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One Harry Potter, Please (If Possible, Seduced and Ready)

CHAPTER ELEVEN


"I was aiming for the front door," Malfoy said apologetically.

Harry blinked, too dazed to make sense of his statement, but one look around, even though it was completely dark, showed him they were definitely in a bedroom. Malfoy's bedroom. Though Harry couldn’t concentrate on that, not right then. Not with Malfoy looking so flushed and confused, as though he didn't know what he was doing.

Malfoy released him suddenly and took a step back, his cheeks tinted red. "I've been having some trouble with Apparition. My aim is off."

"It's all right," Harry said, surprised he was able to talk. Something painful constricted his throat. Something that had been stuck there the entire evening. It had been agony to see Malfoy shaking his hand during dinner as though trying to shake off Harry's touch, and it had been hard to accept the realisation that watching Harry eat oysters made Malfoy lose his appetite. But despite all that, Malfoy still hadn't run. Harry had been sure that Malfoy would bolt, if not right away then at least after Harry and licked that jam off his fingers. Instinctively, Harry licked his lips, remembering that moment fondly; Malfoy had looked shocked, but not revolted. Afterwards, Malfoy had rushed outside, not even worrying about paying for their dinner, and as Harry lingered to take care of the tab he was positive that when he finally stepped outside Malfoy would be gone.

But he had been there, waiting for Harry. And all Harry could do at that moment was take advantage of the situation. He had to have at least one little taste before Malfoy disappeared. And Malfoy had let him. He had let Harry pull him close and kiss him. Malfoy's lips had been cold and unresponsive, hard and unmoving beneath Harry's, but the kiss had been spectacular nonetheless. Harry could still feel Malfoy's touch on his lips and he feared he would never be rid of it. Malfoy had ruined kissing for Harry forever.

Shivering and tearing his gaze from Malfoy's distressed expression with difficulty, Harry looked around again. This was truly Malfoy's bedroom. Malfoy himself had brought him here. What kind of a game was this? None of it made sense. The thought that Malfoy would have sex with Harry just so he could dump him and hurt him later seemed ludicrous. Harry had concluded that Malfoy was disgusted by Harry's sexual orientation, but people who weren't gay and had no such desires didn't have sex with someone of their own gender just for a laugh. This was about something else. It had to be. But every reason that Harry could think of seemed sillier than the one before. Harry had been wrong; he couldn’t play this game better. He was losing because he didn't even know what this game was about.

"Do you want something to drink?" Malfoy asked curtly, lighting candles and moving toward the far end of the room where a small table held a bottle of some clear brown liquid and two glasses.

"No," Harry said quickly, determined to keep a clear head even though he could have used a drink. Whatever happened here, Harry wanted to remember it.

He took in the room with overwhelming curiosity. Malfoy's bedroom looked almost exactly as Harry had imagined it. It was enormous; the bed alone was as large as his old room at the Dursleys, and the closets would have never fit in the Dursleys' home or Harry's apartment because their ceilings were much lower. The top shelves were so high someone who couldn't perform magic would never reach them without a ladder. There was a large fireplace on the right end of the room and two armchairs and a small table were placed next to it. On the other side, where Malfoy stood, were two chairs and a table, carved and elegant looking, and next to them a huge glass door, partially covered by curtains, led towards the balcony. A little to the left there was a massive desk with quills and parchment and in front of Harry was a high cabinet with many drawers; on top of the cabinet were at least a dozen photographs with two silver candlesticks illuminating the blond family that dominated the pictures. There were several paintings on the wall, but no portraits, just landscapes and images of some bizarre things Harry had no idea what they were supposed to be.

Even though Harry had expected this lavishness, there were two things that surprised him. One, the room wasn't draped in Slytherin green and silver, but was dominated by brownish tones, which made it look warm and comfortable, homey rather than cold and unappealing. Harry would never have guessed that there was a place in this Manor he would find inviting. And another more shocking thing was that the room wasn't very tidy. Harry had expected that everything would be polished and that no dust would be visible. And though the room wasn't exactly messy, there were little things that made Harry frown in confusion. The large bed was made, but badly. There were actual wrinkles on the top sheet, the kind that would make Aunt Petunia have a fit. And there was dust here and there, and not one single item gleamed. A robe was tossed over an armchair and there were wrinkled papers and quills on all three tables. It wasn't terribly unkempt, someone had obviously cleaned up, but it wasn't the immaculately sparkling environment Harry had expected.

"I haven't tidied up," Malfoy said defensively as though he had read Harry's mind.

Harry looked at him, noting that Malfoy was holding a glass of the brown stuff he had offered Harry earlier. There were a lot of ice cubes in the glass, so Harry hoped Malfoy wouldn't get too drunk too soon.

"Your house-elves are on leave or something?" Harry asked, confused.

Malfoy laughed. "House-elves on leave." He shook his head, chuckling. "My one house-elf is with my parents in France. The other one hasn't been around for a long time. But I guess you know that.”

Harry looked away, not wanting to think about Dobby right then. Instead, he tried to assimilate this new information. "You live here alone?"

Malfoy made no response, just gave him an odd look and walked closer, temporarily stopping Harry's breathing, but he moved on towards the fireplace. He lit the fire with his wand, set his glass on the coffee table, took off his coat, and then moved to put it away in one huge closet.

"You want to . . .?" Malfoy waved his hand towards Harry and then toward the closet, looking a little embarrassed. "I mean, if you're staying you should take off . . . er . . . your coat."

Staying. Harry's throat constricted harder and he concluded he wouldn't be talking anytime soon. Malfoy wanted him to stay. To stay the night? To stay forever? Harry would have agreed to anything. At that point he hardly even cared why Malfoy would offer.

"Or you could just toss it on the floor. I don't care," Malfoy said, irritated.

Harry quickly took off his coat and walked over, handing it to Malfoy. Huffing and shaking his head, Malfoy hung the coat, carefully fixing the collar and the nonexistent wrinkles on the coarse fabric, something he hadn't done with his own coat. It made Harry flustered and then it made him feel silly, because Malfoy was stroking his coat and not Harry and yet the sight of those pale fingers — fingers whose taste Harry was now familiar with — stroking the coat with care, sent a shiver down Harry's spine. He imagined Malfoy stroking his skin tenderly, carefully. It was odd to think like that; in his fantasies, Malfoy had always been rough, not tender.

Malfoy closed the closet door and looked lost for a moment, clearly not knowing what to do now.

"Do you . . ." Malfoy cleared his throat. "Do you want something to eat?"

Harry almost laughed. "We just had dinner. Unless," Harry forced his voice to sound flirty, "that was some sort of innuendo. In that case, yes, I would like something to eat."

Malfoy's eyes went impossibly round and he stood staring at Harry for a while before he turned and went straight for the glass he had previously disregarded.

"Honestly, Potter," he said after a sip, "is that all you think about?"

Harry sighed inwardly and wandered towards the cabinet with the pictures. "Can you blame me?" he asked. "After all those letters I am in the mood." He grabbed a photo and stared at it to stop himself from looking at Malfoy.

"You're obsessed with those letters," Malfoy grumbled.

"I am obsessed, but not with the letters," Harry admitted bitterly.

Malfoy appeared next to him and Harry almost dropped the photo in his hands.

"You're touching my stuff," Malfoy said, clearly not pleased.

Harry bit his lip. Malfoy was making this too easy. Looking at Malfoy through his eyelashes, Harry said with a leer, "Not yet, but I plan to."

Malfoy made no comment, simply pressed his lips tightly together and looked heavenwards as though praying for patience. He did blush, however.

Harry looked back at the photo of Narcissa Malfoy, who was holding a small blond child in her arms. They were both laughing, looking happy and untroubled, and Harry stared at the tiny, smiling child, wondering if he would ever make Malfoy laugh this carelessly.

"I never expected you to look so —"

"Adorable?" Malfoy said promptly. "Of course I was an adorable child, Potter. Everybody always said so," he said proudly.

"I meant to say chubby, actually."

"What?" Malfoy snatched the photo from Harry's hand. "You're blind, Potter. I wasn't chubby."

"You were, but in an adorable sort of way." Harry nodded, straight-faced.

"That's just baby fat. Perfectly normal. Honestly, have you never seen a young child before?" Malfoy huffed as Harry turned to hide a smile. "Stop touching my . . . pictures."

"Does that mean I can touch your other stuff?"

Malfoy carefully returned the picture to the cabinet, his knuckles white as if he was gripping it too hard. "You're here, aren't you?" he said quietly. "Touching is presumed. No need to be crude about it, though."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, shocked. Malfoy couldn’t mean that. Did he really plan to have sex with Harry? Was this really happening? Did Malfoy just give Harry permission to touch him? And more importantly, why was Harry just standing there, not touching him?

Suddenly terrified, Harry turned around and took a step away from Malfoy, worried that he would jump his partner, touch his stuff, and possibly scare him away forever.

However, Malfoy was right behind him in a second.

"Where are you going?" he asked, worried.

"Um." Harry turned, making Malfoy take a step back because they were apparently standing too close as far as Malfoy was concerned. "I'm just looking around."

Malfoy frowned, looking even more worried.

Bemused, Harry swept the room with his gaze once more. "What? Are you hiding something here? Sex toys in the cabinet? Chains under the bed? I don't mind, really."

Malfoy clenched his teeth and said, "No. Idiot."

"Then, what?"

Agitated, Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair, distracting Harry, who was fascinated when the blond strands returned smoothly to their previous position. His hair never did that.

"I'm sorry," Malfoy said, surprising Harry again. "I'm just not used to having people in my room."

"Seriously?" Harry swallowed, watching Malfoy's face carefully. He looked uncharacteristically nervous. "Don't you bring your girlfriends here?"

Malfoy spluttered, scandalised. "Obviously not! Not while my parents lived here. Merlin, my mother was in this house, I couldn't bring someone here."

"What about friends?"

"I receive guests in the parlour," Malfoy said haughtily.

"Of course, that's only natural," Harry deadpanned. "Um, but your parents have been in France for a long while now."

Malfoy shrugged. "I was busy lately. Had no time for girlfriends."

"Oh." Harry considered it carefully. No men ever, no girlfriends lately. And Malfoy hadn't brought anyone else here; to this huge Manor where he lived alone, making his own bed, washing his own clothes, fixing his own dinner. That was so incredibly strange and not at all what Harry had expected. It didn't fit with Harry's theories. He imagined Malfoy living as he had lived before; spoiled rotten by his house-elves that fulfilled his every whim and surrounded by friends who were ready to laugh with him when Malfoy did something embarrassing to Harry. Harry's belief that Malfoy was doing this just to make fun of him didn't make sense anymore. But nothing else made sense, either. What the hell was going on here?

"What are you doing?" Malfoy asked, sounding panicky.

Harry blinked, realising he had moved and sat down on the bed. Malfoy's bed. Pleased with this revelation, Harry jumped a little, testing. The bed was squishy, but not too squishy. It was perfect for shagging, in Harry's expert opinion.

Malfoy was standing several feet away, staring at Harry with an anxious expression.

"We could sit there . . ." Malfoy pointed at the armchairs near the fireplace. "And talk."

"I like it here," Harry said truthfully.

"It's warmer there."

"I'll keep you —"

Malfoy bristled and raised his hand. "Stop that. I mean it, Potter."

"It's true." Harry grinned, his spirits lifting though he wasn't sure why. Well, sitting on Malfoy's bed probably had something to do with it. He cocked his head at Malfoy, using the tone of voice that had seemed to work on Malfoy before. "Come here," he said. It wasn't an order or a plea, merely a suggestion.

Malfoy stayed where he was, staring at the spot next to Harry as though there was something horrid there. At least he wasn't staring at Harry as though he was something horrid. That had to count for something.

Malfoy intertwined his fingers, fiddling with them nervously, almost as though he was trying to break them. It was an oddly endearing sight; Malfoy's nervousness was palpable. That wasn't an act; it couldn't have been.

Harry tried to remember what he had done earlier, outside the restaurant when he had asked for a kiss and Malfoy had miraculously agreed. Had he pleaded? He couldn't remember. Maybe he should plead now.

But to Harry's surprise, pleading wasn't necessary. Malfoy took a tentative step forward and then, as though he had suddenly decided not to be shy, he strode confidently towards the bed and sat down next to Harry, not quite close enough for their bodies to touch. Not until Harry moved his leg and bumped their knees together.

Malfoy gave him an odd look, but he didn't move his leg away. Emboldened, Harry reached out and grabbed Malfoy's hands with a fast movement, fearful that Malfoy would pull them away if Harry was too slow. Malfoy did manage to free his right hand, but Harry had claimed his left and didn't plan to let it go.

"You have a strange hand fetish," Malfoy accused, but relaxed and allowed Harry to keep one of his hands.

Harry smiled widely, thinking he had a Malfoy fetish rather than a hand one, but as he turned and caressed the palm in his hands, he decided that maybe he did have a thing about Malfoy's hands. They had always been the most accessible part of Malfoy's body. All those times Malfoy had sat across the desk, writing, or tapping his fingers on the desk's surface, Harry had been miserable, knowing that he could reach and touch those hands but he hadn't been allowed. He had to restrain himself and be careful not to touch them even accidentally. But here it was, Malfoy's hand in his grasp, stiff until Harry caressed it slowly and made it relax. Malfoy had nice hands, pale with long fingers, deceptively fragile looking; Harry knew from experience that that hand could grip his wrists firmly, and could punch him and send him flying.

As he trailed his fingertips over the lines on Malfoy's palm, looking for the one that could assure him Malfoy would have a long, healthy life, something touched his cheek. Startled, Harry raised his head, then froze in shock when he realised that Malfoy had pressed his fingertips to Harry's face, voluntarily touching him. And even after Harry's sudden movement, Malfoy hadn't moved his fingers away, nor did he shift his gaze that studied something on Harry's face.

"You have . . ." Malfoy murmured and Harry gasped in horror. He had something on his face. Probably this whole time. Probably jam. And Malfoy chose to tell him this now after he had inwardly laughed about it the entire evening.

"Dimples," Malfoy finished.

"Oh." Harry sighed in relief, relaxing his hands that held Malfoy's wrist in a bruising grip. "I do? I didn't know," Harry said, surprised, though in that moment he didn't know much about anything anyway. His brain had stopped working properly, concentrating only on Malfoy's light touch.

"Yes, you do. When you laugh." Malfoy's voice was quiet, his expression unlike anything Harry had ever seen on Malfoy's face before. It looked almost like yearning, but Harry didn't dare to conclude something so bold. "I like them," Malfoy said, sounding so honest Harry believed him. Amazed, he thanked whatever deity gave him these dimples and prayed that Malfoy would find something else about Harry's body to like.

Malfoy's gaze shifted a little and focused on Harry's lips. Harry didn't move, didn't even breathe, terrified that a simple movement would break this moment and make Malfoy look away. His lips felt dry suddenly and Harry was possessed with an inexplicable urge to lick them. The moment he thought about it, the need became unbearable and he thought his lips would dry out under Malfoy's gaze if Harry didn't wet them.

But in the next moment, Malfoy did that for him.

His lips pressed against Harry's, his tongue sweeping over Harry's bottom lip, the touch soothing, soft, incredible, magnificent because Malfoy had done it without any prodding on Harry's part. Harry didn't even beg — something he had planned to do — and yet Malfoy was kissing him. He slid his lips slowly against Harry's before his tongue pushed between Harry's parted lips and Harry shivered and gasped; the sound choked and desperate. His whole body convulsed and pressed forward, every part of him aching to be as close to Malfoy as it was humanly possible. He thought his violent reaction would chase Malfoy away, make him edge backwards and tell Harry to stop being crude, but it didn’t. Malfoy deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring Harry's mouth, twisting, sliding, its every movement maddening, making Harry desperate for more.

The kiss ended too soon as Malfoy pulled back with a final lick over Harry's bottom lip. Harry's whole body helplessly followed Malfoy's retreat, his lips peppering kisses over Malfoy's mouth and chin and cheeks, and every other part of Malfoy's face they could reach. Malfoy didn't push him away, just breathed heavily, answering the short light kisses when they landed on his mouth.

"How do you do that?" Malfoy gasped, his voce muffled and odd probably, because Harry was nibbling on his bottom lip.

"Do what?" Harry asked and pressed another kiss to the corner of Malfoy's lips, then slid his mouth to the other side, shivering as Malfoy pressed closer, then moved his hand, cradling the left side of Harry's head in his palm, his fingertips caressing the short hair on Harry's neck.

"You're . . ." Malfoy sounded amazed. "Can you do magic without your wand?"

Harry frowned, temporarily distracted, but not distracted enough to stop kissing Malfoy's face. "No. I don't think that's possible. Is it?"

"I guess not." Malfoy raised their joined hands and pressed Harry's palm to his cheek as thought trying to recreate the moment of their first kiss. Harry would have gladly helped and placed his other hand where it had been before, but Malfoy was sitting down and all Harry could do was caress Malfoy's spine, which wasn't a bad thing at all. Bad things ceased to exist altogether when Malfoy tentatively slid his hand against Harry's thigh, stopping just before it reached the hardness that pulsed with the frantic rhythm of Harry's heart.

Malfoy's fingers dug painfully into Harry's leg and desire more powerful than Harry had ever felt before exploded within him, making the whole room spin violently. They kissed again, and this time Harry had no idea which one of them initiated the kiss. They must have moved together; their lips parting and tongues intertwining, as they kissed hungrily, the tentative explorations from before forgotten. And dear God, Malfoy could kiss. That was some sort of cosmic joke; it was too cruel that the best kiss Harry had ever received in his entire life came from a man who was unlikely to kiss him ever again after this night.

Malfoy pulled away, again much too soon, but in that moment Harry would have thought that forever was too soon. When he opened his eyes, after savouring the feelings that coursed through him, Harry was greeted by distressed grey eyes.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked before he could stop himself. What a ridiculous question. Malfoy probably thought that everything about this was wrong.

"I like this," Malfoy said, pained, confused, still gripping Harry's thigh hard enough to bruise. "I really like this."

"Oh." Harry's heart almost burst out of his chest. He wanted to say, "Me too," but all he managed to do was smile so broadly his face almost ached. Malfoy looked even more worried, his gaze flickering toward Harry's cheeks.

Oh, dimples, Harry thought. So far Malfoy had confessed he liked Harry's dimples and he liked Harry's kisses. Which meant Harry had two trump cards he wasn't aware of before. Which was good to know if they were still playing a game, though Harry was no longer sure that that was the case.

"I'm not gay," Malfoy said, not sounding petulant anymore, but honestly confused.

"Would it be so bad if you were?"

"Yes. No." Malfoy took a deep breath. "Not if . . . if . . ."

"What?" Harry asked, desperate to know what Malfoy needed, wanted.

"Why are you —?" Malfoy stopped speaking again, driving Harry crazy.

This was beyond ridiculous and it ceased to be a game. There were no rules and no point, except that Harry was well aware that there was a potential prize. But what was the point of a prize if Harry couldn't keep it, if he had to let it slip between his fingers? He had to stop playing and tell Malfoy that he knew he wasn’t Harry's secret admirer, but that it didn't matter. Malfoy seemed as confused as Harry was and maybe if he knew how Harry felt about him, he wouldn't be so cruel as to toy with his feelings. He'd either stop this or maybe the dimples and kisses would be enough to keep him here. Maybe if Harry made this night spectacular, Malfoy would be interested in something more. Maybe this was Harry's chance to show Malfoy how wonderful things could be if they were together. Maybe if Harry told Malfoy he loved him, it would mean something to him. Maybe it would be enough for him to give Harry this chance.

Terrified, Harry studied Malfoy carefully; the confusion and worry were still clear on Malfoy's face. "Draco, I have to tell you something," Harry whispered, losing his nerve with every word, but fighting desperately to continue. He should start at the beginning; explain that he didn't care about Derek or his gifts and letters, but that he just cared about Draco. "The only reason I went on this date was —"

"No!" Malfoy exclaimed suddenly, looking even more troubled than before. "I don't want to hear this. I know why you came and I know what you want."

"No, you —"

"I don't want to talk now," Malfoy growled; the hand in Harry's hair tightening its grip.

"But we should talk. I don't want you to think that I'm here because —"

"Shut up," Malfoy said furiously and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Harry's. "I want to do this. Now. It doesn't matter why you're here. I don't want to hear it."

"But I need you to know — Oh!" Harry gasped, shocked as Malfoy's hand on his thigh slid upwards, cupping Harry's crotch firmly. Every thought Harry had evaporated; all he could concentrate were the incredible sensations running through him, spreading from Malfoy's hand.

Malfoy pressed his lips to Harry's and murmured, "I want you to . . . show me. That's all I want. I just need to know."

His breath hitching and eyes burning, Harry nodded. Malfoy was confused about his orientation and all he wanted was to experiment. And he had chosen Harry. This was just for one night, the only night Harry would ever get. He could only hope he'd have the strength to make the most of it.

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TBC

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