Title: If the Ghosts Are Figurative, Is It Still Exhibitionism?
Author: Amanuensis (amanuensis1)
Rating: NC-17, Angsty PWP.
Canon: Post-HBP, no spoilers.
Length: 1,300 words.
Scenario: I promise to let you have sex with me wherever you choose.
Summary: The Manor has its ghosts. Draco has his issues. Harry indulges them both.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the sole property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Christopher Little Agency and associates. No money is made from this work, it is purely a work of fanfiction.
Notes: You wouldn't think it would take 4 people to beta 1300 words, but sometimes it does. Much gratitude to betas cluegirl, fabularasa, florahart, and isiscolo.

If the Ghosts Are Figurative, Is It Exhibitionism?

"Here," says Draco. "Now."

Harry blinks. To his credit, that is the sum total of his hesitation. He does not echo Draco with twin interrogatives--here? now?--does not cast his eyes about the bedroom, does not swallow and ask whether Draco is sure.

He blinks, and then he says, "All right."

Now is the moment for looking about the room, for running his tongue over his lips. Signs that he is undeniably dubious, but that come after the assent. Assent came first. They'll both remember that, if only unconsciously.

Harry watches Draco for his cues. Does Draco just want a blowjob in the middle of the room? Perhaps a quick fuck on the rug?

Draco points his wand at the assortment of stuffed dragons, kneazles, and sphinxes on his childhood bed and sends them flying with a wordless hex. Sets a knee on the cleared bed and picks his shirttail out of his trousers, beginning to unbutton it from the bottom.

Obviously not.

Harry pulls his own shirt over his head, kicks off his shoes. As he undresses he approaches the bed, noticing how Draco does not look at him until he is right there and has his own clothes off, and then when he looks up it's with a jerk of his chin and a smallness to his mouth that Harry's seen less and less these past two years. He's seen it a lot today.

He doesn't try to kiss it away. Draco never wants to kiss before sex, only after, and Harry isn't even sure if he feels sex and kissing are related, in his own head. He does know that when Draco wants to kiss, Harry feels something he can't do without, an emptiness he didn't even know was there that has to be filled.

Draco lies back on his bed, propped on his elbows, and Harry climbs above him, leaning down to tongue one nipple in a way that's not at all a kiss. Draco arches into it, and soon is on his back, and Harry feels his arms shift and Draco's got his arms stretched above his head in silent communication of what he wants. Harry leaves off tonguing his chest and grabs his trousers from the floor, sliding his belt free, and returns to Draco, belt in hand. It's the work of a second to have made a loop of it that he secures around Draco's wrists; he's had lots of practice.

He would secure the other end of it to the headboard if it were that kind of bed, but it's not; the headboard's solid. Instead he presses down on the circle of belt and Draco's trapped wrists to pin them above his head. He doesn't smile; Draco doesn't want him to joke with him at times like these.

He's half on Draco and half next to him, pinning his wrists with one hand and reaching down to take hold of Draco's cock with the other. They both like this. Harry likes to feel Draco's erection grow in his hand, even without any fingering or teasing from him to help it on; it's rarely necessary. Draco seems to like to be held, held at cock and held at wrists without anything beyond their own breathing to fill the spaces and the silences. No words to magnify how vulnerable Draco lets himself become at Harry's hands. Just the act and whatever is in Draco's own head to push him on to erection, writhing just a little in those twin grips.

Harry sets his teeth to Draco's nipple again, and Draco groans in response. The groan is a cue for Harry, as Draco's churlish with words during sex. Doesn't want them in response, either. So a groan means everything's working. Harry shifts, drapes himself more closely over Draco, fitting their limbs together so that everything bony has its own space, and the softness of belly and breast and male bits don't get crushed in the shift. Harry opens his hand to include his own cock in the clutch he has upon Draco's, and now that hand does begin to move.

Another groan from Draco. His eyes are closed. That's fine; Harry likes to watch his face when his eyes are closed. It's especially fine that he has that to watch now, here. So that he doesn't have to look at the room, dust-free from meticulous house-elf work but with the whiff of abandonment all the same, like a museum display. The soft toys gave it the air of a child's room but not a boy's--not in the way the Malfoys would have let their heir be a mere boy, with Quidditch posters instead of painted landscapes, broom catalogues laid out on the roll-top desk in place of leather-bound books, or even socks discarded randomly on the rug. None of that in this house.

He's glad the painting on the wall is a landscape. Had it been a portrait, most likely of some inbred Malfoy ancestor, sneering--or leering--down at them, Harry doubts he'd have been able to do this. He has enough of a beneath-the-skin sensation about the house as it is. But for Draco he can overcome it.

He moves up and down their cocks with the same hand, not gently, growing more fierce with each stroke of his palm. Draco likes it that hard and so does he, and if he's rough about it, it's the same hand on both of them, isn't it--nothing he does to Draco doesn't happen to him, too. Nothing so rough he can't bear it himself.

The friction is painful but it hasn't taken anything from Harry's arousal when Draco groans again, arches harder into his hand and lifts his trapped wrists just that much. Harry keeps up the stroking and presses down upon his wrists harder, letting Draco fight him and lose as orgasm pulses through his hips, his cock, jetting over Harry's fingers and onto Draco's belly in fat, inelegant drops. Harry aligns his own cock so that the underside presses to the underside of Draco's, where the throb of the vein, pulsing even faster in Draco's post-orgasmic state, will send Harry over as violently as any other friction might. He comes, shuddering, and it too lands on Draco's belly and not his own.

Harry doesn't let up on Draco's wrists, but leans down for the kiss for which Draco is already lifting his head. Tongues twine, and Harry tastes the wine Draco had in lieu of food during lunch with their solicitor. He notes Draco's eyes are open during the kiss.

He slides to Draco's side once more, loosening and tossing the belt to the floor. One of Draco's arms moves down to curl about him, and the fingers of his other hand slide through the mess of a mixture on his stomach--then wipes them on the duvet beneath himself and Harry, making the black fabric shine in streaks. Harry pillows his head upon Draco's shoulder, his own hand resting on Draco's damp belly, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

He is prepared to stay like this, fall asleep like this if Draco wants it. But it's no more than a minute before Draco says, "Let's get out of here." His voice is tight.

Harry lifts his head, sees Draco's eyes. Nods. "Where to?" he asks, carefully neutral.

"Back to the solicitor's. I want to sign the sodding papers and have done with this place." He sits up, shaking his head as if to settle his hair back into order. "And then..." He touches Harry's arm in a way that suggests he doesn't quite have the courage to reach for his hand. "Then I want to go home."

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