Last Chance - H/D - NC-17
Title: Last Chance
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17

Happy Christmas crikkita, kaalee, marksy, ihlanya and willysunny!

But especially crikkita, for turning her precious H/D into an H/R for me.

Beta’ed by my beautiful rosina_alcona, who felt as dirty as I did, so we hope you guys like it. I’m afraid my Malfoy is not a fandom!Malfoy!


Last Chance
****
The Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match was as passionately fought as ever.

For Harry and Ron it was their last year – their last chance to beat their dreaded rivals, their last chance to win the Quidditch Cup.

And a chance to get back to normal – whatever that was – on the scarred pitch, in front of the damaged castle. Half of the spectators were sporting bandages and bruises along with their scarves and banners.

Harry’s black eye had faded to a rather revolting yellow, which accessorised his red and yellow Gryffindor uniform. And as Malfoy zoomed past him, high in the sky, he could see the Slytherin-greenish remains of the bruise on his pale check, where his father had viciously backhanded him after the battle.

Harry shook his head to dislodge the thought. No use going there today. No thinking of the battle itself, where they had lost Dumbledore, lost Dean, lost so many others. No thinking of how or why Malfoy had pulled away from his father as the remaining Death Eaters had tried to flee.

No. Today was about Quidditch. Harry passed the Gryffindor hoops and smiled fondly at Ron – if the absence of Fred and George last year had improved Ron’s confidence, then being captain for his final year had made him as maniacal about the game as Oliver ever was. Ron’s hair blew back from his face and his eyes darted all over the pitch – currently watching Ginny dodging the Slytherin Beaters and scoring through the left hoop.

He left Ron whooping and circling his hoops and continued circling the stadium. Catching the Snitch always meant the world to him, but this last chance to beat Malfoy had him really pumped up. Madame Pomfrey had only let him out of the hospital wing the day before, after he had thrown a huge tantrum. He’d been rather impressed actually, everyone else – except Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville anyway – was rather scared of him. No one would stand up to the Boy Who Killed Voldemort – except the strict nurse who had fixed him up so many times in the past seven years.

He passed Malfoy again, as the other boy circled in the opposite direction, but there were no sarcastic remarks, and they both carried on searching, Seekers’ eyes sweeping the stadium.

What was it with Malfoy, anyway? Why had he spurned his father? Why was he still at school? The other seventh year Slytherins had all fought and fled. Or died.

He shook his head again and re-focussed. Then, as he and Malfoy approached the Gryffindor hoops from opposite sides, there was a glint of gold from behind Ron, and they both kicked their brooms into action. Neck and neck they hurtled towards the Gryffindor Keeper, who grinned maniacally and dived at the last moment – leaving Harry to close his fingers on the Snitch, and Malfoy to crash hard into the hoop that had been hidden behind him.

Harry followed Ron’s dive and the rest of the Gryffindor team descended on them as they reached the ground and embraced. None of them spared a glance for Malfoy as his broom crashed to the ground, leaving him winded and re-bruised.

****
Most of the team had gone for showers, or with Ginny and Ron to the kitchens to get supplies for the celebrations in Gryffindor common room. Harry sat in the stands, looking out over the scarred turf. His last match. They’d done it. They’d won the cup. Ron had been in tears, accepting the trophy from a bawling Professor McGonagall.

In a matter of weeks they would be gone. All that was left were NEWTs and they would be out on their own. And Harry had no idea what he wanted to do. Everyone else felt that the death of Voldemort was a new beginning, a chance to get on with their lives.

For Harry it was the end. He’d done what he’d been born to do. Full stop. End of story. He looked down at the struggling Snitch in his hand and opened his fingers. It flew upwards and a hand shot out from behind him and caught it. He whirled around to see Malfoy standing there, a wry smile on his lips.

“Finally,” he drawled.

"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly.

Malfoy smiled nastily.

"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. Hovering level with the hoops he called, "Come and get it, Potter!"

Harry grabbed his broom. Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him

He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair.

"Give it here," Harry called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"

"Oh, yeah?" said Malfoy, trying to sneer.

Harry knew what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and
held the broom steady.

"Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he released the Snitch and they both turned and raced after it.

Harry leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down - next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing Malfoy and the Snitch - wind whistled in his ears - he stretched out his hand - a foot from the ground he
caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Snitch clutched safely in his fist and Malfoy lying beside him.

Harry’s heart was racing as he turned to look at the other boy. “That was…”

“What we were born to do,” said Malfoy.

Harry snorted, indelicately and moved to sit up. “I know what I was born to do, Malfoy. I was born to kill.”

And suddenly Malfoy was looming over him, pinning his shoulders to the grass. “Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, Potter,” he hissed.

“I’m not,” muttered Harry, struggling to throw Malfoy off. “Everyone else is so optimistic suddenly, everyone is thinking about their future. Well, I never thought beyond facing Voldemort. I don’t have anything to do with my future.”

“Welcome to my world, Potter,” smirked Malfoy. “I never thought beyond taking the Dark Mark, but when it came to the battle, all I could think was that if I went to Azkaban I’d never fly again.”

“What did you do during the battle, Malfoy?” Harry asked, genuinely intrigued, and forgetting that Malfoy was till on top of him, pressing him into the ground.

“Nothing,” Malfoy replied, unblushingly, “I hid. When it was over my father tried to take me away with them, but the life of a fugitive Death Eater doesn’t appeal to me. So I fought free, he gave me this,” Malfoy pointed to the scar on his cheek, “the Aurors Priori Incantatemed my wand and had to let me go, so here I am. Here we are”

“And just where is that?” asked Harry, suddenly nervous.

“We are going to fly, Potter. Of all the things you bested me at over the past seven years, it was the Quidditch that hurt the most. You are going to fly. You are going to play for the bloody Cannons, to make Weasley come in his pants, and I am going to play for the Kestrals and we carry on as we always have.”

“As what?”

“As rivals. As the only thing that makes each other feel truly alive,” and, to Harry’s utter amazement, he dipped his head and captured Harry’s mouth with his own.

Harry opened his mouth to protest and Malfoy’s tongue thrust inside and snaked up against his tongue. Harry pushed back – with his tongue, with his hands against Malfoy’s chest, with his hips. And suddenly it was like flying. His duels with Malfoy on broomsticks transferred to the ground; as their tongues thrust and parried against each other, their hands grabbed at robes and shirts; their fingernails scored the skin they found beneath the clothing.

“Malfoy,” Harry gasped, between what he couldn’t even categorise as kisses. He’d had kisses, and they were nothing like this. Malfoy was devouring him.

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy hissed as he managed to undo Harry’s trousers and free his cock.

Harry shut up, swiftly, and let his head fall back onto the grass. Malfoy bit his neck as his hand closed around Harry’s erection and started stroking it. Not gently, either, but with the same ferocity that his mouth fell on Harry’s throat.

Harry groaned and reached between them to grasp Malfoy’s cock – ignoring the voice at the back of his head, that sounded rather like Ron, saying Malfoy’s cock??? - and stroke it.

“Here,” Malfoy whispered and, oh God, he pressed his cock flush against Harry’s and wrapped their hands round both rock-hard erections.

Harry looked up at him, round eyed, and their eyes locked as their hands pumped frantically up and down their shafts. Malfoy’s eyes were as cold and grey as ever, but his breath was ragged and his nostrils flared as Harry felt their cocks throb in unison and spill over their joined hands.

Malfoy finally let go of him and flopped bonelessly back onto the grass. “You had better not tell anyone about this, Potter,” he said.

Harry lay there, dazed, with his cock deflating on his thigh in a pool of come. “Who the fuck would I tell, Malfoy?” he asked. “No one would believe me. And Ron would kill you… me… us both!”

Malfoy snorted. “Yeah, well. Good.”

“So what now?” asked Harry, looking up at the sky.

Malfoy came up on one elbow, sneering down at him as he adjusted himself and zipped up his trousers. “Now, we get on with our lives, Potter. You’re going to play professionally, right?”

“Yeah, right,” Harry agreed, realising that somewhere between the usual snarking at Malfoy and coming over his hand, he had, indeed, decided to play.

“Well,” said Malfoy, gracefully unfolding and hauling Harry to his feet, “off you go to your bloody celebrations, Potter. We’ll meet again on our broomsticks.” And with swiftly raised eyebrows he turned and disappeared into the growing darkness.

Harry shook himself and turned to go back up to the castle. He found himself grinning like an idiot. Wouldn’t Ron and Hermione be surprised at what a good mood he was in. Well, he could easily explain the sudden decision to turn pro on the high from today’s match, couldn’t he? They’d never guess the real reason.