HD 'Bollocks'

Author: tigersilver

Pairing: D/H

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 2,500

Warnings/Summary: A series of vignettes as Draco seduces a willing Harry, and also embraces his true Slytherin, all simultaneously. A marriage of minds, then, yes? Also a wee giftie of sorts to few noble and highly wonderful cheerleaders of mine own: enchanted_jae, scford, demicus, megyal and others. I can't imagine a world without you. Please never go!

He's balls-deep in Harry Potter, which is exactly as Draco likes it.

It's a bit selfish; it's a bit all about him. Draco admits that, but not aloud. No, never.

He doesn't think Harry minds, really.

It's been two months—it feels like forever. Two short months, really, but they've lasted…and lasted.

It's been two months of breakfast taken together and Floos to the Ministry in the mornings and drinks after work, all convivial, and (all 'round?) it's not been too bad. Draco can't complain.

"Draco, darling," his mother remarks one morning, come February, come a Sunday, early. "You'll bring him home, won't you? Your man. Harry."

Draco struggles to keep his jaw firmly attached to his upper teeth and steady. By all that's Brede's, he'll not be bringing Harry home, not by a long shot!

T'would be killer, that. Harry's a quiet one. He likes Draco, that's clear enough, but the attention? Oh, no. Not, not at all. Not going there, Mother.

"No," Draco ekes out, strangled. "No. I don't think so. He…he wouldn't care for it. M'sorry, Mum. Not…not yet."

Narcissa smiles at him, kindly. Sends him another apple-pecan pastry with a wave of her wand and sits back, at ease in her seat, watching Draco cut it up into tiny pieces, nervously. He doesn't dare eat a bite of it although it's his favourite. But vomiting is a distinct possibility.

"No. No. Maybe not yet, darling," Narcissa smiles. "But soon. You'll know when. I'm certain."

Draco doesn't know when, this mythical when. He knows Harry and that's all that interests him, really.

It's enough that his Mum probes no deeper, not that day.

"Deeper?" Harry requests and Draco does, wriggling about to set himself up for the best of all possible entries. He pushes, he shoves, he's bloody golden, going at it; Harry groans appreciatively. "Draco—Draco! More."

"Yes…yes." Draco gives more, although he's not sure what exactly constitutes that when he's giving his best already. But he doesn't dare allow Harry to be bored by it, the sex. So? More—more, then! "Harry? Harry."

"Good, oh good. That's it. Oh! Yes, yes!"

"Oh. Oh, gods. Harry."

"Draco!"

"Harry! My—my—lo—"

"…What?"

"Never. Never you mind."

He loves the sex, Harry does; Draco does, too. Hell's bells, he loves Harry, but that's hardly a discussion for the bedroom and maybe not even for daylight hours. Harry—his idiot Harry—he's a bit backwards, and, well…Draco's no better, really.

They daren't venture there. No. Not just yet. He'll…keep mum. Then. Now. In the future. Best thing for it, not chancing it.

All those years, spent repressing. Stuffing it down and then it just came about, by chance meeting, by chance interests, by a shite-tonne of drinks of Old Ogden's, and then, lo! Fucking. Shagging and fucking, wet dicks and sloppy kisses in the second-level Men's lav in Ministry after the fucking Christmas party and well! Damn all the consequences, Draco's going for it—and it seems Harry is, too.

He is. Has.

"Draco?" Harry says one day, and it's questioning, so Draco perks his ears up. "Draco. How's your parents?"

It's the weirdest thing. Harry never asks after Draco's family; it's like he's forgotten they exist. So this is out of the blue and unexpected and Draco chokes a bit, finding the right words.

"Fine? I mean…fine. They're fine."

"Good."

"Mum," Draco ventures, after a small silence. "She, ah. She asked after you, just recently."

"Did she?"

"Yes."

It's a struggle, again, finding the right words, but they feel like the right words and they feel like the right thing to do. He loves Harry, and he's eager to show him off. And Mum will love him, really. And Papa can just piss off.

"Come," Draco gasps, half snarl, half-gasp, because he wants Harry to do this, and not just in the vernacular. And he's bollocks-deep and slapping his thighs against Harry's ripe arse cheeks and that has to mean something, maybe? "Come? Come home with me. Please? To the—to the Manor!"

There's an understandable pause—Harry's coming, a jerking, flailing reaction, and Draco's hanging onto him, coming as well but settling his precious Harry down into it, the pleasure, the all-consuming lot of it, crashing down in waves. It all takes up a few minutes, breathless first and then finally breathing and then the easing back, until Draco picks up the thread of conversation.

"Weekend, this? Will you? Will you, really?" he murmurs, licking Harry's ear lovingly. "Because I'd really like it. I really would. If you. If you would consent to come."

"Au-ungh," Harry replies, squirmy and languid both, and Draco takes the sound as an affirmative, for it's not an outright 'no'. At least Harry doesn't skive away, after, when Draco presses the point.

He can't say aloud how much rides on it, Harry's agreeing, his going along with it, Draco's wish. How he wishes, or what he wishes, or what he wishes Harry might want as well. It's all unspoken, and as deep as Draco goes, when he's bollocks-deep in Harry, sublime and invincible for a moment, a golden moment.

"…Harry." It's a week later and Draco's a mess, what with wanting. Been too long.

"I—yes!" Harry, red-faced and shifty-eyed, blurts it out, finally. "Yes? I would. I would—yes."

"Thank you," Draco bleats fervently and presses a heartfelt kiss upon Harry's open lips, effectively shutting them up, stoppering any more of Harry's ridiculous nonsense. "Thank. You. Shut up now."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes. Please. Okay."

Bruncheon. That's the official invite. To honour the Equinox, to welcome in Spring. Draco's Mum is all that is kind and polite, his Father a little less so, but that's all right. Harry, dazzled by the Manor in daylight, all set to rights again, doesn't seem to mind. "You grew up here?" he keeps asking, over and over. "No wonder you thought I was a total—"

"No! No," Draco hastens to interject. "No, I thought you were my hero. Everyone's hero, maybe, but especially mine. Always…always mine, 'specially. Shut up now. You talk too much."

"Really?" Big green eyes turn to him; Draco melts internally, as he always has done, if he admits it. As he did in his parlour that one time, as he did over countless Potions cauldrons, as he does every time Harry flinches and then relaxes and then…and then allows Draco in him, fully. "I do?"

"Yes. Really." It's the truth, isn't it? No harm in allowing the truth an out, not now. "Harry. Harry, will you stay?"

"…Stay?"

"The night. This night only. It's the weekend," Draco wheedles, and doesn't really know why. "Just for tonight. In my old bedroom. With me." It's not as though they don't both have places of their own to go back to, places either one could stay over and feel secure in that freedom of place, free of Harry's memories of the Manor, free of Draco's fears for Harry. "Please." It's not a demand, it's a wish. Draco doesn't dare look over at Harry, pacing down the terrace beside him, it's that—it's that. It's a wish, only, and Draco knows what they all say, about wishes. Beggars and horses, both.

But it's crucial, all at once, horses and beggars aside, and Draco stares down at Harry's quirked eyebrows and into his big green eyes as they plod on past the straying peacocks and hopes mightily. Because it is pivotal, this wish.

"If you stay, I promise I'll stay awake and guard you." So crucial; Draco's a bit rash. "There's some ghosts still lingering, but they're not so bad, and—and I. I promise I'll—"

"Is it—it's not?" Harry starts, fearful, brow furrowing. "Not the ones from—"

"No!" Draco barks, and then backs off, going soft, softly, softer still, slowing down his steps until Harry slows as well, hesitant and looking all askance at him. "Not the War, not them. All exorcised. All sent on, love. It's just old Malfoys and…and the family. Blacks and Prewitts and the like—a few motley Frenchman? They roam about a bit; can't say no to them, that's all. They do what they like, but they're mostly harmless. Nothing—nothing to be frightened of, and I'll stay awake, like I said, and you'll be saf—"

"Safe," Harry smiles. "Safe, with you. Right?"

Smiles and smiles and Draco can't help but gather him, the whole of him, straight up against his aching chest and hoping Harry'll always be there. That it'll be Draco's watch, keeping Harry Potter safe from old ghosts. "Right! Please."

"Yes. Yes, okay. I will."

Draco cannot even tally the number of wins he's got going. It's improbable.

But it doesn't stop him from pushing for more. He's a Slytherin, born and bred, after all.

"Um," he mutters, one morning. It's a few weekends farther into the game and Harry's been gradually more comfortable, each time 'round. But this is Draco's house, not the Manor. So, different again. "D'you like it here, my house?"

"Hmmm," Harry sighs, stretching languorously. "Yes. Nice sheets. Bloody awesome bath."

"Then." Draco swallows, very hard. This is difficult, he must go carefully. "Move in? With me."

"What?" Harry sits up, dragging the sheets with him, startled. "What, here? I could nev—"

"Don't say that!" Draco sits up as well, wrapping his arms about Harry. "Don't say that, not when you've not even thought about it. And think about it, Harry—do! Elves who are willing, a new place and not that disaster you live in now, and me—me, Harry. I'm here. I'm always here, for you. I'll do anything—" Draco gulps aloud but there's no shame in admitting it, not now. "I'll do anything—for you."

"…Ah. Yes." Harry blushes hot and dips his chin. "No. Erm." It's an effort, Draco thinks grimly, urging that chin up again with tense fingertips, the stubborn little git. "That's. That's too much, Draco. Stop."

"Harry. Harry. Not that I wouldn't be at your place too, whenever you need me, you know that," Draco says, all in a rush, worried sick over the 'Stop'. "But it's not the same, those old places, Grimmauld and the Manor and all that, what with all their history and we need—we need something new. The two of us—something new."

Green eyes go wide, freed of their spectacles. "Draco? Do we? Draco?"

"Yes. Yes, Harry. Please." Draco bows his head down, kissing wildly at Harry's throat and praying to all who might listen. "Come stay with me, live with me. Here, in this place. I need you, so much. I need you here, to wake with and to—to love. I mean it, Harry. I do. Don't say no to me, please don't. Not now."

It's all about cards and hearts and things that explode, in the end. Draco knows this; it doesn't stop him. Even Slytherins gamble, in the end. And he's a gambler. In the end.

Who might just…lose. The green eyes shift away. "Draco…"

"Don't. Say. No." Draco sets his jaw against refusal. It isn't allowed to exist. Not whilst he's Harry in his bed, his domain. "Harry. Think about it. Practical!"

"Ah, er…practical?"

"Yes!" Draco's a Slytherin, true. But a Slytherin's heart is the truest thing ever, steady and bright, unswerving. He hopes Harry realizes it, that he's not offering lightly. That this is no jest and no trick, but his life, laid out, spread wide and open. "Harry?" he prompts, when Harry says nothing but only pulls a weird face at him. "Harry, I—"

"Draco."

"Hmm?"

"Right, no. Look, er? Fuck me. Shag me. Take me. Make me say yes."

"Er—what?"

"Make me say yes. I dare you."

"No, no, I…Harry." Draco's bollocks deep again but it's hardly the way he wants it. "You're cruel" he pants out, burying his nose in Harry's hair. "So evil, Potter."

"No, I'm not. How can you say so?" Harry pants back at him, all a'blush. "Prick."

"This—this position. All riding on a shag, all I need, all I want, and you're just mean—mean, Potter! Making me. What am I, your stud?"

"No…no," Harry concedes, and he's grinning a bit shamefaced, something Draco takes pleasure in adversely. He pushes in a bit deeper and takes even more pleasure in the hitch in Harry's resultant gasp. "I—I just wanted…wanted to know, to see, how much—"

"You doubt me?" Draco's aghast. "How can you ever doubt me? Potter!"

"Draco, Draco, Draco, hush! I don't really," Harry murmurs, and his hips spread wider and it's even easier to thrust in, Draco finds. "Ahh! That's it, that's it, just there. It's only that I—"

"That you?" Draco prompts, breathless, when it seems Harry loses his thread, eyes closing and lips parted. "That you? Come on!"

"Wanted it," Harry growls. "Wanted it. Too much. Hard to believe—"

"Believe it," Draco snaps, and snaps his hips forward, pounding away at Harry's prostate unmercifully. "Believe it— like you believe the sun rises each day, git-for-brains. Believe it! Like you believe in magic, arsehole! I love you. I fucking well love you! What's more, I'd die for you and—and I'd live for you and I want you in my own home, for ever more, until we both should die! Say you will and no palavering, Potter. Say you will be mine. Stay with me! Be mine!"

"Yours? All yours"

"Please! Absolutely."

"Hmm…well, then. If it's like that—"

"Don't! Don't fuck with me, Harry!"

"Then, yes, of course. Of course I will."

Ball's deep in Harry is bliss-onna-wand; it's the be-all and end-all and bloody fantastic. When they come, it's together and fantastical, with bloody sparks of magical residue coruscating all about them and the flat resounding with the echoes, booming.

"Hmm, super," Harry burbles, ducking his head down and resting his cheek on Draco's damp-smeared chest. "You're super. That was super. I think I'm—ah! Knackered now."

"Of course I am. Of course you are. And I love you, you great idiot; don't forget," Draco murmurs, tucking Harry more closely against him and whispering the duvet up about their shoulders with a wandless spell. "Go to sleep, then. But mind, I shall have you. All to myself, forever more. Never doubt it."

"Greedy git," Harry smiles, or so Draco figures he is. "As if I would." As Harry would do, Draco knows, come morning, when Harry's groggy. But Draco smiles at the ceiling, nonetheless. As he can feel the twitch of upturned lips against his naked collarbone.

"Prat," Draco grins and grins, sated. It'll do. For now. "G'night."

"Hmm. G'night."

"Mmm."

Draco doesn't say any of the other things he wishes to say as his Harry slips off to sleep. They're all a bit overwhelming, he knows. Likely even a bit frightening, for someone who's never been loved the way Draco loves Harry. Or so Mum says, and she knows, Draco's pretty certain. He'll wait, then, to tell Harry the other stuff.

A few months more. A few years more. A few decades more…whatever it takes. Really.

Because a good Slytherin can keep his secrets.

Finis