01 September 2008 @ 09:01 pm
On Reflection: Draco Malfoy's Last Stand  
Title: On Reflection: Draco Malfoy's Last Stand
Fandom: Harry Potter
Author: Lilith ([info]lilithilien)
Summary: Draco wants to say no, but it's been an awfully long time since he's been able to refuse anything Harry asked.
Rated: NC-17
Length: 4300 words
Disclaimer: All rights to these characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her publishers and agents. I make no claim to ownership and expect no monetary gain, and I'm writing this story purely for enjoyment
Note: Written for the 2008 [info]bbtp_challenge. I wrote my very first Harry Potter story ever for last year's [info]bbtp_challenge! Then it was fluffy Hogwarts-era smut; this year it's epilogue-compliant smut, with all the angst and infidelity that this implies. It's also five times as long; apparently my muses have gained stamina as they age. Tons of praise are due to my fabulous betas, [info]sarcastic_jo and [info]sdk, who did an amazing job whipping this into shape; all remaining mistakes are mine.


The voice so close to his ear should have startled him. Pity that he'd been expecting it for hours now, ever since that morning's first panel. There he'd been, quill to parchment like a good little barrister, listening to Jonathan Bulstrode drone on about the Ministry's revised Obliviation statutes…and then Potter had to go and ask his blasted question about how these new laws permitted an Auror to, as he so elegantly put it, "expose his enemy's openings." The bastard had glanced over at him too, had known what he was doing, even if to everyone else he appeared the epitome of innocence. Draco had fought his rising flush as the room turned tropical, knowing that the 300 Galleons it'd cost his firm to send him to the conference were in vain; his concentration had been shot. Honestly, it was ridiculous. Here he was, a partner in Diagon Alley's most prestigious law firm, advisor to the Wizengamot, benefactor of Hogwarts and the Widow's Fund and a host of other respectable causes, and it had taken only a simple sentence from Potter to send him adjusting his robes like a sixteen-year-old schoolboy.

"I've been looking for you."

The breath so close that it scattered wisps of hair across his ear should have done nothing for him. Shame that he'd been fighting it so long. He had purposefully arrived late at the afternoon session so he could sit at the opposite side of the room, he'd made a point not to meet Potter's eye during breaks, he had endured the most boring cadre of Ministry officials imaginable so he'd not get caught out. Through it all he'd waged a silent war with himself, resolving that this time would be different from all those times before.

Frankly, he was worn out from all the fighting.

"I didn't expect you to be waiting for me at the bar. Alone."

And for the love of Myrddin, that's what he was doing, wasn't it? Patronising a crummy hotel lounge drinking overpriced firewhisky when his room was equipped with an expensive bottle of Scotch and wards primed to dissuade any persistent heroes?

But no, instead he was nursing this watered-down Ogden's, thinking, waiting. He might as well be waving a white flag. Potter had won this war of attrition as he always did, without even the slightest hint of self-awareness, and even after that mind-numbing Ministry mixer Draco could appreciate irony. The Saviour of Wizardkind, as oblivious to this battle as he was to his first victory and the first time, but not the last time, a heart was sacrificed for him. Just as well, Draco supposed. It wouldn't do for such truths to emerge.

He loaded his dismissal with scorn instead. "I see your ego has gone the way of your expanding waistline."

Draco had always thought that a smirk was a surprisingly good look on Potter.

"I'll have you know I've got a new trainer. You'll eat your words when you see my waistline." Potter leaned in, too close, far too close, his voice turning silkier than it had a right to. "Or maybe you'd rather eat something else?"

He changed his mind. A smirking Potter was a very, very bad thing.

"Sorry, I've had my fill. I was just leaving."

"Then I'll walk you to your room."

Draco bit back his exasperation, his chances of escape dropping to nil. Surrender plastered on his face, he started across the lobby without sparing a second glance for his shadow. But Potter was nothing if not dogged, shuffling after him with that stilted step that should have looked awkward, but didn't. He caught up as they neared the lifts, his hand reaching out to cup Draco's elbow. Just a touch, nothing inappropriate about it, except that this was Potter and that made it obscene. It'd been this way ever since that fiasco with their wands so many years ago, this overpowering surge of magic that enveloped them whenever they were in physical contact. The Healers said it was unusual but not unheard of, that it was a kind of complementary magic often shared amongst family members. Draco had used his parents' wands many times and never been left with this inexplicable sense of well-being, like he was watching a raspberry sunset while waves lapped at his toes.

"You still feel it, don't you?"

Draco prayed that his agonising bliss wasn't written all over his face. "Only a tickle, nothing to owl home about."

Potter just grinned; Draco wondered when the man had become so unflappable, while he, in Potter's company, felt utterly flapped.

They stood silently until the lift arrived with a pleasant 'ding'. Draco stepped in first. "Coming?"

Potter followed him in but, eschewing all accepted etiquette like the Gryffindor he was, did not turn around. Instead they stood face to face, eyes only inches apart, mouths close enough that they breathed the same air. Draco tilted his head with what he hoped was a disdainful snub, then realised the fates were truly mocking him; they had entered a mirrored lift. Cardinal points of Potter, certain defeat in every direction.

Potter only seemed to be interested in one Draco. His hand reached for silver hair, his fingers winding around a strand that flickered like a dust mote just on the edge of Draco's vision. For a moment that lasted forever Potter studied it, a smile growing on his face as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. His gaze, enthralled and intense, drew Draco in, forced him to take a long calming breath. There was no doubt he'd lost the battle but not by attrition this time. This was willing surrender on whatever terms Potter demanded. His vision blurred as dark locks shifted to the side and leaned closer; his eyelids slid closed and he inhaled the woodsy scent that surrounded Potter, let his mouth fall open as a puff of warm air touched his lip...

"Hold the doors!"

Draco leapt away from the heat just as a chubby hand grappled with the sliding door. Mortimer Lumpridge shuffled through, smelling for all the world like he'd spent the day in a brewery. Draco screwed his nose up as the man swayed, but Potter, stepping solidly between them, looked amused.

"Seems you're enjoying the conference, Mr Lumpridge."

The unwelcome interloper, whose unfortunate resemblance to a rhinoceros made Draco wonder whether his lineage should be investigated under the new codes on wizard-animal interbreeding, blinked several times before realising he wasn't alone. "Oh, Mr Potter, good evening." With slightly less geniality he added, "Mr Malfoy."

The air in the tiny lift suddenly felt too close for Draco to bother with even a nod. Potter still stood between them, but now his hand had reached back and, with the sureness of a seeker, landed at the join of Draco's legs. That flush of magic that had hit him earlier swept over him, intensified immeasurably now, this area infinitely more sensitive than his elbow. He tried stepping away, but his arse was already pressed against the back of the lift; escape was impossible. And in a lift where they could be observed from multiple angles—was Potter completely insane? The news would spread through the Ministry by morning, the secret they'd concealed all these years, destroying their reputations, their wives, their children…

Then Draco thoughts frayed to nothingness as bold fingers tightened, his brain's blood supply suddenly making a mad dash south.

Potter, curse him, stayed cool as a cucumber. "So did we miss a party?"

Mortimer's attempt to wink came across less lecherous, more squinty, and Draco grimaced, not least because the heel of Potter's hand was engaged in a torturous rhythm of press and retreat. "No," Mortimer said, although Draco had already forgotten the question he'd been asked, "Mediwitch trainee convention just up the road. You know how wild those young witches get."

"No, but apparently you do. Have a good time?"

Draco's jaw dropped, aghast. Potter was encouraging the man, even with his hand filled with what was quickly becoming a rather demanding erection. For his part, Draco would just as soon cast one of the newly illegal Obliviate spells on Lumpridge if it would get him out of here faster. Really, could Azkaban be any worse than this hell?

"Well, you know, when the cat's away ..."

"... the mice will play, right."

Merlin, they were trading Muggle aphorisms about rodentia! Of course Potter had never had any sense of decorum, but the Lumpridges were—all physical evidence to the contrary—old pureblood stock. This faddish love of all things Muggle was annoying at the best of times. Now it was intolerable. Draco longed to hex them both; he would definitely curse Potter for this humiliation. On the off chance that his pained reflection didn't give him away, there was no possible way he could escape this situation without revealing his discomfiture. Even Mortimer, three sheets to the wind, would notice.

Draco stood glumly—definitely not sulking, Malfoys did not sulk, especially not while on the receiving end of a surprisingly skilful grope—until with another sharp 'ding' the lift arrived. He drew himself up, bracing for his walk of shame, but a squeeze hard enough to be painful stopped him. Brightly Potter announced, "Mr Lumpridge, I believe this is your floor."

"Oh. That's odd, isn't it? I wonder why it didn't stop at your floor first?"

That was odd, not at all the way of magical lifts. Draco cast a suspicious eye at Potter's free hand, noting the tip of a wand extruding from his sleeve. He got a wicked smile in return, one that made him rethink the wisdom of fleeing to Azkaban just yet.

"It's an old building," Potter was saying, "I'm sure it just got confused. Goodnight, Mr Lumpridge."

Harry's wand was out before their companion's shadow had crossed the threshold, and with an elaborate flourish that would have made Pansy proud he slid shut the doors, froze the elevator in place, and spun wards that the Aurors would waste the better part of an hour unravelling. Then he swung back around to Draco, his wicked smile turning unforgivably sinful.

"Nice trick, Potter."

"I thought so." His eyes scorched, destroying any chance that Draco might escape unsinged. "But I've got a better one."

His wand traced down the clasps of Draco's robe, shearing it open as surely as if he'd used the tip of a blade. Draco shivered in the wake of the cool air, but Potter obviously mistook it as misplaced praise, if his smile was anything to go by. "I've missed these old-fashioned things," he whispered, stroking the soft undergarments.

"They're hardly old-fashioned," Draco retorted, yearning to add a rebuke about Potter's disdain of wizarding tradition, but indignance was difficult as inquisitive fingers wound their way under the satiny cloth. Hard to breathe, even, and Draco fumbled for the railing behind him, needing to hold onto something that wasn't that messy lump of hair that somehow, miraculously, was waist-high now. How did this happen, the very air contracting and expanding all at once, and Potter, always Potter, like those terrifying Muggle bombs he'd read about, densely packed atoms spinning so frantically that they had no choice but to explode.

"I've missed this," Potter mumbled, the words almost buried as he nuzzled Draco's crotch through paper-thin cloth. It's only the magic, Draco reminded himself, watching his reflection laugh at him as pleasure tickled his skin, light as dandelion fluff. Just a physical reaction to a freak occurrence, nothing more. Nothing that might make Potter mean what he said in these stolen moments, the endearments he muttered as he cupped Draco's privates, the look of adoration as he tugged down the long pants and exposed everything to his greedy green eyes.

"God, you're gorgeous," whispered Potter, as if expecting Draco to protest.

As a matter of fact, he almost forgot to do so. Chiding himself, he forced out words that sounded just clipped enough to be normal. "Yes, well, I'm feeling like a bloody museum piece. Will you just get on with it?"

"Demanding git," came the reply, strangely affectionate, but he obeyed. Potter had become more obedient in recent years, wonderfully so, which Draco thought was another good look for him. In fact, much as he hated to admit it, the years had been remarkably kind to his old rival.

That his tongue was licking wet stripes down Draco's erection had absolutely no bearing on that.

That he was on his knees like some kind of Muggle supplicant worshipping Draco's flesh … well that was only the rightful order of the world.

That the rush from their mingled magic made Draco feel powerful enough to AK every self-righteous wizard who'd ever insulted him and at the same time so helpless that he could hardly stand on his own, well, that was normal around Potter too. Especially when those smirking red lips were stretched around Draco's girth, and that hot mouth was making lurid slurping sounds, and those clever, clever hands were inching their way up the inside of his thighs, sliding into the crease of his bum… Merlin, Draco couldn't deny that he'd missed this too, had spent far too many nights dreaming of this very moment. Now it surrounded him, the mirror and his fantasies lending an uncanny echo to this reality, ratcheting the sensations to an almost unbearable high.

Draco gasped—he'd almost forgotten that he could get this hard. But Potter was loving it, no doubt about that, taking him so deep that he choked a little before throttling his gag reflex. His little stutter sent Draco reeling, tugging those first tickles of orgasm up from his toes. His knees shook and he whimpered unexpectedly as his climax crept like gooseflesh across chilly skin. Potter sped up his ministrations, no barriers now, just fingers freely working their way deeper inside Draco's hole, and Potter's throat, open and slick and hungry, squeezing taut around Draco's cock. Tomorrow when the Head Auror addressed the crowd his throat would be too raw to speak, and only the two of them would know the reason—that Harry Potter liked nothing better than sucking Draco Malfoy into utter oblivion. Oblivion that was fast approaching, that was just beyond his reach, that was teasing him to the point of torture, that was, was…

Magic surged through him again and he writhed, he must have bellowed, but the joy of his climax was too great to be contained. Sensations flooded every molecule of his being with the totality of Cruciatus. Bliss not agony, although nearly as painful and every bit as jagged, crested over him, turning him inside out, edges turning rough and red and blotting all the Potters from his sights.

When the world blurred back to normal, Potter was still gently nuzzling his spent cock. Draco was too sensitive, it was almost too much, but he welcomed it, that sharp edge of pleasure that he always found the easiest to recall later. His surrender complete, Draco's hands rested on Potter's head. He watched his white fingers sink into the dark hair as if they were disappearing under water, slivers of pale skin refracting through the strands like schools of fish. Potter looked up then. His lips, unnaturally red, sucked the tender flesh and Draco had the urge to kiss them. Instead he watched as they caught a thread of spunk and stretched it taut; it shone like a dew-speckled spider's web until it snapped.

Draco dropped to the ground, making an effort not to look too satisfied but avoiding the reflection that would show how badly he'd failed. "My turn?" Potter asked, and Draco almost laughed at how hopeful but unsure his hoarse voice sounded. He wondered what would happen if he reneged.

Instead he asked, "What do you want?" and only just stopped himself before he added something inane like "anything."

"I want to kiss you."

And damn him for being such a romantic. A decade of marriage should have cured that; Merlin knew he'd been cured after the first month. Potter, though, would happily have them make out for hours, kissing like teenage Hufflepuffs until their lips were raw. It reminded Draco of the things they'd never have—the dates, the closeness, the time—and he loved and hated it in equal measure.

But it'd been an awfully long time since he'd been able to refuse anything Harry asked.

Remembering at the last moment to fake a put-upon sigh, Draco pulled him closer. Their lips pressed, almost tentatively, Potter more shy than he should be for someone whose mouth had just executed a near-perfect blow job. He moaned as Draco set about kissing him, his parting lips welcoming Draco inside. At first the exploration was slow, tongues sliding languidly together, their comforting magic blanketing them. But the taste of his seed on Potter's tongue, thick and bitter, revived Draco's hunger. His erection perked up as he moved to straddle Potter's hips, detecting hardness like steel underneath the soft robes. Their kisses deepened, Harry now enthusiastically attempting to devour Draco, and Draco willingly allowing himself to be consumed, until both were left gasping for breath.

"Merlin, Draco, I want you."

Draco groaned in agreement. His reflection preened back at him as Potter attacked his neck, biting hard enough to decorate his sharp collarbone with crimson smears. Against the darkness of Potter's robes his skin glowed, flushed and pink. Not daring to tear his eyes away, Draco fumbled in his robes for his wand. With a quick spell their remaining clothes crumpled on the ground like a snake's discarded skin, leaving Potter unclothed and Draco salivating.

I want this, he thought.

Potter shuddered, whether from the cold or the bobbing of his erection against Draco's bare thigh, Draco wasn't certain, but he was dying to feel that shudder inside. Another hasty spell prepared him before diving back in for another kiss. Potter's hands sought Draco's arse as they kissed. Fingers spread along his cheeks, nails digging in, spreading Draco wide. But even as his cock unfurled between them, the red tip already slick, Potter made no move to enter him. His touch was torturous and teasing, and he pulled away from the kiss with a grin.

"You want me, Draco, don't you?"

Fuck, what was Potter on about? "Of course I want you, you imbecile," he snapped. "We're starkers in a lift. We're hardly going to play snap."

Potter nibbled on his neck. "Oh, but it's not just now, is it?" he asked slyly. "You've wanted me all day, haven't you?"

Draco's throat tightened, dry as the Sahara. Merlin, how did Potter make his voice do that, scrape under his skin like that? He couldn't respond, of course, could never admit to it, but a furtive glance at his reflection revealed that he already had.

"I watched you, you know, looking so professional," that silky voice continued as his finger teased Draco's hole, pushing inside by just a single insufficient joint. "But the whole time you were thinking about this, weren't you? How it'd feel when I slid inside you, the rush of magic through you…"

It took biting his lip to stifle his whimper, the only action that Draco had any hope of controlling anymore. His hands moved down Potter's chest with no conscious thought, through the dusting of dark hair, touching the skin they'd been starving for. But still those words kept coming, those truths that Draco couldn't deny.

"You've wanted this for weeks, haven't you, Draco? Playing our last time over and over in your head until it crowds out everything else…until everything else is just a distraction that keeps you from remembering what this feels like, you and me…"

Draco gulped, because yes, yes, that was what this obsession had become, no matter how much he fought against it, no matter how ridiculous it was. He lived for these stolen moments, for each mind-numbing conference and each flimsily excused rendezvous. As much as he hated to admit it, he lived for this magic that made his grey world suddenly explode into vibrant colour.

"Tell me you want this as much as I do. Please, Draco, I need to hear you say it."

There was a strange catch in his voice that pulled Draco from his own swirling thoughts, back to Potter whose face was filled with such earnest need. It was enough that Draco knew he wasn't alone in this feeling. That they'd both replayed these moments, that they both needed the other to brighten their black-and-white lives, that they both knew that, no matter what happened elsewhere, this, here, was what was real.

"Yes, Potter" —he caught himself as green eyes darkened— "Harry, I want this, I really do want this…"

His words were swallowed in another crushing kiss as hands lifted his hips. In the mirror he watched his features tense as he was penetrated, replaced almost immediately by a surge of elation at being so completely filled. They started to move, the rhythm building steadily, their bodies perfectly in time. Fingers tangled in his hair, tugging his head back and exposing his throat to lavish kisses that washed over him like liquid fire.

Through the moans and the slapping sounds of their bare skin he heard his name intoned like the incanting of a spell. Draco closed his eyes against the dizzying flow of magic and joined in the chant, "want this, want you, Harry, always want you…" The words swelled as he ground his hips down, overcome with his need to feel Potter even deeper, to be marked inside with a tender ache that he could hold onto and call forth whenever he needed. Potter pushed back urgently, his grunts growing more ragged with every thrust. Hands slid down Draco's back, palms cradled his bottom, spread him wider. His skin threatened to split as fingernails dug into them, but it hardly mattered; the friction, the slick slide of Harry's cock, so deep, so full, was the entirety of Draco's world. He knew the exact instant that Harry's orgasm caught up with him, felt the tension in his shoulders just an instant before nails clawed into his arse harder than before, heard the ragged cry as Harry sheathed himself deeper and poured into Draco's body. And Draco answered with a gasp of his own, and then he was coming again, drowning in waves of pleasure that rocked between them. Their magic crackled like electricity, showering them in a golden glow that brightened as they kissed again.

At last they parted, and Draco collapsed on top of Harry; a tiny voice reminded him that he should have been horrified at this weakness, but it was distant and easy to ignore. His more immediate concern was that his bones felt liquefied and he couldn't recall how to bring them back. He opened his mouth but found he'd forgotten how to form words, too. Surprisingly, these thoughts didn't worry him like they should. As he sank to stillness against Harry's chest, as he relaxed against Harry's beating heart, Draco felt for a moment like nothing could ever worry him again. This feeling, this golden connection, it was everything.

Potter, of course, had to ruin it almost before the rush of magic had dissipated. "Stay with me tonight."

The wrenching sincerity of the appeal snapped Draco from his reverie. With a sigh he pulled himself away and reached for his wand. "Are you daft?" he parried. "Your wife's probably firecalling your room right now." He set about casting cleaning spells, his heart twisting as the sticky, silvery threads he'd spattered across Potter's stomach disappeared.

"I don't care, Draco. I need you. Please?"

The voice so close to his ear shouldn't have startled him. Pity that Draco had let down his guard so entirely; he knew better than that. He stood and dressed quickly, anxious for the shield his robes provided. "You need your family, Potter." And it was inherently unfair that he should be the one to have to remind him of that. Draco turned away, but the mirror wouldn't allow him to escape. Potter's earnest look faded, saddened from every angle, and why should that bother him so? Draco remembered the joy of hurting Potter, when a frown from his rival felt like he was basking in sunshine, not shivering as the sun sank behind ominous clouds.

That's what he had to look forward to, though, overcast days and dreary nights, and trying to convince himself that he didn't need this. That he could turn his back on it, even as his cold bed was warmed with these memories. But he knew he couldn't. He might blame it on the magic that bound them together, or the fact that his marriage was a farce, or his receding hairline and reluctance to start over with someone new. But he knew those excuses were as flimsy as the ones they offered their wives when the urge to be with each other became overpowering. The truth was that he'd needed Harry since the first day they'd met, and age and inconveniences like pride and marriage and children did nothing to diminish that. Tomorrow they'd part as polite acquaintances and return to their black-and-white worlds, and in another couple of months he'd find himself in some other seaside town at some other Ministry conference, nursing an overpriced drink in a dingy hotel bar, wishing he could resist and longing for his surrender.

But tonight …

Draco handed Harry's clothes to him, waving the white dress shirt before him with a sideways smile.

"Perhaps I might stop in later. I've had trouble sleeping of late, and you might be of some use entertaining me."

Surrender, total and unconditional. But as rays of sunlight streamed from Potter's smile, brilliant colour in every reflection repeating unto infinity, Draco found it very hard to care.

~~~~ The End ~~~~