Prompt: #44 submitted by jtsbbsps_dk
Summary: Harry agreed to test Fred and George’s latest Wheeze: The Traveling Truffle. A candy that, once consumed, transports its victim somewhere new. It’s just Harry’s luck that he would end up on the side of a mountain in… where the hell was he again?
Pairing(s): Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, implied past lovers
Warnings: oral, anal, mentions past het, profanity, virgin!Harry (to bottoming), first time, and some angst—hypothermia.
Word Count: 2,725
Author's Notes: jtsbbsps_dk, this prompt serenaded me until I caved. I hope this meets your expectations. I would like to thank deceptivechasm for audiencing.
Harry Potter’s eyes narrowed in a glare as he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. "Try our new product, Harry. You’ll love it, Harry. Free trip to an exotic destination, Harry," he muttered mockingly, repeating the words Fred and George had spoken to him only minutes earlier.
"How exactly does a snow-covered mountain count as exotic?" he yelled. It echoed, the snow around him trembled, and Harry clamped his mouth shut right quick. It would be just his luck to die in a blasted avalanche in the middle of nowhere.
Of course, his wand happened to be in his coat, which was back in the experiment room of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes; he liked to think that Fred and George believed it was in his trouser pocket, or they wouldn’t have fed him the Traveling Truffle. Neither twin was foolish enough to ship the Boy Who Lived somewhere foreign and defenseless.
No wand meant no Disapparition, which meant Harry was bloody well stuck on some mountain—somewhere—with no way to protect himself from the cold. "Just perfect," he hissed as he rubbed his hands together. His fingers were pink from the cold, and his jumper did little to stop the howling winds or shield him from the frigid air.
Thankfully he was wearing the dragon-hide boots Charlie had sent him for Christmas last year, or his toes would have likely fallen off by now. Still, the regulating warmth charm wouldn’t protect anything but his feet, and the snow was thigh-deep as it was. He figured he had ten minutes or so before the snow soaked through his trousers and leaked down into his boots, rendering the feeble protection mute.
Harry stuffed his fingers in his armpits, clamped his arms down, and began picking his way down the mountain. It was slow, arduous work; the snow was loose and kept shifting around him. With every breath he took, a cloud of air expelled from his lips as if he were a chain-smoker. Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought, but it was still accurate.
"Fucking prats. When I make it back, they’re dead. You’ll love it, Harry," he said, lips twisting to make mocking faces as best he could in the cold. His cheeks were starting to ache, the skin chapping from the fierce wind. His glasses were starting to frost over, and his hair hung limp and wet about his face.
An intense burst of wind slammed into his back, knocking him face-first into the snow. His fingers scrabbled at the white powder, which was freezing into blocks of ice, and pushed himself back to his feet. He swayed—knees and arms aching from the impact. "At least I can still feel them… somewhat," Harry muttered as he flexed his fingers.
There were flecks of red in the snow, and Harry cursed past chattering teeth as he realized what that meant: he had torn some skin off his arms in the fall. But he didn’t feel it, couldn’t feel the pain, so he had no idea how bad it was. "Damn it."
Harry blinked rapidly, eyelashes sticking together as his snot froze in his nose. It hurt—that, at least, he could still feel. Wet sheets of snow and sleet sluiced around him, cutting into his skin and stealing what little warmth remained. Each step forward seemed to take hours, days, years. It was just too much effort; Harry was so tired. "Sleepy."
He yawned, jaw cracking and lower lip splitting. He could just taste the barest hint of copper on his tongue. As he continued trudging forward, his eyes locked on his fingers, which were blue, almost purple, and bent at awkward angles. He told them to move, but they ignored him.
Just as Harry’s eyelids began to droop, a flicker of light caught his attention. Groaning from the agony in his hands, Harry removed his glasses and used the edge of his wet jumper to scratch off the frost. It didn’t help too much, but now his vision was slightly less blurry.
"C-cabin?" he stuttered. Perhaps Harry was just hallucinating a warm place to sleep and a fire. Then again, maybe he wasn’t. Inhaling deeply, despite the tenderness in his lungs, Harry turned toward the right and somehow managed to drag himself the length of at least two Quidditch pitches.
The closer he got, the more relieved he felt. Because there was, indeed, a small cabin on the side of this godforsaken mountain. And damned if he wouldn’t make it there and huddle next to the fire that produced the smoke pouring from the chimney. If he didn’t, he knew the headlines would be horrible: Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-Killed-By-Snow. His dad and Sirius would never let him live it down in the afterlife.
Harry heaved himself onto the porch, which wasn’t covered in snow. In fact, that was more than a little suspicious. Why would the snow land everywhere but on the cabin? A niggling memory of weather-repelling charms and wards danced at the edge of his mind, but Harry was too exhausted to capture it or explore it further.
He was vaguely aware that the wind and snow were no longer assaulting him and that the porch was warm, but it didn’t matter. He was cold down to his bones, and he feared that if he knocked on the door his hand would break off and fall to the ground. Willpower drained, Harry slumped against the door, body shaking and teeth chattering so hard he was surprised he hadn’t bitten off his own tongue yet.
When the door opened a moment later, he crashed to the floor. "Ugh."
"Shit! Potter! Potter!" Someone that sounded distinctly like Malfoy kept calling his name and shaking him roughly. "Damn it, Potter!"
"Mal—" Coughs wracked his body; his lungs burned for oxygen, and it took entirely too much effort to inhale. He knew that wasn’t good, but he couldn’t remember why. Something about being higher…? Hippo? Hyper?
"I know you’re mental, but this is ridiculous! How long were you out there, Potter?" Malfoy was slapping his cheeks. Harry knew he should object but, again, he couldn’t quite remember why. "Potter!" The longer Harry stayed silent—alternating between shivering and coughing—the higher-pitched Malfoy’s voice grew.
Dizziness consumed him as Malfoy Levitated him deeper into the cabin, pausing only to kick the door shut. Harry could smell the fire now, and hear its crackling flames, but he couldn’t feel its warmth—not even when Malfoy set him down right next to a massive fireplace and cast what seemed like an endless number of warming and drying charms on him.
"Hurts," he grunted, when the barest hint of feeling returned to his ears. He felt like the basilisk was curled around his body, constricting his breathing and periodically stabbing him with its poisonous fangs over and over.
"I know, Potter." Malfoy sounded worried, but Harry couldn’t pay attention to that because Malfoy was systematically Banishing Harry’s clothes. Was he barmy? Harry was fucking freezing to death!
The frost on his glasses was gone, and Harry’s eyes crossed as he stared up at Malfoy. The blond kept muttering spell after spell. Harry recognized some healing spells, but the rest were ones he had never heard of before. And why the hell was Malfoy healing him? Shouldn’t the prat have left him outside to die?
Malfoy’s hands slapped over his cheeks, which ached and stung. "Potter," he said slowly, "you have magical hypothermia."
"What?" Harry asked. The cold hyper thing? That was bad… wasn’t it? "T-that’s bad?" His teeth caught the tip of his tongue, and he winced as pain lanced through him.
"Very." Malfoy pointed his wand at himself and Banished his own clothes. Before Harry could do more than stare in disbelief (Malfoy, despite being a berk, was exceedingly fit), Malfoy straddled Harry on the fur rug before the hearth.
"What?" he asked dumbly. He was naked. Malfoy was naked. They were naked together.
Malfoy stared at Harry’s limp prick and muttered something about being offended. At least that’s what it sounded like he said. But Harry’s ears weren’t working too well, because Malfoy couldn’t possibly expect Harry to be aroused while freezing to death.
"If I don’t warm you up, Potter, you’re going to die."
Before Harry could decide whether dying or being naked with Malfoy was worse, the prat started snogging him and rubbing against him. Every time Malfoy shivered against him, Harry wanted to smirk. Let’s see how Malfoy liked being so cold that he feared his bollocks would shrivel and fall off. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Harry felt guilty. Malfoy was helping him out, after all—as incongruous as it may seem.
As Malfoy’s skin brushed all along his, hands rubbing and fingers stroking, he felt Malfoy’s magic sinking into his skin and taunting his—dragging it out of its frigid sulk. A little at a time, Harry felt his muscles unwind. When his teeth finally stopping chattering, and Malfoy’s tongue wasn’t in danger of going the way a walnut would in a Nutcracker’s mouth, Malfoy French-kissed him.
It was wet… but not the weepy, girly, whinging kind that had happened with Cho Chang. In fact, Harry might not object to such kisses in the future—for the sake of practice, of course. Because he did not like Malfoy one little—oh fuck! Except when Malfoy did that; then he liked Malfoy more than Hogwarts. "Malfoy!"
A rough chuckle sounded beside his ear. "I’m saving your life by shagging you, Potter. I think you’re entitled to call me Draco."
"Oh. Call me Harry," he ordered before placing his twitching fingers against Malfoy’s back. As their magic continued to tangle and tease, warmth and life returned to Harry’s limbs. Wiggling his toes was agony, but they didn’t crumble to bits of ice on the floor.
Right then, Draco reached down and curled his hand around Harry’s cock, which was slowly hardening as his blood decided to melt in his veins and continue flowing through his body. "Much better," Draco said smugly as he stared at it. "This is the reaction I expect from now on, Harry."
Harry didn’t get a chance to ask what he meant by that, because his brain was too busy screaming, Holy fuck! Draco Malfoy is sucking my cock! at him repeatedly. Harry, being a sane teenage boy, didn’t even think of pushing Malfoy away. He whimpered and tugged at Draco’s hair as best he could with the condition his fingers were in, though they were improving.
Draco smirked up at him, pale pink lips stretched around his cock, and Harry shot his load without any warning. Beyond objecting, Draco just swallowed and continued to smirk around his mouthful. Once he pulled away from Harry’s half-hard cock, he smoothed his hands down Harry’s thighs and around to his arse.
"If you let me take you," Draco said, the tip of one finger brushing over Harry’s arsehole, "our combined magic will heal you fully."
Harry nibbled his lip—the lip that Draco had healed—as he eyed the blond and considered the offer. Harry had never given much thought to shagging or snogging a bloke before, likely because girls threw themselves at him and were more than happy to meet his needs. However, no one had ever sucked his cock like that… and he wasn’t as grossed out about the thought of Draco’s prick being inside of him as he had expected.
Still, this was Draco Malfoy…. "Do you give your word?"
Draco sat on Harry’s legs, the tip of one of his fingers having just breached Harry’s bum, and said, "I’ve wanted to shag you for ages now, and this is as good a reason as any to get you under me. That being said, yes, if you let me have you our magic will heal you completely."
"I’m not a girl."
Blinking at the non sequitur, Draco said, "I never said you were."
"But I’ve never done this, all right?" Harry jerked his trembling hand to point at Draco’s cock and then his own bum. "So… go slow." He blushed and gritted his teeth.
"Harry…" Draco stared at him in awe, and his lips kept alternating between a smug smirk and a victorious grin.
"And if you fucking hurt me, Malfoy, I’ll castrate you." The threat didn’t have its intended effect. Instead of paling, Draco only patted his cheek and smiled before wriggling the finger inside him.
"No worries there, Harry. I know what I’m doing." Draco set to prove his words true.
Harry found he couldn’t refute that statement when the slick fingers now inside him caressed his prostate teasingly. There was none of the tearing pain he would have guessed would be normal in a situation like this. Because while he wasn’t a genius, even he could tell the difference between the normal width of his arsehole and the breadth of Draco’s cock.
He could now bend his fingers, the stiffness having faded, but the pins and needles sensation was almost worse. It spread through his body like a virulent disease, attacking him from head to toe. Only Draco’s fingers against his prostate overwhelmed the pain for any length of time.
When Draco removed his fingers, Harry wanted to bite his head off. "Back in. Now!" The distracting pleasure was all that was keeping him afloat in the Sea of Sanity.
"Give me a second!" Draco panted, pupils so wide that his eyes looked black with hoarfrost edging. He slicked a lubricant-coated hand over his cock multiple times and then settled between Harry’s legs, before hitching them over his shoulders.
Draco’s cock was, without a doubt, thick. This was proven when it breached Harry, easing deeper with each shallow thrust. It didn’t hurt per se, definitely not when compared to the pain in the rest of him, but it wasn’t spectacular either. He felt full, stretched, and that was about it. It sort of just was. Well damn, that was disappoint—"Holy fuck!"
"Angle’s different from this position," Draco ground out as he thrust back inside Harry for the tenth or so time. "Sorry."
The next stroke, when Draco’s prick fucking fondled his prostate, Harry revised his earlier opinion. This was bloody brilliant!
The sound of flames crackling and logs popping sounded nearby, but Harry could barely hear that over the panting moans and groaning grunts. He wasn’t sure how this compared to Malfoy’s past experiences, but Harry already knew he liked having a cock in his arse more than he liked shagging girls.
Maybe it was lying beneath someone, or having someone inside him. Maybe it was the feeling of being covered, protected, and owned. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that Draco Malfoy was kissing him oh-so-tenderly as he carefully canted his body deeper into Harry’s.
When Harry felt his balls draw up against his body, his fingers scrabbled at Draco’s shoulders, demanding his attention. "D-Draco."
"What?" he groaned. "Don’t tell me you w-want to t-talk now?"
"There’ll be a next time, right?" Harry asked, suddenly desperate for a reassurance that he could have this again: the completeness.
Draco’s eyes closed, his pale eyelashes kissing red cheeks. "Yes, Harry," he moaned. "There will definitely be a next time."
Every muscle in Harry’s body tightened in anticipation. "Good." He leaned up and claimed Draco’s lips with his own. Then, and only then, he stroked his cock until he came—splattering their chests with his come. As his arse clamped down on Draco’s cock, Draco’s thrusts stuttered, and unintelligible words fell from his lips. Warmth flooded Harry’s bum, and he felt their magic wash through him in a wave.
As the last trace of cold vanished, Harry carded his hands through Draco’s sweat-soaked, blond hair. "How many next times can I have?" he asked, breath catching in his throat from worry, not the cold that had vanished like a phantom.
Draco grunted, withdrew, and then cast a cleaning charm over both of them. "As many as you want if you let me sleep. And top," Draco added hurriedly as he curled an arm around Harry and snuggled up behind him.
Harry kissed Draco’s arm, yawned, and then pressed back against his lover. He could live with that.