Grey Cats in the Dark by Seeker. Rated NC17. Originally posted to the H/D Fuh-Q-Fest, Bound and Shagged using the challenge "Mistaken identity--both supposed to meet someone in a dark room and things progress before they realize." No copyright infringement intended, just a little smoke and mirrors (and invisibility cloaks and broom sheds…)

Perhaps it was time to try something different.

Harry stared blindly at the fire in the common room, remotely glad no one else was there to watch him brood. There were some advantages to being a nocturnal wanderer plagued by nightmares; nobody bothered you when you wanted prime seating in front of the fire. Oh, once in awhile Hermione would be up (still) studying, or Ron would wander down to make sure nobody’d snatched Harry away while he was sleeping, but for the most part, four in the morning was a good time to huddle by the fire and think.

Not that there was ever really a good time to think about his love life, Harry brooded. Or lack of one.

Oh, he’d tried. Two years before, he’d had a go with Cho. She cried. A lot. Snogging wasn’t much fun when a bloke was in danger of drowning.

Then last summer he’d given Hermione a shot, figuring someone might as well since Ron was never going to get his nerve up. Harry had squared his shoulders, taken her by the hand, led her to a sheltered spot in the garden at the Burrow, and given her his very best kiss.

Maybe he should have opened his eyes, or his mouth. Either way, it hadn’t been very impressive.

She’d been sweet, understanding, everything his best friend should be… she hadn’t actually laughed out loud but it had been close. Once she’d realized he was serious she’d actually looked sorry about the smothered giggles she couldn’t help. Or maybe she’d been sorry for him. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out.

After four days of Harry running away and Hermione trying to corner him to ‘talk’, she’d finally pinned him to the wall. A waterfall of words from her and a wall of silence from him later, they’d agreed to pretend it hadn’t ever happened. A year later, it really was as if it hadn’t.

Particularly since the first Hogsmeade weekend in October, a month earlier, when Harry’d tried a girl one last time. Maybe Luna hadn’t been the best choice, but she was there, she was friendly, and she wouldn’t laugh at him.

No, instead she’d gotten distracted halfway through the kissing and wandered off mumbling something about Figglesnirks, or maybe Jabberwocks, Harry couldn’t tell. Leaving him standing there, mouth hanging open, mid-snog, wondering if maybe he just might be gay.

Girls obviously weren’t working out for him.

A loud thumping half-fell down the stairs and Harry looked up to meet Ron’s sleepy eyes as his other best friend stumbled into the room and collapsed onto the couch next to Harry.

“Hey, mate,” he slurred, more than halfway asleep. “You okay? Nightmares? Hungry?” The last word sounded hopeful.

Harry shook his head, then stopped and looked more closely at Ron. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Course,” Ron yawned, garbling his words. “What best friends are for.”

“I need to find out if I’m gay. Snog me?”

Ron fell off the couch.

Looking up from his sprawl at Harry’s feet, Ron was completely and absolutely awake and focused on Harry’s face. “Are you out of your mind?” he finally asked.

Harry sighed. “Okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll find another way to figure it out. It’s not like Hermione was much help either,” he grumbled at the end.

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “Hermione thinks you’re gay?”

“Don’t know,” Harry admitted, “but she laughed when I kissed her.”

Ron’s eyes suddenly popped open, nearly out of his face, in fact. “YOU KISSED HER?” he bellowed.

“Silencio,” Harry cast too late, glancing nervously over his shoulder up the stairs to the girls’ dorm. “Yell a little louder, why don’t you, Ron?” He glared for a second before he got wistful again. “Yeah. Didn’t do any good. She got the giggles.”

“Oh,” Ron said, much more softly, which was silly really now that the silencing spell was on. “Laughed?” He looked uncomfortable. “Er, Harry, you think… Hermione might be gay?” He looked distraught as he said it.

Harry glared at him again. “How the hell would I know? All I know is kissing ME didn’t do anything for her, and I’m not having any luck with girls, and I thought maybe you could give a guy a hand!”

Ron cleared his throat into the silence that fell after Harry’s disgruntled pronouncement. “Well. Okay.”

Harry brightened. “Really?”

“Why not.” Ron sounded resigned. “All cats are grey in the dark. I can always pretend you’re a girl.”

Harry was a little offended, but Ron was agreeing, so it was okay. Ron kept rambling.

“But I’ll only do it as long as it’s not in the dorm and we don’t have to actually look at each other. Not sure I could do it if I could see you. No offense.”

“None taken,” Harry grudgingly conceded, looking Ron over and wondering if ANYONE would get his pulse racing and his palms sweating – things he’d read about happening but never actually experienced. Maybe he was asexual. He sighed again. Ron began to edge away. “Tonight at eleven in the broom shed by the Quidditch pitch?” Harry asked rapidly before Ron could escape and pretend the conversation had never taken place.

Ron looked trapped, then straightened, much as a condemned man might face his hanging judge, and nodded. “Right. Night then.”

“Uhm, Ron?” Harry nodded at the sun beginning to shine through the window. “Breakfast time.”

Ron’s face lit up and he nearly ran from the room. Harry watched him go and wondered when he’d realize he was still in his pyjamas.

Just when he’d decided it was time to try something different, he couldn’t get anyone to listen to him.

Draco sighed and stared with discernible disgust over the rabble littering the Slytherin common room. Cohabitation with the lot for seven years hadn’t done a thing to make them more attractive. Even the sure knowledge that he would betray them very soon didn’t lend a sheen of allure over them, something that rather surprised him, as he’d thought if anything could make his fellow Slytherins pretty it would be nostalgia.

Perhaps whiskey would work better.

Not that his betrayal was going very well. He’d managed to corner Dumbledore long enough to explain he wasn’t joining Voldemort, having gotten a good long up-close look at the spectral being currently inhabiting the best guest suite at Malfoy Manor.

Malfoys could do subservience in the face of great power with the best of wizard kind, but there was a time to cut one’s losses and turn coat, and this was it. His father was rotting in Azkaban, his mother was plotting to run away to Australia, his crazy aunt was a blot on the landscape he couldn’t escape whenever he went home, and Draco had had quite enough. The single greatest accomplishment upon which the Malfoys had always prided themselves was alignment with the winning side in any major conflict, and much as he hated to admit it, Dumblebutt and Scarhead were the winning side. Crazy Aunt Bella and the Mudblood Snake-face were not. Draco had explained as much to the Headmaster.

Who’d had the unmitigated gall to twinkle at him, offer him a lemon drop as if he were a toddler needing a lolly, and tell him it would ‘all work out in the end.’ Right. As if that was reassurance. Affirming that the leader of the Light was as dotty as the leader of the Dark was loopy did nothing for Draco’s peace of mind. He repeated, for the millionth time, that nothing was black and white; everything was grey, and he was going to survive in the midst of that grey, if he had to kill anyone who got in his way to do it, so it really didn’t matter that the personifications of both the Light and the Dark were absolute nutters.

All he could do now was wait. Keep his head down. Keep his arm unmarked. Horde as much of his family’s wealth in his private vault as he could threaten the house elves into transferring. And try to keep his mind off the fact that the waiting was driving him crazy.

He needed to get laid.

Which put him right back where he’d started, staring moodily over the dregs of Slytherin, trying to find a bed partner who wouldn’t put him off the idea simply by breathing.

Pansy was out; not a good idea to shag your recently dumped fiancée. Millicent was out; if Draco wanted a Sumo wrestler he could always call on Crabbe or Goyle. Nott was out; he was already marked, and Draco was staying as far away as humanly possible from black skulls on white skin. Anyone’s white skin. Which left him with the androgynous slut of Slytherin. With a silent sigh for the slim pickings, he gracefully heaved himself up off the leather couch and slouched his way past Blaise.

“Tonight. Broom shed by the pitch. Eleven. I’ll bring the lube,” he whispered in Blaise’s ear as he passed.

Blaise gave him a sultry look and blinked, rather like a sleepy cat. Draco took that as agreement and went on his way to breakfast.

Outside the door to the great hall he was nearly mowed down by the Weasel, thundering through the doors in a mad forage for food. Draco shuddered fastidiously at the maroon striped flannel monstrosity draped on the disgusting red-headed beanpole, and thanked Fate he hadn’t ended up in Gryffindor. The Slytherins weren’t much, but they were better than the alternative.

At least for sex.

The thought struck him, again, that he was throwing his lot in with that lot, a snake in a cat house. He considered neutrality, recognized the sad fact that there was no such thing for a Malfoy, and consigned the whole mess to the back of his brain, there to be obscured by study, sex, and anything else he could bury it under, until he absolutely had to deal with it.

Which was not today.

Throughout most of the day, Ron was able to forget the fact that he was supposed to be meeting Harry in the broom shed by the Quidditch pitch that night to sort out Harry’s sexuality. At least it wasn’t Ginny doing it; he’d have to hurt Harry if that happened, and he wasn’t sure he could. He might be bigger but Harry was a nasty little bugger when he got mad. Just ask You-Know-Who.

Still, as the youngest son of six, Ron was very good at avoiding unpleasantness until it was forced on him, so he made it through all his classes, an embarrassing breakfast (when Hermione pointed out in the middle of his scrambled egg and bacon that he was still wearing his pyjamas), an excellent lunch, and a delicious dinner followed by a truly excellent dessert, two games of chess and a successfully-dodged Charms essay, without once thinking about snogging Harry.

Then the clock struck half past ten, and he was doomed.

Not that snogging Harry was all that bad, really. After all, lips were lips, and as he’d told his best friend, all cats are grey in the dark. As long as it didn’t get into taking any clothes off he could ignore the fact that he was snogging a boy (wasn’t as if it was the first time, after all; Seamus had seen to that, even if that once had decided Ron snogging boys wasn’t for him).

Unfortunately for all his noble intentions, Hermione caught him before he got out the door.

He watched her lips move, let her usual rant about his sneaking about and not finishing his homework wash over him as it always did, then the world went wonky. She got that absolutely frustrated look she always got, then balled her hands up on her hips, and Ron really couldn’t help himself. He reached out, grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close to him, and stopped her ranting with his mouth.

Several hours, a great deal of snogging and quite a bit of nudity later, dawn broke and Ron never remembered the fact that he’d left Harry all alone in the broom shed by the Quidditch pitch. He was too busy with other things.

It was probably just as well.

He was fashionably late, but he really didn’t expect Blaise to be quite so… enthusiastic. Before Draco had the chance to cast Lumos he was seized, squeezed, and snogged within an inch of his life.

Good lord. No wonder Blaise had such an outstanding reputation. It was all a little rougher than Draco expected, but it was rather heady, so he didn’t mind. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Blaise’s hair was messier than he’d expected, too, and his jaw was squarer, his lips were more chapped, his hands were more calloused, and he had quite a lot more muscle on his frame, all things Draco enjoyed tremendously. The kisses were oddly closed and strangely shy, but Draco put his tongue to good use and with a startled-sounding “eep!” Blaise opened his mouth and joined the party.

God, could Blaise kiss.

Draco had the unexpected notion that he was drowning, then strong hands burrowed under his robe, shifted through his underclothing with a seeker’s speed, and settled around his stiffening cock, and Draco forgot everything except the heat spreading over his skin and enveloping his brain. A tiny thought tickled at the back of his mind that there was something off about this whole encounter, but it was quickly overpowered by the rush of lust. Light-headed, a little dizzy, thoroughly enjoying himself, he gave up on thinking altogether.

Feeling was much more fun.

The longer he waited, the more nervous Harry got.

Surely Ron wouldn’t forget? Or chicken out?

Just as Harry had nearly convinced himself that Ron wasn’t coming, and he might as well risk his neck (and his balls) by giving girls one last try with Ginny, the door opened. A tall, slender form filled the doorway, one arm lifting his wand. Suddenly, irrationally fearful that Ron was going to cast a Lumos spell, take a good look at Harry, then Harry wouldn’t get his snog, he dove forward, pulling the tall figure into the shed, slamming the door behind him, and pulling the other boy’s head down until he could smash their lips together.

It wasn’t elegant, but then Harry’d never claimed to be elegant. Only efficient.

Ron was damned good at this, was his next muzzy thought. Muzzy because his hands had discovered that Ron’s hair was much, much silkier than he’d expected. It slipped through his hands like water. And Ron’s skin was softer too, and smelled good, like vanilla coffee, something Harry’d never associated with Ron before. Then Ron opened his mouth and slipped his tongue into Harry’s mouth.

Holy hell. Harry made a gurgling noise that might have been a question but was definitely approving, and sucked the tongue playing with his. Ron tasted good, too.

Right. So he was gay. Harry was not surprised. Really, with his luck with girls, it was only to be expected.

Then Ron moved his hips against Harry, and a little primitive light turned on inside Harry’s brain, and the tide turned. Moving on instinct, truly his strength, Harry dove onto Ron like a starving man on a banquet, hands sorting through a ridiculous number of layers until he could get to even softer, even hotter skin. Ron’s cock was long and slender, getting hard as Harry touched it, getting wet at the end, and making Harry’s mouth water.

Harry’s head quickly followed his hands’ path, and Ron’s cock tasted even better than it felt. Ron’s knees gave and Harry followed him as he collapsed back against the bench, sliding to his knees between Ron’s feet, still sucking ravenously. A tiny voice that unfortunately sounded a lot like Hermione was nagging at him, telling him something was off, but the taste and the smell and the feel were so damned good he ignored it.

Probably just Voldemort listening in and getting jealous ‘cause he wasn’t getting any. Harry was in no mood to listen. Or stop, even if Old Voldie’d been standing behind him with a wand.

Well, maybe then.

Or maybe not, because Ron was bucking underneath him, driving his cock down Harry’s throat, his hips practically vibrating under Harry’s hands, and it was the biggest damned power trip Harry’d ever taken. Plus, he tasted wonderful.

Then Ron gave a moan that was the sexiest thing Harry had ever heard and arched up so far he nearly choked Harry. Harry backed off a little, grabbing Ron’s cock with one hand to keep it from stabbing clear down his gullet, and sucked hard as Ron came.

Yeah. Tasty. Salty and a little bitter and weirdly sweet. It reminded Harry oddly of dark chocolate and raspberries. He licked up everything he missed in the first rush, leaving Ron a boneless puddle on the bench.

Thirst quenched, now so hard he was aching, Harry scrambled up Ron’s bony legs, straddling his thighs on the bench, and scrabbled to pull his cock out of his trousers. He couldn’t help a groan as it came free of his shorts, and Ron shuddered beneath him in reaction. Harry grabbed Ron’s hand and wrapped it around his dripping cock, squeezing Ron’s fingers under his, rubbing and pulling. Ron’s hand was more slender than he’d expected, the fingers long and strong and hot as they worked at him, and it didn’t take long at all.

Just as he was coming, Ron wrapped one long arm around his waist and held him, then bent down and caught the end of Harry’s cock in his lips, sucking hard. Harry stuffed his free hand in his mouth to muffle the scream, and came like a freight train in Ron’s mouth.

Yup. Gay. Definitely.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Blaise was having a good day. Propositioned before breakfast by Draco (if one could call a royal command a proposition); buggered by Nott during lunch; then cornered by Pansy after dinner. Staring down at the magnificent tits crushed against his chest, wriggling his hips in the iron grip of Pansy’s thighs, he pushed until she came (again) and let himself go.

He LOVED being in Slytherin.

Out in the corridor, the clock struck eleven.

“Oh, shit!” he whimpered, remembering a prior commitment. If he stood Draco up his life wouldn’t be worth living.

It took some doing to extract himself with his balls intact from Pansy’s unfulfilled clutches, but he eventually managed it. Shortly before midnight he crept furtively across the pitch and made it to the broom shed.

The door was locked.

Charmed shut.

Charmed silent.

Oh, he was in such very deep shit.

Twenty minutes later he gave up trying to unstick the layers of charms locking the shed up tighter than a virgin’s snatch and banged on the bloody door, loud enough to wake the dead.

Sometime after Harry came he’d curled around Ron and they’d both slid off the bench to end up wrapped around one another on the floor of the broom shed. Harry’s hand was caught in Ron’s wonderfully soft hair and Ron’s hands were clamped on Harry’s arse, kneading it in a way that left no doubt whatsoever what their next move would be. Harry spared what thought he could to being thankful he’d cast warming and cushioning charms before Ron arrived, and wondered if Ron brought any lube.

Then the door shook on its hinges. Even through the silencing charm it was obvious they were caught.

Harry reacted as he always did to imminent threat when retreat wasn’t an option. He grabbed his invisibility cloak, curled up as close to Ron as he could get, threw the cloak over both of them, and froze.

Ron had his wand. Ron was casting Lumos under the cloak.

Ron wasn’t Ron.

Draco stared at Blaise, who was actually Harry Potter, the Boy Who’d Lived to Be a Bloody Good Shag. Shock kept Draco silent. Big green eyes in a flushed face under wild hair stared back at him, looking as shocked as Draco felt.

The door flew open.

Potter grabbed the wand from Draco’s hand, extinguishing the spell, but it had been light long enough for Draco to see through the lacy invisibility cloak that covered them. Which really explained rather a lot about Potter’s escapades, come to think on it, which he really couldn’t, because it wasn’t that big a cloak, and Potter was really quite close, so close Draco could feel every breath Potter didn’t take.

Draco paused, rewound his thought, then realized Potter was, indeed, holding his breath. It would have been funny if they hadn’t been in such dire straits. After all, what if Blaise fell over them and dislodged the invisibility cloak and discovered that Draco was shagging the Wonderboy of the Wizarding World? He’d tell his father, his father would tell Narcissa, Narcissa would tell Lucius, Lucius would tell Voldemort, Draco would be dead.

Hm. Good thing he’d already defected.

Panic quelled, doubts reassured, Draco ignored Blaise fumbling about in the dark and concentrated on Potter, gradually turning red and bulgy-eyed with the effort of not breathing. He looked… ridiculously cute. Adamantly denying he’d even had the thought, Draco leaned down and covered Potter’s mouth with his, puffing in a breath of air before Potter passed out, then smoothly morphing the Breath of Life into a full-fledged snog.

Potter lay like a dead fish beneath him, still in shock.

Draco was about to give up when, somewhere far away from the chocolate-frog-and-semen taste of Potter’s mouth, he heard a door shut. Potter’s body was suddenly galvanized into motion, arms and legs wrapping around Draco’s as he came to life, kissing back as fiercely as he was being kissed.

When they eventually had to break for air, Potter demanded, “Tell me you brought lube!” in a voice an octave lower than normal, that sounded like he’d swallowed gravel. Draco nearly came from the sound of it.

Happily, he was able to answer in the affirmative, even if said answer involved no verbalization and a whole lot of groping, stretching, thrusting and moaning.

Altogether a satisfactory ending to the day. Maybe there was more to look forward to in joining the Light than just hiding in the grey.

Happily pinned under Malfoy’s equally relaxed sprawl, shifting around the bulk slowly softening and slipping out of his arse, Harry grinned. When he’d decided to try something different, this wasn’t quite what he’d expected. He blew a sweaty, feathery lock of white blond hair from where it was draped over his nose and buried his face in Malfoy’s salty slick neck, taking a lick and enjoying the shiver that followed.

Maybe Ron was right, and all cats were grey in the dark, but then, so were the snakes, from where Harry lay. He gave a contented hiss, grinned at both the shiver and the cock stirring against his thigh the Parselmouth provoked, and decided not to think about it. Instinct had carried him this far. Instinct would, as it always did with him, win the day. He’d think about ramifications of shagging Malfoy later. Much later.

Then Malfoy shifted up against him, and Harry forgot all about thinking.

It was probably better that way.

THE END