Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

An unexpected heat wave hits Hogwarts early in April, and it’s a nightmare.

When the heat had initially begun to roll in, it hadn’t been so bad. Generally tolerable, Harry had managed to get by with the use of cooling charms. But it soon became evident that the heat had no plans of leaving, or diminishing. No, in fact it had risen exponentially in temperature, leaving cooling charms useless and an entire student body and staff suffering.

At this point, people were getting desperate. Quidditch games and practices were cancelled by Madam Pomfrey’s orders due to the influx of players in the hospital wing for dehydration or sunstroke. The news had gutted Harry initially. While he and the other eighth years were prohibited from participating in house competitions this year, the new quidditch ban had fallen over their usual games during free periods as well. It had proven to be a good distraction initially in the year, before becoming a general habit and mode of entertainment for Harry. It hadn’t hurt much either that it allowed for all that so-called inter-house unity McGonagall had been so adamant on lately.

In addition, any outdoor classes were cut a whole ten minutes shorter and any students attending were advised to wear light clothing and to stay properly hydrated throughout the class period. That rule, Harry doesn’t mind so much. He loves being able to leave his tie undone or to have his collar open, and he loves the extra time given for free periods even moreso.

But it still doesn’t compare to the unbearable heat that Harry currently finds himself griping over. The Great Hall is one of the few places in Hogwarts that is seemingly unaffected by the simmering weather, but there is still an indubitable warmth that blankets the room like a sheet fresh out of the dryer.

Harry takes a sip of his water, forgoing the usual juice, and relishing the cold and refreshing feeling that washes over him. It had been advised to him and Ron by Hermione to lay off the sugary drinks, so as to better stay hydrated. It still didn’t stop Harry or Ron from sneaking the occasional glass of pumpkin juice at dinner, but Hermione had been kind enough to act as though she hadn’t seen them.

Breakfast is a much more muted affair than usual, and Harry knows he has the heat to blame. All of the eighth years are sitting in relative quietness, preferring to focus on eating rather than exhaust their already dwindling energy. It really was awful how lazy the heat made Harry feel.

Harry watches Ron spear his fork into a piece of sausage. “Why is this happening now? I swear, Hogwarts has never had this kind of problem before,” Ron mutters. He still doesn’t eat the sausage and Harry thinks the heat might have melted even Ron’s appetite.

”The castle is damaged,” Hermione says with a sigh. She places a finger on her book to keep her place before flicking a glance up to Ron. “Usually, the castle’s built-in charms would prevent us from feeling any extreme weather changes. Unfortunately, not all of the damage from the battle has been completely fixed. I think there would be several years before Hogwarts is back in tip top shape.”

Ron finally lifts the sausage to his mouth before dropping it back down. “Wow. My girlfriend is so bloody brilliant.”

Hermione smiles softly at him before shaking her head and returning to her book. Ron merely continues to stare at her, expression dreamy. Harry rolls his eyes. Fantastic, the heat has melted not only his appetite, but his brain as well.

Harry is about to ask Hermione about how she knows this, but stops as he hears soft giggles from the end of the table. His head turns to see Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, the only eighth years not rendered to a pile of near-sludge by the heat. Everyone around them looks downright miserable while they cackle on in glee, and honestly, Harry thinks no one should be so happy in such terrible weather.

He scowls before noticing that their attentions are focused elsewhere. He lets his eyes follow their gaze, all the way to the doors of the Great Hall. Just entering now is Draco Malfoy, looking rather ridiculous in his school robes. He stands out in the entire room as the only one still deigning to wear his school robes amidst the intense warmth. He does not appear to be sweating however, his face a cool mask as he approaches Parkinson and Zabini.

Parkinson and Zabini’s laughter gets louder, impossibly, and at this point, they are the only ones audible in the hall. Harry wonders what’s so funny about the situation. Surely the heat hadn’t made them that delirious, had it? Or perhaps it was the sight of Malfoy still dressed in stuffy robes while everyone else had given up on all pretenses of looking the least bit formal. Harry looks on in interest, waiting for Malfoy to do something, anything. Harry thinks he might even scold his friends for being so loud.

Instead, Malfoy remains silent and reaches up for the clasp of his robes. Oh, good, Harry thinks, maybe Malfoy won’t get heat stroke now. He keeps his eyes trained on Malfoy as the young man proceeds to push the robes off of his shoulders, allowing them to fall onto the bench beside him. Zabini and Parkinson are howling at this point, leaving Harry perplexed, until he sees it.

And it seems that the entirety of the hall sees it too. A series of wolf-whistles and cat-calls are heard all around as all attention is focused on Malfoy. But it’s not just any Malfoy. It’s Malfoy. Wearing a skirt.

Harry feels his jaw drop at the sight. Malfoy is dressed in his usual uniform top—crisp white button up and tie colored a deep purple, the color now worn by eighth years. But instead of the usual grey trousers, Malfoy is wearing a skirt. A short, grey skirt that ends at just the top of Malfoy’s thighs, exposing his long, pale, slender legs. It’s flowy, an exact copy to the skirts worn by Hogwarts’ female student body. But it doesn’t fit the same, instead framing Draco’s narrow hips and resting atop his cream colored thighs in a way that Harry could only describe as... Teasing. Tantalizing.

Harry’s throat feels exceptionally dry as he watches Malfoy merely roll his eyes before taking his seat beside his snickering friends. As he sits, his legs swing over the bench in a graceful movement of lean and pale muscle that has Harry scrabbling for another sip of his water. Harry’s thoughts feel like the mess of scrambled eggs on Ron’s plate and he wonders if his brains have been fried as well. Although, he isn’t quite sure if it’s from the general heat or another type of heat entirely.

His eyes stay on Malfoy throughout breakfast. For all the ruckus Malfoy had created, he acts perfectly normal throughout his meal. As if just under the table he isn’t wearing a woman’s skirt. The thought alone makes something not unlike pleasure spike through Harry and he isn’t sure how to take that. Just then, Draco lifts a sausage to his mouth and closes his lips around just the tip, and breathing becomes near impossible for Harry. He tears his gaze away, trying to focus on anything but the thought of Malfoy’s slim legs or shiny mouth.

Why the bloody fuck was Malfoy wearing a skirt? He acts so... so casual about it too, conversing quietly with his friends and Harry thinks he might lose it. He’s fully hard now and his fingers are gripping the edge of table so tightly he thinks he might break a chunk of wood off.

Hermione eyes him. “Harry? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he grits out.

She doesn’t look convinced, but Harry doesn’t care. He makes the mistake of looking over at Malfoy again and accidentally locks eyes. They stare at each other for a quick moment, Malfoy’s expression unreadable and Harry most likely looking like a right prat. Malfoy looks away first, returning to his conversation and Harry groans inwardly. This could not be happening to him. Whatever this was, some sort of late, repressed sexual awakening or whatever, Harry could not be dealing with it. He glares at his plate of unfinished toast as though it might reveal the answers as to just why Malfoy in a skirt is affecting him so.

The rest of the day is no better.

It appears that for all intents and purposes, Malfoy likes wearing his skirt. Even moreso, he likes showing it off. He doesn’t put on his robes again after breakfast and Harry is simultaneously grateful and frustrated. He’s had to readjust himself in his trousers more times than he can count by second period, and he already knows he’ll have an eternal hard on for the day.

Because Malfoy doesn’t walk the same way he usually does. Or rather, he does, but the skirt adds an extra sway to his hips that Harry finds his eyes glued to. It’s a subtle change in his movements, but just as graceful as any of his other ones. It drives Harry mad in a way that this already maddening heat could never do. Honestly, he wonders why no one’s told the git off yet. No teachers have made any mention of the skirt yet, not even in the Great Hall when he had initially walked in. The students hadn’t said much either aside from the teasing jabs from friends and cat-calling during breakfast. Harry feels like he’s the only one who seems to have a problem with it.

It’s worse during third period. On Mondays, third period belongs to Potions class. Professor Slughorn was initially gracious and patient when it came to Harry, having gained a soft spot for him during sixth year. His patience had dwindled considerably as the year drew on, however, as he began to realize that Harry was by no means the potions expert he had once been led to believe. Harry doesn’t have the heart to confess to Slughorn about Snape’s old potions textbook.

Slughorn is especially lacking patience now, clearly irritated by both Harry’s incompetence and the disgusting heat of the room. Even the dungeons had not been safe, their usual updraft having been obliterated by the persisting heat.

“Please, Mr. Potter, do be more careful,” Slughorn tuts. He sweeps his gaze over Harry and Ron’s work, eyes narrowing. “I believe those crocodile teeth should be a more... fine dust. Right now, all you have is gravel.”

Harry grits his teeth and nods, desperate to get Slughorn out of his space. For the entire year, Harry has been partnered with Ron for potions. It hadn’t been advised by both Slughorn and Hermione, but they figured they could do well enough. And well enough they did, until today. Once Slughorn leaves, Harry refocuses on the table before him.

Standing in front of Harry’s workspace are partners Zabini and Malfoy. Zabini seems to be measuring some liquid, which confuses Harry for a moment because he doesn’t recall ever having to measure a liquid of that color for this potion, but Harry isn’t interested in him. No, he’s interested in Malfoy, whose back is turned to Harry and giving Harry the most delicious view of his arse.

Admittedly, the flowy material doesn’t reveal much in terms of shape, but it still does something to Harry that he cannot put a name to. The swell of Malfoy’s bum causes the skirt to hitch up just slightly in the back, lifting a tiny bit higher to reveal just the sliver of the crease connecting Malfoy’s thighs to his buttocks. If the skirt lifted any more, Malfoy’s arse would be exposed and the thought sends a thrill down Harry’s spine.

As if reading Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy reaches his hands down to tug at his skirt, lowering it until the crease disappears entirely and Harry feels a mortifying amount of disappointment at the change of visual. It doesn’t stop him from still looking, and it’s just entirely Malfoy’s fault that Harry and Ron’s potion turns out rubbish.

Herbology class proves to be torture with the high stools and high desks in the greenhouses. Harry can’t help but be entranced by the way the skirt falls over Draco’s lap, inching higher now that he’s sat down. Harry’s thankful that all Professor Sprout does today is lecture; he doesn’t think he could handle focusing on anything on-hands at the moment.

Harry’s breath hitches as he sees Draco lift a leg and cross it over the other, the skirt falling away to give way to another inch of skin. A dirty part of Harry thinks of how it would be to be able to look up that skirt. He thinks that if he were shorter, or perhaps crouched, he would have a perfect view up Malfoy’s skirt.

Blood rushes to his cock at the thought. What did he even expect to see? Would the sight of Malfoy in briefs even be as arousing? Or maybe... Maybe he wouldn’t be wearing pants at all. Maybe he’d be starkers under and that particular thought makes Harry shiver despite the warmth of the greenhouse. The thought of Malfoy walking around the school in that skirt, wearing nothing under...

Harry shuts his eyes tight. What was wrong with him? He had never even thought about these kind of things before, much more thought about Malfoy that way. But Harry thinks that with the way Malfoy looked and moved, it would be impossible for Harry to ever ignore.

Things continue on for the rest of the day in a pattern—Malfoy sits in class and Harry stares. He tries to be subtle, he really does, but he cannot for the life of him ever take his eyes off of Malfoy. It is as though Harry’s body has convinced itself that if he even dared to look away for a second, he’d die. And Harry thinks he could sort of agree with the statement.

Harry’s last class of the day is Defense Against the Dark Arts. The new professor for the year is a short and loud woman Harry has come to know as Professor Bautista. Harry comes into class fully expecting to sit through another hour of torment, staring at Malfoy, but is surprised to find the room completely devoid of tables and chairs. Instead, there are mats placed all over the floors and Harry realizes that they are to be practicing duelling today.

The thought fills his gut with excitement. They haven’t practiced duelling for a good month now, and Harry was itching for a good go. Hermione credited it to restlessness as a side effect of the war, and Harry would agree, if he didn’t hate the implications so much. But what really had him excited, what had his blood pumping and head feeling light, is the thought of Malfoy dueling.

He hadn’t ever thought about it in this way when the girls duelled. However, the girls' skirts had always been on the much more modest side, reaching the knees or the middle of their thighs at the very most. But the height of Malfoy’s skirt is bordering indecent and Harry is, admittedly, very interested in seeing how it would work while Malfoy duelled.

They are separated into partners and switched off at different intervals by Bautista. This time, Harry does not allow himself to get so distracted, determined not to let any of his partners get the best of him. But despite this, out of the corner of his eye, he still catches sight of Malfoy duelling. He moves the same way he normally does during practice duels—lithe and graceful, twirling and all fine wand movements. His skirt flares out from him, but just barely, as though it were being held down by some invisible barrier. Harry figures out by Malfoy’s third partner switch that the skirt has been charmed. It swishes and sways, but never lifts higher, always teasing.

Harry casts a final expelliarmus that hits Ernie Macmillan’s wand just as Bautista’s sharp voice calls out, “Alright, last partner switch!”

Harry gives Macmillan an apologetic grin before returning his wand. Macmillan merely sighs, clearly having resigned himself to being beaten by the best dueller in class, and walks off to his next rotation. Harry does so as well, turning around and walking to the next mat.

He nearly stops dead when he sees Malfoy standing there, looking just the tiniest bit ruffled from his previous duels. His chest is heaving and a light sheen of sweat covers his forehead and temples. The edges of his hair are dark and damp with sweat, turning it into a spectacularly average color of blonde that Harry isn’t used to seeing on the other man. His uniform is still refined, hardly a wrinkle in sight and still buttoned all the way up and sleeves fully down. Then there is, of course, the damned skirt that is still hanging from his hips and raised at an entirely inappropriate length.

Harry knows from the get go that this is a mistake. Malfoy doesn’t acknowledge him past a curt nod, as he always has done to Harry since the beginning of the year. It frustrates Harry to no end, the complete lack of reaction from Malfoy this year, and now Harry thinks it may stem from something else.

They ready their wands and step the appropriate paces away from each other before beginning.

Harry strikes first, throwing a stupefy in Malfoy’s general direction. He misses entirely, but Malfoy still puts up a protego that blocks the spell. Harry continues on with a barrage of spells, and Malfoy blocks every single one of them. Malfoy is calm and collected, eyebrows drawn into a focused expression as he puts another shield up. Harry’s eyes lower to Malfoy’s skirt and he feels himself sweating harder than usual.

At the sight of another shield, Harry throws the hardest bombarda he can. Malfoy’s shield shatters completely, shards of magical glass flying everywhere before disappearing mid air. Harry watches as the force of the explosion causes a slight wind, one that feathers at the hem of Malfoy’s skirt and lifts the body just slightly—

Harry registers the stunning spell aimed at him much too slowly and only manages to put up a fragile shield at the last second. As expected, the brittle quality of the shield doesn’t hold up, and while Harry is not stunned, the force of the spell knocks him off of his feet and onto his back. In an instant, Malfoy descends on him and a wand is pointed at his neck.

Harry feels a weight settle on his hips and he opens his eyes to the sight of Malfoy towering over him, grey eyes startlingly stormy as he stares into Harry’s face. It’s such a compromising position, or maybe Harry just feels that it is for himself. Malfoy is straddling Harry’s hips, skirt draped wonderfully over his thighs and Harry’s torso. They’re breathing hard, and Harry knows that for Malfoy, it’s from exhaustion. Harry, on the other hand, can’t think. All the blood in his brain rushes down south and oh, Merlin, this is so, so hot . He silently prays that Malfoy can’t tell how hard he is.

“I swear it’s usually harder,” Malfoy mutters and Harry freezes before realizing that Malfoy is not, in fact, referring to his current state of arousal. Harry’s eyes follow a drop of sweat that travels from Malfoy’s forehead, to the tip of his pointy nose.

“Just—distracted, Malfoy,” Harry says under his breath. Malfoy arches an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed.

“Hm. I’ll say.”

Harry’s response dies on his tongue as Bautista yells out, “Alright, students, end of class! Good work today!”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Malfoy lifts himself from Harry. He does so carelessly, legs wobbling as he gets to his feet. As he does so, Harry continues to stare and manages to catch a glimpse under the skirt. Harry swallows dryly at the sight and realizes that not only is Malfoy wearing a skirt, but lacy knickers under as well. Black, lacy women’s knickers that has Harry’s head spinning.

He gets up and makes a quick escape to the loo before frantically tugging himself off to thoughts of Malfoy in a skirt and knickers.

___

Harry yawns and flips back to the previous page of his textbook. He is sitting in the eighth year common room, doing his best to revise for the potion he has to remake tomorrow. It’s meant to loosen one’s tongue, not as potent as veritaserum, and certainly not as accurate. Hermione had admonished him and Ron thoroughly for their poor work today, claiming that the potion had been one of the easiest of the year. Ron had looked doubtful but Harry wouldn’t have known, he hadn’t even paid attention to it for more than half the time in class.

When Harry had suggested reviewing the potion to Ron, the ginger had snorted in Harry’s face and said sure, mate before leaving the common room. It wasn’t uncommon for the eighth years to be out and about at such a late hour, what with all the leniency on rules for them now. Some remained on as prefects and were still out on duty, leaving only Harry in the common room. He figured some might still be in their dorms or already asleep, but that was unlikely seeing as curfew for the younger students had just barely begun.

Harry is stuck on a particularly confusing paragraph on the properties of crocodile parts when he hears someone come down from the boy’s dorms. At first, he doesn’t look up, thinking the person may be on their way out, but the person only moves closer. Harry looks up in time to see Malfoy, still dressed in a crisp white uniform shirt tucked into a grey skirt, sit on the chair opposite of the couch Harry sits on.

Harry gulps. Malfoy crosses his legs and leans back into his cushioned chair before pulling open the book he had brought with him and reading. Focusing on potions had already been a rather difficult feat, but with Malfoy just sitting there, Harry knows it’s a futile effort.

And so Harry silently sends a sorry to Hermione and stares. He realizes that Malfoy is currently barefoot, not an unusual thing to see in the common rooms, but it is the first time he’s seen Malfoy dressed anything but formally. Harry’s gaze travels up from Malfoy’s bony feet to his slender ankles and eventually to his long, lean legs. Harry’s eyes rake over the pale skin exposed, appreciating the enticing sight of the skirt shifting higher onto Malfoy’s thighs. Harry’s half hard already, and his arousal only heightens as he thinks about the pair of women’s knickers hiding under that skirt, just past Malfoy’s tightly crossed legs.

“You’re staring loudly.”

Harry hears buzzing in his ears. “What?”

“You’re staring loudly,” Malfoy repeats. He doesn’t look up from his book, but it’s clear who he’s speaking to. “And it’s bothering my reading.”

Harry licks his lips and his eyes shoot up to focus on Malfoy’s face. He doesn’t look like he wants to kill Harry—which Harry considers as a win—just more irritated than anything else. As if Harry’s staring really is audible.

“I-I wasn’t staring,” Harry argues, and it sounds weak even to his ears.

Finally, Malfoy does look at Harry, looking at him from over the top of his book. Harry reads the title, Magical Theory’s Unsolved Cases , and fights back a snort. Only Malfoy would want to read such material for fun. And maybe Hermione.

“Sure you weren’t,” Malfoy finally says. His eyes flick back to his book and it’s as though the conversation never happened.

Then, Malfoy uncrosses his legs, lifting them high enough for Harry to catch another glimpse at the black lace, before it’s obscured by Malfoy’s crossed legs once again. Harry feels the temperature of the room rise.

Harry clears his throat. “So. The skirt.” Malfoy hums. Harry figures that it meant to go ahead. “Uh, why’ve you been wearing a skirt?”

Malfoy shrugs and throws Harry a blank look. “My arse looks fantastic in it.”

Harry has to bite his tongue to stop himself from agreeing.

“No,” Malfoy admits. “I lost a bet with Blaise and Pansy.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Why?” Malfoy questions, eyes narrowing. He seems to hesitate for a moment before putting his book to the side and angling a look at Harry. “Have a problem with it, Potter?”

Harry feels himself flush. “Er, no.”

His heart nearly stops as Malfoy proceeds to rise from his seat. He begins to stalk slowly towards Harry, and it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. The material of the skirt swishes with every step and Harry is hypnotized.

“I have a feeling you do. You’ve been staring at me all day,” Malfoy insists. He finally stops before Harry and when Harry doesn’t answer, he crosses his arms. “Well?”

“I guess you can say I have a problem with it,” Harry finally says, tongue feeling heavy and numb in his mouth.

Malfoy’s face forms a sneer. “Didn’t take you as the judgemental type.”

“No, no,” Harry corrects himself. “I don’t have a problem with it like that. It’s just...” Harry pauses, trying to find his words. It’s just… What? Malfoy is looking at him in what Harry can only describe as anger, perhaps even revulsion, clearly repulsed at the thought of Harry being the slightest bit disapproving of Malfoy wearing a skirt. Which is just bloody ridiculous because Harry was not disapproving at all, the complete opposite of disapproval, in fact.

Before he can think to take them back, he blurts out the words, “You look, uh, really good in a skirt.”

The way Malfoy’s face morphs from a look of disgust into what Harry thinks is shyness would have been hilarious if not for how painfully hard Harry is at the moment. Malfoy’s cheeks are tinted pink now, and steadily growing darker in color as the seconds pass. Harry watches in fascination as the color blooms across his skin, reaching even the tips of his ears.

“What?” Malfoy whispers quietly, lips barely moving.

Harry nods and swallows. He’s already in too deep and he knows that, knows he should back away now. But here Malfoy is, standing before him and looking shy and hot and Harry can feel his self control slipping from him.

“I said,” Harry says, voice a little more steady, “that you look really good in a skirt.”

“Oh.” Malfoy looks conflicted, clearly weighing the options before him. Harry recognizes the indecision and scrambles to find a way to prolong this. He’s already gotten so far and damn it all if Harry doesn’t manage to find some sort of relief for any of these feelings.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, unthinkingly.

Malfoy lets out a shaky breath before nodding, “Um. Yes.”

For a moment, Harry is shocked. He isn’t sure what he had expected as a reaction, and while he had hoped, he hadn’t actually thought Malfoy would acquiesce. When Harry doesn’t move immediately, he sees the panic in Malfoy’s eyes. As Malfoy begins to step away, Harry reaches out and runs a hand down Malfoy’s thigh. Malfoy stops immediately, standing stock still as Harry begins to feel up his thigh. The skin is smooth, as Harry had fantasized, and sparsely covered in thin, blonde hair. At first glance, Malfoy looks virtually hairless, but Harry now knows better.

He continues to rub his hand up and down Malfoy’s thigh, unsure on how to continue. Under Harry’s fingers, Malfoy’s leg trembles slightly. Harry stops his hand at just the end of the skirt and rubs his thumb there reassuringly, trying to soothe Malfoy. At the motion, Malfoy moves forward, all the way until he’s straddling Harry’s lap.

Harry groans at the weight of Malfoy’s hips settling onto his own, and another groan comes when he feels Malfoy’s groin brush against his own. His mind feels as though it has gone blank despite the flurry of thoughts that have now flown into Harry’s mind. Harry’s hands move to Malfoy’s hips, clutching firmly. Malfoy nods eagerly at the motion, his own hands flying to grapple at Harry’s biceps before moving his hips experimentally. A low moan chokes out of Harry as Malfoy grinds down onto his erection.

“Oh, Merlin,” Malfoy moans into Harry’s neck, breath hot.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” Harry whispers into Malfoy’s ear. The flesh there pinks and Harry flicks out a tongue, just wanting to taste. “Looking so... so good like this. So hot.”

Malfoy sucks in a breath. “So, guys in skirts is what gets the Chosen One going, huh?”

“Shut up,” Harry croaks, cheeks reddening.

Malfoy tries to smirk at Harry, but the image is ruined by how his lip trembles just slightly. “Make me,” he whispers.

Harry leans in and presses his lips to Malfoy’s own. Malfoy moans, slipping his arms around Harry’s shoulders to pull him closer. The heat of Malfoy’s mouth is intoxicating, Harry comes to find. He licks his way into Malfoy’s mouth, pleased with the noises Malfoy makes as Harry runs his tongue along Malfoy’s own. Malfoy smells and tastes of cinnamon and just a hint of vanilla that fuels the lust in Harry’s veins. Soon enough he’s lost in a heady mix of Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy and Harry isn’t sure how long he can last.

Harry pulls away for a breath. Malfoy looks wrecked, and all they had done was kiss. His lips are red and glossy with spit, his hair already strewn haphazardly across his forehead, and eyes lidded in a haze of want. Harry licks his lips at the sight.

“Can I reach up your skirt?” Harry asks, voice a little hoarse. Malfoy doesn’t speak, simply nods fervently and pumps his hips again.

Harry’s head falls forward to the crook of Malfoy’s neck as his hands wander, exploring up and under Malfoy’s skirt. His hands seem to have a singular focus, immediately reaching around and groping the soft flesh of Malfoy’s arse through the lacy material of his knickers. Malfoy moans and pushes back against Harry’s hands, clearly asking for more. The begging is strange and so unlike Malfoy that Harry can’t help but chuckle against the thin material of Malfoy’s shirt. Harry lifts his head to mouth at the flesh exposed, darting his tongue out to taste before latching his mouth onto the sensitive skin, leaving Malfoy hissing and whining.

Harry keeps one hand kneading Malfoy’s arse while the other reaches back around to the front. His fingers never leave the feel of Malfoy’s knickers, the pads of his fingers brushing over the thin fabric as he drags his hand from Malfoy’s arse to his hip to the bulge of his front. Harry can’t see anything, just feel what’s under Malfoy’s skirt and the thought thrills him. He moves his hand to cup Malfoy’s erection, feeling the thickness there. Malfoy throws his head back, chest heaving and panting, when Harry flexes his fingers, thumbing over the head of Malfoy’s cock.

Harry recognizes how close the two of them are, just how easily the both of them could come from just this alone, and realizes he doesn’t want that.

“Get up,” Harry says suddenly. Malfoy raises his head and looks at Harry in a daze, confused by the sudden request. There’s the beginnings of a love bite forming on his neck and Harry swallows thickly. He repeats himself, voice softer this time. “Come on, stand up for me.”

Surprisingly, Malfoy obeys. He pushes himself off Harry’s lap and stands once again. Despite the flowy shape of the skirt, Harry can see the clear bulge of Malfoy’s erection from under it. Harry sucks in a breath and drinks in the sight of Malfoy standing there, looking sort of awkward and unsure of himself, clearly waiting for Harry’s next instructions. Harry’s cock twitches at the thought of Malfoy being so willing, so ready to do anything Harry asks.

“Take off your panties,” Harry breathes.

Malfoy’s cheeks color even moreso at the request and Harry thinks for a moment that Malfoy won’t comply. He is pleased to see that in the next moment, Malfoy does obey, reaching under his skirt and tugging at the knickers. Harry watches Malfoy slide the lacy underwear down his thighs and calves until they reach his feet and he steps out of them. Without saying a word, Harry reaches out and Malfoy hands the knickers to him, face turning even more red as Harry stuffs the underwear into his trouser pocket.

Shakily, Harry lifts his hands and begins to unbutton his trousers. Once he has the zip down, he notices Malfoy’s eyes, grey and unyielding, completely focused on the movement of his hands. Harry gulps but doesn’t feel deterred, instead feeling emboldened by how Malfoy’s eyes can’t seem to leave him. Hands much less shaky now, Harry reaches into his pants and pulls his cock out. The air of the common room hits the sensitive skin, making him hiss as his cock curls up and onto his stomach.

Malfoy’s eyes are wide and staring, transfixed by the sight that is Harry’s cock. The evident interest makes Harry’s cock leak a dribble of precome and Malfoy lets out a small whimper that Harry can understand.

“Come on, back on my lap,” Harry says softly. Malfoy obliges and moves to sit again. This time, his erection pokes out from beneath his skirt and barely brushes Harry’s own erection. The sight makes Harry feel a little dizzy. He’s seen other pricks before, a side effect of having to dorm with boys for so many years. And Harry’s seen them in those magazines too, the ones that he often hides under his bed in fear of Ron or any of his other mates seeing them. But Malfoy’s cock is nothing at all like that, all flushed red and long and elegant looking. And really, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever described anyone’s prick as looking elegant but Malfoy’s is. Of course it is.

Harry licks his lips, staring at Malfoy’s already weeping cock for a moment longer before looking back into Malfoy’s eyes. “Can I finger you?”

Malfoy nods much too eagerly. “Yes, please.”

The sincerity in Malfoy’s voice only adds to Harry’s arousal, which is already through the roof. He mutters a lubrication spell and a thick, slippery substance coats Harry’s fingers in seconds. He nudges Malfoy to lift his hips, which the other man does so easily. Malfoy shifts his knees on the plush couch and grips Harry’s shoulders, leaning forward closely and filling Harry’s senses with cinnamon.

The skirt obstructs Harry’s view, and so he runs a finger down Malfoy’s crack first, slowly mapping out Malfoy’s backside. Malfoy shivers at Harry’s touch, legs trembling once Harry finally finds Malfoy’s hole. At first, Harry merely rubs at it, letting the pad of his finger slowly circle around Malfoy’s rim. Harry keeps his eyes on Malfoy’s face, watching as the blonde shuts his eyes tightly, face clenching as Harry continues to rub at his hole.

“Is this okay?” Harry murmurs.

Malfoy doesn’t open his eyes. “You haven’t even done anything,” Malfoy retorts, voice sounding strained and possibly even whiny. Harry rolls his eyes and proceeds to slowly push in one finger.

Malfoy’s eyes fly open and he lets out a choked gasp, hands tightening around Harry’s shoulders. Harry panics for a moment, thinking that maybe he had hurt Malfoy, but his panic subsides when Malfoy begins to move himself up and back down onto Harry’s finger. His movements are a bit awkward, but just as much enthusiastic, hips pumping up and down. The sight makes Harry moan before he steadies Malfoy’s hips and begins to properly finger him. He presses in a second finger and Malfoy takes it well, albeit with a little initial resistance. Harry scissors his fingers, doing his best to stretch Malfoy out. By the third finger, Malfoy is a moaning mess, grinding his arse down onto Harry’s fingers for more.

Harry pulls his fingers out with a faint pop and holds onto Malfoy’s hips, positioning him over Harry’s cock. “You okay?”

Malfoy shoots Harry a look of annoyance and for a second, Harry forgets about what they’re currently doing. “Just let me fuck you, Potter.”

Harry is about to make a retort on how he seems to be doing the fucking in this case, but the words never leave his mouth as Malfoy reaches down to grab Harry’s cock and lowers himself.

Malfoy is tight, impossibly so, slick walls swallowing the head of Harry’s cock greedily. The feeling punches the air out of Harry’s lungs. Malfoy continues to sink down, slowly and inch by inch. His breathing is laboured, fingers clutching tightly onto Harry’s shoulders to stave off the burning stretch. He stops just when Harry is only half way in, and Harry bites back a whine, instead running his hands up and down Malfoy’s back in an attempt to soothe him. Malfoy sinks down another inch and Harry feels like he might explode.

He wants nothing more than to thrust up all the way, to completely bury himself into the heat of Malfoy’s tight, little arse. But he focuses on any shred of self-control he has left and holds on tight. Slowly, agonisingly, Malfoy lowers himself all the way until Harry is fully in. Malfoy sits there for a moment before lifting his hips up by just an inch and slamming back down. Harry yells at the sensation, unable to hold back. His hands find their way to Malfoy’s hips once again and begins to guide him. Malfoy begins to ride Harry more earnestly now, hips canting up at a faster pace.

“W-wait,” Malfoy mumbles. Harry takes his hands off of Malfoy’s hips, but Malfoy doesn’t stop moving, hips still pistoning over Harry’s cock. “What if someone walks in?”

A groan rips from Harry’s throat. “Let them watch.”

Malfoy moans at Harry’s words then impales himself on Harry’s cock again. He continues to move his hips, not even needing Harry’s hands to guide him at this point. Harry lowers his eyes and stares, mesmerized by the sight of Malfoy’s cock bobbing up and down from under his skirt, the material billowing out from under him as he continues to move.

Vaguely, Harry wonders what it must look like, his own cock fucking in and out of Malfoy’s arse with the skirt on. He realizes he really doesn’t mind if anyone happened to walk in on them now and see Malfoy bouncing up and down on Harry’s cock, moaning and making filthy noises as Harry repeatedly hits his sweet spot.

“Yes, fuck, Malfoy,” Harry groans. His head falls back onto the couch. “Just like that.”

Malfoy grinds down on Harry’s cock in circular motions now, whimpering and whining at the sensation. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Malfoy breathes. His hips are moving faster now and Harry can feel his orgasm building up within him.

“Merlin, so fucking good,” Malfoy rasps against Harry’s lips.

Lewd noises fill the empty room, sounds of skin against skin and thready moans intermingling. Harry kisses Malfoy again, hard and rough as Malfoy continues to thrust down. His movements are erratic now, uncontrolled and full of want. Harry knows he’s not gonna last much longer. He reaches his hand in between and swipes his thumb over the head of Malfoy’s cock, squeezing lightly. Malfoy’s hips stutter and with a sharp cry, Malfoy comes, coating the both of them in sticky, warm fluid.

Malfoy’s head is thrown back in ecstasy, back arched and hips still moving as he rides out the last spurts of his own orgasm. The sight alone is enough to push Harry over the edge, his own orgasm following after Malfoy’s. Harry thrusts his hips once, twice, until he completely empties himself out into Malfoy.

For the next few moments, neither of them move in an attempt to catch their breaths. By the time Harry feels his cock softening from inside Malfoy, Malfoy moves. He rises to his feet shakily, pushing off of Harry’s shoulders. Harry’s cock slips out of Malfoy with a squelching noise that makes Harry flinch. Wordlessly, Harry casts a cleaning charm over the both of them and fixes himself.

When the both of them are relatively clean and back to normal, Malfoy speaks.

“I’d like my knickers now, Potter,” Malfoy mutters, voice edging into possible agitation. Harry’s eyes flick to Malfoy’s outstretched hand and then to the hem of his skirt. Poking out from under is the head of Malfoy’s pale, flaccid cock and it just does something to Harry. Malfoy notices where his attention is directed and scowls. “Honestly, Potter, can you not think with your prick for once—”

Whatever insult Malfoy had prepared is cut off at the sound of the common room door opening. Harry whips his head around to see some of his classmates enter then, noisily discussing something before noticing Harry and Malfoy. Then Harry remembers Malfoy, who is still missing a pair of underpants, and his eyes travel back to his front only to see that the other man is sitting back in his initial chair, a blanket covering his lap. A shot of relief floods through Harry as he watches Malfoy dutifully pretend to be enraptured by the book in his hands.

“Oh, Harry!” a voice calls out. Harry turns his head back around to see that Ron has entered as well. “You’ve got to come up and see what Seamus got from home.”

And so Harry gets up, ignoring the dull ache in his bum from sitting so long, and starts after Ron who hasn’t even bothered to wait for him. Just before Harry heads up the stairs, he lets his gaze drift back over to Malfoy, who is staring back at him already. He looks thoroughly debauched, Harry thinks with slight glee. No one else who passes by notices or comments on it, thankfully, but Harry can see it plain as day. Malfoy’s hair is a mess, bangs strewn haphazardly across his sweaty forehead and his cheeks are still tinged a lovely rose color that matches well with the red swell of his lips.

Harry can’t help the smirk that forms at his face at Malfoy’s helpless expression before he makes his way up the stairs and to his dorm.

It turns out that the package Seamus had received is a box of assorted candies from Romania. His parents are currently vacationing there and had thought it nice to send him a box of voice changing chocolates and meat flavored lollies. Harry tries to feign interest, really, but all he can think about is Malfoy. Malfoy and his short skirt and his lacy knickers and his lovely arse. Harry hopes the blush on his face isn’t evident.

Never in Harry’s wildest dreams had he ever thought he’d have the opportunity to shag Malfoy. And never had he thought he’d ever even consider it as an opportunity. But it was, wasn’t it? Fuck , Harry thinks, running a hand through his hair. It had been every bit an opportunity and a stroke of luck and it hits him now that it had really happened. Just moments ago, Harry had been buried up Malfoy’s arse and Malfoy had liked it.

Thoughts of Malfoy, his head thrown back and baring the line of his pale throat, his arse squirming in Harry’s lap are enough for Harry’s prick to twitch slightly in interest. He decides he needs to leave the room and get ready for bed before things get out of hand. Quickly, Harry stands up from his bed and heads for his trunk. As he bends down, something falls out of his pocket and onto the carpeted floor.

Before Harry even notices, Ron reaches for it. “Hey, you dropped this mate—woah!”

Thankfully, the other guys are still too occupied with guessing lolly flavors to watch as Ron picks up Malfoy’s knickers and drop them back down. Harry’s cheeks warm as he reaches out to swipe the underwear and stuffs them into his pocket wordlessly. He gathers his sleeping things, unable to look up and meet Ron’s eyes. How on earth was he going to explain this? He doesn’t want to have this conversation now, or ever, really. He doesn’t know how Ron would react to Harry having an interest in men or men in skirts and knickers, or more specifically, Malfoy in a skirt and knickers.

When he looks back up at Ron, the ginger’s face is decidedly green.

“Uh,” Ron begins, clearly unsure of how to go forward with the situation. “Please tell me those aren’t my sister’s.”

A nervous laugh rips from Harry’s throat. “Absolutely not,” Harry says in one breath. He stands up to Ron’s height.

Ron eyes the pocket of Harry’s trousers in a way that makes Harry shift the weight on his feet. “Er, are they yours then?” Ron asks. His face promptly turns green a bit more, as if imagining Harry in them.

“Blimey, of course not,” Harry asserts hotly. His entire body is warm with humiliation now but Ron doesn’t relent.

“I just wanna know who’s knickers I just grabbed,” Ron hisses, face starting to shift from a shade of green to red.

“It’s—it’s no ones,” Harry manages to choke out before pushing past Ron and heading for the bathroom. The back of Harry’s head burns from the heat of Ron’s curious gaze. He briskly walks out and slams the dormitory door shut with much more force than usual.