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It starts on a Tuesday. The air is heavy with the threat of rain, grey and muggy and a little gloomy. Draco's back is slick with sweat and the chants of the spectators have long become a dull, inconsequential roar. The bloody snitch hasn't shown itself in three hours and thirty-five minutes.
It's Weasley who breaks.
Hurrying to the topmost loop and just so preventing Slytherin from scoring, Weasley doesn't let his usual, infuriatingly dopey grin break out over his face. Instead, he winces, turning furiously pink. Then, wetness spreads between his legs and drips slowly off his broom.
First, Draco feels relieved – his own bladder is dangerously heavy, has been nagging him for the better part of an hour. This, he thinks, should grant them a break. He'll quickly hurry to the loo, release an absolute torrent of piss. Then, he won't be as distracted anymore and can finally, finally beat Potter to the blasted snitch.
Next, Draco laughs. Sure, there's a truce between him and the golden trio now, a precarious, tentative thing which Draco values greatly and cannot afford to undo. Still. Everyone's laughing. Weasley's eighteen. A war hero. Recipient of the Order of Merlin. Well over six feet tall, newly buff, and dubiously hot. And he's pissing himself, slowly, in front of the entire school. Not much is funny to Draco these days – he'll gladly take this opportunity to laugh with the rest of the student body for once.
Then, Draco is absolutely furious: using everyone's distraction to his – entirely unfair – advantage, Potter snatches the traitorous snitch right out of the air below Draco's dangling feet.
***
The laughter doesn't stop. Almost a week has passed since Weasley leaked all over his brand new Starsweeper XXI and still, students of all houses giggle when he walks past. Granger writes them up and Potter sends sneaky hexes skittering towards them in the draughty halls and yet, over breakfast on Sunday, younger year Slytherins start a chant of Weasley Is Our King, complete with four new stanzas all about Weasley's tiny, bursting bladder.
If Draco wasn't brutally mangled by a war lost, his parents dearly punished, and the never-ending spiral of nightmares, guilt and shame, he might have joined in with the chants. As it is, Draco buries his face in a dusty tome on spagyric alchemy and tries not to look at the golden trio, who sit only a few paces away, at the small, ever-crammed eighth year table.
"Enough," Weasley finally shouts that night in the eighth year common room. Weasley Is Our King has started up again and Draco is furiously scribbling away at his transfiguration essay, hoping the golden trio won't remember the song's original composer and lyricist.
Pansy's fingers are carding through his hair and the fire is crackling merrily away, sending flickering shadows over the eighth year common room. The room is a strange blend of colours. Every shade of green besides Slytherin green mingles with almost every shade of red, yellow and blue, topped with a whole lot of purple and earthy neutrals. Sparse furnishings, peeling leather couches. Their common room is impromptu, impersonal and a little lacklustre. Truly is nothing to write home about – not that Draco has a home to write to anymore.
Draco frowns into the new view – the quidditch pitch, the banners dulled by the drab light of another dreary day – and tries to remember Slytherin, the comfort of being surrounded by people who liked him well enough.
He entirely misses Weasley challenging everyone in the room to a holding contest.
By the time Draco pays attention again, several of his fellow eighth years have already agreed to the asinine challenge.
"So tomorrow morning everyone takes a slash before breakfast, and then that's it. Nobody uses the loo before the end of dinner," Weasley announces to a sceptical crowd. "Let's see who has a bladder the size of a baby Pygmy Puff, or whatever it says in that bloody song of yours!"
Draco lifts his head off Pansy's lap to peer around the room. Finnigan the Fool is already going from person to person, scribbling the names of willing participants onto a scrap piece of parchment.
Granger heaves a world-weary sigh and firmly shakes her head at Finnigan. Girl Weasley, who has no bloody business hanging out in their common room, signs up with a confident, shit-eating grin. Blaise signs up, even though Draco can well remember him pissing himself at Draco's ninth birthday party, when Draco had everyone convinced the bathroom was haunted. Finnigan signs up and Thomas, Longbottom, Patil and Abbott follow suit. Draco lets his head fall into Pansy's lap again, catching her hand and twisting it back into his hair. He sighs, closing his eyes. To no one's surprise, a common room filled with mostly Gryffindors was a disaster.
"We should do it." Pansy's voice is a whisper.
"Why in the world would we?" Draco keeps his eyes closed – this isn't worth being fully present for.
"Draco." Pansy stabs a finger into his ribcage. She's wearing press-on nails, the tip sharp and pitch black. The one and only sign she's warming to Muggle culture. "Nothing's ever fun anymore," she whines. "Let's have some fun."
Draco cracks an eye open. "What's fun about pissing yourself at some point between breakfast and dinner?"
"We'll just have to win." Pansy waves a dismissive hand. A few paces away, Finnigan's eyes skitter towards them: he's uncertain whether to approach them. Draco doesn't hiss at him, but it's a close thing. Finnigan flinches, though Draco's done nothing but send him a withering glare, and makes his way towards Potter instead. Draco pushes himself up on his elbows. Watches.
He can't hear what Potter is saying, but he's shrugging, his face uncertain and a tad uncomfortable as he eyes Weasley, who's mostly just glowering at everyone present. Potter is dressed in shabby knit, his glasses a little crooked and his hair wildly out of control and Draco has wanted him desperately for far longer than he cares to admit. Draco swallows. If Potter signs up, he will, too. All these years and he's never beaten Potter at anything at all. He won't let any chance pass him by.
An eyeroll and a sigh and Potter's name joins Finnigans list. Draco's fate is sealed.
"We'll do it, too!" Pansy calls, beckoning Finnigan over – she knows Draco far too well.
Potter's head swivels towards Draco. He grins.
***
"I think the fuck not," Draco says crisply, sneering at the pumpkin juice sloshing around in the enormous glass Weasley is levitating in front of him. They're at breakfast. Less than half an hour has passed since Draco has taken his morning piss, pushing out every last drop and feeling annoyed and horribly nervous about the day about to unfold.
"Drink up, Malfoy," says Potter, grabbing his own, equally full glass. "We're all drinking." He gestures around the eighth year table. Everyone foolish enough to add their names to Finnigan's list last night has a glass hovering in front of them. "Otherwise it's no fun." Potter winks. Draco wraps his fingers around the glass and takes a first, long sip.
***
I already have to go . Pansy's neat, tiny script, hastily scribbled into the margins of Draco's essay as they're sitting in the very last row of the transfiguration classroom.
Draco snorts a laugh, vanishing her words with a tap of his wand. Well , he writes back, only 10 hours left to go .
***
It's almost lunch time, and Draco's having an unexpectedly brilliant day. Sure, his bladder is twinging a little, but it's barely noticeable – he's thirsty, more so than anything. Around him, some of his fellow eighth years are struggling . Especially those that were foolish enough to have large coffees at breakfast as an additional drink, citing they needed caffeine to get through the day. They certainly are regretting it now. It's absolutely delightful. Longbottom is sitting with his legs pressed closely together. Finnigan has a sneaky hand in his robes. Blaise is shifting in his seat, the mask of regal boredom on his face slipping every once in a while to give room to a worried frown.
Draco does feel a bit sorry for Pansy, who's fanning her legs and has started to occasionally sneak a hand in between her thighs. When Professor Flitwick kindly asks her if she'd like to go to the bathroom, Pansy snaps at him and the rest of the room dissolves into giggles.
Potter is showing no signs of struggle. Draco would know. He's watching him like a hawk.
***
"How are you holding up?" Girl Weasley approaches the eighth years' table at lunch time, stabbing an affectionate finger into Weasley's back, and hugging Potter from behind. She's in a quidditch jersey and slouchy leggings and her hair is pulled up into a mess of a knot, and yet half the table is ogling her. Draco loathes her.
"So far so good," Weasley says and Potter nods, "you?"
"Same. Can't feel much." Girl Weasley pokes her skinny stomach, shrugging airily. "Shall we drink some more? I'm parched."
They have water this time, and Draco chugs it down almost gratefully as Pansy winces beside him.
"Fucking hell," Finnigan mumbles, as Weasley decides everyone should down a second glass. "What's next, double potions? Dean. Don't let me piss myself in double potions."
***
Draco is cutting bitterroot into fine cubes when his bladder gives the first rather forceful stab of protest. Stilling the knife, Draco bites his lip and forces himself not to move, to let the wave pass. There's almost an hour of potions left, then an hour of history of magic, then a couple free periods before supper. He can't falter yet.
The wave passes and Draco wills his body to relax. Beside him, Pansy has given up all pretence of being a decent partner and helping Draco with their Draught of Peace. She's perched on her chair, her legs a pretzel, glaring at everyone who dares fare slightly better than her. Her forehead is sweaty, causing her usually neat bangs to frizz. She looks a fright. Draco would be furious, too.
Potter and Weasley are working on the cauldron right in front of them. Potter is in dreadful Muggle jeans and yet another tragic Weasley jumper. His movements don't give anything away and yet Draco suspects Weasley's foolish challenge is taking its toll on the both of them: they're unusually quiet, chopping ingredients, stirring the cauldron and fanning the flame in tense silence. Potter has taken to pulling his hair up into a sloppy bun whenever he brews. Draco stares at his neck. He wants to lick him there.
Draco is absently stirring his potion – three times clockwise until it turns marigold, then fourteen times anti-clockwise until it takes on a lavender hue – and thinking about bending Potter over the table, pushing his hands under his jumper and sinking his teeth into his neck when it happens.
"Fuck me," Finnigan yelps and Draco hears the urine soaking his trousers before he's even spun around to look. At the sight of his rapidly darkening trousers and the look of – shocked – relief on his face, Draco's bladder begins to scream. He presses his thighs together, suppresses a groan and waits. He won't struggle before Potter struggles.
***
History of magic is a shit show. It always is, endlessly dull and vaguely inaccurate and positively refusing to acknowledge the recent war, but today it is particularly awful. Pansy has taken to muttering an incessant stream of curses under her breath. Longbottom is openly holding himself. Weasley is sweating buckets. Potter glares, which he does far too often to be a surefire sign of an aching bladder.
Draco is uncomfortable. Draco is highly uncomfortable. Eight hours of liquids slosh around his bladder, and he wants nothing more than to wrap his hand around the base of his cock and squeeze . Well, that's a lie. He wants Potter to do so first.
"I'm sorry Professor," Longbottom gasps and Professor Bins doesn't so much as pause his droning or acknowledge him at all. Longbottom slowly stands, then shuffles towards the door. His ears are scarlet red and his hands hover beside his groin, slightly shaking. He's hunched in on himself, his face twisted in agony.
"Me too, actually." Blaise follows Longbottom towards the door, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration but carrying himself with far more grace.
"Hah!" Weasley whispers, and slaps Potter's back triumphantly.
***
"Salazar, salazar, salazar." Pansy manoeuvres herself into the eighth year common room at snail speed, her cheeks pink and her eyes full of fury. "Draco! Why did you make me sign up for this?"
All participants are already gathered by the fire, in various states of discomposure. They'd been last to make it out of the history classroom, on account of Pansy swearing up and down she wouldn't be able to move.
Draco's bladder is a heavy presence in his middle. Aching and tingling and pounding. He's boiling hot. Unable to roll up his sleeves due to the ugly skull marring his arm, Draco casts a hopeful cooling charm at his face. It's difficult to stand straight. Difficult too, to gingerly lift himself into one of the many tacky couches and pretend he doesn't feel like he's about to burst all over the shabby leather.
Pansy falls down beside him, both hands firmly buried in her crotch. As always, her skirt is scandalously short and the lacy trim of her knickers flashes in and out of view as she twists and retwists her legs.
"Right," Pansy snaps at the assembled crew, "How's everyone holding up? Nobody's lasting till dinner, I hope?"
"Definitely lasting till dinner," Weasley replies, though he's rubbing up and down his thighs with fumbling hands and looking anything but collected.
"Same." Girl Weasley, her legs crossed but her face full of sparkling confidence.
"Possibly not." Thomas, his hands hidden under a large pillow draped across his middle.
"Well? Potter?" Pansy asks and though Draco's known her all his life he's still sometimes surprised by the nerve she has. Less than a year ago she tried to talk their fellow students into handing Potter over to the Dark Lord. Now, she's demanding he share an update on the state of his bladder.
"Malfoy?" Potter prompts, in lieu of an answer.
"I'm brilliant," Draco lies.
Potter smirks. "Same."
***
Draco isn't brilliant. Draco has never been less brilliant in his life, except this is obviously and utterly untrue – just about every moment of his sixth and seventh year had been dripping with horror. Now, though, Draco could be absolutely fine. He could be lounging on the couch, enjoying Pansy's hands in his hair and the lazy fire dancing over Potter's features on the couch opposite. Instead, Draco is bursting and quietly panicking and enjoys absolutely nothing at all.
That is until Potter cracks. A groan, stifled to almost a sigh, and Potter leans forward. His face pulls into a grimace as he bares his teeth and screws shut his eyes. Suddenly, Draco enjoys himself quite a lot – as much as he can, with his own insides on fire and demanding the bulk of his attention.
"Merlin," Potter hisses under his breath.
"I know," Weasley whispers in sympathy.
"How about another glass of water?" Finnigan says, full of mirth now that he's no longer trying to hold on, and though everyone resolutely shakes their heads and Girl Weasley sends a half-hearted Bat Bogey his way, a handful minutes later another glass of water floats into Draco's hands. Its glass walls are cool and damp. Enough to make Draco flinch.
"One more hour till dinner," Weasley says and shivers, before he downs his water. Draco follows suit, his eyes on Potter. He's sitting casually again now, his face calm and even. But Draco knows better. Draco knows better.
***
Nobody's studying. There's only weeks to go before they'll sit their exams and yet, somehow, there isn't a textbook or an essay in sight – that is, if you don't count Granger, who's drowned a whole table in ancient tomes and is hastily covering inch after inch of parchment in garish red ink. Every once and again she comes over to Weasley, whispering in his ear. Presumably, she's trying to reason with him, but Weasley only shrugs and stubbornly clenches his thighs and Granger walks away, clucking in disappointment. Draco can only assume dating a Weasley comes with an endless list of disappointments. At least Girl Weasley is mostly letting Potter be, instead dancing around Longbottom, who keeps putting his lumbering hands on the swell of her bladder, causing her to shriek.
With half an hour to go until a dinner that would surely end in disaster, Draco is just about ready to give up. His hands tremble with the effort to keep from holding himself. Sweat is collecting in the small of his back, and even his forcibly-calm, even breaths are wreaking havoc on his bladder. In between a longing glance towards the loos, and a worried look at Pansy, who's started to leak and doesn't seem to think anyone's noticed, Draco sees it: slowly, haltingly, Potter's hand wanders towards his lap. Potter's dick lies waiting, its faint outline infuriatingly visible through his soft trousers and then Potter's fingers twist around his cockhead and squeeze. Draco moans. Fortunately, his mistake goes unnoticed. There's far too much groaning, moaning and cursing bouncing around the common room for Draco to make much of an impact.
Potter continues to pinch, carefully rolling his dick, then squeezing it firmly against his thigh with two fingers pressed against the top. It's a blessing in more ways than one: almost immediately, Draco gets hard. At least he won't accidentally spill over the couch now, won’t add to the ever-growing puddle forming under Pansy's bum.
"Okay," Finnigan says, and who decided he was in charge Draco won't ever understand, "updates? Out of ten?"
"Seven," Pansy lies immediately, steadily leaking. Potter snorts.
"Eight," says Weasley, "I feel like my back teeth are swimming." His hand is cupping his dick, and he's starting to look a little peaky.
"Nine and a half," squieks Abbot, who's been so quiet and contained that Draco had all but forgotten she's participating in this hell.
"Same." One of the Patils, who's stuffed a pillow between her thighs.
"Seven," says Girl Weasley, looking distressingly like she means it, and finally,
"Eight," says Potter, and doesn't let go of his dick, even with everyone's eyes on him. Draco shivers. He'd love nothing more but to pull his own cock from the confines of his uniform, to stroke himself until he spilled come all over Potter's gorgeous face, or perhaps piss straight against the knobbly collarbone peeking out from under his sloppy shirt.
"Malfoy?" Potter again.
"I don't know what any of those numbers mean," Draco says testily, and tries to focus on keeping himself hard. It helps, if only a little.
"I'd say a seven is when you can no longer resist squirming," Finnigan says, and Merlin, is he ever annoying. "An eight is when you're bursting and know you can't hold much longer. Nine for when you're not quite pissing yourself but you think you might any moment. Ten is accidentally pissing onto the couch, like Parkinson over here."
Somehow, the knowledge that Potter is at an eight, that Potter is absolutely bursting, hits Draco like a bludger. Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, his piss-addled brain supplies, then drowns him in a fantasy of holding Potter down, watching him squirm. Grabbing onto Potter's enormous prick, holding it for him, telling him to wait, keep waiting, keep waiting. Potter's fingers are clamping shut his dick and though Draco is sweaty and nervous and absolutely fucking aching , he's shaking with desire.
"Uh, eight," Draco supplies belatedly when he notices Potter's quirked brow and everybody's eyes on him.
"Well, fuck you all," shrieks Pansy rather suddenly, then bolts towards the loos. Patil and Abbot follow suit hastily.
A sudden throb of his bladder and Draco groans, almost loses his composure. He closes his eyes. It's alright, he tells himself. He can wait. After all, Draco has quite a lot of practice. For far too long the Dark Lord had lived in his home, stirring terror into every inch of the house. Draco had done his best to be invisible. He didn't speak. Didn't move. Didn't leave the relative safety of his room to venture to the bathroom, no matter how much he needed it. Only when the Dark Lord left for one of his shadowy quests and the manor announced his absence with a sigh of relief did Draco hobble towards the bathroom.
There'd been many close calls. Today would have to be another one: he simply couldn't afford to flood his trousers in the Great Hall or anywhere else, not when his presence was already barely tolerated.
Shaking his anxiety from the forefront of his mind, Draco focuses his thoughts on what matters – Potter – and stirs himself from horrific memories towards brand new fantasies. He presses Potter's bare back against the windows of the Slytherin common room, licks into his willing mouth, revels in Potter's broken moans. "I can't hold it," Potter whimpers, entirely at Draco's mercy, "Please, Draco, please let me go, I'll do anything, anything at all, please."
Thoughts of holding Potter down and fucking the piss right out of him keep Draco going until it's almost time for dinner. Then, distressingly, his bladder becomes too full for his cock to remain hard. Draco curses under his breath. Liquid collects in the tip of his cock, and Draco won't touch himself, he refuses to, but then his bladder contracts sharply and his traitorous hands fly towards his cock. Squeezing with all his might, Draco just about prevents an accident.
"Nine, are we?" Potter asks him with a glint in his eyes, and Draco just about has the presence of mind to feel stirred at the notion that Potter is watching him.
Draco licks his lips, trying to recall Finnigan's asinine list. There's a constant tremor in his hands now that seems to slowly extend to the rest of his body, to rattle his very bones. His jaw is clenched, his bladder screaming, and if he weren't so desperate for Potter he's sure he'd think of nothing but finally letting go.
Before Draco can reply, Finnigan has his worst idea yet. "It's almost time for dinner," he announces as if a single person among them hasn't been longingly eying the clock for hours, "let's have one final challenge before we go."
"What?" says Potter and sounds so irritated Draco could kiss him. Potter is slouching on the couch, both of his hands in his crotch now, the outline of his gorgeous cock woefully hidden from view.
"Everybody still in has to withstand fifteen – thirty? – seconds of someone pressing on their bladder," Finnigan says, and because Gryffindors are rotten fools with far too much power, nobody puts up much of a fight.
"Pair up," Finnigan demands and before Draco can shake in horror at the thought of sloppy Gryffindor hands touching his bulging bladder, Potter stands and walks over. It's a tense, careful walk. Two of Potter's fingers are still pinching the head of his cock.
"What?" Draco asks weakly when Potter hovers right in front of him.
"Go!" commands Finnigan and then, Potter has his hands on him.
"Salazar's saggy fucking tits," Draco hisses, writhing under Potter's palms as his bladder violently tries to empty himself. It's painful. A sharp, stabbing pain, clawing at Draco's insides, forcing shut his eyes when all he wants to do is to gaze up at Potter's curse-green eyes and revel in the thought that Potter is touching him, willingly.
It's all Draco can do to clench himself shut with all his might, his hands buried in his crotch under Potter's arms, his breathing ragged, his mind in freefall. "Don't piss," echoes through Draco's mind on a loop, "Don't piss, don't piss, don't piss." Laboriously opening his eyes, Draco stares into Potter's wide-blown pupils. If only Potter's hands travelled further down. Took Draco's aching cock, pinched it the way he was pinching his own.
Potter is a beautiful menace above him, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, beads of sweat on his forehead belying the effort of holding.
"Seven," Finnigan says, and distantly Draco is aware of the commotion of Thomas pissing himself under the weight of Weasley's troll hands, "six, five, four," and Draco has never been so desperate in his whole life, "three, two," and if Draco were to unclench his fists from his cock and miraculously manage to pull open his flies and free himself, he could piss right into Potter's cocky face, "one."
"Impressive," says Potter, and Draco doesn't quite manage to preen. Potter stops pushing, but leaves his palms on him for a moment, and Draco feels desperately hot, hornier than ever, and about as close to the edge as he's ever been.
Luckily, the wave of utmost urgency slowly passes, leaving Draco with a level of desperation he can manage, if barely. He catches his breath, head gone fuzzy.
"You ready?" Draco asks when Potter gingerly sits beside him. And Merlin, is Draco ever ready. He'll get to touch Potter. He'll get to make him squirm .
Draco doesn't stand, doesn't loom over Potter. Much as he'd like to, he isn't sure he could manage. Instead, Draco curls to his side, resting a knee against Potter's thigh, then lifting his hands towards his stomach.
Potter leans in towards him. He's so close, Draco can feel his breath on his face. "Do your worst," Potter smirks, and for a chaotic moment Draco is so turned on he thinks he will come if he moves his hand on his cock for even a fraction of an inch.
Draco doesn't come, which is just as well – he knows he would absolutely flood himself in piss the second after. Instead, Draco settles his palms onto Potter's bladder. There's a bulge there, a hard, swollen thing, and Draco's head is so heavy with lust he almost leans it against Potter's shoulder for support.
"Go!" says Finnigan, and Draco pushes with all his might.
Potter seizes. Squeezes shut his eyes and clenches his teeth. Then whimpers .
"Malfoy," he hisses, flushing furiously, and if the room wasn't filled with a collection of idiots and Draco wasn't minutes from pissing himself, this would be the hottest moment of Draco's life. "Oh god, Malfoy, oh god," Potter sobs , and really, Draco will have to pour this moment into a Pensieve and watch it until the end of eternity. Too ruined to give a shit, Draco drops his forehead to Potter's shoulder and breathes him in. Potter smells like cedar and petrichor and the damned sugar quills he's forever snacking on, and Draco would do anything for him.
Draco pushes harder, his eyes flitting from Potter's face to his crotch and back.
"Seven, six, five," says Finnigan, and Draco wants to make Potter piss himself so badly it dulls his own desperation, "four, three," and "Oh god, oh god, oh my fucking god , whines Potter, "two, one."
Draco lets the tension drain from his hands. Potter is full beneath his palms, warm and lovely and desperately hot, and Draco is slow to remove his traitorous head from his shoulder.
"I can't go to dinner like this." Draco whispers the confession at Potter. After all they'd just done to each other, surely he was allowed to speak to him.
Potter watches him, biting his lip. His skin is flushed dark and the ink of his pupils has all but swallowed the vivid green of his irises. "Me either."
"I'll go if you go," says Draco, because he's an absolute fool.
Potter winces. Nods. "Deal."
***
They shuffle towards the Great Hall amidst a crowd of far-too-gleeful eighth years watching them like hawks. Weasley gave up just moments ago, scrambling towards the loos – after all, soiling himself at dinner wouldn't exactly help him restore his reputation. It's only Draco and Potter now, and, because Draco can never have anything nice, bloody Girl Weasley. At least, Girl Weasley looks like she's just about reached the end of her robe. She's clutching onto Longbottom's hand – and when did that happen? – rubbing her bladder with the other hand, and dancing in place like a lunatic.
Distantly, Draco knows they should never have taken this to the Great Hall. The common room, at least, had been somewhat private, with almost everyone participating in the holding contest. It's the war, Draco muses, the absolute horror that has been their last years of school. Everyone is eager to indulge in silliness, to participate in trials and challenges with consequences smaller than death.
Although, if he's honest, Draco feels like he might just about die. Walking into the hall with a fist tense around his cock is doable only because Potter's right next to him, doing the same.
Somehow, Draco finds himself sitting squeezed in between Potter and Girl Weasley. He stares at the dinner selection. Bland and potato-based as always.
"I can't eat," says Girl Weasley, and for once Draco agrees with her. There's water in food, Draco knows, lots and lots of it. He can't afford another drop.
"I'll dare you to eat the cucumber salad," Draco whispers to Potter as though he's allowed to whisper to him, and, with a shaky smile, Potter reaches for the salad bowl.
Dinner is a nightmare. The floating candles drip heat onto Draco's tortured head and his breathing has gone so shallow he feels he might suffocate. Beside him, Potter is still pinching the tip of his cock between his fingers, exhaling stifled, desperate groans. Draco wants to swallow him whole.
Draco is shoving the last forkful of cucumber salad into his miserable mouth when it happens: wetness spills past Potter's flushed fingers. Potter stiffens, harshly pressing a bony wrist against his tortured cock. Draco gasps.
"Just a small spill," Potter addresses the table, forcing out the words between gritted teeth. "I'm still going. Er. With the challenge, I mean. Not with the – ," he nods towards his crotch, then gives a groan that tears through Draco's core.
Girl Weasley violently fidgets against Draco's side, her bony elbows stabbing his ribs. Careful to jostle his bladder as little as humanly possible, Draco scoots towards Potter until their arms are flush together. Draco is too far gone to question himself: Potter is clenching and wet , and besides, he is too distracted to push Draco away.
"What counts as dinner being over?" Girl Weasley asks, finally something reasonable out of her mouth. Dinner was open to all students between six and eight, and surely, they won't be expected to last till eight – Draco knows with a crushing certainty he would never be able to make it.
Finnigan shrugs, as though he's given the end of their torture little thought. "Ron?" he asks, seeming finally to remember this wasn't his challenge, but that of the man beside him, who'd – wisely and noisily – emptied himself in their common room bathroom before setting foot into the Great Hall.
A discussion ensues and Draco would care, he would, except next to him, Potter is sneaking his hand into the waistband of his ill-fitting jeans, past a strip of crimson underwear, and squeezes.
Draco might die .
Draco is dying. His own prick is heavy with piss, his iron first on the base of it the only reason why his own trousers aren't glistening like Potter's.
"On a scale of one to ten?" he asks Potter, keeping his voice quiet, private.
Potter huffs a laugh. It's a pained, wrecked thing. "What do you think?"
Draco hums, leaning into Potter's side just a little more heavily. "I think you're done for," he whispers, and wants so much to reach out, to set a gentle hand to Potter's bulge and watch him deflate.
"How about you?" asks Potter.
Draco stares at him. The scarlet flush on his face, the soft slope of his inky lashes, his graceless, beautiful hands on himself. I'm done for, too, Draco thinks, and rests against Potter's side.
***
Girl Weasley finally gives up and hobbles out of the Great Hall at some point between Draco laboriously nibbling away at a piece of sponge cake – vaguely hopeful the sponge will live up to its name and soak up at least half a glass of liquids somewhere in the warzone that is his body – and Weasley deciding the challenge shall end as soon as Weasley himself finishes his dinner.
Draco half suspects Weasley to make them suffer. To help himself to another plate of potatoes doused in gravy and eat it at the speed of a flobberwurm lapping away at a piece of cabbage. Weasley, however, is far more gracious than Draco ever will be. Before Potter has a chance to spill again, Weasley throws his cutlery sloppily onto his plate and announces the end of the contest.
It's somewhat anticlimactic.
"We can go relieve ourselves now?" he asks, and is far, far too desperate to feel humiliated about the plea in his voice, the way it breaks on the 'now'.
Weasley shrugs, nods.
"So what was the point of this?" asks Granger.
"Good job, Harry!" says Longbottom. "Impressive."
"Will you make it to the bathroom?" ask Granger and Pansy in almost unison, Granger a little concerned, Pansy with a shit-eating grin.
The bathroom. Past all four house tables, out the door, down just a few paces of a damp corridor. Draco will never make it.
Maybe, almost certainly, Draco would have given up. Would have quietly and steadily pissed into his uniform right there on the bench in the Great Hall – what a legacy to leave: second best to Granger across all subjects. Youngest marked death eater, soon to be released into a world that won't want him. First ever student to wet himself during dinner. But then Potter is pulling him up, one hand still buried inside his boxers.
"Let's go, let's go, let's gooo ," Potter hisses and Draco scrambles to stand. Immediately, his body tries to collapse into itself. Draco clenches and clenches and still a whimper escapes him, along with a first – and devastatingly substantial – leak.
"I'm going," he whispers, horrified, but then is able to stem the flow once more.
Under the cheers of their fellow eighth years and the confused looks of the lower years, Draco follows Potter outside the hall. Once outside, Draco presses his forehead against the cool stone of the wall for a moment, one hand around the base, one hand around the tip of his dick.
"How are you still holding?" he asks Potter, who's hunched over and pinched and slowly shuffling towards the loos. It's been at least fifteen minutes since Potter's first leak and he's still not burst. For Draco, his first leak has ushered in the rapidly approaching end of his strength. Even as he's holding and holding, a steady dribble forces itself out of his slit, not enough to give him any relief yet enough to make him dizzy.
"I have a lot of practice." Potter's voice is a wreck. "My relatives used to lock me into a closet and not let me out for hours and hours on end."
"What?"
"I'll tell you later. It's important, and I'd want you to – I'll tell you when you're not at a ten."
***
Somehow, Draco makes it to the bathroom, just a step behind Potter. There's urinals, a whole, gleaming white row of them, and their sight is more beautiful than anything's Draco ever seen, present company notwithstanding.
"Wait," says Potter, stopping just feet from the gorgeous urinals and watching Draco with an entirely unreadable expression on his face.
"What?" Draco snaps, "Are you insane?" Wetness is pooling around his right knee. Somewhere in the distant caverns of his mind, he can't believe they're here. Last time they'd been in a bathroom together, Draco had sobbed into a grubby sink and Potter had sliced him right up, had brought him to the very brink of death. "Why on earth would I wait?" Draco asks, because he'd do just about anything for Potter.
Potter shrugs, and it's the least casual thing Draco can imagine, what with Potter being hunched over and holding onto his cock for dear life. "Let's see who wins."
Draco hesitates. Tries to assess if he has any chance in hell of holding on for even another minute. No .
"I like competing with you," Potter says, smiling almost sweetly. "It feels…nice, no? Normal."
Then, Potter looks at him for so long, his face so open, his smile turning sweeter and sweeter – it's the last straw. With a horrified sigh, Draco watches as his bladder empties itself all over his legs, his dragonhide boots, the spillage continuing down the ancient tile, reaching swiftly towards Potter.
The feeling is incredible. His body shudders, a tremor rushing deep through his core. Almost immediately he's lightheaded, the room swaying around him. If Potter wasn't here, he'd stroke his abused cock, would add come to the mess he's made within seconds. "Salazar's saggy tits," Draco whispers, and feels his mind float away on a blanket of candyfloss clouds.
It doesn't matter much that Draco's lost to Potter – what's one more time in the grand scheme of things? What matters is that Potter is absolutely losing his mind, looking like Draco finally finding relief is pushing him rapidly towards his own end. It's a sight to behold.
"Ngghhh." Painfully slowly, Potter turns towards the urinals. Right in front of a dazed Draco, Potter fumbles his cock out of his damp briefs, aiming at the middle bowl. Draco will think about this until the day he dies. He steps closer. Looks.
"Fifteen more seconds," Draco instructs, just to see what will happen.
"Oh god ," Potter breathes, "okay, okay, okay, okay."
"Fifteen," says Draco, and then waits for so long Potter's whole body begins to shake with the effort of hanging on, "fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven," and because nothing is ever good enough for Draco he lets his eyes flutter closed for a moment, imagines himself behind Potter, holding onto his gorgeous cock, feeling the length of Potter's body shiver against him, "ten, nine, eight, seven, six," a splash of piss hits hard against the urinal wall and Potter moans so loudly the sound settles straight into Draco's bones, but then Potter stops the flow again and waits "five, four, three, two," and Potter forces his eyes open and sends Draco the messiest, most fucked-out smile of his life, "one."
A torrent of piss against white ceramic, and if Draco doesn't reach out to prop Potter up, Potter looks like he may just pass out.
Draco reaches out.