He did it because Blaise didn't care.
Well, no. He cared. Blaise cared about everything, watched everything, knew everything. Draco thought he probably actually knew more about what was going on than the pesterers; he was always in the shadows, never speaking, just smiling that whipcrack velvet smile, like some sort of midsummer voodoo god who'd misplaced his swamp but kept the alligator.
But what Blaise didn't do was pout and ask a dozen shrill questions, or try and menace importance out of him, or stare at him long and cold and steady and suggest it would be for Draco's own good to share.
No, what Blaise did was not ask, not mention it, not even seem curious. Not so much as raise a sphinx-arched eyebrow when Draco batted aside his curtains after lights-out and crawled into cavernous space behind them, Blaise just another shadow against the white sheets.
Blaise slept naked. Another point in his favour.
Draco suspected that Blaise was awake from the moment he touched the curtains, maybe didn't actually sleep at all, but he pretended to take time to stir, to wake slowly as Draco slid in beside him, to be bleary when he laid his hand on Draco's chest so that when Draco fished under the pillow for Blaise's wand (he never brought his own) and cast lumos, its cold, eerie light would show the stark contrast, the rich coffee of Blaise's hand against the pallid expanse of Draco's skin. A hot Jamaican night against an English winter's day.
Made Draco shiver every time.
Or maybe that was Blaise's mouth on his skin, because once he'd stopped pretending he didn't waste any time. Wrapped his other hand around the nape of Draco's neck (his hands felt so big, though they weren't really; long-fingered, supple) with the thumb beneath Draco's ear tipping his head back. Draco arched with it, up against Blaise's hand on his chest pushing him back down. Blaise chuckled against his neck, breath gusting hot and damp. He dragged his fingers over Draco's ribs ("I could play you like a xylophone," he'd said once, making it sound lewd and promising, whereas Pansy just poked him and said, "Aren't you eating?") and gripped his hip, thumb aside the bone, dragging Draco over against him, sudden and close and indolent.
What Blaise wanted was never a demand, just the best option, the most lazy preference of all involved. He shoved Draco's loose pants down over his hip, nose nudging Draco's cheek before their lips met. Draco's hand landed on Blaise's side, pushing down across his back, fingers (cold from fiddly and futile work all evening) spreading, clutching, forgotten. Because Blaise kissed like a long, thoughtful rumination on a complicated topic. His tongue swept straight into Draco's open mouth, just thorough, no hurry. No hurry at all; he kissed like he would never, ever, have anywhere more important to be than cradling Draco's neck as his mouth moved with languid intensity. Draco just clutched at his shoulder and yielded. To the casual insistance of his kiss, to the hand now sliding into the small of his back to tug him closer.
If Draco hadn't actually been hard before he stepped past the curtain, he always was by this stage.
The kissing mostly went on for quite some time. (Mostly, but there had been notable exceptions; the time Blaise had barely brushed his lips across Draco's before pinning him flat and sucking him off so hard and fast Draco saw stars; the time they teased, darting not quite kisses for what had felt like hours; the time Draco had wanted, wanted, wanted but it had taken half an hour just to stop shaking and by then Blaise had gone to sleep.) Draco didn't bother trying to figure out how long. Didn't bother with anything but the feel of Blaise's skin against his own in the soft darkness behind his closed eyes, the quick, mismatched sounds of their breathing and the sticky noises of another kiss, and another. Until his lips felt stung and swollen, until his mouth tasted more of Blaise than of himself, and more of just plain kissing than either.
Until Blaise pushed his knee between Draco's, tugging him closer still, his erection pressing hot against Draco's stomach, and Draco whined, rubbing forward against his thigh. Blaise chuckled, shoving at Draco's pants with what in anyone else would be termed impatience, but in Blaise was somehow sheened with perfect inevitability. He bit at Draco's chin, and murmured, "So easy. Bet you'd even let me fuck you."
Draco grunted. At the sudden swoop of Blaise's hand around his dick, sure and easy and mind-blowing (his hands always felt so big), his brain sweeping away with the dark promise of Blaise's voice as he laughed again, saying, "Oh, you would," as he stroked hard. Draco twisted and whimpered, forced his eyes open to see his own hand gripping white-knuckled at Blaise's upper arm. Thought of Blaise's shadowed, relaxed hands pressing at Draco's pale limbs, getting him on his knees on the rucked-up linen, spreading him open, pushing his head down as Blaise licked up his spine and said, "This might hurt a little..."
He shuddered, from the images and the casual demand of the rhythm Blaise was setting, rushing Draco pell-mell at oblivion even as he smirked beside Draco's ear - he could feel it, in the curve of lips against lobe - and whispered damply, "You'd beg me for it." Draco bit at his shoulder, not caring about leaving a mark, not caring at all. Blaise twisted his grip, absolutely ruthless, and Draco gasped, "Fuck," and lost it completely.
That moment. For that moment, coming hard under Blaise's implacable hand, open-mouthed against his neck, Draco forgot all about everything else. Rooms and cabinets and murders, terror and expectations and dread, his mother and his father and his life. Oh, later he'd remember. Later he'd get his breath back and repay the favour, wrap his hand around Blaise's dick - white on black, just that alone was visual pornography - and make that silvered tongue babble, maybe even suck him off, Blaise's fingers knotted in his hair, and he'd remember. But there'd have been that moment. That moment when he forgot it all.
But mostly he did it because Blaise didn't care. And that meant Draco didn't have to either.
Diversion Therapy by dee
An abject apology in the form of abject porn.