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dewitty1 · 4 years

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Tea and No Sympathy

who_la_hoop

Chapters: 11/11

Fandom:

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Characters: Narcissa Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Aberforth Dumbledore, Rubeus Hagrid, Buckbeak, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ernie Macmillan, Terence Higgs, Minerva McGonagall, Giant Squid (Harry Potter)

Additional Tags: Slow Build, Draco-centric, Tea Drinking, Swearing, Muggle London, Houses of Parliament, Malfoy Manor, flangst, Family Feels, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Coming Out, Heartfelt Conversations, Sarcastic Conversations, Owls, Competitive Card Games, Falling In Love, getting drunk, Enthusiastic Snogging, Hogwarts Castle, Sex In The Slytherin Dormitory, Frottage, Time Travel, Time Loop, HP: EWE

Summary:

It's Potter's fault, of course, that Draco finds himself trapped in the same twenty-four-hour period, repeating itself over and over again. It's been nearly a year since the unpleasant business at Hogwarts, and Draco's getting on with his life quite nicely, thank you, until Harry sodding Potter steps in and ruins it all, just like always. At first, though, the time loop seems liberating. For the first time in his life, he can do anything, say anything, be anything, without consequence. But the more Draco repeats the day, the more he realises the uncomfortable truth: he's falling head over heels for the speccy git. And suddenly, the time loop feels like a trap. For how can he ever get Harry to love him back when time is, quite literally, against him?

Excerpt:

"What's this card-game business really about then?" Potter asks, shuffling but not dealing.

"Oh, I just wanted an excuse to find out if you're currently shagging anyone," Draco says airily, and Potter drops the cards.

Half of them explode, setting off the other half, and Draco dives off the bed to avoid the aftermath. He'd grab Potter too, but, really, in times like these it's every man for himself. Draco fears for the safety of his pale-grey trousers.

When he struggles to his feet, after it's all over, Potter is sitting – singed around the edges – on the bed with his arms folded and . . . Draco can't stop himself from sniggering.

"Yes, very funny," Potter says, struggling to the edge of the bed and swinging his legs over, getting to his feet. "Look at the sodding bed!"

Draco looks; there's a hole in the centre of the duvet, and when it peers down, it goes all the way through the bed itself. "Oh, arse," he says. "Looks like you'll be sleeping on the floor tonight."

"Me!" Potter says. "Why is this one my bed?"

"I might be persuaded to share, if you promise faithfully you don't snore."

Potter shoots him a meaningful look. "Look, Malfoy, I'm not daft."

"No?"

Potter splutters, and before he can speak Draco adds, "And you didn't answer my question, Potter. Well?"

"What question?"

"Are you shagging any—"

"Merlin! No, I'm not! Happy?"

Draco smirks. "Well, yes." Even Potter can't fail to pick up the implication in that, surely?

Potter, with great dignity, despite his flaming cheeks, looks Draco full in the face and says, "I don't know if I'm getting the wrong idea here, but I just want to say, I don't usually . . . you know."

No, Draco doesn't know. Potter takes embarrassed incoherence to a new level. "Don't what? Don't shag?"

Potter gives him a tortured look. "Not casually." He turns away to examine, in great detail, the carved fireplace across the room. "Not that . . ." He clears his throat. "Not that I'm not interested . . ."

"Potter," Draco says, his heart pounding and his nerves on fire, "have you ever actually . . .?"

Potter doesn't turn. "How is that any of your business?" he asks, his voice shaky round the edges.

That would be a no then. Probably. OK. It's not like Draco's got laid more than half a dozen times, and he didn't spend a year in a tent with Granger – a libido killer if he ever heard one.

Still. "Potter, come here," Draco asks.

Potter doesn't move.

"Please, Harry," Draco says. Potter's first name feels odd in his mouth, the syllables foreign.

Potter turns. He looks wild; his eyes are wide, and his lips pressed hard together as if to stop them trembling. "What?" he manages.

Draco moves towards him, closing the gap between them in just a couple of steps. "Can I ask you another question?" he asks.

"Depends," Potter says, a glimmer of his usual fight resurfacing. "Is it an arsey one? I've had just about enough of—"

"No," Draco says. "It's a fucking embarrassing one, and I've been building up to it all day."

"Oh god," Potter says faintly. But because he's a Gryffindor, thank Merlin: "Go on then."

"May I kiss you?"

It feels, oddly, like the moment before time resets itself – everything seems to hang there, frozen in place, paused. His breath, his heart. Potter himself, standing still and silent.

Potter breaks it. "Why?" he asks, the words strangled. He swallows hard.

Oh, for fuck's sake. "Because I want to," Draco says, losing his grip on his self-control. "I really really really fucking want to. Is that good enough? Please let me, please."

Potter swallows again, and moistens his lips, and swallows, and . . . Makes a decision. The right one, thank god. "Yeah," he says, quiet and breathy. "I mean . . . OK."

It's more than a bit awkward. Draco can't decide whether to follow the advice of his cock and just launch himself at Potter, or take it more slowly. Potter looks . . . Merlin. He looks soft, and willing, and anxious, and oh god it makes Draco's heart hurt, just looking at him, just wanting him.

He steps forward, and Potter closes in at the same time. Draco reaches for him, sliding his hands down Potter's sides until he finds the edge of his T-shirt, then drags it up until his thumbs hit bare skin. He cups Potter's waist – his skin hot, and firm – and pulls him towards him. Potter's own hands come up to tangle in his hair and tug Draco's head down.

Their faces lips mash together, and when Draco opens his mouth in a half-groan, Potter opens up too and lets Draco's tongue in willingly. Potter's mouth is warm, and wet, and their tongues slide together, each lick sending pulses of arousal that zing straight to Draco's cock. He strokes his hands up Potter's sides, underneath his T-shirt, and down again, then pushes his right leg between Potter's thighs, tugging him in tight, so that their bodies are locked together.

Potter's hard, Draco can feel it, and he groans helplessly into Draco's mouth, grinding his hips as their tongues fuck.

"Draco, I—" Potter gasps, between kisses, and Draco pulls away and nuzzles fiercely at Potter's neck, sucking at the tender skin just below his ear.

"Mm, yes?" he says against Potter's skin, and moves to lick a careful trail along the shell of Potter's ear, which has Potter's knees buckling.

"The door—" Potter gasps desperately.

"What about it?" Draco says, blowing a trail of cool air over the spit on Potter's skin, which makes him shudder; Draco's practically holding him up now.

"Aren't you going to fucking lock it?"

Draco pulls back a bit. "Did your dormitory door lock, hmm, Potter?"

"Er, no," Potter says.

Draco smirks. "And did you, or did you not, still jerk off behind the curtains of your bed, despite the fact that a teacher could emerge any minute, or Nearly Headless Nick might float in to see what you were up to?"

"Er, yes," Potter says, the tips of his ears pink.

"Well then."

"Malfoy, I—"

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Don't you think that since I'm going to shove my hand down your trousers in a bit, it might be nice to call me Draco?"

Potter goes scarlet and he exhales an oh of trembling arousal. But . . .

Draco casts an eye around the room, then lets Potter go, pacing over to a carved dark-wood chair by the fireplace and picking it up with a wince – the thing's fucking heavy, and is he a wizard or what? – and carrying it to the door, shoving it under the handle to jam it.

Then he struts back to Potter, who's – unfortunately – pulled himself together a bit and who rolls his eyes. "My hero," he says, sarcastically.

Well, Draco likes that.

Potter snorts. "Don't sulk, Draco," he says, and softens the insult by leaning in to kiss him – hard, with a hint of teeth – and then more than a hint as he pulls back slightly and gently bites Draco's lip, then kisses the sting better.

It's not what he expects from Potter, and that somehow makes it even hotter. This is happening. This is really happening. His hands find their way back under Potter's T-shirt, slipping up his back, and stroking lines up and down his spine. Potter shivers under his touch, and deepens the kiss, and Draco feels bold enough to fumble for the hem of Potter's top and drag it up, breaking off the kiss so he can yank it over Potter's head.

This is not as smooth a move as he could have wished; Potter's nose is, clearly, enormous, because it gets caught, as do his glasses, and they – the glasses, not his nose – fly off when Draco gives a final yank.

"Ow," Potter says pathetically, and sniggers.

"Just how blind are you, anyway?" Draco asks.

"Ish," Potter says helpfully, and rubs at his face. There are red marks on his nose where the glasses sat, and Draco, overcome by something unspeakably soppy, leans forward and tips Potter's head forward, kissing the bridge of his nose.

"Well, that was weird," Potter says, and grins easily to take the sting out of it. His gaze is unfocused, but he reaches forward and tugs at Draco's own T-shirt, drawing it easily over Draco's head, and then . . .

"Accio glasses," he says, and his glasses fly into his hand. He shoves them back on his nose. "You didn't scar at all!" he says accusingly.

Draco looks down at his chest. It's a fine specimen of a chest, even if he says so himself. Smooth and lean and, yes, flawless. He feels glad he indulged himself in all that running; it's been useful for this, if nothing else. "Nope," he says.

"I felt SO GUILTY!" Potter says, obviously ever so slightly heated up.

"It still fucking hurt," Draco says with a snort, and reaches down to take Potter's hand, placing it on his chest. It's an understatement; he genuinely thought, in the moment that Potter struck him with the curse, that he was going to die.

Potter runs his hand over Draco's chest, and Draco's nipples pebble under his touch, which seems to fascinate him – he rubs a thumb in lazy circles over one nipple. Each pass sends waves of sensation flooding through Draco's body, and his cock twitches in rhythm with Potter's thumb.

Potter – Salazar – bends and covers the nipple with his mouth, his tongue darting out to flick it. It's warm, and wet, and when he does it again, a groan slips out of Draco's mouth.

Potter's face is pink when he raises his head, and Draco can't resist kissing him again, slow and lazy, but with increasing fervour. He's fucking irresistible.

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