Force of Habit

In Harry's 6^th year, Marcus Flint came back to Hogwarts.

Ron, who'd heard it from Pansy, who'd heard it from Draco, who'd heard it from his father, sniggered gleefully at the idea that Flint really was thick enough to be sent back to school 3 years after he'd left, while Hermione huffed impatiently. She used any excuse she could to huff at Pansy - she didn't approve of her and Ron.

"It's not like it's a relationship," she'd said disparagingly to Harry, "it's just sex," while Harry wished she'd just ask Ron out and stop them tiptoeing around each other, but didn't say anything.

Anyway, it transpired at first Quidditch practice that Flint was actually Hooch's new assistant at Hogwarts, there to learn to be a coach. "Ah," said Hermione sagely later, "an apprenticeship," while Ron blinked at the Muggle term.

He was tall, even taller than Harry remembered him, and his shoulders stretched broadly under the material of his robes. His eyes were still mean and cunning, and flashed darkly from under his brow.

His arms still hung ape-like at his sides, and his hands looked ham-fisted and clumsy, but gripped a broom strong and sure, and handled a Quaffle with surprising deftness. Harry thought about those hands gripping his cock, and blinked in surprise.

He looked up to see Flint looking at him, and flew up into the sultry evening air after the Snitch.

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Harry kept as far away from Flint as possible for the next few practices - he tended to get a jittery feeling around his stomach if he got too close, which didn't help his concentration, which didn't help in catching the Snitch. And Harry found he had a ridiculous tendency to blush, which irritated him no end - it wasn't as if Flint was even handsome.

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It happened on a Thursday.

Thursday 28^th of September, to be more specific about it. It seemed important to Harry to remember the date when such things happened.

Quidditch practice had been normal - well, Ron had nearly killed Colin with an ill placed Quaffle, almost putting him off Chasing for life, but it had all turned out okay in the end.

No, it had been after practice.

He was often horny after Quidditch, what with the adrenaline and all that stimulation between the legs - and now he had The Flint Problem he tended to be very highly strung after practice, and would often linger putting the kit away in order to have a little privacy for a quick wank in the changing rooms.

So he really couldn't be blamed when, rounding the corner into the changing rooms and walking straight into a solid warm body, Harry arched into it rather than away.

A grunt and a flash of dark eyes and Harry hastily made to back away, but before he could stutter out an apology, Flint's strong hands had turned him around and pushed him against the wall just inside the changing rooms. Callus-roughened fingertips grazed up Harry's back under his sweat-damp T-shirt and a hot mouth pressed against his own - Harry shuddered as Flint sucked on his tongue and decided dizzily that it really didn't matter that Flint's teeth were trollish and protuberant as long as they kept nibbling on his bottom lip like that. Flint seemed to like Harry's little whimpers of pleasure, because it wasn't long before, under the protection of a silencing charm and a locking charm, Harry was being well and truly shagged into the wall.

The uneven tiles left angry red marks on his shoulders, and Harry had never felt so good.

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It wasn't, of course, the last time it happened - there was something oddly addictive about Flint. He was crude and unromantic and he certainly wasn't a picture, but his muscles were hard and smooth under his skin, he handled Harry's body as deftly as he did the Quaffle, and his tongue was sinfully talented.

Harry didn't have to hold hands with Flint, and there were no tears under mistletoe -"it's just sex," said his inner-Hermione voice. And it was, but that was the whole point, it was just...satisfaction of his primal needs, and it relaxed Harry more than any potion would have done.

And so, it continued, this...Harry was reluctant to call it a relationship. He kept it hidden - people wouldn't understand, which he couldn't really blame them for when he didn't really understand himself. He wasn't sure Ron would survive the shock anyway.

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So he'd slip down to Flint's little office of an evening, on the pretext of discussing Quidditch strategies with Flint and Hooch, part of Flint's apprenticeship and useful for Harry too as Gryffindor captain...and he did talk Quidditch with Flint on these occasions, at least a little, it being the only thing they had in common, really, except sex, and why talk about sex when they could be having it?

Or he'd wait behind after practice again, like the first time, and they'd shag in the changing rooms again, the musky smell of sex mingling with the scent of boy sweat that hung perpetually in the air there, and then they'd shower together, and they might do it again under the hot streams of water, skin sliding slickly over skin, moans bouncing off the tiles.

Or Harry might pass an empty classroom one day, and feel a pair of strong arms yank him through the door, and they'd have quick, hurried sex on a desk - these occasions were fuelled with adrenaline, knowing that, despite locking and silencing charms, anyone handy with a couple of spells could discover them at any time...

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Flint surprised Harry in many ways - the surprising dexterity of his clumsy looking hands as they brought Harry expertly to the edge; the occasional sharp humour that showed through when he spoke, which admittedly wasn't often; the startling vulnerability that spiked in his eyes when he lay under Harry, hot and flushed, Harry's hair dangling in his face; but never more than when Harry came down to his office one Wednesday in November to hear raised voices from inside.

"I know you've been shagging Potter, too! Don't even try to deny it, Marcus! Of all the...!"

It took Harry a moment to realise who Marcus was. He then also realised with a belated start that the rather whining voice belonged to one Draco Malfoy.

"I saw him coming out of your rooms on Monday, and don't even try to tell me he hadn't been thoroughly done by you, because it's happened to me enough times to recognise!" Draco's voice rose on a squeak, and Harry swallowed in surprise.

Flint's voice rumbled. "Get off yer high horse, Malfoy, it's not like we were exclusive. I don't know where you got that idea. And you'll notice I never tried to deny it. If you've got a problem, you can find somewhere else to stick it."

There was a suppressed, angry sounding squawk, and Draco stormed out of the office door, chin held high, cheekbones edged with pink indignation.

He stopped as he caught sight of Harry, and pointed accusingly at him. "You...!"

Harry shrugged. He wasn't really sure was the best thing was to say in this kind of situation. Draco appeared to have a similar problem, as he huffed and stalked off, robe swirling, silvery hair ruffled in its own show of defiance, glinting with self-righteous anger in the dim torchlight of the corridor.

Harry went in to Flint's office.

"Um," said Flint, as Harry looked at him reprovingly. Flint's eyes skidded away from Harry.

"You could have told me you were fucking Draco too," said Harry. "I don't think I'd've minded. You're just lucky I'm not going to follow his example."

He jerked his head in the direction of the doorway. Flint looked distinctly relieved. "Ah, he'll be back," he grunted dismissively. "Not many'd put up with his whining long enough to shag him."

"And why do you?" enquired Harry.

Flint's eyes glinted. "Tongue like you wouldn't believe," he said, and smirked, and licked his lips, and Harry got hard and it all progressed as normal after that, although Harry's curiosity was certainly piqued with regards to Draco's tongue.

And judging by the dopey expression on Draco's face and the way he gingerly sat down to breakfast not five days later, he had indeed gone back. Harry watched him drink his pumpkin juice and lick away a few stray drops from the corner of his mouth.

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December approached with cold hard bite and it had been going on for over two months, now.

Of course, like all such things that persist, it became...a habit. A part of life, almost - like all regular things, a routine developed, for human beings are sticklers for routine, and no-one likes change when such a thing has been established.

And it went so: down at Flint's office on a Monday evening, and every other Wednesday, because Draco was there on the other Wednesdays; after practice on a Thursday, and Saturday, but they had to be quick on Thursdays because Harry always had Potions homework to do for Friday; it used to be any time they could get on a Sunday but even that became fixed in time: the Muggle Studies classroom on fifth floor, at one pm.

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Like anyone with regular sex, Harry was very comfortable with this arrangement, and so it came as somewhat of a shock when Flint abruptly left halfway through February to continue his apprenticeship with the Holyhead Harpies.

Harry floundered helplessly, eyes wide and jaw slack as Flint just...went, with no more than a "Bye, Potter. It's been...something," and a leer.

He was inclined, really, at first, to be angry and indignant - how dare his regular source of sex just...disappear? His rational mind knew it was hardly Flint's fault, but the point was, he was a randy, hormonal teenage boy whose outlet for such urges had been severed without warning, and really, that wasn't on, was it?

His body was still nicely accustomed to habit and wasted no time in reminding Harry, at the most inopportune moments, that its pleasant routine had been rudely interrupted, and after a week, Harry was climbing the metaphorical walls.

Of course, there was always the old fallback of his own strong grip, behind thick red Gryffindor bed hangings, but for all Harry squeezed his eyes shut and imagined fiercely the hot salt tang of another body's skin, the exciting alien feel of another person's hand on his body, it wasn't the same. His fingers, so talented at catching the Snitch, could not, moving swift and slippery and desperate, mimic the hot suction of Flint's mouth, or the clinging heat of his body.

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Harry began to feel stretched out and taught as the Flint-less days crawled by, and felt like he could break - just snap and start humping the nearest warm body, and it was ridiculous that he was so affected by the lack of sex, but goddammit he'd got used to it, and it wasn't an easy habit to break, sex.

And after getting turned on by a particularly orgasmic sounding squeak by Flitwick after Hermione executed a perfect Transportation Charm, Harry knew something had to be done.

And after seeing Draco Malfoy draw in a sharp breath through his teeth and grip the table in Potions, white knuckled, eyes fluttering shut in obvious arousal, as Snape, greasy smelly yellow-fingered Potions Master, leant over him to check his Strengthening Solution, and later watching him delicately lick his pudding spoon clean at dinner, Harry had an irritatingly persistent idea of what that Something could be.

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Of course, the difficult thing was putting The Idea into practice.

It all, Harry decided, hinged on Draco's willpower - which, judging by the speed with which he'd scuttled back to Flint, wasn't all that impressive. Nevertheless, Draco's sexual frustration needed to be at a peak for it all to work - one really had to be in the right frame of mind to agree to shagging one's worst enemy.

So Harry quietly observed Draco, who seemed promisingly desperate. He was constantly on edge, jumping at small noises, eyes unnaturally bright - he seemed to have forgotten how to blink, and Harry quickly decided he had to put some kind of plan into action sooner rather than later, for the sake of both their sanity.

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In the end it turned out to be less of a plan than a confrontation.

"Hi," said Harry directly to Draco, "I've had an idea."

Draco, robes rumpled and immaculate pale eyebrows drawn together in indignation at having been pulled unceremoniously into an empty classroom, sneered at Harry.

"Well done, Potter. While I'm sure this is a red-letter day for you, you really don't need to go around telling everyone you meet. Now, if you'll excuse me--"

"No," said Harry, impatiently, "I mean, I've had an idea about you. About us," he said significantly, stepping forward as if to emphasise the existence of such a concept as 'them'.

Draco eyed Harry warily, but his eyes had widened fractionally, and he made no move to step away from Harry's body heat.

Harry felt rather triumphant, and would have smirked, except he wasn't really prone to smirking; the smirk quota in his life was more than filled by Draco Malfoy, who was now carefully saying, "I really don't see what kind of idea involves both you and me, Potter. I have a natural aversion to you and I in any situation except one where I can kick your arse."

"Oh, come off it, Malfoy. You know perfectly well we have - had - something in common. And I also know you are in a muchly similar...predicament to me."

"I am not having this conversation with you," announced Draco, face and voice now threaded through with panic, and turned on his heel, but Harry grabbed him by his shoulder and spun him round, and they stared at each other, green into grey, and Draco's shoulder was warm under Harry's grip and there was a sudden surge of movement.

Arms wound round shoulders and waists, fingers tangling in hair, mouths pressed hotly against each other, opening desperately, and tongues slid in and around and breath came in short sharp gasps.

Draco broke away suddenly and stepped away, staring at Harry wide-eyed.

"Hey!" protested Harry breathlessly. "I was just getting into that!"

"Ew," pronounced Draco with great distaste, still looking at Harry, "I just kissed Harry Potter."

Harry tutted. "Get over it, Draco. It's better than kissing no-one, hmmm?" he said astutely.

Draco looked at him uncertainly.

"And anyway," continued Harry, "you kissed Flint. And did more. And I know I have better teeth than he does."

Draco looked an uncomfortable mixture of disparaging, vaguely offended for Flint and still most definitely aroused from the kiss.

He frowned slightly. "So, you think that, just because neither of us are getting any and aren't entirely comfortable with that sate of affairs, we should...get some...from each other?"

Harry nodded.

Draco sniffed. "Would that be...rather shallow? Wouldn't we be...using each other?"

Harry shrugged.

Draco appeared to be searching for a flaw with this. "I - but - we're enemies! We hate each other! We can't...fuck each other!"

He said this rather desperately, with the air of one trying to convince himself rather than anyone else.

"Sex is far more important that silly childhood feuds," said Harry with an air of great philosophy.

Draco considered this. "That does sound rather sensible. I suppose, being teenage boys, we are somewhat expected to think with our libido. And anyway," he said, moving slightly closer, "it's really Flint's fault, all this. If he hadn't got me accustomed to regular sex, and then just left, I wouldn't be forced to seek it in such unorthodox places..."

"Exactly," breathed Harry in agreement, edging closer still, "it's like...a habit. We can't be blamed for wanting to...continue it..."

Draco certainly did have an exceptionally talented tongue.