Greenhouse Lessons Part Three (One of Two)
Oct. 8th, 2007 12:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dysonrulesAuthor:
dysonrules (ya think?)Rating: NC17
Word Count: 7,355
Warnings: If you've read the first two parts, you know all the warnings. No semi-non-con in this one, though.
Summary: The greenhouse saga concludes!
Disclaimer: I own everything related to this story, except the Harry Potter stuff. JKR owns that. I do own the dicentra raptura, though. That plant is all MINE. I'm giving one to Draco for Christmas. Beta'ed and scanned for Hufflepuffery by the fabulous
lilith1631This probably has to be in two parts, because it's longish. Posting to
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harrydraco and my journal because I'm avoiding work.Greenhouse Lessons Part Three
Harry woke from the most amazing dream he’d ever had. He tried to hold onto it, and retrieved only scattered images: pale limbs and paler hair, fiery kisses on his lips and skin, dappled moonlight, and overwhelming desire…
He blinked as he took in his surroundings, wondering why everything was so hazy. He was in his own bed, at least, and not in a moonlit garden. Why did he feel so strange? His head felt muzzy and he had a raging hard-on left over from his erotic dream. Harry could do something about that, at least. His hand slipped beneath his waistband to glide over his erection—and froze.
As if triggered by the touch, his memories returned. He felt like he’d wrenched open a door to let in a whirlwind. Oh. My. God.
Harry’s erection deflated with incredible swiftness as sheer horror overwhelmed him. Malfoy. Goddamn Malfoy and that fucking plant! Harry sat up, shaking as memory after memory assaulted him. Harry calling Malfoy “pretty”; Harry vanishing their clothes; Harry forcing himself on the blond Slytherin, and… holy hell… memories of him fucking Malfoy…
Harry whimpered as the blood flooded back into his cock again. Oh god, he recalled the feeling of Malfoy’s skin, the taste of his lips, the smell of his hair. Harry collapsed back on the bed, breathing raggedly. He nearly moaned aloud.
Why hadn’t Malfoy fought him? The Slytherin’s wand had been in hand nearly the entire time. Blackmail? Harry threw an arm over his eyes, wishing he could block the images overwhelming his brain. He’d been worse than drunk. He’d been… all over Malfoy like Goyle on a plate of sweets. And Malfoy had been (hot, gorgeous, talented, amazing, brilliant) well, he’d been… nice. What had brought that on? Guilt?
Harry snorted. Malfoys were devoid of that particular emotion. No, blackmail or sheer humiliation seemed the only answer. He had probably rushed back to the Slytherin common room with his cocky swagger, and had a huge laugh with his Slytherin cronies over his hilarious joke. Either that or he was saving it up to make Harry pay, and pay, and pay.
He heard Ron stretch and crawl out of the bed nearest Harry’s. Ron fumbled for his clothes. Harry kept a hand pressed to his erection, pushing it down so it wouldn’t tent the blankets. Despite his horror, part of his mind kept replaying scenes of the previous night—Malfoy moaning beneath him; Malfoy kissing him; Malfoy murmuring unbelievable phrases like, “I won’t hurt you;” Malfoy shuddering and panting into Harry’s mouth as he came deep inside… Fuck!
“You okay, mate?” Ron asked suddenly, probably noticing Harry’s choking sounds as he willed himself to spontaneously combust.
“No,” Harry admitted hoarsely. “Don’t feel too hot. Just go on without me.”
There was no way in hell Harry planned to walk into the Great Hall and face such large-scale mass humiliation. In fact, he might just stay in bed for the rest of the year. Hermione could bring him homework. And food.
Ron and the others left him alone to seek their breakfasts, after endless questioning to make sure Harry was not sick enough to need medical attention. Harry’s relief at being alone was short-lived. His mind kept tracking over every memory of the night before. It seemed grossly unfair that he remembered every single detail. He fingered his wand and wondered if it were possible to Obliviate oneself.
He threw himself out of bed with a curse. For one thing, he was ravenous, probably due to the extraordinary amount of energy he had expended attacking Malfoy like a love-starved trollop. Harry fought past the blush. For another, he was a Gryffindor, damn it. He had faced down Voldemort, dementors, and Ministy officials, for fuck’s sake. He could handle this.
Harry dressed quickly, although his fingers shook when he remembered Malfoy undressing in the garden. The image brought such a renewed surge of lust he had to sit on the bed and wank to get it out of his system. He doubted it helped, although he felt slightly more relaxed as he cast a Cleaning Charm and finished dressing.
Harry walked into the Great Hall with more trepidation than he had ever felt. He fully expected every eye in the hall to swing to him. It wouldn’t be the first time. At the very least, he expected the attention of the entire Slytherin contingent.
To his utter amazement, no one at all seemed to notice him. Well, almost no one. One pair of eyes fixed on him quite firmly. The grey eyes caught his with such intensity that they might have been the only two people in the room.
Harry expected Malfoy to gloat, or sneer, or at the very least burst into taunting laughter, but the haughty features were still and Malfoy’s expression appeared no more than curious.
The most insane thought hammered through Harry’s temples as he looked at the blond Slytherin. Still beautiful. Oh god. He flushed scarlet and backed away. He couldn’t face this, after all. Malfoy had not told, and was possibly waiting to make a public announcement, but that was nothing—nothing!—next to the horrifying fact that Harry still wanted him. He wanted to walk across the room and drag Malfoy from his seat. He wanted to plant possessive kisses on those lips—
Harry turned and bolted.
Draco was disappointed when Granger, Weasley, and the rest of the Gryffindor clan entered the Great Hall without Potter. He felt a moment of concern, quickly hammered into oblivion. He tried for his customary sneer. Most likely Potter was hiding in his room sobbing like a girl over what he’d done.
Draco felt a pang. Truthfully, he would prefer to see the Gryffindor in a fiery rage, ready to claw at Draco’s throat, screaming invectives. At least then Draco would know where he stood. Things would be back to normal. Or as normal as they could get after spending an evening locked in carnal bliss with your worst enemy. Draco tried—oh how he tried—not to think about the previous night. He had already wanked to the damned memory—twice!—and had no desire to become rock-hard at the breakfast table. He kept a close eye on the door, however, and his breath caught in his throat every time he caught sight of black hair.
Draco had nearly finished eating and began to think Potter wasn’t coming down at all when the Chosen One finally made his appearance. Potter marched into the Great Hall, jaw set and eyes flashing. He was clearly terrified, but clinging to every bit of Gryffindor courage he possessed.
Potter’s eyes darted about, as if he expected attack from every quarter. The dark brows drew up in surprise, and the Gryffindor paused before his puzzled gaze shot straight to Draco. Their eyes met, and Draco watched every emotion flit across the expressive face. Mortification, anger, mistrust… and something else. Something suspiciously reminiscent of Potter’s expression when he hovered over Draco in the greenhouse, moments before snogging him senseless. Something that hit Draco like a punch in the stomach.
Potter’s eyes widened and his cheeks burned with color. The Savior of the Wizarding World took two steps backward and fled.
Draco muttered a terse command to Crabbe and Goyle—“Stay”—and followed. Draco scanned the Entry Hall and spotted Potter ducking through the main doors. He went after the Gryffindor and caught sight of him fleeing toward the Quidditch Pitch like the demons of hell pursued him. Draco followed at a more leisurely pace, knowing Potter wasn’t going anywhere.
He paused under the shadow of an oak and watched Potter wrench at the door to the broom shed. Draco smiled, knowing the doors were spelled not to open until 9 am. No Alohomora would open them—Dumbledore himself had enchanted the doors that were meant to stay locked at Hogwarts. Even school brooms were too valuable to be left unattended at night. Potter sagged slightly and leaned his forehead against the door. He looked like the picture of defeat.
Draco walked forward silently, avoiding the noisy path by walking on the grass instead. He had nearly closed the distance when Potter’s head jerked up. In an instant, the Gryffindor had whirled and trained his wand on Draco. The strange, bewildered look that had adorned Potter’s face in the Great Hall was gone, replaced with an icy rage Draco was all too familiar with.
“Come to gloat, Malfoy?” Potter snarled. Draco did not stop walking until the tip of the wand touched his chest.
“No,” Draco said simply. His eyes scanned the Gryffindor, wondering why he had never really noticed how truly gorgeous Potter was. His body was lean perfection, with slender, muscular legs and washboard abs honed by hours of riding a broom. He had long, delicate fingers, rougher than Draco’s, which felt oh-so-good on his skin, and his face was chiseled glory. His mouth, even set in a hard, angry line like it was now, begged to be kissed, and could those damned eyes get any greener?
“What then?” Potter asked angrily, and the emerald eyes narrowed as he caught Draco’s perusal. He tipped his head back slightly against the wall of the shed and the sight of that slender neck beneath the messy black hair that Potter had obviously not even attempted to comb after Draco’s hands had been in it last night—Draco thrust himself forward and attached his mouth to Potter’s like a starving man finding sustenance.
Potter stiffened and wrenched his mouth away. Draco’s lips slid over the smooth jaw and down to Potter’s neck. Harry gasped and the wand slid out from between them, only to be pressed sharply into Draco’s ribs.
“What are you doing?” Potter cried as Draco nipped at his throat. Draco was drowning in sensation as the smell and taste of Potter overwhelmed him.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Draco replied, half-expecting Potter to hex him in a dozen different ways. He moved his head slightly and took those kissable lips in his again while pressing his length roughly against Potter’s body, driving him into the wall. Draco’s hands tore at the white t-shirt Potter wore, dragging it from the waistband of his jeans. Potter was stiff and frozen. His mouth was unresponsive under Draco’s, but Potter’s flesh was hot under Draco’s hands as he pushed them under Potter’s shirt.
Draco trembled with need and the blood exploded into his loins as Potter moaned slightly and relaxed almost imperceptibly. It was probably a trick, and Potter would turn him into a Christmas pudding or a Blast-ended Skrewt at any moment, but Draco was possessed, and he meant to enjoy every particle of Potter, even if it were only given through faked submission.
But Potter didn’t seem to be faking. The wand stopped digging painfully into Draco’s side, and then Draco felt a faltering hand slip into his hair. Potter’s tongue met his tentatively, and Draco moaned in sheer delight, surprised and relieved. He deepened the kiss, feeling the need to retrace every action from the night before, as though it hadn’t been branded on him like a Dark Mark.
Potter was shaking like a giant had tossed him into a dice cup. Draco ran his hands soothingly over Potter’s waist and then gripped his hips to press Potter’s growing erection against his own. Potter tore his mouth away and gasped raggedly.
“Not… not here,” Potter said in a voice so hoarse it was barely audible.
“Yes, here. Here, there, and everywhere,” he replied.
Draco was mindless. He lapped at Potter’s throat and then bit down gently, feeling a flare of satisfaction when Potter shuddered. He ground his pelvis against the Gryffindor’s, feeling delicious friction and knowing it wasn’t enough. He wanted to take Potter here and now, and didn’t give a flying fuck who saw them. He discovered he was shaking worse than Potter.
“Draco, stop,” Potter said, panting, but Draco couldn’t stop. With a sudden movement, the Gryffindor shoved him away roughly. Draco stumbled back and nearly fell. Potter’s wand was back up again, held threateningly, even though it trembled like a leaf in a windstorm. God, Potter looked utterly fuckable; his shirt was untucked and rumpled, and his lips were red and swollen. There was a mark on his throat—Draco’s claim. He groaned at the sight.
“Why?” Potter ground out, and the sound contained a myriad of emotions: hurt, suspicion, and god, was that wishful thinking—longing?
“You said something to me last night,” Draco said, clenching his fists with the effort of remaining where he was, and not charging past the threatening wand to take what was his.
“I said a lot of crazy things last night,” Potter snapped as he passed the back of a shaking hand across his mouth.
“Maybe you didn’t mean it, then,” Draco said hollowly. His nails dug into his palms and he swayed slightly, trying to get a handle on his raging libido. He was suddenly, painfully aware that he was acting like an idiot. He had known Potter would be back to normal today, back to hating him. Why was he trying to hold onto the insanity of last night? The giddy Potter who referred to him as angel was gone forever… he had never been real at all.
Draco needed to get away. He turned and started to walk back to the school, but paused when Potter spoke.
“Which thing?” Potter called.
Draco considered saying nothing. He needed to put the whole damned disaster behind him. He remembered the words in question with something akin to pain, recalling that they had struck him with astounding force the night before. He looked over his shoulder at Potter and tried to dredge up his trademark smirk. It felt false on his lips, but hopefully Potter wouldn’t notice.
“You said you did not want anyone else,” Draco replied and walked away.
Harry winced, remembering. Was that regret he heard in Malfoy’s voice? The Slytherin had followed him out here, not to gloat, apparently, but to continue… oh god, to continue the insanity of last night. Harry watched the blond stride away and actually took two steps after Malfoy before stopping himself with a muttered oath. What the fuck was he doing? Running after Draco Malfoy like a lovesick girl?
He sagged for a moment, fighting an overwhelming despair as the Slytherin disappeared. Just for a second, he thought about running after Malfoy, reaching out to grab his shoulder, spin him around, and fasten his lips to that smirking, sneering, beautiful, wonderful mouth, to feel the incredible cascade of desire explode through him again. Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Harry smacked his wand into his thigh, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes from the pain. What the hell was he thinking? What then? Would he let Malfoy fuck him again, right on the grounds of Hogwarts in broad daylight? Harry trembled at the heady rush of delight that spiraled through him at the mere thought of it, and moaned in horrified terror. Oh god, it had to be a spell. Some sort of spell. Residue from that goddamn plant, that dicentra raptura.
Harry bit back a sob and made himself walk with a slow, casual demeanor back to the school, taking care not to overtake Malfoy, but the Slytherin had disappeared completely. Harry was both relieved and disappointed. He had to talk to Hermione.
Hermione was puzzled. “What are the effects of dicentra raptura? Only what we learned in class. Apparently, the effects of the gaseous discharge vary depending on the physiology of the wizard, but they generally include boils, nausea, and headaches. Why do you ask?”
“No… amorous effects? Like a love potion? Long lasting?” Harry prodded.
“Well, euphoria was listed, but nothing as strong as a love potion, surely. I know some parts of the plant are used as a potion ingredient, but you would have to ask Professor Sprout which potion, exactly. Why are you asking about this?”
Harry was silent for a moment too long as he fumbled for a logical reason while his brain gleefully supplied the real answer. Because I spent a very interesting evening getting to know Draco Malfoy inside and out, and now I can’t seem to overcome the insatiable urge to press him up against the nearest wall and snog the life out of him, right before I shag him into oblivion…
“I… I transplanted them during detention last night,” he said hoarsely, and realized his voice sounded uneven and completely lame. “Curious plants. Wondered what they were for.”
Hermione’s sharp gaze skewered him, but Harry caught sight of Neville Longbottom at that moment, struggling under the weight of several heavy textbooks.
“Let me help you with those, Neville!” Harry cried and leaped up to take some of the books from Neville.
“Thanks, Harry,” he said gratefully. Harry and Neville disappeared up the stairs into the boys’ dorm. Harry knew he’d only been granted a momentary reprieve from Hermione’s talon-sharp questions, and he had better come up with some satisfying excuses by the time he returned.
“Neville, what can you tell me about dicentra raptura?”
In the end, Harry sat staring morosely into the fire of the Gryffindor common room. Neville had found plenty of information about the stupid plant. It seemed the bloody gas that Malfoy had caused to explode all over Harry was not particularly magical at all. No love potion. No indeed. It merely caused euphoria and a possible “dropping of inhibitions” as well as a tendency to “act upon latent desires.” Harry snorted. Act upon latent desires. Such as Harry’s unacknowledged (hell, unknown!) latent desire for Draco Malfoy, apparently. Nothing magical; just my secret desire to fuck Malfoy into the floor. Or the bench, or the bed, or anything handy.
Irritatingly, the mere thought of it sent gooseflesh crawling over Harry’s skin and he found it hard to breathe. For the six thousandth time that day, he wondered where Malfoy was, and barely restrained himself from running to his room for the Marauder’s Map, knowing damn well Malfoy was in one of three places: the Slytherin common room; the Quidditch Pitch; or wandering the grounds in the company of his bodyguard cronies, none of which were conducive to an amorous rendezvous.
I am not planning an amorous rendezvous with Draco Malfoy! he snarled to himself, and then pinched his arm sharply to underscore the statement. Ron watched him curiously.
“Why are we sitting ‘ere on a perfectly nice day, again?” he asked.
Harry sighed explosively, but knew his excuse of wanting to stay inside and study had already unraveled with his inability to concentrate for more than five minutes on his Transfiguration homework. He smiled at Ron lamely, glad that Hermione had already departed to pester Professor Flitwick about her last Charms grade. He had pretended no recollection of asking her about the dicentra raptura, which had set her shaking her head with exasperation. She had thankfully dropped the subject.
“You’re right, let’s go outside,” Harry said.
“Great! I want to see Susan Bones. She told Hermione about this joke spell she saw in
Harry trailed Ron to a lesser-used courtyard generally frequented by Hufflepuffs. It was interesting how the four Houses tended to separate, even during leisure activities. The Gryffindors preferred to be outside near the lake. Ravenclaws generally stayed indoors, clinging to their common room, the library, or classrooms. The Hufflepuffs chose a sheltered courtyard that was half indoors and half out, with several convenient escape routes. Slytherin roamed in feral packs, never sticking to a single area, but instead choosing to assert ownership of whatever piece of property they happened to walk.
A long, shadowed corridor opened into the Hufflepuffs’ courtyard, with huge arched openings giving clear views—and access if one chose to climb over the low wall—to the tree-bedecked sward.
Longs legs jutted from one archway, calves and feet in sunlight while the rest stayed hidden in shadow. Harry paused at the sight and then froze, spotting a head lying just above the knees, and a pale hand touching the dark locks. Pansy Parkinson’s head—which could only mean—
“Oi, Susan!” Ron yelled, spying his target. He broke into a run, leaving Harry alone as the shout brought a sharp gaze swiveling from the shadows. Harry could make out no details, but his heart began a painful staccato when he felt Malfoy’s eyes touch him. The pale hand caressed Pansy’s head slowly, causing an unusual sensation to uncoil in the pit of Harry’s stomach, something unpleasant and simmering with rage. He wanted to walk over and shove Pansy away from Malfoy with a snarled, Mine!
His hands clenched into fists and it wasn’t until then that Harry noticed his wand was in his hand. He fingered it thoughtfully, wondering how Parkinson would look with a set of warthog tusks. Malfoy bent down and spoke to her. Her head rose—finally!—and she looked a bit resentful, but she obediently trotted across the courtyard to hover by Blaise Zabini, who seemed to be tormenting a group of younger Hufflepuffs.
The air was suddenly thick with tension. Malfoy neither moved nor spoke. Harry threw a quick glance at Ron, visible where the corridor spilled into the courtyard, talking animatedly to Susan Bones.
Harry made a quick decision—or gave in to his impulse—and took several quick steps until he stood at Malfoy’s side. The silver blond head was tipped back against the rough stone of the alcove, and the grey eyes watched him enigmatically. Merely standing this close to him made Harry’s pulse race nearly out of control, and his thoughts were a confused jumble, tangled in nonsense and need.
He swallowed and struggled to find his much touted Gryffindor courage. Summoning all his strength, Harry reached out and rested his hand, ever so lightly, on Malfoy’s abdomen. He leaned forward until his lips nearly brushed Malfoy’s ear.
“I meant it,” he murmured. He allowed his hand to slide upward, moving over the corded muscles to Malfoy’s chest, where his questing fingers brushed a nipple and felt it harden beneath the soft cloth.
Malfoy’s head turned and Harry made a sound that was half gasp and half sob, as a rough hand reached up and cupped his arse to draw him closer. His lips met Malfoy’s and Harry’s world spun as their tongues battled for dominance. He was partially aware that he was kissing Draco Malfoy in public, in clear view of any student that might pause and peer into the shadows, a scant few meters from Ron Weasley, who would faint dead away at the sight.
Harry didn’t care, and he was shocked to the core by just how much he didn’t care. He lost himself in the sweet bliss of Malfoy’s kiss until the need for air forced him to pull away. He panted against Malfoy’s wet lips, wanting only to take the Slytherin away somewhere private for hours on end.
He felt Malfoy’s fingers against his hip, still bruised and tender from those same hands holding him the night before, lifting and guiding—Harry shuddered. He noticed his own hands were twisted in Malfoy’s clothing. Harry pressed his cheek against the Slytherin’s, and noted Malfoy’s breathing was just as uneven as it huffed gently upon his face.
“I need to see you tonight,” Harry said, hating himself for the truth of it.
“Where?” The response was harsh.
“Anywhere,” Harry said desperately, knowing the clock was ticking. Ron or Pansy would return any moment, or a random student would walk too close, and pause. “You choose. Just be there at midnight. I’ll find you.”
He pressed his lips into the smooth flesh and gripped the lean body once more, seeking to imprint his presence on Malfoy’s psyche and eradicate that of Pansy Parkinson, as well as anyone else that had ever been there.
Harry stepped away, nearly aching with despair at the loss of contact, and still feeling the warmth of Malfoy’s hand against his hip. He licked his lower lip and tasted him there. Malfoy’s expression was unreadable in the shadows.
Ron startled Harry half out of his skin, appearing behind him and clapping him on the shoulder. Ron’s gaze fell on Malfoy.
“You’re not fighting with Malfoy again, are you mate?”
Harry laughed, surprised at the husky timbre of it.
“Not this time,” he said.
Linkage to the beginning...
Greenhouse Lessons One and Two
