Catch 22 (Harry/Draco)

Correspondent Catastrophe

Art for fic by Ankamo on DeviantArt

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Okay, I take it back, you're already obsessive. And of course I've thought about it. I just haven't spent enough of my free time looking up skirts (or shirts) to write a bloody book on it.

Have you considered just telling someone what you want? I mean, what's the point of indulging in any of it if you're not getting what you want from it? And how can you know what you like just from thinking about it, without having tried it? It might not be all your imagination jacks it up to be.

I'm beginning to think sex in general is overrated.

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Pot calling the cauldron black? I ask you to tell me what you like and get told off for demanding details, and then you're telling me that's what I need to be doing. How can you think sex is overrated? You're still a virgin, for fuck's sakes. What kind of poor masturbation are you subjecting yourself to? Nevermind, don't answer that. And I'll have you know my creativity on the matter is quite well developed. How can I know? I know, and I can prove it. In fact, I plan to, because damned if I'm going to be responsible for your continued sexual retardation.

And on that note, a word of caution: don't open my next letter until you're alone.

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His next letter arrives barely two hours after the first. Harry considers opening it during History of Magic, his last class before dinner, but Ron is trying to play hangman while Professor Binns drones away, and Harry decides it is probably for the best if he waits until after supper.

Later, after abandoning the common room for an early night, Harry is very happy he follows his correspondent's advice. The letter is much longer than any he has received so far-probably longer than all of the previous ones put together. He closes his bed hangings securely before lying on his back on top of the duvet, head propped up on a few pillows and holding his wand alight so he can read the narrow script that has become so familiar over the past several weeks.

Just for the record, I haven't had sex with anyone yet. In fact, I haven't done any of this with anyone. I mean, I'd like to, but as you so eloquently put it, it's not something you tend to divulge in polite conversation. So what's a guy to do? Write to random prats about it, I suppose. And I do hope you're reading this alone like I advised, otherwise there are bound to be a lot of awkward questions. I have no idea why I'm telling you any of these details. Maybe my father's right and it's just that I really don't have any shame. I don't see that as a bad quality, either way.

You want to know how I know what I like without having done it? I have done it, that's how. I do everything I can to myself and use my imagination to fill in the blanks. Works like a charm. You seem to be lacking the ability to conjure up your own details, so I'm going to give you a little help with that. I want you to read this and think about it being done to you. I want you to do it to yourself. Do it, and I promise you I'll not just have proven my point, but probably given your sorry arse the best wank you've ever had.

Harry stares at the letter. Is he kidding? He has to be kidding, right?

I like things to mount up, and for that, you have to start out simple, like by taking off your shirt-but not in a rush. Don't just pull it off. I like how my fingertips feel through the fabric as they work down my chest, dislodging button after button, occasionally brushing bare skin. I like the feeling of the fabric being pulled away, and letting my fingers ghost over my chest.