Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/361052.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Harry_Potter
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Draco_Malfoy
  Additional Tags:
      Book_6:_Harry_Potter_and_the_Half-Blood_Prince, Hogwarts_Sixth_Year,
      Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-03-12 Words: 4172
****** Denude ******
by Faith_Wood_(faithwood)
Summary
     This is a HBP AU. It's set a few days after the Sectumsempra scene
     and takes the story in another direction, asking the question: "What
     if the Sectumsempra scene had a greater impact on Harry and Draco?"
     Harry and Draco are sixteen. In medias res beginning. Non-linear
     storytelling.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
The forest floor is cold but soft, save for a twig or two digging into Harry's
skin. His palms and knees are dirty; soil clings to his fingers as they sink in
deeper to keep him steady.
The brush of a cool breeze leaves him shivering; it prickles his skin, his
neck, his sides, his back. He feels exposed, every part of his body on display,
free to touch for the rotten leaves beneath him, the wind above him and Malfoy
behind him.
Malfoy's fingers are the coldest of the three; his touch is lighter than the
press of ground and firmer than the brush of wind. It's Malfoy's touch that
doesn't let Harry draw a proper breath, though his aching lungs are crying out
for it. The slick press of a thumb between his buttocks breaks every conception
Harry had about intimacy. It's odd, he thinks, and ridiculous that he had never
imagined that intimacy would feel this raw. Malfoy is staring, Harry knows. His
thumb only touches, circles, presses left and right, exploring with care and
curiosity. A lit wand shimmers beside them and the moonlight is unusually
bright, peeking through the branches as though it, too, wants a good look.
Harry feels like crawling into the ground to hide, or at least pulling his
thighs close together. He does neither. His prick is full and heavy between his
legs and his body is heating up, deifying the wind.
Malfoy's palm cups his left buttock, his touch warming up, too, and his thumbs
spread Harry's cheeks wider apart, as though all he plans to do is stare and
memorise.
Harry's wand is not far; one thought can extinguish its light and cloak Harry's
body in shadows. Harry resists the temptation and the light of his wand turns
glaringly bright.

                                       *
The dormitory was eerily quiet. Not even an occasional snore could be heard. It
should have been worrisome; it could mean his dorm mates weren't yet asleep,
but Harry pulled out the Marauder's Map nonetheless and lit his wand beneath
the covers.
Never before had he spotted Malfoy so quickly. His dot stuck out, more
noticeable than any other. A single speckle of ink, out on the grounds, moving
towards the Forbidden Forest, hurrying to a midnight meeting, perhaps. It
didn't bode well.
All it took was a moment's consideration and Harry was on his feet, pulling two
cloaks around his shoulders — the warm one and the invisible one. He crossed
the dormitory and the common room on his tiptoes, but the moment he reached the
corridor, he ran.
He was breathless when he stopped near the edge of the forest to check the map.
Malfoy's dot had already disappeared; the map didn't stretch that far.
It wasn't hard to find him without directions, though. Harry took the widest
path, the safest one, where the trees weren't dense and you could see a threat
approaching before it reached you. The walk was short. Malfoy had turned right
and waited, leaning against a wide tree, his white hair gleaming in the
moonlight.
Harry's foot broke a twig. The sound was sharp amidst the faint rustling of
leaves.
"I know you're there," Malfoy said, addressing the empty air. "Potter," he
added, spitting the word with an air of smugness.
Harry could have left. Or stayed silent at least. Malfoy couldn't have known he
was there. He was merely guessing. But the last time Harry had seen Malfoy so
close, Malfoy was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Blood Harry had
spilled.
Something about that image forced Harry's hand to reach for the clasp of his
cloak. It wasn't guilt, because guilt only made him want to run and hide. It
was fear. The sight of Malfoy's life slipping away felt like a glimpse of the
future. If he was in Voldemort's grip, death was where Malfoy was heading;
Harry had almost sent him there sooner.
The flimsy fabric fell to the ground and pooled around Harry's feet. Malfoy
straightened, a hint of surprise in his expression.
"Meeting someone?" Harry asked.
Malfoy relaxed against the tree again, lips curving into a sneer. "Well, you.
Obviously."

                                       *
The intrusion is unexpected. Perhaps it should be soothing that Malfoy pushed
only a finger inside, not his prick as Harry had expected. But there's nothing
soothing about the feeling. It aches and burns, feels wrong, pushing in where
it shouldn't. It just stays there, a presence that's impossible to ignore,
impossible to get used to. It makes him feel vulnerable. Malfoy's finger,
buried inside him — one wrong twitch of his knuckle and it could hurt Harry
viciously. The burn subsides, but the finger is still there; Malfoy can see it,
pushed into Harry's hole, disappearing into Harry's body.
Harry's cheeks burn. All he wants to do is push the finger out; he can't take
it anymore. He tries to resist the urge, but it can't be done. Malfoy's finger
slips out. It burns even more, but it's somehow satisfying and Harry shivers.
The finger presses back in within a second. It slips in easier this time, but
Harry feels so tender inside; he doesn't know how much more he can take.
Malfoy pulls it back, not all the way; he leaves the tip inside then presses in
again, even deeper. There's no time to worry about it burning more when pulled
out or burning more when pushed in, because Malfoy's not stopping anymore, not
pausing; his finger moves in and out with growing ease. It all blurs and melts
together into a rising heat that never subsides.
Harry tells himself he wants it to stop, tells himself he wants to turn around
and shove Malfoy's hand away, tells himself he wants to cry out because he
doesn't like it and no one ever could. But then he feels a twig digging into
his knee, realises it's pressing against his skin with every twitch of his
hips. The moment he catches himself rocking back against Malfoy's finger, he
tries to stop, but then he feels Malfoy's palm on his arse, slick with sweat,
hears Malfoy's ragged breathing, and it occurs to him — Malfoy likes this, too;
Harry's not the only one.
The thought is soothing and Harry relaxes.

                                       *
Harry looked around. There was no one else in sight but that didn't mean no one
was coming. Harry's fingers were wrapped tightly around his wand, his arm
hanging loosely by his side.
"What about you, Potter?" Malfoy spoke again. "Here to finish me off?"
Harry forced himself to shrug. "Dunno. Depends. Will you try to Crucio me
again?"
A muscle in Malfoy's jaw twitched. His expression seemed to crumble for a split
second, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "I might. It would only be
fair, don't you think?"
Harry pretended to consider it. "All right. Go on, then."
Malfoy snorted. "Right. Just to give you an excuse to slice me open."
Harry pushed back the urge to apologize, to say he was sorry about what had
happened. It seemed wiser to let Malfoy believe that Harry was capable of
anything if threatened. Especially now, when they were alone in the forest and
who knew if someone else was coming to help Malfoy with whatever it was he was
doing.
"Did you take the Mark?" Harry asked instead.
Malfoy didn't wince, but his expression darkened. He stared at Harry, not even
blinking. "Do you spend every waking hour thinking about me, Potter? About what
I might be doing? What nasty plan I'm concocting? You do, don't you?" The sneer
was back. "I'm flattered."
"Are you also flattered that Voldemort chose you for his special mission?"
This time Malfoy did wince, the moment Harry spoke Voldemort's name.
"Oh, aren't you brave, Potter? Brave as long as you have Dumbledore doting on
you like an old fool he is. What will you do when he's gone?"
"Shouldn't you be brave, too, then? With Voldemort on your side? He's so
powerful; he can't be defeated. What do you have to fear? He's back to crush
everyone and everything that displeases you. Isn't that right? Isn't that what
you wished for all these years? It begs the question... why are you suddenly
blubbering in bathrooms?"
Malfoy jumped forwards, wand in hand, but Harry had predicted it. They stood
facing each other, wands out and ready to strike.
Lips twitching, Malfoy relaxed his stance. Something crept into his eyes,
something Harry couldn't identify but it made his skin prickle.
"Want me to answer your questions, Potter?" he asked with that annoying drawl
that never failed to set Harry's teeth on edge. "All of them? Because I'm
willing."
Harry managed not to roll his eyes. "For a price?"
"Naturally."
"Let's hear it, then," Harry said, trying to remember the incantation for the
Horn-growing hex. He suspected Malfoy would say something like, "The price is:
drop down and die, Potter," and thought it fitting Malfoy should grow horns
afterwards.
Malfoy stepped forward; he was grinning. "I'll tell you everything, if you let
me fuck you."
Malfoy's proclamation shouldn't have unsettled him. He knew Malfoy would say
something like that, something ridiculous and juvenile, hoping to get a rise
out of Harry.
But it was unsettling, because his tongue was itching to give the wrong answer.
Malfoy's voice lowered when he added, "I bet that's all you're after, anyway."
Harry wanted nothing more than to punch Malfoy's smug face. But punching would
lead to a fight, and fighting with Malfoy was tinted with something darker now,
something Harry didn't want to revisit.
But he could still punch Malfoy with words. "All right," Harry said and lowered
his wand. "Deal. Fuck me, then tell me everything."
A giddy feeling settled in Harry's chest when Malfoy's expression froze on his
face.

                                       *
Two fingers is somehow easier to take, as though his body has grown used to the
feeling or it helps that he knows what to expect. Three is too much, though.
With the third finger, panic comes back and Harry's gasping for air, desperate
to squirm away. The deeper they push, the wider he's stretched. His body
resists, refuses to take it, but Malfoy's pushing and pushing and a cry tears
out of Harry's throat.
The fingers retreat. Relief floods Harry and he clenches around nothing. It
aches still; he can feel the lingering touch of Malfoy's fingers, even though
they're no longer inside. He feels himself shiver, a different sort of ache
settling in his stomach; he wonders if he's going insane because clenching
around air isn't satisfying and he wants Malfoy's fingers to return.
But Malfoy has retreated and it seems like he has no intention of continuing.
Harry hears him mumble one terrified, "Sorry."
It's the apology that wraps around Harry's heart and squeezes, soothes the ache
that has been tearing him apart. The realisation clears Harry's head: Malfoy
doesn't want to hurt him. Even the memory of Malfoy crushing Harry's nose on
the Hogwarts Express won't let Harry think otherwise. Something changed a few
days ago when the vile curses passed their lips. Malfoy doesn't think about
revenge, because for him Harry's curse was punishment. Punishment for uttering
an Unforgivable with ease.
"Go on," Harry says, because trusting Malfoy is an aphrodisiac more potent than
Amortentia. Trusting Malfoy feels like winning and Harry's body thrums with
excitement the way it does when he catches the Snitch.
Malfoy obeys, tentative, pressing his fingers back into Harry painfully slowly.
It burns like it has burned before, but Harry's sigh sounds like a moan and he
finds he has missed the feeling.
He's unprepared for the sudden pleasure Malfoy's touch brings, a miraculous
second when the forest blinks out of sight, replaced by blinding light, and the
burn and ache dull, replaced by something Harry can't even describe.
Malfoy has stilled again and Harry finds his voice. "Go on. Do that again," he
says.
He's sure Malfoy doesn't even know what he has done because he hesitates for
long moments, but pushes back inside and no special pleasure assaults Harry's
senses. A few more tries later, Harry thinks he has imagined the feeling.
Then Malfoy finally does it again and Harry gasps, shocked anew. Malfoy's touch
turns sure and pleasure grips Harry and doesn't let go. Malfoy's fingers brush
against that spot inside him with every stroke; Harry can't stop gasping, can't
stop himself from pushing back, pulling Malfoy's fingers deeper inside. The
pain and sting are forgotten, irrelevant in the face of Harry discovering a
feeling he never dreamed could exist.
He thinks he can hear the wet sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Malfoy's
fingers still for a few seconds and Harry's ears catch a quiet, desperate sob
that isn't his own. He thinks Malfoy maybe pulled himself off to completion,
but he can't think about it for long because Malfoy's fingers are moving again
and Harry is lost.

                                       *
Malfoy didn't believe him, of course. Just like Harry didn't believe Malfoy
would keep his end of the bargain.
But neither wanted to show it; neither wanted to back down first. Harry was
counting on that.
Malfoy's shock turned to amusement quickly. "All right, Potter. Drop your pants
and bend over."
Harry had seen that coming. "I said I'll let you fuck me, not tell me what to
do."
"If you want to get fucked, some things have to be done."
"Agreed. Take your clothes off."
Malfoy laughed. "Either you are an idiot or you think I am one."
"Neither," Harry said and reached for the ties on his Hogwarts cloak. He let it
drop to the ground, leaving him in his pyjamas. He forced himself to keep still
and not shiver in the cold. "Your turn."
Malfoy was no longer laughing. He still didn't believe Harry, that much was
clear, but he had been challenged. Harry waited for him to accept it.
It didn't take long. Malfoy took off his cloak and let it pool around his feet.
His bottom lip between his teeth, Harry toed off his trainers; Malfoy took off
his shoes. Harry pulled off his socks. The press of the cold ground against his
bare feet made him feel exposed, but Malfoy followed suit and took off his
socks, too.
Awkwardly, using his left hand because his wand was clutched tightly in his
right, Harry unbuttoned his pyjama top and took it off. He tried not to shiver
when the night's air hit his bare chest, as sharply as it was hit by Malfoy's
gaze, zeroing on Harry's nipples, which were pulled tight by the cold.
Malfoy hesitated for a long moment and then took off his trousers. His legs
were pale, thin and long, Harry noted. He also noted Malfoy was reluctant to
take off his shirt.
Harry took off his pyjama bottoms. This time he couldn't stop his shivers. He
wore nothing but a pair of white cotton underpants; his grip on his wand turned
painful.
Malfoy's tongue peeked to wet his lips; he was hesitating again. Harry saw his
hand shake when it reached for the waistband of his underpants to take them
off. He caught a glimpse of Malfoy's cock between the tails of his white shirt.
Malfoy was hard, his cock thick and reddening, and for the first time Harry
felt the urge to bolt. Not because of fear, but because the sight of Malfoy's
arousal triggered his own. He felt his cock fill and he didn't want to expose
it.
He did it, nonetheless. He took off the last piece of his clothing and stood
naked before Malfoy.
Malfoy looked shocked again, as though he had never thought Harry would go that
far. Harry expected him to raise his wand and curse him, or perhaps turn around
and run, but Malfoy couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from Harry's crotch.
Harry wished he could stop it, but his cock felt heavier by the second,
hardening beneath Malfoy's scrutiny.
Malfoy reached for the buttons of his shirt a few times before he finally
unbuttoned them. He pulled down his right sleeve first, his left last. He kept
his left hand pressed to his side, hiding the underside of his forearm. He was
no longer looking at Harry directly, as though by not looking at him, he'd make
Harry not look in return.
The scars on Malfoy's pale chest shone red and angry, several long cuts that
might heal in time or might not.
Harry stepped closer, the ground unpleasant against his bare feet. He reached
Malfoy and then grabbed his wrist.
Malfoy had been frozen still, but he reacted violently to Harry's touch. He
jumped back and pointed his wand straight at Harry's heart.
"Your turn," Malfoy said.
Harry had nothing else to throw on the ground. Only his glasses and his wand.
But he needed his glasses; he needed to see.
Harry dropped his wand. Perhaps it was just arrogance, but he didn't think he
needed his wand to stop Malfoy from cursing him.
Malfoy didn't share Harry's view. It was obvious by the way his disbelieving
gaze fixed on Harry's empty hand. He was tempted, Harry could see it, could see
it in the way Malfoy's fingers convulsed around his wand. Curse and run, leave
Harry humiliated in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. He could do something
worse, too. He could Stun Harry and take him to Voldemort.
Instead, Malfoy extended his arm and showed Harry his left forearm. The Mark
was black and ugly, but blood rushed to Harry's cock. He was the one shocked
this time. Not because Malfoy was Marked, because Harry had known he was the
moment Malfoy had hidden his arm, but because Malfoy had let him see it. It
felt like a victory. It was a victory. This was what Harry wanted. Only this.
He had his evidence. Malfoy was a Death Eater. Everyone would have to listen to
Harry now. Dumbledore would have to listen.
It was time to leave. It was time to disarm Malfoy and pick up his wand.
But Malfoy just stood there, arm extended, not looking at Harry. His cheeks
were pink, his breathing heavy, his own wand forgotten in his hand. He stood
there looking ashamed, naked, shivering, as though he was the one powerless
here, as though it wasn't Harry's wand that was on the ground.
Malfoy was powerless, Harry realised. It was all so clear suddenly. Malfoy was
marked; his arm marked by Voldemort, his chest marked by Harry. This was a tug
of war. With Voldemort on one side, Harry on the other and Malfoy in the
middle. And Malfoy didn't know where to go, couldn't decide, couldn't move,
just waited there to be pulled in whichever direction.
This must have been how Malfoy had looked when Voldemort had marked him. Scared
and powerless, forced to kneel in the dirt and take what was given to him. That
was what Voldemort did; that wasn't what Harry wanted to do.
"My turn," Harry said. He didn't wait for Malfoy to look at him. He turned
around and knelt in front of Malfoy's feet, getting down on all fours, every
part of his body shivering.
He picked the spot carefully, though. His wand was right next to his hand.
Lumos, Harry thought and the wand lit. Harry felt just a little bit stronger.
The leaves rustled when Malfoy fell on his knees behind Harry. He made a
strangled sound when he reached to place his palm on Harry's buttocks and Harry
managed not to flinch away.

                                       *
Only pleasure exists.
Harry had believed himself selfless, self-sacrificing, when he first knelt
down, but now he doubts his motives. Now he feels selfish, greedy for more
pleasure, even though he's sure there simply can't be any more.
His fingers are dirty from the forest ground, but he wants to wrap them around
his cock anyway. He doesn't, because he doesn't want this to end yet.
But then Malfoy pulls away and ends it for him. Ends it in an unsatisfying way
that makes Harry groan in protest.
"In a minute," Malfoy breathes and Harry hears that sound again, flesh slapping
against flesh. Malfoy is wanking, getting himself ready.
Harry isn't even afraid. Isn't even a little bit worried. He's too aroused, too
ready. He's open and loose; he can feel it. All he needs now is to be filled.
Malfoy does it. His hand is on Harry's hip, his touch scorching, soothing,
caressing Harry's skin convulsively.
"Potter." It sounds like a sob, almost fearful. Harry relaxes and Malfoy slips
inside him.
It hurts. It burns. And Malfoy's still pushing deeper. But now Harry knows
what's ahead, knows the pleasure that will take him if only he takes the pain.
Malfoy's gasping continuously, a string of Oh!s that sound like shock. Harry
can feel Malfoy's balls press against his arse, can feel Malfoy cock deep
inside him.
Mine. I won, he thinks and clenches.
Malfoy's fingers curl tighter around Harry's hips; he's clinging to Harry with
both hands. Harry thinks Malfoy is trying to stay still, but he can't. He keeps
twitching, tiny shallow thrusts that feel like teasing.
"Move," Harry says and Malfoy does. His thrusts turn deeper, longer; his cries
are louder. It hurts and hurts and then it doesn't. It aches and builds and
morphs into pleasure. It's so much better than Malfoy's fingers; they didn't
fill Harry like this, didn't stretch him like this. The rhythm is mesmerising:
in then out, full then empty. It's all Harry can think about.
Malfoy's fingers wrapping around his cock is a shock, the touch so unexpected
Harry bucks and comes. It's like nothing he ever experienced before. Clenching
around the fullness inside him makes all the difference. It makes the feeling
sharp and long lasting. His muscles clench and relax, can't stop doing it. He
thinks he can feel his bones melt.
Malfoy's still thrusting and Harry wants him to never stop.
Malfoy's fingers are digging into Harry's hips; the sounds of their bodies
slapping together is louder than it has any right to be. Slick, rhythmic slaps
of Malfoy balls that Harry can feel when they hit against his skin. It grows
louder and faster, and Harry's body rocks with Malfoy's, on it's own or aided
by Malfoy's grip; he doesn't even know.
It lasts, goes on for so long Harry aches all over, feels hypnotised, every
muscle in his body clenched, every part of his skin slick with sweat. He thinks
he might come again, but maybe that's merely wishful thinking. He doesn't find
out, because Malfoy's rhythm breaks and he slams inside even deeper. Harry
feels hot, trapped, feels every erratic twitch of Malfoy's cock.
Malfoy is silent; he only breathes, but then a sob breaks free, a violent one
that seems to choke him. And then Malfoy's thrusting again, as though he
refuses to accept it's over. It's sluggish and shallow, and one by one Harry's
muscles relax. His head falls forward onto his hands. He closes his eyes and
tries to will his racing heart to calm.
He feels his body rise and thinks that Malfoy is pulling him up. Harry fights
against exhaustion that won't let him open his eyes. When he finally does, it's
an odd place he finds himself in. Malfoy's kneeling, sitting on his heels, and
Harry's sitting on his lap, back to chest, thighs to thighs. Malfoy's arms are
wrapped around Harry's waist, suffocating, hurting. Malfoy is shuddering.
"Shhh," Harry says and tries to break free. He can barely move; he's limp and
sore, sweaty and cold. Malfoy is still inside him. Flaccid, cooling, and Harry
likes the feeling, though he thinks that maybe he shouldn't.
Malfoy shudders again; his grip is getting tighter. Harry turns his head to
look down at him. His hair is so white, his face so pale. He's not crying, but
Harry thinks he's shivering so much because he's trying not to.
"Hey." Harry touches his hair; it's damp and coarse, a few strands curling
around Malfoy's face. It makes them look vulnerable.
Malfoy looks up. His eyes are bright, as though they trapped his tears and
won't let them out.
"Help me," Malfoy says, so quietly, so brokenly, Harry wishes he could cry for
him.
He doesn't feel like crying, though. He’s never felt so peaceful and sure of
himself in his life.
"I will," he says and Malfoy closes his eyes. He believes Harry, trusts him,
and Harry knows he won't fail that trust. He has a house Voldemort can't enter,
he has a soul that will keep any secret safe and he has just won a battle. He
feels like he can win the war.
Malfoy's lips are salty when Harry kisses him, with tears or sweat, Harry
doesn't know; they're warm, and Malfoy's kiss is trusting and desperate, and,
for the first time in his life, Harry feels chosen.
End Notes
     Also posted here @ my LJ.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!