hackthis_archive | HP - Seven Minutes in the Garden of Wizarding Delights

hackthis_archive

I went out for a curry and culture (Basquiat) with

kattiya and

random_flores. During this dinner,

kattiya told me a story... This is really her fault.

circe_tigana picked the pairing.

The baby

hackthis just wept.

Harry Potter
*spoilers for HBP*
Draco Malfoy/ Harry Potter (Draco/Pansy; Draco/Blaise UST)
Rated R for pron

Seven Minutes in the Garden of Wizarding Delights

Draco Malfoy is resolutely heterosexual; Pansy Parkinson will attest to this. So will Queenie Greengrass, Orla Quirke, Eloise Midgen, and if pressed, Blaise Zabini.

The fact that Blaise is a boy only goes to attest to the resolute powers of Draco's heterosexuality. If Draco were to ever find himself attracted to another boy it would have to be Blaise. He would certainly never have found Roger Davies fit. Or Viktor Krum, although he did hear from Pansy, who heard it from her elder sister, Kassandra, that Dumstrang was overrun with fit boys.

That's not the point here whatsoever. The point is that Draco Malfoy is straight. That means he likes girls. He fancies girls. He tosses off thinking about hairless thighs, soft stomachs and full breasts.

Draco does not get off thinking about hairy arms, underarm odour, and long, thick cocks.

Right.

He just wants that to be made clear in case anyone in the general vicinity didn't quite hear him. He knows it's a bit hard to hear over the music and the conversations and the drinking games in the corner. The fact that he's taking part in one of said drinking games isn't the point here.

"It's just a game, Draco," Pansy reminds him, rubbing his shoulder soothingly. She smells of lavender and Butterbeer, and her dark hair sways as she gives him her most consoling look. It's crap.

He yanks his arm away, scowling at her, because this entire mess is her idea, and who the fuck invited the Gryffindors anyway?

"Who the fuck invited them anyway?" Draco snaps. "I thought this was a proper Slytherin do. Isn't there a sign on the door that says 'No Rubbish Allowed?'"

"I don't need your bollocks," Potter retorts hotly. He doesn't seem any more pleased about the situation than Draco is, which is no comfort at all, because Draco's not here to take comfort in this situation.

"Shut up, no one invited you."

"Actually, I did," Pansy concedes without the slightest hint of repentance.

Draco just stares. He's been ambushed by Potter, his girlfriend has betrayed him, and Blaise is sprawled out limbless on the sofa, legs and arms akimbo, with a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky resting enticingly between his legs.

It's enough to mess with anyone's head.

"You –- you," he sputters. "But why?"

"For a bit of variety." Pansy is all lewd sauciness, and Draco is very aware of his wand resting comfortably up his left sleeve. He could just hex her, but then he'd have to find someone else to suck his cock, and Pansy's very good at that.

Draco's found he has to put up with a lot of rubbish for good sex.

"Afraid you won't measure up?" Ginny Weasley appears at Potter's elbow, her red hair practically glowing in the dim candle lighting of the common room, and Draco groans.

"Isn't it past your curfew, little girl?" He injects as much venom as possible into the statement, but it's sorely lacking a certain something.

His barbs never seem to work as well after he's had a few drinks, and right on schedule Blaise interrupts. "Any time you girls feel like getting on with it."

"Yes, what he said." Granger says, and Draco looks back and forth between the Mudblood and Blaise as though they've suddenly sprouted wings.

"I'll remember this later," Draco hisses.

"It's just a game, Draco." Blaise's reminder does nothing for Draco's nerves, and Draco shoots him Glare #3: the Ball Shriveller. Blaise's eyes crinkle around the corners; he's truly amused, and Draco is truly not. Potter is not the person that Draco had seen himself getting off with during Seven Minutes in the Garden of Wizarding Delights.

There had been plans for his seven minutes. He was going to get another go at Queenie and hope that this time she didn't give him a black eye. He was going to see if Nott's mouth was as luscious as it actually looked, or if Terry Boot was as proficient at everything as the reports claimed.

At the very least Draco was going to get a blowjob from his girlfriend, because Draco was straight. And sixteen. And always horny. But alas, it was not to be, because Potty and his merry band of prats had to come along and ruin the entire experience.

"If you don't think you’re man enough, I'm sure Zabini will oblige." Draco's never realised what a big mouth Ginny Weasley has. Now would be an excellent time for him to hex it shut permanently.

"I'm not any happier about this than you are." Potter runs his fingers through his hair and rubs the nape of his neck. His eyes haven't left Draco since he approached their game, and if Draco were the vain sort he would say that Potter fancies him, but Draco's straight and Potter's the enemy, and Draco really does have much bigger worries.

Hence the party.

If he's going to be killed by the Dark Lord, he's going to get as much debauchery as possible under his belt beforehand.

"Shut up, Potty," Draco retorts automatically.

"Your flirting could stand some improvement," says Weasley.

Blaise just snickers. It's starting to dawn on Draco that Blaise really might fancy this ginger haired slapper, which is almost as appalling as the idea of snogging Potter for seven whole minutes.

He wrinkles his nose when he notices Granger is looking back and forth between them curiously. They'll have to have the place fumigated once she's gone. If Draco actually gave a toss about the Weasel, he'd wonder why he's not attached to her hip as well, but he's heard about Weasley and that Brown bint.

"Oh, for the love of Circe, just get on with it," Pansy insists, and Draco narrows his eyes. "I'll make it up to you later," she says in a lower tone, her breath blowing over the shell of Draco's ear.

"You'll be making this up for a long, long time," he says darkly.

Pansy's grin is all saucy impudence. "I should hope so."

*

There's a grandfather clock in the hallway leading to the Slytherin dormitories that hisses the hour and half hour accordingly. The insides of the clock were gutted and expanded in Draco's second year by Miles Bletchley and Gawain Greengrass, Queenie's second cousin, once removed.

The cogs and wheels were removed and a cupboard was created for assignations and various other Slytherin deeds that required privacy. The only way inside is with the password, and Draco hisses and spits accordingly, waiting for the base to open wide.

"Why am I not surprised that the password is 'pureblood'?" Potter says, crossing his arms as Draco steps back and waits for him to go inside. Draco's left eye twitches. He didn't necessarily forget that Potter's a Parseltongue, but he's got other things on his mind.

"I'm sure lots of things don't surprise someone with an ego your size," Draco says dryly. "Now, if you'll just go inside, we can get this over with."

"As though I'd turn my back on you. Not bloody likely."

Potter's hair is just as messy as ever; he looks as though he's got a niffler sitting on his scalp. Draco can't see his eyes for the poor lighting and the glasses and the shaggy fringe. "As though I'd waste my time with something as boring as killing you. Don’t insult my intelligence."

"That would require you to have a brain in the first place."

Draco just rolls his eyes. "Very droll, Potter," he says stepping inside the base of the clock, hands in front of him to feel about for the back wall. "You're so amusing, I forgot to laugh."

"Hahaha." Potter's laugh is all forced dryness. "If all your jokes are this bad, I can see why you always look so sour."

"Because you're so fucking funny."

"Anything you can do, I can do better."

"Prove it."

There's a creak as the base shuts behind him, and Draco spins around in the darkness. If Draco were the worrying kind, he would be concerned that Potter's just left him in here on his own, and he can't see a fucking thing in all this dark.

Immediately he gropes around for his wand, and instead finds himself shoved against the back wall he was looking for. Potter's heavy, the pressure from his arms and body keeping Draco flush against the wall. "So glad you could join me," he mocks.

"Shut up, Malfoy." Potter's breath is hot against Draco's skin, and he smells of Butterbeer and Ice Mice.

"You shut up, " Draco replied automatically.

Draco's eyes are beginning to acclimatise to the darkness and he can just make out Potter's glasses as the room begins to take on a soft glow. He doesn't remember there being any sort of illumination inside here, but he reckons that's why no one ever brings in a candle.

He also reckons –-

He was reckoning something, but Potter's breathing on him very loudly, and his breath is too warm; it's making Draco's skin flushed. Draco only gets this hot and bothered when Pansy's playing hard to get. Only girls like to grip his robes and breathe on him this way, and his heart jumps in his chest when something cold brushes against his cheek.

"What the fuck are you doing, Potter?"

"You smell like black tea and dust."

Draco's eyes roll in his head as he realises the cold thing must've been Potter's nose. This has gone from annoying to weird, full stop. "You're fucking sniffing me? Morgana's eye, you really are mental, aren't you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Potter's voice should not be seductive and low. Ever. It's disquieting. It's also bad for Draco's heterosexuality, if the twitching of his cock is anything to go by.

The sooner they start the sooner this is over, and Draco turns his head at the sound of Potter's voice and leans forward. He gets a mouthful of hair.

"Right, that's it." Draco wriggles free of Potter's hold, his wand slipping out of his sleeve and clattering to his floor.

"Was that your wand or are you just happy to see me?" Potter asks, amusement evident in his tone.

"Shut up." Draco's hands slide up Potter's robes, slipping over his collar and up his neck, his fingers grabbing tufts of thick hair. "Mordred, you talk too much," he says, pulling Potter forward.

"Look who's –-"

Draco muffles Potter's words by pressing his lips to Potter's mouth. Potter's lips are dry, and he kisses with his mouth closed. The angle is all wrong, and Potter's glasses press into Draco's forehead harshly. He'll probably be scarred for life. On a scale of one to ten the kiss is a negative ten. Or a negative million.

Actually, it's some new number that Draco hasn't even thought of yet. He would've been better off kissing his mother's crup, Nero.

Pulling back, he furrows his brow and considers Potter with exasperation. "This is never going to work if you don’t at least try, Potter," he snaps.

Potter's tongue flitters over his lower lip. "Because your skills are so considerable? Do me a favour, Malfoy."

"I'll do you a favour, all right." Draco's untangles his fingers and snatches Potter's specs off his face. Stuffing them in one of the innumerable pockets in his own robes he purses his lips. "Again," he orders leaning forward and snogging Potter harshly.

This time it's slightly better, perhaps a three, a positive three at that. Potter's lips are wet now so it's doesn't feel as though Draco's snogging dry wood. Potter's hands fist in Draco's robes as Draco cups the back of his skull and pulls their mouths together. Draco keeps his eyes open the entire time, assessing the situation, but they close very briefly when Potter's tongue brushes over Draco's upper lip, sending a frisson of heat straight to Draco's groin.

If Draco didn't have a girlfriend, and a Dark Lord holding his mother hostage, this might be a problem. Thankfully, however, Draco has his priorities in order. Besides, he doesn't fancy boys and certainly not boys like Potter.

When Draco pulls away, Potter's eyes are still closed and his mouth is glossy. Potter looks vaguely debauched, but 'vaguely' is not good enough, not when it's Draco doing the debauching. He has a reputation to uphold, and no one can be allowed to go away from seven minutes with Draco Malfoy merely looking 'vaguely' debauched.

Potter takes forever to open his eyes, and when he does, his focus is hazy. If Draco weren't himself he might think Potter was smiling at him. Such a thing is unthinkable though. Potter is Draco's enemy; he's done nothing but cause Draco grief and bitterness. It's his fault Draco's life is in such a state, and Draco hates him. Except hating someone takes a lot of energy, and it has to be consistent, and Draco has a murder to plot and a mother to worry over. Potter is insignificant in the long run.

Draco's head cracks against the wall when Potter lunges, and for a split second Draco hopes that Potter's decided to kill him and get it all over with –- the fact that Potter kisses him heatedly is almost worse.

Draco's not unprepared for the kiss, but in his current state of distraction he's forgotten how it feels to be the recipient of Potter's aggression and it's -– it's intoxicating.

Potter's mouth is warm and his teeth are sharp. A surprised noise escapes Draco when Potter bites his lower lip, and Draco pulls out a few of Potter's hairs when Potter's thigh presses itself between his legs.

Potter's tongue insinuates itself between Draco's lips, thrusting and stroking. His hands move from the front of Draco's robes to his hips, pulling him forward and pressing him back.

Draco hasn't been on his broom in ages, and his own body now seems soft compared to Potter's muscle. He doesn't even realise his hands are running rampant over Potter's shoulders and back until he finds himself with two handfuls of Potter's backside.

If Draco were into boys, he might have to concede that Potter has a really nice arse.

If Draco were into boys, he might have to admit that he's really turned on by Potter's aggressiveness, and Potter's mouth, and by the fact that he can feel how hard Potter is against him.

It doesn't help that Potter's grunting and moaning against Draco's mouth, and it certainly doesn't help that he's got some trick he does with his tongue that makes Draco's knees wobble.

Potter's practically crawling down Draco's throat, and Draco can feel Potter's stubble rubbing against his chin. He did this to Harry Potter. Even if everything else in his life is fucked, Draco did this.

He doesn't even realise he's come in his pants until Potter shudders against him, and by then it's too late to stop the train. Seven minutes is a lot longer than it seems, and if Draco pushes Potter away harder than is strictly necessary, he doesn't apologise for it.

He doesn't know how to clean up the heterosexuality spilled all over the floor.

Potter's panting, Draco's brain is in his trousers, and Draco's mind can't take this sort of strain.

"This doesn't change anything," he says, crouching down and picking up his wand with trembling fingers. He points it at Potter more as a matter of habit than anything else.

Potter's eyes are huge, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eying Draco warily. Draco's dick gives a feeble twitch at the idea of Potter's mouth wrapped around it, and Draco grits his teeth hard.

"I didn't think it did," Potter says slowly, but Draco can feel the Firewhisky from earlier curdling in his stomach. Potter's glasses clatter in his robes as he steps forward. The noise startles Draco, and he yanks them out hurriedly, flinging them at Potter as though they're contaminated.

He barges out of the base of the clock -- nearly plowing down Pansy and Granger -- but leaving Potter behind. Tonight, he's left a lot of things behind.

He takes the stairs out of the dungeon, his thoughts moving faster than his legs. He's on his way to see Myrtle and tell her he's made up his mind. He's had his Seven Minutes in the Garden of Wizarding Delights; it's time to pay the price.

-end-

Inspired by

kattiya. Pairing chosen by

circe_tigana. Betas provided by the fantabulous

oxoniensis and

circe_tigana.

The Garden of Wizarding Delights is TM of

ethrosdemon who went away and left me susceptible to such horror.