Posted in Fluff Bingo, Harry Potter

Game Called (On Account of Rain)

Title: Game Called (On Account Of Rain)
Prompt: Just Write! Fluff Bingo, ‘Kissing in the Rain’ square
Fandom:
Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Genre: AU, romance, fluff
Rating/Warnings: teenagers being sexual with each other so underage sex in a non-skeevy way; tooth-rotting fluff
Notes: So, I failed to call bingo in the Just Write! Fluff Bingo in 2019, but I finished the story I wrote for my ‘Kissing in the Rain’ square. For once, my procrastination paid off because we’re doing a bonus round with the same card. Better late than never?
Word Count: 2691

Synopsis: Harry was perfectly happy, flying in the rain until Draco Malfoy showed up and ruined it.

“For fuck’s sake, Potter!”

Harry huffed, flying in a lazy corkscrew to face the source of the disgruntled shout. He rolled his eyes harder than he’d rolled his broom at the sight of Draco Malfoy, standing at the top of the nearest Quidditch stand — the one draped in the Slytherin green banner, naturally — beneath the awning, umbrella deployed and a waterproof cloak on. With the hood up, no less.

You’d think they were in the North Sea during a storm, rather than Scotland during a typical autumn drizzle.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry called back. He preferred flying in such weather, not only because it was good practice for Quidditch, but because it guaranteed him some privacy. Only the most ridiculous Boy-Who-Lived fans or obsessed Quidditch players would disturb Harry out here.

Since Oliver Wood had graduated and Colin Creevey’s camera was unreliable in the rain, Harry could count on a few hours of privacy on a wet Sunday afternoon. Typical of Malfoy to be the one to track him down after having already disturbed Harry once today, he and his obnoxious cohort having made it hard to study in the library before lunch. Malfoy had always been a pain in Harry’s arse.

“I’d ask if you were spying on me ahead of next week’s game,” Harry continued, “but to be honest, even that won’t help you beat me to the snitch.”

“Wanker,” Malfoy said, far more calmly than he would have in the past. A couple of private conversations over the summer led to the revelation Draco didn’t really resent losing the snitch to Harry. He was a competitive git and loved playing, but he was also a true Quidditch fan and loved watching someone play well. Which didn’t mean he wanted to see Gryffindor win either the Quidditch or House cup — just that, if Malfoy couldn’t be the winner, it was better Harry than some other undeserving slob.

That was Draco Malfoy — the soul of kindness and generosity.

“Takes one to know one, Malfoy,” Harry replied. The last half-hour on his broom had done plenty to blunt the edge of Harry’s temper and mellow him out. “What do you want?”

“I’m not shouting back and forth like some bloody peasant, Potter, come over here!”

Harry did a lazy roll. “Nope.” He smirked at the look on Malfoy’s face, thankful for his new glasses, complete with impervious charms and magnification spellwork. Sirius had been very put out by the state of his old glasses and prescription. And his sparse wardrobe, limited exposure to magical culture, choice of electives, and pretty much everything else in Harry’s life stemming from the Durley’s guardianship or Dumbledore’s supervision.

Harry didn’t argue much whenever Sirius found something new to grumble about. Even when he didn’t agree with Sirius — though he did, for the most part — it was still a new and lovely feeling to have someone concerned with more than whether he was still alive, like the state of his robes and if he had the right supplies for school. Plus, Harry had been pretty pleased with the six weeks they’d spent in Paris, bonding and correcting the deficiencies.

“If you want to talk to me, you can come over here. I’m not stopping what I’m doing to cater to your sensibilities.” Not after Malfoy’s idiot hangers-on had disturbed Harry and Hermione’s efforts in the library with their endless prattle and a few pointed jokes about blood.

“It’s raining.”

It wasn’t, not really. Harry had been out in the fine drizzle for a while and was only just damp, thanks only in part to the weather charms on his flying cloak. It was the kind of fall afternoon where mist and rain met, the air itself damp with fine drops that never really fell so much as they settled on your hair and eyelashes and, if you were flying a top-flight racing broom, formed a fine layer of moisture on your face. The kind of day that, if Harry weren’t flying, he’d have found another reason to be outside to enjoy the damp air and sight of mist over the lake and shrouding the mountains, the way the grass and forest smelled even more like themselves from the rain.

He said nothing so romantic about the weather to Draco Malfoy, a boy who had set himself as a rival and antagonist to Harry as a scrawny first-year and not wavered until hormones and maturity had hit them both like a blasting curse. Not that Malfoy had ever been more than an irritant in comparison to Dark Lords and dark wizards and puberty. In that respect, Harry had given Malfoy far too much of his time and energy compared to the actual danger he represented.

That probably should have been a hint but, as Hermione continued to remind him, Harry could be rather thick at times.

Instead, he gave Malfoy the kind of response his fussy concern deserved. “Get over yourself, Malfoy. You aren’t made of spun sugar or a villain in a Muggle movie — you won’t melt in the rain. Put down the bloody umbrella, get out your broom, and pretend to be a proper Quidditch player,” Harry shouted. Then he flew a few looping circles, taking himself further out of speaking range.

“You’re one to talk, Potter,” Malfoy shouted. He retrieved a shrunken broom from his bag and set his belongings on a bench, out of the weather. Including the umbrella. “You always look like you washed and dried your hair in a windstorm. This level of perfection takes time and effort to achieve.”

“It’s not perfection if it takes that much work, or is that easy to disrupt,” Harry replied once Malfoy came closer. He rolled out of reach to avoid Malfoy’s half-hearted swipe. Harry continued to dodge Malfoy’s attempts to catch him, their identical brooms evenly matched, even if their skills weren’t.

Malfoy’s own Firebolt was a present to himself when Lucius Malfoy had gotten himself killed by Aurors, trying to subvert the new Minister of Magic. Harry knew very well that, though Malfoy loved the broom, and showing it off, he remained irritated that the number stamped on Harry’s own broomstick was so much lower than his own. It was a simple fact that Draco Malfoy did not handle being shown up with any kind of grace.

“Shut your face, Potter,” Malfoy huffed after one last attempt to run his broomstick into Harry’s flank – a blatant Quidditch foul, not that it had ever stopped Malfoy from trying it in a game.

“Make me, Malfoy,” Harry teased. He dropped low over his broom handle and kicked his Firebolt into high gear, shooting towards the end of the pitch. With a shouted curse and a laugh, Malfoy gave chase.

They raced the length of the pitch, then back again, weaving through the goal rings and jostling each other lightly on the turns. Harry led them in a steep dive, skimming the grass before shooting straight up into the sky, mist settling on his face before sliding off from his speed. He aimed straight up at the clouds until even the Firebolt’s charms weren’t enough to overcome the mundane rules of gravity and aerodynamics, and he stalled out, hanging in the air for one perfect moment before he fell back towards the earth.

The freefall lasted only a moment before the spells on his broom kicked back in, and Harry began gliding under his own control again. As the rush of wind and pounding of his own heartbeat left his ears, Harry was able to hear Draco once again.

“— crazy fucking lunatic! Does exposure to Muggles reduce sanity or just self-preservation?” Malfoy demanded as he caught up to Harry. “Are you insane, Potter?”

“Jury’s still out,” Harry said, flipping upright and pushing his glasses up his nose. The charmwork keeping them on his face had been worth the extra few galleons. “Settle down, Malfoy, you’ll pop a blood vessel.”

“I’ll pop your blood vessels, you reckless wanker!” Malfoy reached out and snagged the edge of Harry’s flying cloak and used it to drag him closer. “Idiot! People have died pulling that kind of stunt flying, you know. Don’t you get enough danger challenging the Dark Lord at every turn and overturning the entire Ministry administration?”

The last had been more accident than design but, apparently, when The-Boy-Who-Lived filed charges and started suing the Ministry and the Wizengamot on behalf of his escaped prisoner godfather, himself, and ‘all commonsense and decency,’ it overturned the applecart a bit. But really, Fudge’s barely-veiled corruption and ham-handed politics were his own fault.

He doubted Draco wanted to hear that explanation right now. No matter how pleased Draco had been that one of the results of the Ministry investigations had reopened interest in his father’s Death Eater activities and, ultimately, led to the man’s death. “That’s a necessary risk, not the fun kind. Don’t fuss at me.”

Malfoy yanked his cloak again, pulling him close enough for their knees to knock together. “Are you punishing me? For not telling off my friends?”

Harry huffed and shrugged out of the grip, but stayed close. No need to set Malfoy off again; the other boy had a strong grip and boney knees. “Don’t think that you’re that important, Malfoy. Besides, those assholes aren’t your friends. You wouldn’t give Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, or Mulciber the time of day if they weren’t useful to you. Allies and minions aren’t friends. And anyway,” Harry added, shrugging his cloak straight, “nothing they said was particularly insulting. It’s hard to take offence from the same handful of insults they used as eleven-year-olds, repeated over and over again as if it were the cleverest thing ever said. The most irritating thing about it was the volume – and the pitch.”

“Pansy does get rather high-pitched when she’s excited,” Draco sighed. “To say nothing of her laugh.”

“Her voice is the only thing sharp about her,” Harry agreed. “And, really, Malfoy, do you think I’d risk my own life just to punish you for something stupid one of your minions said about Hermione? She certainly doesn’t need you, or anyone else, to defend her from the likes of Pansy Parkinson.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. Looking reluctantly amused, he asked, “What did you do to her?”

“Me? Nothing. I told you, Hermione doesn’t need any help looking after herself, and everyone else around her besides.” Harry grinned. “I just stood as lookout. And held her bookbag.”

“Fine, then, what did Granger do?”

“Let’s just say that, since Parkinson already resembles one of those yappy little dogs, both in face and tone of voice, Hermione just highlighted the similarity. Anything else would spoil the surprise at supper. Not to mention plausible deniability,” Harry added.

Draco bit his lip and looked away, shoulders shaking. To his credit, he only let out one or two guffaws. Harry tightened a buckle on his Quidditch uniform while he waited for Draco to recover his composure.

“You know,” Draco said, once he’d recovered. The bright mirth in his eyes and the extra colour in his face were the only signs of humour, and those could well have been from their previous flight. “The whole school thinks you’re the ringleader of your little group. Even now, with Weasley on the outs with you and Longbottom joining you and Granger’s little band of Gryffindors.”

Harry’s trust in Ron had never recovered from the Triwizard Tournament selection, and any chance at all of rebuilding a friendship had been eliminated when Ron had accused Hermione of sleeping with Viktor Krum for his money and popularity. Though Ron continued to try and wriggle his way back in Harry’s good graces, civility was all he got. Harry had too many enemies, real and potential, to waste time maintaining a friendship with someone who had less of a sense of loyalty than a Death Eater.

“I don’t know why,” Harry said honestly. “I never set out to do anything but play Quidditch and corner you in a broom cupboard.” This time, Harry was the one to reach out and drag Draco closer. “Things just happen to me.”

Draco caught the front of Harry’s robe and twisted his fingers into the stiff leather. “And Granger?”

“Stick around long enough, Draco, and not only will you get a front seat to Hermione Grangers Ten Year Plan to Succeed at the NEWTs and Take Over the World, but you’ll also become one of her allies in world domination. Benefits include a detailed study schedule and tutoring, health plan and nutritional guide, and the undying loyalty of the most brilliant and determined witch in Britain.”

“Maybe I have my own plans for world domination,” Draco said, tugging a little as he licked a few drops of rain off his lips. Harry watched him do it with interest. “I got you to start following me into broom cupboards, after all. Maybe that’s step one in my plan – useful to have a famous, reckless Gryffindor around for cover, and muscle, if you want to take over the world.”

“Why do you think Hermione keeps me around? I’m sure she’ll be open to taking your plans into account and incorporating anything useful into her own plan. And who said the broom cupboard was your idea?” A détente in their previous hostilities at the end of last school year had led to some unsubtle flirtation. That had quickly escalated to crowding each other into closets, dark corners of the library, and deserted corridors for handsy and enthusiastic snogging.

Harry found it a far more enjoyable use of his time than their previous efforts to stalk each other in hopes of discovering nefarious plans and getting each other in trouble. It turned out, Draco Malfoy could be quite pleasant when he was hot and bothered. Still demanding and bossy, but being able to get a handful of his fabulous ass was worth it.

They weren’t all that subtle about it, either, which was why most of Hogwarts seemed to have no clue. Except for Hermione, of course, who rolled her eyes, told Harry to use protection spells, and complained about his dumb expression and hickeys distracting her from her studying.

“Please, Potter, you don’t notice anything but Quidditch unless someone puts themselves in your path. Even the Dark Lord has to stalk you relentlessly to get your attention.”

Harry made a face. “Don’t make that comparison again. Ugh. Voldemort is not an unwanted suitor.”

“He can get in line. Kiss me.”

“Bossy,” Hary complained even as he complied with the demand.

Draco’s lips were damp and cool, soft from his religious use of balm, and greedy. The first press of lips quickly became a duel of tongues and teeth and lips, more enthusiastic than practiced – though they were doing their best to make up the difference with regular, dedicated training.

Harry’s stomach dropped when Draco nipped his bottom lip, and he laughed into Draco’s mouth when he realized they’d both let go of their broomsticks in favour of each other, and they’d begun to drift downwards.

Draco pulled back and glared. His hair was damp and mussed from Harry’s fingers, and his lips were swollen. He looked as threatening as a kneazle kitten. “This was a terrible idea. Why are we outside, in the rain, a hundred yards in the air, with broomsticks between our legs instead of somewhere warm, dry, and where we can take each other’s pants off?”

He actually had a point; even cushioning charms didn’t render an erection on a broom comfortable. “You have no romance in your soul, Draco Malfoy.”

“I have plenty of romance, and my soul prefers to be as comfortable as the rest of me. You can have your moment in the rain, Potter, but I’d rather have a sofa, a fireplace, and your dick in my mouth.”

“Romance is overrated,” Harry decided. “Race you?”

“If it will get us out of the rain faster,” Draco sighed, then shoved Harry har enough to send his broom spinning and took off for the castle.

Laughing, Harry gave chase.


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I have spent more time in fandom than in real life in the last decade. I'd offer cookies and a speech about joining the dark side, but if you found me here you've probably drunk the kool-aid already.

6 thoughts on “Game Called (On Account of Rain)

  1. Truly wonderful – visual, evocative and tells so much so well in a short form. It’s also warm, humorous and the perfect level of fluffy. Thank you so much for sharing it.

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