Rating: M
Eighth-Year Hogwarts Fic.
Warnings: Boy/Boy, Swearing, First Time, Wonky Perspective
Summary: Potter sure does enjoy stalking you, doesn't he?

You've almost forgotten what it feels like to have those jade-green eyes trained upon you, watching your every move at the breakfast table in the mornings. Potter hadn't been here for your disaster of a seventh year. You haven't felt that gaze, watching, lingering, obsessing for a little more than a year now. You don't even have to look up from your tea to know that Potter is staring at you. There's a tingling on the back of your neck that makes you aware of his gaze.

Blaise jostles your arm and you nearly knock over the sugar bowl. You've been spacing out, stirring your tea with wandless magic aimlessly as you focus on the tingly feeling in your skin. "Potter is staring at you," Blaise says, and when you look up, he's frowning in the direction of the Gryffindor table. You follow his gaze to Potter, who is staring at you, his spoon halfway to his mouth, milk dripping into his bowl. He catches you looking and a hot pink flush spreads across his cheeks like wildfire.

The tingling moves to your stomach.

"Does he have to stare at you like an idiot every morning?" Blaise asks, stabbing his fried tomatoes. "It's fucking creepy." You still haven't figured out whether Blaise is just overprotective, or if it's something more. When he acts like this, you begin to think it's the latter.

You 'hmm' in agreement, even though you don't actually agree. You begin to stir your tea again. You're not going to drink it. They had run out of earl grey before you could get to breakfast this morning, and you refuse to drink conjured tea. "He's always been a tad bit obsessed with me, hasn't he?" Blaise looks at you with his eyebrows raised.

"Well, don't you just think you're something special?"

"What?" you say, staring back at Blaise, who's now switched to quirking one of his perfect black eyebrows. You quirk one in response. "He stalked me for an entire school year, Blaise."

"And with good reason," Blaise reminds, and you elbow him.

"Get stuffed," you mutter. Blaise stabs your left arm with his golden fork before resuming his breakfast. You push your scrambled eggs around on your plate as your tea swirls like a mini cyclone inside of the blue-patterened china teacup.

It's not like you're not obsessed with Potter yourself. You've been obsessed with the boy since the day that you met him in Madame Malkin's. You could tell that the tiny bespectacled little boy didn't like you, and that was probably due to the fact that you were acting like a right tosspot. You had chatted to your mother all day long about the little boy from the robe shop until she had finally just said "Enough, Draco" and you had finally shut up.

Obsession does not generally send you to good places, you realize, frowning. Your being obsessed with Potter led to most of your rudeness towards the Golden Trio during the earlier years. Obsession leads to jealousy, and jealousy leads to uncontrolled emotions.

Eventually, you snap out of whatever world you seem to have managed to sink into and you get up from the table and sling your leather bag across your chest. Blaise watches you intently. "Library," is all you say. You both know that you've no real reason to go. You just can't stand to be in the same room as Potter anymore.

As you reach the double doors to the Hall, you turn to look at the Gryffindor table, and you find Potter staring at you again. This time, he doesn't look away.

ϟϟϟ

First period is half gone and you're still in the library. You've got your Potions essay out and you're going over it meticulously, even though you know it's already perfect. It makes you look like you actually belong in here. You're really just hiding from everyone else. You can't seem to think of any other place in the castle that doesn't harbour some sort of memory that you'd rather not revisit in some shape or form, so you've banished yourself to the library.

You feel like you're turning into Granger.

Eventually you tire of pretending to work on homework and you toss your quill down onto the oak table and you stretch, bowing backwards over your chair. Your back pops six times and it feels glorious. You groan contentedly.

Somebody drops something behind the bookcase to your left, and it's followed by a quiet "Shit!" and several more mutters that you cannot quite discern. Moments later, Harry Potter steps from behind the bookcase holding three books on Egypt in his hands. His face is the color of a rose. You quirk an eyebrow in question and he bolts for the entrance of the library. Madame Pince goes flying after him, arms flailing, shouting about book thieves and heathens.

You shake your head. This is going to be a long day.

ϟϟϟ

Throughout every class you have with Potter, you can feel his stare attempting to bore into your skull. You're not sure whether he's attempting Legillimency or whether he's just attempting to set your head on fire with the intensity of his gaze, but so far, neither have worked. He has only succeeded at making you thoroughly uncomfortable. You're having the damndest time cutting up your potion ingredients just so with Potter's eyes watching your every movement. You feel almost like he's waiting for you to fuck up.

If he keeps watching you like this, you just might fuck up and lose a finger. Or four. Blaise eventually notices the inevitable danger you're getting yourself into and wrestles the knife away from you and sets you on stirring duty. You mutter obscenities at him for several moments until he steps on your foot in retaliation. You nearly ruin the potion once but manage to save it just in time for Slughorn to call class to an end. When you place the corked vial on Slughorn's desk, your hand brushes against Potter's, and it feels like a wave of heat washes over you.

You don't see Potter until after dinner, when you're out on the Quidditch pitch, flying in low circles. You haven't been on the team since sixth year because you had quit to focus more on your task from the Dark Lord (and hadn't that gone swimmingly?) and since then you haven't really managed to fly much. The last time you were on a broom was when you were glued to Potter's backside as the two of you raced through the Room of Requirement in the midst of Fiendfyre in an attempt to not be fried alive. You shiver.

You don't want to remember that right now, not while you're enjoying yourself.

Flying is something that you really need to begin again, you realize, as the feeling of absolute freedom and weightlessness settles over you as you take off from the ground. You haven't felt this in nearly two and a half years, and it has been far too long. You don't really know how you've survived all this time without the familiar feeling of the wind whipping against your ivory skin, turning it wind-chapped pink. Flying is the best feeling in the world.

That wonderful feeling is ruined, however, by the sight of a person with a nest of black hair standing by the entrance to the Quidditch pitch, observing you. You want to bash your head against something and scream in frustration. Does Harry Potter really have nothing better to do than stalk you in silence? At least he used to provoke you in some such of a manner instead of watching you from the shadows all of the time.

You do several quick-speed laps around the pitch, and by the time you've finished your eighth one, Potter has disappeared.

ϟϟϟ

You're halfway back to the eighth year common room when you hear the slight stumble of footsteps behind you, and a quiet swear, the ruffle of a cloak. Again, you've got the urge to bash your head against something. You speed up and turn several corners in quick succession before turning on your heel and shoving Potter against the wall. His Invisibility Cloak slips off of him and to the cobblestones like water. His green eyes are wide with surprise. You have your hands pressed against his shoulders.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that invisibility doesn't make one silent, Potter?" you snarl. "Why are you following me?" The watching was mildly okay, but the stalking is definitely not. It is far too reminiscent of your sixth year, and you would rather forget that entire year of your life completely.

"I—I don't know," Potter says shakily. His eyes are searching every part of your face. They flicker from your own set of grey eyes to your nose and down to your lips, which are stretched into what feels like a permanent frown, these days.

"You 'don't know'? How can you not know why you're stalking me?" you demand, pushing him harder against the wall. "How can you not know why you've been staring at me during meals and classes for the past three weeks? How can you not know why you appear every time that I'm in the library?" Your voice has risen several decibels, and you take a few seconds to make sure that it will be at normal noise level once more. "Tell me, Potter, how can you not know?"

But instead of answering, a set of bitten and chapped lips presses to yours, and a surge of warmth washes over you. Surprise hits you like a frying pan in your face and you shove away from Potter, who's eyes are still closed. You stumble slightly, and his eyes open at the sound of your faltering footsteps.

"Malfoy?" he calls as you turn tail and run down the hallway. You can't breathe.

ϟϟϟ

For the millionth time, you are very happy that you wound up with the only single room out of all of the eighth year students. There are only thirteen eighth years, and they are paired into rooms by twos. You had wound up with the single room. Thank God for small miracles, you think, as you shut your door behind you and sink down to the floor against it. You really don't know what you would say to someone if you had a roommate and they were to ask why the hell you look like such a mess right now.

Oh, yes, Harry Potter just kissed me. Isn't that wonderful?

You groan and bury your face in your hands. It was wonderful, but it was the most confusing thing of your life. You didn't even know that Potter liked men. You don't even think Potter knows he likes men. You also didn't know that the two of you were well acquainted enough to be kissing in hallways. The last time the two of you had exchanged more than a few words had been after The Battle of Hogwarts, when Potter had offered to give you your wand back, and you had politely refused. He had looked at you strangely then, too. You groan again.

The biggest problem with Potter kissing you is that you had thought you had gotten over your Potter-Crush after he nearly killed you in the middle of a deserted girl's bathroom. Apparently you're not. You probably never were. Denial, Pansy would say. At least you wear it well.

You heave yourself off of your floor and grab your pajama pants out of the top drawer of your wardrobe before heading into the bathroom. A shower is definitely in order to help loosen your tightening muscles, and you need to just allow yourself to stop thinking for a while.

Just as you shut off the water and step out of the shower, a knock sounds on your door. The only person who ever comes to your room is Blaise, so you're not expecting Harry Potter when you open the door. He isn't expecting you to only be wearing a white towel draped across your hips. His Adam's apple bobs slowly as he swallows and he tries to keep his eyes trained upon your face.

"Oh," you say flatly. "It's you," and you shut the door in his face.

Sadly, that doesn't stop him. He catches the door with his hand, snapping out of whatever reverie he was in and he pushes into your room. You roll your eyes and head back into the loo to get dressed. You hear the snick of the door shutting behind Potter, and you frown. You don't think it's wise for the two of you to be alone in a room together. Someone usually winds up hexed.

Or kissed.

"We need to talk," Potter says from somewhere outside the bathroom. You drop your towel and step into your sleep pants. You come out of the loo rubbing your towel through your hair. Potter watches your chest, and you turn away with a scowl. You thoroughly dislike the fact that Potter himself has reawakened the torch you've carried for him for three years.

"I don't really see what there is to talk about," you tell him as you deposit your towel into your hamper along with your dirty clothes. "Now, if you would kindly leave my room, I would appreciate it."

"Draco," Potter says, and you turn, only to find that he is standing a mere foot from you. Your breathing hitches slightly, and you're not sure whether it's because of the closeness or because he just used your first name. You can smell his soap. It smells faintly like September and the rest of his scent is musky boy and it makes your nostrils burn pleasantly.

The moment that Harry — when did he become Harry? — sucks his lower lip between his perfect teeth is the moment that your resolve completely crumbles. You pull him forward by his navy blue t-shirt and kiss him hard. There is no time for pleasantries, no time for soft kisses and whispered promises. Right now, you need skin on skin. Right now, you need Harry.

Between kisses and sharp nips to your lips, you manage to say, "I will not be your experiment, Potter," and you're pleased to note that you can still call him 'Potter' out loud, even if his name has somehow switched in your brain. Harry bites down hard on your bottom lip and your legs shake.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he replies breathlessly, and your body shifts into motion, and you walk him backwards until his knees hit your bed. The two of you fall onto the duvet covered mattress in a heap of awkward and gangly teenage limbs, still connected by the mouth. Your hands are scrabbling for the bottom of his shirt. He is wearing far too many clothes for your liking.

A quiet whine escapes Harry's mouth as you part long enough to pull his shirt over his head and toss it onto the floor. You press open-mouthed kisses to his neck, and you can feel the butterfly wings of his pulse underneath your lips. You want to be able to sink your teeth into it, to own him. You settle instead on sucking on the spot until an angry, purple bruise arises on Harry's olive skin before you slide further down his body and capture one of his dusky pink nipples with your mouth. A gasp that sends a wave of electricity straight to your groin fills the room.

Your hands are shaking considerably as you fumble with the leather belt that's threaded through Harry's belt loops. You bite down gently on Harry's left nipple to try and distract him from your trouble with getting his denims open. Eventually, the offending piece of leather is undone and you pry open the flies on the worn denim beneath your fingers.

After grabbing both the waistband of the denims and Harry's pants, you pull them down to his ankles and push them the rest of the way off with your feet. Large hands tug at your sleep trousers and within moments they're shoved down to your mid-thigh before they're being shoved towards the end of the bed with Harry's feet.

There is so much skin to skin contact that you don't know where your torso begins and where Harry's toes end. You can barely fucking breathe because it just feels so glorious. It's so hot in your bed. Harry's body is like a furnace turned up on high against your skin. You don't understand how he isn't sweating like crazy. You settle yourself between his already spread legs and your pricks rub together. It's almost enough to drive you spare.

In a bout of wandless magic, your sidetable drawer pops open and a vial of slick flies into your hand. You pop the cap open and coat your fingers thoroughly. As you press your lips back to Harry's already love-bite marred neck, you rub your finger in slow circles over the furrow of Harry's entrance. He tenses slightly before relaxing. Slowly, you press your finger past the ring of muscles, and Harry's entire body tenses this time.

"Relax," you murmur against his skin. "Fighting it will only make it hurt more."

Harry breathes through his mouth slowly, and you can feel the tension drain out of his body. His muscles relax and you manage to slip your finger in the rest of the way. "It feels strange," he says quietly as you begin to pump your finger slowly. You come into contact with a tiny nub of flesh and Harry's body goes taught before he moans in pleasure. You swipe the pad of your finger across it once more before you slip in a second digit and begin to scissor them.

The heat around your fingers is almost too much to bear, and it's so tight that you can barely comprehend how you'll manage to even fit. When Harry's hips begin to rock back against your hand, you remove your fingers and coat your prick with the lube. You push his legs back towards his chest, and he spreads them farther as he pulls his knees to meet his torso. You pause for a moment as you line up with his entrance.

Harry lies beneath you, skin flushed all the way down to the middle of his chest, shining slightly with sweat. His hair is disheveled even more than usual, and he's breathing like he's just flown a mile on his broom. His prick is lying against his stomach, an angry red, leaking slightly. It curves endearingly to the left. You had never thought you would actually have Harry Potter on his back, legs spread, waiting for you to fuck him into your mattress.

It must be your lucky day.

Slowly, oh-so-fucking-slowly, you press into Harry, and he keens slightly. You're going so slow that you think time might stop, but finally, your hips rest against his thighs. His eyes are clamped firmly shut, and his long eyelashes are brushing against the lenses of his glasses. He is breathing harshly through his nose, and he's biting his lip so hard that it looks like it might begin to bleed any moment. You, on the other hand, have your hands clamped firmly on his hips, and your arms are shaking so hard that it's a wonder Harry isn't shaking with the force of them as well. You need to move before you explode, but you don't want to hurt him.

Eventually, Harry rolls his hips back against yours and you take that as a signal that it's alright to move. You pull out slowly, and slide back just as carefully. You release a shaky breath. There is warmthclosenesstightness all around you and you can barely breathe because of it, and it's all Harry, Harry, Harry.

"I'm not made of glass," Harry finally snaps, and you snap your hips forward. His hands slip from behind the backs of his knees, and one ankle comes to rest on your shoulder. His other foot lands flat down on the mattress. His back arches and he practically screams.

You're squeezing his hips hard enough to bruise, but you don't really think he cares, and you know that you don't care. He will heal. Right now, all that matters is the movement between the two of you, the snapping of your hips and the noises that are escaping from Potter's kiss-bruised lips.

Harry is babbling a nonsensical jumble of words and he's thrashing his head from side to side. You catch your name several times, and it's the only word that you can actually understand. After a severely loud shout of your name, Harry arches off of the bed, and he comes. It shoots across his belly in pearly white strands, and as he clenches around you, your vision goes white and then black, and moments later, your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave of stunning spells.

You just manage to pull out of Harry before you collapse onto the bed next to him. You grab your wand off of the side table and you vanish the mess that would surely stain your sheets. The only sound in your room now is the sound of heavy breathing. It smells like sweat and sex. You can smell it even though you're face down in your pillow.

Harry nudges you and you turn to face him. He's watching you with that look again. You close your eyes for a moment and vaguely hope that when you open them he'll be gone. You crack an eyelid, and sadly, Harry is still staring at you. His hair is wild and his bangs are stuck to his forehead.

"What did you mean when you said that you wouldn't be my experiment?" Harry asks, and you fight the urge to groan. Harry obviously doesn't know sex etiquette. You don't ask things like that after you have a mind-blowing shag. It ruins whatever mood there might be left.

"I think that one speaks for itself, Potter," you say, and you roll out of the bed and gather your sleep trousers from the bottom of the bed and slip them on. You don't want to talk about this. You do not want Potter to know that what just happened meant more to you than it most likely did for him. You were probably just a test for him to see if he actually enjoys cock, and surprise! He does. He can go fuck anyone he likes now.

"This wasn't just an experiment to me, Draco," Harry says, and you grit your teeth. Must he call you by your first name? It makes throwing him out of your room much harder because you love the way it rolls off of his tongue. You turn to face him. He's still sitting on your forest green duvet in the all together. You try to ignore it.

"Then what exactly was it?" you demand.

"Something that I really wanted," he confesses, and you blink in response because your mouth can't form words. "If you hadn't noticed, I've been slightly attached to you lately."

"Slightly?" you say, and your voice goes shrill at the end. "You've been fucking stalking me, Potter!" Harry frowns, but he doesn't start yelling back like you expected him to. It unnerves you.

"I've never fancied a boy before," Harry mutters, and picks at invisible lint on your blanket. "I'm not very good with words." You give an undignified snort. That's probably the understatement of the year.

"And so you decided that stalking me would get you closer to your goal of... whatever it was?" you ask, waving your hand in the air to indicate what just happened. The frown settles back on Harry's face, and you become nauseous when you realize that you want to kiss it off of his face.

"It's not like I had an ultimate goal to get into your bed, Draco," Harry says. He sounds slightly hurt. "I just... I don't know. I wanted us to be friends at least, and maybe more than friends." You sigh and sit down on the bed again. You hand Harry his pants and he slips into them with some difficulty, for he refuses to get off of the bed. You vaguely wonder if he's going to refuse to leave.

Your brain finally decides to catch up with the situation and you realize what Harry has said moments ago. Your heart thumps erratically for a moment. "You fancy me?" You turn to stare at Harry, who has a light blush across his cheekbones. He nods and you bury your face in your hands and groan loudly. You can't forget your torch for Potter now, not when you know he carries one for you as well.

"What's wrong?"

"What's not wrong with this situation would be an easier question to answer," you mutter. "This will never work, you realize." Harry grins and wraps his arms around your waist. As much as you are loath to admit it, you lean into his touch.

"I think it already is."

You think he may be right.