[fic] Bloody Hormones
Bloody Hormones
Summary: Falling in love is never easy business. For Harry it’s a dozen times worse. He’s fallen in love with someone he thought he hated. HPDM.
Spoilers: None, really. Maybe some minor hints. Still, it’s pretty much AU after “Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix”.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
Notes: I hate myself. This was supposed to be a drabble, but ended up longer than intended. . All criticism accepted. Unbet'ed too, so all mistakes are mine.
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The first time Harry Potter realised, that for the past few weeks or so, he had started to like Draco Malfoy in that way, he nearly bit his tongue in half and spilled hot coca all over his pants; he trembled, his hands were sweating and he was sure that his facial expressions were an unsettling, suspicion-awakening mixture of disbelief, borderline hysteria and indescribable despair. He probably looked like a haggard and worn out man treading the last few steps towards the Guillotine. That meant that his eyebrows were twitching, his face pallid and his mouth wide agape with his tongue sticking out like a drunken monkey’s. In short, he’d never ever been that shocked and caught by surprise - it was like having his head slammed against a wall twenty times. Followed by having his ears boxed, his fingernails pulled out one by one and being kicked in the groin.
Indeed, sitting there with his pants drenched wet in coca and out of breath, Harry thought that his subconscious was playing evil tricks on him, in order to tempt him into screaming and running around in circles like a madman. Or -- Harry mused - he had really lost his marbles and was going to start laughing uncontrollably soon. That wouldn’t have been anything shocking, considering that he had witnessed far too many deaths and been a victim of attempted homicide too often not to do so.
In fact, according to some people, anyone who had spent a good deal of his childhood in a cupboard was bound to go cuckoo, sooner or later. At age sixteen, Harry was jaded, had severe commitment issues and a volatile temper; he suffered fits of unwarranted arrogance and immaturity, too. Still, apart from that - a fact that surprised aforementioned people -- Harry was fairly respectable. It was surprising that he was a fairly ordinary boy and did not possess any real malice: some boys in his situation similar to his would have tried anything make a profit out of such a traumatic childhood. Harry, though, had more pride than that and didn’t want pity - he loathed it, in fact. He rather fought for acknowledgement than let himself be praised without a reason. If he had to be a hero, he chose to be one worthy of admiration and respect. He was no Lockhart.
Therefore, he wasn’t going to be a drama queen. Not him, as much as people would have liked him to be. After all, real life is considerably less romantic than literature makes us believe it is. So, in a certain way, it shouldn’t have been all that surprising that Harry, in spite of his various childhood traumas, had the guts and the strength to go with his life and not gloat on things long bygone. So, instead of sulking, Harry tried to forget this little mishap.
So what if the boy was drop-dead gorgeous and could have given the late Cedric Diggory a run for his money? There were other pretty boys out there: the world did not revolve around Malfoy. Hell, if Harry thought about it, he wasn’t even gay in the first place…or at least he didn’t think he was. Then again, Harry realised that he didn’t have enough experience to make a proper assessment of the situation; he decided to leave it open - his sexuality wasn’t something he was bothered about. The only thing that bothered him that he was attracted to that slimy, presumptuous brat. But he wasn’t bothered too much at first.
Harry thought it was only a phase - one of those odd crushes that would go away with time. So, he tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore the fact that his heart thumped wildly every time he crossed the bastard in the hall, tried to forget the restlessness and inexplicable excitement he felt whenever they exchanged curses. Tried to avoid the temptation of cornering the boy in some dark corner and snog the living shit out of him.
Yet, sometimes, Harry’s attempts were in vain: he couldn’t ignore the dreams that haunted him at night. He was helpless against the images of a naked Draco writhing and moaning under him - that wasn’t something he could just make go away. Harry couldn’t simply forget the fact that in his dreams he seemed to be very, very enthusiastic about being Malfoy, that his dream-self liked nibbling the other boy’s ear and kissing him fiercely. That that aforementioned self was even fonder of chaining Malfoy to bed and doing all sorts of things he had only read about - Harry had never imagined that he had such lively as well as kinky fantasy. Well, perhaps he was just a closet pervert.
His subconscious was a stubborn little bugger and wouldn’t let him rest in peace. But still Harry relented and tried to go on with his life, certain that those dreams were nothing serious - one of those days his attraction would disappear.
Unfortunately, like all bad habits and unpleasant things, his new found attraction towards Draco Malfoy didn’t just disappear. If anything, no matter how much he tried to repress, quell it, it resurfaced again and again like a pesky pimple and only seemed to grow more persistent. It didn’t only grow more persistent, but it became larger and more obnoxious with every passing day; he couldn’t stop thinking about Draco. Like an annoying song that didn’t get out of his mind, his thoughts revolved around the stupid git - it was nearly like having fever.
In this manner, two weeks passed and Harry, nearly delirious from the restlessness, was forced to admit that he was going to stop being attracted any time soon.
“Bloody hormones,” he whispered angrily one day, earning a disgusted look from Hermione who’d been busy with reading another voluminous book. With a roll of her eyes, Hermione clearly indicated what she thought of his impoliteness and continued reading. Harry’s pain and anxiety, however, didn’t disappear that quickly.
“What is it?” Ron nearly spitted out, halfway in the process of devouring his breakfast.
“Nothing, go on eating,” Harry mumbled, not wanting to be laughing stock of his friends. He couldn’t possibly tell them that he’d been having all sorts of disturbing, impossibly traumatising dreams about his arch nemesis…no, he couldn’t ever tell, even if hell froze over.
So, there he was, sitting in the grand hall with his hair in its usual mess, disgruntled and tired as hell. He didn’t even bother trying to eat, seeing that he had no proper appetite. Love really sucked, it seemed.
No way, that he was attracted to that foul-spitting, shit-eating and spoilt bastard; having wet dreams about Hagrid in pink lingerie would have been better, more preferable than thinking that bloody Malfoy was utterly, in an every single way, fuckable.. At least, Hagrid was sociable, kind and not affiliated with Dead Eaters in any single way. That relationship, though rather squeak-worthy and strange, could make Harry happy. And with Draco he just couldn’t foresee any kind of happiness, unless he was into tumultuous relationships that either ended with either partners dead, or one of them resigned to a life in the bobby-hatch. It couldn’t end well: there was no way in hell he could ever have something lasting with Draco Malfoy. No, doing anything - even sex-related --- with Draco would only lead to a train-wrecking, car-smashing and painful experience. He didn’t want to burn his fingers; he’d been hurt too often.
“Harry, what’s the matter with you? You’ve got a feverish look to your eyes. Are you sure you aren’t sick?” Hermione suddenly asked, breaking whatever reverie he’d been in. For that, Harry was mightily grateful. He was so thankful that he could have kissed her, but he didn’t - that would have been too awkward. Besides, he wasn’t into kissing people that he practically considered family.
“What’s supposed to be the matter with me? “
Harry sighed. Well, if he couldn’t change it, he just had to deal with it: he didn’t have to confront his feelings. There was no need - absolutely none at all - for it; he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. As long Draco wasn’t in his proximity, he didn’t to do anything at all.
But, Harry’s resolution didn’t last or, better said, he didn’t have the chance to fulfil it. Life, being the teasing little thing she is, had other things in store for him and confronted him with the very thing he feared. Or rather thrust his problem right into his face ….So, it’s hardly noteworthy that Harry, through a series of unfortunate circumstances and his own wicked, uncontrollable temper, found himself in detention with Malfoy. Yes, he’d tried - in vain - to avoid the fucker, but old habits die hard.
It was just the thing he needed. At times Harry Potter really thought the universe was in a conspiracy against him - he was pretty sure that the Gods hated him. Or that he was plain cursed.
So, there he was, stuck in old classroom wiping dust off tables and nearly suffocating in the midst of all that dust. In between his occupations, Harry snuck a look at Draco, whom he thought oblivious to his stolen glances.
“Why are staring at me all the time, Potter?” Draco asked in between rubbing and wiping the floor. He looked rather fussy with his face red from the exhaustion.
“Are you retarded? Why should I be looking at you? You’re not that pretty, you stuck up narcissist!” Harry answered, a little too defensively.
Malfoy only stared and silence befell the room. Then, he rolled his eyes and shrugged, indicating that he didn’t believe Harry a word.
“So, don’t flatter yourself. If I ever looked at you, it would only be because you make me want to puke,” Harry said.
“Whatever, but I swear that you’ve been checking me out,” the other boy added.
“Shut up, Malfoy. Just shut up,” Harry said, fed up of the conversation and weary of being placed in that silly situation. All of a sudden, he flet inexplicably tired and worn out, as if someone had punched him in the guts too hard and too often. The classroom was gaining an oppressive quality and he felt like suffocating. Damn it all, he could do this: he had been through other shit.
To his surprise, Malfoy did shut up and continued to wipe the floor meticulously; he was surprisingly concentrated and serious about the task, as if it really mattered to him that the classroom was sparkling clean. Then again, Harry recalled that the blond idiot had always been rather tidy for a boy; he had just not expected him to be the sort to actually clean up. Perhaps, the saying that things weren’t always the way they seemed did have an ounce of truth in it.
Although he noticed a slight frown on the Draco’s face, he also saw that he was not whining, protesting or pulling any of his usual stints.
Harry did so too, though he was considerably slower and more absent-minded. He just couldn’t keep his thoughts off the blond, as much as he tried.
When their hands came - accidentally - into contact, Harry started and gave off a stammer, but that was not the worst. He felt his cheeks heat up and was certain that he was blushing like some little schoolgirl. Then, to his utter shock, he noticed that Draco was equally flustered; his usually pale cheeks had gained a red twinge and he looked…rather endearing. In fact Harry had to keep himself from doing something stupid because a flushing Malfoy reminded him very of his nightly torments.
“What the hell?” Harry nearly yelled, surprised at the unhealthy directions his thoughts had been heading towards.
“What do you mean what the hell?”
“You’re blushing!”
“I’m not blushing,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth, “Malfoys, --hell normal boys-- don’t blush!”
Silently, Harry agreed with Malfoy: “normal boys” did not blush, fidget around their crush nor behave like cowards.
“You can’t deny the truth, Malfoy. You were blushing and your hands were trembling.”
“So? You’ve been acting strange these past few weeks. Always stealing those odd glances at me, when you thought no one was looking. You think I’m blind, Potter? Cause if you think so, then you’re wrong…I know what you’ve been up to.”
“And what have I been up to?” Harry asked challengingly. Though he did not necessarily feel like talking with Malfoy, he did enjoy pushing his buttons.
“You’re plotting something, but I’ll have you disarmed…”
“You’re wrong, Malfoy. I’m not plotting anything. At least, nothing that concerns or involves you in any major shape or form.”
“Then why have you been observing all this time?”
If Harry had felt any surprise before, he was off his rockers, shocked to the core and bewildered now: he had never imagined that the spoilt, decadent brat was that perceptive. Still, Harry did not want show his emotions, so he said:
“I can’t tell you. It’s none of your business. So sod off and just let me be.”
“You’re not going to get rid off me that easily. Tell me or I’ll have you do something very embarrassing in the Great Hall tomorrow.”
“You can’t threaten me, Malfoy. I’m not scared of you.”
“You will be scared of me, when I’ll be done with you. I’m not as cowardly and all talk like you.”
“You’re so stupid, foolish and all other sorts of things. So, you really want to know? Good, I’ll tell you: I fucking fancy you, consider you hot and all that other rubbish. And no, I’m not happy about because you’re the least person I ever imagined being attracted to. “
Draco had grown pale, his face gaining a ghastly quality. His eyes were wide and his entire frame was shaking, as if someone had struck him too hard. Or if someone had told him that his parents had been murdered brutally and their corpses scattered
“You’re - you’re lying. That’s a sick joke; it just can’t be true,” he finally stammered out, pointing threateningly at Harry.
“As much as wish it were a joke, it’s not. Look, can’t we just forget about all of this? I don’t want my life to be any more complex than it already is. So, just be decent for once in your life and don’t mention it anymore.”
Having said that, Harry proceeded to the other end of the room and wiped some of the tables there.
“Of all the things, I’ve imagined you to be, I never thought you were a coward, Potter.”
“How, tell me, am I a coward?”
“By running away; only cowards do that.”
“No, you’re wrong about that. The wise do that, too. Sometimes it’s foolish to stay, especially when the prospects are less than promising.”
“Clear to clarify? I’m afraid I don’t understand your vague language. Be straightforward.”
“Malfoy, you’re stuck up, hypocritical, spoilt, sadistic and self-centred. I’ve hated you ever since I first set eyes on you; I already thought that you were an egocentric prick back when we met at Madam Milkin’s. And you’ve never done anything to remedy that. “
“So, I’ve known that you hated me before…”
“You still don’t get it? Tell me, what could I hope to gain from you? What good would it be to talk about my sexual attraction? Other than a good fuck, I don’t see of what use it’d be to me. You’d only tarnish me with your filth.”
Harry nearly fainted when processed what he had just said; he had confessed his lust/attraction/whatever to Malfoy. For a moment he staggered and felt the bile rising in his throat, he was a fool. He was about to say something when Malfoy opened his mouth.
“You’re the hypocrite, Potter. What good would it do me to get involved with you? You’re responsible for getting my father into Azkaban and have everyone fawning over and worshipping you, though you’ve done nothing to deserve it. You’re nothing but a show-off, a lousy vermin with an ego far too big. If you think that it’s fun to start liking you, then you’re wrong.”
And with that being said Draco Malfoy ran off, leaving a flabbergasted Harry Potter in his wake. That being said, Harry remained, not merely flabbergasted but feeling a bit forlorn as well: he had no idea what had just transpired. The only thing he knew that he was suffering from another migraine and wished for nothing but a good night’s rest; the day had been too much for him. That was sure.
The morning after, Harry could only describe as strange, peculiar and something that would have fitted into an alternate universe, but not his daily life. As expected, Malfoy avoided him and Harry was not haunted with any presence.
Still, his mind would not rest and kept replaying those angry words the blond had uttered: like a mantra, he found himself in that oppressive classroom over and over again. Each time, he beheld Draco’s angry, shaking frame before him; he recalled the grim expression on his face, so full of hurt and repressed rage. It…
“Harry, maybe you should get yourself checked. You look pale and feverish again,”
Harry flinched at hearing the familiar voice. It unnerved him that he was that easily readable.
“I’m all right. It’s just my nerves.”
“Has your scar been bothering you?”
“No nothing like that. It’s nothing worth fussing over.”
“If you say so…But Harry, if something bothers you, you know that you can always tell me, right?”
As much as Harry wanted to agree with Hermione, confide his agonies to her and Ron, he knew that they would not have understood it. Hell, he barely understood the matter himself nor knew what direction to take next: he felt like having one foot in a snake’s pit and the other in a ditch. There seemed to be no solution whatsoever.
Then Harry remembered that he had detention with the blond again: he had been so involved with his problems and confrontation issues that he’d forgotten it. Of course, he did not look forward to it, remembering some of the foolish things he had uttered in a fit of passion and reckless foolishness. But Harry was determined: he’d behave as if nothing had transpired and feign nonchalance. He couldn’t let Malfoy know that he was troubled; he couldn’t show any weakness. He was not going to be mocked.
When he entered the old classroom in the evening, Harry felt his throat going dry and his stomach hurting - he was nervous and his fingers were trembling around the knob of the door. Still, he reminded himself that he was no ninny and grabbed his wits - he’d survive this somehow. Without further ado, Harry opened the door. As expected, it was not empty or deserted: Draco was already there, scrubbing the floor. This time, he seemed to be even more preoccupied with making the room look perfectly clean.
“Where’s Snape? Usually, he scolds me first before leaving us do this slave’s labour,” Harry said firmly, not looking at Draco directly but observing the wall with a keen, formerly non-existent interest.
“You probably mean, Professor Snape, Potter. Are you still not in the possession of manners?”
“Shut the hell up and let me do my work, Malfoy. I’m not in the mood to listen to your bitchy tirades this time.”
To his dismay, Draco Malfoy did not shut up nor show any intention of wanting to give up. Rather his gaze fixed Harry’s ferociously and with slow, but decided steps, he walked towards him, as elegantly and self-confidently like a cat approaching its prey.
Then, without giving off any proper warning, he pulled Harry’s shoulder roughly towards his own and placed his own lips against his. Draco’s mouth was warm and rough against his mouth, fighting for dominance and forcing Harry’s mouth open; his hands were all over Harry’s hair, making a big mess of the untameable curls. Harry was surprised to note that Draco’s kiss was awkward and clumsy - it dawned upon him that the boy was probably just as or even less experienced than him. In order to proof (or to just feel less like an idiot) Harry returned the kiss just as clumsily and desperately, pulling the blond closer to him and enjoying the sensations he was experiencing. He felt like floating and dancing for joy; a strange excitement had taken possession of him. It was one of those moments that Harry would definitely never forget. Even if he went to hell for this, Harry knew that it - the kiss -- had been worth it. He’d never imagined that kissing someone could be that hot and enjoyable --
When the boys broke apart, an uncomfortable silence followed: it was odd, disconcerting and annoying. Harry nearly felt like being trapped in some nightmare, where he behaved like some stupid moron in love.
“I will not be shut up, Harry. You can’t fucking tell me you like me and not expect any consequences from it, “Malfoy said, eyeing him with a look that clearly defied resistance or argumentation of any sort.
“Hmm, I certainly didn’t expect such consequences, Draco. Although I’m rather surprised about the turn of events…Why did you kiss me?”
“Are you really that blind and oblivious, Potter? Or is this just another way of driving me up the wall?”
“Sorry, Draco, but we’ve been enemies for years and you haven’t known about my…feelings since -“
He wanted to say “yesterday”, but did not find the courage to speak.
“You’re not the only one who’s got wandering eyes, Harry. I’ve always been interested in you some way or the other. Why do you think I’ve always challenged, taunted you?”
“I’m flattered Draco, really. But I’m not going to bend my principles or start regretting what I did to your father. He deserved it. You should know that. I’ll not sacrifice my beliefs for you.”
Harry was serious about that - he’d never forget that night at the graveyard and how Lucius had been delighted to see him suffer; he would never forget what trouble the man had caused. Yes, he expected Draco to lash out at him or run away at at any given moment, but that had had to be said.
To his surprise, Draco did not run away, but remained calm: his features were pensive and he seemed to be deliberating something. Finally, he opened his mouth and uttered the following words, never looking away from Harry or showing any other sign of fright.
“Nor will I bend to your morals unless I see it fit to do so. I won’t be one of your dumb fans and treat you like a champion either. And at the moment, I’m as confused as you are."
“So, what happens now? Are we going to do something about this or just ignore the whole situation? I’m not in the mood for a “Romeo and Juliet” experience.”
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know.”
Harry didn’t know either; he only knew that he was in for quite a challenge. It was probably going to be a confusing and nerve-wracking experience, but Harry couldn’t run away anymore. Not when he felt that good about it and was eager to plunge deeper.
Aside from that, being a Gryffindor, Harry couldn’t say “nay” to an adventure - he had to live up to his reputation and break the rules. This time, it was him who pulled Draco in for a kiss. He tried to do it less clumsily and set his mind into showing that he was a better kisser than him. But when he felt Draco respond just as passionately and pull him closer, Harry didn’t care about being a better kisser anymore. He didn’t care about anything anymore than feeling the boy’s hands running against his hair and the feel of his body pressed closely against his…Yes, he could live with that. He could endure the awkwardness, the unavoidable agony and pain even it meant that this - the kissing - was going to part of it. Perhaps, he was rash, and idiotic, but this was a start.
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Summary: Falling in love is never easy business. For Harry it’s a dozen times worse. He’s fallen in love with someone he thought he hated. HPDM.
Spoilers: None, really. Maybe some minor hints. Still, it’s pretty much AU after “Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix”.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.
Notes: I hate myself. This was supposed to be a drabble, but ended up longer than intended. . All criticism accepted. Unbet'ed too, so all mistakes are mine.
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The first time Harry Potter realised, that for the past few weeks or so, he had started to like Draco Malfoy in that way, he nearly bit his tongue in half and spilled hot coca all over his pants; he trembled, his hands were sweating and he was sure that his facial expressions were an unsettling, suspicion-awakening mixture of disbelief, borderline hysteria and indescribable despair. He probably looked like a haggard and worn out man treading the last few steps towards the Guillotine. That meant that his eyebrows were twitching, his face pallid and his mouth wide agape with his tongue sticking out like a drunken monkey’s. In short, he’d never ever been that shocked and caught by surprise - it was like having his head slammed against a wall twenty times. Followed by having his ears boxed, his fingernails pulled out one by one and being kicked in the groin.
Indeed, sitting there with his pants drenched wet in coca and out of breath, Harry thought that his subconscious was playing evil tricks on him, in order to tempt him into screaming and running around in circles like a madman. Or -- Harry mused - he had really lost his marbles and was going to start laughing uncontrollably soon. That wouldn’t have been anything shocking, considering that he had witnessed far too many deaths and been a victim of attempted homicide too often not to do so.
In fact, according to some people, anyone who had spent a good deal of his childhood in a cupboard was bound to go cuckoo, sooner or later. At age sixteen, Harry was jaded, had severe commitment issues and a volatile temper; he suffered fits of unwarranted arrogance and immaturity, too. Still, apart from that - a fact that surprised aforementioned people -- Harry was fairly respectable. It was surprising that he was a fairly ordinary boy and did not possess any real malice: some boys in his situation similar to his would have tried anything make a profit out of such a traumatic childhood. Harry, though, had more pride than that and didn’t want pity - he loathed it, in fact. He rather fought for acknowledgement than let himself be praised without a reason. If he had to be a hero, he chose to be one worthy of admiration and respect. He was no Lockhart.
Therefore, he wasn’t going to be a drama queen. Not him, as much as people would have liked him to be. After all, real life is considerably less romantic than literature makes us believe it is. So, in a certain way, it shouldn’t have been all that surprising that Harry, in spite of his various childhood traumas, had the guts and the strength to go with his life and not gloat on things long bygone. So, instead of sulking, Harry tried to forget this little mishap.
So what if the boy was drop-dead gorgeous and could have given the late Cedric Diggory a run for his money? There were other pretty boys out there: the world did not revolve around Malfoy. Hell, if Harry thought about it, he wasn’t even gay in the first place…or at least he didn’t think he was. Then again, Harry realised that he didn’t have enough experience to make a proper assessment of the situation; he decided to leave it open - his sexuality wasn’t something he was bothered about. The only thing that bothered him that he was attracted to that slimy, presumptuous brat. But he wasn’t bothered too much at first.
Harry thought it was only a phase - one of those odd crushes that would go away with time. So, he tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore the fact that his heart thumped wildly every time he crossed the bastard in the hall, tried to forget the restlessness and inexplicable excitement he felt whenever they exchanged curses. Tried to avoid the temptation of cornering the boy in some dark corner and snog the living shit out of him.
Yet, sometimes, Harry’s attempts were in vain: he couldn’t ignore the dreams that haunted him at night. He was helpless against the images of a naked Draco writhing and moaning under him - that wasn’t something he could just make go away. Harry couldn’t simply forget the fact that in his dreams he seemed to be very, very enthusiastic about being Malfoy, that his dream-self liked nibbling the other boy’s ear and kissing him fiercely. That that aforementioned self was even fonder of chaining Malfoy to bed and doing all sorts of things he had only read about - Harry had never imagined that he had such lively as well as kinky fantasy. Well, perhaps he was just a closet pervert.
His subconscious was a stubborn little bugger and wouldn’t let him rest in peace. But still Harry relented and tried to go on with his life, certain that those dreams were nothing serious - one of those days his attraction would disappear.
Unfortunately, like all bad habits and unpleasant things, his new found attraction towards Draco Malfoy didn’t just disappear. If anything, no matter how much he tried to repress, quell it, it resurfaced again and again like a pesky pimple and only seemed to grow more persistent. It didn’t only grow more persistent, but it became larger and more obnoxious with every passing day; he couldn’t stop thinking about Draco. Like an annoying song that didn’t get out of his mind, his thoughts revolved around the stupid git - it was nearly like having fever.
In this manner, two weeks passed and Harry, nearly delirious from the restlessness, was forced to admit that he was going to stop being attracted any time soon.
“Bloody hormones,” he whispered angrily one day, earning a disgusted look from Hermione who’d been busy with reading another voluminous book. With a roll of her eyes, Hermione clearly indicated what she thought of his impoliteness and continued reading. Harry’s pain and anxiety, however, didn’t disappear that quickly.
“What is it?” Ron nearly spitted out, halfway in the process of devouring his breakfast.
“Nothing, go on eating,” Harry mumbled, not wanting to be laughing stock of his friends. He couldn’t possibly tell them that he’d been having all sorts of disturbing, impossibly traumatising dreams about his arch nemesis…no, he couldn’t ever tell, even if hell froze over.
So, there he was, sitting in the grand hall with his hair in its usual mess, disgruntled and tired as hell. He didn’t even bother trying to eat, seeing that he had no proper appetite. Love really sucked, it seemed.
No way, that he was attracted to that foul-spitting, shit-eating and spoilt bastard; having wet dreams about Hagrid in pink lingerie would have been better, more preferable than thinking that bloody Malfoy was utterly, in an every single way, fuckable.. At least, Hagrid was sociable, kind and not affiliated with Dead Eaters in any single way. That relationship, though rather squeak-worthy and strange, could make Harry happy. And with Draco he just couldn’t foresee any kind of happiness, unless he was into tumultuous relationships that either ended with either partners dead, or one of them resigned to a life in the bobby-hatch. It couldn’t end well: there was no way in hell he could ever have something lasting with Draco Malfoy. No, doing anything - even sex-related --- with Draco would only lead to a train-wrecking, car-smashing and painful experience. He didn’t want to burn his fingers; he’d been hurt too often.
“Harry, what’s the matter with you? You’ve got a feverish look to your eyes. Are you sure you aren’t sick?” Hermione suddenly asked, breaking whatever reverie he’d been in. For that, Harry was mightily grateful. He was so thankful that he could have kissed her, but he didn’t - that would have been too awkward. Besides, he wasn’t into kissing people that he practically considered family.
“What’s supposed to be the matter with me? “
Harry sighed. Well, if he couldn’t change it, he just had to deal with it: he didn’t have to confront his feelings. There was no need - absolutely none at all - for it; he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. As long Draco wasn’t in his proximity, he didn’t to do anything at all.
But, Harry’s resolution didn’t last or, better said, he didn’t have the chance to fulfil it. Life, being the teasing little thing she is, had other things in store for him and confronted him with the very thing he feared. Or rather thrust his problem right into his face ….So, it’s hardly noteworthy that Harry, through a series of unfortunate circumstances and his own wicked, uncontrollable temper, found himself in detention with Malfoy. Yes, he’d tried - in vain - to avoid the fucker, but old habits die hard.
It was just the thing he needed. At times Harry Potter really thought the universe was in a conspiracy against him - he was pretty sure that the Gods hated him. Or that he was plain cursed.
So, there he was, stuck in old classroom wiping dust off tables and nearly suffocating in the midst of all that dust. In between his occupations, Harry snuck a look at Draco, whom he thought oblivious to his stolen glances.
“Why are staring at me all the time, Potter?” Draco asked in between rubbing and wiping the floor. He looked rather fussy with his face red from the exhaustion.
“Are you retarded? Why should I be looking at you? You’re not that pretty, you stuck up narcissist!” Harry answered, a little too defensively.
Malfoy only stared and silence befell the room. Then, he rolled his eyes and shrugged, indicating that he didn’t believe Harry a word.
“So, don’t flatter yourself. If I ever looked at you, it would only be because you make me want to puke,” Harry said.
“Whatever, but I swear that you’ve been checking me out,” the other boy added.
“Shut up, Malfoy. Just shut up,” Harry said, fed up of the conversation and weary of being placed in that silly situation. All of a sudden, he flet inexplicably tired and worn out, as if someone had punched him in the guts too hard and too often. The classroom was gaining an oppressive quality and he felt like suffocating. Damn it all, he could do this: he had been through other shit.
To his surprise, Malfoy did shut up and continued to wipe the floor meticulously; he was surprisingly concentrated and serious about the task, as if it really mattered to him that the classroom was sparkling clean. Then again, Harry recalled that the blond idiot had always been rather tidy for a boy; he had just not expected him to be the sort to actually clean up. Perhaps, the saying that things weren’t always the way they seemed did have an ounce of truth in it.
Although he noticed a slight frown on the Draco’s face, he also saw that he was not whining, protesting or pulling any of his usual stints.
Harry did so too, though he was considerably slower and more absent-minded. He just couldn’t keep his thoughts off the blond, as much as he tried.
When their hands came - accidentally - into contact, Harry started and gave off a stammer, but that was not the worst. He felt his cheeks heat up and was certain that he was blushing like some little schoolgirl. Then, to his utter shock, he noticed that Draco was equally flustered; his usually pale cheeks had gained a red twinge and he looked…rather endearing. In fact Harry had to keep himself from doing something stupid because a flushing Malfoy reminded him very of his nightly torments.
“What the hell?” Harry nearly yelled, surprised at the unhealthy directions his thoughts had been heading towards.
“What do you mean what the hell?”
“You’re blushing!”
“I’m not blushing,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth, “Malfoys, --hell normal boys-- don’t blush!”
Silently, Harry agreed with Malfoy: “normal boys” did not blush, fidget around their crush nor behave like cowards.
“You can’t deny the truth, Malfoy. You were blushing and your hands were trembling.”
“So? You’ve been acting strange these past few weeks. Always stealing those odd glances at me, when you thought no one was looking. You think I’m blind, Potter? Cause if you think so, then you’re wrong…I know what you’ve been up to.”
“And what have I been up to?” Harry asked challengingly. Though he did not necessarily feel like talking with Malfoy, he did enjoy pushing his buttons.
“You’re plotting something, but I’ll have you disarmed…”
“You’re wrong, Malfoy. I’m not plotting anything. At least, nothing that concerns or involves you in any major shape or form.”
“Then why have you been observing all this time?”
If Harry had felt any surprise before, he was off his rockers, shocked to the core and bewildered now: he had never imagined that the spoilt, decadent brat was that perceptive. Still, Harry did not want show his emotions, so he said:
“I can’t tell you. It’s none of your business. So sod off and just let me be.”
“You’re not going to get rid off me that easily. Tell me or I’ll have you do something very embarrassing in the Great Hall tomorrow.”
“You can’t threaten me, Malfoy. I’m not scared of you.”
“You will be scared of me, when I’ll be done with you. I’m not as cowardly and all talk like you.”
“You’re so stupid, foolish and all other sorts of things. So, you really want to know? Good, I’ll tell you: I fucking fancy you, consider you hot and all that other rubbish. And no, I’m not happy about because you’re the least person I ever imagined being attracted to. “
Draco had grown pale, his face gaining a ghastly quality. His eyes were wide and his entire frame was shaking, as if someone had struck him too hard. Or if someone had told him that his parents had been murdered brutally and their corpses scattered
“You’re - you’re lying. That’s a sick joke; it just can’t be true,” he finally stammered out, pointing threateningly at Harry.
“As much as wish it were a joke, it’s not. Look, can’t we just forget about all of this? I don’t want my life to be any more complex than it already is. So, just be decent for once in your life and don’t mention it anymore.”
Having said that, Harry proceeded to the other end of the room and wiped some of the tables there.
“Of all the things, I’ve imagined you to be, I never thought you were a coward, Potter.”
“How, tell me, am I a coward?”
“By running away; only cowards do that.”
“No, you’re wrong about that. The wise do that, too. Sometimes it’s foolish to stay, especially when the prospects are less than promising.”
“Clear to clarify? I’m afraid I don’t understand your vague language. Be straightforward.”
“Malfoy, you’re stuck up, hypocritical, spoilt, sadistic and self-centred. I’ve hated you ever since I first set eyes on you; I already thought that you were an egocentric prick back when we met at Madam Milkin’s. And you’ve never done anything to remedy that. “
“So, I’ve known that you hated me before…”
“You still don’t get it? Tell me, what could I hope to gain from you? What good would it be to talk about my sexual attraction? Other than a good fuck, I don’t see of what use it’d be to me. You’d only tarnish me with your filth.”
Harry nearly fainted when processed what he had just said; he had confessed his lust/attraction/whatever to Malfoy. For a moment he staggered and felt the bile rising in his throat, he was a fool. He was about to say something when Malfoy opened his mouth.
“You’re the hypocrite, Potter. What good would it do me to get involved with you? You’re responsible for getting my father into Azkaban and have everyone fawning over and worshipping you, though you’ve done nothing to deserve it. You’re nothing but a show-off, a lousy vermin with an ego far too big. If you think that it’s fun to start liking you, then you’re wrong.”
And with that being said Draco Malfoy ran off, leaving a flabbergasted Harry Potter in his wake. That being said, Harry remained, not merely flabbergasted but feeling a bit forlorn as well: he had no idea what had just transpired. The only thing he knew that he was suffering from another migraine and wished for nothing but a good night’s rest; the day had been too much for him. That was sure.
The morning after, Harry could only describe as strange, peculiar and something that would have fitted into an alternate universe, but not his daily life. As expected, Malfoy avoided him and Harry was not haunted with any presence.
Still, his mind would not rest and kept replaying those angry words the blond had uttered: like a mantra, he found himself in that oppressive classroom over and over again. Each time, he beheld Draco’s angry, shaking frame before him; he recalled the grim expression on his face, so full of hurt and repressed rage. It…
“Harry, maybe you should get yourself checked. You look pale and feverish again,”
Harry flinched at hearing the familiar voice. It unnerved him that he was that easily readable.
“I’m all right. It’s just my nerves.”
“Has your scar been bothering you?”
“No nothing like that. It’s nothing worth fussing over.”
“If you say so…But Harry, if something bothers you, you know that you can always tell me, right?”
As much as Harry wanted to agree with Hermione, confide his agonies to her and Ron, he knew that they would not have understood it. Hell, he barely understood the matter himself nor knew what direction to take next: he felt like having one foot in a snake’s pit and the other in a ditch. There seemed to be no solution whatsoever.
Then Harry remembered that he had detention with the blond again: he had been so involved with his problems and confrontation issues that he’d forgotten it. Of course, he did not look forward to it, remembering some of the foolish things he had uttered in a fit of passion and reckless foolishness. But Harry was determined: he’d behave as if nothing had transpired and feign nonchalance. He couldn’t let Malfoy know that he was troubled; he couldn’t show any weakness. He was not going to be mocked.
When he entered the old classroom in the evening, Harry felt his throat going dry and his stomach hurting - he was nervous and his fingers were trembling around the knob of the door. Still, he reminded himself that he was no ninny and grabbed his wits - he’d survive this somehow. Without further ado, Harry opened the door. As expected, it was not empty or deserted: Draco was already there, scrubbing the floor. This time, he seemed to be even more preoccupied with making the room look perfectly clean.
“Where’s Snape? Usually, he scolds me first before leaving us do this slave’s labour,” Harry said firmly, not looking at Draco directly but observing the wall with a keen, formerly non-existent interest.
“You probably mean, Professor Snape, Potter. Are you still not in the possession of manners?”
“Shut the hell up and let me do my work, Malfoy. I’m not in the mood to listen to your bitchy tirades this time.”
To his dismay, Draco Malfoy did not shut up nor show any intention of wanting to give up. Rather his gaze fixed Harry’s ferociously and with slow, but decided steps, he walked towards him, as elegantly and self-confidently like a cat approaching its prey.
Then, without giving off any proper warning, he pulled Harry’s shoulder roughly towards his own and placed his own lips against his. Draco’s mouth was warm and rough against his mouth, fighting for dominance and forcing Harry’s mouth open; his hands were all over Harry’s hair, making a big mess of the untameable curls. Harry was surprised to note that Draco’s kiss was awkward and clumsy - it dawned upon him that the boy was probably just as or even less experienced than him. In order to proof (or to just feel less like an idiot) Harry returned the kiss just as clumsily and desperately, pulling the blond closer to him and enjoying the sensations he was experiencing. He felt like floating and dancing for joy; a strange excitement had taken possession of him. It was one of those moments that Harry would definitely never forget. Even if he went to hell for this, Harry knew that it - the kiss -- had been worth it. He’d never imagined that kissing someone could be that hot and enjoyable --
When the boys broke apart, an uncomfortable silence followed: it was odd, disconcerting and annoying. Harry nearly felt like being trapped in some nightmare, where he behaved like some stupid moron in love.
“I will not be shut up, Harry. You can’t fucking tell me you like me and not expect any consequences from it, “Malfoy said, eyeing him with a look that clearly defied resistance or argumentation of any sort.
“Hmm, I certainly didn’t expect such consequences, Draco. Although I’m rather surprised about the turn of events…Why did you kiss me?”
“Are you really that blind and oblivious, Potter? Or is this just another way of driving me up the wall?”
“Sorry, Draco, but we’ve been enemies for years and you haven’t known about my…feelings since -“
He wanted to say “yesterday”, but did not find the courage to speak.
“You’re not the only one who’s got wandering eyes, Harry. I’ve always been interested in you some way or the other. Why do you think I’ve always challenged, taunted you?”
“I’m flattered Draco, really. But I’m not going to bend my principles or start regretting what I did to your father. He deserved it. You should know that. I’ll not sacrifice my beliefs for you.”
Harry was serious about that - he’d never forget that night at the graveyard and how Lucius had been delighted to see him suffer; he would never forget what trouble the man had caused. Yes, he expected Draco to lash out at him or run away at at any given moment, but that had had to be said.
To his surprise, Draco did not run away, but remained calm: his features were pensive and he seemed to be deliberating something. Finally, he opened his mouth and uttered the following words, never looking away from Harry or showing any other sign of fright.
“Nor will I bend to your morals unless I see it fit to do so. I won’t be one of your dumb fans and treat you like a champion either. And at the moment, I’m as confused as you are."
“So, what happens now? Are we going to do something about this or just ignore the whole situation? I’m not in the mood for a “Romeo and Juliet” experience.”
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know.”
Harry didn’t know either; he only knew that he was in for quite a challenge. It was probably going to be a confusing and nerve-wracking experience, but Harry couldn’t run away anymore. Not when he felt that good about it and was eager to plunge deeper.
Aside from that, being a Gryffindor, Harry couldn’t say “nay” to an adventure - he had to live up to his reputation and break the rules. This time, it was him who pulled Draco in for a kiss. He tried to do it less clumsily and set his mind into showing that he was a better kisser than him. But when he felt Draco respond just as passionately and pull him closer, Harry didn’t care about being a better kisser anymore. He didn’t care about anything anymore than feeling the boy’s hands running against his hair and the feel of his body pressed closely against his…Yes, he could live with that. He could endure the awkwardness, the unavoidable agony and pain even it meant that this - the kissing - was going to part of it. Perhaps, he was rash, and idiotic, but this was a start.
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