It’s not just the slow grind of finally fucking in. This close, the smell of sweat and faint deodorant and something undeniably Malfoy is driving Harry crazy a little. For a moment, he fights the urge to bury his nose in the soft hairs at the base of Malfoy’s neck – but he’s the Winner, he won, he’s allowed – so he does, letting his lips brush the soft skin. He feels more than hears Malfoy’s groan around his fingers and vibrating into his skull. Harry can almost pretend they’re both here out of choice, like they’re strangers who met in a nightclub, like this isn’t pure sportsmanship on Malfoy’s part.