The Spell - 1. Chapter 1

I. First Law of Motion: Inertia

It was six months after the war, and nothing would ever be the same.

Draco Malfoy sat upright, dark school robes bunched around his abdomen, revealing his pale thighs. His hand moved in a furious blur over his crotch; with a closer look, an observer might see the dark pink of his testes sagging below his active hand. But it was his face that Harry noticed. Malfoy's eyelids were lowered to thin slits of grey, his open mouth panted for breath, a faint flush suffused his cheeks. He was about to lose it completely, to throw back his proud head and spurt all over his fist. And then all that shattered with the bright flash, his eyes opening wide as he leapt up in trembling anger, his robes slumping over his naked lap like a curtain falling on a stage.

Harry handed the photograph back to Ron, holding it properly by its edges. "Looks like the Room of Requirement." The walls were always the same blank grey; that he remembered.

"It is!" The unevenness of Ron's wide, gleeful grin made Harry want to suggest a trip to Hermione's dentist parents. "Thank Dennis Creevey. Isn't it brilliant? I'm thinking full-colour posters, all around the school. Charmed to be invisible to anyone over the age of eighteen. What d'you reckon, fantastic, eh?"

"Dennis shouldn't have used a flash," Harry said. "Beginner's mistake; Colin never would have done it. Looks overexposed."

Ron frowned. "Who cares! Serves the bastard right for having the cheek to come back to school after the War. Have you noticed not even the Slytherins talk to him anymore?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "But why'd Dennis do this? It wasn't Malfoy who killed his brother."

"It was Malfoy's side, Harry! Remember what he said to that Death Eater – 'I'm on your side?'"

Harry shrugged. "Water under the bridge."

Ron looked as though he was about to disagree, but instead his eyes widened as they spotted something over Harry's shoulder, "Oh bloody hell, look out!" he hissed. He hastily rolled the photograph, and stuffed as much of it as he could fit into the pocket of his robes.

Harry didn't have to look to guess who it was: the bitterness in Ron's tone said it all. Even before hearing the brisk sound of her short strides as she walked up to them, without seeing the familiar profusion of wild, bushy curls which bounced with every step. Even before Hermione opened her mouth and said, "Ron, what are you trying to hide in your pocket?"

"Er... I'm just happy to see you?" Ron countered weakly. The forced quality of their banter these days unsettled Harry. Hermione had admitted to him in a private moment that it was only wartime desperation that had led her to consider Ron as a boyfriend, once upon a time.

Hermione looked equally uncomfortable. "No doubt you've got some childish trick from George and Fre--" she corrected herself, her cheeks pinkening "-- from George's shop."

"Don't you have a lesson to go to? Or an urgent need to publicly snog your precious Potions prince again? Oh, excuse me. The headmaster. Your headmaster." Ron's voice was ugly and abrupt. He hadn't had a civil conversation with Hermione since the sunny day last spring when she'd succeeded in reviving Snape from near-death using the obscure Bolivian remedy she'd memorised in the hopes of obtaining top marks in Potions. Which she got.

"Grow up and do everyone a favour," Hermione said, stepping back from him. "Remember, I had to deal with all your tongue tangoing with Lavender Brown for the greater part of sixth year. Besides, my relationship with Severus isn't a casual fling. Unlike the one you and I had."

"Don't remind me," Ron said, scrunching up his nose. He stuffed both hands into the pockets of his robes, glaring at her. "Severus," he mocked under his breath.

"Yes," Hermione said, exasperated. "His name is Severus. Come on, Ron. The war's over."

The war's over. That phrase had become a constant retort these days whenever anyone protested change. Times had become more tolerant; everyone was just so grateful to be alive that it didn't matter that a top student was doing everything but living in sin with a middle-aged headmaster. Or that the renowned Harry Potter, the accidental saviour and prince of the wizarding world, hadn't wound up with the beautiful princess. In fact, he'd turned out to be a complete fairy.

Harry was about to ask Hermione how she was, or how her 2000-word Early Modern Wizarding History essay was coming along, or about the current price of Muggle postage stamps, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Potter."

He swivelled his head. Draco Malfoy stood behind him, his face implacable, unreadable. Seeing him then gave Harry the strangest feeling, one that he'd never associated with Malfoy. An unexpected pang shot through his chest, and urged him to sink his fingers into the shining surface of Malfoy's neat and ordered hair. To rough him up, to defile him.

God, that face in the photograph, so different from the neutral mask that Malfoy now presented. That ecstatic, unhinged expression, that utter sensual abandonment that had taken over his body and transformed him from an annoying git to a radiant, blissful creature. Somehow, Creevey's camera had captured Malfoy at this exact moment of velocity; at the instant when every molecule of repressed erotic energy surged though him, strong and vital and pure.

It had been ages since Harry had felt anything other than boredom and despair. Just thinking about the photo again was enough to make him shiver in anticipation. "What is it, Malfoy?" he asked, keeping his voice nonchalant.

"We need to talk," Malfoy said, clearly not wanting to waste any unnecessary syllables on present company. "Look, there's no need for that nonsense," he snapped, making a dismissive gesture at Ron and Hermione, whose wands were out and pointed at him. "The war's over."

"It's all right," Harry assured his friends, who continued to look suspicious. "What do we need to talk about?" he asked Malfoy.

"Whatever you have to say in front of him, you can say in front of me," Ron said, sliding his body in front of Harry's less muscular frame. Lately, he'd been bulking up on magically-enhanced herbal supplements; he still hadn't cottoned that it was brains and not brawn that impressed Hermione.

In no mood for a brawl, Harry manoeuvred himself between Ron and Malfoy. "It's fine, mate, really. See you later at lunch?"

"Okay," Ron said. "We'll save you a seat." Beside him, Hermione shook her curls vigorously and mouthed something about Having Other Plans.

Malfoy looked at Harry again, an unvoiced question in his eyes, and Harry nodded. He walked off with Malfoy into the next corridor, and then the next one, and the one after that, until Malfoy finally stopped, crossing his arms over his chest. They'd reached the dingy area near Filch's storage cupboard, far from any classrooms, where a faint stink of ammonia hung in the air.

"I'm no fool, Potter. I know what you did. You and your oh-so-charming friends." His voice was quiet but intense: his forehead creased, and the glare he aimed at Harry was so incendiary that it could easily vaporize a full-grown Norwegian Ridgeback at twenty paces.

But Harry didn't back away. "Calm down," he said. "It's a little early in the day for drama, don't you think?"

Malfoy ignored him. "I want you to be aware that I plan to tell Snape all about how creepy Creevey invaded my privacy for his own perverted reasons. He'll be expelled immediately. And my father will --" his voice fell away, and he looked down at the floor. "My father will know about it," he muttered.

Everyone knew that Lucius Malfoy hadn't left his home since his formal pardon last July. The Prophet had reported he was too proud to show his face after the Ministry's public humiliation: Rita Skeeter's new tabloid, Wizard Weekly, claimed he'd lost his mind and now spent his days peacefully arranging and rearranging his antique samovar collection.

Harry hesitated for a moment before he replied, pushing away an unwelcome twinge of pity. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to rub in any of the colourful insults which came to mind at the mention of Malfoy's humbled father. "Fine," he said, "if it makes you happy. It's been lovely chatting with you, but if you'll pardon me, I have a lesson to wag. So if that's it –"

Malfoy's bitter smile tightened. "Oh, I'm not through, not by half," he said. "I'll also be sure to let Snape know that Weasley and Granger were in on your clever little joke. With expulsion on their records, I doubt they'll ever be considered for Ministry jobs."

On the verge on turning and walking away, Harry halted. "They had nothing to do with it. And frankly, I'm surprised you feel the need to do such a thing. You were always such a nice bloke."

Malfoy scowled and scrunched up his eyes to show what he thought of Harry's sarcasm. "I'm ridiculously nice. Compared to some people you know."

"Er -- what d'you mean by that?"

"I told you on the very first day of school. Weasley's a nasty sort."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't give us that old blood traitor rubbish. The war's over."

Malfoy sighed as if Harry was too stupid for words, and he couldn't be bothered anyway. "That's not what I mean." His lips tightened; his look of haughty exasperation evaporated as it morphed into keen malevolence. "Ron Weasley has been a filthy rotten git his entire bloody life, and you've been too blind to see it."

He lowered his voice. "If you don't believe me, just have a look," he said, tapping the side of his head.

"With my wand?" Harry stared at Malfoy. His eyelashes were so light, almost transparent. And long; Harry wondered why he'd never noticed them before.

"No, with your prick."

Typical Malfoy. "Fuck you," Harry said, almost reflexively.

"Just do it, Potter. I trust you're not going to try that tiresome Sectumsempra business again."

Harry pursed his lips and rolled his eyes skywards for a second time, but he pulled out his wand and pressed it to Malfoy's forehead anyway. He concentrated, closing his eyes, and watched as the vague colours and forms that swam in his vision coalesced into a coherent scene.

It was the great lawn he noticed first, that generous expanse of artfully sheared green in front of the immense Tudor house he recognised as Malfoy Manor. Children in wizarding robes were dashing about and laughing, no adults in sight. As a jumbled group of tiny witches and wizards queued up to play a game, a delicate-looking boy with white blond hair ran to the front. He wore a shiny paper crown, and an old-fashioned lace collar tied around his neck decorated his smart velvet robes.

Unlike the other children, the blond boy was blindfolded. He was hopping up and down, unable to contain his excitement. "I get first crack, 'cause it's my birthday!" he piped up to the little rosy-cheeked witch behind him. She laughed and gave him a friendly push.

Beaming, the blunted point of a pin protruding from his determined little fist, he stumbled towards his target, the brightly painted, capering Kneazle depicted on a poster nailed to a massive oak. But before he reached the tree, a beefy red-haired boy rushed out from the end of the queue and shoved him to the ground, where he pummelled him over and over again, trying to wrest the pin from his hand. The smaller boy thrashed and screamed, apparently overpowered by the other child, while the other children huddled together, frightened.

"Ooh, have I dirtied your fancy robes? Better run and tell Mummy!" jeered the redheaded brute. As the blindfold slipped from the eyes of his sobbing victim, he ran off with the pin, laughing, and plunged it into the squealing Kneazle.

Adult shouts of concern mingled with the boy's frantic cries and the wails of the other children, and the scene misted away.

"See," Malfoy said with an astringent laugh, lightly touching Harry's wand to release the pressure against his head. "That's how I met your Weasley. Isn't he a darling?"

"He was a child then too," Harry said, wondering why Malfoy had bothered to show him, and hoping Malfoy's recollection was false. But he couldn't avoid the darker thought that his own judgment might not be infallible; after all, Dumbledore wasn't the benevolent old geezer Harry had once thought him to be, nor was Snape a mere tyrant. He wrinkled his forehead; some matters were best left unpondered. "It was a long time ago. Get over it."

Malfoy smiled in an unfriendly way and scratched his hairless chin. "Well, Potter, as you're so loyal to your precious Weasel, I'll make you a deal so that you can be the wonderful person who saves his reputation. And that of that little git Creevey. And Granger's. I'll never believe she wasn't involved."

Harry ran his hand through his hair. "I told you she wasn't. Though I don't suppose there's any point repeating myself." He noted that Malfoy didn't say 'the Mudblood' when he referred to Hermione. That was progress, in a sense.

"Don't you want to know how to help them?"

"Spit it out, Malfoy."

"I won't tell anyone what you and your friends did, on several conditions. First, you have to destroy that photograph and all copies of it."

Harry shrugged. "I think I could talk Dennis into that."

"And," Malfoy said, his smile becoming even nastier, "you will allow me to subject you to the Imperius Curse for thirty minutes." He puffed up with pleasure, poised to savour Harry's shocked protests.

But Harry wouldn't oblige him. "Make it twenty," he said. "Room of Requirement okay with you? This weekend, around midday?" He picked up his books, and began walking away again.

"You -- you can't -- what about Saturday?" Malfoy shouted after him in an astonished stutter.

II. Second Law of Motion: Acceleration

"Have you decided what you're doing after we’ve finished school, then?" Ron asked Harry later that evening. They sat hip to hip, crammed into the window frame of their bedroom, dangling their pyjama-clad legs and bare feet in the cool night air.

Harry tipped a generous measure of cheap local Firewhisky into his mouth and swallowed, wincing as it burned down his throat. He passed the bottle to Ron in a smooth motion. "Not really," he said. "I might travel. See the world. Become an international playboy. Or pass out in a gutter somewhere, choking on my own vomit."

"Better than choking on someone else's vomit," Ron said drily. He waved at the willowy figure in a conical hat crossing the grounds seven floors below, making no attempt to conceal the half-empty bottle now resting between his burly thighs. Professor McGonagall returned his greeting by raising her arm in a merry toasting gesture. Drunkenness on school grounds was hardly a reason to deduct House points from the boy who defeated the Dark Lord and his friend who'd helped him do it.

After their head of House had passed, Ron looked hard at Harry and shook his head. "What you said about your plans: I don't believe you."

"No?" said Harry. He drummed his heels against the stone wall of the castle. Ron wasn't always good at sussing whether he was serious: privately he thought Ron was a bit stupid, but he tried not to dwell on it. Ron was still his best mate; the war hadn't changed that.

Ron drew the furled edge of the bottle to his lips, and swallowed another acrid mouthful, only gagging a little. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then spoke again. "Of course not. You're going into the Auror Office with me. That's the plan. I've already talked to Dad about it; he says it's in the bag."

Harry knew he was disappointing Ron; he could see it in his downcast eyes. But he couldn't fathom why Ron persisted in the delusion of some glorious future with the Ministry. Ron was turning into his own father, and he wasn't even out of his teens. Soon, he'd be another staid, mild-mannered bureaucrat, contented with a hot dinner at night and season tickets for the Cannons.

But Harry didn't entertain such plans for himself; death on the battlefield would have been preferable to wasting away at a desk. "Who wants to be an Auror these days?" he said, aiming a loose bit of gravel from the window sill at the closest tree. "At this point, they'll keep us busy writing tickets for improperly parked brooms. There's no more war, no enemy, nothing to fight against." He grabbed the bottle back for another good swig or two.

Ron yawned. "I know, I know. The war's over. God, this conversation's getting bloody boring. I'm going to bed."

He scooted off the window ledge and swung his legs into their bedroom, then nudged Harry's shoulder with the point of his elbow. "Say, if you're still having those sex dreams, can you try dreaming about Parkinson tonight? I've always wondered what she looks like naked."

Harry hadn't dreamed about girls or anyone remotely female for at least the last eight months. "Night, Ron."

Until he drained the bottle, he stayed seated at the open window, the faraway rustling of wind through branches in the Forbidden Forest providing the only accompaniment to his thoughts. Maybe sufficient drinking would stop the dreams; they were enjoyable enough, but he couldn't stomach another thinly disguised leer from the spotty young house-elf who laundered the sheets. Even though Ron had assured him that particular elf leered at everyone.

By the time he made it to bed, not a single light was left burning in the dormitory.

* ** *
Oh! There it was again. In the Potions classroom, no less. Harry clenched his thigh muscles, trying to ignore it. He'd felt a definite tingle that time, right there, and he hadn't even been thinking about sex. In fact, sex was the last thing on Harry's mind.

Just play it cool, he warned himself, sweltering under what now felt like far too many layers of clothing. No one noticed; no one can tell what just happened if I don't give it away.

Snape sneered at him. "Ten points from Gryffindor for insolence, and I'm being charitable. You have ten minutes to get that potion right, and you'll need every last one of them."

Harry's cheeks burned, his hands balling into fists. This couldn't be happening. The spunk on his belly hadn't even dried, and already he was getting turned on again. "Why don't you come up here," he whispered, "and say that to my face?"

In his bed, Harry jolted awake with his eyes wide open, sheet glued to his damp cock.

He couldn't wait for Saturday.

III. Third Law of Motion: For Every Action, An Equal and Opposite Reaction

"You're late, Potter."

It was the first time Harry had returned to the Room of Requirement since the battle of Hogwarts; the room seemed to have reverted to its normal state, or as normal as it could be for a room that changed depending on the needs of the user. Not one scorch mark from Crabbe's Fiendfyre marred the characterless grey walls or the lofty ceiling. There was a large plush armchair, which Harry recognised from the infamous wanking photograph. Next to this was a smaller chair tucked into a vanity table, its oval mirror surrounded by miniature sconces with burning candles. Other than that, the vast room was empty.

Empty except for Draco Malfoy, tall and slender and edgy. Wandering back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back, each step reverberating on the stone floor. A shining trail of silver buttons ran down his splendid black robes from his neck to his ankles; the highly polished tips of expensive-looking shoes gleamed under the elegant flare of his hem. He paused in his meandering to glower at Harry, daring him to answer.

"I couldn't decide which shirt to wear," Harry said. "I pondered for a while but I ended up going with white. Malfoy'll like this one, I told myself. Did I make the right choice?"

Malfoy looked distinctly peeved, the way he did every time a teacher dared criticise him. "Oh, you slay me with your wit, Potter. I won't even dignify that with a response."

"So don't." Harry's attention was drawn to the water dripping intermittently from a damp spot on the ceiling. A smallish bucket had been placed underneath it, liquid striking wood with an irregular patter. "Filch really should fix that leak," he commented.

He kicked the wall, which made a hollow sound. "Cheap remodelled shit, probably just plasterboard."

"What's plasterboard?" Malfoy asked.

"Never mind."

Malfoy's lips curved in a baleful sneer. "I didn't want to know anyway. Now take your wand out and drop it on the floor."

"Hold on," Harry said. He pointed his wand at the dark spot on the ceiling. "I require you not to drip!" he intoned.

"That won't work!" Malfoy snarled. "I’ve already tried it. Now drop your wand, or Weasley will spend the rest of his miserable life mucking out Pygmy Puff cages in his brother's grotty little stockroom."

"If you say so," Harry said with a shrug. Without ceremony, he drew his wand and flung it on the floor.

Malfoy gave him a disapproving look. From the pocket of his robes, he pulled out an elaborately engraved pocket timepiece, and rapped it twice with his wand to trigger the time-sensitive aspect of the spell. "Viginti minerem."

As he pointed his wand straight at Harry, his bony hand trembling, he spoke again. "Imperio."

Nothing happened.

Harry shook his head, pressed his lips together. "You know, Malfoy, it requires real concentration to successfully cast an Unforgivable Curse."

Malfoy acted as though Harry had remained silent. "Imperio!" he declared with greater emphasis, voice echoing in the near-empty room, wand still quivering in his hand.

"Perhaps you should just cut to the chase and try Avada Kedavra," Harry suggested. He ran his tongue in a lazy glide over the ridges of his top lip, maintaining eye contact with Malfoy, who was nearly twitching with impatience and frustration.

"Imperio! Imperio, Imperio, Imperio!" Malfoy's voice rose with each word until he was shouting, his face almost purple with effort.

And Harry felt it this time, really felt it: the fine hairs on the back of his neck stiffened as his body attuned to the siren call of Imperius. The curse skittered along his spine, tugged at his cock, tingled down his sides. He held it, controlled it, harnessed it. Breathed it in; breathed against it. Made it his own.

Resisting Imperius was second nature to him; he'd been able to do it since the fourth year. And he could see it in Malfoy's eager face, his nervous mouth, his shaking arm: he had no fucking idea.

Harry felt giddy, but instead of cracking up, he settled for a compliant smirk. "I'm all yours," he said.

Malfoy's eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. Harry sensed he was surprised the spell had worked. "Undress."

"You're so predictable."

"And you're so - you're such an arse."

"What if I am?" Harry said. He stepped out of his shoes and shucked his trousers, as unhurried and calm as if he were about to go for a leisurely swim. "This what you want, Malfoy?" He scooped up his soft cock and held it out, wrinkled and velvety.

"Shut up!"

Harry dropped himself and offered the smallest shrug of his shoulders. He stared straight ahead at the blank wall, until Malfoy was nothing more than a sneering mirage in his peripheral vision.

"I'm going to inspect you," Malfoy said in a cold tone. "Stand still."

Harry let the Imperius wrap around him, enfold him, freeze him, as he stood naked in front of Malfoy, whose body still trembled. He continued to gaze at the wall while Malfoy touched his face, ran a finger down the length of his neck, circled his nipples in firm strokes until they were rigid and yearning.

He gritted his teeth to avoid making any suggestive sounds; he was getting hard, and he couldn't help it. When Malfoy squatted down, presumably to look at his lower half, Harry couldn't take it anymore. Letting out a soft grunt, he pitched forward, nudging Malfoy's forehead with the head of his interested cock.

Malfoy shuddered, stumbling back a step; Harry laughed, enjoying his confusion.

"Be quiet!" Malfoy snarled. "Bend over and spread your cheeks."

And Harry did, bending forward until his nose practically touched the cool stone floor. He stood in a broad stance; his buttocks prised apart, open, ready. Malfoy didn't say anything, he just stood there, appraising, his mouth inches from Harry's entrance, one hand on each of Harry's hips, his breath pulsing in warm gusts against the tender, hidden knot of skin.

Harry was fairly sure he was clean as he had showered earlier. But he couldn't avoid the heat that crept over his face at the mere thought of what was happening: Draco Malfoy's face so very close to his hole. Those thin, refined lips almost caressing his flesh, the puffy little circle of his opening just centimetres away from being rolled and flicked by an inquisitive tongue. He longed for it, but he knew he couldn't ask for it, even if he pushed beyond Imperius. Malfoy would delight in denying him what he wanted most.

"I suppose," he said to Malfoy, "you'll want to fuck me."

"You suppose a lot of things." Malfoy spread his hands over Harry's buttocks and gave each a covetous squeeze.

"Oh, I see, you want me to fuck you."

"Right now I want you to shut your fucking mouth."

Peeking through the inverted V of his own parted legs, Harry clapped both hands over his mouth in exaggerated compliance.

Malfoy let out a loud, exasperated grunt. He walked over to the plush armchair and sat down. "Kiss my feet, Potter," he ordered.

Harry sank to his knees, ignoring the chilliness of the stone against his bare shins. He bent slightly to untie Malfoy's laces, unable to resist caressing the buttery-soft leather as he pulled off both shoes.

Under his socks, Malfoy's feet were luminously white; warm, slightly clammy, the skin on top softer than the rough skin of his soles, smelling of soap and light sweat. Harry lifted one narrow foot in his hand, letting the Imperius guide him as he covered it with slow, soft kisses, and then exchanged it for the other. Within moments, Malfoy was panting audibly, his pink mouth wide open. Bending a little more to Imperius, Harry licked at the salty, flexible spaces between Malfoy's long toes, giving him what he wanted.

Malfoy moaned in delight, his eyes closed. It was an interesting sound, and Harry wanted to hear it again.

"More?" he asked in a maddeningly polite tone, peering up over Malfoy's knees. The blunt outline of the bulge in his lap looked as though it was about to poke right through his robes.

He needs to be sucked, Harry thought. And I'm the one who'll do it. He felt his lips tingle and swell in anticipation, and he swallowed.

"Get up," Malfoy said, his voice choked. "Get dressed."

Harry smiled. "Had enough, then?" he teased, stretching out a lazy arm to reach for his robes.

Malfoy stopped him with one hand. "Top drawer. Now."

Harry got to his feet and went over to the vanity table. "Here?" he asked, not waiting for Malfoy's assent. He pulled open the drawer and unfolded a set of gauzy blue robes, cut in a ridiculously feminine manner. They looked like the sort of outfit that a hopeful young witch might wear to spice up her marriage.

"I don't think blue's my colour," he said.

"There weren't any pink ones left."

"Ha ha," Harry said, not laughing. He slipped the robes over his head; they weighed nothing at all. The diaphanous fabric was completely transparent over his naked body. "I reckon you'll want me to put on makeup next."

He watched Malfoy's expression from the mirror of the vanity table; Malfoy didn't smile.
"Look in the second drawer."

Perched on the chair in front of the vanity table, Harry had a wild impulse to smear lipstick all over his mouth like a deranged clown, but he let Imperius take his hand, precisely reddening his lips, powdering his cheeks. After setting his glasses down, he took the kohl pencil and outlined his eyes. He didn't look female; but highlighting his features had lent him a fey grace that he didn't have before.

Malfoy was staring at Harry's reflection. "So pretty," he breathed. "My pretty little whore. Tell me how pretty you are."

"How pretty you are," Harry said, because it was true. He put his glasses back on; observing Malfoy's reactions was half the fun.

Malfoy's cheeks turned pink, and he looked down for a second. When he caught Harry's grin in the mirror, he glared back at him. "You know what I meant!"

"I know only what you tell me," Harry said. He shifted in the chair, allowing the silky fabric of his robes to rub against the tips of his nipples, which were now so engorged and sensitive that they tingled at even the most delicate touch. "What would you like me to do now?"

"Touch - I want you to touch yourself," Malfoy stammered, clearly desperate to regain control.

Harry stood. Lifting his robes, he lowered himself into the chair again, this time straddling it from behind in order to wantonly display himself. The curse grabbed hold of his hand; it was almost like having someone else touching him, yanking his cock, rudely squeezing his balls, and Harry stared at his wayward hand in amazement. Was this how Draco wanted to touch him? The thought was tremendously arousing. A few drops of fluid leaked from his swelling cock, and he threw himself down on his knees, lapping it up with his tongue before Malfoy could tell him to do it.

Licking the floor while draped in the filmy blue gown was getting him even harder. This was the beauty of Imperius; delicious to follow, delightful to serve, luxurious to be thoroughly used, to relinquish control. He savoured the sensation, wallowed in it, but he would not abandon himself to it. Not yet.

"Don’t come," Malfoy warned. "Not until I give you permission." He was flushed and squirming. Harry noticed he kept his hands on the arms of his chair, well away from his lap.

"That pillar," he said, pointing to one of the marble columns supporting the ceiling. "I want you to kiss it."

Harry pulled himself up and walked over to the pillar, the floaty robes billowing around his legs. He gave it a peck, quick and dry, his lipsticked mouth leaving a reddish bruise against the smooth white stone.

Malfoy wrinkled his high forehead. "Not like that," he said, scowling. "Kiss it as though you love it."

Harry pursed his lips against the cold marble, warming it with his breath, smudging it with his painted face. He licked the column, mashed his lips against it, panted after it, rubbed it up and down like a giant phallus.

"Oh, now fuck it," Malfoy hissed through his teeth. "Fuck it!"

Harry jabbed his hips against the solid pillar, rutting and thrusting. "Pretending it's you," he gasped.

Imperius slammed him into the column like an ardent lover in desperate need of satiation, his buttocks tensing with each shove of his crotch into the unyielding stone. As much as it hurt, he never broke rhythm, his thighs slapping against the surface. He could bring himself off this way, and he knew he would if he didn't stop, despite Malfoy's command.

But he didn't want to stop without Malfoy's permission. "I'm going to... going to... think I'm about to--" he panted.

"Enough then, Potter!"

Malfoy was watching him from the armchair. His robes were completely unbuttoned and open, and his trousers were gone. His long agile legs were spread wide open and hooked over the arms of his chair, the better to show the stiff prick lying flat against his belly.

The sight of Malfoy offering himself was almost enough to make Harry come straight away, but he let himself fall a little further into the spell and it held him back. Within seconds, he found himself down on his knees once again, in front of Malfoy and his luscious erection.

The spell drew Harry in, telling him what Malfoy wanted. How to suck him, gently at first, taking him all the way into his mouth and then pulling back to suck and lick the tender head as Malfoy's hands tugged at his hair. There was no sound sweeter than Malfoy's breathy gasps and sighs, no sensory experience as rich as the feeling of soft-hard flesh prodding his mouth. With one hand, Harry kept a firm grip on Malfoy to guide him into his mouth, and slid the other under Malfoy's balls to play with his arse. It was all right to touch him there; that was where the spell led him, and he could tell that his interference was more than welcome by the way Malfoy twisted against his fingers. The area was damp with sweat, but not moist enough to be fingered, a problem which Harry solved by wedging a finger into his mouth between sucks and then slipping it back inside Malfoy.

He was so lost in the scent and feel and taste of Malfoy's body that he hardly noticed the warning signs of his orgasm; the quick increase in breath, the deeper thrusts into his mouth, the rhythmic squeezing of anal muscles around his fingers; and when Malfoy finally stiffened and came, Harry wasn't ready. He gagged a little at the viscous bitterness flooding his throat, and spat onto the floor.

Malfoy's eyes were closed, his lips rosy and parted as he struggled for his breath to return to normal. "Get out," he said quietly, and took his hands off Harry's head where they'd been resting.

Harry looked up, and Malfoy slapped him hard across the cheek, smearing the last traces of makeup on his face.

Reeling, his face stinging, Harry drew a deep, shuddering breath. The curse held him too tightly to slap Malfoy back, but there was something else he could do to retaliate. He concentrated, gathering energy deep within himself, and pushed back against the curse with all of his might, every muscle straining with effort, until the brute force of the spell rushed from him in a powerful wave which sent Malfoy sliding down off the chair onto the floor, almost landing on Harry's lap.

Harry backed away from him. Feeling constricted in the flimsy robes, he tugged them over his head and tossed the discarded garment over his shoulder.

"Say it," he ordered. He had Malfoy right where he wanted, knees trembling and splayed apart, ripe for the taking. Imperius was working the way it was supposed to; all Harry had to do was think for Malfoy to follow his commands.

Malfoy looked furious for a second, then his expression turned yearning and submissive. "Fuck me," he begged, his voice soft but plaintive. He reached down and spread the cheeks of his buttocks with his fingers. "God, I can't stand it, please!" He was hard again, just like Harry wanted him to be, his cock still dripping.

Fumbling with the chest pocket of his unbuttoned robes, he held out a little tube; Harry snatched it away and dabbed the head of his own cock.

"Only because you deserve it," Harry said as he lowered Malfoy down so that he lay on his back, his legs still bent under Harry's shoulders. It was easy to insert his cock; Malfoy was completely under his spell, as tight or as forgiving as Harry wanted. In one push the head of his cock was inside, and with the second he was balls-deep inside him, Malfoy sighing and groaning and rocking beneath him. Utterly transported by pleasure, utterly Harry's to take as he pleased.

Harry had only been fucking Malfoy for a minute when he reared back, pulling out almost all the way: he was about to shove himself all the way in him again when he felt the spell terminate like the snap of a taut rope. Underneath him, Malfoy sighed in relief, his grateful muscles relaxing as Imperius released its tense grip. But even though the twenty minutes had ended, Harry kept fucking him, his heart pounding so hard he thought he might pass out. He clutched the slim, pliant hips that were the exact width of his own, Malfoy's body swallowing his cock with each greasy lunge into him. And Malfoy fucked Harry right back, flexing his hips to bring Harry further in with each thrust. Sex was a spell of its own: they were hypnotised, adrift in each other, two halves of one whole, driven apart and drawn back together, again and again and again.

On impulse, Harry bent his elbows and lowered his head to kiss Malfoy's open, gasping mouth. Malfoy's lips had a clean, bitter-leaf taste, with an undercurrent of something sweetish, faintly sour.

"Black tea," Harry gasped, still balanced on his forearms so he wouldn't crush Malfoy underneath him. "You had tea." He kissed him again. "With milk. Tastes good."

Malfoy growled. "Don't talk." He wrapped his legs around Harry as he kissed him, all lips and teeth and fervent tongue, and it was the combination of Malfoy's wet, yielding mouth, and the tight fleshy heat of his greedy little arse that finally pushed Harry over the edge, coming so violently that his knees knocked against the floor, and he tasted his own blood when he bit the inside of his cheek much too hard.

He rolled off Malfoy and lay down next to him, looking up at the ceiling. The dark spot around the drip had grown much larger, and the ceiling had started to bulge. A few other spots had started dripping as well.

Harry closed his eyes. Where the room had come alive with grunting and moaning and squelching, now there was only the hushed sound of Malfoy, inhaling and exhaling beside him. And water continued to splash into the bucket as it had since he entered the room, not half an hour ago.

A feeling of futility overtook him; he had lived his life, and there was nothing more he wanted to do. He had bested Malfoy, in a way, but he had not won. There was no winner in this struggle, and there never would be.

His eyes stung, and to his great shame, welled over with tears. He opened his eyes to wipe them away, and saw Malfoy facing him, lying on his side, looking back at him in silence, his face blank. The fact that he wasn't mocking was so horribly kind and so very un-Malfoylike that Harry had to turn his head lest he start blubbering like a frightened child.

He didn't know what was happening, but he knew he had to get out of there. Rising to his feet, he made for the spot near the armchair where his robes lay crumpled, but before he could take three steps, he was hit by a jet of water that knocked him to the ground.

"Fuck!" he yelled. Water was now gushing through several large gaps in the ceiling. Malfoy was sitting up, no longer basking in afterglow, shock distorting his features. Before Harry could get to his feet again, the entire ceiling burst open with a great thundering roar, and he was thrown again, his entire body engulfed in water.

Choking, fighting his way to the surface, he saw Malfoy swimming, his open robes flapping around him like a great pair of black wings. The water had climbed above the door; there was no way to escape. They would drown in here, unless-

"Come on!" Malfoy screamed, paddling furiously to stay on top of the rising water. He stuck his arm out and pointed towards a small window near the top of the wall.

Harry ducked under the water, swimming away from Malfoy as fast as he could. It wasn't so bad. If he could control Imperius, he knew he could avoid the temptation to yield to the crushing pain in his lungs and rise to the surface. It was over. No point in fighting anymore. Malfoy was shouting, but his voice was far away and muted under the water. Harry knew he could get out by himself. For once, there was no need to save him, or anyone else.

A sharp pull on his arm jerked him to the surface, and Harry thrashed about, spitting and coughing as he tried to shake off Malfoy. "Go 'way!" he roared, paddling against the rising water despite his desire to drown. "Leave me alone!"

But Malfoy dug his surprisingly sharp fingernails into the flesh of Harry's wrist, and Harry was unable to break free. The water crashed back and forth against the walls, and they were buoyed right into the glass, smashing though, tumbling over each other as they rode the flood of water, rolling and falling until they struck solid ground and the last of the water poured over them.

Harry looked up at the sky. His glasses were gone; he supposed they were probably in the lake, as they'd ended up on its muddy shores. By some miracle he recognised the point of his wand sticking out of a nearby bush, and crawled over to retrieve it.

Malfoy was sitting close by, huddled in his sodden robes, not moving.

"Look what you did," Harry said, brandishing his torn and bloody hand in front of Malfoy's quiet face. "You should have left me in there."

Malfoy swallowed, and Harry supposed he was about to say something sarcastic. But he merely held out his hand, unfurling his fingers. "You wouldn't get far without these."

In his palm lay Harry's glasses, unbent, unbroken.

Harry didn't know what to say. He had never felt gratitude toward Malfoy before, and he wasn't sure how to react. Plucking his glasses from Malfoy's hand, he rubbed them dry against his forearm as best as he could. After putting them on, he gazed at Malfoy for a long moment, saying nothing.

Malfoy peered back at him. He looked exhausted, all traces of lust and arrogance washed away. His eyes were huge and vulnerable, his nose red, his dripping hair plastered to his skull.

"Just tell me one thing. Why'd you agree to do it? If you can resist-"

Because I never walk away from a challenge. Because I was curious. Because I don't hate you, and maybe I never did. "I wanted to see your face when you came," Harry said, and found Malfoy's cheek with his hand. He stroked it, feeling how warm Malfoy was under the cool surface of his skin.

"I had convinced myself you weren't going to turn up," Malfoy said. He looked distracted: Harry followed his gaze up to the crest of the hill, and saw the silhouette of a tall figure with a beaked nose, and a smaller, curvy figure with a long, wavy mane, both making expansive gestures with their hands. Snape and Hermione. Rowing again.

"They can't see us," Harry said. He stretched, surprised by how good it felt to move about in the sunshine, to flex his limbs. To be fully alive.

"I know," said Malfoy. He and Harry exchanged glances, and then, as if by unspoken agreement, he closed his eyes and laid his head in the soft crook between Harry's neck and shoulder.

It was six months after the war, and nothing would ever be the same.

And Harry Potter found that he rather liked it that way.