Close to the Edge
Title: Close to the Edge
Author:
lokifan
Word count: ~2300 words
Characters/pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Malfoy explains his theory about why the post-war young take so many stupid risks and have so much stupid sex. Harry despises him.
Warnings: breathplay; unsafe kink
Disclaimer: The boys and girls belong to JKR, even though I’m often much nicer to them than she is.
Author’s Notes: A little thing for melusinahp’s birthday. Sorry it’s late, Mel, and I hope your day was brilliant!
Malfoy was loudly explaining his theory of post-war youth to a girl next to him. She was dark-haired and had little cat-eye glasses, and Harry was pretty sure he’d seen her at one of Hermione’s parties. He’d have thought one of Hermione’s friends -- probably studying law along with Malfoy -- would be too intelligent to sit in the Leaky and listen to Malfoy drunkenly expound on his ridiculous ideas.
But maybe not. After all, look at Harry.
“See the thing is, we’re all doing stupid shit.” It was odd hearing Malfoy’s upper-class cadence and polished vowels forming the words see the thing is and stupid shit. He’d changed. But he still spoke with the same Home Counties confidence that everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.
You’d think the war and its aftermath would have changed that. Maybe it still would; two years and change on, and things still felt muggy with the smoke and debris the war had left in its wake.
Harry took a long pull of Bitterbeer. He put down the glass a little too forcefully and Luna’s eyes flickered to him across the table. Harry looked away, pretending to focus on Dean and Hermione debating north London versus south.
“-- taking stupid risks and having stupid sex. And the older generations complain about it but not half as much as you’d think. Because they did it too, wizarding Britain spent the Eighties collectively losing their shit.” Malfoy laughed, letting it ring out across the pub like the little shit he’d always been, look at me. “Since we all almost died and we all know people who actually did, we’re all taking a little tango with death via risky decisions and le petit mort.”
Hermione noticed the direction of Harry’s glare and stopped advocating for Camden. “I know, Harry,” she said. “I get enough of this at Unspeakable parties. Upper-class twits thinking we all want to hear them being pretentious. And Malfoy thinking we want his opinion about the war.” She pulled a disgusted face.
That was the cue for everyone around the table to pull out their Times Malfoy Was A Bastard stories, but Harry barely heard them. The girl had said something, her voice arch, and Malfoy was laughing again.
“Of course I am! Terribly traumatised, just like everyone else. That’s the other reason, of course. Mad relatives and dead relatives and all that. I’m frightfully damaged, but that’s what makes me so intriguing, you see.” Malfoy leaned in with exaggeratedly low-lidded eyes, laughing, and the girl was laughing back and Harry hated him; his chest felt scorched with the heat of it. Ron came back to the flat looking hollow-eyed every time he went home and saw his five siblings, and they all had nightmares about torture, and Harry’s tongue swelled up in his mouth every time he tried to talk about Remus or Tonks. And Malfoy was laughing about it, and bringing up Tonks when she’d never meant a fucking thing to him.
Harry got up and walked blindly out of the pub. None of his friends tried to follow him. They’d all been there, and knew he’d be back or he wouldn’t.
The cool air outside didn’t make anything better. Harry gave an inarticulate roar and lashed out at the pebbled wall next to him.
“Dear me,” said a familiar voice. Harry’s stomach clenched with dislike at the mere sound of Malfoy talking. “Losing your temper, Potter?”
Embarrassment flooded Harry at the idea that Malfoy had seen him. That just made him angrier, because why the fuck did he care if Malfoy saw him do something embarrassing? He spun round and glared at Malfoy. “What are you doing out here?”
“I felt you glowering at me all the way across the room,” said Malfoy. His tone was full of amusement, though his expression wasn’t: he was watching Harry with alert grey eyes, his face still. “And then you left without even throwing a punch. I just had to see what was going on.”
“Nothing’s going on,” Harry said, throwing the words like a hex. “I just didn’t want to sit and listen to you dribble on about life and the war, talk about your dead relatives like you had any fucking idea who Tonks was, like you cared when your psycho aunt killed her -- ”
“I didn’t know her,” Malfoy agreed easily. He strolled closer, his hands in the pockets of those stupid jeans he affected like he had anything but contempt for Muggles. Harry wasn’t so drunk he’d forgotten all his practice at watching Malfoy, though, and he could see the tension in Malfoy’s shoulders. “I suppose -- ”
“And all that rubbish about sex and coming close to death -- ” Harry interrupted, rage spilling out of him in a torrent. “Do you actually believe what comes out of your mouth when you’re trying to get someone into bed or are you just so practiced from Advocacy training it doesn’t matter -- ”
“Oh yes, Advocates are evil and tell lies, perfect job for me, blah blah,” Malfoy rejoined. He didn’t sound amused any more. “Just like being an Auror is the perfect job for you. What is the Auror brutality rate, exactly -- ”
Harry charged, slamming him into the wall. Malfoy gasped painfully as the air was punched from his lungs. Harry stayed close, refusing to relinquish his bruising grip on Malfoy’s upper arms. “D’you mean the rate that gets reported or the rate that actually happens?”
Malfoy’s gaze was oddly alight even as his upper lip curled back from his teeth in a sneer. Harry realised he wore a matching one on his own mouth. “I don’t expect you to know any actual figures, Potter. You’ve got better things to do, like capturing nasty bad people like me.”
Harry rocked him forward a little then slammed Malfoy back against the wall. The back of his blond head hit it with an audible smack. It was a shock, being able to throw Malfoy around like this; Harry had forgotten how much Auror-trainee muscle he’d gained since school. “Don’t say it like it’s a joke, Malfoy. You make stupid jokes about being a bad boy -- you got Dumbledore killed and you don’t even care - ”
Malfoy’s eyes flashed and he jerked against Harry’s hands. But he was still gasping to regain air and he didn’t have a hope against someone trained. “You don’t have a sodding clue what I care about.”
Malfoy was still so thin, the skin taut against his face. His sneer made him unflatteringly skull-like, yet his body was warm and alive under Harry’s hands, his panting for breath loud. He was so alive, and so was his voice as he snarled at Harry.
“You keep bulling around like you have some kind of special insight into my soul just because you -- ”
Harry couldn’t bear to hear one more word out of Malfoy’s mouth, he couldn’t stand it, and he put his hand over Malfoy’s mouth, pressing his fingers into Malfoy’s face. Shut up shut up shut up --
Malfoy licked his hand and Harry jerked it away with a cry of disgust, scrubbing his palm against his robes. Malfoy was laughing, a weird cackle, and Harry was full of shock at the childish move and another, very un-childish feeling.
Malfoy’s eyes looked half-crazy, inches away from Harry’s. He was still grinning away, always grinning and laughing like nothing fucking mattered to him, like all the war had done to him was make him excitingly dubious when half the Aurors were drunks.
Malfoy said, “surely you’ve got a better way than that to shut me up?”
Harry stared at him, utterly wrongfooted by what a fucking crazy weirdo Malfoy could be sometimes. And then Malfoy rolled his hips, slow and smooth as honey, and Harry wanted it. He wanted to have Malfoy like all those other people seemed to; Malfoy’s bizarre magnetism made Harry buzz too.
An image came to mind suddenly, of Malfoy thirteen and pretending to faint because of Dementors. He’d been charismatic then too, the little shit; Harry remembered all the Slytherins laughing.
He didn’t remember that shadow in Malfoy’s eyes being there, though.
Malfoy shut his eyes, hiding from Harry’s gaze, and rolled his hips again.
Harry put his hands on Malfoy’s shoulders, pinning his upper body to the wall, and let Malfoy keep working his hips. Harry’s hands clenched on Malfoy as he felt himself start to harden, felt his body start to wake.
Malfoy started to say something. Harry kissed him before he could.
The sheer weirdness of it -- he was kissing Malfoy -- sent a buzz over Harry’s skin, giving him goosebumps. Malfoy’s teeth were vicious but his mouth was sweet, and his responsive sounds as Harry kissed him sent thrills along Harry’s nerves.
He was kissing Malfoy and enjoying it. In Diagon Alley.
Harry tore his mouth away and cast a Notice-Me-Not. He started unzipping, seeking to move this encounter along. Malfoy dragged his own jeans down around his thighs and Harry pushed him against the wall again. This time he used a hand at Malfoy’s throat.
Malfoy’s face went gratifyingly slack with surprise, all supercilious amusement wiped away. Harry squeezed, feeling Malfoy’s throat strain for air.
He pulled away with a jolt of shock. What on earth was he doing tonight?
“What did I say?” Malfoy said, hitching the smile back onto his thin face. “Sex and death.”
Harry put his hand against Malfoy’s neck again, and Malfoy stopped talking. Harry squeezed, enjoying the vulnerability in his grip, and Malfoy’s eyelids fluttered. Harry’s other hand went to Malfoy’s cock, and wow. Malfoy really was getting off on this.
Harry squeezed harder and felt Malfoy’s chest shudder; he didn’t know if it was the slow stroking of Malfoy’s cock that had elicited the reaction, or the hand at his throat. Harry released Malfoy’s neck, without moving his hand, and Malfoy sucked in a breath. Harry stroked his thumb down the side of Malfoy’s neck, rubbing over the soft skin.
He pressed his thumb harder against Malfoy’s skin, until he could feel the throbbing pulse. Lust shivered through him, making Harry’s whole body shiver. Malfoy’s cock was smooth and hot in his hand, and Malfoy made little sounds as Harry stroked him slowly. He didn’t know what allowed him more control, the hand on Malfoy’s cock or the tightening hand at his throat.
Malfoy’s head was thrown back against the brick, his eyes closed. His face reddened as Harry held him, feeling Malfoy’s throat work under his hand. Harry let go, letting Malfoy take deep, rasping breaths, his face transported.
Malfoy fumbled for Harry’s cock. His long fingers were sweet relief around Harry’s hard cock, clever and practiced. But even better was how Malfoy’s smooth movements stuttered as Harry tightened his hand again. The power thrummed and then roared through Harry’s veins. He was sweating, he could barely think. He just leant agaunst Malfoy, wanting to feel every little movement. He worked Malfoy faster, listening to him whine as Harry rubbed his cock, and at the same time he rhythmically squeezed and released, making Malfoy breathe on his schedule.
Malfoy’s mouth looked delicious, open on a gasp as he strained for air he didn’t seem to want, his body betraying him.
Harry let Malfoy breathe and then kissed him, interrupting his gasps. Malfoy seemed gorgeously unable to stroke Harry as he’d been doing; Harry just thrust against Malfoy’s thigh, chasing the pressure and the contact and kissing him. Malfoy moaned into the kisses, thrusting desperately into Harry’s hand.
Harry closed his hand again and kept kissing Malfoy, feeling Malfoy gasp soundlessly into his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt like this.
Harry let Malfoy breathe and kept jerking him faster, listening to the moans and watching Malfoy’s face every minute. Malfoy’s eyes were closed, their eyes didn’t have to meet, Harry could just do this and watch Malfoy fall apart.
Harry wondered if Malfoy would have bruises tomorrow, Harry’s fingerprints in purple on each side of that pale neck, and gave a long, stomach-punched groan.
Malfoy thrust harder against Harry’s hand, once, twice, and Harry squeezed him with both hands.
Malfoy came, jerking against Harry’s grip, helpless. The feeling of it, the knowledge he’d done that, sent Harry over the edge. He came against Malfoy’s thigh, kissing him like an attack. Like a dawn raid, and Malfoy responded like that too: dozy and vicious and easily overcome. Maybe wanting to be taken.
They leant against each other and let the wall hold them up. Harry’s breath sounded as loud in his ears as Malfoy’s did, but that might have been his imagination. Some unknown length of time later, Malfoy shifted. Harry had to struggle with himself for a moment before shifting, letting Malfoy move away.
“That was unexpected,” Malfoy said. He looked startled by how hoarse his voice was, touching his throat. It was covered in red marks where Harry’s fingers had dug in. Harry stared.
Malfoy turned away, muttering a cleaning spell and hitching up his jeans. Harry did the same. Then they paused again. There was nothing else to do, really. Nothing more to say. Harry stared again at Malfoy’s face, washed out by the streetlights, and the dark marks at his throat. He didn’t look relaxedly post-coital; he looked like someone had attacked him.
The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he’d planned them, like everything else that had happened tonight. “Do you want to die?”
“What d’you care if I do, sometimes?” Malfoy said, adjusting his collar to hide the marks as best he could. The amusement was back in his quivering voice. “You want me to die sometimes, too.”
This was originally posted at http://lokifan.dreamwidth.org/304294.html. Comment wherever you like :)
Author:
lokifan
Word count: ~2300 words
Characters/pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Malfoy explains his theory about why the post-war young take so many stupid risks and have so much stupid sex. Harry despises him.
Warnings: breathplay; unsafe kink
Disclaimer: The boys and girls belong to JKR, even though I’m often much nicer to them than she is.
Author’s Notes: A little thing for melusinahp’s birthday. Sorry it’s late, Mel, and I hope your day was brilliant!
Malfoy was loudly explaining his theory of post-war youth to a girl next to him. She was dark-haired and had little cat-eye glasses, and Harry was pretty sure he’d seen her at one of Hermione’s parties. He’d have thought one of Hermione’s friends -- probably studying law along with Malfoy -- would be too intelligent to sit in the Leaky and listen to Malfoy drunkenly expound on his ridiculous ideas.
But maybe not. After all, look at Harry.
“See the thing is, we’re all doing stupid shit.” It was odd hearing Malfoy’s upper-class cadence and polished vowels forming the words see the thing is and stupid shit. He’d changed. But he still spoke with the same Home Counties confidence that everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.
You’d think the war and its aftermath would have changed that. Maybe it still would; two years and change on, and things still felt muggy with the smoke and debris the war had left in its wake.
Harry took a long pull of Bitterbeer. He put down the glass a little too forcefully and Luna’s eyes flickered to him across the table. Harry looked away, pretending to focus on Dean and Hermione debating north London versus south.
“-- taking stupid risks and having stupid sex. And the older generations complain about it but not half as much as you’d think. Because they did it too, wizarding Britain spent the Eighties collectively losing their shit.” Malfoy laughed, letting it ring out across the pub like the little shit he’d always been, look at me. “Since we all almost died and we all know people who actually did, we’re all taking a little tango with death via risky decisions and le petit mort.”
Hermione noticed the direction of Harry’s glare and stopped advocating for Camden. “I know, Harry,” she said. “I get enough of this at Unspeakable parties. Upper-class twits thinking we all want to hear them being pretentious. And Malfoy thinking we want his opinion about the war.” She pulled a disgusted face.
That was the cue for everyone around the table to pull out their Times Malfoy Was A Bastard stories, but Harry barely heard them. The girl had said something, her voice arch, and Malfoy was laughing again.
“Of course I am! Terribly traumatised, just like everyone else. That’s the other reason, of course. Mad relatives and dead relatives and all that. I’m frightfully damaged, but that’s what makes me so intriguing, you see.” Malfoy leaned in with exaggeratedly low-lidded eyes, laughing, and the girl was laughing back and Harry hated him; his chest felt scorched with the heat of it. Ron came back to the flat looking hollow-eyed every time he went home and saw his five siblings, and they all had nightmares about torture, and Harry’s tongue swelled up in his mouth every time he tried to talk about Remus or Tonks. And Malfoy was laughing about it, and bringing up Tonks when she’d never meant a fucking thing to him.
Harry got up and walked blindly out of the pub. None of his friends tried to follow him. They’d all been there, and knew he’d be back or he wouldn’t.
The cool air outside didn’t make anything better. Harry gave an inarticulate roar and lashed out at the pebbled wall next to him.
“Dear me,” said a familiar voice. Harry’s stomach clenched with dislike at the mere sound of Malfoy talking. “Losing your temper, Potter?”
Embarrassment flooded Harry at the idea that Malfoy had seen him. That just made him angrier, because why the fuck did he care if Malfoy saw him do something embarrassing? He spun round and glared at Malfoy. “What are you doing out here?”
“I felt you glowering at me all the way across the room,” said Malfoy. His tone was full of amusement, though his expression wasn’t: he was watching Harry with alert grey eyes, his face still. “And then you left without even throwing a punch. I just had to see what was going on.”
“Nothing’s going on,” Harry said, throwing the words like a hex. “I just didn’t want to sit and listen to you dribble on about life and the war, talk about your dead relatives like you had any fucking idea who Tonks was, like you cared when your psycho aunt killed her -- ”
“I didn’t know her,” Malfoy agreed easily. He strolled closer, his hands in the pockets of those stupid jeans he affected like he had anything but contempt for Muggles. Harry wasn’t so drunk he’d forgotten all his practice at watching Malfoy, though, and he could see the tension in Malfoy’s shoulders. “I suppose -- ”
“And all that rubbish about sex and coming close to death -- ” Harry interrupted, rage spilling out of him in a torrent. “Do you actually believe what comes out of your mouth when you’re trying to get someone into bed or are you just so practiced from Advocacy training it doesn’t matter -- ”
“Oh yes, Advocates are evil and tell lies, perfect job for me, blah blah,” Malfoy rejoined. He didn’t sound amused any more. “Just like being an Auror is the perfect job for you. What is the Auror brutality rate, exactly -- ”
Harry charged, slamming him into the wall. Malfoy gasped painfully as the air was punched from his lungs. Harry stayed close, refusing to relinquish his bruising grip on Malfoy’s upper arms. “D’you mean the rate that gets reported or the rate that actually happens?”
Malfoy’s gaze was oddly alight even as his upper lip curled back from his teeth in a sneer. Harry realised he wore a matching one on his own mouth. “I don’t expect you to know any actual figures, Potter. You’ve got better things to do, like capturing nasty bad people like me.”
Harry rocked him forward a little then slammed Malfoy back against the wall. The back of his blond head hit it with an audible smack. It was a shock, being able to throw Malfoy around like this; Harry had forgotten how much Auror-trainee muscle he’d gained since school. “Don’t say it like it’s a joke, Malfoy. You make stupid jokes about being a bad boy -- you got Dumbledore killed and you don’t even care - ”
Malfoy’s eyes flashed and he jerked against Harry’s hands. But he was still gasping to regain air and he didn’t have a hope against someone trained. “You don’t have a sodding clue what I care about.”
Malfoy was still so thin, the skin taut against his face. His sneer made him unflatteringly skull-like, yet his body was warm and alive under Harry’s hands, his panting for breath loud. He was so alive, and so was his voice as he snarled at Harry.
“You keep bulling around like you have some kind of special insight into my soul just because you -- ”
Harry couldn’t bear to hear one more word out of Malfoy’s mouth, he couldn’t stand it, and he put his hand over Malfoy’s mouth, pressing his fingers into Malfoy’s face. Shut up shut up shut up --
Malfoy licked his hand and Harry jerked it away with a cry of disgust, scrubbing his palm against his robes. Malfoy was laughing, a weird cackle, and Harry was full of shock at the childish move and another, very un-childish feeling.
Malfoy’s eyes looked half-crazy, inches away from Harry’s. He was still grinning away, always grinning and laughing like nothing fucking mattered to him, like all the war had done to him was make him excitingly dubious when half the Aurors were drunks.
Malfoy said, “surely you’ve got a better way than that to shut me up?”
Harry stared at him, utterly wrongfooted by what a fucking crazy weirdo Malfoy could be sometimes. And then Malfoy rolled his hips, slow and smooth as honey, and Harry wanted it. He wanted to have Malfoy like all those other people seemed to; Malfoy’s bizarre magnetism made Harry buzz too.
An image came to mind suddenly, of Malfoy thirteen and pretending to faint because of Dementors. He’d been charismatic then too, the little shit; Harry remembered all the Slytherins laughing.
He didn’t remember that shadow in Malfoy’s eyes being there, though.
Malfoy shut his eyes, hiding from Harry’s gaze, and rolled his hips again.
Harry put his hands on Malfoy’s shoulders, pinning his upper body to the wall, and let Malfoy keep working his hips. Harry’s hands clenched on Malfoy as he felt himself start to harden, felt his body start to wake.
Malfoy started to say something. Harry kissed him before he could.
The sheer weirdness of it -- he was kissing Malfoy -- sent a buzz over Harry’s skin, giving him goosebumps. Malfoy’s teeth were vicious but his mouth was sweet, and his responsive sounds as Harry kissed him sent thrills along Harry’s nerves.
He was kissing Malfoy and enjoying it. In Diagon Alley.
Harry tore his mouth away and cast a Notice-Me-Not. He started unzipping, seeking to move this encounter along. Malfoy dragged his own jeans down around his thighs and Harry pushed him against the wall again. This time he used a hand at Malfoy’s throat.
Malfoy’s face went gratifyingly slack with surprise, all supercilious amusement wiped away. Harry squeezed, feeling Malfoy’s throat strain for air.
He pulled away with a jolt of shock. What on earth was he doing tonight?
“What did I say?” Malfoy said, hitching the smile back onto his thin face. “Sex and death.”
Harry put his hand against Malfoy’s neck again, and Malfoy stopped talking. Harry squeezed, enjoying the vulnerability in his grip, and Malfoy’s eyelids fluttered. Harry’s other hand went to Malfoy’s cock, and wow. Malfoy really was getting off on this.
Harry squeezed harder and felt Malfoy’s chest shudder; he didn’t know if it was the slow stroking of Malfoy’s cock that had elicited the reaction, or the hand at his throat. Harry released Malfoy’s neck, without moving his hand, and Malfoy sucked in a breath. Harry stroked his thumb down the side of Malfoy’s neck, rubbing over the soft skin.
He pressed his thumb harder against Malfoy’s skin, until he could feel the throbbing pulse. Lust shivered through him, making Harry’s whole body shiver. Malfoy’s cock was smooth and hot in his hand, and Malfoy made little sounds as Harry stroked him slowly. He didn’t know what allowed him more control, the hand on Malfoy’s cock or the tightening hand at his throat.
Malfoy’s head was thrown back against the brick, his eyes closed. His face reddened as Harry held him, feeling Malfoy’s throat work under his hand. Harry let go, letting Malfoy take deep, rasping breaths, his face transported.
Malfoy fumbled for Harry’s cock. His long fingers were sweet relief around Harry’s hard cock, clever and practiced. But even better was how Malfoy’s smooth movements stuttered as Harry tightened his hand again. The power thrummed and then roared through Harry’s veins. He was sweating, he could barely think. He just leant agaunst Malfoy, wanting to feel every little movement. He worked Malfoy faster, listening to him whine as Harry rubbed his cock, and at the same time he rhythmically squeezed and released, making Malfoy breathe on his schedule.
Malfoy’s mouth looked delicious, open on a gasp as he strained for air he didn’t seem to want, his body betraying him.
Harry let Malfoy breathe and then kissed him, interrupting his gasps. Malfoy seemed gorgeously unable to stroke Harry as he’d been doing; Harry just thrust against Malfoy’s thigh, chasing the pressure and the contact and kissing him. Malfoy moaned into the kisses, thrusting desperately into Harry’s hand.
Harry closed his hand again and kept kissing Malfoy, feeling Malfoy gasp soundlessly into his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt like this.
Harry let Malfoy breathe and kept jerking him faster, listening to the moans and watching Malfoy’s face every minute. Malfoy’s eyes were closed, their eyes didn’t have to meet, Harry could just do this and watch Malfoy fall apart.
Harry wondered if Malfoy would have bruises tomorrow, Harry’s fingerprints in purple on each side of that pale neck, and gave a long, stomach-punched groan.
Malfoy thrust harder against Harry’s hand, once, twice, and Harry squeezed him with both hands.
Malfoy came, jerking against Harry’s grip, helpless. The feeling of it, the knowledge he’d done that, sent Harry over the edge. He came against Malfoy’s thigh, kissing him like an attack. Like a dawn raid, and Malfoy responded like that too: dozy and vicious and easily overcome. Maybe wanting to be taken.
They leant against each other and let the wall hold them up. Harry’s breath sounded as loud in his ears as Malfoy’s did, but that might have been his imagination. Some unknown length of time later, Malfoy shifted. Harry had to struggle with himself for a moment before shifting, letting Malfoy move away.
“That was unexpected,” Malfoy said. He looked startled by how hoarse his voice was, touching his throat. It was covered in red marks where Harry’s fingers had dug in. Harry stared.
Malfoy turned away, muttering a cleaning spell and hitching up his jeans. Harry did the same. Then they paused again. There was nothing else to do, really. Nothing more to say. Harry stared again at Malfoy’s face, washed out by the streetlights, and the dark marks at his throat. He didn’t look relaxedly post-coital; he looked like someone had attacked him.
The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he’d planned them, like everything else that had happened tonight. “Do you want to die?”
“What d’you care if I do, sometimes?” Malfoy said, adjusting his collar to hide the marks as best he could. The amusement was back in his quivering voice. “You want me to die sometimes, too.”
This was originally posted at http://lokifan.dreamwidth.org/304294.html. Comment wherever you like :)