he hesitantly pulls off his shirt and steps out of his trousers, looking as if he expects Harry to -
To do what, Harry isn’t sure. He’s also not sure where he’s going with this.
Draco strips to his underwear and folds his clothes neatly on the bed next to him, smoothing out any creases, and then turns to face Harry, looking anywhere but his face. Harry suddenly becomes aware that he himself is shirtless.
He places his hands on his hips and looks Draco over, eyes skirting over the scars that criss-cross his chest and instead staring at the bulge in his pants.
“Did I say you could leave them on?”
“No… No, sir.”
Oh, and that makes Harry’s toes curl. Despite his hero status, people rarely call him sir, and it’s even rarer for them to mean it.
Draco yanks his underwear down to his ankles, and Harry tells him to leave it there. There’s something about Draco’s underwear around his ankles that makes Harry swallow.
Harry steps forward and grabs Draco’s cock. Draco whines as Harry pretends to inspect it, shifting from foot to foot. It’s heavy in his palm, long but not as thick as Harry’s, curving slightly to the right. Golden hair surrounding the base.
“How often do you masturbate, Draco?” Using the correct term is somehow much more humiliating in Harry’s mind. There’s something much more intimate about it.
“Um, not much?”
“Oh?” Harry says, genuinely surprised.
Draco looks up at the ceiling, eyes rolling as Harry wanks him slowly.
“I don’t get hard. Very often. It’s only when, ah, when you, you know.”
Harry stops. “No, say it.”
Draco’s hands reach towards his cock, and Harry slaps them away.
“I only get hard if you make me. Please, sir. Don’t stop.”
That’s a strange piece of information that Harry tucks away for later. He wanks Draco again, once, twice, and then drops his cock like it burns him.
Draco stumbles, hand hovering over his crotch. “Why - ?”
“I have to take a shower. I’ll masturbate you after. For now… Kneel.”
Draco swallows a few times as he drops to his knees. Harry nudges his legs apart so his pink cock stands erect between his thighs, and then he orders Draco’s hands on his head. Draco’s hips twitch under Harry’s gaze.
“If you touch yourself, I’ll know,” He says before shutting the door. He won’t know, and Draco knows this too.
Harry has the quickest wank of his life in the shower then throws on a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt to sleep in. When he emerges, Draco hasn’t moved.
His erection has softened a little, but Harry nudges it with his foot, and it begins to harden again.
Harry glances at Draco’s pants, still tangled around Draco’s ankles, and has a wicked idea. He steps behind Draco, and Draco squeaks as Harry lightly slaps his arse, and then Harry pulls his underwear off and rolls them into a ball.
He stuffs Draco’s dirty underwear into his mouth.
“Suck on them .”
Draco does, eyes opening and closing, as if he can’t decide whether he wants to look at what Harry’s doing or not. He ends up staring at Harry with wide, wet eyes, and Harry knows this is a memory he’ll cherish for a long time.
Harry kneels down in front of Draco’s chest, and idly flicks his nipples, and then grasps Draco’s cock and begins to masturbate him. Draco thrusts into his hand, moaning in a way that Harry never could have imagined.
Draco comes quickly, cock spitting white come into Harry’s open hand.
Draco relaxes, still sucking on his underwear, and Harry takes it out of his mouth and offers him his hand instead. Dazed, Draco gives him gentle kitten-licks over his palm until Harry’s hand is sufficiently clean, and then he sucks on each of Harry’s fingers, giving a content sigh that almost makes Harry dizzy.
“You like having your mouth full.” It’s not a question; Draco nods anyway. He looks pointedly at Harry’s boxers. Harry’s half hard again, but he shakes his head.
“Not tonight.”
He ruffles Draco’s hair like one might do with a dog, and then climbs into his own bed and shuts the curtains, heart pounding.
He can hear Draco get dressed, and then shut his own curtains. Draco’s breathing evens out before his does, and he doesn’t hear him get up in the night.
When Draco emerges from the bathroom in the morning, Harry’s pulling on his socks.
“Dry night?” Harry asks.
Draco flushes crimson, but nods. “Yes. Thanks.”
Harry grabs his shoes and his bag, thinking about the other ways he could get Draco’s skin to turn the colour of cherries. “How often do you want me to do that?”
Draco shrugs, straightening his bedsheets. “Whenever you want. Just - don’t tell anyone. Please.”
“I’m not going to. I just want to know - if I come up behind you and yank you into another empty classroom, you’ll be fine with it.”
Draco sighs. “Yes. Potter - I want you to do things like that. I liked it. I liked last night. I want you to do it again.”
“Do you have any limits? Like, if you don’t want me to hit you or I don’t know, but -”
“You can hit me.” Draco says quietly as he gathers his textbooks into his bag. “If you like. I’d rather you didn’t do it too hard, but if you want to…”
In the past, Harry would have delighted at the idea of being able to slap Malfoy around without consequence, but now he’s uncertain. He thinks of how different Draco’s been this year, how quiet and evasive compared to the Malfoy of yesteryear, who was brash and cruel and cowardly, and there’s something that feels off. Not because Draco should be cruel, though Harry would be lying if he said he doesn’t miss the cattiness a little bit, but even though Draco says it’s okay, Harry still feels guilty even so.
“I’m not going to beat you up, or anything like that.” Harry says, but the image of bending Draco over his knee makes him shift his legs.
“No, I wouldn’t want that. I just - I like what we did.” Draco says, with a note of finality to his voice, as if he can’t stand voicing his desires out loud anymore. That works well for Harry, whose face was burning.
“Okay,” He says. And then he leaves for class, quickly rushing past Draco. But first, he stops off in the bathroom and wanks to the thought of what he could do to Draco, of what he will do.