Title: Learning New Charms
Author: tigersilver
Characters: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Frotting, snogging. Hogwarts closet walls used here.
Word Count: 2,800+/-
Prompt: hd_seasons – 13 Nights of Smut, Prompt #6 (Jack o' lantern; lips)

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: Pansy sticks her nose in Draco's business.

"Grrr!"

"Draco, stop growling. It won't do you any good. He can't hear you, you know," Pansy scolded.

"Yes, do, please. I'm holding a knife here," Blaise added, gesturing with it broadly.

Draco sneered and ducked his pointy chin and glared, first at his friends and then at Potter. Stupid, annoying, apparently artistically gifted Potter, who was carving fantasies into a pumpkin. It couldn't even be properly called a Jack o' lantern at this point; it was a bloody masterpiece!

"Urgh! Wanker!" he griped, and attempted to have a better look at Potter's wand movements. No plebian serrated blade for him, no. He was using his wand, almost surgically, and the end was lit with this brilliant white-blue flame, like a Lumos, but blindingly bright and cutting. "Bugger that bastard—I want to win this bloody old contest!"

"Well, then, you'll have to do better than that, Draco," Blaise commented, standing back to examine Draco's pumpkin. It had the basic features required, true—triangle eyes, triangle nose hole and jagged, angular teeth—but it was nothing special. He'd been planning to spell it Slytherin green in colour and use a poison-green candle to light it, but Potter's Jack o' lantern was a stained glass window in comparison and what was the use? Sodding prat would win, as always.

"Blasted Headmistress! Perfect Potter!" Draco went back to grumbling, nobly attempting to keep his eyes off Potter's hands—or the full lower lip he was chewing on, looking meditative—and work on his own submission for McGonagall's latest 'Let's Restore that Good Old Hogwart's School Spirit By Torturing the Students with Mindless Contests!' exercise. "I hate this! I hate him!"

"You do not, Draco," Pansy looked up from her own miserable efforts. A Pureblood's heritage emphatically did not include pumpkin carving. "That's the issue. You are so far from hating Potter, you're in the next universe."

"Look, Draco," Blaise chimed in, never one to keep his nose out, "why don't you go talk to him? Ask what that Charm is he's using? It's your perfect opportunity, mate."

Goyle grunted, which meant he was enthusiastic. He'd become a firm fan of Potter's ever since the Fiendfyre incident. Draco frowned, and scoffed.

"…He'd probably hex me," he mumbled, turning the angle of his carving knife to make one of the teeth that jutted from his not-going-to-win-any-prizes-ever-pumpkin a tad more appropriately snaggly, "for even daring to open my mouth. Not a good idea, nincompoop," he added. "Shut it, will you? Don't even go there." Potter had been civil on those very rare occasions they'd interacted since term started, but nothing more. And he hadn't managed to engineer any situations where he could actually converse with the git; the Weasel and the Brain were always dancing in attendance on the Hero. "He despises me. Always has."

"He does not, Draco!" Pansy stopped fiddling and stuck both hands firmly on her curvy hips, swinging about to face him. Across the room, Potter was inscribing lacy curlicues all round the intricate scene he'd etched in the flesh of his gourd. Draco dragged his gaze back from that—and Potter's arse, which was tempting, as always—and faced down his best friend, female variety. He sneered. "He watches you, too! I've seen him! In the Library and at lectures and on the Pitch—"

"No, Pans—"

"During Astronomy and Potions and in the corridors—" Blaise added, in a sing-song manner, waving his wand to some inaudible beat.

"He does not!" Draco manfully interjected, against the tide of popular opinion. "You're all mental!"

"Lunch," Goyle mumbled, surprising them all. He said even less, these days, without Crabbe to prompt him. "Supper, brekkers. Saw 'him again, today. Looks like he's starving."

"I don't—"

"I dare you, Draco," Pansy hissed, jutting her bodaciously built chest perilously close to Draco's face. "Get your cowardly arse over there and ask him what that Charm is, right now. Come on, do it! It's what you need. You have to break the ice somehow!"

Blaise nodded, too, emphatically. Goyle rumbled something that sounded vaguely like 'Good on you, mate! Go to it!' and slapped Draco on the back, so hard that he nearly eviscerated himself on his own knife.

"No," Draco muttered, firmly and sulkily. He pouted, sneaking another look over at Perfect Potter. It was the very last thing he wanted, to upset the fragile peace he and Potter had forged over recent weeks—if it could even be called that. Potter had given him his own wand back on the first day of term, just when he was starting to feel frantic, and he'd made to sure to spit out the formal speech of thanks he'd rehearsed all during summer hols. They shared nearly every class in common and they'd both manfully restrained themselves from insults and scuffles and the like, remaining frigidly pleasant, but there was never any progress beyond that. Draco was horribly, secretly afraid there'd never be, but he didn't know how to go about it. Potter's very presence befuddled him and he was always left gawping like a noddy at a passing remark on the weather or how Slug was a barmy bastard. "No…I can't, Pans. Shut it. Please. Just cease and desist."

Pansy's eyes narrowed. She set her knife down and picked her wand, all very deliberately. "You can," she hissed. "And you will!" and murmured something that sounded remarkable like 'Imperio!"

"Wha-?" Draco got out, before her words struck him. Dropped his sodding inconvenient Muggle carving tool, even, right into the scooped out hole in his pumpkin's innards.

"You'll march over there right now, Draco Malfoy, and take Potter out to the hallway and snog him!" Pansy ordered. "And you won't let him go till he agrees to attend the Hallowe'en Ball with you—now be off!"

"Er! No! Pans—don't!" Draco yelped, but his feet were moving already, and Blaise budged over, chortling, stepping out of his path with a knowing smile. "Goyle, stop me! Damn it, Pans—how could you?" he wailed quietly, but all he heard in return was Goyle's quiet, "Sorry, mate!" Then they were behind him, and Potter filled his eyes—his entire head, as always. For years on end now, the little shite.

"Erm," he managed, when he fetched up before Potter. He shuffled and then got a grip on himself with grim determination. Potter and his minions were engaged in putting the final fiddly touches on their Jack 'o lanterns. Potter would win, hands down. "I…um. Potter!"

"Huh?" Potter glanced up with his black brows raised in query, looking very surprised to see a stray Slytherin in what was clearly Gryffindor territory. There were enough of them over here by the windows, staring intently at Draco. He gulped, swallowing hard. "Yes, Malfoy?"

"May I—may I speak with you?" Draco choked out, blinking. How he hated his friends, over there giggling and snorting at his plight. Sodding winking at him and waving daft fingers, the arses! "In private. Outside, Potter. Um, now."

Potter exchanged a quick speaking glance with his mates, who were both oddly mum, though the Weasel seemed to be turning red as blazes by rapid degrees, and stepped back from his incredible Jack 'o lantern. Now that Draco was up-close and personal, he could see that Potter had created a whole series of scenes—the tale of Cinderfellow, if he wasn't mistaken.

"Ah!" Potter exclaimed. He fidgeted and Draco's heart flipped in his echoing chest cavity. "Sure, yeah, er-why not?" Potter gabbled, waving his wand aimlessly, as if he wasn't quite certain what to do with it at the moment. The pulsing blue tip—the fire that sliced such intricate designs in pumpkin flesh—nearly sliced off the tip of Draco's nose. He flinched back as Potter gasped, dropping his arm, and attempted to spell out his demand one more time when Potter at last stood still and unmoving, blazing green eyes staring into his own.

This is so fucked up, Draco thought. I'm so doomed.

"Potter. Will you come with me? Now, outside?" Draco pointed at the door, unaware his grey eyes had taken on a decided hint of pleading desperation. If that refused handshake had been earth-shattering, it was nothing compared to this. This was all his hopes and wet dreams in a nutshell; all his wank fantasies and his achy, lonely, hollowed-out chest thundering. "Potter? Pl—?"

"Erm, sorry! Ah, right now? This minute, Malfoy?"

"Yes, Potter," Draco was impelled to say. Nothing could've stopped him; not a counter-Imperio, not even his own better judgment. "Right now, if you please."

"'Kay, well," Potter glanced about him, checking to ensure the professors overseeing the pumpkin carving weren't paying them any attention. They weren't, so Potter grabbed Draco's elbow. He found himself outside the Great Hall and stuffed in the adjacent Broom Closet in a trice and a twinkling, staring the requisite inch or so down at Potter's upturned, enquiring face. "Sure!" Potter tacked on brightly, inanely, and turned a very attractive pink straight after. "Yes?"

"Niiiice," Draco remarked idly, without thinking, and then blushed, himself. "I meant!"

"Malfoy? You wanted...?" Potter was clearly puzzled, his lips pursed up and his brow crinkled. It was cute. Too fucking cute for words, even. Draco, already off-balance from the Imperio Pans had struck him with (and why didn't she think the professors would notice that? It was Dark Magic, for Salazar's sake—expressly forbidden!) had to work hard to untangle his recalcitrant tongue. He scrambled to get his few remaining thoughts in order.

Ask Potter about the Charm he'd been using. Right.

"How-d'you-do-that?" he burst out, all at once, in one gusty breath, and stuck his one foot on top of his other in his nervousness, rocking back on his heel. It was tricky, but he wasn't limbre for nothing, nor well-versed in being thoughtlessly elegant. Potter, on the other hand, sagged up against the convenient wall, suddenly quite relaxed in demeanour, though still twitchy. He grinned impishly; there were stray pumpkin seeds in his hair. Draco melted inside, like runny eggs.

"Ah—what?" Potter blinked. "Which, Malfoy?" Fair took Draco's breath away, Potter's fidgets.

"That!" he gritted, waving a wild hand back at the Hall, where Potter's incredible Jack 'o lantern was still displayed in all its glory. "With your bloody pumpkin!"

"Oh, I see!" Potter exclaimed. They were both very short of breath, it seemed, and incapable of communicating in anything other than bursts of static sound. But Potter settled in even more comfortably against the stone-and-mortar, nonetheless, crossing his legs at the ankle and lounging back like a great cat, awaiting developments, and Draco's heart rate skyrocketed. They'd never yet managed to have real conversation—not once. Bless that blasted Pans, for setting this up, the nosy bint; he was fucking grateful, Imperio or no! "It's a little something Hermione taught me," Potter went on nonchalantly. "Like a Muggle blowtorch, only Charm-driven. Want me to show you how?"

Draco opened his lips, all set to agree happily to that suggestion, and hopefully set the tone for further non-hexing, non-combative, pleasantly matey conversations in the misty future. Mayhap by the time they graduated their repeated Seventh Year, he'd have worked up the nerve to ask Potter out for a Hogsmeade Saturday or something. Maybe.

But his body had other plans for him—that, or Pansy's Imperio was a real zinger.

"I-will-if-you-attend-the-Ball-with-me!" he gasped, and lunged forward, his abruptly out-of-control arms trapping Potter against that handy-dandy wall. Draco dropped his wand without a second's regret and leant in even closer, so that Potter's body heat was pressed all down his own shock-chilled chest and belly and upper thighs. He sucked in a desperate breath and closed his eyes for a second, cursing the world. This was the bloody worst thing, ever! He'd not meant to say that, no matter what Pans ordered! They weren't anywhere near ready for such demands—he'd have his work cut out for him just to be friendly, and now! Oh, now—it was too late now. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. He was fucked, up the arse, backwards.

"Alright," Potter replied, and he, too, was breathing hard.

"Er?" Draco snapped his clenched eyelids open. Somehow, he and Potter had their respective lips not even a millimetre from each other's. Potter's breath smelt of pumpkin pasties and cider. It was delicious. "Ngh?" Draco asked, a nasally whinge of confusion emitted through his flared nostrils. He couldn't seem to stop this awful panting and it was better to do so through his nose, surely, than open his stupid traitorous mouth and maybe end up drooling stupidly over Potter's incredible nearness.

Surely…..what?

"What-did-you-just-say-Potter?" he barked, staccato in his total sea of confusion. He cocked his chin, aghast. "You—you will?"

Potter shifted within the cage of Draco's forearms, blushing faintly, and tucked his wand up his sleeve. He raised his gaze and met Draco's goggling grey eyes steadily, licking his lips. "Um, yeah. I will. That's what you really wanted, right? To ask me?"

"Yes…" Draco breathed. Those lips—oh Merlin's bollocks, they were so close! And Potter's groin was considerably more bulgy than it had been a moment ago—Draco could feel it, Potter's dick, nudging up against his own through layers of totally unnecessary fabric. "Yes!"

"Well, alright, then," Potter shot back. "I will, yes. Was gonna ask you, ack!"

Draco cut him off, mid-syllable, with a snog that had been at least four years in the making. It was a monumental snog; a masterpiece, drawing from everything he'd every learned about snogging from all those sly sensual Slytherins and ravenous Ravenclaws and even the stray domineering Gryff and soppy Huffle (the last to his eternal shame, but it had been a dare, so there!) It was a snog that told Potter he was grateful, and that he thought Potter was fucking fit, and that he wanted nothing so much as to get to know Potter a whole lot better. Yesterday, damn it. Naked, preferably. Please.

"Ahhh!" Draco groaned, and snogged vigorously, as Potter—fit, talented, life-saving, soul-quenching Potter—was snogging him in return.

But it was the tentative hand trailing down his tailored flies that did him in. Came right in his pants, Draco did, and he fought his wobbly limbs to return the favour. Scrabbled at Potter's cock through too many layers and rubbed at its weight like a demon. Nibbled at stray earlobes, mouthed hair like prickly silk, left a great huge sloppy love bite all over Potter's arched throat and fucking stroked—three times, five times, ten!—till Potter jerked in his arms (which had wrapped themselves 'round Potter like Squid tentacles, as he apparently had more than two dextrous hands now-no! That was his 'third limb', so to speak, rubbing away at Potter's!) and ejaculated with a pleased yelp.

"Well!" Potter exclaimed after, snorting into Draco's convenient shoulder, his knees swaying beneath him. Draco clutched him and contented himself with sucking in restorative oxygen and the heady scent of a mutually-elicited cum-fest. "Well!"

"Yes, um," Draco muttered, gathering Potter yet closer. "Not a Spell, Potter. Not Imperio'd, damn that Pansy."

"…Huh?"

"Wanted to do this. Wanted to touch you. Dying to, really," Draco muttered, sticking his nose in Potter's pretty ear happily. "Say it wasn't a mistake, alright?"

"No mistake, Draco," Potter grinned, and it was the loveliest sight Draco had seen since the sun rising over the ruined battlements of Hogwarts, the morning after the final battle. "Wanted it, too, silly sod."

"Brilliant," Draco replied, and managed nothing else. No need for conversation, now. Not at the moment; possibly not for quite some time to come. He was reeling with glee and it wasn't every day one felt like bloody Cinderfellow, being presented with one's own personal crystal loafer-and silence and butterfly kisses all across Potter's scarred forehead were so much more to the point than unnecessary words, in any case. Words and Potter didn't seem to mix well, really.

"Mmm," Potter hummed and nestled nearer. "Quite."

"I…I love your gourd, Potter," Draco commented, forgetting his vow of silence altogether the very next moment. "'S'really incredible, what you can do with a common vegetable."

Potter grinned. Winked slyly at Draco, which left Draco grinning dumbly in reply, so bollixed he could barely keep his lower jaw in place.

"And I love yours, Malfoy," Potter teased softly, and got hold of Draco's rapidly firming bits, caressing them into readiness. "Big…thick…harder-than-blazes. Ripe with juices. It's a bloody blue ribbon winner, yeah?"

"Fuck me, Potter!" Draco growled.

"Oh, yes!" Potter dimpled at him. "That can be arranged."

Finite