Field Of Victory
Harry stood over Voldemort's body. Around him were Death Eaters, lying still and cold in the churned-up muck of the battlefield. It was done.
He looked up to see Draco Malfoy picking his way carefully through the mud. Harry had never thought it would be Draco by his side at the last, standing with a grim face and a drawn wand, blasting curses at men and women who had given him toys at Christmas as a child, killing his own godfather as he lunged at Harry.
It began to rain. Harry's breath blew out in curling plumes of white and his hand clenched tighter around his wand. Draco stopped in front of him and Harry could see drops of water on Draco's face, on his eyelashes. "It's over," Harry said.
"Yes," Draco said and kissed him.
Harry's limbs were shaking and he was so dazed that he was already kissing Draco back before he wondered why. By then it was too late to stop. His heart was still pounding, his blood still singing, and Draco's mouth was warm.
Draco's hands were on Harry's face, cold hands, wet and streaked with mud. Harry brought his arms up around Draco, pressed in close. Harry was still holding his wand, he couldn't let it go, and so his fist rested on the small of Draco's back, the point of the wand against Draco's shoulder blade.
Their teeth clacked together, once, twice, and Harry couldn't get his mouth open wide enough. They were chest to chest and Harry felt Draco's heart thudding against his ribs, his own thudding back, closer, closer, must get closer.
Draco smelled acrid, burnt robes, burnt flesh, or maybe that was Harry. There was a wound on Harry's shoulder and it throbbed one note higher than the rest of his body. Draco pulled at Harry's robes and it was too cold to open them, to hot to leave them closed.
They slid in the mud, lurched, and went down together, breath knocked out of their lungs. Draco pushed Harry up so he was leaning back on something, half-sitting, half-lying. There was grit between Harry's teeth. He grabbed at Draco, tried to pull him into a kiss, but Draco was yanking Harry's robes, ripping at them when they wouldn't give, and getting his cold hands onto Harry's cock.
It was bloody fantastic. Harry arched his back into the slide, the ruthless friction, and wound his fingers into Draco's hair. The rain covered his glasses until everything was a grey smear. He wanted to twist them off but he hadn't a free hand. Water ran down his back. Threads of fire ran up and down his body. He flung his wand hand out and found that the thing he was propped up against was Voldemort, cold and dead and now a couch for boys to rut on. Served him right.
Voldemort was dead and Harry was alive, lying on the body of his enemy, and Draco slipped from his grasp and sucked at Harry's cock with his hot, wet mouth. Every scream that Harry hadn't screamed today was roiling inside of him, churning in his gut, billowing in his lungs, and now he let them go, cries of fear, howls of pain, all in one long shout as he came and came and came.
"That's disgusting!"
"So that's what it takes to be a hero."
"I always suspected."
"There are first-years present."
Students clustered around two large paintings in the Great Hall. Above the paintings was a plaque:
In commemoration of the defeat of Voldemort:
December 25, 1997, by Harry Potter and
Draco Malfoy.
Draco's portrait was currently empty. Harry's was somewhat crowded.
At the back of the crowd, Harry's face was burning and he felt frozen to the spot. People turned to look at him. "It didn't--" he said. "We didn't-- I've never--" He thought he might be sick.
And there was Draco, the real Draco, looking at him with a cold light in his pale eyes and his lip curled up in a sneer. Harry forced his legs to move and fled.
The next day, a hastily-done painting of a tent was hung between the portraits and a sound-proofing charm put on it.
The day after that, Harry pulled Draco behind the broomstick shed.