Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/982742.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Albus_Severus_Potter
  Character:
      Draco_Malfoy, Albus_Severus_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      Teacher-Student_Relationship, Masturbation, Comeplay
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-27 Words: 1051
****** he told me he liked Turner ******
by Cerberusia
Summary
     'This was scientific: he had the glass vial on the desk already
     labelled to prove it. He needed a source of certifiable virgin semen,
     and it was only fitting that a student who had disrupted his lesson
     should contribute to his ingredient stores.'
Notes
     Written for the DM/ASP Love Fest; an 'old-school chan fic', just as
     the prompter asked. As a fellow aficionada of the genre, I hope I
     captured some of the spirit they were looking for. Title from Rufus
     Wainwright's 'The Art Teacher'.
"Potter, your newts' eyes-"
The class would never find out what was wrong with the newts' eyes: for the
moment that Potter Secundus, unheeding, threw them into his cauldron anyway,
the swamp-green viscous liquid within it gave a sickly belch - and proceeded to
liquify the cauldron in a matter of seconds.
Potter leapt backwards to avoid the puddle-that-was-his-cauldron, green eyes
very wide behind his glasses, and sighed miserably.
"Scourgify," Professor Malfoy snapped before the gooey black puddle could
spread any further. He closed his eyes briefly, as if petitioning some higher
power for patience, before turning to Potter with a forbidding expression.
"Potter," he said sharply, "tonight in this room at eight. For now, observe
Granger-Parkinson and don't touch anything." Potter nodded meekly, hangdog
expression fixed upon his face. Entertainment over, the class collectively
turned back to their own potions, the professor sweeping back up to the front
of the room to check on Aoife Finnegan's potion, which was several shades paler
than it ought to be.
Nobody saw Potter's little smile, barely concealed by biting his lip, as he
hovered at Rose Granger-Parkinson's shoulder.
~*~*~
There came a knock on the door at two minutes after seven. Draco tried and
failed to steady his shaking hands and called,
"Enter." In came Potter, hesitant and with eyes downcast. Draco was torn
between the desire for a drink to steady his nerves and the need to be in full
control of his faculties. He clenched his hands into fists under the desk, then
slowly and carefully unclenched them.
"Sir," said Potter quietly.
"Come over here, Potter," said Draco, voice too loud in the ominously quiet
room. Potter did as he was told, drawing up short by Draco's desk and putting
down his bag. Draco stood up, discreetly wiping his sweaty palms on his robes.
It was risky, too risky - there were eyes everywhere - and yet—
"Boots, Potter," he said. Obediently, Potter bent to remove his boots and stand
in socked feet on the cold stone floor. Draco bit his lip briefly: this was
still technically innocent. He could let it go, could make Potter write lines,
could make him scrub cauldron bottoms - but they both knew he wouldn't.
"And now the rest," he said, and Potter eagerly - he wasn't imagining it, that
was real eagerness - pulled his robes over his head. He wore nothing beneath,
and so stood in Draco's drafty Potions classroom sporting only black school
socks and an erection. His skin seemed very pale in the gloom.
"Sir," he said, breathily, and Draco nodded jerkily, drawing back his chair
from the desk. Potter hopped up on the desk, spreading his skinny thighs wide.
Draco kept his hands fisted in the material of his robes as Potter took himself
in hand. This was scientific: he had the glass vial on the desk already
labelled to prove it. He needed a source of certifiable virgin semen, and it
was only fitting that a student who had disrupted his lesson should contribute
to his ingredient stores. No matter that the semen of a virgin was only used in
a few potions which Draco was unlikely to require any time soon: it was best to
be prepared.
Merlin, Potter looked so young out of the concealing school robes, his body
pale and undefined, his arms and legs still smooth and coltish. His voice was
just beginning to break. Draco imagined mouthing at the soft skin of his neck
and felt dirty. Dirtier. He kept his eyes fixed on Potter's red-knuckled hand;
there was nothing attractive about the rapid, crude back-and-forth of male
masturbation, but he couldn't bring himself to look away. He also couldn't
leave Potter unattended and risk him somehow screwing up. The first time,
Potter had asked him How complicated can wanking into a jar be? Draco had just
said More than you know, Potter. Now take off your underwear. He wouldn't be
one of those professors who just wandered off during detention and let his
students do Merlin-knew-what: he had to set a good example.
Mere inches away Potter's thighs were shaking, just a little. Draco wanted to
put his hands on them. He swallowed, crossed his legs, kept watching. Given
Potter's age, it shouldn't take him too long to come. Just a little longer.
Potter breathed loudly, heavily. Draco didn't remember being this loud in the
boy's dorm when he was at school, furtive under the covers or in the shower.
Potter bit his lip; Draco did the same. Just a little longer.
"Sir," said Potter, suddenly. "Sir, I—" Draco seized the vial and, instead of
bracing himself with a hand on the desk like he should have done, at last
grasped the meat of one white thigh as he held the mouth of the vial to the tip
of Potter's cock.
Potter shuddered, and at last white fluid dribbled into the vial. Draco was
vaguely aware of the tang of blood in his mouth: he had bitten through his lip.
Under his hand, Potter's thigh was burning.
Once Potter's convulsions stopped, it took a second or two for Draco to remove
the vial and stopper it. The imprints he had left on Potter's thigh had the
indents of fingernails, and he knew they would bruise. He could take down the
Contu-Gone on his shelf, brewed personally, and rub it into the warm, white
skin, but he didn't. Potter was still sitting on his desk, legs spread wide
apart, watching him. His naked soft cock was less than a foot away from Draco's
face.
"Get dressed," he said, and found his voice was hoarse. Potter obeyed
sluggishly, sliding off the desk, pulling on his underwear and robes and lacing
up his boots with agonising slowness.
"That will be all," said Draco, when it looked like Potter would linger. Potter
gave him an unreadable look, then mumbled
"Sir," and left. Draco slumped in his chair, listening to his footsteps fade
along the corridor as he hitched up his robes one-handed and seized his
erection. The desk was warm where Potter had sat his little arse on it; he
could still smell sex and semen in the air as he groped across the desk for—
He came silently, face a rictus of agony, holding the vial of Potter's come in
his other hand.
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