The Skirt and the Scar

The first day back at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy stepped off the Hogwarts Express and the whole world tilted.

No more slicked-back platinum hair or stiff, pristine robes. Instead: a mess of ink-black hair falling in jagged layers past his shoulders, dark as a starless night. His eyes were lined with kohl—sharp, smoky, making the grey of his irises look almost silver. A black crop top hugged his torso, stopping just beneath his ribs, leaving a pale strip of midriff exposed. Below that, a short black pleated mini skirt swished around his thighs. Black fishnets sheathed his legs, disappearing into heeled combat boots laced up to his calves.

He walked with a new kind of confidence. Hips swaying, chin lifted, a faint smirk on his lips as he surveyed the crowd. And the crowd surveyed him right back.

A hush fell over the platform. Students turned, jaws slack. Hermione dropped her book. Ron made a sound like a strangled cat. Harry felt his throat go dry, his chest tightening—not from the autumn chill.

"What the hell?" Ron whispered, face cycling through shades of red. "Is that... Malfoy?"

It was. And Harry couldn't look away.

Draco's body had changed over the summer. Where before there'd been a lean, almost coltish frame, now there were curves—full, round breasts pressing against the crop top, a waist that nipped in before flaring out into hips that could make a man weep. The mini skirt hugged a round, prominent ass that moved with each step like a promise. Harry's mouth went dry. He forced himself to look at the castle, at the sky, at anything else—but his eyes kept snapping back like magnets.

Ron was still muttering. "It's not—I mean—he's a bloke, right? But—" He stopped, swallowed hard, and turned away. Harry didn't need Legilimency to know what Ron was thinking. He'd had similar thoughts himself. In dreams. Sweating, tangled-sheet dreams that left him waking in the dark, hard and confused and disgusted with himself.

But now the object of those dreams was real, walking through the Great Hall at dinner, sliding into his usual seat at the Slytherin table. Blaise Zabini greeted him with an appreciative wolf whistle. Pansy Parkinson looked murderous. Draco just laughed—low, musical—and tossed his black hair over his shoulder. The movement made his crop top ride up, revealing a sliver of pale stomach and the sharp line of his hip bone.

Harry dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate. Across the table, Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Are you all right, Harry?"

"Fine," he said, too quickly. "Just—fine."

He was not fine.

---

The dreams got worse.

In the first one, Draco was wearing that skirt, but nothing else. Straddling Harry's hips, grinding down, head thrown back, black hair cascading down his spine. The fishnets were shredded, torn away to reveal creamy skin. Draco's hands were in Harry's hair, tugging, and his voice was a low, mocking whisper: Look at you, Potter. So desperate. So weak.

Harry woke with a gasp, boxers soaked, heart pounding. He lay in the dark of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, listening to Ron's snores and Nev's soft breathing, and stared at the canopy of his four-poster bed. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to touch himself again.

The next night, Draco was bent over a desk in the Potions dungeon, skirt hiked up, exposing the curve of his ass and the tops of his fishnets. Harry was behind him, hands gripping those hips, thrusting into him while Draco moaned, "Yes, Potter, yes—"

Harry woke up harder than before, and this time he didn't fight it. He shoved a hand down his trousers and came with his teeth clenched against the pillow, hating himself and craving more at the same time.

At breakfast, Draco sat two tables away, wearing a black corset top that laced up the front and pushed his breasts up so high they looked like they might spill out. He caught Harry staring and smiled—slow, wicked—then deliberately licked a drip of pumpkin juice from his bottom lip.

Harry's face burned. He shoved toast into his mouth and didn't taste a thing.

---

Quidditch practice was a nightmare.

Harry had thought getting back on his broom, feeling the wind in his hair, would clear his head. It always had before. But then Draco Malfoy walked onto the pitch wearing tight black shorts that barely covered the curve of his ass—seam riding up between his cheeks in a way that had to be intentional—and a matching crop top that left his midriff bare. No bra, Harry realized with a jolt. The fabric was thin, and every time Draco moved, the outline of his nipples pressed against it, hard and visible.

Slytherin had Quidditch practice at the same time as Gryffindor that day. Madame Hooch had scheduled it, claiming they needed to share the pitch due to Triwizard preparations. Harry suspected foul play from a higher power—or maybe just bad luck.

Draco mounted his broom with an easy grace, shorts riding up even farther. He glanced over at Harry, just for a second, and winked.

Harry nearly fell off his Nimbus.

"Potter!" Wood's voice was sharp. "Eyes on the Snitch, not on the—" He stopped, flustered. "Just focus!"

Focus. Right. Harry tried. He really did. But every time he looked up, there was Draco, soaring past on his Comet, hair streaming behind him, legs bare and pale against the sky. At one point, Draco leaned forward to execute a sharp turn, and the crop top rode up, exposing the entire curve of his lower back and the top of his shorts. Harry's broom wobbled.

"I said focus, Potter!"

The practice ended in a draw, with neither team catching the Snitch. Harry landed on shaky legs, hands clammy on the handle. He wanted to get to the locker room, change, and hide. But as he pushed open the heavy wooden door, he found Draco already inside, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed.

The locker room was dim, lit only by a few torches. Steam rose from the showers, but no one else was there. Draco had taken off his broom strap and was standing in just the crop top and those impossibly short shorts. The fishnets had a run in them—a deliberate tear, Harry realized, showing a strip of bare thigh.

"Potter," Draco said, his voice a low purr. "You were staring."

Harry's heart hammered. "I wasn't."

"Bullshit." Draco pushed off the wall and walked toward him, boots clicking on wet stone. Each step brought him closer, until Harry could smell him—something floral and dark, like night-blooming jasmine. "You couldn't keep your eyes off me. It's pathetic, really."

"Get over yourself, Malfoy."

"Make me."

It was a challenge, a taunt, the same old song and dance. But the air between them was different now. Thicker. Hotter. Harry's fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to punch Draco. He wanted to kiss him. He didn't know which was worse.

Draco stopped a foot away, close enough to touch. He tilted his head, those smoky eyes raking over Harry's body. "I've seen the way you look at me. At meals. In the corridors. You think I don't notice?" He reached out and traced a finger down Harry's chest, over his Quidditch robes. "You want me. Admit it."

"No."

"Liar." Draco's hand flattened over Harry's heart. "It's racing. Your pupils are dilated. You're hard just from me being near you."

Harry's breath hitched. He was right. So right. The bulge in his trousers was obvious, and there was no hiding it. Shame and desire warred in his gut, and desire was winning.

"I could have anyone," Draco murmured, stepping closer still, until his body was a hair's breadth away. "But I want to see you break, Potter. I want to watch you fall apart."

He pulled back, a smirk on his red lips, and turned to walk away. His hips swayed, the shorts riding up, and Harry caught a glimpse of the rounded swell of his ass. He wanted to grab it. He wanted to push Draco against the wall and—

"See you around," Draco called over his shoulder, and then he was gone, leaving Harry alone in the steam, trembling with need.

---

The avoidance strategy was a joke.

Harry tried. Took different routes to classes, sat at the far end of the Great Hall, kept his head down in the library. But Hogwarts was a small place, and Draco Malfoy had a talent for being everywhere.

Monday: Harry rounded a corner near the Transfiguration corridor and found Draco bent over, picking up a stack of parchment that had spilled. The mini skirt rode up, exposing the hem of the fishnets and the pale skin of his upper thighs. He stayed down for a long moment, slowly gathering each sheet, before straightening and giving Harry a look of pure, feline satisfaction.

"Lose something, Potter?"

Tuesday: At the library, Harry was trying to research the First Task when Draco slid into the seat opposite him. Wearing a tight black dress that stopped mid-thigh, plunging neckline showing the tops of his breasts. He crossed his legs—slowly, deliberately—and looked at Harry over a book.

"Need help with that research? I'm very good at... handling difficult subjects."

Harry's quill snapped. He left without a word.

Wednesday: In the Great Hall, Draco sat at the Slytherin table, facing Harry directly. Wearing a sheer black top that left nothing to the imagination, eating a strawberry, licking the juice from his lips with agonizing slowness. Harry felt Ron stiffen beside him.

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered. "I'm going to have to— I mean—" He shoved his chair back and fled.

Harry stayed frozen, eyes locked on Draco's. Draco smiled, bit another strawberry, and winked.

That night, Harry's dreams were the most vivid yet. Draco on his knees, taking Harry into his mouth, kohl-rimmed eyes looking up with mock innocence as he swallowed him whole. Harry woke with a moan, hand already moving, and came in seconds, gasping Draco's name.

---

The Yule Ball.

Harry had been dreading it. No date, no desire to dance, no way to avoid the night's festivities. The Great Hall was transformed, icicles hanging from the ceiling, a frozen lake in the center where a band played. Students swirled in robes and gowns, but Harry stayed at the edges, nursing a butterbeer.

Then she walked in.

No—he walked in. Draco Malfoy, wearing a dress of sheer black fabric that seemed to be made of night itself. Long, trailing behind him, but slit up to the hip on one side, revealing a long, fishnet-clad leg. The bodice was low—dangerously low—cupping his breasts and pushing them together in a way that made Harry's mouth go dry. His hair was down, falling in dark waves, eyes lined with silver glitter. He looked like a dark angel, a creature from another world.

He walked alone, ignoring the stares, and headed straight for the dance floor.

The music shifted to something slow and sensual. Draco began to move, body rolling with the rhythm, hips swaying, hands sliding up his own torso. He danced as if no one was watching, but he was watching—his gaze found Harry across the room, and he smiled, slow and dangerous.

Harry's legs moved before his brain caught up. He crossed the floor, weaving through the crowd, until he reached the edge of the dance floor. Draco was there, still moving, eyes never leaving Harry's.

"You're a menace," Harry said, voice low.

"Moi?" Draco's accent curled around the word. "I'm just enjoying the ball. You should try it."

"You're doing this on purpose."

"Am I?" Draco stepped closer, close enough that Harry could feel the heat radiating off his body. "And if I am? What are you going to do about it, Potter?"

Harry grabbed his wrist. "Come with me."

He pulled Draco off the dance floor, through the crowd, out the doors and into the cold night air. The balcony was empty, stars overhead, music a distant murmur. Harry released him, breathing hard.

"What do you want from me?" Harry demanded. "Why are you doing this?"

Draco leaned against the balustrade, the slit of his dress falling open, exposing the full length of his leg. "I want you to admit it. I want you to say it."

"Say what?"

"That you want me. That you burn for me. That you can't stop thinking about my body, my mouth, my hands." Draco's voice dropped to a whisper. "That you've dreamed of fucking me."

The word hung in the air like a spell. Harry's control snapped.

He surged forward, grabbing Draco by the waist and pulling him close. Their lips crashed together—hard, desperate, a clash of teeth and tongue. Draco moaned into his mouth, hands tangling in Harry's hair, pulling him closer. Harry's hands roamed, finding the curve of Draco's ass, squeezing it through the fabric of the dress. Draco gasped, arching into him.

"Not here," Draco breathed against his lips. "Too public. Follow me."

He took Harry's hand and led him back inside, through a side door, up a flight of stairs, down a dark corridor. They stopped at a door that seemed to appear out of nowhere—the Room of Requirement, or something like it. Draco pushed it open, and they stumbled inside.

It was a classroom, dimly lit by floating candles. Desks pushed aside, leaving a clear space in the center, where a plush rug had appeared. A fire crackled in the hearth. The room smelled of incense and cedar.

Draco turned to Harry, eyes glittering. "Now, Potter. Show me how much you want me."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He closed the distance, kissing Draco again, deeper this time, hands finding the zipper of the dress. Draco's fingers worked at Harry's robes, pushing them off his shoulders. Clothes fell away, piece by piece, until they were both half-naked, skin to skin.

Draco's dress pooled at his feet. He stood before Harry in nothing but black fishnets and a tiny pair of lace knickers. His body was a map of curves and hollows—full breasts with hard nipples, a soft belly, wide hips, strong thighs. Harry drank him in, hands tracing every inch.

"Your turn," Draco murmured, and he dropped to his knees, hooking fingers into the waistband of Harry's trousers. He pulled them down, along with his boxers, freeing Harry's hard, aching cock. Draco licked his lips, then leaned forward and took him in his mouth.

Harry's head fell back. He gripped Draco's hair—the dark, silky strands—and groaned as Draco's tongue worked magic. It was everything he'd dreamed and more. Draco was skilled, confident, taking him deep without gagging, hollowing his cheeks as he pulled back. Grey eyes looked up, full of mischief and desire, and Harry felt the pressure building.

"Stop," he gasped. "I don't want to—not yet."

Draco pulled off, licking his lips. "Impatient, Potter?"

Harry pulled him to his feet and spun him around, bending him over a desk. The fishnets were a barrier, but a thin one. Harry tore at them, ripping a hole, exposing the pale curve of Draco's ass. He pushed aside the lace of his knickers and pressed himself against him.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, voice rough.

Draco looked over his shoulder, smile wicked. "I've wanted this all summer, Potter. I changed everything—my hair, my clothes—just to get your attention." He reached back and guided Harry's cock to his entrance. "So yes. Fuck me."

Harry pushed inside.

The heat was incredible, tight and slick. Draco cried out—a sound of pleasure and pain—and Harry stilled, letting him adjust. Then Draco rocked back against him, urging him deeper, and Harry began to move.

It was primal, raw. Harry gripped Draco's hips, pounding into him, each thrust sending shockwaves through both their bodies. Draco's moans filled the room, his name—Harry, Harry, yes—spurring him on. Harry leaned forward, chest pressing against Draco's back, mouth on his neck, biting, sucking.

"Look at you," Harry growled. "You're mine."

"Yours," Draco gasped. "God, Potter—harder—"

Harry complied. He reached around and took Draco's cock in his hand, pumping him in rhythm with his thrusts. Draco was close, body trembling, breath coming in short, sharp cries. Harry buried himself deep and held, feeling Draco's orgasm pulse around him, hot and wet.

That was all it took. Harry came with a groan, spilling into him, bodies locked together in the firelight.

They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, sweaty, clinging to each other. Then Harry pulled out, and Draco turned to face him. Makeup smeared, hair a mess. He looked beautiful.

He looked up at Harry, a familiar smirk curling his lips. "My father will hear about this."

Harry froze. Then he laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm. "You're unbelievable."

"I know." Draco leaned in and kissed him, soft and lingering. "But you like it."

"Maybe," Harry admitted. "I don't know what this is. But I don't want it to stop."

Draco traced a finger down Harry's chest. "It doesn't have to. We can be... discreet. The rivals in public, this in private. No one needs to know."

Harry's answer was a kiss. Another one. And another.

They dressed slowly, stealing touches, exchanging whispered words. Draco admitted he'd started dressing this way after a dream of his own—a dream of Harry's hands on him, of being wanted. Harry confessed his own dreams, the nights of guilt and pleasure.

"I thought I was going mad," Harry said.

"Maybe you are," Draco said. "But so am I. So we're mad together."

They left the room, the corridor dark and empty. At the corner, Draco pulled Harry into an alcove and kissed him one last time, deep and possessive.

"Same time tomorrow?" Draco asked.

"I'll be there."

Draco smiled, slipped away, and disappeared into the shadows. Harry leaned against the wall, heart pounding, a grin spreading across his face. The rivalry wasn't over. The insults would still fly, the glares would still be sharp. But now they had a secret, a flame burning beneath the ice.

And Harry couldn't wait to stoke it.