Trouser Snake (An Anti-Romance)

Trouser Snake for FA

by Leni Jess

Draco had had Harry quite a few times during second term, though not as often as he wanted; probably not even as much as Harry wanted. And the other way around. As far as it went, that was good.

His father had obtained written permission from the Dursleys for their nephew to visit the Malfoys in the holidays, presumably by a combination of bribery, blackmail, and believable threat of stark violence; that was good.

Harry had accepted his father's invitation to return to Malfoy Manor for Easter, after his initial Christmas visit; that was good.

Professor Dumbledore had felt obliged to allow this, since he insisted on the importance of Harry's family. That was probably not good. The old villain probably had some dire plot in mind that required putting Harry in danger's way. For that matter, Draco's father might have a plot like that; the idea didn't appeal to him as it once would have done.

Harry had spent almost all his time since they arrived in his father's bed. Draco would have had no problem with that had he been allowed in too, as he had often been over Christmas, and each of the three Hogsmeade weekends, when his father had taken a room at the most exclusive hotel in Hogsmeade. Those visits had not been nearly long enough for any of them.

Probably his father was busy making up for that now. He would swear Harry was. Draco, however, had been firmly excluded. That was bad.

At one point, when he argued, softly, so Harry would not notice, his father had responded, just as softly, but with breath-taking vulgarity for a Malfoy, "Go and play with yourself, Draco."

Which Draco had done, irritated, jealous, yet unbearably excited at the thought of what Lucius was doing to Harry, and Harry to Lucius.

In bed, his father was 'Lucius', never 'Father'. Draco thought he was probably glad his father made that distinction. He supposed he ought to be glad that his father never did to him the more intimate things he did to Harry, but it looked so good, Harry so clearly enjoyed it, that Draco's sense of the sanctity of the family bond had been sadly weakened. He wanted to play with them, not with himself.

He did it any way.

Today was fine, brisk but sunny. His father had an unbreakable appointment with the estate factor - he was always conscientious discharging true family obligations, highest of which was maintaining the Malfoy estate - so Harry and he played Quidditch on the pitch that had been established for generations. Sometimes it went unused for more than one generation, but the garden-elves maintained it, ready for the next user.

Seeker-to-Seeker made for a better game than some other combinations of players, but the lack of the others took a lot of the excitement out of it. With no Beaters firing Bludgers to dodge or to trick one's opponent into, no Chasers getting in the way, it became only a competition in who could first spot the Snitch, released without warning by a house-elf. Draco was reluctant to admit he was not as good a player as Harry; what he said was that he wasn't as crazy. They were near enough in skill, however, to give the first to see the Snitch, wherever it was, a definite advantage.

Harry enquired, "You don't have any friends who could join us?"

Draco said flatly, "You don't want to be found here by any of our family's friends, Harry."

Draco thought about flouncing off in a pet, but it was too good to have Harry's company. He asked, without much hope, "Your friends?"

Harry laughed. He did not sound amused. "Most of my Quidditch-playing friends are Weasleys, Draco."

Draco made a face of revulsion, which Harry ignored.

Then Harry said thoughtfully, "Dobby was a mean hand with a Bludger."

"That idiot house-elf of father's? The one he still hasn't forgiven you for?"

"I don't suppose he has, but he doesn't mention it. Yes. Dobby didn't need to be on a broom."

He saw Draco's continuing puzzlement. "Remember that Quidditch match in second year when that mad Bludger chased me, and finally broke my arm before it sent me arse-over-tip - after I caught the Snitch?"

Without shame Draco said, "I wondered if that was Snape."

"I don't think Snape's support for his Slytherins extends to getting himself hauled up for grievous bodily harm to a student. Whatever else he is, he's not stupid, or not often. Why don't you see if any of your house-elves can use a Bludger? They shouldn't have to fly, just do what Pippit did when she sent the Snitch up for us."

After that the game improved markedly. Draco later made an entry in the house-keeping book where all interesting and successful devices were recorded. The book shuffled them into topic and any other order required.

When the early dark fell - around 7 pm, way short of summer's late evenings, but much better than at Christmas - they went in, tired, happy, sweaty, and on exceptionally amiable terms. Sharing a bed when they could did not necessarily control their tongues or their more violent impulses, automated into habit.

Careful enquiry told Draco his father had not yet returned, so he suggested to Harry they slip in a quickie. Not necessarily in bed. Draco's bathroom, perhaps. He fancied licking some of that sweat off Harry's body before they got under the shower.

Harry hesitated, then the grin Draco's father called 'that evil Gryffindor look' appeared.

"Would someone alert us when he does come back? We don't want to be caught, Draco. He'd skin both of us, and he'd do it in bed, and it would be bad."

Draco shuddered without affectation, and agreed heartily.

He too wavered for a moment as he wondered what his father's fertile imagination might devise to provide punishment for them and pleasure for himself, before he said, "Pippit's the most reliable. She looked after me when I was little, well, from when I was three, and never once had screaming hysterics, Mother said. She likes me." Draco gave what Harry called 'that evil Malfoy smirk'.

"But will she stand up to your father for you?" Harry asked practically.

"She doesn't have to stand up - in fact her secret probably is that she never does, she just wriggles invisibly into some crack, so there's never a confrontation."

Draco found himself surprised at that realisation, but he took seriously Harry's comment, "Better never rely on her wholly, though. You don't know why she's doing it."

"Umm. But I can ask her. I don't need to tell her why, just that I need to be warned -"

"Advised," Harry interrupted, and Draco nodded, accepting.

"Advised when father returns."

It was a good idea, and, Draco thought morosely, they might be able to put it into practice some time. This time, however, the signal sounded in Draco's ears just when Harry was nibbling, so gently, on his prick, and he was licking the sweet salt from the dip of Harry's back.

They uncurled from each other like springs, up and apart as if propelled by magic.

They had not gone near the shower yet. Harry abandoned his Quidditch clothes, strewn on the floor, snatched Draco's dressing robe, shoved his glasses on his nose, and fled.

Draco bundled the clothes into a hamper with his own. At least Harry's broomstick was not lying around to provide evidence of naughty intentions.

Draco thought about wanking off in the shower, but it seemed quite inadequate after having had his hands and mouth on Harry after more than a week of deprivation. He had a cool shower instead, and dressed for dinner with the automatic care trained into him because his father required it.

After dinner his father invited them both into his study, where he made notes on his day's work. He shared some of his conclusions, as well as his grounds for them, with Draco, as he often did after such days. He occasionally threw Harry a piece of advice about land care or tenant management that made Harry smile wryly, before his expression melted into something else.

Draco could not imagine why his father thought that Harry, with his worn, unsuitable clothes, would ever have enough money to need that information, even if he hadn't been brought up in that most despised environment, the suburbs - worse, his father had said once, than any Seven Dials rookery. Harry wasn't likely to make a country landowner.

After that his father firmly shooed Harry off to bed - his bed, not Harry's - and firmly indicated to Draco, yet again, that he was not welcome.

Draco slouched off to his own room still remembering the way Harry smiled affectionately at his father after every inappropriate gift of information. Wishing Harry could smile like that at him in his own home. Harry did it, very rarely, when they were alone and happy, at Hogwarts. He wanted it here. He wanted Harry here.

Draco slammed things, picked them up and threw them, snarled, thought about what he could break and not be sorry for afterwards. Then he slumped into his most comfortable armchair, gripped his aching cock, closed his eyes, and thought of Harry.

That didn't help either.

He wanted more than thoughts, more than his own hand. He wanted Harry's warm, sharply aromatic body, as he had almost had it, after their game.

He couldn't have it. In a hamper in the bathroom, if the house-elves hadn't emptied it yet, were their Quidditch uniforms, all crumpled and damp and smelly. He would be able to pick Harry's in the dark; Harry's sweat was somehow different from his own.

Draco thought about settling on the bathroom floor with Harry's uniform, then decided a Malfoy had no need to punish himself for doing whatever he wanted.

He returned to his bedroom with Harry's heavy shirt and trousers. He unfolded them carefully on his bed, stroking the scuffed doeskin, identical to his own save for the red and gold wool braid and silk ribbons which decorated it. While the basic uniform was set, even down to the cotton and silk linings to absorb sweat and keep the wearer warm through long hours of potentially bad weather, any decoration could be the wearer's choice.

He remembered when Harry's uniform had been dead plain, just flashes of buff under the hated red robes. Now, there was the braid along the outside trouser seams, the bunches of ribbons at the knee, the loose ribbons trailing from the points of the shoulders. A little gold gryphon hand-embroidered, not very well, on the left breast. Draco wondered a little jealously who had done that. Not Harry himself, for certain, though he could mend clothes almost as well as a house-elf. All Harry's skills were utilitarian. The high close collar, soft rather than stiff, was reinforced with bicoloured braid. The sleeve endings, with their split openings, were similarly outlined.

Really, quite the dandy, Harry Potter. But hard on his uniform. Draco grinned, remembering the time, earlier this year, when Harry had split the back, lunging sideways for the Snitch. The Hogwarts house-elves had mended that invisibly, probably magically.

Draco spread the shirt and trousers out, then scrunched up beside them, sniffing gently, inhaling Harryness. The base of the neck, the bend of the elbows, as well as the armpits, all smelt of Harry. The close-fitting uniform ensured its linings absorbed everything. The trouser waistband, despite having a thick shirt tucked between it and Harry's body, had the same aroma, though different from that of the armpits. Draco went back to check.

Slowly, teasing himself, Draco moved his nose down the front to the crotch. Hmmm. Harry. He wanted to sniff his way to the back, but made himself move down to the knees. Yes, despite the thick stockings, the buttoned cuffs there also spoke of Harry, especially at the rear. Harry's knees would be folded, most of the time, the way he flew his broom, crouched to reduce the battering of the wind and to maximise his speed. Harry Potter and his broom made a curst high-speed arrow.

He let himself move slowly back up to find the slightly different aroma clinging to the tightly-fitted rear, especially at the base. He sniffed his way across the point where four seams met.

This was almost, not quite, like having Harry close.

His hands tightened on the doeskin, crumpling it. No, it wasn't. But it was all he had.

Draco deliberately stopped thinking, and buried his nose in the crotch of Harry's trousers. He opened the trousers to move his nose inside, to the lining. To where Harry's cock would lie. Harry flew naked but for the uniform, Draco knew; even the girls did. It was far more comfortable that way.

He sighed softly. Yes. Intensified Harry, there. One hand moved to his own cock, stroking gently, in no hurry. He inhaled again, deeply.

Kneeling, bent forward, his head wreathed in doeskin, his nose shoved into sweat-soaked cotton and silk, Draco began rubbing more insistently. Curse, he would be sore if he kept this up and didn't use something to moisten dry skin. Without lifting his head he reached blindly for his wand, lying beside the pillow, and muttered the necessary spell. A vial of an oily gel bumped gently against his left hand, still twisted in doeskin.

Draco dropped his wand and stretched out sideways on the bed, his left hand fumbling with the stopper while his right kept Harry's clothing around his face, bathing him in that enticing smell. Ah. Better. Gel everywhere. The house-elves could fix it. He pushed the stopper back in only to ensure he would have a reserve supply.

Draco didn't want anything fancy. He wasn't going to pretend that this was anything but his own hand bringing him off while his nose filled with Harry. He didn't rush, though; this was all he would get.

He made the most of it, enjoying the increasing tension in his leg muscles, the eager fullness of his prick, the ache in his balls. His hand slipped around to them, to cuddle and cradle them, squeezing lightly. Nice. His cock needed his hand more, though.

He gripped it more firmly and used his thumb to brush over its head, then gave in, abandoned the tight hold and used his fingers, stroking, tickling the opening, spreading the clear liquid he could feel dripping from it, though he couldn't see it. He didn't need sight, only this marvellous smell, and the feel of his hand.

He shifted position so he could keep his nose breathing through cloth and doeskin, and use both hands. Even that wasn't enough, but Draco didn't think he had been limber enough to lick his own cock since he was a baby, if then. A memory of Harry kneeling between his legs, licking and sucking, came to him, viscerally vivid, and he whimpered, gripping harder, pulling now instead of stroking, needing the harsher stimulus.

Nearly there. Oh Merlin, nearly there. Make it soon. Make it now. Yes! He came in unavoidable, helpless, shuddering spurts which wrung more than his cock dry.

Draco collapsed, gasping, his hands still holding his prick, but laxer now, letting his head roll sideways from its nest of cloth to be able to breathe. To pant. To lie, eyes closed, satisfied. For a while.

Later he lay back on his pillows, cuddled up with Harry's uniform, and let himself remember all the things he had been careful not to think of, doing that. All the things that might have made him discontented. Harry's mouth on his body, warm, tender and hard by turns. Harry's tongue, brushing, teasing, exploring, inciting. His hands, stroking, gripping; his fingers penetrating with the confidence Harry had acquired these last months, knowing exactly how and where to stroke so that Draco saw stars before Harry's cock replaced them. His own mouth and hands and cock taking charge, doing similar things, that pleased them both equally.

Draco sighed, curled around Harry's trousers, and reached between his legs again.

He went to sleep like that.

The next morning Draco rose early, and met his father sweeping out of the breakfast room with a grim expression.

He confined himself to, "Good morning, sir."

His father nodded curtly and said nothing. Usually he responded to the courtesies he required, whatever kind of mood he was in.

Draco wondered where Harry was, but did not go looking. He settled in to his holiday homework instead.

Harry must have risen very late; it was nearly noon when Pippit's voice said in Draco's ear, "Master Harry is looking for you, Master Draco."

"In my study."

Harry joined him looking more than tired; he could not have slept well.

Involuntarily Draco rose and went to him, and was astonished when Harry pressed into his arms uninvited and put his head down on Draco's shoulder, hugging him fiercely. Draco hugged back and closed his mouth on questions.

Then he realised Harry was, not crying, but struggling not to cry. Absolutely silently, but his efforts to control it betrayed him.

That was appalling. Harry Potter never cried. Malfoys didn't cry either, but that was only in public.

Draco tightened his hold and patted Harry's shoulders, then ran his hands down Harry's back. Harry pressed closer, and thoughtlessly Draco patted his arse, then quite deliberately stroked it. If he could distract Harry...

Harry's breath caught, and Harry's hips pressed his.

Harry whispered hoarsely, "I want someone to be nice to me."

Draco's throat closed, then he made himself say calmly, "Whenever you want it. My bedroom?"

He felt Harry shudder. Not a bedroom. What in Salazar's name had his father done? Going by the look on his face this morning he hadn't enjoyed it in the end, either: a complete waste of time, and worse. No more questions, no more decisions for Harry to make.

He drew Harry over to the fatly-cushioned couch under the window and pulled him down and did most of the things he had thought about last night. After a while Harry responded, and eventually Harry seemed to forget whatever it was.

Draco did not. He would never have imagined preferring to content himself by wanking off with Harry's Quidditch trousers, like some mad house-elf mourning its master, when he had almost everything he wanted right here.

One day, one day, he would find out; then, some distant day, he might be able to do something else about it. That would be good.

~~The End~~