Fic: Sooner or Later (H/D, R)
if i were to make it um... more fulfilling in the porn dept., it'd be... a lot longer. it has been noted many a time that h/d realism requires foreplay. a lot... of foreplay. *snickers*
anyway.
Disclaimer: if you think Harry Potter's mine after reading this fic, I don't think you'd been listening. He's obviously Draco's.
Warning: boylove. very hard R. 'nuff said.
Author's Note: for Sara's birthday. This didn't come out near as porny as I wanted it to. Forgive me. Know that I will keep trying :D
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~ sooner or later.
It was the spring of their last year, and Voldemort had to be dead. Harry's life simply couldn't stretch across any more killing curses cast his way, and it really had to be over this time, so it was. All he could hear was the quiet in his own head at night. He couldn't sleep, still, staying awake and thinking of nothing, trying to count the seconds to sunrise when everything would be all right again.
Nothing was right. He still saw his parents dying when he slept, and now they were joined by a host of others. It was making him shiver in late April, as the trees began to blossom outside. He would remember the things he shouldn't, and his smile became forced. Hermione noticed, and squeezed his hand, looking at him like she understood, but she didn't.
It was all over, and yet it wasn't, and she knew that. It wasn't over for her, either. But for Hermione, recovery meant studying even harder and holding Ron's hands when she didn't think Harry would notice. Hermione had a plan; she knew what she wanted. Her head was full of facts and ideas and plans that she was going to accomplish or fall over trying. Harry's head was feeling empty as a hollowed out pumpkin, and yet his mind seemed to be refusing to just -stop-, and he was beginning to feel like it was running away with him.
Mostly, what he felt was disbelief. This wasn't even worth considering nor caring about. Not this too. As if Harry didn't have enough to deal with.
It came from out of nowhere, but it wouldn't let go. The images assaulted him if he looked just a little too long.
The pain of holding them in was nothing compared to the pain of merely knowing they existed and being unable to explain or dislodge. He thought that if their fingers brushed together, if he allowed himself to look, really -look-, the ache would lessen, but he crushed the thought viciously. He would not give him the satisfaction. He won't look at him. He won't look up even though he knew the other was looking. Let him look.
Harry didn't love Malfoy, but it didn't matter anyway, because quite clearly that wasn't what counted.
Harry wasn't stupid. He knew who Malfoy was, who he was himself.
Every second, during every angry word they still exchanged in public, every day Harry spent pretending everything was the same and he was all right, and it was just a matter of time before he won. He always won, in the end. Voldemort or Quidditch or the perpetual war against his better judgment, it didn't matter, did it? It was all the same, eventually, it had to be.
Harry decided it had to be a new, insiduous form of insanity when he realized that it made him want to do things he couldn't. He could cast curses and hurl insults and glare as much as he wanted, if he wanted to. And he wanted to; it just wasn't all he wanted.
He breathed slowly, evenly. This was nothing new. One more ache to keep him up at night. This was nothing he couldn't handle, and it would go away eventually. He'll find a way to fix it eventually, he had to believe that.
Meanwhile, he crossed out Malfoy's name on his parchment with harsh, ragged scratches of his quill until the whole area was a runny black blob of ink. He had been writing a letter. It wasn't really a letter, it was more like a curse.
"Malfoy," it said. "Stop this. What are you doing to me? Just tell me the truth. Who the hell are you, anyway?"
He crumpled the parchment, fed up with himself.
He couldn't sign it. He couldn't rip it up. He just kept staring at it, willing it to disintegrate, until finally, in a hopeless, mad sort of moment, he rolled it up and thrust it at Hedwig, watching her start in a flurry of indignation and feathers. He stared after her for a long time, nose pressed against the window.
He still felt hollow, unhinged.
But for the first time in a long time, he also felt free.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Draco Malfoy wasn't secretly in love with Harry Potter. It didn't even matter whether or not he had raunchy, sweaty, gasping dreams of tying him up in Slytherin sheets and fucking him until he bled through his ears. If he decided he wasn't, he wasn't.
It wasn't a secret. It was just the sort of thing one didn't think of. It was the sort of thing one would shake off with the sleep in their eyes, the sort of thing one laughed at because there is simply nothing else to do.
So if he stared south a little too long, it wasn't that he'd deny it (although he would), it was just that it was nothing.
If he stared at the flexing musles in his rival Seeker's thighs as they passed each other on broomsticks, there was no reason for guilt. He didn't feel such stupid Gryffindor emotions anyway. Guilt would imply he thought he'd done something wrong, and he knew he never did no matter who had said otherwise.
He learned to be careful, and he thought of nothing when he panted and moaned and trembled after he had won once again against the other two Houses. When it was Gryffindor, Draco always needed to hurt things, whatever was handy, though never anything of value. He could always -Reparo- his broom, but it was the principle that mattered. When he bucked into his fist, knocking his forehead forcefully against the shower tiles, he thought of open air and shadows. A Malfoy didn't want anyone, didn't need anyone. A Malfoy came into his hand as a mere physical exercise, just taking care of business.
When he closed his eyes at the last moment, for the merest flickering heartbeat, he saw him. And then he saw stars.
~~~~~~
When it's dark and he's unable to sleep, he thinks he loves him and it hurts.
Hurts like a fist to his eye from the one he thinks he should get back to hating in return.
He has a fantasy that Potter's lying awake too, with a raging hard-on that won't subside no matter what he thinks of or how long he counts Weasley's snores. He wants Potter to be equally frustrated, but more than that, he wants it to hurt.
He wants Potter to hurt him.
Draco only thinks about it in the dark, with his eyes closed, with no chance of anyone seeing his face as it slackens, as the color rises in his cheeks. No one to notice the rapid rise and fall of his chest or his mouth falling open, slamming shut again as he moans around his index finger, biting down hard.
In the dark, he wants Potter to win.
That too, is just a fantasy, because Potter would never hit him. Potter would never like it. The blood underneath his fingernails, that hissing sound Potter would make when he'd managed to make him -really- angry. That sound that makes Draco think he could just -bite- Draco. He would never really bite him, but then, Draco realizes that's probably why he wants it so much.
His legs fall open of their own accord, his hips lifting upwards as he shoves a spit-slick finger in and out of himself, feeling frightened and vulnerable and more turned on than he had previously thought possible. He thinks that if it was Potter's finger now slowly stretching him, he would just die. He wants it to be Potter's cock.
He adds a finger, then two, being careful not to let himself scream, the thrusts getting faster and faster as he bears down on his hand, his other hand working just as fast. He wishes he had more than two: enough to spare to pinch his nipple, painfully hard, at the same time as another one trails up his neck to brush over his cheek. He could wank himself as Potter just looked down on him, naked and hard against Draco's leg but still a virgin, their skin touching but Draco's own fingers remaining the only penetration. Potter would just look at him, his eyes wide and dilated, his breathing shallow, and he wouldn't even have to say it, but Draco would know that he wanted him more than anything.
He gets lost in the fantasy where Potter's cock was jerking against him, grinding into his thigh, smearing him with pre-come before Potter lost all control and shot repeatedly, right then, just like that. Draco almost chokes on his own saliva as he comes violently, pumping his hips in the air, whimpering Potter's name.
When he'd fucked Pansy up the arse a few times, it just wasn't the same. None of this bursting fullness, this feeling like he's about to fly apart at the seams.
He's ashamed of himself afterwards. Laying there, overheated, very nearly content even without a warm body tucked against his, he's glad that Potter will never know that he could just take Draco if decided he wanted him. His body is still and his hands are unmoving, resting quietly on his stomach, smeared with rapidly congealing come. His knees bent and spread open, his feet resting on his silken sheets, he's glad that Potter will never want him.
~~~~~~~~
Draco always liked to think he wasn't afraid of anything. He wasn't afraid of losing, because he had never lost before. He wasn't afraid of love because he didn't even know what the words meant, and what's more, he didn't -want- to know.
A Malfoy would never admit when he was afraid, and Draco knew that as well as he knew his own name. But the whole bloody mess was becoming difficult. Holding it in, trying to pretend it wasn't there, that it wasn't growing like some sort of cancer. He wanted to tell someone. Maybe someone could help him. Maybe there was a way out.
Because the truth was, he was afraid.
Afraid that maybe he'd wake up one day and catch himself looking at Potter like he'd hung the moon. And there would be nothing he could do, and it would hurt. Potter, with his stupid round glasses that reflect the light, and he couldn't hang the moon anyway because he'd be too clumsy and flat-footed except he's not.
Potter could fly.
He wanted Potter to fall.
He called it love because he thought it didn't matter anymore. Hate felt the same. His nails dug into the fleshy pads of his palms, and his mouth tightened, his eyes narrowed, and it looked just like hate. Because it was. Just like hate.
Except it wasn't, and he knew he was balancing on the thin rope and if he stumbled he'd fall head-first into a nightmare of bitten lips and stumbling words and half-caught glances.
Except it didn't feel like anything he could name, not anymore, not when he got the crumpled, ink-splotched parchment which he stared at for endlessly long moments, trying to decide if he was losing his mind or if Potter was.
He wrote, "Go hang yourself. Haven't you got anything better to do than to write me love-letters, Potter? Though I'm touched, really, but how paranoid can you be? I'm not doing anything to you, moron." What he meant was, "You haven't seen anything yet. Do you want to?" Draco didn't know that was what he meant; all he knew was that there was a weakness to be exploited.
This would never work, anyway, Draco thought resentfully, staring right through Potter over his morning cereal. His hand moved but he didn't notice. All he could think was how loud his heart was hammering, and Potter wasn't even looking back, his head bent over his breakfast.
Jumping up violently, he cursed under his breath. Now everyone was looking at him and he had a hard-on that won't quit, and there was just no bloody reason for any of it. He didn't need a reason, anyway, he knew exactly what he wanted to do and exactly what he would never do. Potter, on the other hand, was just a cryptic little fucker, and he should know better than to mess with him.
Draco smirked and turned to walk out of the Hall, startled to notice that Potter had gotten up at the same time, even though he was still not looking back at him.
So Potter wanted to know The Real Malfoy, did he. Well, he could always just show him. He could always just shove it in his fucking -face-.
He's done mooning, he thought. He was done looking up and wanting and wishing there was a chain around the moon, wishing he could pull it down and see what it's made of. He thought he knew what Potter was made of.
Maybe they wanted the same thing after all, he thought.
~~~~~
Option 1.
~~~~~
Harry didn't believe in following the rules, not unless he believed in them. But even more than that, he didn't believe in following Draco Malfoy's rules. Everyone always told him he was different, he was special, and he didn't really agree, but he knew he was different from Malfoy. He simply -had- to be. The only possible direction was away from Malfoy; but it was like he had double-vision these days. He still saw what he'd always seen: Malfoy, an insufferable, horrible little prat who seemed to live to annoy him. Living out the rest of his days as a ferret really kind of fit him. Harry wouldn't mind, anyway. It would feel good not to have to worry about what mean-spirited idiocy was going to spew from Malfoy's lips next.
And yet, there it was. There was something else, at the same time. Almost as if it was happening to a different Harry altogether. Just as he was casting a hex on him, or telling him to shove off, or trying his damnest to ignore him, he was noticing the little spark of-- something-- in the other's eyes. He knew Malfoy noticed it too. It was like they had a secret together, and it was mutually understood neither of them could speak of it, or even think of it while they were sharing space. It's like there was another conversation going on, one that he couldn't really replay in his head later and have it make any sense in his usual inner language.
All he knew was, wanting to thrash Malfoy into next week had acquired a disturbing double meaning lately. And he still meant it, the other way.
Malfoy was following him. Malfoy always followed-- Harry knew he would. That was a crucial new understanding. Knowing it about himself, he could almost -smell- it on Malfoy. He knew what Malfoy wanted. What he didn't know was how that made him feel.
Most of the time, he still thought it was clear as daylight, but when he'd woken up after yet another nightmare and he was gasping and his heart was hammering so loudly in his chest he -shook- with it, and the sheets were clinging to his sweat-soaked body, the first images that leapt into his mind to soothe him were flashes of moon-pale hair and silken skin. He'd hug his pillow and try to breathe, and he'd concentrate on the cool smoothness of his sheets, imagining it was the slip of the other's thigh against him or the bare span of the other's ribcage beneath his hand. Eventually, he'd drop off to sleep, unable to deny himself the distraction, even just imagined hands wrapping around him, smoothing down his skin in a perfect rhythm, like he imagined lullabyes would've felt.
Sometimes, after a while spent just breathing, he would start to rock his hips gently against the mattress, his thick woolen comforter tangled up between his legs, putting a slow, consistent pressure on his crotch. He knew that it wasn't really anything like it would feel to have a -hand- there, or a leg shoved up against him, but it still made things better for a little bit. His gasps would be soft, nearly inaudible from necessity, and yet inevitably he'd let it slip, if only at the very end. He couldn't bear to -touch- himself, couldn't bear to admit he was doing it, that he was actually bringing himself off thinking of -that- with -him-. Always, always, the pressure of this double restraint would burst just moments before he came, and he'd have to bite down on the pillow to muffle the sudden, shameful cry of "Draco" as he soaked his pajama bottoms in four or five frantic thrusts.
And that was just the sort of thing he didn't need to think about in public if he wanted to keep what was left of his sanity. Especially when Malfoy was looking for him, even knowing that he'd kind of provoked it. He didn't mean to. He didn't really know what he meant, but he knew that what Malfoy would see on his face if he looked now would be something Harry could never live down.
When the sounds of Malfoy's approach had gotten rather blatant, Harry supposed he should slow down, but he didn't want to. He wanted to run, faster and faster, until he outran Malfoy entirely, left him somewhere on the other end of Hogwarts, so far away Harry never had to see him again.
Harry knew Malfoy would look for him, and he suddenly wished he could unknow it. Sometimes he thought that Malfoy was -his-, really -his- like no one else was, and it made him sick. He thought he might break something.
He stopped suddenly, having acted like he hadn't heard the steps almost running after him, but not quite. Harry felt shivery, like suddenly the light from the candles wasn't enough, like the shadows were seeping into his skin. He didn't want to turn around, look at Malfoy, explain himself. He heard himself speaking, and it was almost a surprise.
"So what is it you -want-, Malfoy?"
There was an incredulous pause, and then Malfoy burst out in fake-sounding laughter. "Oh so that's it. You're playing hard to get, just like a good little Gryffindor. I see."
Harry knew Malfoy was sneering, and it pissed him off just like it always did, but at the same time he was sick of it. Sick of reacting like this, sick of pretending even though he wasn't. He just wanted it to stop.
"You don't see a bloody -thing-, Malfoy. You never have. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I guess it was just a temporary lapse of sanity. I'm sure you have them all the time, so you should understand."
Malfoy actually -hissed-, and within moments, Harry felt a wand being pressed into his back, and the thing he'd never admit was that not long before, he'd actually have rather that was one of those jokes. How funny would -that- be. Malfoy's cock shoved up against him. And even as his hand closed around his own wand and he began to play the same old game again, he was getting little flashes of feverish lips against his neck, cold slim fingers slipping under his sweater. He felt a bead of sweat gather at his temple, and more than anything, he just wanted away from here. He wanted to be in the Gryffindor common room, warm and bright with firelight, thick with the sound of Ron's laughter.
"So what now? Think you'll stupefy me and call your father in for a pick up?" He said it so automatically, forgetting that didn't work anymore when Malfoy had failed to do just that when numerous opportunities arose. Not that he'd -helped-, but he'd never-- he'd stopped well short of ensuring he'd done absolutely everything he could to keep his father's cause alive. His father, who had been missing for the last six months, who was last seen casting Imperio on his own son, which he'd resisted.
Malfoy's hand shot out, wrapping around Harry's left wrist, twisting him around so suddenly he didn't have time to resist. His eyes were burning tarnished silver, and somewhere at the back of his mind, Harry thought he could look forever, even though the idea made the rest of him gag.
"You fucking better watch what you -say-, Potter. You're the one sending me bloody love-letters, and now you want to play all virginal hero, fine, but I don't think I'll play along. We both know what we're here for, so either cut the shit or I'm out of here."
Harry was sneering, still looking unflinchingly into Malfoy's eyes, and he still felt free. It was amazing really, because he hated Malfoy, and it didn't matter -what- he said to him. It didn't matter what he did to him. At the moment, he just wanted to do some damage, and he knew he -could-. It was enough to make him smile.
"Love letters?" Harry echoed. "That's funny, I thought I was finally confronting you about your blatant, sickening -obsession- with me. I can't take the way you look at me, all the bloody time. Like you want to peel the skin off me like some fucking -fruit-. Does that make you hard, Malfoy? Do you lie awake at night imagining me naked and at your mercy, at the same time as I was probably having bloody -nightmares- about -Voldemort-? Does that make it good for you?"
Malfoy had been standing there, staring at Harry wordlessly all this time, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. His eyes were opaque, and his fingers, which had long since dropped Harry's wrist, were clenching tightly in his robes. He'd gone really pale and still except for that fist, and although he was shaking slightly, no one could tell unless they were looking for it, as Harry was.
It was sudden, the rush of brilliant red color to Malfoy's cheeks, and at that moment, Harry really thought Malfoy was about to hit him. Either that, or shove him up against the wall and smother him with his mouth.
~~
"You fucking--" Malfoy gasped, looking like he was running out of air. "You -fucker-! I could -kill- you," he whispered, voice low and hoarse.
But you won't; you want to kissmefuckmeblowmeownme, -hard-, Harry thought, feeling a sudden chill. I -know- you. And you won't. More importantly, -we- won't. It will never happen. Harry knew that, with a sudden, painful clarity. It was a relief, in a way, knowing that. There was nothing left to lose, but then, there never had been in the first place except temporary delusions. His nightmares were much more real.
"You could always go ahead and try," Harry said, tilting his head to the side and looking at the other thoughtfully. "You're bound to fail, just like always. You know it and I know it. I'm just wasting my time, Malfoy."
Malfoy looked him up and down, his chest still heaving though his face had turned impassive.
"Fine. That's the way you want it, eh Potter? Don't have the balls to follow through on your own half-arsed little seductions, do you? I'm on to you. What's more, I'm -over- you," Malfoy sneered. And it hurt somewhere in the distance, like a sudden flash of a pin-prick buried in Harry's flesh, somewhere on his chest. The knowledge it was over before it began was quick-acting, a sure poison. Harry's stomach lurched. It felt like there -was- something to lose, after all, and at the moment, that just pissed him off.
There was nothing else to say, really, but Harry nodded. He would say it anyway. "So that's it, then."
And Malfoy looked at him, and there it was again. That strange, disconcerting feeling like there were two conversations going on, like just looking into Malfoy's eyes was something new and different, like something was changing even though nothing was really even said. But that, of course, was a lie.
"Yeah. Have fun with those nightmares, Potter. I hope they smother you in your sleep, -somehow-," Malfoy said, but there was no heat to it. He looked at Harry for another long moment, and then he simply turned and walked away.
This time, Harry was certain neither one of them would follow.
~~~~~
Option 2.
~~~~~
It was the spring of their last year, and Voldemort seemed to be dead. Harry couldn't be quite sure, as always. Was anything ever over for him? He still saw his parents dying when he slept, and he still felt that kiss stinging his lips, when it had been so soft and fleeting and warm.
Harry remembered when the things he wanted could have been classified into three easy categories of "impossible", "necessary", and "unexpected".
And then there was what they had both begun to feel was a matter of time, without even realizing it.
One of these days, they were going to meet in the corridors when no one was there to stop them, and it was just going to be the two of them. Potter and Malfoy: their wands flashing all the signals anyone needed.
Inevitable or not, Harry still didn't expect it. But here they were, just like it was always clear they would be. Except they were just standing about ten feet apart, staring at one another. They weren't speaking, and maybe they were barely breathing.
Harry's hands were in his robes, fingers wrapped securely around his wand, so solid and real and reassuring, unlike Malfoy's eyes, which glimmered and glowed like nothing he'd ever seen before.
Malfoy was scowling, his forehead creased as if something unidentifiable were bothering him. Something he couldn't quite name or send curses at. He looked somewhat constipated, and Harry restrained the sudden near-hysterical urge to laugh.
What could they say? The secret was right there, so blatant it wasn't even a secret anymore, really, just a pathetic excuse for a fight.
"So what is it that you think I'm -doing- to you, Potter?" Malfoy drawled at last. Right to business, then.
Harry sighed. "Nothing. What the bloody hell do you -think-, Malfoy?" And that was lame and stupid, but it was out before he could stop himself. He couldn't believe he'd just said something like that. It was like someone else took over whenever he spoke to what was lately Malfoy's retreating back. Sometimes Harry thought it was almost as if Malfoy had been avoiding him. Although that sounded paranoid and strange, it nevertheless seemed pretty close to the truth.
"I wouldn't -ask- if I -knew-, now would I, Potter. Honestly. Do you have the mind of a three year-old, or does my astounding charm and overpowering attractiveness really floor you that much?"
Harry snorted, his back relaxing a little. Oh yes, they could talk like this. "Yeah, right." And if his fingers were still clutching his wand, at the moment he didn't notice. He paused for a moment, but decided he may as well go the distance now that he'd started. "Are you-- have you been avoiding me, Malfoy? Not that I'm not grateful."
Malfoy barked a startled, short burst of dry laughter. "Avoiding you? My my Potter, you really -are- as self-centered as all that, aren't you?" He grinned.
"You're one to talk," Harry retorted.
Malfoy was still grinning, which was becoming somewhat disconcerting to Harry. "I suppose," Malfoy said placidly, beginning to walk towards him. Harry resisted the urge to back up a few steps, his eyes widening.
This was more up close and personal than he was comfortable with, but he would be damned if he didn't stand his ground. This close, Malfoy smelled vaguely of roses. Harry noted that he had blond eyelashes. The right corner of his mouth was quirking upwards waywardly, and Harry had the completely unexpected urge to lick it, making his eyes widen even further. He did -not- just think that with Malfoy -right there-, he thought in a mild panic. He didn't.
"So what are you thinking, Potter?" Malfoy said with the same old smirk, and it was all Harry could do not to shut him up in the only way that made sense anymore. His mouth. Malfoy's mouth. Their mouths were meant to go together. This seemed like a perfectly reasonable conclusion under the circumstances. Almost hypnotically so.
"I'm thinking about your mouth," he replied without thinking. When he heard what he'd just said, he knew he probably flushed a horrible, unnatural shade of red. He didn't flush often, but when he did it wasn't pretty. Still, Harry wasn't really sorry, considering the look on Malfoy's face. Malfoy wasn't really prepared for this either, and this gave Harry a much-needed confidence boost. "I'm thinking you have a fuckable mouth, Malfoy."
It was sudden, the rush of brilliant red color to Malfoy's cheeks, and at that moment, Harry really thought Malfoy was about to hit him. Either that, or shove him up against the wall and smother him with his mouth.
~~
"Is that what you want me to do to you?"
Within a second, Harry could see himself winding his arms around Malfoy's waist, pulling Malfoy flush against him so that their groins could grind together. Friction would be good, yes. He could see reaching out with his thumb, brushing it roughly down Malfoy's full lower lip, sweeping across, dipping ever so slightly into the warm wetness so close to it. The tip of Malfoy's tongue would be right there, flicking lightly against the joint in Harry's lowered finger. At that point in his fantasy, Harry wanted to kiss him more than anything. Ever.
"Better take me with you somewhere where we can actually fuck, then." Harry could almost hear him say it.
Five seconds, and they'd be stumbling into the first unlocked room, not even realizing it was the first years' History of Magic classroom until the dust hit them as Harry was in the middle of casting a locking charm on the door.
Malfoy's mouth would still be busy around Harry's nipple, lapping at it in small rhythmic jabs, when cool fingers wrapped around him, pulling slightly at his erection. Harry's stomach twisted into fluttering, impossible knots when he thought about it.
The Malfoy in Harry's head always smirked even with his lips wrapped all the way around Harry's cock, practically inhaling it down his throat, prompting a sort of gurgling noise from Harry, the shaking in his legs growing more pronounced. And then there'd be that -tongue-, swirling quickly, licking everywhere even as the suction got more intense, making Harry shake so hard he could imagine rattling the desk he clung to.
"I'm sorry, what?" he breathed unsteadily. Harry wondered if it showed on his face. Everything showed on his face, he knew with a cold, sinking feeling.
A second later, it was as if Malfoy had never blushed at all, and Harry wondered if he had imagined it. Another second, and there he was after all, shoved up against a wall, looking straight into those narrowed, pale eyes, and he couldn't read them at all. It was like he was seeing Malfoy for the first time, and it made him shiver with a cold sort of thrill across his skin.
"I -said-, is this what you -want-, Potter," Malfoy drawled with a dangerous sort of patience.
Malfoy had acquired a disturbing way of leering at Harry, as if he knew something about Harry that Harry himself didn't. Harry had never expected to be actually -touched-, to be challenged directly like this. Malfoy wouldn't dare -try- anything. All he was good for was insulting him and empty threats. Harry could say anything he wanted, Malfoy would find a way to twist it and make it as if everything was still going according to Malfoy's plan.
Right at that moment, Harry found he couldn't say anything at all. Damp, slightly minty breath tickled Harry's cheek, and he had to fight not to close his eyes as well, the ultimate defeat.
"Cat got your--" and here Malfoy licked at the corner of his mouth, "tongue--" moving swiftly up the slope of cheekbone, "Potter?"
Everything had acquired a sort of strange clarity then, as if Harry was seeing it in slow-motion, so that later he could imagine he could hear Malfoy's heart beating, the ragged little breaths he must've been trying to control.
When Malfoy kissed him, Harry thought maybe the world had ended. Or perhaps just turned over. He thought maybe he was having that out-of-body experience Hermione had told him about, or maybe he was going insane, or maybe, maybe this was what he wanted. And that was the most insane thing of all, at the same time as it wasn't. It seemed there was a second's difference between madness and a sort of obscene clarity.
Harry's eyes stayed open, and he couldn't seem to move his lips, merely gasping at the hint of teeth pulling at his lower lip, the brief flicker of warm wetness smeared against his mouth. He'd never thought it could happen like this, gently blowing past his defenses, so incongruous, as if they were standing on tip-toe and trying not to break anything. It was almost-- beautiful.
And then they'd both looked at each other as if seeing each other for the first time again, and Malfoy had wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and run off without a word.
Harry slumped against the wall, sliding down onto his knees. He thought maybe he could hold his breath until the world stopped spinning. In the end, he should've expected it.
~~~~~~~~
Malfoy wouldn't even meet his eyes afterwards. The only proof Harry even had that it had happened was the way his mouth tingled at odd moments, and he could feel the first phantom pressure, faint and thick with the scent of roses. Harry kept thinking that roses seemed so incongruous, ridiculous even. Malfoy, and roses? He would have thought (if he were to think of these things) that Malfoy would smell of something spicy, something that would burn his mouth of sweetness. Something that would burn, anyway.
When Harry thought of it, he caught himself and scowled. It was still one of those things best left untouched. He was accumulating them. He knew all the things he wouldn't touch touched him anyway, as he slept, anytime his mind wandered. He was a liar, and the awful thing was, he was lying to himself, pretending that he didn't know that sooner or later he was going to have to give in.
Sooner or later, in their own ways, they would all have to give in.
~~~~~
anyway.
Disclaimer: if you think Harry Potter's mine after reading this fic, I don't think you'd been listening. He's obviously Draco's.
Warning: boylove. very hard R. 'nuff said.
Author's Note: for Sara's birthday. This didn't come out near as porny as I wanted it to. Forgive me. Know that I will keep trying :D
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~ sooner or later.
It was the spring of their last year, and Voldemort had to be dead. Harry's life simply couldn't stretch across any more killing curses cast his way, and it really had to be over this time, so it was. All he could hear was the quiet in his own head at night. He couldn't sleep, still, staying awake and thinking of nothing, trying to count the seconds to sunrise when everything would be all right again.
Nothing was right. He still saw his parents dying when he slept, and now they were joined by a host of others. It was making him shiver in late April, as the trees began to blossom outside. He would remember the things he shouldn't, and his smile became forced. Hermione noticed, and squeezed his hand, looking at him like she understood, but she didn't.
It was all over, and yet it wasn't, and she knew that. It wasn't over for her, either. But for Hermione, recovery meant studying even harder and holding Ron's hands when she didn't think Harry would notice. Hermione had a plan; she knew what she wanted. Her head was full of facts and ideas and plans that she was going to accomplish or fall over trying. Harry's head was feeling empty as a hollowed out pumpkin, and yet his mind seemed to be refusing to just -stop-, and he was beginning to feel like it was running away with him.
Mostly, what he felt was disbelief. This wasn't even worth considering nor caring about. Not this too. As if Harry didn't have enough to deal with.
It came from out of nowhere, but it wouldn't let go. The images assaulted him if he looked just a little too long.
The pain of holding them in was nothing compared to the pain of merely knowing they existed and being unable to explain or dislodge. He thought that if their fingers brushed together, if he allowed himself to look, really -look-, the ache would lessen, but he crushed the thought viciously. He would not give him the satisfaction. He won't look at him. He won't look up even though he knew the other was looking. Let him look.
Harry didn't love Malfoy, but it didn't matter anyway, because quite clearly that wasn't what counted.
Harry wasn't stupid. He knew who Malfoy was, who he was himself.
Every second, during every angry word they still exchanged in public, every day Harry spent pretending everything was the same and he was all right, and it was just a matter of time before he won. He always won, in the end. Voldemort or Quidditch or the perpetual war against his better judgment, it didn't matter, did it? It was all the same, eventually, it had to be.
Harry decided it had to be a new, insiduous form of insanity when he realized that it made him want to do things he couldn't. He could cast curses and hurl insults and glare as much as he wanted, if he wanted to. And he wanted to; it just wasn't all he wanted.
He breathed slowly, evenly. This was nothing new. One more ache to keep him up at night. This was nothing he couldn't handle, and it would go away eventually. He'll find a way to fix it eventually, he had to believe that.
Meanwhile, he crossed out Malfoy's name on his parchment with harsh, ragged scratches of his quill until the whole area was a runny black blob of ink. He had been writing a letter. It wasn't really a letter, it was more like a curse.
"Malfoy," it said. "Stop this. What are you doing to me? Just tell me the truth. Who the hell are you, anyway?"
He crumpled the parchment, fed up with himself.
He couldn't sign it. He couldn't rip it up. He just kept staring at it, willing it to disintegrate, until finally, in a hopeless, mad sort of moment, he rolled it up and thrust it at Hedwig, watching her start in a flurry of indignation and feathers. He stared after her for a long time, nose pressed against the window.
He still felt hollow, unhinged.
But for the first time in a long time, he also felt free.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Draco Malfoy wasn't secretly in love with Harry Potter. It didn't even matter whether or not he had raunchy, sweaty, gasping dreams of tying him up in Slytherin sheets and fucking him until he bled through his ears. If he decided he wasn't, he wasn't.
It wasn't a secret. It was just the sort of thing one didn't think of. It was the sort of thing one would shake off with the sleep in their eyes, the sort of thing one laughed at because there is simply nothing else to do.
So if he stared south a little too long, it wasn't that he'd deny it (although he would), it was just that it was nothing.
If he stared at the flexing musles in his rival Seeker's thighs as they passed each other on broomsticks, there was no reason for guilt. He didn't feel such stupid Gryffindor emotions anyway. Guilt would imply he thought he'd done something wrong, and he knew he never did no matter who had said otherwise.
He learned to be careful, and he thought of nothing when he panted and moaned and trembled after he had won once again against the other two Houses. When it was Gryffindor, Draco always needed to hurt things, whatever was handy, though never anything of value. He could always -Reparo- his broom, but it was the principle that mattered. When he bucked into his fist, knocking his forehead forcefully against the shower tiles, he thought of open air and shadows. A Malfoy didn't want anyone, didn't need anyone. A Malfoy came into his hand as a mere physical exercise, just taking care of business.
When he closed his eyes at the last moment, for the merest flickering heartbeat, he saw him. And then he saw stars.
~~~~~~
When it's dark and he's unable to sleep, he thinks he loves him and it hurts.
Hurts like a fist to his eye from the one he thinks he should get back to hating in return.
He has a fantasy that Potter's lying awake too, with a raging hard-on that won't subside no matter what he thinks of or how long he counts Weasley's snores. He wants Potter to be equally frustrated, but more than that, he wants it to hurt.
He wants Potter to hurt him.
Draco only thinks about it in the dark, with his eyes closed, with no chance of anyone seeing his face as it slackens, as the color rises in his cheeks. No one to notice the rapid rise and fall of his chest or his mouth falling open, slamming shut again as he moans around his index finger, biting down hard.
In the dark, he wants Potter to win.
That too, is just a fantasy, because Potter would never hit him. Potter would never like it. The blood underneath his fingernails, that hissing sound Potter would make when he'd managed to make him -really- angry. That sound that makes Draco think he could just -bite- Draco. He would never really bite him, but then, Draco realizes that's probably why he wants it so much.
His legs fall open of their own accord, his hips lifting upwards as he shoves a spit-slick finger in and out of himself, feeling frightened and vulnerable and more turned on than he had previously thought possible. He thinks that if it was Potter's finger now slowly stretching him, he would just die. He wants it to be Potter's cock.
He adds a finger, then two, being careful not to let himself scream, the thrusts getting faster and faster as he bears down on his hand, his other hand working just as fast. He wishes he had more than two: enough to spare to pinch his nipple, painfully hard, at the same time as another one trails up his neck to brush over his cheek. He could wank himself as Potter just looked down on him, naked and hard against Draco's leg but still a virgin, their skin touching but Draco's own fingers remaining the only penetration. Potter would just look at him, his eyes wide and dilated, his breathing shallow, and he wouldn't even have to say it, but Draco would know that he wanted him more than anything.
He gets lost in the fantasy where Potter's cock was jerking against him, grinding into his thigh, smearing him with pre-come before Potter lost all control and shot repeatedly, right then, just like that. Draco almost chokes on his own saliva as he comes violently, pumping his hips in the air, whimpering Potter's name.
When he'd fucked Pansy up the arse a few times, it just wasn't the same. None of this bursting fullness, this feeling like he's about to fly apart at the seams.
He's ashamed of himself afterwards. Laying there, overheated, very nearly content even without a warm body tucked against his, he's glad that Potter will never know that he could just take Draco if decided he wanted him. His body is still and his hands are unmoving, resting quietly on his stomach, smeared with rapidly congealing come. His knees bent and spread open, his feet resting on his silken sheets, he's glad that Potter will never want him.
~~~~~~~~
Draco always liked to think he wasn't afraid of anything. He wasn't afraid of losing, because he had never lost before. He wasn't afraid of love because he didn't even know what the words meant, and what's more, he didn't -want- to know.
A Malfoy would never admit when he was afraid, and Draco knew that as well as he knew his own name. But the whole bloody mess was becoming difficult. Holding it in, trying to pretend it wasn't there, that it wasn't growing like some sort of cancer. He wanted to tell someone. Maybe someone could help him. Maybe there was a way out.
Because the truth was, he was afraid.
Afraid that maybe he'd wake up one day and catch himself looking at Potter like he'd hung the moon. And there would be nothing he could do, and it would hurt. Potter, with his stupid round glasses that reflect the light, and he couldn't hang the moon anyway because he'd be too clumsy and flat-footed except he's not.
Potter could fly.
He wanted Potter to fall.
He called it love because he thought it didn't matter anymore. Hate felt the same. His nails dug into the fleshy pads of his palms, and his mouth tightened, his eyes narrowed, and it looked just like hate. Because it was. Just like hate.
Except it wasn't, and he knew he was balancing on the thin rope and if he stumbled he'd fall head-first into a nightmare of bitten lips and stumbling words and half-caught glances.
Except it didn't feel like anything he could name, not anymore, not when he got the crumpled, ink-splotched parchment which he stared at for endlessly long moments, trying to decide if he was losing his mind or if Potter was.
He wrote, "Go hang yourself. Haven't you got anything better to do than to write me love-letters, Potter? Though I'm touched, really, but how paranoid can you be? I'm not doing anything to you, moron." What he meant was, "You haven't seen anything yet. Do you want to?" Draco didn't know that was what he meant; all he knew was that there was a weakness to be exploited.
This would never work, anyway, Draco thought resentfully, staring right through Potter over his morning cereal. His hand moved but he didn't notice. All he could think was how loud his heart was hammering, and Potter wasn't even looking back, his head bent over his breakfast.
Jumping up violently, he cursed under his breath. Now everyone was looking at him and he had a hard-on that won't quit, and there was just no bloody reason for any of it. He didn't need a reason, anyway, he knew exactly what he wanted to do and exactly what he would never do. Potter, on the other hand, was just a cryptic little fucker, and he should know better than to mess with him.
Draco smirked and turned to walk out of the Hall, startled to notice that Potter had gotten up at the same time, even though he was still not looking back at him.
So Potter wanted to know The Real Malfoy, did he. Well, he could always just show him. He could always just shove it in his fucking -face-.
He's done mooning, he thought. He was done looking up and wanting and wishing there was a chain around the moon, wishing he could pull it down and see what it's made of. He thought he knew what Potter was made of.
Maybe they wanted the same thing after all, he thought.
~~~~~
Option 1.
~~~~~
Harry didn't believe in following the rules, not unless he believed in them. But even more than that, he didn't believe in following Draco Malfoy's rules. Everyone always told him he was different, he was special, and he didn't really agree, but he knew he was different from Malfoy. He simply -had- to be. The only possible direction was away from Malfoy; but it was like he had double-vision these days. He still saw what he'd always seen: Malfoy, an insufferable, horrible little prat who seemed to live to annoy him. Living out the rest of his days as a ferret really kind of fit him. Harry wouldn't mind, anyway. It would feel good not to have to worry about what mean-spirited idiocy was going to spew from Malfoy's lips next.
And yet, there it was. There was something else, at the same time. Almost as if it was happening to a different Harry altogether. Just as he was casting a hex on him, or telling him to shove off, or trying his damnest to ignore him, he was noticing the little spark of-- something-- in the other's eyes. He knew Malfoy noticed it too. It was like they had a secret together, and it was mutually understood neither of them could speak of it, or even think of it while they were sharing space. It's like there was another conversation going on, one that he couldn't really replay in his head later and have it make any sense in his usual inner language.
All he knew was, wanting to thrash Malfoy into next week had acquired a disturbing double meaning lately. And he still meant it, the other way.
Malfoy was following him. Malfoy always followed-- Harry knew he would. That was a crucial new understanding. Knowing it about himself, he could almost -smell- it on Malfoy. He knew what Malfoy wanted. What he didn't know was how that made him feel.
Most of the time, he still thought it was clear as daylight, but when he'd woken up after yet another nightmare and he was gasping and his heart was hammering so loudly in his chest he -shook- with it, and the sheets were clinging to his sweat-soaked body, the first images that leapt into his mind to soothe him were flashes of moon-pale hair and silken skin. He'd hug his pillow and try to breathe, and he'd concentrate on the cool smoothness of his sheets, imagining it was the slip of the other's thigh against him or the bare span of the other's ribcage beneath his hand. Eventually, he'd drop off to sleep, unable to deny himself the distraction, even just imagined hands wrapping around him, smoothing down his skin in a perfect rhythm, like he imagined lullabyes would've felt.
Sometimes, after a while spent just breathing, he would start to rock his hips gently against the mattress, his thick woolen comforter tangled up between his legs, putting a slow, consistent pressure on his crotch. He knew that it wasn't really anything like it would feel to have a -hand- there, or a leg shoved up against him, but it still made things better for a little bit. His gasps would be soft, nearly inaudible from necessity, and yet inevitably he'd let it slip, if only at the very end. He couldn't bear to -touch- himself, couldn't bear to admit he was doing it, that he was actually bringing himself off thinking of -that- with -him-. Always, always, the pressure of this double restraint would burst just moments before he came, and he'd have to bite down on the pillow to muffle the sudden, shameful cry of "Draco" as he soaked his pajama bottoms in four or five frantic thrusts.
And that was just the sort of thing he didn't need to think about in public if he wanted to keep what was left of his sanity. Especially when Malfoy was looking for him, even knowing that he'd kind of provoked it. He didn't mean to. He didn't really know what he meant, but he knew that what Malfoy would see on his face if he looked now would be something Harry could never live down.
When the sounds of Malfoy's approach had gotten rather blatant, Harry supposed he should slow down, but he didn't want to. He wanted to run, faster and faster, until he outran Malfoy entirely, left him somewhere on the other end of Hogwarts, so far away Harry never had to see him again.
Harry knew Malfoy would look for him, and he suddenly wished he could unknow it. Sometimes he thought that Malfoy was -his-, really -his- like no one else was, and it made him sick. He thought he might break something.
He stopped suddenly, having acted like he hadn't heard the steps almost running after him, but not quite. Harry felt shivery, like suddenly the light from the candles wasn't enough, like the shadows were seeping into his skin. He didn't want to turn around, look at Malfoy, explain himself. He heard himself speaking, and it was almost a surprise.
"So what is it you -want-, Malfoy?"
There was an incredulous pause, and then Malfoy burst out in fake-sounding laughter. "Oh so that's it. You're playing hard to get, just like a good little Gryffindor. I see."
Harry knew Malfoy was sneering, and it pissed him off just like it always did, but at the same time he was sick of it. Sick of reacting like this, sick of pretending even though he wasn't. He just wanted it to stop.
"You don't see a bloody -thing-, Malfoy. You never have. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I guess it was just a temporary lapse of sanity. I'm sure you have them all the time, so you should understand."
Malfoy actually -hissed-, and within moments, Harry felt a wand being pressed into his back, and the thing he'd never admit was that not long before, he'd actually have rather that was one of those jokes. How funny would -that- be. Malfoy's cock shoved up against him. And even as his hand closed around his own wand and he began to play the same old game again, he was getting little flashes of feverish lips against his neck, cold slim fingers slipping under his sweater. He felt a bead of sweat gather at his temple, and more than anything, he just wanted away from here. He wanted to be in the Gryffindor common room, warm and bright with firelight, thick with the sound of Ron's laughter.
"So what now? Think you'll stupefy me and call your father in for a pick up?" He said it so automatically, forgetting that didn't work anymore when Malfoy had failed to do just that when numerous opportunities arose. Not that he'd -helped-, but he'd never-- he'd stopped well short of ensuring he'd done absolutely everything he could to keep his father's cause alive. His father, who had been missing for the last six months, who was last seen casting Imperio on his own son, which he'd resisted.
Malfoy's hand shot out, wrapping around Harry's left wrist, twisting him around so suddenly he didn't have time to resist. His eyes were burning tarnished silver, and somewhere at the back of his mind, Harry thought he could look forever, even though the idea made the rest of him gag.
"You fucking better watch what you -say-, Potter. You're the one sending me bloody love-letters, and now you want to play all virginal hero, fine, but I don't think I'll play along. We both know what we're here for, so either cut the shit or I'm out of here."
Harry was sneering, still looking unflinchingly into Malfoy's eyes, and he still felt free. It was amazing really, because he hated Malfoy, and it didn't matter -what- he said to him. It didn't matter what he did to him. At the moment, he just wanted to do some damage, and he knew he -could-. It was enough to make him smile.
"Love letters?" Harry echoed. "That's funny, I thought I was finally confronting you about your blatant, sickening -obsession- with me. I can't take the way you look at me, all the bloody time. Like you want to peel the skin off me like some fucking -fruit-. Does that make you hard, Malfoy? Do you lie awake at night imagining me naked and at your mercy, at the same time as I was probably having bloody -nightmares- about -Voldemort-? Does that make it good for you?"
Malfoy had been standing there, staring at Harry wordlessly all this time, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. His eyes were opaque, and his fingers, which had long since dropped Harry's wrist, were clenching tightly in his robes. He'd gone really pale and still except for that fist, and although he was shaking slightly, no one could tell unless they were looking for it, as Harry was.
It was sudden, the rush of brilliant red color to Malfoy's cheeks, and at that moment, Harry really thought Malfoy was about to hit him. Either that, or shove him up against the wall and smother him with his mouth.
~~
"You fucking--" Malfoy gasped, looking like he was running out of air. "You -fucker-! I could -kill- you," he whispered, voice low and hoarse.
But you won't; you want to kissmefuckmeblowmeownme, -hard-, Harry thought, feeling a sudden chill. I -know- you. And you won't. More importantly, -we- won't. It will never happen. Harry knew that, with a sudden, painful clarity. It was a relief, in a way, knowing that. There was nothing left to lose, but then, there never had been in the first place except temporary delusions. His nightmares were much more real.
"You could always go ahead and try," Harry said, tilting his head to the side and looking at the other thoughtfully. "You're bound to fail, just like always. You know it and I know it. I'm just wasting my time, Malfoy."
Malfoy looked him up and down, his chest still heaving though his face had turned impassive.
"Fine. That's the way you want it, eh Potter? Don't have the balls to follow through on your own half-arsed little seductions, do you? I'm on to you. What's more, I'm -over- you," Malfoy sneered. And it hurt somewhere in the distance, like a sudden flash of a pin-prick buried in Harry's flesh, somewhere on his chest. The knowledge it was over before it began was quick-acting, a sure poison. Harry's stomach lurched. It felt like there -was- something to lose, after all, and at the moment, that just pissed him off.
There was nothing else to say, really, but Harry nodded. He would say it anyway. "So that's it, then."
And Malfoy looked at him, and there it was again. That strange, disconcerting feeling like there were two conversations going on, like just looking into Malfoy's eyes was something new and different, like something was changing even though nothing was really even said. But that, of course, was a lie.
"Yeah. Have fun with those nightmares, Potter. I hope they smother you in your sleep, -somehow-," Malfoy said, but there was no heat to it. He looked at Harry for another long moment, and then he simply turned and walked away.
This time, Harry was certain neither one of them would follow.
~~~~~
Option 2.
~~~~~
It was the spring of their last year, and Voldemort seemed to be dead. Harry couldn't be quite sure, as always. Was anything ever over for him? He still saw his parents dying when he slept, and he still felt that kiss stinging his lips, when it had been so soft and fleeting and warm.
Harry remembered when the things he wanted could have been classified into three easy categories of "impossible", "necessary", and "unexpected".
And then there was what they had both begun to feel was a matter of time, without even realizing it.
One of these days, they were going to meet in the corridors when no one was there to stop them, and it was just going to be the two of them. Potter and Malfoy: their wands flashing all the signals anyone needed.
Inevitable or not, Harry still didn't expect it. But here they were, just like it was always clear they would be. Except they were just standing about ten feet apart, staring at one another. They weren't speaking, and maybe they were barely breathing.
Harry's hands were in his robes, fingers wrapped securely around his wand, so solid and real and reassuring, unlike Malfoy's eyes, which glimmered and glowed like nothing he'd ever seen before.
Malfoy was scowling, his forehead creased as if something unidentifiable were bothering him. Something he couldn't quite name or send curses at. He looked somewhat constipated, and Harry restrained the sudden near-hysterical urge to laugh.
What could they say? The secret was right there, so blatant it wasn't even a secret anymore, really, just a pathetic excuse for a fight.
"So what is it that you think I'm -doing- to you, Potter?" Malfoy drawled at last. Right to business, then.
Harry sighed. "Nothing. What the bloody hell do you -think-, Malfoy?" And that was lame and stupid, but it was out before he could stop himself. He couldn't believe he'd just said something like that. It was like someone else took over whenever he spoke to what was lately Malfoy's retreating back. Sometimes Harry thought it was almost as if Malfoy had been avoiding him. Although that sounded paranoid and strange, it nevertheless seemed pretty close to the truth.
"I wouldn't -ask- if I -knew-, now would I, Potter. Honestly. Do you have the mind of a three year-old, or does my astounding charm and overpowering attractiveness really floor you that much?"
Harry snorted, his back relaxing a little. Oh yes, they could talk like this. "Yeah, right." And if his fingers were still clutching his wand, at the moment he didn't notice. He paused for a moment, but decided he may as well go the distance now that he'd started. "Are you-- have you been avoiding me, Malfoy? Not that I'm not grateful."
Malfoy barked a startled, short burst of dry laughter. "Avoiding you? My my Potter, you really -are- as self-centered as all that, aren't you?" He grinned.
"You're one to talk," Harry retorted.
Malfoy was still grinning, which was becoming somewhat disconcerting to Harry. "I suppose," Malfoy said placidly, beginning to walk towards him. Harry resisted the urge to back up a few steps, his eyes widening.
This was more up close and personal than he was comfortable with, but he would be damned if he didn't stand his ground. This close, Malfoy smelled vaguely of roses. Harry noted that he had blond eyelashes. The right corner of his mouth was quirking upwards waywardly, and Harry had the completely unexpected urge to lick it, making his eyes widen even further. He did -not- just think that with Malfoy -right there-, he thought in a mild panic. He didn't.
"So what are you thinking, Potter?" Malfoy said with the same old smirk, and it was all Harry could do not to shut him up in the only way that made sense anymore. His mouth. Malfoy's mouth. Their mouths were meant to go together. This seemed like a perfectly reasonable conclusion under the circumstances. Almost hypnotically so.
"I'm thinking about your mouth," he replied without thinking. When he heard what he'd just said, he knew he probably flushed a horrible, unnatural shade of red. He didn't flush often, but when he did it wasn't pretty. Still, Harry wasn't really sorry, considering the look on Malfoy's face. Malfoy wasn't really prepared for this either, and this gave Harry a much-needed confidence boost. "I'm thinking you have a fuckable mouth, Malfoy."
It was sudden, the rush of brilliant red color to Malfoy's cheeks, and at that moment, Harry really thought Malfoy was about to hit him. Either that, or shove him up against the wall and smother him with his mouth.
~~
"Is that what you want me to do to you?"
Within a second, Harry could see himself winding his arms around Malfoy's waist, pulling Malfoy flush against him so that their groins could grind together. Friction would be good, yes. He could see reaching out with his thumb, brushing it roughly down Malfoy's full lower lip, sweeping across, dipping ever so slightly into the warm wetness so close to it. The tip of Malfoy's tongue would be right there, flicking lightly against the joint in Harry's lowered finger. At that point in his fantasy, Harry wanted to kiss him more than anything. Ever.
"Better take me with you somewhere where we can actually fuck, then." Harry could almost hear him say it.
Five seconds, and they'd be stumbling into the first unlocked room, not even realizing it was the first years' History of Magic classroom until the dust hit them as Harry was in the middle of casting a locking charm on the door.
Malfoy's mouth would still be busy around Harry's nipple, lapping at it in small rhythmic jabs, when cool fingers wrapped around him, pulling slightly at his erection. Harry's stomach twisted into fluttering, impossible knots when he thought about it.
The Malfoy in Harry's head always smirked even with his lips wrapped all the way around Harry's cock, practically inhaling it down his throat, prompting a sort of gurgling noise from Harry, the shaking in his legs growing more pronounced. And then there'd be that -tongue-, swirling quickly, licking everywhere even as the suction got more intense, making Harry shake so hard he could imagine rattling the desk he clung to.
"I'm sorry, what?" he breathed unsteadily. Harry wondered if it showed on his face. Everything showed on his face, he knew with a cold, sinking feeling.
A second later, it was as if Malfoy had never blushed at all, and Harry wondered if he had imagined it. Another second, and there he was after all, shoved up against a wall, looking straight into those narrowed, pale eyes, and he couldn't read them at all. It was like he was seeing Malfoy for the first time, and it made him shiver with a cold sort of thrill across his skin.
"I -said-, is this what you -want-, Potter," Malfoy drawled with a dangerous sort of patience.
Malfoy had acquired a disturbing way of leering at Harry, as if he knew something about Harry that Harry himself didn't. Harry had never expected to be actually -touched-, to be challenged directly like this. Malfoy wouldn't dare -try- anything. All he was good for was insulting him and empty threats. Harry could say anything he wanted, Malfoy would find a way to twist it and make it as if everything was still going according to Malfoy's plan.
Right at that moment, Harry found he couldn't say anything at all. Damp, slightly minty breath tickled Harry's cheek, and he had to fight not to close his eyes as well, the ultimate defeat.
"Cat got your--" and here Malfoy licked at the corner of his mouth, "tongue--" moving swiftly up the slope of cheekbone, "Potter?"
Everything had acquired a sort of strange clarity then, as if Harry was seeing it in slow-motion, so that later he could imagine he could hear Malfoy's heart beating, the ragged little breaths he must've been trying to control.
When Malfoy kissed him, Harry thought maybe the world had ended. Or perhaps just turned over. He thought maybe he was having that out-of-body experience Hermione had told him about, or maybe he was going insane, or maybe, maybe this was what he wanted. And that was the most insane thing of all, at the same time as it wasn't. It seemed there was a second's difference between madness and a sort of obscene clarity.
Harry's eyes stayed open, and he couldn't seem to move his lips, merely gasping at the hint of teeth pulling at his lower lip, the brief flicker of warm wetness smeared against his mouth. He'd never thought it could happen like this, gently blowing past his defenses, so incongruous, as if they were standing on tip-toe and trying not to break anything. It was almost-- beautiful.
And then they'd both looked at each other as if seeing each other for the first time again, and Malfoy had wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and run off without a word.
Harry slumped against the wall, sliding down onto his knees. He thought maybe he could hold his breath until the world stopped spinning. In the end, he should've expected it.
~~~~~~~~
Malfoy wouldn't even meet his eyes afterwards. The only proof Harry even had that it had happened was the way his mouth tingled at odd moments, and he could feel the first phantom pressure, faint and thick with the scent of roses. Harry kept thinking that roses seemed so incongruous, ridiculous even. Malfoy, and roses? He would have thought (if he were to think of these things) that Malfoy would smell of something spicy, something that would burn his mouth of sweetness. Something that would burn, anyway.
When Harry thought of it, he caught himself and scowled. It was still one of those things best left untouched. He was accumulating them. He knew all the things he wouldn't touch touched him anyway, as he slept, anytime his mind wandered. He was a liar, and the awful thing was, he was lying to himself, pretending that he didn't know that sooner or later he was going to have to give in.
Sooner or later, in their own ways, they would all have to give in.
~~~~~