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Harry tilted back in his chair, eyes roaming across the ceiling in a futile attempt at finding a distraction. You would think that after everything he had done, he wouldn't need to study History of Magic in eighth year. He had made history, after all.
He cast a wary glance at Hermione before continuing his daydream; that was the sort of thinking, he'd found, that got you slapped with a rolled up bit of parchment.
Nonetheless, fairness or unfairness, the Ministry of Magic had thrown their weight around, and the subject was now ruled compulsory for graduation, because of something to do with ‘ensuring the avoidance of past mistakes’.
The only repeated mistake Harry was certain of was that Binns was still teaching; he was sure that the only beneficial effect an extra year of the boring old codger was having on anyone was a much needed extra hour of sleep.
“Harry.” Hermione’s harsh whisper cut through his thoughts. “Focus.”
Harry gestured wildly at the front of the room - to no one's notice except Hermione’s - and stared at her beseechingly. “Why?” he asked without bothering to lower his voice.
Seamus gave a sharp snore from his seat next to theirs and rolled his head in his hands, turning to face the other way as his breath settled once more into a steady, hypnotizing rhythm.
Hermione pulled a face. “Fine,” she hissed. “But stop distracting me.”
Harry groaned and sat up. Immediately, he could feel his eyelids growing heavy. Slowly, they began to droop.
He jerked violently awake as a loud thud sounded from in front of him. He looked down at the heavy book before turning and raising one eyebrow at Hermione.
“Seriously?”
To his surprise, Hermione smirked. “You'll like this one,” she muttered, and then went back to ignoring him.
With a small amount of trepidation, Harry opened the book.
Agile Charms for the Athletic Wizard
Harry raised his eyebrows, quietly impressed, and began to read.
Several pages later, he had several new spells he was itching to try. Not all of them could be used in Quidditch, but they gave him some ideas for fun new games he and Ron could try on their brooms. Like the dancing hoops spell, where they could surround themselves with a number of moving targets that spun away while they tried to shoot sparks from their wand into the goal.
It was just a shame that he couldn't try any in here, now. He still had forty minutes of class left.
He turned the page, and his eyes fell on a small charm written in a decorative border down the bottom of the book.
“Wizard Wrestling?” He frowned at the parchment.
Bounce your partner all around, just twist your wrist, grasp tight, pull down!
Harry read the enthusiastic text three times before accepting that there was no further instruction, then studied the moving picture, twisting his wrist in imitation and pulling straight down as if he were tugging on a rope.
“Alluctorio,” he whispered.
There was an answering, phantom tug on his hand, and then it felt like a warm weight was resting in his palm. He looked down and wondered what he was meant to do next.
A loud snore sounded from the other side of the room. He looked over to see Malfoy leaning back in his chair, slumped down so that his head was resting on the back and his feet were propped up on the empty chair beside him.
Harry bit down a laugh. It was unusual to see Malfoy so… loose. But he supposed that was the wonder of Binns’ class: no one paid any attention at all.
An idea slowly took root in his brain, hammering insistently. He pulled a face; he really shouldn't do it. Besides, Malfoy had hardly caused any trouble this year. He and Goyle seemed to have had some kind of falling out, and he'd heard whispers that some of the other Slytherins had refused to hang around with him unless he renounced his past attitude to muggle-borns, for fear of their reputations. He'd obviously made the effort, too, since even Harry had to admit he was only about half of his usual git-self.
But it was Malfoy.
Before he could think about it properly and change his mind, he made a throwing motion with his hand and smiled as the warm sensation left his palm and went sailing off, hopefully toward Malfoy.
Malfoy shifted, but otherwise didn’t stir. Harry moved his hand experimentally, and his eyes widened in surprise as Malfoy’s hair ruffled at the same time, like an unseen hand had moved through it. Harry jerked his hand back and waited. Malfoy didn’t stir.
Very slowly, refusing to acknowledge the small part of his brain that was very aware of how stupid and immature he was being, he drew his hand back…
...and slapped it forward.
“Bloody fu-” Malfoy yelped, lurching forward abruptly and choking back his words as he realised where he was.
A couple of students stretched and muttered, and Hermione glanced over, but all Malfoy was doing was rubbing his face and looking irritated and alarmed, so no one paid him much attention.
Harry stuffed his fist into his mouth and quickly turned the other way, resting his head on his arms and hoping he wasn't visibly shaking from laughter. After a few minutes he casually looked back.
Malfoy was sitting up straight now, his shoulders tense while his eyes darted around the room. Clearly, he knew someone had just hit him with a spell, but he had no idea who.
Harry twitched his fingers. Something shimmered behind Malfoy’s head. Harry’s eyes widened and he waved his hand slowly back and forth. The shimmer moved with him.
Grinning and hoping Malfoy couldn't see it coming, he moved his hand to the front of Malfoy’s face, paused for a moment to reevaluate his life choices, and flicked Malfoy on the nose.
Malfoy slapped his hand up over his nose and scrunched his face up in pain, but managed to avoid yelling this time. Harry brought his fist up in front of his mouth and bit down on his finger to stop from laughing. As Malfoy looked around the room, his face tight with fear and suspicion, Harry brought his hand behind Malfoy’s hair again and smacked Malfoy over the back of the head.
Malfoy shoved his chair back with a loud scrape and stood up. Harry closed his eyes and pretended to snore. He could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him, but when he peeked through his lashes Malfoy was looking at everyone in the room with equal mistrust.
“Sit down, Malfoy,” Hermione hissed.
“It was you, wasn’t it, Granger?” Malfoy spat back.
“What was me?”
Malfoy sneered, his pointy face twisting into a derisive glare. “Come now, Granger, you're the only one awake.”
Hermione turned away from Malfoy, pointedly ignoring him to focus her attention on Professor Binns. Malfoy glanced at the Professor, who was facing the blackboard and studying a piece of chalk as it slowly and shakily drew the rough shape of Scotland and placed a dot near the centre.
“You don't honestly think I'm going to believe you're paying attention, do you?” Malfoy’s lip curled incredulously.
Hermione snapped her head around to glare at Malfoy, and Harry saw him take a small step backward. “If you don't sit down this very second, Malfoy, I'm going to turn you into a ferret, and this time there's no Professor McGonagall around to turn you back,” she shot in a fierce whisper.
Malfoy studied her for a second before sitting down and staring mutinously - but silently - ahead.
Harry carefully raised his hand from the table.
“Mr. Potter, did you have a question?” Professor Binns stuttered, halting in his toneless monologue to blink myopically at Harry.
Harry sat up, dropping his hand down beside him a second before Malfoy looked his way. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Malfoy give a strange little flinch, but he wasn't sure why because he was suddenly terrified that the class would turn to watch him. No one stirred.
“Er, no,” he said. “Sorry, Professor.”
Professor Binns started in surprise, as if he had forgotten what another voice sounded like, before nodding and turning back to the board. “Yes, quite, now-”
Harry shot a glance at Malfoy and was surprised to see he no longer appeared to be searching the room for the culprit. Instead, he was staring straight ahead with a strange expression on his face, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat so hard his knuckles had turned white.
Harry frowned, his fingers twitching sympathetically. Malfoy gasped.
Harry’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the telltale shimmer in the air.
When he had let his hand drop to the side of his desk, the spell had moved with it, moving down until it landed on Malfoy’s-
Harry gulped, feeling frozen in place. If he pulled his hand back quickly, Malfoy might notice the movement and realise it had been him. He had to go slowly.
Very carefully, he pulled his hand back a couple of centimeters.
Malfoy’s mouth dropped open in a silent whimper, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Harry froze again, but apart from Malfoy’s now obvious rapid-breathing, he was still. He drew his hand up a little more and watched in fascination as Malfoy bit down on his lip and moved backward in his chair, away from Harry.
It was a larger reaction than Harry could ever remember getting from him before.
Without thinking, Harry let his hand drop back down and slid his fingers in one long stroke along the front of Malfoy’s trousers. This time, Malfoy moved with it, thrusting slightly up into the pressure of the phantom hand, even though his face was still contorted into something bordering on anguish.
Harry's mouth fell open. This was not supposed to happen. This was really not supposed to happen. Who got off on the slightest touch like that?
Did Malfoy have a thing for exhibitionism?
Blocking off the part of his brain that acknowledged he was moving into some new territory that was no longer defined as ‘mortal enemies’, Harry lowered his hand and began to rub, back and forth. Malfoy’s brows drew together, his breathing coming harsh and shallow, as he began to - almost imperceptibly - grind up against Harry’s hand.
Harry couldn't look away. He was mesmerised by the sight of Malfoy finally coming undone. Through all the insults, all the barbed attacks they had thrown at each other over the years, nothing had ever made that cool exterior falter quite like this. Malfoy was a coward, certainly, and Harry had seen him afraid more than once. But running was still fighting.
This, this was not fighting. For once, Malfoy was not fighting.
He was succumbing.
Harry felt something stir inside him, urging him forward. He slowed his hand down to the barest of movements, watching Malfoy shudder and push up, chasing the friction that Harry was denying. He was dimly aware of his classmates beside him, vaguely conscious of the fact that he was in the middle of a crowded room, the Professor’s lesson droning on and on like white noise on a TV, but his entire focus was narrowed on Malfoy.
Malfoy’s grip on the chair tightened, his fingers flexing and gripping rhythmically as he visibly tried to control himself. His breath hitched, his expression flickering as the sensations built, overwhelming him until it was clear he was almost tipping over the edge.
Harry pulled his hand back. Malfoy’s eyes snapped open, his expression a curious mix of anger, longing, and horror. Harry leaned back in his chair and watched through half-closed eyes as Malfoy looked around the room, his eyes dark and his skin flushed.
They both jumped at the sudden sound of textbooks slamming shut and students pushing back chairs. The lesson was over.
As Harry packed up his things, avoiding Malfoy’s eye, he finally acknowledged that while Malfoy might be into a few things Harry had never considered, it was a two-way street.
And the uncomfortable ache in Harry’s pants was making it obvious that he was very, very into them too.
~oOo~
Harry was in deep.
Somewhere between the third and fourth time he had brought himself off over the memory of Malfoy writhing under his hand, he had finally admitted to himself that he wanted it again. Whether it was because it was Malfoy - he couldn't recall a time when had he ever held so much power over Malfoy before - or simply because there was something incredibly erotic about doing that to someone in a crowded room where anyone could turn and see, he didn't know.
But he wanted it. And now, he didn't seem able to stop.
It had only taken ten minutes of quiet study in Defense Against the Dark Arts for him to lose all self control and cast the spell on Malfoy again. Within seconds, Malfoy had stiffened in the most enticing way, his hands falling to his side, this time to grab at his robes.
As Harry stroked him through the fabric, he couldn't take his eyes away from the sight of those hands, gripping fistfulls of cloth as if it might somehow make a difference. And through it all, Malfoy’s face was open and vulnerable, his lips whispering curses as he rutted slowly against the invisible hand.
Harry caressed the shape of him, pleased to realise that if he focused, he could feel what the phantom hand was touching. His own hand, hidden beneath the table, massaged Malfoy’s hard length, gripping tighter when he could feel him pushing faster, in the hopes that he could get him to slip and make just one small sound.
But Malfoy just bit down harder on his lip, and it was Harry who gasped as he felt Malfoy convulse beneath him, spilling into his hand.
In Potions, Harry somehow got the idea that Malfoy’s mesmerising hands were a problem that needed to be dealt with. To his delight, he realised he could manipulate two phantom hands at the same time.
As Malfoy stepped back to let Blaise take his turn stirring the cauldron, Harry ran his fingers lightly around Malfoy’s wrists, waited for him to realise what was happening, and then gripped them and pulled them behind his back.
From across the room, he saw Malfoy’s knees give way slightly, and through the spell he felt Malfoy’s initial resistance - his initial uncertainty at this new move - suddenly evaporate as Harry maneuvered his arms just above his arse and held them there with the strength of one hand.
With the other, he slid slowly in the front of Malfoy’s robes until he reached his goal - already firm, and getting harder with each passing second - and began to move back and forth as slowly as he could.
His own hands were hidden behind him, his body angled into the corner so that it wasn't obvious what he was doing, but he still felt exposed standing up, unable to hide his movements under the table.
Part of him wanted Malfoy to notice.
“Your turn, Harry,” Ron said, stepping away from the cauldron and wrinkling his nose. “I'm not sure I did that right.”
Harry reluctantly recalled the spell and stepped forward to inspect the cauldron.
When he looked up several minutes later, he felt his stomach flip at the sight of Malfoy, casually inspecting the cauldron, still with his hands held firmly behind him.
~oOo~
He realised just how fucked he was the day he stayed behind to sneak into the Slytherin change room after Quidditch.
It wasn't that he was trying to catch Malfoy naked; Merlin, he's not a pervert. He was just trying to harass him for that disgusting foul he had pulled, that had sent Harry toppling off his broom. If Harry had been any other flyer,modesty be damned, he wouldn't have managed to correct the fall.
So he had stormed in there, full of zealous fury against the malicious intent of pointy-faces gits…
...and he'd found said git still in the shower. He'd stood there in the doorway, frozen at the sight of three Slytherins in various states of undress, joking and laughing at their win, and managed to somehow possess the fortitude to duck behind the lockers before anyone saw him.
That was as far as his will-power took him. Within five minutes, he had one hand on the back of Malfoy’s neck, holding him against the shower wall so that his hands were braced on either side of his head, and the other hand running in tantalizingly slow motion up and down Malfoy’s soapy arse. Even from this distance, he could see the way Malfoy leaned back into his touch, gasping quietly against the wall while Harry slowly slid one finger inside.
He kept the movements slow and unhurried, waiting until the other two students left, chatting amongst themselves without even noticing Malfoy’s strange posture. When the door slammed shut behind them, he slid another finger in next to the first and curved them up, seeking out the place he knew would make Malfoy weak.
Malfoy let out a sudden groan, either aware that the others had left, or too far gone to care, and Harry had to let go of Malfoy’s neck so that he could slide his hand down his own trousers to where he was already hard and dripping.
By the time he had Malfoy moaning and coming against the wall in long streaks, he'd forgotten why he'd even come in there in the first place.
~oOo~
He had to stop. It was wrong, and he'd been blinded by temptation, and thank Merlin he'd woken up to himself before it had gone too far.
The image of Malfoy’s firm arse thrusting back against his fingers deposited itself helpfully at the front of his mind. He pushed it away.
“Before it went too far,” he said firmly, ignoring the strange look Ron gave him.
“You alright, mate?”
The candlelight flickered across Ron’s face, and for a second the noise of the common room was overwhelming. Harry stood up abruptly.
“Just need some air.” He packed up his textbooks and shoved them quickly in his bag. “It's time to meet Slughorn anyway.”
Ron frowned. “Why are you meeting Slughorn?”
Harry shrugged, throwing his bag over his shoulder and narrowly avoiding hitting Parvati over the head as he did. “He sent me an owl this morning.”
“Sounds like your own private Slug Club,” Ron said with a shudder.
Harry wrinkled his nose and waved good bye, making his way down to the Potions classroom.
Wonder why he didn't want to meet in his office, Harry thought as he pushed open the door and looked around.
The door slammed shut behind him, and the next thing he knew, he was shoved against the hard wood, his hands pinned above his head by an invisible force.
“You honestly thought I didn't know it was you, Potter?”
Harry shivered at the sound of that aristocratic drawl, the tone lower and huskier than he had ever heard it. He turned his head to see Malfoy leaning against the wall beside him, studying his wrists with bored disinterest.
“What do you mean?”
“It leaves a mark, you know,” Malfoy continued as if Harry hadn't spoken, holding his wrists up for Harry to see and looking him straight in the eye.
Harry swallowed, taking in the sight of thin bruising around Malfoy’s slender forearm.
“In the event of a disagreement, Wizard Wrestling needs to have some way to prove where an opponent has been groped.” Malfoy pushed off the wall and walked slowly in front of Harry. He leaned back against the desk and smirked. “Tell me, Potter, what marks shall we leave on you? You've had me at an unfair disadvantage for quite some time now.”
Harry felt the air leave him in rush, his head feeling suddenly light. Was Malfoy about to-
A phantom hand pressed firmly against his chest before trailing a slow path downwards. Harry whimpered.
“You can also have more than two hands,” Malfoy added conversationally. Then he held up his own and wriggled them, giving Harry another smirk. “And you can control them with a thought.”
Harry’s reply was a broken moan as the hand in front of him became two, undoing his fly with neat efficiency, just how he would imagine Malfoy’s own, delicate hands would move.
At the thought of Malfoy’s hands - his real hands - on him, he let out another moan, this time arching up off the door and pressing closer against the invisible hands.
He realised he had closed his eyes, and he opened them now to see Malfoy watching him, his hands propped back against the desk he was leaning on, and his eyes dark and intense, never straying from Harry’s face.
Harry couldn't look away; he thought he could see his own expression mirrored there: an incredulous sort of vulnerability, hidden behind a mask of perfect control.
They had both broken that mask, hadn't they? Broken it, knowingly, for each other.
Another hand began to step lightly, playfully along his hips until it hovered behind him, just above his waistband. His lips parted in another whimper as he realised what Malfoy was about to do.
“Christ, Potter, you really are a slut for it, aren't you?” Malfoy’s voice was soft, and Harry could see a hint of admiration in his steady gaze.
It made his knees weak, but there was no way he was telling Malfoy that.
“You're one to talk,” he gasped as the hand behind him slid down to run along his crack. It was slick and wet; Malfoy had done something to it.
Malfoy’s eyes flashed with anger and the fingers that had been rubbing softly against him suddenly shoved inside.
Harry cried out, and then, to his horror, he found he was rutting up against the hand on his cock, thrusting forward and pushing back onto the fingers behind him until all too quickly it was over and he was left shuddering against the door, his stomach painted with streaks of his own cum.
He sagged against his restraints, held up by the force of the spell, and slowly caught his breath.
When he looked up, Malfoy hadn't moved, and his eyes were still watching Harry carefully, giving nothing away.
Harry shook his head, trying to flick the sweat-soaked strands of hair out of his eyes, with little success.
“What now?” he asked, his voice coming out huskier than he intended.
Malfoy remained still, but there was a tension to his stance now. His brows drew together just slightly, making him look strangely uncertain. “I don't know,” he admitted.
“You could start by untying me?” Harry suggested, looking down at his rumpled and sweaty clothing.
Malfoy smirked. “But I like you like that.”
Harry grinned in surprise at the unusually playful statement. Malfoy’s answering smile - soft and hesitant - made his stomach flutter.
But he'd never tell Malfoy that.
“Malfoy!” Harry said, feigning shock. “I had no idea you were such a kinky bastard.”
Malfoy raised one eyebrow, laughing despite his obvious efforts to remain impassive. “Potter, you have no idea.”