Fic: Manorexic, Harry/Draco, NC-17
Harry had his hands fisted in Anthony’s curly brown hair as the boy sucked Harry’s cock like he was being paid to do it. He was particularly good at deep-throating, and he seemed to be doing a lot of that right now. But every time he would sense Harry coming too close to the edge he’d let up again. Harry was sure he would accidentally rip Anthony’s curls out before he even had a chance to orgasm.
“An-Anthony,” he gasped, tugging harder still because he simply couldn’t help it. He felt Anthony hum around his cock, causing his breath to hitch and his head to fall back on a pillow. Then the wet heat was gone, replaced by a long stripe licked up the underside of his cock before it was engulfed again. And Harry lost it completely. He shouted out unintelligibly as pulse after pulse of come coated the back of Anthony’s throat, and he swallowed it like the expert he had become.
Anthony crawled up his body to kiss him and Harry, though he never liked that very much (how could someone like the taste of their own spunk?), kissed him back because that had been one of the most amazing blowjobs he’d ever received. Not that he had much to compare it to; only Ginny, and that had been a disaster because, well, he was gay.
Harry wrapped his hand around Anthony’s still-hard cock and got him off quickly. He was tired from a particularly grueling Quidditch practice and, though he was horribly ashamed to admit it given the current situation, eager to get to the Prefects’ bathroom in a few hours. He wasn’t positive Malfoy would show up, but he had hope.
“That was amazing,” Harry said, absently petting Anthony’s hair as the boy lay cuddled up to his side, his breathing slowly evening out.
“Thanks,” Anthony laughed. “I should probably get going, though. I have to finish up that paper for Potions that’s due tomorrow.”
Normally, this really bugged Harry: that Anthony put school literally before everything. Sometimes it would have been nice to have him stay overnight. Even on school nights. But Anthony would never hear it. Tonight, however, he was guiltily thankful because that meant he could skip any awkward questions that would have resulted if he’d had to kick him out.
“Yeah, all right,” he sighed, attempting to sound put out. Anthony smirked and kissed him lightly on the lips. Harry smiled into it and, for extra effect, held him there for a few seconds before letting him go. As he watched Anthony don his clothing in the otherwise empty dorm room he wondered briefly if it was bad that he felt like he was lying by being so affectionate tonight. He decided it wasn’t, given that he was just keen to help Malfoy out. That wasn’t a bad thing, was it? Of course not. He was merely saving Anthony the trouble of becoming suspicious about something that he didn’t need to be suspicious about. If he thought Anthony wouldn’t be incredibly upset about the fact that it was Malfoy, Harry would tell him. He would.
“’Night, Harry.” Anthony leaned over the bed and gave Harry another sweet kiss before leaving the room. Harry couldn’t help imagining what would happen if Malfoy walked down there into the Gryffindor common room alone.
Something akin to gang rape, probably.
Harry sighed and stood up, stretched, then checked his watch. Nearly eleven. The other boys would probably start heading up in the next hour or so. It was Sunday night, after all, and they’d found it was always best to get to sleep early in preparation for Monday mornings. Especially considering they had Potions first thing.
Harry, however, knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t, if things went as planned. He was going to go down to the bathroom around a quarter to one, and if Malfoy showed up he would try to get him to talk for as long as he could. Even if it meant staying up until dawn.
To be honest, he thought that sounded rather nice. Talking to Malfoy in the Prefects’ bathroom until the sun rose. Maybe he could really get something good out of him if they did that.
Best not to get his hopes up, though. He knew it would be a miracle if Malfoy gave him half an hour of genuine talking.
Nearly two hours later Harry was walking across the marble floor of the Prefects’ bathroom to sit by the edge of the tub. He wasn’t sure how long he would wait. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? An hour? Probably not an hour. If one-thirty came and went he would go back to his dorm. As of now, though, he still had a good ten minutes until one o’clock.
He had a horrible feeling in his gut that this was pointless. Malfoy had made it pretty clear last night that he didn’t want to talk. Even so, Harry couldn’t help coming here and hoping that he’d be wrong.
He began to wonder what he would say if Malfoy did show up. Harry had never been good at this stuff. It was Hermione that knew how to decipher emotions and talk to people. He desperately wished he could tell her about this, but he knew better. She wouldn’t like it, and although she was trustworthy, he wasn’t one hundred percent positive she wouldn’t let it slip to Ron, even if it was an accident. And that would be catastrophic.
So what to say to a person who may have a crush on you, or else may hate your guts? Someone as frightfully thin as Malfoy who thinks they’re fat? Someone so emotionally unstable?
Harry was so busy contemplating these thoughts that he didn’t hear the door open or the footsteps indicating someone else’s presence. He only turned his head to look at Malfoy when the boy sat down next to him, dangling his legs over the edge of the tub and looking vacantly into its depth. He didn’t look back at Harry even when Harry stared at him for several seconds.
And then-
“The first time I tried to gag myself I was thirteen.”
Harry remained silent, afraid that if he spoke he might shatter the tranquility of the moment and Malfoy would leave. Instead, he looked back into the tub and nodded, letting Malfoy know that he was listening. That he cared, but that he wouldn’t interrupt. His heart was pounding against his ribcage in anticipation.
“It didn’t work. I didn’t know what I was doing. I shoved a finger down my throat, gagged, and pulled it back out.
“The next time I was fourteen. It hardly worked. It was the first time I'd been ‘fucked and chucked’.” He made air quotations around the phrase and rolled his eyes. “A Durmstrang student. I only got a little bit that time. It was disgusting. It got on my hand and my face and the taste stayed on my tongue for too long.” Malfoy shook his head, as though remembering that taste and trying to rid himself of it.
Harry was having a hard time processing this information. So he was definitely gay, then . . . and from what it sounded like, he’d gotten around, and not only that, he’d been dumped on his arse quite a bit. Harry couldn’t imagine who this might have happened with, where Malfoy had found them, or . . . Harry resisted pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t understand who would drop Malfoy like that. If they’d bedded him, they clearly didn’t have too much of a problem with the negative sides of his personality (which, admittedly, weren’t nearly as pronounced as they once were), and anyone with eyes could see that he was gorgeous.
“The first time it really worked was the night I received the Dark Mark.” Harry closed his eyes momentarily and reopened them, resisting the urge to say anything. “I was so . . . relieved. It was like I’d fulfilled one of my parents’ goals for me.
“But then that night I was looking at myself in the mirror, looking at the Mark, and I just . . . I’ve always hated my body. Ever since . . . But this time was so different. I could feel the food in my stomach and it was like my body was laughing at me.” Malfoy had, subconsciously it seemed, wrapped his arms around himself. Harry wanted so badly to hold him. And he couldn’t even bring himself to be properly disgusted with himself for wanting that. “So I stuck my toothbrush down my throat and I . . . It was really hard at first. Keeping it down. But it worked and it felt amazing. And for the first time I felt like I had control of something in my life.”
“You’ve been doing it since then?” Harry asked quietly. Malfoy shook his head.
“There were times I wouldn’t eat at all. And then I wouldn’t feel like I had to throw up as much. Sixth year. I didn’t eat a lot that year. But then there were times that I would binge. Just because I could. Not because I wanted to eat it. Because I got a thrill out of vomiting afterwards.”
It didn’t make one bit of sense to Harry, but the way Malfoy talked about it sounded almost reverent. It was scary.
“After the war Pansy and Blaise confronted me. They’d noticed. And for a few months I started eating more - without vomiting - but I hated it. I would get . . . I got panic attacks a lot. I could feel the food in my stomach again. So when we came back here this year and they stopped badgering me . . . I just kind of slipped back into it.” For the first time since he’d come into the bathroom he looked at Harry and Harry looked back. “I don’t understand why everyone lies to me,” he said, and Harry saw tears welling up in his eyes. “If everyone is really so worried, why not tell me to lose weight in a healthy way? It’s not like I don’t know you’re all lying.”
Harry stared at him for another few moments, enthralled by the horrifying sincerity in Malfoy’s eyes. God, he honestly thought he was fat.
Harry stood up and extended a hand to Malfoy. “Stand up,” he said. Malfoy took his hand uncertainly and allowed himself to be lifted on shaky legs. His eyes went wide when Harry promptly removed his shirt, letting it drop to the ground. He didn’t miss the way Malfoy’s eyes raked over his body, but he determinedly ignored the stirring in his groin that this produced.
He took both of Malfoy’s hands and pressed them against his abs, over his ribs. Malfoy was stock-still.
“Do you feel my ribs?”
“A little,” Malfoy whispered. Harry nodded and pulled Malfoy’s hands away, then proceeded to push them under Malfoy’s own shirt and press them against his own jutting ribs.
He was satisfied when a single tear trailed down his cheek.
“Do you feel your ribs?”
Malfoy nodded.
“More than mine?”
Another nod. He let go of Malfoy’s hands and they fell away limply.
“You’re too skinny,” he said softly. Malfoy shook his head.
“I-”
“You what?” he said a little too harshly. “How can you say you’re fat when you just felt your ribs for yourself? Do you wanna look at your spine in the mirror? Do you wanna compare our wrists? Look at your face. Your cheeks are hollow.” Malfoy looked down and Harry swallowed, suddenly feeling awful for making him feel bad. But it was what he had to do, so he didn’t take anything back. Not that he could. He’d made his point. “Do you believe me?”
“I . . . kind of. I suppose.” He looked uncertain. “But I don’t understand why. I don’t see it myself . . .”
Harry growled in frustration and he noticed Malfoy flinch.
“How can you work on getting better if you don’t think there’s anything to work on?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. Harry had never seen Malfoy look so vulnerable. It was oddly endearing. He thought he could definitely get used to it. “I guess I can’t.”
“No, it’s okay,” Harry amended quickly with a sigh. “We’ll figure something out.” That statement had sounded very absolute and he wasn’t nearly ready to give this up yet. Malfoy looked up at him and there was the smallest hint of hope in his eyes. “We’ll talk. Talking helps. It does,” he said in response to Malfoy’s look of uncertainty.
“’Kay,” he said softly, and Harry couldn’t help but smile.
“Really?”
Malfoy scoffed good-naturedly. “Yes, Potter, really. I’ll . . . see you tomorrow night, then?”
Harry merely nodded and watched as Malfoy left the bathroom.
That had gone better than expected. Much better, in fact, even though they had only talked for around fifteen minutes. They were going to meet again! This was excellent. Not even the small part of his brain that was trying to make him feel guilty for what he’d done could douse his good mood.
He looked down at himself, at his bare chest, and laughed. That had been a rather spur-of-the-moment decision. Possibly not a good one if Malfoy’s face and his own reaction were anything to go by, but still. It had worked, hadn’t it? Kind of? Malfoy was now more willing to at least try to get somewhere with this.
Harry gathered his shirt and his Cloak and left the bathroom with a smile still playing on his face.
* * *
The next night, at one o’clock, Harry went down to the Prefects’ bathroom again. He felt an impulsive urge to get in the water, so he drew a bath, and ten minutes later, just as he was slipping into the water in only his boxers, Malfoy walked in.
“I hope you don’t expect me to join you,” he drawled. Harry smirked and removed his glasses, placing them carefully on the side. To his astonishment, Malfoy picked them up and put them instead on a marble bench against one of the walls.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice full of shock. Malfoy shrugged. Despite his reluctance to get in the water he still sat at the very edge, cross-legged, and Harry came over to the side and put his arms up on the wall, resting his cheek in them and grinning sideways at Malfoy. The boy raised an eyebrow and looked away. Harry thought it was adorable.
But he quickly quashed that thought, hoping the blush on his cheeks wasn’t too noticeable.
“So,” he began with a cheeky smile.
“So what?”
“Sooo,” he repeated, pushing away from the wall and moving to the center of the tub where the water came up to just below his nipples. He folded his arms. “So you told me a little bit about the history of this whole . . . thing yesterday.” Malfoy blushed. “But you didn’t tell me how it started.”
Malfoy looked down at his lap where his hands were resting. “Well, that’s kind of a long story. . . .”
Harry made a show of checking his watch then brought his hands back down into the water and moved them back and forth lazily, still sporting his cheeky grin. “Well, good thing we have plenty of time.”
Malfoy sighed. “Look, Potter, this is . . . you can’t get angry.”
Harry’s eyebrows drew together in confusion and he stopped moving his arms. “What? Why would I get angry?”
“Just . . . This is about me. Not . . . not anyone else.” Harry was still confused, but he nodded all the same. Malfoy began fidgeting with his fingers and didn’t look up when he spoke again. “When I was younger - ever since I can remember, really - my parents put a lot of emphasis on appearance.”
Ah. His parents. Well, he couldn’t say he was entirely surprised. The Malfoys did seem like they would be those kinds of people. It didn’t make it any less infuriating, though. He wondered if they’d known they’d driven their son to this extent.
“My mother - she would always tell me, ‘Remember to suck in your tummy, Draco.’ And she fussed over my hair and my complexion and my hands and my nails and . . . everything.” He laughed humorlessly and shook his head. “Everything. Sometimes my father would hint that the Hogwarts food was making me fat-”
“What?” Harry practically yelled. He'd been brought up on that food. “He what?”
“I told you not to do that!”
Harry slapped the water but remained silent, though he was fuming. Lucius Malfoy. What a prick. He looked up to find that Malfoy’s cheeks were flaming and he looked flustered. Harry felt suddenly ashamed for having reacted like that, and he let his facial features soften.
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
And for the next hour and a half Harry waded around in the water listening, several times resisting the urge to hit something, sometimes coming close to the wall and silently watching Malfoy speak, and other times floating on his back and letting Malfoy’s voice wash over him. There were silences where Malfoy would seem to compose himself after having divulged difficult information, or else where he would simply reflect. Harry would never interrupt these silences, not only out of courtesy but because it was fascinating to watch the blond think. He’d come to terms with the fact that he thought Malfoy was absolutely stunning - there was no way around that. It still left a little pit in his stomach because, for some reason, it felt like cheating to even think that. He tried to ignore it. Malfoy was nice to look at, so he indulged himself.
A few times he wondered how he’d never noticed before, but then Malfoy would start speaking again and he would forget that train of thought.
Harry learned a lot about the Malfoy family. Lucius thought Draco was too feminine and he’d often made comments about it. Draco secretly liked that about himself - he’d blushed when he’d admitted this and refused to look at Harry - but he’d never dared tell his father that. Lucius also didn’t know he was gay. Didn’t know that his son had slept with a total of five men, only one of them at school. The others, Harry learned, had taken place on family holidays and arbitrary outings during the summer or other breaks when they’d stayed at the Manor.
Malfoy admitted to Harry that all the men he slept with had treated him like a girl, like he was delicate. “Although that didn’t mean they’d been gentle,” he'd said. (Harry had blushed furiously at this, thankful he was in the water because his cock had given a very interested twitch). He had concluded that this could have been part of the reason he was so obsessed with his body.
At around a quarter to three, after a silence that had lasted a good ten minutes, Malfoy said, “I should get to bed.”
Harry nodded and pulled himself out of the tub. Malfoy turned to say something to him -presumably a goodbye - but Harry had a better idea. He smirked wickedly to himself and took the few steps that would close the distance between himself and Malfoy.
Malfoy’s eyes went wide but he wasn’t quick enough - Harry engulfed him in a wet hug before he could escape.
“Potter!” he shrieked, wiggling incessantly to get away. Harry laughed and gave him one last squeeze before pulling away. “You absolute barbarian!” Draco's white dress shirt was soaked through and the thighs of his trousers were damp. Harry snorted.
“’Night, Malfoy,” he said with a wink. He felt a rush of joy when, instead of whipping out his wand, Malfoy merely shook his head, visibly holding back a smirk. He did take out his wand then, but only to dry his clothes. He gave Harry the closest thing he’d ever given him to a real smile before leaving the bathroom.
Harry felt the crazy urge to do a victory dance, but settled on a simple, wide smile instead.
Chapter Seven | Page of Contents | Chapter Nine
“An-Anthony,” he gasped, tugging harder still because he simply couldn’t help it. He felt Anthony hum around his cock, causing his breath to hitch and his head to fall back on a pillow. Then the wet heat was gone, replaced by a long stripe licked up the underside of his cock before it was engulfed again. And Harry lost it completely. He shouted out unintelligibly as pulse after pulse of come coated the back of Anthony’s throat, and he swallowed it like the expert he had become.
Anthony crawled up his body to kiss him and Harry, though he never liked that very much (how could someone like the taste of their own spunk?), kissed him back because that had been one of the most amazing blowjobs he’d ever received. Not that he had much to compare it to; only Ginny, and that had been a disaster because, well, he was gay.
Harry wrapped his hand around Anthony’s still-hard cock and got him off quickly. He was tired from a particularly grueling Quidditch practice and, though he was horribly ashamed to admit it given the current situation, eager to get to the Prefects’ bathroom in a few hours. He wasn’t positive Malfoy would show up, but he had hope.
“That was amazing,” Harry said, absently petting Anthony’s hair as the boy lay cuddled up to his side, his breathing slowly evening out.
“Thanks,” Anthony laughed. “I should probably get going, though. I have to finish up that paper for Potions that’s due tomorrow.”
Normally, this really bugged Harry: that Anthony put school literally before everything. Sometimes it would have been nice to have him stay overnight. Even on school nights. But Anthony would never hear it. Tonight, however, he was guiltily thankful because that meant he could skip any awkward questions that would have resulted if he’d had to kick him out.
“Yeah, all right,” he sighed, attempting to sound put out. Anthony smirked and kissed him lightly on the lips. Harry smiled into it and, for extra effect, held him there for a few seconds before letting him go. As he watched Anthony don his clothing in the otherwise empty dorm room he wondered briefly if it was bad that he felt like he was lying by being so affectionate tonight. He decided it wasn’t, given that he was just keen to help Malfoy out. That wasn’t a bad thing, was it? Of course not. He was merely saving Anthony the trouble of becoming suspicious about something that he didn’t need to be suspicious about. If he thought Anthony wouldn’t be incredibly upset about the fact that it was Malfoy, Harry would tell him. He would.
“’Night, Harry.” Anthony leaned over the bed and gave Harry another sweet kiss before leaving the room. Harry couldn’t help imagining what would happen if Malfoy walked down there into the Gryffindor common room alone.
Something akin to gang rape, probably.
Harry sighed and stood up, stretched, then checked his watch. Nearly eleven. The other boys would probably start heading up in the next hour or so. It was Sunday night, after all, and they’d found it was always best to get to sleep early in preparation for Monday mornings. Especially considering they had Potions first thing.
Harry, however, knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t, if things went as planned. He was going to go down to the bathroom around a quarter to one, and if Malfoy showed up he would try to get him to talk for as long as he could. Even if it meant staying up until dawn.
To be honest, he thought that sounded rather nice. Talking to Malfoy in the Prefects’ bathroom until the sun rose. Maybe he could really get something good out of him if they did that.
Best not to get his hopes up, though. He knew it would be a miracle if Malfoy gave him half an hour of genuine talking.
Nearly two hours later Harry was walking across the marble floor of the Prefects’ bathroom to sit by the edge of the tub. He wasn’t sure how long he would wait. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? An hour? Probably not an hour. If one-thirty came and went he would go back to his dorm. As of now, though, he still had a good ten minutes until one o’clock.
He had a horrible feeling in his gut that this was pointless. Malfoy had made it pretty clear last night that he didn’t want to talk. Even so, Harry couldn’t help coming here and hoping that he’d be wrong.
He began to wonder what he would say if Malfoy did show up. Harry had never been good at this stuff. It was Hermione that knew how to decipher emotions and talk to people. He desperately wished he could tell her about this, but he knew better. She wouldn’t like it, and although she was trustworthy, he wasn’t one hundred percent positive she wouldn’t let it slip to Ron, even if it was an accident. And that would be catastrophic.
So what to say to a person who may have a crush on you, or else may hate your guts? Someone as frightfully thin as Malfoy who thinks they’re fat? Someone so emotionally unstable?
Harry was so busy contemplating these thoughts that he didn’t hear the door open or the footsteps indicating someone else’s presence. He only turned his head to look at Malfoy when the boy sat down next to him, dangling his legs over the edge of the tub and looking vacantly into its depth. He didn’t look back at Harry even when Harry stared at him for several seconds.
And then-
“The first time I tried to gag myself I was thirteen.”
Harry remained silent, afraid that if he spoke he might shatter the tranquility of the moment and Malfoy would leave. Instead, he looked back into the tub and nodded, letting Malfoy know that he was listening. That he cared, but that he wouldn’t interrupt. His heart was pounding against his ribcage in anticipation.
“It didn’t work. I didn’t know what I was doing. I shoved a finger down my throat, gagged, and pulled it back out.
“The next time I was fourteen. It hardly worked. It was the first time I'd been ‘fucked and chucked’.” He made air quotations around the phrase and rolled his eyes. “A Durmstrang student. I only got a little bit that time. It was disgusting. It got on my hand and my face and the taste stayed on my tongue for too long.” Malfoy shook his head, as though remembering that taste and trying to rid himself of it.
Harry was having a hard time processing this information. So he was definitely gay, then . . . and from what it sounded like, he’d gotten around, and not only that, he’d been dumped on his arse quite a bit. Harry couldn’t imagine who this might have happened with, where Malfoy had found them, or . . . Harry resisted pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t understand who would drop Malfoy like that. If they’d bedded him, they clearly didn’t have too much of a problem with the negative sides of his personality (which, admittedly, weren’t nearly as pronounced as they once were), and anyone with eyes could see that he was gorgeous.
“The first time it really worked was the night I received the Dark Mark.” Harry closed his eyes momentarily and reopened them, resisting the urge to say anything. “I was so . . . relieved. It was like I’d fulfilled one of my parents’ goals for me.
“But then that night I was looking at myself in the mirror, looking at the Mark, and I just . . . I’ve always hated my body. Ever since . . . But this time was so different. I could feel the food in my stomach and it was like my body was laughing at me.” Malfoy had, subconsciously it seemed, wrapped his arms around himself. Harry wanted so badly to hold him. And he couldn’t even bring himself to be properly disgusted with himself for wanting that. “So I stuck my toothbrush down my throat and I . . . It was really hard at first. Keeping it down. But it worked and it felt amazing. And for the first time I felt like I had control of something in my life.”
“You’ve been doing it since then?” Harry asked quietly. Malfoy shook his head.
“There were times I wouldn’t eat at all. And then I wouldn’t feel like I had to throw up as much. Sixth year. I didn’t eat a lot that year. But then there were times that I would binge. Just because I could. Not because I wanted to eat it. Because I got a thrill out of vomiting afterwards.”
It didn’t make one bit of sense to Harry, but the way Malfoy talked about it sounded almost reverent. It was scary.
“After the war Pansy and Blaise confronted me. They’d noticed. And for a few months I started eating more - without vomiting - but I hated it. I would get . . . I got panic attacks a lot. I could feel the food in my stomach again. So when we came back here this year and they stopped badgering me . . . I just kind of slipped back into it.” For the first time since he’d come into the bathroom he looked at Harry and Harry looked back. “I don’t understand why everyone lies to me,” he said, and Harry saw tears welling up in his eyes. “If everyone is really so worried, why not tell me to lose weight in a healthy way? It’s not like I don’t know you’re all lying.”
Harry stared at him for another few moments, enthralled by the horrifying sincerity in Malfoy’s eyes. God, he honestly thought he was fat.
Harry stood up and extended a hand to Malfoy. “Stand up,” he said. Malfoy took his hand uncertainly and allowed himself to be lifted on shaky legs. His eyes went wide when Harry promptly removed his shirt, letting it drop to the ground. He didn’t miss the way Malfoy’s eyes raked over his body, but he determinedly ignored the stirring in his groin that this produced.
He took both of Malfoy’s hands and pressed them against his abs, over his ribs. Malfoy was stock-still.
“Do you feel my ribs?”
“A little,” Malfoy whispered. Harry nodded and pulled Malfoy’s hands away, then proceeded to push them under Malfoy’s own shirt and press them against his own jutting ribs.
He was satisfied when a single tear trailed down his cheek.
“Do you feel your ribs?”
Malfoy nodded.
“More than mine?”
Another nod. He let go of Malfoy’s hands and they fell away limply.
“You’re too skinny,” he said softly. Malfoy shook his head.
“I-”
“You what?” he said a little too harshly. “How can you say you’re fat when you just felt your ribs for yourself? Do you wanna look at your spine in the mirror? Do you wanna compare our wrists? Look at your face. Your cheeks are hollow.” Malfoy looked down and Harry swallowed, suddenly feeling awful for making him feel bad. But it was what he had to do, so he didn’t take anything back. Not that he could. He’d made his point. “Do you believe me?”
“I . . . kind of. I suppose.” He looked uncertain. “But I don’t understand why. I don’t see it myself . . .”
Harry growled in frustration and he noticed Malfoy flinch.
“How can you work on getting better if you don’t think there’s anything to work on?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. Harry had never seen Malfoy look so vulnerable. It was oddly endearing. He thought he could definitely get used to it. “I guess I can’t.”
“No, it’s okay,” Harry amended quickly with a sigh. “We’ll figure something out.” That statement had sounded very absolute and he wasn’t nearly ready to give this up yet. Malfoy looked up at him and there was the smallest hint of hope in his eyes. “We’ll talk. Talking helps. It does,” he said in response to Malfoy’s look of uncertainty.
“’Kay,” he said softly, and Harry couldn’t help but smile.
“Really?”
Malfoy scoffed good-naturedly. “Yes, Potter, really. I’ll . . . see you tomorrow night, then?”
Harry merely nodded and watched as Malfoy left the bathroom.
That had gone better than expected. Much better, in fact, even though they had only talked for around fifteen minutes. They were going to meet again! This was excellent. Not even the small part of his brain that was trying to make him feel guilty for what he’d done could douse his good mood.
He looked down at himself, at his bare chest, and laughed. That had been a rather spur-of-the-moment decision. Possibly not a good one if Malfoy’s face and his own reaction were anything to go by, but still. It had worked, hadn’t it? Kind of? Malfoy was now more willing to at least try to get somewhere with this.
Harry gathered his shirt and his Cloak and left the bathroom with a smile still playing on his face.
* * *
The next night, at one o’clock, Harry went down to the Prefects’ bathroom again. He felt an impulsive urge to get in the water, so he drew a bath, and ten minutes later, just as he was slipping into the water in only his boxers, Malfoy walked in.
“I hope you don’t expect me to join you,” he drawled. Harry smirked and removed his glasses, placing them carefully on the side. To his astonishment, Malfoy picked them up and put them instead on a marble bench against one of the walls.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice full of shock. Malfoy shrugged. Despite his reluctance to get in the water he still sat at the very edge, cross-legged, and Harry came over to the side and put his arms up on the wall, resting his cheek in them and grinning sideways at Malfoy. The boy raised an eyebrow and looked away. Harry thought it was adorable.
But he quickly quashed that thought, hoping the blush on his cheeks wasn’t too noticeable.
“So,” he began with a cheeky smile.
“So what?”
“Sooo,” he repeated, pushing away from the wall and moving to the center of the tub where the water came up to just below his nipples. He folded his arms. “So you told me a little bit about the history of this whole . . . thing yesterday.” Malfoy blushed. “But you didn’t tell me how it started.”
Malfoy looked down at his lap where his hands were resting. “Well, that’s kind of a long story. . . .”
Harry made a show of checking his watch then brought his hands back down into the water and moved them back and forth lazily, still sporting his cheeky grin. “Well, good thing we have plenty of time.”
Malfoy sighed. “Look, Potter, this is . . . you can’t get angry.”
Harry’s eyebrows drew together in confusion and he stopped moving his arms. “What? Why would I get angry?”
“Just . . . This is about me. Not . . . not anyone else.” Harry was still confused, but he nodded all the same. Malfoy began fidgeting with his fingers and didn’t look up when he spoke again. “When I was younger - ever since I can remember, really - my parents put a lot of emphasis on appearance.”
Ah. His parents. Well, he couldn’t say he was entirely surprised. The Malfoys did seem like they would be those kinds of people. It didn’t make it any less infuriating, though. He wondered if they’d known they’d driven their son to this extent.
“My mother - she would always tell me, ‘Remember to suck in your tummy, Draco.’ And she fussed over my hair and my complexion and my hands and my nails and . . . everything.” He laughed humorlessly and shook his head. “Everything. Sometimes my father would hint that the Hogwarts food was making me fat-”
“What?” Harry practically yelled. He'd been brought up on that food. “He what?”
“I told you not to do that!”
Harry slapped the water but remained silent, though he was fuming. Lucius Malfoy. What a prick. He looked up to find that Malfoy’s cheeks were flaming and he looked flustered. Harry felt suddenly ashamed for having reacted like that, and he let his facial features soften.
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
And for the next hour and a half Harry waded around in the water listening, several times resisting the urge to hit something, sometimes coming close to the wall and silently watching Malfoy speak, and other times floating on his back and letting Malfoy’s voice wash over him. There were silences where Malfoy would seem to compose himself after having divulged difficult information, or else where he would simply reflect. Harry would never interrupt these silences, not only out of courtesy but because it was fascinating to watch the blond think. He’d come to terms with the fact that he thought Malfoy was absolutely stunning - there was no way around that. It still left a little pit in his stomach because, for some reason, it felt like cheating to even think that. He tried to ignore it. Malfoy was nice to look at, so he indulged himself.
A few times he wondered how he’d never noticed before, but then Malfoy would start speaking again and he would forget that train of thought.
Harry learned a lot about the Malfoy family. Lucius thought Draco was too feminine and he’d often made comments about it. Draco secretly liked that about himself - he’d blushed when he’d admitted this and refused to look at Harry - but he’d never dared tell his father that. Lucius also didn’t know he was gay. Didn’t know that his son had slept with a total of five men, only one of them at school. The others, Harry learned, had taken place on family holidays and arbitrary outings during the summer or other breaks when they’d stayed at the Manor.
Malfoy admitted to Harry that all the men he slept with had treated him like a girl, like he was delicate. “Although that didn’t mean they’d been gentle,” he'd said. (Harry had blushed furiously at this, thankful he was in the water because his cock had given a very interested twitch). He had concluded that this could have been part of the reason he was so obsessed with his body.
At around a quarter to three, after a silence that had lasted a good ten minutes, Malfoy said, “I should get to bed.”
Harry nodded and pulled himself out of the tub. Malfoy turned to say something to him -presumably a goodbye - but Harry had a better idea. He smirked wickedly to himself and took the few steps that would close the distance between himself and Malfoy.
Malfoy’s eyes went wide but he wasn’t quick enough - Harry engulfed him in a wet hug before he could escape.
“Potter!” he shrieked, wiggling incessantly to get away. Harry laughed and gave him one last squeeze before pulling away. “You absolute barbarian!” Draco's white dress shirt was soaked through and the thighs of his trousers were damp. Harry snorted.
“’Night, Malfoy,” he said with a wink. He felt a rush of joy when, instead of whipping out his wand, Malfoy merely shook his head, visibly holding back a smirk. He did take out his wand then, but only to dry his clothes. He gave Harry the closest thing he’d ever given him to a real smile before leaving the bathroom.
Harry felt the crazy urge to do a victory dance, but settled on a simple, wide smile instead.
Chapter Seven | Page of Contents | Chapter Nine