Full Circle
by Signe

Harry wasn't thinking. It was his choice, a deliberate act of not thinking.

A Touch

It was a whisper of contact, barely there. He was invisible, it was dark, and Malfoy was simply standing there. Waiting, maybe, or simply idling away a few quiet moments.

He needn't have crept by so closely. The corridor was wide. He could have tiptoed past on the other side. And nothing would have happened.

Nothing had really happened of course. It was just a brush of hands, a fraction of a second. It meant nothing. Nothing that he had done it, and nothing that he'd wanted to, had been unable to pass by on the other side of the corridor.

Harry could still feel the touch of skin against the back of his hand, even now, hours later. He lay on his back, sleepless, and gazed at his hand. Nothing visible on it, no reason for it to be tingling. No aura of a spell lingering.

Just something that he didn't understand.

A Kiss

Close enough to touch. Their clothes were already touching, so there was no cold space between them. Another inch and they'd meet, skin on skin. Half an inch each, that's all it would take. If both of them covered that distance at the same time they'd meet in the middle.

They met in the middle. Dry lips whispered silently against smooth lips.

Harry forgot to breath. He had no idea what they were doing. It wasn't a kiss, it was barely a touch. Neither of them moved. They just stood there, lips aligned.

It had gone dark, so long they stood there. Then Harry realised that he'd closed his eyes, so maybe it wasn't that long a time. And he was still alive, even though there was no oxygen in his lungs. He drew in a sharp breath full of the closeness of Malfoy, opened his eyes, and moved back. He didn't look at Malfoy, they didn't speak.

He walked away.

More

Malfoy was stronger than he looked, Quidditch muscles hiding under the foppish clothing.

Harry couldn't move, and the only possible reason for that was because Malfoy was holding him against the wall with those strong arms of his, one hand on his shoulder, the other pressing… there.

Harry didn't want to look. Not at Malfoy, not at what he was doing. But he couldn't avoid hearing the squeal of his flies being unzipped, loud and echoing in the quiet, the rustle of his trousers falling open.

And it seemed that he could move after all, because when cold fingers slid into his trousers and through the slit of his boxers he felt like he wanted to move everywhere at once, into the touch and away from it, and he banged his head against the stone wall, and he'd have a lump there tomorrow for sure.

But it didn't hurt, because the only thing he could feel were fingers stroking him, then grasping, a little too tight (but he didn't care so long as they did something, anything, soon).

Too tight, too dry, and he wanted to hate it, wanted to make any sound so long as it was mockery. But he bit his tongue because the groans that would have come out weren't mocking, weren't laughter or denial or refusal.

The hand on his shoulder deserted its post. Harry didn't have time to wonder why before it joined its partner, then crept back, between his legs, touching him in places he never even touched himself.

And now it wasn't too dry because he was warm and wet and sticky. And Malfoy's fingers weren't cold anymore, but as hot as the skin that was clenched around them.

His head fell forward, so even if he'd been looking he wouldn't have seen Malfoy leave. There was nothing holding him up now; he sank to the floor in a rustle of robes.

Another touch

The match was over, and Slytherin had triumphed. And it was all Harry's fault, not keeping track of the score so that when he caught the snitch Slytherin were so far ahead that it didn't matter who caught it.

Harry couldn't make out the words to the song the Slytherin's were singing. He didn't want to. He heard his name in it and that was more than he needed to know.

He couldn't tell what his teammates were saying to him either, but that was because he wasn't paying any attention.

Malfoy had just brushed by him. Hadn't spoken, had simply turned after he'd gone by and mouthed one word.

Later.

Full Circle

Harry wasn't going to question the pattern in the encounters. He wasn't going to look ahead and wonder if they would carry on like this, a touch, a kiss, then more, another touch, on ad infinitum. He didn't think of Malfoy in the daytime, didn't dream of him at night. In fact he rarely dreamed, or at least he rarely remembered his dreams.

He most emphatically wasn't going to sit and think about what 'later' might mean.

Harry had been doing a lot of not-thinking recently.

 

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