Morning at Last - 1. Chapter 1

Lying on a transfigured blanket on the banks of the Hogwarts lake, one arm encircling the shoulders of his newest distraction, Harry gazed up at the cloudless sky. Visually, it was a near perfect moment. Muted afternoon sunlight flickered across the span of bottle-green water, stretching out to a distant landless horizon. Occasionally, the grass rustled with miniature life: a mournful chorus of Glumbumbles droned and burbled as they searched for tasty nettles, and Harry imagined he could hear the faint whinny of a rocking-horse fly that hadn't got the message that summer had ended. Though it seemed like an eternity, it had been little over a year ago that he and Ginny had spent their own sunlit hour on these very shores. But this time, the hair he was stroking was neither coarse nor ginger; the hips that nudged and pressed against his own felt neither round nor fleshy, and he wasn't in love, not a bit; he wasn't sure what he felt for Malfoy, if anything.

One moment they'd been going at it like Kneazles in heat, the next they'd rolled apart and were gasping flat on their backs when the Room of Requirement flooded from a burst pipe, sending them both crashing through the glass of the Room's only window and tumbling onto the grassy shores of the lake. After extricating torn robes and other bits of clothing from tall grass and low bushes, and performing a few desultory drying spells, Harry had transformed a handkerchief into a blanket, and they both lay down without speaking. At Malfoy's urging, he pulled his Invisibility Cloak from the pocket of his robes, and draped the tissue-thin fabric over them both until they disappeared from the world.

Harry couldn't remember how long they lay in silence before they began to kiss, or who initiated the kissing, but he was quite sure it didn't matter. Malfoy's hair was feather-soft, and his lips were clever, and his arms were trusting, and it didn't have to make any sense at all. He didn't want it to.

And he wasn't ready to stop when he felt Malfoy wriggle out of his arms, and out from under the edge of the Invisibility Cloak.

For a moment, Harry forgot to breathe. Sucking in a quick inhalation, he opened his eyes and squinted in the dying sunlight at Malfoy, who was now sitting down instead of lying next to him. "Wha-where're you going?" he asked.

Malfoy rose to his feet, brushing bits of foliage from his robes. "If you must know, I'm going to see if I can cadge a cup of tea from the kitchen."

"There's no one there right now," Harry said quickly, injecting a knowledgeable note into his voice. "House-elves need to nap at least once before dinner," he improvised. "Twice on Saturdays."

"Fine, then I'll spell a cup of tap water," Malfoy said, finger-combing his still-damp hair deftly into place. "God, that stuff is revolting: always tastes like it's drawn straight from the lake. I don't suppose you have a better idea?"

Harry reached up and caught his arm before he stepped away. "As a matter of fact, I do."

* ** *

As Harry had promised, the Gryffindor common room was deserted. From the massive wooden sideboard, he chose a teapot and two mugs; the mugs bore the Gryffindor crest, and had lion-shaped handles. He placed them all on the counter where a great bronze dragon rested. Sliding the pot under the dragon's mouth, he tapped the sharp-looking crest on its head. The dragon snorted, reared up like a horse, and then expelled a steaming jet of hot tea from its jaws.

"Good Xerxes," Harry said, gingerly chucking the thing under its still-hot metal chin. He rummaged for a second inside the sideboard again, and pulled out a tin of chocolate digestives. <i>I'm having tea with Draco Malfoy</i>, he thought. <i>This is bloody surreal.</i>

Malfoy was still standing, one tense hand resting on the back of the room's most comfortable couch. Harry gestured for him to sit, but Malfoy shook his head.

"Come on, we haven't had any Chizpurfle infestations here for at least three days," Harry said. He caught Malfoy's horrified expression. "Don't be daft, that was only a joke. Sit down, it's all right, really."

Malfoy frowned. "I prefer to stand."

His posture was prim and stiff; even more so than usual. Harry stared hard at him: then he remembered Malfoy' slight limp as they walked to the castle, and the hesitant way he'd taken the stairs. Something clicked, and he nearly broke into a smile. "Why don't you come into the dorm, I have something to show you," he offered.

Malfoy snorted. "I think I've seen everything you have to show, thank you very much."

"Er, you could say that," Harry said. "But this is something you'll find quite interesting. Trust me."

"I don't see why I should," Malfoy grumbled, but he followed Harry anyway.

After shutting the door behind him, Harry went over to his trunk, and began to burrow through it, tossing out books and clothing and Chocolate Frog cards until he found what he was looking for, and then held it up triumphantly.

"Murtlap essence!" breathed Malfoy. "Where did you get this?" His long arms reached straight for the jar, but Harry pulled it away.

"I have connections. Anyway, why don't you let me put it on? It'll be too hard for you to reach – er, the right spot," Harry said, his cheeks reddening. He felt weird about saying 'your arse' to Malfoy. 'Your anus' was even worse, and it sounded like one of Ron's lamer jokes, to boot. In a way, it seemed more dangerously intimate to speak about things like that than to actually do them.

Malfoy shrugged, seemingly unaware of Harry's temporary embarrassment. "Did you lock the door?"

"It can still be opened with Alohomora; McGonagall made sure of that," Harry said. "Anyway, there's no need; I don't expect anyone back from Hogsmeade until after sunset at least. There's a group dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, and that should go on for quite a while."

"You missed out on a Hogsmeade trip?" Malfoy stared at him.

"I had better things to do."

Malfoy gave a half-smile, and though Harry had expected he'd only pull down his trousers, he peeled off every stitch of clothing, tossing each piece grandly onto a nearby chair. Face down on Harry's bed, his smooth body looked as pale as new mushrooms against Harry's scarlet sheets. A few light bruises on his back and legs from tumbling down the hill to the lake were already beginning to bloom.

Harry clambered onto the bed and drew the curtains, his legs trembling only a little. He pulled off his own robes, as well as his shirt, knowing this could get messy. Kneeling over Malfoy's prone body, he straddled the backs of his thighs. "Now, I could tell you this won't hurt a bit," he said, fingers poised inches away from the innocent cleft of Malfoy's white buttocks, "-- but I'd be lying."

Predictably, Malfoy clenched up. "Just get it over with, Potter," he muttered, pressing his face into the pillow.

"Okay," Harry said. He unscrewed the top of the jar and dipped a finger in to test. The liquid essence had long since congealed into a semi-solid gel, but it would do. I'm not being nice, I'm not being kind. I just want to touch you again. I need to. I have to.

He knew he'd have to be swift to get any of the stuff on Malfoy. From those afternoons spent recovering after daily detention with Umbridge, he remembered the initial sting of the salve on his wounded hand, then the brief but intense burning that came before the pain dissolved into sweet relief.

Scooping out a good-sized dollop, he rubbed his finger along Malfoy's crack. Malfoy gasped and squeezed the coverlet with his fists, but Harry kept stroking, and eventually the tension in Malfoy's body slackened. He sighed quietly into the pillow, and Harry lifted his own hand and wrung it vigorously, freeing himself from Malfoy's pain and rigidity before touching him again.

"All right, then?" he asked. By now he was sweating, and he wiped his brow with the back of his clean hand.

"Keep going," Malfoy said, his voice strained, and he bent his knees, arching up to offer his bottom. "I could use some inside."

Harry reached into the jar to apply more of the salve, and ran his finger slowly down Malfoy's cleft until his fingertip found the tiny frill of his opening, and pressed in. Malfoy cried out, and Harry soothed him, rubbing the small of his back in a way that was both tentative and gentle. His finger continued to sink inside Malfoy, down past the first joint, then the second, letting the dense ring of muscle suck around it as he explored.

Malfoy rocked his hips against Harry's finger, relaxing. "Yes," he said, his voice muffled against the pillow, "like that, like that, like that."

Harry withdrew his hand and dipped into the jar again, this time coating two fingers, which he slid in and out of Malfoy like a greased piston. A familiar pressure was pounding in his groin with each push of his fingers, but he was only half-hard, still pleasantly sore from fucking Malfoy earlier. By now his own forehead was drenched with sweat, and he mopped it off with his elbow, never stopping the rhythmic, back and forth motion of his hand. The heat of Malfoy's body was intense; the murtlap essence had already melted inside him, and ran in tiny warm rivulets down Harry's hand to his forearm. Malfoy's balls were saturated too, and they slapped against Harry's palm like heavy little plums as Malfoy stifled inchoate whimpers into the pillow, his hips moving in short, powerful jerks. His right shoulder was working furiously, and Harry realized he was busy bringing himself off with his hand.

He was panting, gasping like Malfoy was, gulping in his pungent, intoxicating smell with each breath. What he wanted most was to pull out his fingers and lower his head to lick great swoops up and down the valley between Malfoy's buttocks. Navigating by touch alone, he would discover the wrinkled flesh of his opening with the very tip of his tongue, and slurp and suck and prod until he could shove his entire tongue inside. Even the memory of the bitterness of murtlap leaves couldn't stop the moisture forming in his mouth at the very idea of Malfoy's own taste underneath.

But Malfoy suddenly stilled, and his legs shook, and Harry felt the vibrations of his body through his trapped fingers. He was coming, his face squashed tightly into the pillow, and Harry's knees wobbled as the force of Malfoy's orgasm flashed through his own body. He stayed connected to Malfoy, both fingers submerged inside him until Malfoy was done, and he flopped onto his side, heart still thundering in his chest.

Malfoy turned his head to one cheek, his pale-fringed eyes half-open. He reached out and pulled Harry close to him, kissing him with unbearable slowness. Harry let himself sink into the cusp of his wet mouth, yielding and giving, closing his eyes, giving himself up to the kiss, until he had no choice but to pull away to breathe.

He watched as Malfoy languidly pulled himself to a sitting position, his skin flushed and glistening. Malfoy kneeled, took ahold of the coverlet underneath him, and Harry's eyes widened in horror when he realized what Malfoy was about to do.

"Oi, that's not on, mate!" he sputtered.

Malfoy carefully finished blotting himself dry both front and back with Harry's bedcovers before he replied.

"Potter, I would greatly appreciate if you would refrain from calling me 'mate,'" he said. "Perhaps when we know each other a bit better?"

"Well, clean up your mess then, not-mate!"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows and shook his head. He reached behind Harry for his wand, then chanted a few lilting words that Harry remembered hearing from Snape after a calamitous Potions accident involving Lavender Brown and an overbrewed bloodroot tonic. His eyes were drawn to the damp stain on the coverlet. For a second, nothing happened: then the moist spot lifted off the coverlet and rose into the air like a flat puddle. After hanging suspended for a second or two, it flipped itself and dropped down to settle on the bed again.

Malfoy caught Harry's eye and laughed. "Magic right after sex, it's just impossible," he explained. "It takes time to recover."

Harry rolled his eyes, wondering when and how Malfoy discovered this, and not wanting to find out. Before Malfoy could open his mouth to suggest that he cast his own spell, he yanked the covers away from underneath him, ignoring his protests as he wadded them up and kicked them under the bed. Unlike Malfoy, he wasn't altogether spent, but he was achy and exhausted, and that could throw him off as well as far as magic was concerned. Best not to take any chances right now, he decided; he could trust Kreacher to be discreet about disposing of the evidence.

Leaving Malfoy to his own degenerate devices, he headed for the bathroom, where he removed his trousers and splashed cool water from the sink over his hands, face and chest. The thought of a nice long shower tempted him, but he wasn't sure he could muster the energy; he felt as though he was about to crumple into a shapeless heap. From the corner of his eye, he spied Malfoy: he'd got out of bed and was pulling his undershirt over his head. Harry decided it was just as well: he wasn't going to urge him to stay.

But when he opened the bedcurtains to lie down himself, he found Malfoy curled up in his bed, only the top of his blond head showing beneath the blankets.

"You can't sleep here!" Harry said. He was fairly sure Malfoy was faking it; no one could fall asleep in that short a period, and Malfoy was a proven faker. He grabbed his shoulder and shook it, but got no response - not that he was expecting one.

Sighing, he lay down next to Malfoy but didn't get under the covers. The pillow under his head felt absolutely luxurious. With his eyes half-closed, he looked up at the peaked top of the canopy, the view he'd woken up with for nearly half of his life.

"You know, these green and red stripes always reminded me of a circus tent," he began, even though he doubted Malfoy was listening. "I don't suppose you know what a circus is: a Muggle show, with loads of animals and acrobats and pretty girls riding trapezes. Went to one once with my aunt and uncle – they were afraid the lady next door might report them if she caught wind of them leaving me home alone. Of course, I ended up lugging around all the souvenirs they bought for my cousin...."

Other than to roll over, Malfoy made no reply.

* ** *

Birds sang, their uneven chorus of trills and chirps echoing in the quiet room. Without opening his eyes, Harry knew that morning was approaching; it was time to put on his heavy cloak and go out to watch the sun rise. Hermione was probably already sitting outside the tent, the rich scent of fresh-brewed tea wafting from her mug, as she scanned the forest, wand clutched tightly in her other hand as if Death Eaters might suddenly descend from the trees.

He opened his eyes, and startled at the dim light seeping through the veil of his closed bedcurtains; he wasn't camping anymore, that was last summer, a world away from here and now, where an unfamiliar warm weight rested on his chest. Malfoy. He hadn't remembered getting under the covers, he hadn't remembered taking him in his arms, but here he was, one cheek resting against Harry's breast, his breathing low and deep. It was unusual to see him so still: Malfoy was always twitchy when awake, constantly fidgeting with something or other. I tired him out he thought, and chuckled quietly.

His muscles felt stiff. He was in dire need of a piss. He wanted to sit in the window and watch the sunrise, just like he and Hermione used to do, back in the days when it seemed like the world was about to end at any moment. But instead, he buried his nose in Malfoy's hair, savouring his scent and the feeling of soft, fine strands against his lips.

"What am I going to do with you?" he whispered, convincing himself that Malfoy really was asleep and couldn't hear him. He took a sharp intake of breath, overwhelmed by the unexpected rush of wild tenderness that washed over him; he couldn't leave Malfoy if he tried.

He closed his eyes again, but when he opened them, his bed was empty. Pulling himself up, his elbow knocked into something that hadn't been there before: a small wrapped box, with the traditional Honeydukes logo stamped on it in gold.

His heart stopped. Oh shit; Ron.

Malfoy had left his clothes in the chair by the bed; it was obvious they weren't Harry's clothes, and certainly not something a girl would wear. They were gone now, but what if they were there when Ron and the others came back? And when Ron opened the bedcurtains to leave the box, what had he seen?

Maybe it was still dark when Ron returned. Maybe Malfoy had left already. Maybe-

Ron popped his shaggy head through the bedcurtains, smirking. "Congratulations, Harry!"

"Er – for what?" Harry asked, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brighter light let in through the gap Ron had made.

"Mate, I saw her! Last night, in your bed. A blonde, am I right? Was she a veela, Harry?" He leaned closer, his bloodshot eyes scanning the bed. "How'd you manage to pull her? And where is she?"

Harry burst out laughing. "Just how much did you have to drink last night, Ron?"

"What kind of question is that?" Ron shot Harry a mock-injured look. "Come on, I want details. I haven't seen you so happy in weeks. Merlin, if all it took was one lousy veela, I'd have lured one back for you long ago."

"Nah, you'd have kept her for yourself." Harry said. "And she wasn't lousy, either. Quite clean."

He stretched his arms high over his head. Every part of his body ached like it had been thrown down a steep staircase more than once, but he felt as though he'd been bathed in radiance. "Right. Quick shower, then see you down at breakfast."

Ron shook his head slowly. "<i>Breakfast</i>?" he asked, as though it was a foreign word and he an exceptionally thick student. "I can't remember when I've last seen you come down to breakfast!"

Harry slashed the gold foil off the Honeydukes box with his longest fingernail. "I can't remember either," he said, popping a Chocolate Cauldron into his mouth. "Save me some bacon?"

* ** *

"This has got to be the first time in history you've out-eaten me," Ron said, gesturing at Harry's empty plate.

Harry reached with his fork to spear a few more sausages for himself. "There's a first time for everything," he said. "You can have the last of the eggs, if you like."

While Ron busied himself scraping the last bits of yolk off the serving platter, Harry stole a discreet glance over at the Slytherin table, as he had at least three times in the last ten minutes. No Malfoy.

There was no reason to worry; there was even less reason to look. It was over; they'd taken pleasure from each other. He'd given Malfoy his wand back long ago; both of them had satisfied their obligations. So what was he obsessing about?

There was a flurry of movement in front of his face, and Harry belatedly realized Ron was waving his hand in front of his eyes. "Sorry, what?"

"That veela really must have messed up your mind, eh? I was just saying we were talking last night about getting a quick game of Quidditch together this morning. Us against Ginny and Seamus. What do you say?"

"Give me some time, I need to digest," Harry said, pouring himself a fresh pumpkin juice.

"No worries," Ron said, getting up and pushing his chair in. "On the pitch, at ten?"

Harry nodded, and then something caught his eye. Malfoy was sitting alone at the head of the Slytherin table, as he usually did these days. Harry hadn't even seen him come in. He debated on whether to approach him, but decided not to; it didn't matter. But somehow, he couldn't look away.

After what seemed like a century, Malfoy raised his head from his plate; Harry froze, not wanting to be caught staring. But Malfoy didn't look at him; in fact, he looked right through Harry, as if he'd never met him in his life, let alone spent a good part of the previous day underneath him. Harry scowled, and turned his head as if to study the faded heraldic banners lining the wall. At the very least, he deserved acknowledgment. He'd never taken that sort of behaviour from anyone, and he wasn't about to take it from Malfoy.

Malfoy put his fork down and adjusted his collar: as he fussed with the fabric, Harry detected the ghost of a love bite he left on Malfoy's neck, a faint blush staining his light skin. He would not look away, he decided; not until Malfoy looked him straight in the eye. Then it would be over, at last. There'd be time for Quidditch, for Ron, for school, and for sitting on the ledge of his dormitory window, drinking away the dregs of the past, forgetting the future.

He stared at Malfoy, stared so hard he had to rub his eyes; no chance of victory made for a dull game indeed. Dropping his fork on the table, he prepared to stand, and to leave. But then it happened, though it was so quick he nearly missed it; Malfoy looked straight back at him, meeting his gaze.

And he winked.