Dirt


Adult, 1 chapter. Slash (Harry/Draco). 

Summary: Harry and Draco get dirty. And then clean. And then dirtier. 

Dirt

Draco angled his broom downward and to the left and crashed into Harry Potter at the perfect trajectory. He could not have planned it better using a slide rule. Harry’s broom spun backward and dislodged the surprised Gryffindor. Rather than save himself, Harry’s rage got the better of him and he snatched at Malfoy as he went down. A Gryffindor death grip attached itself to Draco’s trouser leg.

Draco shifted to pull out of his kamikaze dive—he would have made it but for the unexpected addition of Potter’s full weight as Harry abandoned his spinning broom.

They plowed into the ground and landed in a plume of dust. Draco lay still for a moment, wondering if any bones were broken. He could barely breathe through the cloud of dirt in the air.

Malfoy had gone to the Quidditch pitch for some solitary practice and unhappily discovered Potter there before him, obviously with the same idea. The pitch itself was completely torn up—the grass had been devoured by some rampant pet of that fool Hagrid and a series of large holes had been dug in an attempt to recover the creature. Draco had immediately leaped on his broom and engineered what should have been a spectacular crash on Potter’s part. Damn his Gryffindor luck.

“Malfoy! Potter!” someone shrieked. Draco sat up and saw Potter next to him, sitting in the settling cloud of dirt and glaring at Draco through glittering green eyes. His glasses were askew. And filmed with dust. Malfoy smirked.

Their names were repeated and Draco glanced over to see Madam Hooch stalking toward them.

“Mr. Malfoy! That was the most unpleasant bit of malfeasance I have witnessed in quite some time! Twenty points from Slytherin! You two must learn to dispense with this foolish rivalry before one of you is seriously injured. Now get yourselves cleaned up immediately and get back to the castle!”

Draco levered himself out of the dirt and Accioed his broom, noting that Potter did the same.

“And no flying!” Madam Hooch snapped as Malfoy prepared to mount. He scowled. Potter stalked toward the Quidditch locker room.

Draco trailed behind him, amused to note that Potter’s robes were the color of dust, as was his normally shiny black hair. That thought made Draco pause and he quickly shot a spell at his own hair to strip the dust and restore its platinum perfection.

Potter stamped to the showers and yanked his clothes off. He tossed them haphazardly on the floor and walked to the shower at the farthest corner of the room. Draco removed his own clothing and Scourgified each item before folding it carefully. He watched Harry surreptitiously. Malfoy had been in the showers with Harry before, but never alone—always with both Quidditch teams present, taunting and harassing one another.

Harry obviously expected Malfoy to use the nearest shower, kilometers away from the Gryffindor hero. For that reason, Draco walked the long distance to the shower closest Harry. The green eyes shifted toward him warily.

“Want me to wash your back, Potter?” Draco taunted.

“I’d rather die,” Harry said blandly.

“Afraid?” Draco sneered and let the water cascade over his face.

Harry snorted. “Afraid of you? Hardly.”

“Then let me wash your back, pillock.”

“Why?” Harry burst out. He really had that mistrusting, suspicious glare down pat.

“Because it would annoy you. You’re probably afraid you would enjoy it.”

“No, I’m afraid you would enjoy it,” Harry countered.

“I dare you,” Malfoy said suddenly—the Gryffindor equivalent of waving a red flag in front of an enraged bull. They simply couldn’t resist. Potter’s face went scarlet.

“You know what? Fine. Wash my back, you poncey perve.”

Draco took the soap with a grin of triumph and stepped close to Harry. He ran the bar over Potter’s back and then dropped it to slide his hands over Harry’s skin. The suds made his back slippery and smooth. Draco started at the nape of Harry’s neck where the black hair was dribbling dirty water down his back in rivulets.

Malfoy scrubbed thoroughly, taking his time while Harry stood tensely, unmoving.

“Finished?” Potter asked hopefully.

“Yes. Now I’ll let you do my front.”

“No fucking way.”

“I touched you without dying. Let’s see that exalted Gryffindor bravery.” He added, “I dare you.”

Harry snarled over his shoulder. “You’re a sick bastard, Malfoy.”

Draco Accioed the soap and held it out.

“Scrub.”

Potter reluctantly held out a hand and Malfoy slapped the soap into his palm. Potter turned around and roughly dragged the soap across Draco’s chest. He kept his livid gaze on Draco’s face, but did not quite meet his eyes.

“Fuck, Potter, leave some skin,” Malfoy snapped.

“You never said I had to be gentle.”

“Well, I’m saying it now.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Not the wisest choice of words at the moment, Potter.”

“You’re really disgusting, you know that?”

“Just wash.”

The soap slipped out of his hands and Potter let it go. His jaw was set in determination. His touch eased a bit, though, and began to slip over Draco’s flesh, starting at the tops of his shoulders. Malfoy lifted a hand to wipe at a dark smudge on Harry’s cheek.

“Your face is filthy,” he commented.

“So is yours,” Potter snapped. His hands glided in circular motions over Draco’s pectorals. To Malfoy’s surprise, Potter wasn’t rushing—although he definitely wasn’t lingering on the task, either.

Dirt had caked on Harry’s forehead and turned to mud in the shower. Draco wordlessly conjured shampoo—a spell he had perfected at age six—and began to scrub Potter’s hair.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked and tried to duck away.

“Shut up and enjoy it. I’m an expert at this,” Draco retorted. He worked his long fingers through Harry’s raven locks, slicking the hair back away from forehead and scar. He slowly massaged Potter’s temples and the tense places over his ears, lingering there for long moments. Harry’s hands stilled on Draco’s abdomen and when Malfoy stepped closer to work on the back of Potter’s head, the hands moved to grip Draco’s waist.

Harry’s eyes were shut and Malfoy took the opportunity to study his opponent. Without the ugly spectacles marring his face, Potter was astoundingly handsome. He had a straight, strong jaw, smooth skin and high, delicate cheekbones. His nose was straight over perfect, bow-like lips…and could his lashes get any longer? They lay against his cheeks like sooty slashes.

Draco swallowed hard. Now was not the time to be thinking of Harry Potter as good looking.

He scrubbed the caked mud from the back of Harry’s hair and dug stiff fingers into the tight muscles of Potter’s neck. Harry actually made a tiny sound of pleasure that sent an electric thrill up Draco’s spine. The poor, deprived virgin had never had his hair washed by another person, obviously.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Draco murmured and tipped Harry’s head back into the water to rinse. He was immediately sorry as the sensual line of Potter’s neck was exposed—the taut skin there begged to be kissed.

“Mmmm,” Harry agreed mindlessly. Draco bet the Gryffindor did not even realize his fingers were gently caressing Draco’s waist. Malfoy’s mouth was dry and his breathing was uneven. The blood that should have been in his brain making it ask what the hell he was doing had gleefully retreated to another part of his body, which was becoming rigid with delight.

Draco combed the last of the suds out of Harry’s hair with his fingers and watched as the shower of water poured over Potter’s face. The pink lips were slightly parted.

“Fuck it,” Draco said and captured that gorgeous wet mouth with his.

Harry went instantly board-stiff. His hands tightened on Draco’s waist and Malfoy sensed his panic, but Draco still held Potter’s hair. He gripped it tightly and launched his assault.

Malfoy’s tongue tangled with Harry’s, caressing and stroking the length of it, and sliding across the sensitive areas expertly. Draco knew how to kiss and Potter had only been snogged by inexperienced amateurs. Malfoy’s tongue glided across the roof of his mouth—exploring every part of it. That was Harry’s undoing.

Draco felt a shiver run through Potter’s body—easy now that their torsos were pressed together—and Harry’s hands slid to the center of Draco’s back, pulling him closer.

Malfoy half-feared some Gryffindor trick, but Potter seemed to have taken it as another challenge. He began to kiss back, using the same tricks Draco had applied. Malfoy felt Harry’s tongue tentatively slide over his, tasting and teasing.

Draco’s hands left Harry’s wet hair and traveled down his back. He grabbed Harry’s hips and pulled him closer while thrusting his groin against Potter. Their duel erections rubbed together and Harry gasped. The sound was like a drug to Draco, who released Harry’s hip with one hand and quickly took both their throbbing members into his hand.

Potter broke the kiss and actually whimpered when he breathed, “No…”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Draco countered and kissed him again as his hand began to move. Malfoy stroked and was pleasantly surprised to finally have victory over Harry Potter. The Gryffindor surrendered completely and his body responded to Draco’s touch with delicious shivers and incredible, erotic gasps and moans against Malfoy’s lips.

Harry came first and the throaty whimpers he made as the hot fluid poured onto Draco’s wet skin triggered Malfoy’s explosive orgasm.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes!” Draco said and nearly crushed Harry with his free arm. He buried his face in Potter’s neck and let the water cool his flushed skin. Draco half-expected Harry to pull away in a burst of Gryffindor self-loathing, but Potter was compliant in Draco’s embrace. Malfoy held him wordlessly for a moment and then pulled Harry under the spray to wash away the traces of their activity. Potter’s eyes were half-lidded and he said nothing as Malfoy’s hands moved intimately over his skin. Draco wondered if the Gryffindor would slip into a catatonic state.

He grinned ruefully and kissed Harry delicately on the lips once more as he released him.

“That was fun. Call me next time you feel dirty, Potter,” he said suggestively and chuckled.

He walked back to his clothes, dressed, and went out, already plotting other ways to cover Harry Potter in dirt.

 

Dirt, Revisited

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