It Was Some Place In France

A Harry Potter fanfiction.

Please NOTE that this is based loosely on Harry Potter, the book series and the movies. I'm pretty sure it doesn't even mention magic, Wizards or Witches. But I'm not sure if it's considered AU. And it's rated M. Possibly the most GRAPHIC story I've written yet. And thus far the only Harry Potter story that I've written. And go figure it's Harry/Draco slash.

Also, please note that the majority of dialogue is in either French or German, of which both languages I know very little. I got all phrases from a phrase book for gay men. I know I'm not a gay man, but still. It's language, and eight of them at that. I couldn't pass up the chance. And look here, it helped in creating a new story. Yay.

If anyone wants to know what the phrases mean, just ask, and I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible. (Believe me, I'm an incredible procrastinator.)

And, without further ado...

It was some place in France, that's all Harry knew. He could understand nothing but a few words, and those weren't all that helpful. He listened as he looked around, wondering how he'd ended up here… wherever here was.

It seemed to be some kind of club, with the low lights and steady thrumming music that beat in time with his heart, down through his stomach and into his feet. There were mostly men around, and none of them seemed to notice him. A small group of them reunited near him, hugging and kissing as though they'd not seen each other in years.

« J'adore ce que tu portes! » one of them said with a wide smile.

« J'adore ton allure entière! »another one added.

They danced around and spouted more French nonsense that Harry didn't understand, laughing and giggling like love struck schoolgirls. Harry shook his head. He needed air. As he navigated his way outside – where the hell were the exits? – he tried his hardest to remember just what he'd been doing before he'd realized he wasn't in his room anymore.

A shower. He'd been going to take a shower. He had just taken off his robes and had been about to take of his shirt when he'd felt that reverberating beat throughout his abdomen. As he leaned against the wall outside, he breathed deep, watching the thinning line of boys and men, all dressed up in leather and chains and ripped denim, some sporting as many tattoos as piercings, some sporting dresses that looked to be from the collection of Kate Hepburn herself. Harry sighed and closed his eyes. He could still feel the beat from inside the club.

A voice – deep, dark, and sultry – startled him from his thoughts. « T'as du feu? »Harry didn't understand, and so, he didn't speak as he turned to look at his guest, leaning in a similar posture against the wall as though trying to hold it up. He had an unlit cigarette between pale, thin lips that were quirked in a wry grin. Pale blond hair fell in soft layers around the sharp features of his face, and the darkness of the night made the strangers eyes seem black, matching the too-tight leather pants and the shirt stretched across sinewy shoulders and taught muscles.

Harry knew he was probably staring, and knew he probably looked quite the sight, too, what with his mussed hair (sex hair, he'd once heard Hermione and Ginny whisper) and wrinkled clothes, glasses askew. But his scar was hidden. His hair may have been messy, but it had grown to cover the little lightning bolt, and he rather liked it that way.

The blonde's dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. « Est-ce qu'on ne s'est pas déjà rencontré? » Before Harry could even think to reply, he continued. « Je peux t'offrir un verre? »

It must have shown on his face that he didn't understand, because suddenly he was being pulled back into the club, a firm grip around his wrist. He was led up to the bar and given what must have been a local beer, which he drank gratefully, much to the delight of this beautiful stranger watching his every move. He was handed another one, and then something stronger. Next thing he knew, he was being pressed against the bar, strong, sturdy hands finding the flesh just beneath his shirt, stirring his arousal at the intimate touch.

« Tu veux monter dans ma chambre? » was whispered in his ear, and Harry couldn't help the little sound that came from his throat. He blamed the alcohol clouding his brain when he pressed his body flush against the blond stranger in black, feeling the beginning of an erection pressing against his stomach.

They couldn't continue there, he realized, with pulsating bodies and music all around to egg them on, so he nodded absently, silently agreeing to anything this other man had in store for him. They left the club, Harry still barely understanding anything save for his intense need to be owned by this man who led him. He'd never felt the need to be owned before, and it scared him on some level. But his desperation was too great, his arousal stirring back to life beneath his zipper. And it didn't help, trailing behind the man in black, watching the tight muscles flex beneath the leather, the lean tones of his body moving and breathing and….

Harry groaned again, and had to bite his lip to keep from coming. This man was too much.

Shortly, they arrived at a motel and had to verbally wrestle with the clerk behind the counter before he would give them a key. At least, Harry assumed that's what happened.

« Pardon, »the blond began, gaining the attention of the clerk, who said something that Harry couldn't hear. « Nous voulons un grand lit, pas des lits jumeaux, »he argued. A few more words were said, before the blond smiled. « C'est divin ! »

The room, though small, was grand in an odd way, with a single double bed, a vase of silk and plastic flowers sitting on a windowsill, and a small table with two fragile looking chairs. As Harry looked around, that strong hand had found its way back beneath his shirt, teasing taught skin and tracing down the light trail of dark hair to grasp his fully awakened cock. Harry's hips bucked, and with a surprised moan, he realized that he wouldn't be able to come as easily as he had hoped.

As he felt himself become a prisoner to his newly found savage passion, he glanced up at his captor and knew, suddenly, just who it was speaking dirty French in his ear with his hand down Harry's pants. « Je veux to sucer la bite. » It was husky and even deeper than normal and Harry didn't know what it meant, but he knew what he wanted.

And then Malfoy's mouth was on him, sucking him, blowing him, and swallowing him whole. It was slow. Harry could feel Draco's tongue lapping, his teeth scraping, his throat muscles working hard on him. He wouldn't – couldn't – stop the mewling moans tearing from his throat as feather-light fingers found their way between his legs, working in one at a time, then two, then three, until he was ready to take the full brunt of Draco's passion.

Harry rolled out on the sharp, jerky waves of pleasure as his back arched away from the floor, his hips pressing him even further into Malfoy's mouth, legs gripped tight around his shoulders, voice crying out and raw. As soon as Malfoy had his own aching need free from his straining zipper, Harry pulled him down, tongue on tongue as he learned the taste of Draco and the taste of himself, mingling and mixing until there was no distinction.

There were no more dirty French words or nasally accents; intelligence turned to animalistic need as soon as Draco pressed himself fully into Harry's accepting entrance. There was a long, low moan as he wrapped his legs firmly around Malfoy's hips, short fingernails scraping along his back at the slowness in which he entered. Then he plunged deep; Harry's cock twitched and he grabbed it as Draco increased the pace of his thrusts, the force of it leaving an impression, memorizing the shape and size of Draco's cock engorged within him.

Harry tugged and jerked and yanked as fast as Draco fucked him, rocking back with the force and wondering if his throat would forever feel raw. He'd been reduced to guttural noises and savage grunts, his toes curling at the immense pleasure provided.

He tugged a few more times as the world became a sunburst behind his eyelids, his chest and stomach white hot and sticky. He felt Draco tense, his movements becoming erratic and uneven until he was filled with nothing but Draco Malfoy shooting the very essence of himself deep inside Harry. And he stayed there, holding himself above the Boy Wonder on shaking arms and labored breath as Harry's tight ring of muscles contracted around his cock, pulling and squeezing and twitching until there was nothing left in him.

Draco withdrew with a moan and dropped down beside Harry, sated and sweaty. His nipples, small dark buds on golden skin, were pricked up like gooseflesh, and Draco had the sudden urge to suckle and roll them between his teeth. So he did, licking and nipping while Harry ran fingers through his hair and pulled him closer, arching into him.

"I didn't know you could speak French." It was a breathless question, asked in the glow of post coitus, and Draco had the audacity to laugh before he could stop himself. Harry raised an eyebrow and lifted himself on one arm to look at Draco, who smiled wryly again.

"My family's French, Potter. As my mother spoke English to me as a child, my father spoke French. It's how I was raised." He paused for a moment, shifting to get more comfortable, shoulder pressing against Harry's stomach as he moved. "When my father decided I was to go to Durmstrang, he taught me German, as well."

Harry smiled. "Say something in German."

Draco let his head drop a moment as he thought, eyes turning through invisible text in front of him as he fought to find the words he was looking for. His brow creased as he spoke. "Du machst mir den Mund wässrig." He licked his lips, watching as Harry's eyes followed the movement. "Du hast wunderschöne Augen…Hast du für morgen schon was vor?"

Draco grabbed Harry's hand and planted a tickling kiss in his palm, ran his tongue to the fingertip and bit lightly before placing it fully in his mouth. And then there were two fingers in his mouth. His eyes never moved from Harry's, lips parted and cheeks flushed.

Draco stopped and pulled away, his tongue gliding across his lip, his teeth, leaving warm breath on Harry's shoulder, neck, ear, lips. Lips on lips, a light kiss, a small brush of tender skin. Harry's eyes were half-hooded, pulse quick as he watched Draco mouth more French words against his skin, against his ear, against his lips.

« Je crois que je suis amoureux de toi. »

Draco whispered those words until Harry fell asleep in his arms.

When Harry woke up, he was on his stomach in his own bed, naked save for the sheets twisting around his legs. Through his sleep addled mind, he vaguely recalled the dream he'd had and realized with sudden clarity the state of his die Morgenlatte. The word came unbidden into his mind and he blamed Hermione for making him study so damn much.

He pressed harder into the mattress when he heard the bathroom door open, holding down the gasp the came with the intimate feel of the friction on his cock. Soft fingers ran up and down his spine, bringing out his gooseflesh before expertly parting him. Harry lifted off the bed, the sensation of fingers against him – inside him – was too much and he moaned and pressed harder onto the fingers, hands gripping the sheets beneath him.

His back was pulled flush against a strong chest, Draco's chest, and he tugged and pulled at his erection with need and want, pumping his fist in time with Draco's ministrations. But he suddenly stopped and Harry didn't know what had happened, but he wanted to come and he was going to come, whether Malfoy joined him or not. Fingers were replaced with something larger, Draco's ein großer Schwanz, his mind supplied for him again.

Harry tried to press down as hard as he could, but he was stopped by Draco's hands, one on his chest and one on his cock, teasing and touching and tugging. He felt Draco's hardened length inside him and rocked back. He wanted it to go faster, but Draco was in control, and he wanted it slow, intimate. « Allons-y doucement, » he said.

Harry didn't know how, but he understood and shook his head. The words came to him without thought, as though he had known them all along. « Encule-moi! Plus vite! »he screamed, bending and pushing back. « Plus fort! Encule-moi… Encule-moi! »

But Draco didn't listen, just continued at his own pace until Harry couldn't take it anymore and slammed back, screaming out his name in guttural tones. « Je jouis! »he gasped, held tilted back and mouth wide open. « Je jouis! »

As Harry came, Draco leaned over him, riding out his own wave of pleasure into the man beneath him. "What you said to me last night," Harry said, voice husky and raw, turning his head back to look at Draco, draped across his back with eyes hazed and fogged with lust. He smiled, "You, too."

Draco laughed and kissed Harry's cheek.

"One question, though," Harry intervened, a frown marring his features. "How did I get to France from England?"

Draco hid his knowing smile and shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? However you managed it, everything worked out in the end, didn't it?" He pressed a little deeper into the sensitive insides of Harry and at the shocked little moan knew he had done right.

Everything had worked out in the end.

À plus!

(And in the background, you can probably hear Harry and Draco muttering, « J'ai cru qu'elle ne s'en irait jamais. »)

For those of you who are faithfully waiting for my next installment on Painting the White to Gray, I'm so sorry. I've been completely blocked on that one. But don't worry, because I'm planning on rereading the whole thing and possibly editing it. Well, as soon as I find some spare time on my hands. Please be patient.

So... how did you like it? Graphic, huh? (Okay, for those of you used to this kind of story, probably not so much, but for me, believe me... You know how many times I blushed while reading this? Ah, I'm still blushing!)