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Description
Verandas

Le Obscure Prompt War – Round Three
Prompts:  torch, oak tree, poster of Gregory Goyle, permanent marker

It took Harry longer than expected to track down Draco Malfoy.  For being rich, famous, and utterly recognizable nearly everywhere he went, Malfoy was damned hard to pin down.  After a week, and four countries, Harry felt he would have had better luck chasing a butterfly across a meadow and catching it with his bare hands.

He finally got lucky in Greece, of all places.  The tips from the paparazzi had been accurate, for once, now that Harry had acquired the necessary skill of scanning the gossip columns of every wizarding paper he could get his hands on.

Now that he’d found Malfoy, Harry felt an unwelcome nervousness.  Malfoy was a star.  More famous than Harry Potter these days.  Harry was a celebrity in Britain, even now, years after the defeat of Voldemort, but he had taken care to avoid the limelight after Hogwarts.  He’d taken a nice, quiet job as an Auror, and spent his days doing what he did best—rounding up the minions of evil.  Some days, he could even do it without bitterness.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was an international Quidditch star—Seeker extraordinaire.  Once unfettered by the presence of Harry Potter, Malfoy’s star had risen like Halley’s Comet, blazing across the sky.

Harry stepped onto the veranda silently and paused, observing Malfoy before his presence was known.  The Seeker was stunning, Harry had to admit.  Malfoy wore a cool, white linen shirt and light trousers of palest grey.  He stood half-turned from Harry, leaning against the white marble railing.  He held a goblet of clear liquid on one hand, but he looked to have forgotten it.  The chiseled features faced the sea and his expression seemed pensive, almost sad.

Harry swallowed hard, feeling conflicted.  He felt almost guilty for intruding on Malfoy’s quiet moment, especially considering Harry’s business.  On another level, he suddenly wished he were an artist, to capture the picture before him in watercolor:  pastels of flesh, fabric, platinum hair, ice blue sky, and cold stone made warmer by the mere presence of the figure that graced it.

Harry scowled, wondering where the ridiculous poetic sentiment had come from.  He might be a veritable god of Quidditch, might be beautiful beyond human comprehension, but he was still Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, and complete prat.  That was confirmed when Malfoy spoke—a deeper timbre than Harry remembered, but the same blood-boiling drawl.

“If you stand there much longer, Potter, perhaps you’ll turn into a potted plant and I won’t have to ask why you’re here.”

Harry sighed and walked forward.  Malfoy turned and gifted him with a look of casual indifference.

“I’m looking for someone,” Harry said.

“You’ve found someone.”

Harry paused for only a moment.  He was certain Malfoy had not intended that to sound suggestive.  Harry reached into a pocket of his jacket, realizing as he did so that he was overdressed for the climate.  He felt like a secret agent, and a foolish one, at that.  He unfolded the paper and handed it to Malfoy, who made no move to take it.  Harry ground his teeth together and straightened the folds.  In the center of the poster was a photo of Gregory Goyle, glaring balefully in a manner Harry remembered well.

“A wanted poster?” Malfoy asked dryly.  “How quaint.  And look, there is even a reward.  I see the Ministry is as penny-pinching as ever.  You’ll never find him for that pittance.”

“You know where he is,” Harry insisted.

Malfoy shrugged and took a drink from his glass.  When he lowered it, his lips shone with the liquid.  Harry watched, mesmerized, as Malfoy’s pink tongue slid over the droplets slowly.  Fuck.  Harry mentally shook himself, and then added a few slaps to the head for good measure.  Focus, Potter.

“Even if I knew Greg’s whereabouts, why would I tell you?” Malfoy asked.

“He was a Death Eater, Malfoy.  He needs to be brought to justice.”

“Greg never hurt anyone, Potter,” Malfoy said and Harry was glad to see something besides bored indifference in Malfoy’s silver eyes.  Harry welcomed the onslaught of rage.  Angry Malfoy he could deal with.

“That’s for the Wizengamot to decide,” Harry snapped.

“Why?  The witnesses to Greg’s stint as a Death Eater are either dead or insane.  Why can’t you do-gooder types just leave him alone?”

“Why are you trying to protect him, Malfoy?” Harry goaded.  “Do you have something to hide?”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed with silver fury.  He set the goblet on the table hard enough that the glass tabletop rang with the force of it.

“I already had my day with the Wizengamot, Potter.  Have you forgotten?”

“No.  I testified on your behalf.”

“Is that supposed to make me beholden to you?  Do I owe you a favor now?”

Harry flushed angrily.  Trust Draco Malfoy to look for ulterior motives in every situation.  He pushed a frustrated hand into his hair and froze, realizing he had not made the nervous gesture in years.  Only Malfoy could drive him to that level of aggravation.  Harry snapped his hand back to his side.

“No, you don’t owe me a favor, Malfoy,” he snarled.  “I just hoped you…  Fuck, I don’t know.  I guess I just thought you might have changed.”

Malfoy moved forward until he stood too close to Harry for comfort.  A pale hand reached out and touched Harry’s cheek.  The contact was electrifying, especially when the long fingers slipped down to cup Harry’s jaw.  Harry couldn’t breathe as Draco leaned forward, as if to plant a kiss on his lips.

“Maybe I have changed, Potter,” Malfoy murmured softly and the grey eyes bored into his.  Harry wished to hell he had mastered Legilimency and more, because he would have given anything to know what Malfoy was thinking when he said those words.  Harry was seized by the urge—the need—to tilt forward and taste Malfoy’s lips.  The hand on his chin prevented it—thanks be to Merlin, he told himself later—and then the spell was broken, and Malfoy released him with a smirk.

“I tell you what, Potter.  Meet me at 10 pm tonight and we’ll discuss Greg Goyle,” Malfoy said.  He pulled an object from his back pocket and it took Harry a moment to recognize it as a black marker.  Before Harry could protest, Malfoy grabbed Harry’s hand and began to write on his palm with decisive, almost painful, strokes.  “I value my privacy, Potter, so don’t alert the media.  Use your sneaky cloak if you must, but come alone.”  Malfoy finished the address and then swiftly unbuttoned the cuff on Harry’s sleeve.  He pressed the material up, nearly earning a gasp from Harry at the sensual feel of the long fingers on his skin.  “You can’t miss the place—there is a huge oak tree next to the gate.”

“You could have written on the back of this poster, you know.”

“And mar Ministry property?  Perish the thought.”  Malfoy glanced sidelong at Harry, still gripping his wrist.  “Although you might be considered Ministry property, too, eh?”

Harry bit back a retort as the pen scrawled over his forearm with a flourish.  Malfoy released him and stepped back with a wicked grin.

“There.  Now you have my autograph, too.”

Harry looked at his arm in annoyance.  Malfoy’s flowery signature was there—a bizarre parody of the Dark Mark, but there were words above the name.  Harry scowled.

“What does it say?” he demanded.  Malfoy tsked.

“You can’t read Greek, Potter?  Pity.  See you at 10.”

With that, Malfoy capped the pen and disappeared down the stairs.  Harry licked a finger and used it to rub at the words on his arm—to no avail.  Malfoy had used permanent ink.

The house stood on a rocky promontory overlooking the Aegean.  Malfoy had been right about the oak.  The huge, spreading branches hung over the gate, likely shading half the yard in the daytime.  Harry hadn’t bothered with his cloak—no one in Greece knew who he was.  The wrought iron gate swung open when he approached, making him wonder if it had been spelled, or if Malfoy were watching.  He shrugged and walked up the path through the manicured lawn.  He had expected an opulent mansion, not this quaint Mediterranean cottage.

Before he could knock, the door swung open to reveal Malfoy limned in candlelight.  Malfoy’s lips were curled in what looked like a genuine smile, and his eyes traveled over Harry in a way that made the saliva dry up in Harry’s mouth.
“Going native already, Potter?” he asked and stepped aside for Harry to enter.  Harry did so, feeling self-conscious about his decision to wear the khaki trousers and white tank top, but the afternoon had grown blazingly hot and humid, with no sign of diminishing through the night.

The house was beautiful, with an open floor plan and windows open to the sea everywhere Harry looked.  Candles flickered from every surface, giving the place a seductive feel.  Harry wondered if Malfoy had been entertaining prior to his arrival and felt a flare of… what?  Jealousy?  Ha!  Not a chance.  He drop kicked the voice that howled liar! and forbid it to return.

“So,” Harry said, “About Goyle—”

“Come out to the veranda, Potter.  It’s cooler out here.  Have a drink and relax, if you can remember how.”

Harry sighed and trailed Malfoy to the veranda, which looked remarkably similar to the one the Seeker had lounged against at the inn earlier.  Malfoy walked to a table adorned with two huge torches of the bug-dispelling variety.  He poured something icy from a pitcher into a tall glass and handed it to Harry.

“Sangria.  Not exactly a Greek beverage, but it’s refreshing in this beastly heat.”

Harry took a drink, wondering why Malfoy was suddenly acting like a human being.  His gaze was drawn to the view and he walked to the railing to admire it.

“Great view,” he commented.

“The best,” Malfoy said huskily and moved to stand behind Harry.  “You seem tense Potter.  Do you ever unwind?”

“At home,” Harry admitted and Malfoy laughed.

“Really?  I’ll bet your idea of relaxation is sitting on your couch perusing case files.”

Harry flushed at the accuracy of the observation.  He nearly jumped when he felt Malfoy’s hands on his shoulders, but realized the fingers were only kneading the tense muscles.  He sighed at the unwelcome pleasure.

“Fuck, Potter, your knots have knots.  You are tightly wound, aren’t you?”  Harry tried to pull away, but Malfoy followed until Harry was pressed against the cool railing.  “Calm yourself, I’m good at this.  My massages are in high demand with my teammates.”

“I’ll bet,” Harry said dryly, but he groaned softly when the strong fingers pressed at a tight spot between his shoulder blades.

“I’ve read about you in the Prophet,” Malfoy said conversationally.  “Did you really split with the Weaselette, or is that a media fabrication?”

“It’s true,” Harry said without regret.  Harry had spent more and more time at work, and less and less time with Ginny.  When they were together, they inevitably rowed about Harry’s absences.  Harry’s final confession had severed the relationship forever, although that, thankfully, had not been in the papers.

“Good,” said Malfoy and there seemed to be volumes of unspoken meaning in the single word, but perhaps that was simply wishful thinking on Harry’s part.  He suddenly felt his shirt being pulled from his waistband and started so violently he nearly spilled his drink.  Malfoy chuckled.

“Take it easy, hero, I just don’t want to get oil on your shirt.”

“What oil?” Harry asked stupidly, but allowed Malfoy to pull the tank over his head, after setting the cold glass on the railing.  He tried to quell the damned voice that was screaming with glee at the thrill of being partially undressed by Draco Malfoy.  Harry heard the clink of a crystal stopper, and then droplets of cool liquid hit his shoulders.

“Olive oil.  The Greeks are big on olive oil, you know.  This one has some herbal additives to unwind tense muscles.  I use it after Quidditch matches.”

Harry could not complain about the oil, or the application.  A delightful sense of languor was stealing over him and his skin tingled everywhere Malfoy’s hands went.  The tight muscles of his back and shoulders were kneaded and pushed into slack lassitude.  Malfoy’s hands moved higher.  Harry leaned back slightly and actually moaned when the fingers pressed into his neck and squeezed, both gentle and rough at once, with taut thumb-caresses in all the right places.  The hands slipped forward over Harry’s chest, and he managed not to hiss with ecstasy when Malfoy’s palms brushed over his nipples, but it took a damned lot of effort, including nearly biting his tongue in half.

When the fingers languidly caressed Harry’s abdominal muscles, he belatedly realized the strokes had changed—they were no longer massaging, but now seemed to be tracing every line of Harry’s flesh, searching and mapping with erotic determination.

“Er… is this still a massage?” Harry asked hoarsely.  He felt Malfoy’s shirt against his back, and hard muscles beneath that.  Hot breath touched his throat and then lips brushed his earlobe gently.

“No, we’ve moved on to seduction, now,” Malfoy said in a voice that sent shivers straight to Harry’s loins.

“Oh,” Harry managed.

Malfoy pressed himself firmly against Harry’s back and placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss on his neck.

“Is that okay?” Malfoy asked.  Harry could not have formed a coherent sentence if his life depended on it.  For reply, he tipped his head back and parted his lips.  A sound that resembled delight rumbled against his back, uttered by Malfoy, and then Harry was kissed with exquisite thoroughness.  The sensations were overwhelming.  He felt both doomed and rescued at once.  Malfoy’s hands never ceased moving, sliding from the tops of Harry’s shoulders to the waistband of his trousers, and back again.

He reveled in the incredible sensations and found his own hands reaching back to touch all of Malfoy they could reach, which turned out to be his hips.  Draco groaned against his mouth, and turned Harry around.  The movement broke the kiss and Harry’s eyes widened.

“Oh god, is this about Goyle—”  Harry had the sudden fear that Malfoy was simply trying to distract him.  He expected anger, or even a petulant scowl, anything but the grin and chuckle Malfoy bestowed on him.

“This was never about Goyle, Potter.  I’m the one that sent the poster and the reward to the Ministry, with instructions that they be delivered directly to you.  No one cares about Goyle.”

Harry blinked at him, utterly puzzled.

“Why would you do that?”

“To lure you here, of course.  Brilliant, wasn’t it?”

“Brilliant?  You mean sneaky, underhanded, devious, and completely insane?”

“It worked, didn’t it?"

“You couldn’t have walked into the Ministry and asked me out, like a normal person?”

“Would you have agreed?”

Malfoy did not wait for an answer.  He kissed Harry again and the why and wherefores suddenly didn’t make a jot of difference.  Harry lost himself in Malfoy’s kisses, and finally thought to ask, a very long time later, “Malfoy, what did you write on my arm?”

Malfoy chuckled and did something with his tongue that made Harry gasp.  “Property of Draco Malfoy.”

Description
Verandas

Le Obscure Prompt War – Round Three
Prompts:  torch, oak tree, poster of Gregory Goyle, permanent marker

It took Harry longer than expected to track down Draco Malfoy.  For being rich, famous, and utterly recognizable nearly everywhere he went, Malfoy was damned hard to pin down.  After a week, and four countries, Harry felt he would have had better luck chasing a butterfly across a meadow and catching it with his bare hands.

He finally got lucky in Greece, of all places.  The tips from the paparazzi had been accurate, for once, now that Harry had acquired the necessary skill of scanning the gossip columns of every wizarding paper he could get his hands on.

Now that he’d found Malfoy, Harry felt an unwelcome nervousness.  Malfoy was a star.  More famous than Harry Potter these days.  Harry was a celebrity in Britain, even now, years after the defeat of Voldemort, but he had taken care to avoid the limelight after Hogwarts.  He’d taken a nice, quiet job as an Auror, and spent his days doing what he did best—rounding up the minions of evil.  Some days, he could even do it without bitterness.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was an international Quidditch star—Seeker extraordinaire.  Once unfettered by the presence of Harry Potter, Malfoy’s star had risen like Halley’s Comet, blazing across the sky.

Harry stepped onto the veranda silently and paused, observing Malfoy before his presence was known.  The Seeker was stunning, Harry had to admit.  Malfoy wore a cool, white linen shirt and light trousers of palest grey.  He stood half-turned from Harry, leaning against the white marble railing.  He held a goblet of clear liquid on one hand, but he looked to have forgotten it.  The chiseled features faced the sea and his expression seemed pensive, almost sad.

Harry swallowed hard, feeling conflicted.  He felt almost guilty for intruding on Malfoy’s quiet moment, especially considering Harry’s business.  On another level, he suddenly wished he were an artist, to capture the picture before him in watercolor:  pastels of flesh, fabric, platinum hair, ice blue sky, and cold stone made warmer by the mere presence of the figure that graced it.

Harry scowled, wondering where the ridiculous poetic sentiment had come from.  He might be a veritable god of Quidditch, might be beautiful beyond human comprehension, but he was still Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, and complete prat.  That was confirmed when Malfoy spoke—a deeper timbre than Harry remembered, but the same blood-boiling drawl.

“If you stand there much longer, Potter, perhaps you’ll turn into a potted plant and I won’t have to ask why you’re here.”

Harry sighed and walked forward.  Malfoy turned and gifted him with a look of casual indifference.

“I’m looking for someone,” Harry said.

“You’ve found someone.”

Harry paused for only a moment.  He was certain Malfoy had not intended that to sound suggestive.  Harry reached into a pocket of his jacket, realizing as he did so that he was overdressed for the climate.  He felt like a secret agent, and a foolish one, at that.  He unfolded the paper and handed it to Malfoy, who made no move to take it.  Harry ground his teeth together and straightened the folds.  In the center of the poster was a photo of Gregory Goyle, glaring balefully in a manner Harry remembered well.

“A wanted poster?” Malfoy asked dryly.  “How quaint.  And look, there is even a reward.  I see the Ministry is as penny-pinching as ever.  You’ll never find him for that pittance.”

“You know where he is,” Harry insisted.

Malfoy shrugged and took a drink from his glass.  When he lowered it, his lips shone with the liquid.  Harry watched, mesmerized, as Malfoy’s pink tongue slid over the droplets slowly.  Fuck.  Harry mentally shook himself, and then added a few slaps to the head for good measure.  Focus, Potter.

“Even if I knew Greg’s whereabouts, why would I tell you?” Malfoy asked.

“He was a Death Eater, Malfoy.  He needs to be brought to justice.”

“Greg never hurt anyone, Potter,” Malfoy said and Harry was glad to see something besides bored indifference in Malfoy’s silver eyes.  Harry welcomed the onslaught of rage.  Angry Malfoy he could deal with.

“That’s for the Wizengamot to decide,” Harry snapped.

“Why?  The witnesses to Greg’s stint as a Death Eater are either dead or insane.  Why can’t you do-gooder types just leave him alone?”

“Why are you trying to protect him, Malfoy?” Harry goaded.  “Do you have something to hide?”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed with silver fury.  He set the goblet on the table hard enough that the glass tabletop rang with the force of it.

“I already had my day with the Wizengamot, Potter.  Have you forgotten?”

“No.  I testified on your behalf.”

“Is that supposed to make me beholden to you?  Do I owe you a favor now?”

Harry flushed angrily.  Trust Draco Malfoy to look for ulterior motives in every situation.  He pushed a frustrated hand into his hair and froze, realizing he had not made the nervous gesture in years.  Only Malfoy could drive him to that level of aggravation.  Harry snapped his hand back to his side.

“No, you don’t owe me a favor, Malfoy,” he snarled.  “I just hoped you…  Fuck, I don’t know.  I guess I just thought you might have changed.”

Malfoy moved forward until he stood too close to Harry for comfort.  A pale hand reached out and touched Harry’s cheek.  The contact was electrifying, especially when the long fingers slipped down to cup Harry’s jaw.  Harry couldn’t breathe as Draco leaned forward, as if to plant a kiss on his lips.

“Maybe I have changed, Potter,” Malfoy murmured softly and the grey eyes bored into his.  Harry wished to hell he had mastered Legilimency and more, because he would have given anything to know what Malfoy was thinking when he said those words.  Harry was seized by the urge—the need—to tilt forward and taste Malfoy’s lips.  The hand on his chin prevented it—thanks be to Merlin, he told himself later—and then the spell was broken, and Malfoy released him with a smirk.

“I tell you what, Potter.  Meet me at 10 pm tonight and we’ll discuss Greg Goyle,” Malfoy said.  He pulled an object from his back pocket and it took Harry a moment to recognize it as a black marker.  Before Harry could protest, Malfoy grabbed Harry’s hand and began to write on his palm with decisive, almost painful, strokes.  “I value my privacy, Potter, so don’t alert the media.  Use your sneaky cloak if you must, but come alone.”  Malfoy finished the address and then swiftly unbuttoned the cuff on Harry’s sleeve.  He pressed the material up, nearly earning a gasp from Harry at the sensual feel of the long fingers on his skin.  “You can’t miss the place—there is a huge oak tree next to the gate.”

“You could have written on the back of this poster, you know.”

“And mar Ministry property?  Perish the thought.”  Malfoy glanced sidelong at Harry, still gripping his wrist.  “Although you might be considered Ministry property, too, eh?”

Harry bit back a retort as the pen scrawled over his forearm with a flourish.  Malfoy released him and stepped back with a wicked grin.

“There.  Now you have my autograph, too.”

Harry looked at his arm in annoyance.  Malfoy’s flowery signature was there—a bizarre parody of the Dark Mark, but there were words above the name.  Harry scowled.

“What does it say?” he demanded.  Malfoy tsked.

“You can’t read Greek, Potter?  Pity.  See you at 10.”

With that, Malfoy capped the pen and disappeared down the stairs.  Harry licked a finger and used it to rub at the words on his arm—to no avail.  Malfoy had used permanent ink.

The house stood on a rocky promontory overlooking the Aegean.  Malfoy had been right about the oak.  The huge, spreading branches hung over the gate, likely shading half the yard in the daytime.  Harry hadn’t bothered with his cloak—no one in Greece knew who he was.  The wrought iron gate swung open when he approached, making him wonder if it had been spelled, or if Malfoy were watching.  He shrugged and walked up the path through the manicured lawn.  He had expected an opulent mansion, not this quaint Mediterranean cottage.

Before he could knock, the door swung open to reveal Malfoy limned in candlelight.  Malfoy’s lips were curled in what looked like a genuine smile, and his eyes traveled over Harry in a way that made the saliva dry up in Harry’s mouth.
“Going native already, Potter?” he asked and stepped aside for Harry to enter.  Harry did so, feeling self-conscious about his decision to wear the khaki trousers and white tank top, but the afternoon had grown blazingly hot and humid, with no sign of diminishing through the night.

The house was beautiful, with an open floor plan and windows open to the sea everywhere Harry looked.  Candles flickered from every surface, giving the place a seductive feel.  Harry wondered if Malfoy had been entertaining prior to his arrival and felt a flare of… what?  Jealousy?  Ha!  Not a chance.  He drop kicked the voice that howled liar! and forbid it to return.

“So,” Harry said, “About Goyle—”

“Come out to the veranda, Potter.  It’s cooler out here.  Have a drink and relax, if you can remember how.”

Harry sighed and trailed Malfoy to the veranda, which looked remarkably similar to the one the Seeker had lounged against at the inn earlier.  Malfoy walked to a table adorned with two huge torches of the bug-dispelling variety.  He poured something icy from a pitcher into a tall glass and handed it to Harry.

“Sangria.  Not exactly a Greek beverage, but it’s refreshing in this beastly heat.”

Harry took a drink, wondering why Malfoy was suddenly acting like a human being.  His gaze was drawn to the view and he walked to the railing to admire it.

“Great view,” he commented.

“The best,” Malfoy said huskily and moved to stand behind Harry.  “You seem tense Potter.  Do you ever unwind?”

“At home,” Harry admitted and Malfoy laughed.

“Really?  I’ll bet your idea of relaxation is sitting on your couch perusing case files.”

Harry flushed at the accuracy of the observation.  He nearly jumped when he felt Malfoy’s hands on his shoulders, but realized the fingers were only kneading the tense muscles.  He sighed at the unwelcome pleasure.

“Fuck, Potter, your knots have knots.  You are tightly wound, aren’t you?”  Harry tried to pull away, but Malfoy followed until Harry was pressed against the cool railing.  “Calm yourself, I’m good at this.  My massages are in high demand with my teammates.”

“I’ll bet,” Harry said dryly, but he groaned softly when the strong fingers pressed at a tight spot between his shoulder blades.

“I’ve read about you in the Prophet,” Malfoy said conversationally.  “Did you really split with the Weaselette, or is that a media fabrication?”

“It’s true,” Harry said without regret.  Harry had spent more and more time at work, and less and less time with Ginny.  When they were together, they inevitably rowed about Harry’s absences.  Harry’s final confession had severed the relationship forever, although that, thankfully, had not been in the papers.

“Good,” said Malfoy and there seemed to be volumes of unspoken meaning in the single word, but perhaps that was simply wishful thinking on Harry’s part.  He suddenly felt his shirt being pulled from his waistband and started so violently he nearly spilled his drink.  Malfoy chuckled.

“Take it easy, hero, I just don’t want to get oil on your shirt.”

“What oil?” Harry asked stupidly, but allowed Malfoy to pull the tank over his head, after setting the cold glass on the railing.  He tried to quell the damned voice that was screaming with glee at the thrill of being partially undressed by Draco Malfoy.  Harry heard the clink of a crystal stopper, and then droplets of cool liquid hit his shoulders.

“Olive oil.  The Greeks are big on olive oil, you know.  This one has some herbal additives to unwind tense muscles.  I use it after Quidditch matches.”

Harry could not complain about the oil, or the application.  A delightful sense of languor was stealing over him and his skin tingled everywhere Malfoy’s hands went.  The tight muscles of his back and shoulders were kneaded and pushed into slack lassitude.  Malfoy’s hands moved higher.  Harry leaned back slightly and actually moaned when the fingers pressed into his neck and squeezed, both gentle and rough at once, with taut thumb-caresses in all the right places.  The hands slipped forward over Harry’s chest, and he managed not to hiss with ecstasy when Malfoy’s palms brushed over his nipples, but it took a damned lot of effort, including nearly biting his tongue in half.

When the fingers languidly caressed Harry’s abdominal muscles, he belatedly realized the strokes had changed—they were no longer massaging, but now seemed to be tracing every line of Harry’s flesh, searching and mapping with erotic determination.

“Er… is this still a massage?” Harry asked hoarsely.  He felt Malfoy’s shirt against his back, and hard muscles beneath that.  Hot breath touched his throat and then lips brushed his earlobe gently.

“No, we’ve moved on to seduction, now,” Malfoy said in a voice that sent shivers straight to Harry’s loins.

“Oh,” Harry managed.

Malfoy pressed himself firmly against Harry’s back and placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss on his neck.

“Is that okay?” Malfoy asked.  Harry could not have formed a coherent sentence if his life depended on it.  For reply, he tipped his head back and parted his lips.  A sound that resembled delight rumbled against his back, uttered by Malfoy, and then Harry was kissed with exquisite thoroughness.  The sensations were overwhelming.  He felt both doomed and rescued at once.  Malfoy’s hands never ceased moving, sliding from the tops of Harry’s shoulders to the waistband of his trousers, and back again.

He reveled in the incredible sensations and found his own hands reaching back to touch all of Malfoy they could reach, which turned out to be his hips.  Draco groaned against his mouth, and turned Harry around.  The movement broke the kiss and Harry’s eyes widened.

“Oh god, is this about Goyle—”  Harry had the sudden fear that Malfoy was simply trying to distract him.  He expected anger, or even a petulant scowl, anything but the grin and chuckle Malfoy bestowed on him.

“This was never about Goyle, Potter.  I’m the one that sent the poster and the reward to the Ministry, with instructions that they be delivered directly to you.  No one cares about Goyle.”

Harry blinked at him, utterly puzzled.

“Why would you do that?”

“To lure you here, of course.  Brilliant, wasn’t it?”

“Brilliant?  You mean sneaky, underhanded, devious, and completely insane?”

“It worked, didn’t it?"

“You couldn’t have walked into the Ministry and asked me out, like a normal person?”

“Would you have agreed?”

Malfoy did not wait for an answer.  He kissed Harry again and the why and wherefores suddenly didn’t make a jot of difference.  Harry lost himself in Malfoy’s kisses, and finally thought to ask, a very long time later, “Malfoy, what did you write on my arm?”

Malfoy chuckled and did something with his tongue that made Harry gasp.  “Property of Draco Malfoy.”