Current mood:

satisfied

Drawn, H/D, NC-17


A million thanks to quiet_lucidity for the beta, the title, and the chat to fine-tune. *loves, deeply*

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Drawn

The very last Hogsmeade weekend of sixth year, Harry Potter came back from the village wearing a band of braided leather around his wrist.

Draco noticed it immediately. Potter (along with Granger and Weasley) came ambling into the Great Hall for dinner that evening. For once Potter wasn’t sandwiched between the two but was off to one side. Almost as though he were by himself.

There was a slight swagger to his walk, a subtle sensuality, and a definite sexuality inherent in his movements that was new, and Draco’s eyes narrowed as he tracked Potter’s progress toward the Gryffindor table.

Potter wasn’t listening to the no-doubt inane babbling that his housemates were exchanging, their color high and their eyes glittering flirtatiously at each other. No, whatever Granger and Weasley had going on was something that didn’t involve Potter, but Potter seemed fine with it. He strode the length of the Great Hall, edging closer to the other House tables than usual, and just as he passed the Slytherin table, he lifted his left hand and raked it through his hair.

The leather wrap was clearly visible: the band was wide, about an inch and a half across, and formed from three individual strips of leather that had been braided together. It fastened with a snap, and the metal winked dully as it caught the light. It was obviously new—the leather was stiff and shiny, the band holding a springy circular shape and standing out a bit from the wrist it encircled, almost more like a bangle bracelet than anything else.

Girlish, Draco tried to tell himself, pretending that what he felt was mild disgust, but even he couldn’t ignore the curl of sensual awareness that fluttered in his gut.

Leather.

Harry Potter had a leather wrist wrap.

As dinner progressed, Draco found his eyes continually straying to the Gryffindor table, straining to catch glimpses of it.

That night, Draco saw it in his dreams.

~~~~

Draco tuned out of Professor Binns’s droning voice and kept his gaze focused on Potter’s left arm. The leather braid was just barely visible from under the edge of Potter’s student robe, but it was definitely there.

He wore it all the time, Draco was convinced of it. In just a week, it had softened slightly, the shiny newness a bit dulled, the stiff circle it had originally formed now more relaxed. It was even a bit darker; Draco had noticed that in Potions, when the other boy had shoved the sleeves of his robe up over his elbows while chopping mandrake leaves.

The more it was worn, the softer and richer looking the leather would become, Draco knew.

He wondered if Harry wore it in the shower, and when a vision rose in his mind—a vision of a gloriously naked Harry Potter, water and soap streaming over him, hands buried in his own wet hair, wearing only that dark strip of leather on one wrist—Draco got hard.

Again.

~~~~

Later that night, just as he had every single night since he’d first seen Potter wearing the leather braid around his wrist, Draco brought himself off, and he did so to fantasies that it was not his own hand but Potter’s that was wrapped around his cock.

There were times when he was so hard he came almost right away, came in hot, desperate pulses over his own hand the moment he let himself picture that braided band in his mind, but tonight he was more in control.

He took his time, drawing the whole process out for as long as he could, arousing himself slowly, teasing himself mercilessly for long, titillating minutes, stroking lightly, then bringing himself right to the edge before bringing himself back…repeating the cycle of urgency and restraint…holding his climax off. He imagined the other boy’s hand, tanned dark with its strong, capable fingers and blunt nails, wrapped securely around his cock, stroking firmly, stopping at the head to tease and trail through the precome and work the slit before sliding down the length to roll his balls…his eyes closed more tightly and he slid the fingers of his other hand even lower, back to the sensitive skin behind the sac, and when the band of his watch scraped against his skin, he moaned softly, imagining it to be the leather band not of his own watch but the braided one that curled around Potter’s wrist, Harry’s…wrist…Harry’s… and he came.

~~~~

The following weekend, there was a loosely organized Quidditch festival, a sort of all-day school-wide game, where the teams changed constantly, and no one bothered to keep score.

The weather was glorious, and nearly the whole school turned out, mostly to fly in easy circles or to just socialize in the stands. Draco had been there most of the day, lazing and laughing with a handful of Slytherins and Ravenclaws over mostly nothing at all, flying occasionally, and partaking in the picnic that had appeared at dinnertime. He’d finally had enough of the whole scene and was taking his leave when he’d impulsively veered to one side and walked under the Quidditch stands. They were still very crowded; most of the older students were avoiding studying, and as he passed beneath the stands, he could catch glimpses of feet and legs above him.

Suddenly, just in front of him, a hand dropped down, reached to one side, and was held aloft, poised as if waiting, outstretched expectantly. Draco froze. It was Potter’s hand. The leather wrap gave it away instantly, and when another hand—a boy’s hand—came down and the fingers laced through Potter’s, Draco felt almost dizzy at the idea that Potter was with someone and he hadn’t known about it. He felt unreasonably betrayed.

Unable to move, Draco watched as the two hands first clasped and then toyed and teased at each other. Bitter jealousy arose and twisted in his stomach, and he became unwillingly and painfully aroused as the fingers of Potter’s playmate slid suggestively back and forth across Potter’s palm before the index finger dipped down to thrust beneath the leather braid on his wrist.

Blinding, irrational rage surged through Draco; rage that someone else should be allowed to touch the leather band, to play with it and to caress Potter, to claim any right to Potter, to know Potter in a way Draco wanted to but didn’t, and bile rose strongly as he wondered if the leather wrap had been a gift from the boy whose hand so confidently claimed Potter’s. The idea that the piece of leather might have been given to Potter did not sit well.

Jealousy soared as the index finger continued to thrust slowly, suggestively, in and out from beneath the band, and when Harry’s hand turned, the fingers flexing back to offer the wrist more blatantly, Draco wanted to turn away, but couldn’t make himself.

He was hard, so hard it hurt, and the sight in front of him was bringing him to the edge faster than he thought possible.

Draco reached down and pressed one hand against his aching erection, trying to relieve the pressure, and even as he did so, Harry’s hand twisted to grasp the finger that had been stroking beneath the band of leather.

Draco watched, in an agony of arousal and envy, as Harry’s fingers curled around the single digit and began to fist it loosely, mimicking a hand job, teasing at the fingertip and circling it before grasping the finger to begin the whole pattern over again.

The very image that had featured in so many of his fantasies was being played out right in front of him, and completely unable to stop himself, Draco loosened the fastening on his trousers and eased his hand inside. His eyes closed briefly as his hand came into contact with the nerves screaming in his cock, and he shuddered. He was going to come in about thirty seconds….

He shot a quick glance over one shoulder; there wasn’t a soul in sight, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He pulled his hand out of his trousers and reached for his wand, casting a quick privacy spell before reaching in again. His cock jumped and twitched in his hand, the tip was leaking precome, and he groaned aloud, glad that the privacy spell was in place.

Mesmerized by the sight in front of him, he watched Harry’s hand avidly, mirroring every single movement, every flick of the other boy’s fingers and tightening of his fist. Whatever Harry did to the finger, Draco did to his own cock, playing out his favorite fantasy yet again, but this time with the excruciatingly erotic effect of being able to pretend that the sensations he was feeling were being caused not by himself but by the hand he saw in front of him.

The one with the braided leather band. Harry’s hand.

It took longer than thirty seconds, but not much.

~~~~

That night at dinner, every time Draco tried to sneak a glance at Harry, he couldn’t, because every time he looked over, the Gryffindor’s eyes were trained right on Draco.

It wasn’t until much later that Draco wondered why Harry had been watching him.

~~~~

Two days before term ended, well after curfew on one of the hottest nights of the early summer, Draco saw Harry Potter emerge from a darkened classroom. He eased himself quickly behind a large tapestry, eager to observe whatever he could. Between the obstructing tapestry and the dim light in the corridor, he couldn’t see much, but it appeared that Harry had been in the room for some time, because he was blinking and dazed looking. He ran one hand through his hair in a vain attempt to restore some sort of order to it, and he fumbled with the hem of his school shirt, tucking it haphazardly into his trousers. It didn’t take a lot of brainpower for Draco to figure out that he was seeing Harry just after an assignation, probably with the boy from the Quidditch stands, and Draco wondered bitterly for the millionth time who Harry was with, and why, for fucking once, the rumor mill was so completely silent on the topic of The Boy Who Lived.

As Draco watched from his hiding place, Harry pulled his wand out of his sleeve and carefully locked the door behind him. Looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, he leaned back against the wall and pulled a long, thin strip of cloth out of his trouser pocket. It was on the side away from Draco, and the tapestry and the dimness of the light obscured his vision, but it was unmistakably a school tie.

At first Draco thought the other boy was just going to put it back on before heading back to Gryffindor Tower, but he didn’t. Instead Harry wrapped it around one hand, curling the length around and around until it covered his fist and then he lifted it to his face, running it over his mouth. Then, in a gesture that was so shockingly erotic that Draco felt his cock twitch, Harry opened his mouth and bit at the tie, the motion swift and fierce. He pulled the tie back out of his mouth and rubbed the silk along his jaw, stroking it down the side of his own neck before lifting it back to his mouth a second time. Closing his eyes, Harry inhaled deeply, and he pushed away from the wall to start walking down the corridor, the silk still wrapped around his fist. As he passed, Draco caught a better glimpse of the tie in the dim light of the corridor.

The stripes were green and silver.

~~~~

For the next two days, every time Draco looked at Harry, he found that Harry was already looking at him, his gaze intent and unabashed.

Between the times Draco was alone (when he often fantasized about Harry), and the times when the two were in the same proximity (when he looked up frequently to find Harry watching him) Draco went through the final days of school in a state of near constant arousal.

~~~~

Draco didn’t dream often, but whenever he did, all that long summer, he dreamed of leather braided wrist wraps and Slytherin ties; of open mouths and teasing fingers and dark hair and intense eyes. He dreamed of strong fingers wrapped around his aching cock, and of sweet release.

The last night, just before he went back to school, he dreamed of his own fingers wrapped around a cock he’d never seen, and of hearing Harry Potter’s voice, calling out Draco’s name.

~~~~

At dinner on the third full day since they’d been back at school, Draco noted that once again Harry Potter was looking at him. Just…looking. Not glaring, not smirking, not scowling suspiciously.

Just looking.

For the tenth straight meal in a row.

Not to mention the times he’d caught Harry looking in Potions, Transfigurations, Herbology, and in the corridors between classes.

It made Draco hard. Constantly.

And God knew, Draco didn’t need any help staying hard around Harry Potter. Torn between a fascination that was bordering on obsessive and an inexplicable feeling of annoyance, Draco registered the fact that he was once again aroused.

With his eyes still firmly fixed on Draco, Harry reached up and pushed at his hair, the leather band around his wrist and clearly visible from across the Great Hall.

Draco stared back, thinking that if Harry didn’t stop looking at him sometime very soon, then he was going to have to do something about it.

Like tell him to stop looking. Or ask him what the hell he wanted. Or pull him into a darkened classroom and be the one responsible for putting that dazed look back on Harry’s face.

That last option was starting to hold a lot of appeal.

“So, are you going to put Potter out of his misery any time soon?”

Draco jerked his gaze away from Harry Potter and turned his head around to fix narrowed eyes on Blaise Zabini. “What do you mean?”

The other boy snorted and reached across the table for the bread. “I mean, Potter practically fucking drools whenever he looks at you. And he looks at you all the time. It’s even worse this year than it was last spring.” He shot a speculative glance at the Gryffindor table before looking back at Draco. “If you don’t want him, I’d be more than happy to offer him my services.” He smirked. “Same as Chris Cullen did last year. Never thought Potter would be interested in a Slytherin, but I guess Chris got lucky. Of course, I’ll likely not get much further than Chris did, but I’d sure as hell try.” His eyes flickered briefly back toward the boy on the other side of the Great Hall. “Fuck, I’d even be content to just get what Chris got.”

“Which was…what, exactly?”

Blaise shrugged. “Not much, as far as I could tell. A bit of wanking each other off, I think, but he only hooked up with Potter a few times, just at the very end of the year. If you’re going to cut Potter loose, be sure and let me know before you tell everyone else, will you? I’d like to be first in line to console the Golden Boy.” His eyes took on a feral gleam and his gaze slid back across the room to rest on Harry. “I’ve got a few really good ideas about how to do that.”

Pieces were falling into place almost faster than Draco could keep up, but he managed. He was already rising out of his seat; his eyes found Potter’s—and yes, those eyes were riveted right on Draco’s—and he sent a silent message as clearly as he could manage with half the Slytherin table watching.

The Gryffindor’s color rose slightly but his eyes continued to meet Draco’s boldly, and when Draco looked meaningfully at the door of the Great Hall and lifted one eyebrow, Harry gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Fierce triumph roared through Draco, and his cock—perennially half-hard these days—hardened fully in anticipation. His fingers clenched on the table top and he turned and looked straight at Blaise just long enough to say, softly but very clearly, “You so much as touch him and I’ll fucking take you apart.”

Without waiting for Blaise to answer, he turned and left the Great Hall.

~~~~

He was leaning against the castle wall about thirty feet away from the doors to the Great Hall when Harry appeared fifteen minutes later. Draco stood still, shoulders flat against the cool stone and one leg bent with the bottom of his foot against the wall, thumbs hooked casually in his trouser pockets, his relaxed posture at absolute odds with sensual awareness that screamed through his system and centered in his cock. He watched Harry approach, taking in the easy grace of the other boy’s walk and the confident toss of his head when he met Draco’s eyes.

He strode directly up to Draco, not stopping until he was nearly toe-to-toe with him and Draco nodded in greeting. They stayed that way, not speaking, the tension practically tangible. Draco let his eyes travel deliberately down Harry’s body to rest on the obvious bulge in the front of his trousers.

He stared at it, feeling his mouth water, and forced himself to look back up to meet the Gryffindor’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry didn’t even pretend to not know what Draco meant. “Because I didn’t think Malfoys did Gryffindors. Specifically, I didn’t for a second dream that you’d be interested in me.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “And what about you? Are you interested in me? Or just in slumming a bit with any Slytherin who’ll slide their hand down your trousers?”

Harry lifted his left hand and shoved his hair out of his eyes so he could stare more directly into Draco’s. “Oh, come on, Malfoy. What do you think? After six years of tension and friction and whatever else you’d like to call it? As if I’d bother with anyone else.”

Draco let his attention be caught by the leather strap around Harry’s wrist. Months of sun and water and wearing against Harry’s skin showed. It had shrunk a bit and was almost snug now, curled lovingly around the tanned wrist, the leather dark and rich looking, butter-soft, and one of the sexiest things Draco could ever remember seeing.

Ignoring Harry’s question, he reached out with one hand and grabbed Harry by the wrist, lifting the arm so that the braided leather band was at eye level. He slid his fingers across it, fondling it with his thumb, stroking both the leather and the skin beneath it, and felt deeply, supremely satisfied when Harry let out a brief, involuntary moan.

“You bothered with someone else last spring.”

Harry shrugged. “I only bothered to see if Slytherins would go for Gryffindors. Ever.”

Draco’s voice stayed cool but his hand tightened around the leather strap. “Did he give you this?”

Harry’s eyes snapped up and bored into Draco’s. “No. I bought it; it’s mine.” He was silent for a second and then added shrewdly, “Did it make you jealous? The idea that he might have?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Draco’s voice was even, and he stared directly into Harry’s eyes. “The whole school knows you wear this; I hated the idea that someone else bought it for you. That they put it on your wrist, and that it meant enough that you never took it off.” He pushed away from the wall, still holding Harry by the wrist, and reached up with his other hand to grab a hank of thick, dark hair. He tugged on it, not gently. When Harry acquiesced, when his eyes glimmered with awareness and he tipped his head deeply to one side, when the strong, clean line of his throat was literally offered to Draco, Draco paused. Harry’s eyes were still open, wide and knowing, and holding the gaze with his own, Draco moved slowly forward.

He could smell Harry, he could feel the warmth of his skin, and as he was drawn further in, he gave up trying to hold the eye contact. He moved closer still until his mouth found the tender juncture of jaw and neck, and he fitted his mouth over the silky skin and sucked strongly, raking hard with his teeth. God, but Harry tasted good. He soothed the abused skin with his tongue, heady with the realization that Harry was already breathing irregularly.

He lifted his head, his own breath shuddering through him, and waited until he thought his voice would be steady. “We should…talk.”

Harry’s eyes opened; the sharp clarity of earlier was muted and hazy, but his voice was even. “Nine thirty. By the Quidditch pitch.”

Before Draco could say anything, Harry shoved the open collar of Draco’s shirt to one side and leaned in, mouth open. Placing his lips softly against the protruding collarbone, he kissed it, stroking softly with his tongue and teasing at the bone. When he pressed his hips forward, bringing the hot, hard bulge of his erection into direct contact with Draco’s, Draco’s breath released in a hiss. “Fuck.”

Harry pulled away, his hand lingering at Draco’s neck. “Nine thirty. Talk first, then…other things.” He pinned Draco with a look. “And Malfoy…Draco…anything is fair game. Anything you want. But it has to work both ways.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Has it ever been any other way with us?”

“No. I was just making sure. Nine thirty.”

“Oh, I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”

~~~~

Draco dropped into his seat at breakfast the following morning lightheaded from lack of sleep and far beyond satisfied. He let his mind dance over snatches of the night that had just passed and glanced over at the Gryffindor table just in time to see Harry, freshly showered, push in between Finnigan and Weasley and reach for French toast.

He ran his fingers through his own still-damp hair and gave a small, private grin.

Sometime today—most likely during double Transfiguration this afternoon—the lack of sleep was going to catch up with him, and he’d crash, but he’d just have to take whatever punishment McGonagall wanted to dish out. With any luck, Harry would hit the wall then, too, and she’d go easy on Harry; if she did, Draco thought, it was likely she’d be relatively easy on Draco, too. Generally speaking, she was pretty fair about things.

He looked up again, this time fully expecting—and finding—Harry’s eyes focused directly on his. He lifted his glass of orange juice in an unobtrusive but definitive toast. Harry held a fork in his right hand, but lifted his own glass in his left and returned the subtle gesture. Draco found his gaze lingering on Harry’s left arm, where the sleeve of his student robe covered the wrist, and felt a distinctive tightening in his crotch.

He let his mind drift back to the previous night, to the time after the hours of conversation. The conversation, itself, had been amazing: open but careful, interspersed with constant touching that neither of them could seem to stop. Finally, Harry had abandoned words and climbed onto Draco’s lap, his legs opened around Draco’s hips and their groins pressed intimately together. Their lips came together in frantic, desperate passion, the kisses scorching, and they’d rocked against each other, the motions firm and rhythmic, and they’d come simultaneously.

After the urgency—the almost violent need—of that first time, they’d spent hours learning each other, and Draco felt a faint flush wash over his face as he recalled yet again his own hushed voice, confessing every single fantasy he’d had and watching through slitted eyes as Harry had brought them to life, stroking and teasing and doing every last thing Draco described, all with those glorious hands, one wrist wrapped with that distinctive braid of leather. When Draco had finally come, the orgasm had left him boneless and mind-shattered.

After he recovered, Harry had whispered into Draco’s ear in soft tones, telling Draco detailed descriptions of images that had kept him awake at night all summer, and Draco recalled Harry’s words with a feeling of predatory delight. They’d been spoken hesitantly at first but then had come tumbling out, stuttered in their haste, followed by desperate moans and cries as Draco used his mouth to bring Harry off, his lips and tongue faithfully re-creating the other boy’s every spoken syllable.

Spent, they’d lain on the grass, curling instinctively into each other and soothing each other with broken phrases and trembling hands.

They’d talked again, for hours more, and then Harry had suddenly pushed Draco back onto the cool grass and said simply, “Let me.” He’d encircled Draco’s wrists with his hands and pinned them to Draco’s hips, leaning over to take Draco, already half-hard, into his mouth. Draco had writhed on the ground, legs opening wantonly, breathless and insane with sensation, his mind fracturing and Harry’s name on his lips as he came. Still shuddering, still breathing heavily, he’d reached for the other boy, drunk on pleasure and eager to return it.

They’d talked again until nearly dawn, when they’d reluctantly decided that they needed to head back to the castle. And just before they’d parted….

Draco looked up again, just in time to see Harry reach for more juice. The left sleeve of his robe slid up, exposing his wrist, and Draco’s gut tightened again at the sight.

There was a pale, pale strip of flesh there, showing clearly against the tanned skin, the place that had been shielded from the sun and weather all summer by the leather braid, a place now exposed and naked.

He watched, visceral satisfaction settling warmly inside at the surprised expressions from Harry’s sharp-eyed housemates as they noticed the absence of the leather wrap, and he felt a faint, answering grin on his own face at Harry’s private smile and amused refusal to answer questions.

They’d all know soon enough.

Draco poured himself more tea and drank deeply. Beneath his own sleeve, the braid fitted closely, resting securely against his skin, still slightly damp from his shower.

It was never coming off.

~ fin

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As always, feedback most appreciated. :)