The Slytherin common room was relentlessly dreary in the winter months. Draco wasn't entirely sure as to how exactly this occurred, considering they were about three floors down from ground level, and Merlin knows how far from where the other three houses' dormitories were sanctioned. The idea of being so far underground should’ve been enough to ward off the chill, yet it felt as though the entire room had absorbed the damp, unwelcoming atmosphere of the dungeon itself. Somehow, the common room always managed to feel as though it was on the brink of freezing over, no matter how many layers of woolen robes, thick scarves, and hastily cast warming charms they used.
If the daft ghost weren't so bloody barren in his favours, perhaps they would be better equipped with proper magical heating systems like those in the Manor sitting rooms. Always slightly cooler than cozy, but not uncomfortable. A perfectly respectable temperature to maintain. None of this bitter chill nonsense that clattered your teeth and left everything with a slightly frozen, humid feeling. Father would not be happy.
Draco sighed, rubbing his hands together, wishing he had something warmer than his stiff Slytherin robes to cling to. He sat by the hearth in one of the many green velvet couches that littered the floor, one of the only hearths ablaze, at a distance that would always be a bit to hot. Merlin, was every part of this forsaken school made so... so... abysmally?
Goyle sat on another, to his right. Jabbering on and on about who-knows-what, completely and blissfully aware that Draco hadn't once participated in this banal, one-sided conversation in half an hour. So Draco let his mind drift away, catching snippets of Goyle's voiced thoughts in the meantime.
"Hufflepuff taking the field...." Tapestries adorned with snakes fluttering in the drought...
"Not bloody welcome, I say that..." What were those flowers Mother last planted in the garden?...
"And then I say to that Granger..." I'm sure they were white. Hydrangeas perhaps? Maybe a Lily?...
"Weasel and Potter always..."
Merlin, Potter. Daft, idiotic Potter. Never where he's supposed to be, but always so coddled and commended for overcoming whatever consequences he faces for doing so. Stumbling through wizarding society like a half-wit, so endearingly relatable to the newspapers. Oh, the Great Harry Potter used the Floo for the first time? High praise! Let us all bow to the feet of this god for correctly using something everyone else did well before even their Hogwarts letter.
Draco snorted. Goyle practically puffed his chest, thinking it was directed at one of his idiotic and overused jokes.
Suddenly, a touch on his shoulder. Light, like the accidental brushing of someone's robes against you as they hurry through the corridors. Draco snapped out of his thoughts.
"Did you feel that?" He asked Goyle, rubbing his hand over the spot, already paranoid. His eyes darted around the common room, but it was empty, save for the two of them.
"What?" Goyle asked, still not really paying attention. Too busy getting off to the sound of his own voice to pay any mind.
"Nevermind." Draco replies, turning back to half-listen to Gregory's musings, but he found he didn't have the patience anymore to pretend to pay attention. The boy never quite understood when to stop, or more importantly, when to start saying something actually interesting.
Then another touch on his arm. A sharp pinch. Draco yelped and jumped off the couch, whipping his head around to find the culprit. He expected to see a first year playing a tasteless prank, perhaps even Peeves, up to his usual annoyances. But the common room remained just as it had been; cold, desolate, empty.
“Did you see—?” He began, turning to Goyle, but the behemoth was still rambling on about the injustice that is the existence of the Hufflepuff team. There was no point.
Just as he was about to tell Goyle that he was sure there was a ghost when a familiar voice, low and breathy, whispered in his ear, “chilly in here, Ferret?”
Potter.
Draco’s blood ran cold. He should've known. Draco could feel his hot breath against the nape of his neck, sending an icy shiver down his spine. He spun around again, searching the room but again there was no sign. Draco's hand twitched at his side, clutching his robes where his wand was hidden.
"Goyle, get out." Draco gritted out through his teeth.
"What?" Idiot.
"Get out!" Draco snapped, holding his wand so tight his knuckles were going white. "Now!"
With a quick shrug, Goyle scurried back to the dormitories, leaving Draco alone with Harry, where ever he may be.
His wand was now fully drawn, tip weaving and searching. Draco began to fire off random jinxes and hexes, hoping to Potter off guard and falter in whatever Disillusionment charm he had up. A couple of couch cushions were blasted to shreds and a nearby portrait jumped out of its frame, but, otherwise, the room remained devoid of any Potter-looking debris. He was certain Potter was in the room, though he could not see him, and that made him all the more angry.
The whisper came again, even closer this time, “Missed me.”
Draco whipped around, firing a blasting curse at the couch, sending a plume of feathers into the air. But still, there was nobody there. He was getting increasingly frustrated and his heart was hammering against his ribs. He barely had time to draw breath before he felt a sudden pressure on his mouth.
It was a kiss, warm and fleeting and deeply disorientating. He froze, stunned and confused. Before Draco could even begin to process what had just happened, the pressure was gone, and he was once again alone. He whipped around again, but still, he could not find his attacker.
"What the fuck?" He asked to the air. The air did not reply.
He began to slowly turn in a circle, wand out and ready, all senses on high alert. He felt something again, this time pressure on his hips, the feeling of fingers lingering on his body. These hands traveled lower, down his waist, across his hips and then, daringly, they skimmed across the front of his trousers, fleetingly grazing his crotch. Then, like that, the feeling was gone.
"What the fuck are you playing at, Potter?" Draco yelled, his voice trembling slightly, redness creeping up his neck. The combination of frustration and a strange, unnerving arousal was making his head spin. He hated how flustered he was, and the embarrassment made him defensive, so he continued to shoot spells around the room, hoping that one would find its target. He stumbled back, landing hard on the couch, his breathing erratic. He sat there, wand poised, waiting for the next taunt.
He didn't have to wait long. The next touch came, more brazen than the last, a pressure on the front of his trousers. This time, the pressure dragged along the length of his clothed dick, making a warm feeling bloom in his lower belly and the breath catch in his throat. He watched in disbelief as his fly was slowly, deliberately undone, the fabric of his trousers pushed away. A warm, wet sensation enveloped his cock, and Draco threw his head back in a groan as the feeling intensified. He lay there wide eyed, staring at the stony ceiling, mind to full of mush to go through what would've been a whirlwind of holy shit what is happening.
His body was so close, so impossibly close, Draco could feel the heat radiating off of him, smelling of broom polish and pumpkin juice that was just so undoubtably Potter. The proximity was suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides, and Draco found himself completely paralyzed. His heart raced in a way that was far from normal, his mind scrambling to make sense of what had just happened. His lips were still tingling from the brief contact, burning.
The pressure was gone again, but this time replaced with something else, the newly familiar feel of Potter's lips against his own. When he opened his eyes, Harry Potter was there, finally visible, an unidentifiable lump of fabric discarded carelessly on the floor.
Potter looked rumpled, disheveled, as if he had been in a hurry, or perhaps just far too excited. His pupils were blown wide and his cheeks splotchy with dustings of red. His hair was messier than usual, falling into his eyes in a way that made Draco’s chest tighten unexpectedly. He was slightly out of breath, mouth slick with saliva, chest rising and falling rapidly, and for a brief moment, Draco wondered if Potter had been as affected by this as he was.
Draco had never once realised how annoyingly and painfully pretty Harry Potter was. Not just pretty - Harry Potter was a god. Both so heavenly and so utterly sinful that Draco wanted to devour him.
Draco watched, mesmerized, as Harry lowered his head, his gaze locked on Draco’s. Draco threw his head back again, groaning again, and felt Harry smile around him. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned.