Fic: "Echo of a War" (1/1)
Title: "Echo of a War"
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,226
Summary: Nobody wins a war.
Notes: This fic is written as a fill for shameful_desire, as part of my ficathon to raise money for the eye surgery I need if I want to join the fire department.
This is unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
"Echo of a War"
Nobody wins a war.
One side gains power or control. Perhaps one side has fewer deaths. It might even be possible to defeat your enemy in an epic battle where the fate of your world is decided once and for all.
But that isn’t the same thing as winning.
In war, everyone loses. In war, everything is touched by blood and violence and destruction and death. Even as he was being hailed as a hero, Harry was just as quickly brought back to cold reality as he witnessed the echoes of the war around him. Too many gravestones. Too many losses. In no way could Harry ever call that maelstrom of destruction “winning.”
He smiled for the cameras and shook wizards’ trembling hands and kissed witches on their tear-stained cheeks, but at the end of the day, for all he had gone through, he knew that there was no way that he could be happy about any of it. They’d gone through the war and come out the other end with enough pieces intact to pick up and carry on, but that was it.
There was no rest for the wicked, but there was no rest for anyone else, either. He was eighteen years old, a war hero... and a school dropout. And so, like many of his classmates, Harry Potter went back to Hogwarts.
*********
Draco Malfoy never looked up anymore.
At first, Harry thought it was just that Malfoy couldn’t look him in the eye, and why not? After all the shit that had happened, Malfoy didn’t deserve to look anyone in the eye. Besides, Harry had saved Malfoy’s skinny, ungrateful arse from the Fiendfyre, and he was pretty sure the Slytherin prat wasn’t going to forget that anytime soon.
Harry tried not to think about it too much, and he was only partially successful. He wanted to convince himself that the old rivalry was just a petty, insignificant scrap of his past. There was no threat anymore. The Slytherin house had been gutted, as many families moved out of the country and sent their children to Durmstrang. Malfoy didn’t have any clout or any friends. Harry wondered why the Malfoys hadn’t also left, but it didn’t matter. The snake no longer had fangs.
Still, it bothered him, and he wasn’t quite sure why.
So, when the 7th and 8th year students paired off in Potions on the first brewing day of the year, and everyone refused to pair off with Malfoy, Harry figured he’d be the bigger man and just get it over with.
Hermione must have figured out what he was doing and hissed at him. “Harry! You don’t need to do that!”
Harry cast a glance back at her. “Someone has to. Besides, Neville still needs a partner.”
She gave him an incredulous look, but he just turned away and walked across the room, then slid onto the seat next to Malfoy. “Malfoy.”
“Potter.” He continued preparing the cauldron for the day’s potion, and he didn’t look up.
Harry frowned, then tilted his head. “Done this one before?”
Malfoy’s shoulders remained hunched as he reached for the crushed mugwort and rubbed it around the inside of the cauldron. “No.”
Harry considered this strange new dynamic between himself and Draco Malfoy as he felt something vindictive well up in him. He slid the tray of potions ingredients across the tabletop and said, “Skin my shrivelfig, Malfoy.”
Without a word - without so much as a flinch or a grimace - Malfoy picked up the shrivelfig and started peeling it.
Somehow, it didn’t seem as satisfying as Harry thought it would be. Sullenly, he settled himself in to get through this damned class, and tomorrow, he’d pretend it had never happened.
*********
A week later, Harry was back in Potions, and as always, Thursday was for actual brewing. He started to team up with Hermione, but once again, Malfoy’s conspicuous status of being avoided stood out sharply. “I’m gonna go pair up with him again.”
Hermione shot a look at him. “No, Harry.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “No? What do you think is going to happen anyway?”
Hermione blew out an exasperated breath. “Nothing, obviously. But why on earth would you spend your time within ten feet of him when you don’t have to? I mean, Harry, it’s Malfoy.”
“I think I know that.”
She cocked her head in disbelief. “There’s no talking sense into you, is there?”
Harry gave her a broad grin. “Have you ever been able to do it before?”
Before she could answer, Harry had scooped up his bag. He dumped it onto the floor by the empty seat next to Malfoy. “Shove over, Malfoy.”
Malfoy slid over, making space for Harry, without looking at him.
So, he was still playing that game, was he? “Go get the dried Mandrake leaf and cat’s claw.”
Without a word, Draco got up and walked over to the supply closet.
Harry watched him go, frowning. It should have been satisfied to see Malfoy so beaten... but something about it was bothering him.
*********
“Harry, not again.”
“I don’t see why not. He hasn’t done anything wrong since the year began.”
Hermione brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear and gave Harry her best look of you’re-kidding-me-right? “And what about all the things he’s done wrong for the past seven years? Are you just going to forget about those?”
Harry gave a half-shrug. “Of course not.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
He cast a glance over towards Malfoy, and at the empty chair next to him, before looking back at Hermione. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
*********
“Malfoy, why are you here?”
The question popped out of Harry’s mouth before he could quite stop it. He and Malfoy were halfway through brewing a ridiculously simple potion that should have been covered in the 5th-year curriculum, and were taking turns stirring clockwise, then counterclockwise, in one-minute intervals.
Malfoy didn’t look at him, but merely turned over the one-minute sand clock and switched directions again. “Because Potions is on my schedule, Potter.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“I mean...” Harry blew out a tense breath through pursed lips. “Why are you at Hogwarts? Why did you stick around? Almost everyone else in your house above fourth year went to Durmstrang, so what about you? Why are you here?”
It lasted only a second, but Malfoy looked up and briefly made eye contact before hunching his shoulders and focusing on his stirring again. “Why the hell does it even matter to you, Potter?”
Harry opened his mouth, but the answer wasn’t there. Finally, he said, “It doesn’t.”
That was a lie.
Malfoy snorted lightly in reply, flipped the timer over, and switched stirring directions again.
*********
There was a strange sort of power in being able to order Malfoy to do pretty much anything. Harry thought it should have been fun, but instead, he kept getting more frustrated with the situation, and he had no idea why.
Today, Hermione’s admonishment had been a resigned, “I don’t know if you’re trying to torment him or yourself.”
Harry had no idea what to say to that because he wasn’t sure himself. His agitation was getting the better of him, though, and with a particularly complex potion, Harry was so busy trying to figure out how to get under Malfoy’s skin that he added the powdered dragon scales before the bubotuber pus, and the potion turned a sickly shade of orange-brown instead of the lively purple it should have been.
Slughorn stood in front of their workbench, shaking his head in disappointment. “Harry, my boy, I expected better from you. And you too, Malfoy. I can’t give you credit for this work... but I’ll tell you what - classes are done for the day. Redo the potion and get it right, and I’ll give you credit for it.”
Harry wanted to say no. He didn’t need every potion to pass the class, and he didn’t really care about impressing Professor Slughorn, but then he saw Hermione giving him a look from across the room, and it solidified something in his mind.
“I’ll stay,” Harry said firmly. “Malfoy?”
“Sure,” came the emotionless answer. As expected, Malfoy didn’t even look up.
Slughorn smiled. “Very good, boys! Very good.” He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it, even though he knew exactly what time it was, seeing as class had just ended. “I must get to a meeting with the other professors, but I’ll be back in an hour to check your work. I trust you can work this potion yourself in that amount of time.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said flatly.
Malfoy just nodded.
Slughorn clapped his hands together once and said, “Excellent! I’ll be back in an hour’s time.”
The professor left, leaving Harry and Malfoy in the room with Hermione. She was looking at both of them with a mix of anxiety and irritation. “Harry, I have a Charms tutoring session with the first and second year students. I can’t stay.”
“I didn’t ask you to stay, Hermione,” Harry said, already gathering up supplies as Malfoy neutralized the potion in the cauldron and spelled it out of existence. “We’re the ones who have to re-do the potion, not you.”
“But...” She looked warily at Malfoy, then back at Harry. “You don’t have to do this!” she hissed.
“You’re right,” Harry replied simply as he began pulverizing a fresh batch of spiders’ pincers. “And I’m going to do it anyway.”
For a moment, it looked as though she was going to argue with him, but then, without another word, she turned and all but stomped out the door.
Harry sighed aloud. “Right.” Then, to Malfoy, he said half-heartedly, “Let’s get to it.”
Malfoy only nodded.
They finished the potion in short order and without incident, and waited in silence for Slughorn. Harry kept looking over at Malfoy, with questions beginning to burn in his head. What the hell was going through his mind? Why wasn’t he pushing back?
It had certainly occurred to Harry that Malfoy had been through hell last year in his own way. Of course, after everything the Slytherin arsehole had said and done, he’d deserved exactly what he’d gotten. He’d made his own bed, and now, he was being forced to lie in it.
Of course, nothing was that simple, as Harry had learned. Now, after it was all over, and Harry had seen so much damage on both sides of the war, it was hard to stay quite so angry. Everyone had lost something, and there was something going on with Malfoy that Harry couldn’t quite understand. Malfoy’d had a chance to turn Harry over to Voldemort, but instead, he’d refused to identify him. Harry was sure that Malfoy had known it was him, so why the hell hadn’t he ratted him out? Later, during the battle, the way Malfoy was acting... Harry still couldn’t quite understand. And now... damn, why was Malfoy acting like someone had ripped out his entire personality? It seemed like part of a puzzle that Harry couldn’t quite put together.
He was just about to push Malfoy for some answers when Slughorn returned. After a few minutes of praising their work and admonishing them for not trying hard enough the first time, he dismissed the both of them.
It was 5:30, and almost everyone would be down in the Great Hall for dinner. The corridor was deserted as Harry started making his way towards the stairs. Malfoy was walking alongside him, but it was obvious that he wasn’t walking with him, which was just plain weird. In fact, everything had been damned unnerving, and it was driving him mad.
Finally, Harry had enough. He rounded on Malfoy and blocked his path. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Malfoy looked down and to the side, but his lip twitched, betraying more emotion than he’d shown all day. “It’s dinnertime and I’m not eating yet.” He tried to take a step, but Harry blocked him again.
“Don’t give me that! You know exactly what I mean. And... fuck, look at me!”
Malfoy looked up, and there was some sort of challenge in his eye, and at the same time, the look was bent and broken. “You going to tell me to do something else, Potter? Order me around?”
“That’s not the damned point, Malfoy. What’s with you never looking up? You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t... you’re not you!”
A sick sort of amusement settled on Malfoy’s expression. “Oh, Potter, I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” Harry said automatically.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow in a way that said he didn’t believe a word of it. It made the air in the room feel too hot and too thick. Malfoy nodded. “You must love this... seeing me with nothing. My family is ruined, my life is ruined, and I didn’t ask for any of it. I did what I had to, and this is what I’ve got for it. You and all your friends are revelling in your victory, and this is what I’ve got left, so I’m dealing with it.”
“Revelling? You unbelievable arse! People have died! The whole thing was a bloody disaster, and you think I’m happy about it?”
Malfoy scoffed and took a step closer. “Of course. Precious Potter and his adoring fans. So, go on, Potter. Revel in it. Rub my face in it and punish me the way I deserve it. You won! So go on... do it. You know you want to.”
“What the hell, Malfoy?” Harry took a half-step back. This sudden change in Malfoy’s demeanor was startling.
“That’s twice you’ve asked me that. But isn’t this what you wanted? To see me react? To get me riled up and angry so that you’d still have something to fight against?” He was getting into Harry’s personal space now. “You want a fight. You have been arguing with me since the day you met me, spoiling for an argument. You killed your enemy, and now you’ve got nobody to fight against. I stopped fighting with you, and now, you don’t know what to do with yourself. So what are you waiting for, Potter?” He spat the name. “Fight.”
“You’re mad!”
There was a gleam in Malfoy’s eye. “Maybe.” And he pushed Harry.
Harry’s back bumped into the wall behind him, and he reacted on instinct, swinging out in a wide punch. His fist caught Malfoy in the face and snapped his head to the side.
Instead of swinging back, Malfoy started laughing. He stood upright again and looked Harry in the eye. A trickle of blood oozed down from his nose and across his lip. His tongue snaked out and licked the blood, but he made no other move to recognize the injury. He stepped into Harry’s personal space again, almost nose-to-nose. “That’s what you wanted, Potter. That’s what you needed. You can’t live without it because you are so damned addicted to the fight... and if that’s what you want... maybe I’ll give it to you... on my terms.”
Harry was trying to process this, but his brain wouldn’t catch up. Then, before he could say anything, Malfoy gave him one sharp nod, turned on his heel, and walked away.
Harry leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. He’d never been so confused in his life.
*********
Harry paired off with Hermione the following week in Potions.
The week after that, he worked with Neville.
The week after that... Malfoy wasn’t there. Harry noted the empty seat, then settled in to work with Hermione.
*********
He must have been distracted, because when Harry got back to the common room that evening and sat down to write up his Potions work from the day, he realized that his notes were missing. A quick mental backtracking led him to realize that he must have put them down in the supply closet when he’d put back his unused ingredients at the end of class.
Of course.
“Where are you going?” Ron asked as Harry got up and headed for the door.
“Forgot my notes in Potions today.”
Ron frowned. “And you’re going back for them now? C’mon, Harry, you said the homework isn’t due until next Tuesday, right?”
“Right, but I don’t need someone else taking off with my notes. Our Potions class is the last class of the day, so if I go now, they might still be there.”
Ron shrugged. “Suit yourself, mate.”
Harry waved and let himself out through the portrait hole.
One of the benefits of being an 8th-year student was that there were no curfews. Technically, they were at the age of majority, and couldn’t be held to the same restrictions as the rest of the students. Besides, the Wizarding World was at peace now, wasn’t it? There was no reason to restrict adult students when there was no threat to be had, so he and the other 8th years had the run of the school. It was handy for late-night trips to the kitchen, soirees in the Room of Requirement, and a sense of freedom that many of them had needed when returning to school after they’d been through so much.
The trip to the dungeons was uneventful, but when Harry got to the Potions lab, it was occupied.
Malfoy was bent over a cauldron, working with intense focus on dropping grains of something into the mixture, one by one. When the cauldron released a puff of red smoke, Harry realized that Malfoy was working on the day’s lesson that he’d missed.
“You going to stand there staring at me all night, Potter, or are you going to come get the notes you dropped in the supply room and get the hell out of here?”
He should have done exactly that - grabbed his notes, which Malfoy had obviously placed on the potions table in plain sight - and gotten the hell out of there. Instead, he walked around to the table where Malfoy was working and stood across from him, staring until Malfoy finally looked up.
“What?”
“What do you want?”
Malfoy scowled. “I told you. Grab your damned notes and leave.”
“No,” Harry said firmly. “That’s not what you said. You asked me if I was going to stand here staring at you all night, or if I was going to grab my notes and leave.”
“So?” He looked back down at his potion again and began adding the aster petals one by one.
“So...” Harry hesitated, then pressed forward. “What do you want?”
Malfoy put down the aster petals. Slowly, he stood up, then pushed his chair in. He walked around the table and stood barely a foot away from Harry, too close for comfort, but Harry wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, the blood was rushing in his veins and his heart was thudding in his chest, and he felt more alive than he had since Voldemort’s death.
Malfoy’s tongue swiped across his upper lip in a motion that mirrored how he’d licked the blood off his lip three weeks ago. And then, he said, “Hit me.”
“What?” Part of Harry’s brain - the rational part - was telling him that this was completely nuts and that he should get out of there. Something else, however, was sparking hot and bright in his mind, and he found himself licking his own lip before he could stop himself.
“You heard me well and good, Potter. I’ve been keeping my head down, and you hate it. I can see it all over your face.” He came an inch closer, and a hint of a smile curled his lip. It wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t threatening, either. “You’ve been fighting for so long that you don’t know how to not fight.”
“I’m tired of fighting, Malfoy,” he snapped, but it lacked the conviction he’d meant it to have.
“You were tired of risking your life. You were tired of dealing with You-Know-Who.”
“Voldemort.”
Malfoy cringed, then straightened up again. “Yeah, him. You were tired of all that bollocks... and I don’t blame you.” He squared his shoulders. “So was I.”
Slowly, Harry nodded. He’d known that for a while. “You hated him, too.”
Something twisted in Malfoy’s expression. “By the end of it... I would have killed him myself if I could have. Why do you think I didn’t rat you out to him?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Harry admitted.
“Simple, Potter... I might have wanted to fight you, but I didn’t want you dead. I hated him, and I needed you.”
“You needed...?” Harry’s voice trailed off with the question, but Malfoy shook his head.
“It was hell, Potter, and it was shame, and it was nothing like what I’d been promised. There was nothing safe in being a Pureblood, and I was trapped, and there was nothing I could do. And then... you were trapped, too.”
“There was no way out for either of us, so you let me out.”
Malfoy nodded. “There was no way for me to fight.”
“You needed the fight,” Harry said in understanding.
“I still do. So do you.” Malfoy took one small, measured, definitive step backwards, as if daring Harry to come after him. “So... go on... hit me.”
He knew he shouldn’t, but at that moment, the rest of the world had faded out, and all Harry could see was Draco Malfoy, shoulders squared, and asking for it like nothing else. Blood was rushing in Harry’s ears - years of pent-up rage and frustration and anger and loss and grief and madness... it was madness...
So Harry hit him.
It was a clean strike across the cheek, and Draco twisted sideways to absorb the blow, and again, he was laughing. It was a mad laughter. He staggered backwards, and his hand went to his pocket.
For an instant, Harry went on high alert, wondering if Malfoy was going to curse him, and he drew his wand and aimed it defensively. However, Malfoy just kept laughing as he slowly drew his wand and laid it on the table, then pushed it out of reach.
“Come on, Potter. Put down the wand. You and me.”
Harry recoiled and gave Malfoy a sceptical glare. “You? You put down your wand?”
“Bugger, Potter, my wand likes you better than it likes me anymore. So put yours down, and show me that you’re still the bastard I know you are.”
Feeling oddly free, Harry quickly cast a silencing charm on the door, then locked it before laying his wand down on the table. “Just us... one on one.”
“Just the fight we’ve been waiting for. Our own little war.”
“Nobody wins a war, Malfoy.”
“Who said either of us were looking to win?”
Harry felt a grin working across his face. Heart pounding, muscles clenching... and Malfoy must have seen it, too, because he squared his shoulders, mouth drawn into a twisted smile of his own.
They collided in the middle of the room, in the aisle between rows of Potions benches. Harry ducked down and rammed his shoulder into Malfoy’s stomach, picking the other man up and off the floor. He slammed Malfoy onto the nearest Potions table, sending a cauldron flying and rolling across the floor with a resounding clank, but Malfoy grabbed him and used the momentum to pull Harry up and over the table, rolling together over the edge and off the table again.
They hit the floor on their sides, and before Harry could recover from the impact, Malfoy was scrambling up and on top of him, legs straddling hips. Malfoy grabbed his hands and pinned them to the ground over Harry’s head and leaned in close, eyes bright and wild, pale face flushed with blood and excitement. “Don’t stop now, Potter.”
Harry sneered. “Not on your life!” He heaved and twisted, throwing Malfoy off-balance.
They rolled to the side, knocking over a pair of stools, and Harry heard another cauldron rattle on top of the table they hit. There were hands scrambling for purchase on clothes and limbs, elbows knocking chins, knees connecting with with stomachs. Grunts and shouts and furious cussing punctuated the air as fists connected with anything they could reach.
Harry’s breath was hot and heavy in his chest, and Malfoy’s body was hot and heavy against his. Somehow, he got a hold of Malfoy’s arm and pulled it back as he flipped Malfoy onto his front and straddled his hips.
“Is this what you wanted, Malfoy?” Harry growled, leaning down close and speaking right into Malfoy’s ear.
Malfoy let out a whimper - a sound something like desperation, and he bucked underneath Harry.
“Come on, you bastard,” Harry pressed, giving Malfoy’s arm a bit more pressure. It couldn’t have been comfortable. “Is that the best you’ve got? What do you want, huh? What can you take?”
“Fuck,” Malfoy gasped, squirming against the floor, hips twisting and writhing.
Feeling a thrill that he’d never imagined before, without letting go of Malfoy’s arm, Harry dug one elbow into the tender spot at the back of Malfoy’s shoulder blade.
This time, Malfoy fucking moaned, and it was an obscene sort of sound that Harry had never heard before. “Fuck... me.”
Harry let up his grip on Malfoy’s arm in shock. “What did you say?”
Underneath him, Malfoy shifted and turned over, with Harry still straddling his hips. “I said... fuck me, Potter. Hit me. Slap me. I want you to punch me and pull my hair back and bugger me senseless.”
Harry blinked. This was unreal. The thing was, as much as his brain was saying no, the rest of him was saying yes. Oh yeah, it was definitely saying yes, as something in him shifted, and the line between fucking and fighting didn’t seem so wide. He was in so far over his head right now, but he didn’t care. Fire was coursing through his veins, and it was incredible.
With a crazed laugh, Harry slapped him across the face. To his amazement, Malfoy actually moaned again.
“More,” Malfoy gasped. “Come on, Potter, you sodding wimp! Harder!”
Harry drew back and hit him again, this time, a backhand from the other side. Malfoy let out a high-pitched keening sound, and writhed underneath Harry. This time, there was no mistaking the writhing, nor the growing erection there.
“Knew you were... you were a ponce,” Harry gasped.
“No, Potter... it’s you, you damned idiot.”
In his surprise, Harry let go of his grip on Malfoy, who took advantage of the sudden lapse and flipped Harry off of him. Harry scrambled backwards a few feet and sat there, braced against his hands, staring at Malfoy, who was now sitting up, hunched forward, looking both predatory and vulnerable at once. It was bloody bizarre.
“What do you mean, it’s me?”
Malfoy snorted. “It’s always been you, you arse. My whole damned life... it’s been you.” He spat the word. “Win or lose, Quidditch, the war, You-Know-Who... everything wrapped up in Harry-Fucking-Potter. And then it was over. All of it was over, and I’m not ready for that, Potter! Everything is gone, and I’m not done with you yet!”
“So you want me to bugger you on the floor of the Potions classroom?” Harry didn’t know what to make of it, but Malfoy’s smile became even more crazed.
“I want you. I want the fight back. I want you to slap me, punch me, pin me down, and make it hurt. So stop talking and fucking do it already!”
“I...”
Malfoy pounced.
The suddenness of it threw Harry back into his frenzy, and he grappled with Malfoy. He felt his head hit one of the cauldrons they’d knocked off a table, and it rolled away as Harry rolled over on top of Malfoy. It was raw and animalistic and bloody amazing as his blood sang in his veins and his ability to think was overtaken by the thrill of a fight that had just taken on a whole new dimension... something he’d never considered, but it was brilliant.
Malfoy kicked at him - he wasn’t going to make it easy, and Harry didn’t want him to. This was much better. Malfoy had once been taller than Harry, but Harry had caught up with him now, and a year of war had hardened Harry, while Malfoy’s struggles had been far less physical. In short order, Harry was using one hand to pin Malfoy’s hands to the floor above his head, and the other hand to begin ripping away the buttons on Malfoy’s trousers.
Malfoy bucked, licked his lips, struggled, and panted. His pupils were so wide that his eyes looked dark in the dim light of the Potions dungeon. It was madness, and Harry was reveling in it.
“Come on, Potter... get on with it! I’ll bet you just don’t have the bollocks to do it, you bloody wimp. Come on, do it!” Malfoy was goading him, and it was working.
With a desperate heave, Harry flipped him over and wrenched one of his arms up behind his back again. Malfoy let out a howl that sounded more like a groan of pleasure, and the sound of it was erotic and obscene and perfect. His arse was up in the air, and Harry pulled down Malfoy’s trousers and pants and left them around his knees, hobbling him and exposing him all at once.
For a moment, Harry froze, not quite sure what he should do next. He’d never done this with a bloke. Sure, he’d read the Wizard’s Wizard magazines a few times, and he’d had fantasies, but -
“My pocket, Potter. Left pocket.”
Harry reached into Malfoy’s pocket and pulled out a small tin of salve - the sort of stuff people used for windburned lips and chapped hands. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“You’re a bloody moron, aren’t you?” Malfoy snapped, looking back over his shoulder despite the wrenched arm. “Put it on your buggering cock and in my buggered arse, Potter!”
“Shut it, Malfoy!” Harry shot back, and then, on impulse, he slapped Malfoy’s arse. Hard.
Malfoy howled, but the sound rapidly evolved into another obscene moan that went straight to Harry’s cock. Curious, he reached back and slapped Malfoy’s other arse cheek. The effect was instantaneous. Malfoy let out a gasping moan, and his body writhed in what appeared to be pure pleasure. Two handprints were already standing out on Malfoy’s pale arse, and Harry was pretty sure he’d found a whole new definition of attraction he’d never realized before.
The small tin of salve temporarily forgotten, Harry took up the initiative, spanking Malfoy’s arse, changing the intensity, location, and rhythm, relishing every time he took the other man by surprise, watching him jump and writhe, listening to him yelp and moan and pant until -
“Bloody Merlin’s Beard, just fuck me already, Potter!”
It was mindless and crazy and beyond Harry’s comprehension, but there seemed like nothing left but to do it. He grabbed the tin of salve and quickly smeared some of it on his cock, and tossed a mental note of appreciation into the ether for having gotten the standard sexual protection charms that he figured any wizard ought to have. He gave himself a couple of good strokes, humming in appreciation. The salve was smooth and warming, and...
“My arse, Potter. Don’t think you’re just going to plough into it without - oh!”
Harry drove one well-lubricated finger into Malfoy’s arsehole, effectively reducing his demands into a string of gibberish and moans. “I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands, Malfoy.”
“More,” he moaned.
Harry let a wickedly indulgent grin take over his expression, and without removing his finger from Malfoy’s arse, he pulled back with his other hand and spanked Malfoy as hard as he could.
Malfoy made a high-pitched keening sound as his hole clenched around Harry’s finger. Having no intention of being gentle, Harry promptly worked in a second finger, scissoring his fingers as Malfoy panted. Sweat was beginning to make Malfoy’s hair stringy, with strands sticking to the back of his neck. His legs were trembling. Feeling just a bit devious, and having experimented with himself enough to know where to press, Harry twisted his fingers inside Draco, reaching, prodding, and finding -
Malfoy almost collapsed on him, but Harry reached a hand around one thigh, forcing his arse to stay up as Malfoy babbled almost incoherently. “Oh Merlin... oh... oh... oh...”
Picking up the rhythm, Harry began whacking Malfoy’s arse cheeks and thighs again. His skin was hot to the touch where Harry had already been pounding on it, and Malfoy was perfectly reactive. His litany of blubbering evolved into a string of please and more and finally fuck, Potter, fuck me now!
It was all the encouragement Harry needed. With one hand still holding Malfoy’s hip firmly in place, he guided himself into position and slammed himself in.
Malfoy howled, and Harry almost lost himself for a moment. It was so tight, so hot, and Malfoy was writhing underneath him in ways that Harry had never thought possible.
“Bugger... Potter, move already!”
Harry had to blink a couple of times to clear his vision before pulling back just a bit and pressing in again. Malfoy arched up underneath him, making a choked sort of sound. Harry rolled his hips, and Malfoy’s head tilted backwards as he moaned.
Suddenly, that always-too-perfect hair seemed too bloody tempting, and Harry reached out and grabbed a fistful of it with his left hand before pounding into Malfoy’s arse again.
Malfoy made another incomprehensible sound and possibly something that sounded like fuck, yes!, and it was all the encouragement Harry needed. With his hand fisted tightly in Malfoy’s hair, he began fucking intently, revelling in the sweat, the moans, and the violence of mutually assured destruction. It was glorious.
Somewhere in the middle of it, he began using his free hand to slap Malfoy’s thigh, to rake scratches up and down his pale back, and finally, to dig fingers into Malfoy’s hip. Underneath him, Harry could tell that Malfoy had taken himself in hand and was enthusiastically wanking. Muscles trembling, arse clenching, and it was more than Harry could take.
He came, balls-deep in Malfoy’s arse, with a furious growl, and barely managed not to collapse on top of Malfoy, who seemed to be spasming in the throes of his own orgasm. He rode it out until the heat in his body spent itself. Malfoy had gone still underneath him.
Harry knew he should feel awkward as he pulled out and flopped bonelessly onto the floor next to Malfoy, leaning against the leg of one of the classroom tables for support, but he didn’t feel awkward. Instead, he felt sore and filthy and thoroughly spent... just as he’d felt when the war ended. The only difference was that this time, nobody had died. But still...
“Malfoy -”
“No, Potter,” Malfoy said with a groan as he pushed himself to his feet, staggering a bit before getting wand and charming himself clean. “No. Don’t overthink it. I’ve overthought everything for the past year, and I’m sick of it. It is what it is, and that’s all.” He pulled up his pants and trousers, hiding but not erasing the violent red hand prints and scratch marks all over his pale arse and thighs.
Harry licked his lips at the image.
Malfoy snorted. “You are something else, Potter.”
Harry scowled and scrambled to his feet. “I’m something else? Who was the prat who came up to me, begging me to hit him, and then to fuck him, huh?” He grabbed his wand off the table and quickly spelled himself clean.
“That would be me,” Malfoy said with surprising openness. It startled Harry, and by Malfoy’s slow, knowing nod, it was pretty obvious that he could read Harry like a book. “Listen, we’ve both got our histories, and nothing is going to erase that, but we both survived, and now, neither of us can live without the fight. So go back to your comfortable little illusion, Potter. Shake hands and kiss babies. Bugger Ginny Weasley if you must. But when you need the fight, you know where to find me.”
Harry stared at him, speechless, as he flicked his wand towards the table where he’d been working. His potions ingredients vanished, cauldrons flew back to their spots, and chairs uprighted themselves. The room looked untouched, ready for class, as if nothing had happened.
Harry looked down at his split knuckles from where he’d punched Malfoy, and marvelled numbly for a moment before looking back up at Malfoy.
Malfoy smirked, then walked out of the classroom.
Harry followed him.
*********
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,226
Summary: Nobody wins a war.
Notes: This fic is written as a fill for shameful_desire, as part of my ficathon to raise money for the eye surgery I need if I want to join the fire department.
This is unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
"Echo of a War"
Nobody wins a war.
One side gains power or control. Perhaps one side has fewer deaths. It might even be possible to defeat your enemy in an epic battle where the fate of your world is decided once and for all.
But that isn’t the same thing as winning.
In war, everyone loses. In war, everything is touched by blood and violence and destruction and death. Even as he was being hailed as a hero, Harry was just as quickly brought back to cold reality as he witnessed the echoes of the war around him. Too many gravestones. Too many losses. In no way could Harry ever call that maelstrom of destruction “winning.”
He smiled for the cameras and shook wizards’ trembling hands and kissed witches on their tear-stained cheeks, but at the end of the day, for all he had gone through, he knew that there was no way that he could be happy about any of it. They’d gone through the war and come out the other end with enough pieces intact to pick up and carry on, but that was it.
There was no rest for the wicked, but there was no rest for anyone else, either. He was eighteen years old, a war hero... and a school dropout. And so, like many of his classmates, Harry Potter went back to Hogwarts.
*********
Draco Malfoy never looked up anymore.
At first, Harry thought it was just that Malfoy couldn’t look him in the eye, and why not? After all the shit that had happened, Malfoy didn’t deserve to look anyone in the eye. Besides, Harry had saved Malfoy’s skinny, ungrateful arse from the Fiendfyre, and he was pretty sure the Slytherin prat wasn’t going to forget that anytime soon.
Harry tried not to think about it too much, and he was only partially successful. He wanted to convince himself that the old rivalry was just a petty, insignificant scrap of his past. There was no threat anymore. The Slytherin house had been gutted, as many families moved out of the country and sent their children to Durmstrang. Malfoy didn’t have any clout or any friends. Harry wondered why the Malfoys hadn’t also left, but it didn’t matter. The snake no longer had fangs.
Still, it bothered him, and he wasn’t quite sure why.
So, when the 7th and 8th year students paired off in Potions on the first brewing day of the year, and everyone refused to pair off with Malfoy, Harry figured he’d be the bigger man and just get it over with.
Hermione must have figured out what he was doing and hissed at him. “Harry! You don’t need to do that!”
Harry cast a glance back at her. “Someone has to. Besides, Neville still needs a partner.”
She gave him an incredulous look, but he just turned away and walked across the room, then slid onto the seat next to Malfoy. “Malfoy.”
“Potter.” He continued preparing the cauldron for the day’s potion, and he didn’t look up.
Harry frowned, then tilted his head. “Done this one before?”
Malfoy’s shoulders remained hunched as he reached for the crushed mugwort and rubbed it around the inside of the cauldron. “No.”
Harry considered this strange new dynamic between himself and Draco Malfoy as he felt something vindictive well up in him. He slid the tray of potions ingredients across the tabletop and said, “Skin my shrivelfig, Malfoy.”
Without a word - without so much as a flinch or a grimace - Malfoy picked up the shrivelfig and started peeling it.
Somehow, it didn’t seem as satisfying as Harry thought it would be. Sullenly, he settled himself in to get through this damned class, and tomorrow, he’d pretend it had never happened.
*********
A week later, Harry was back in Potions, and as always, Thursday was for actual brewing. He started to team up with Hermione, but once again, Malfoy’s conspicuous status of being avoided stood out sharply. “I’m gonna go pair up with him again.”
Hermione shot a look at him. “No, Harry.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “No? What do you think is going to happen anyway?”
Hermione blew out an exasperated breath. “Nothing, obviously. But why on earth would you spend your time within ten feet of him when you don’t have to? I mean, Harry, it’s Malfoy.”
“I think I know that.”
She cocked her head in disbelief. “There’s no talking sense into you, is there?”
Harry gave her a broad grin. “Have you ever been able to do it before?”
Before she could answer, Harry had scooped up his bag. He dumped it onto the floor by the empty seat next to Malfoy. “Shove over, Malfoy.”
Malfoy slid over, making space for Harry, without looking at him.
So, he was still playing that game, was he? “Go get the dried Mandrake leaf and cat’s claw.”
Without a word, Draco got up and walked over to the supply closet.
Harry watched him go, frowning. It should have been satisfied to see Malfoy so beaten... but something about it was bothering him.
*********
“Harry, not again.”
“I don’t see why not. He hasn’t done anything wrong since the year began.”
Hermione brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear and gave Harry her best look of you’re-kidding-me-right? “And what about all the things he’s done wrong for the past seven years? Are you just going to forget about those?”
Harry gave a half-shrug. “Of course not.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
He cast a glance over towards Malfoy, and at the empty chair next to him, before looking back at Hermione. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
*********
“Malfoy, why are you here?”
The question popped out of Harry’s mouth before he could quite stop it. He and Malfoy were halfway through brewing a ridiculously simple potion that should have been covered in the 5th-year curriculum, and were taking turns stirring clockwise, then counterclockwise, in one-minute intervals.
Malfoy didn’t look at him, but merely turned over the one-minute sand clock and switched directions again. “Because Potions is on my schedule, Potter.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“I mean...” Harry blew out a tense breath through pursed lips. “Why are you at Hogwarts? Why did you stick around? Almost everyone else in your house above fourth year went to Durmstrang, so what about you? Why are you here?”
It lasted only a second, but Malfoy looked up and briefly made eye contact before hunching his shoulders and focusing on his stirring again. “Why the hell does it even matter to you, Potter?”
Harry opened his mouth, but the answer wasn’t there. Finally, he said, “It doesn’t.”
That was a lie.
Malfoy snorted lightly in reply, flipped the timer over, and switched stirring directions again.
*********
There was a strange sort of power in being able to order Malfoy to do pretty much anything. Harry thought it should have been fun, but instead, he kept getting more frustrated with the situation, and he had no idea why.
Today, Hermione’s admonishment had been a resigned, “I don’t know if you’re trying to torment him or yourself.”
Harry had no idea what to say to that because he wasn’t sure himself. His agitation was getting the better of him, though, and with a particularly complex potion, Harry was so busy trying to figure out how to get under Malfoy’s skin that he added the powdered dragon scales before the bubotuber pus, and the potion turned a sickly shade of orange-brown instead of the lively purple it should have been.
Slughorn stood in front of their workbench, shaking his head in disappointment. “Harry, my boy, I expected better from you. And you too, Malfoy. I can’t give you credit for this work... but I’ll tell you what - classes are done for the day. Redo the potion and get it right, and I’ll give you credit for it.”
Harry wanted to say no. He didn’t need every potion to pass the class, and he didn’t really care about impressing Professor Slughorn, but then he saw Hermione giving him a look from across the room, and it solidified something in his mind.
“I’ll stay,” Harry said firmly. “Malfoy?”
“Sure,” came the emotionless answer. As expected, Malfoy didn’t even look up.
Slughorn smiled. “Very good, boys! Very good.” He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it, even though he knew exactly what time it was, seeing as class had just ended. “I must get to a meeting with the other professors, but I’ll be back in an hour to check your work. I trust you can work this potion yourself in that amount of time.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said flatly.
Malfoy just nodded.
Slughorn clapped his hands together once and said, “Excellent! I’ll be back in an hour’s time.”
The professor left, leaving Harry and Malfoy in the room with Hermione. She was looking at both of them with a mix of anxiety and irritation. “Harry, I have a Charms tutoring session with the first and second year students. I can’t stay.”
“I didn’t ask you to stay, Hermione,” Harry said, already gathering up supplies as Malfoy neutralized the potion in the cauldron and spelled it out of existence. “We’re the ones who have to re-do the potion, not you.”
“But...” She looked warily at Malfoy, then back at Harry. “You don’t have to do this!” she hissed.
“You’re right,” Harry replied simply as he began pulverizing a fresh batch of spiders’ pincers. “And I’m going to do it anyway.”
For a moment, it looked as though she was going to argue with him, but then, without another word, she turned and all but stomped out the door.
Harry sighed aloud. “Right.” Then, to Malfoy, he said half-heartedly, “Let’s get to it.”
Malfoy only nodded.
They finished the potion in short order and without incident, and waited in silence for Slughorn. Harry kept looking over at Malfoy, with questions beginning to burn in his head. What the hell was going through his mind? Why wasn’t he pushing back?
It had certainly occurred to Harry that Malfoy had been through hell last year in his own way. Of course, after everything the Slytherin arsehole had said and done, he’d deserved exactly what he’d gotten. He’d made his own bed, and now, he was being forced to lie in it.
Of course, nothing was that simple, as Harry had learned. Now, after it was all over, and Harry had seen so much damage on both sides of the war, it was hard to stay quite so angry. Everyone had lost something, and there was something going on with Malfoy that Harry couldn’t quite understand. Malfoy’d had a chance to turn Harry over to Voldemort, but instead, he’d refused to identify him. Harry was sure that Malfoy had known it was him, so why the hell hadn’t he ratted him out? Later, during the battle, the way Malfoy was acting... Harry still couldn’t quite understand. And now... damn, why was Malfoy acting like someone had ripped out his entire personality? It seemed like part of a puzzle that Harry couldn’t quite put together.
He was just about to push Malfoy for some answers when Slughorn returned. After a few minutes of praising their work and admonishing them for not trying hard enough the first time, he dismissed the both of them.
It was 5:30, and almost everyone would be down in the Great Hall for dinner. The corridor was deserted as Harry started making his way towards the stairs. Malfoy was walking alongside him, but it was obvious that he wasn’t walking with him, which was just plain weird. In fact, everything had been damned unnerving, and it was driving him mad.
Finally, Harry had enough. He rounded on Malfoy and blocked his path. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Malfoy looked down and to the side, but his lip twitched, betraying more emotion than he’d shown all day. “It’s dinnertime and I’m not eating yet.” He tried to take a step, but Harry blocked him again.
“Don’t give me that! You know exactly what I mean. And... fuck, look at me!”
Malfoy looked up, and there was some sort of challenge in his eye, and at the same time, the look was bent and broken. “You going to tell me to do something else, Potter? Order me around?”
“That’s not the damned point, Malfoy. What’s with you never looking up? You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t... you’re not you!”
A sick sort of amusement settled on Malfoy’s expression. “Oh, Potter, I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” Harry said automatically.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow in a way that said he didn’t believe a word of it. It made the air in the room feel too hot and too thick. Malfoy nodded. “You must love this... seeing me with nothing. My family is ruined, my life is ruined, and I didn’t ask for any of it. I did what I had to, and this is what I’ve got for it. You and all your friends are revelling in your victory, and this is what I’ve got left, so I’m dealing with it.”
“Revelling? You unbelievable arse! People have died! The whole thing was a bloody disaster, and you think I’m happy about it?”
Malfoy scoffed and took a step closer. “Of course. Precious Potter and his adoring fans. So, go on, Potter. Revel in it. Rub my face in it and punish me the way I deserve it. You won! So go on... do it. You know you want to.”
“What the hell, Malfoy?” Harry took a half-step back. This sudden change in Malfoy’s demeanor was startling.
“That’s twice you’ve asked me that. But isn’t this what you wanted? To see me react? To get me riled up and angry so that you’d still have something to fight against?” He was getting into Harry’s personal space now. “You want a fight. You have been arguing with me since the day you met me, spoiling for an argument. You killed your enemy, and now you’ve got nobody to fight against. I stopped fighting with you, and now, you don’t know what to do with yourself. So what are you waiting for, Potter?” He spat the name. “Fight.”
“You’re mad!”
There was a gleam in Malfoy’s eye. “Maybe.” And he pushed Harry.
Harry’s back bumped into the wall behind him, and he reacted on instinct, swinging out in a wide punch. His fist caught Malfoy in the face and snapped his head to the side.
Instead of swinging back, Malfoy started laughing. He stood upright again and looked Harry in the eye. A trickle of blood oozed down from his nose and across his lip. His tongue snaked out and licked the blood, but he made no other move to recognize the injury. He stepped into Harry’s personal space again, almost nose-to-nose. “That’s what you wanted, Potter. That’s what you needed. You can’t live without it because you are so damned addicted to the fight... and if that’s what you want... maybe I’ll give it to you... on my terms.”
Harry was trying to process this, but his brain wouldn’t catch up. Then, before he could say anything, Malfoy gave him one sharp nod, turned on his heel, and walked away.
Harry leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. He’d never been so confused in his life.
*********
Harry paired off with Hermione the following week in Potions.
The week after that, he worked with Neville.
The week after that... Malfoy wasn’t there. Harry noted the empty seat, then settled in to work with Hermione.
*********
He must have been distracted, because when Harry got back to the common room that evening and sat down to write up his Potions work from the day, he realized that his notes were missing. A quick mental backtracking led him to realize that he must have put them down in the supply closet when he’d put back his unused ingredients at the end of class.
Of course.
“Where are you going?” Ron asked as Harry got up and headed for the door.
“Forgot my notes in Potions today.”
Ron frowned. “And you’re going back for them now? C’mon, Harry, you said the homework isn’t due until next Tuesday, right?”
“Right, but I don’t need someone else taking off with my notes. Our Potions class is the last class of the day, so if I go now, they might still be there.”
Ron shrugged. “Suit yourself, mate.”
Harry waved and let himself out through the portrait hole.
One of the benefits of being an 8th-year student was that there were no curfews. Technically, they were at the age of majority, and couldn’t be held to the same restrictions as the rest of the students. Besides, the Wizarding World was at peace now, wasn’t it? There was no reason to restrict adult students when there was no threat to be had, so he and the other 8th years had the run of the school. It was handy for late-night trips to the kitchen, soirees in the Room of Requirement, and a sense of freedom that many of them had needed when returning to school after they’d been through so much.
The trip to the dungeons was uneventful, but when Harry got to the Potions lab, it was occupied.
Malfoy was bent over a cauldron, working with intense focus on dropping grains of something into the mixture, one by one. When the cauldron released a puff of red smoke, Harry realized that Malfoy was working on the day’s lesson that he’d missed.
“You going to stand there staring at me all night, Potter, or are you going to come get the notes you dropped in the supply room and get the hell out of here?”
He should have done exactly that - grabbed his notes, which Malfoy had obviously placed on the potions table in plain sight - and gotten the hell out of there. Instead, he walked around to the table where Malfoy was working and stood across from him, staring until Malfoy finally looked up.
“What?”
“What do you want?”
Malfoy scowled. “I told you. Grab your damned notes and leave.”
“No,” Harry said firmly. “That’s not what you said. You asked me if I was going to stand here staring at you all night, or if I was going to grab my notes and leave.”
“So?” He looked back down at his potion again and began adding the aster petals one by one.
“So...” Harry hesitated, then pressed forward. “What do you want?”
Malfoy put down the aster petals. Slowly, he stood up, then pushed his chair in. He walked around the table and stood barely a foot away from Harry, too close for comfort, but Harry wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, the blood was rushing in his veins and his heart was thudding in his chest, and he felt more alive than he had since Voldemort’s death.
Malfoy’s tongue swiped across his upper lip in a motion that mirrored how he’d licked the blood off his lip three weeks ago. And then, he said, “Hit me.”
“What?” Part of Harry’s brain - the rational part - was telling him that this was completely nuts and that he should get out of there. Something else, however, was sparking hot and bright in his mind, and he found himself licking his own lip before he could stop himself.
“You heard me well and good, Potter. I’ve been keeping my head down, and you hate it. I can see it all over your face.” He came an inch closer, and a hint of a smile curled his lip. It wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t threatening, either. “You’ve been fighting for so long that you don’t know how to not fight.”
“I’m tired of fighting, Malfoy,” he snapped, but it lacked the conviction he’d meant it to have.
“You were tired of risking your life. You were tired of dealing with You-Know-Who.”
“Voldemort.”
Malfoy cringed, then straightened up again. “Yeah, him. You were tired of all that bollocks... and I don’t blame you.” He squared his shoulders. “So was I.”
Slowly, Harry nodded. He’d known that for a while. “You hated him, too.”
Something twisted in Malfoy’s expression. “By the end of it... I would have killed him myself if I could have. Why do you think I didn’t rat you out to him?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Harry admitted.
“Simple, Potter... I might have wanted to fight you, but I didn’t want you dead. I hated him, and I needed you.”
“You needed...?” Harry’s voice trailed off with the question, but Malfoy shook his head.
“It was hell, Potter, and it was shame, and it was nothing like what I’d been promised. There was nothing safe in being a Pureblood, and I was trapped, and there was nothing I could do. And then... you were trapped, too.”
“There was no way out for either of us, so you let me out.”
Malfoy nodded. “There was no way for me to fight.”
“You needed the fight,” Harry said in understanding.
“I still do. So do you.” Malfoy took one small, measured, definitive step backwards, as if daring Harry to come after him. “So... go on... hit me.”
He knew he shouldn’t, but at that moment, the rest of the world had faded out, and all Harry could see was Draco Malfoy, shoulders squared, and asking for it like nothing else. Blood was rushing in Harry’s ears - years of pent-up rage and frustration and anger and loss and grief and madness... it was madness...
So Harry hit him.
It was a clean strike across the cheek, and Draco twisted sideways to absorb the blow, and again, he was laughing. It was a mad laughter. He staggered backwards, and his hand went to his pocket.
For an instant, Harry went on high alert, wondering if Malfoy was going to curse him, and he drew his wand and aimed it defensively. However, Malfoy just kept laughing as he slowly drew his wand and laid it on the table, then pushed it out of reach.
“Come on, Potter. Put down the wand. You and me.”
Harry recoiled and gave Malfoy a sceptical glare. “You? You put down your wand?”
“Bugger, Potter, my wand likes you better than it likes me anymore. So put yours down, and show me that you’re still the bastard I know you are.”
Feeling oddly free, Harry quickly cast a silencing charm on the door, then locked it before laying his wand down on the table. “Just us... one on one.”
“Just the fight we’ve been waiting for. Our own little war.”
“Nobody wins a war, Malfoy.”
“Who said either of us were looking to win?”
Harry felt a grin working across his face. Heart pounding, muscles clenching... and Malfoy must have seen it, too, because he squared his shoulders, mouth drawn into a twisted smile of his own.
They collided in the middle of the room, in the aisle between rows of Potions benches. Harry ducked down and rammed his shoulder into Malfoy’s stomach, picking the other man up and off the floor. He slammed Malfoy onto the nearest Potions table, sending a cauldron flying and rolling across the floor with a resounding clank, but Malfoy grabbed him and used the momentum to pull Harry up and over the table, rolling together over the edge and off the table again.
They hit the floor on their sides, and before Harry could recover from the impact, Malfoy was scrambling up and on top of him, legs straddling hips. Malfoy grabbed his hands and pinned them to the ground over Harry’s head and leaned in close, eyes bright and wild, pale face flushed with blood and excitement. “Don’t stop now, Potter.”
Harry sneered. “Not on your life!” He heaved and twisted, throwing Malfoy off-balance.
They rolled to the side, knocking over a pair of stools, and Harry heard another cauldron rattle on top of the table they hit. There were hands scrambling for purchase on clothes and limbs, elbows knocking chins, knees connecting with with stomachs. Grunts and shouts and furious cussing punctuated the air as fists connected with anything they could reach.
Harry’s breath was hot and heavy in his chest, and Malfoy’s body was hot and heavy against his. Somehow, he got a hold of Malfoy’s arm and pulled it back as he flipped Malfoy onto his front and straddled his hips.
“Is this what you wanted, Malfoy?” Harry growled, leaning down close and speaking right into Malfoy’s ear.
Malfoy let out a whimper - a sound something like desperation, and he bucked underneath Harry.
“Come on, you bastard,” Harry pressed, giving Malfoy’s arm a bit more pressure. It couldn’t have been comfortable. “Is that the best you’ve got? What do you want, huh? What can you take?”
“Fuck,” Malfoy gasped, squirming against the floor, hips twisting and writhing.
Feeling a thrill that he’d never imagined before, without letting go of Malfoy’s arm, Harry dug one elbow into the tender spot at the back of Malfoy’s shoulder blade.
This time, Malfoy fucking moaned, and it was an obscene sort of sound that Harry had never heard before. “Fuck... me.”
Harry let up his grip on Malfoy’s arm in shock. “What did you say?”
Underneath him, Malfoy shifted and turned over, with Harry still straddling his hips. “I said... fuck me, Potter. Hit me. Slap me. I want you to punch me and pull my hair back and bugger me senseless.”
Harry blinked. This was unreal. The thing was, as much as his brain was saying no, the rest of him was saying yes. Oh yeah, it was definitely saying yes, as something in him shifted, and the line between fucking and fighting didn’t seem so wide. He was in so far over his head right now, but he didn’t care. Fire was coursing through his veins, and it was incredible.
With a crazed laugh, Harry slapped him across the face. To his amazement, Malfoy actually moaned again.
“More,” Malfoy gasped. “Come on, Potter, you sodding wimp! Harder!”
Harry drew back and hit him again, this time, a backhand from the other side. Malfoy let out a high-pitched keening sound, and writhed underneath Harry. This time, there was no mistaking the writhing, nor the growing erection there.
“Knew you were... you were a ponce,” Harry gasped.
“No, Potter... it’s you, you damned idiot.”
In his surprise, Harry let go of his grip on Malfoy, who took advantage of the sudden lapse and flipped Harry off of him. Harry scrambled backwards a few feet and sat there, braced against his hands, staring at Malfoy, who was now sitting up, hunched forward, looking both predatory and vulnerable at once. It was bloody bizarre.
“What do you mean, it’s me?”
Malfoy snorted. “It’s always been you, you arse. My whole damned life... it’s been you.” He spat the word. “Win or lose, Quidditch, the war, You-Know-Who... everything wrapped up in Harry-Fucking-Potter. And then it was over. All of it was over, and I’m not ready for that, Potter! Everything is gone, and I’m not done with you yet!”
“So you want me to bugger you on the floor of the Potions classroom?” Harry didn’t know what to make of it, but Malfoy’s smile became even more crazed.
“I want you. I want the fight back. I want you to slap me, punch me, pin me down, and make it hurt. So stop talking and fucking do it already!”
“I...”
Malfoy pounced.
The suddenness of it threw Harry back into his frenzy, and he grappled with Malfoy. He felt his head hit one of the cauldrons they’d knocked off a table, and it rolled away as Harry rolled over on top of Malfoy. It was raw and animalistic and bloody amazing as his blood sang in his veins and his ability to think was overtaken by the thrill of a fight that had just taken on a whole new dimension... something he’d never considered, but it was brilliant.
Malfoy kicked at him - he wasn’t going to make it easy, and Harry didn’t want him to. This was much better. Malfoy had once been taller than Harry, but Harry had caught up with him now, and a year of war had hardened Harry, while Malfoy’s struggles had been far less physical. In short order, Harry was using one hand to pin Malfoy’s hands to the floor above his head, and the other hand to begin ripping away the buttons on Malfoy’s trousers.
Malfoy bucked, licked his lips, struggled, and panted. His pupils were so wide that his eyes looked dark in the dim light of the Potions dungeon. It was madness, and Harry was reveling in it.
“Come on, Potter... get on with it! I’ll bet you just don’t have the bollocks to do it, you bloody wimp. Come on, do it!” Malfoy was goading him, and it was working.
With a desperate heave, Harry flipped him over and wrenched one of his arms up behind his back again. Malfoy let out a howl that sounded more like a groan of pleasure, and the sound of it was erotic and obscene and perfect. His arse was up in the air, and Harry pulled down Malfoy’s trousers and pants and left them around his knees, hobbling him and exposing him all at once.
For a moment, Harry froze, not quite sure what he should do next. He’d never done this with a bloke. Sure, he’d read the Wizard’s Wizard magazines a few times, and he’d had fantasies, but -
“My pocket, Potter. Left pocket.”
Harry reached into Malfoy’s pocket and pulled out a small tin of salve - the sort of stuff people used for windburned lips and chapped hands. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“You’re a bloody moron, aren’t you?” Malfoy snapped, looking back over his shoulder despite the wrenched arm. “Put it on your buggering cock and in my buggered arse, Potter!”
“Shut it, Malfoy!” Harry shot back, and then, on impulse, he slapped Malfoy’s arse. Hard.
Malfoy howled, but the sound rapidly evolved into another obscene moan that went straight to Harry’s cock. Curious, he reached back and slapped Malfoy’s other arse cheek. The effect was instantaneous. Malfoy let out a gasping moan, and his body writhed in what appeared to be pure pleasure. Two handprints were already standing out on Malfoy’s pale arse, and Harry was pretty sure he’d found a whole new definition of attraction he’d never realized before.
The small tin of salve temporarily forgotten, Harry took up the initiative, spanking Malfoy’s arse, changing the intensity, location, and rhythm, relishing every time he took the other man by surprise, watching him jump and writhe, listening to him yelp and moan and pant until -
“Bloody Merlin’s Beard, just fuck me already, Potter!”
It was mindless and crazy and beyond Harry’s comprehension, but there seemed like nothing left but to do it. He grabbed the tin of salve and quickly smeared some of it on his cock, and tossed a mental note of appreciation into the ether for having gotten the standard sexual protection charms that he figured any wizard ought to have. He gave himself a couple of good strokes, humming in appreciation. The salve was smooth and warming, and...
“My arse, Potter. Don’t think you’re just going to plough into it without - oh!”
Harry drove one well-lubricated finger into Malfoy’s arsehole, effectively reducing his demands into a string of gibberish and moans. “I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands, Malfoy.”
“More,” he moaned.
Harry let a wickedly indulgent grin take over his expression, and without removing his finger from Malfoy’s arse, he pulled back with his other hand and spanked Malfoy as hard as he could.
Malfoy made a high-pitched keening sound as his hole clenched around Harry’s finger. Having no intention of being gentle, Harry promptly worked in a second finger, scissoring his fingers as Malfoy panted. Sweat was beginning to make Malfoy’s hair stringy, with strands sticking to the back of his neck. His legs were trembling. Feeling just a bit devious, and having experimented with himself enough to know where to press, Harry twisted his fingers inside Draco, reaching, prodding, and finding -
Malfoy almost collapsed on him, but Harry reached a hand around one thigh, forcing his arse to stay up as Malfoy babbled almost incoherently. “Oh Merlin... oh... oh... oh...”
Picking up the rhythm, Harry began whacking Malfoy’s arse cheeks and thighs again. His skin was hot to the touch where Harry had already been pounding on it, and Malfoy was perfectly reactive. His litany of blubbering evolved into a string of please and more and finally fuck, Potter, fuck me now!
It was all the encouragement Harry needed. With one hand still holding Malfoy’s hip firmly in place, he guided himself into position and slammed himself in.
Malfoy howled, and Harry almost lost himself for a moment. It was so tight, so hot, and Malfoy was writhing underneath him in ways that Harry had never thought possible.
“Bugger... Potter, move already!”
Harry had to blink a couple of times to clear his vision before pulling back just a bit and pressing in again. Malfoy arched up underneath him, making a choked sort of sound. Harry rolled his hips, and Malfoy’s head tilted backwards as he moaned.
Suddenly, that always-too-perfect hair seemed too bloody tempting, and Harry reached out and grabbed a fistful of it with his left hand before pounding into Malfoy’s arse again.
Malfoy made another incomprehensible sound and possibly something that sounded like fuck, yes!, and it was all the encouragement Harry needed. With his hand fisted tightly in Malfoy’s hair, he began fucking intently, revelling in the sweat, the moans, and the violence of mutually assured destruction. It was glorious.
Somewhere in the middle of it, he began using his free hand to slap Malfoy’s thigh, to rake scratches up and down his pale back, and finally, to dig fingers into Malfoy’s hip. Underneath him, Harry could tell that Malfoy had taken himself in hand and was enthusiastically wanking. Muscles trembling, arse clenching, and it was more than Harry could take.
He came, balls-deep in Malfoy’s arse, with a furious growl, and barely managed not to collapse on top of Malfoy, who seemed to be spasming in the throes of his own orgasm. He rode it out until the heat in his body spent itself. Malfoy had gone still underneath him.
Harry knew he should feel awkward as he pulled out and flopped bonelessly onto the floor next to Malfoy, leaning against the leg of one of the classroom tables for support, but he didn’t feel awkward. Instead, he felt sore and filthy and thoroughly spent... just as he’d felt when the war ended. The only difference was that this time, nobody had died. But still...
“Malfoy -”
“No, Potter,” Malfoy said with a groan as he pushed himself to his feet, staggering a bit before getting wand and charming himself clean. “No. Don’t overthink it. I’ve overthought everything for the past year, and I’m sick of it. It is what it is, and that’s all.” He pulled up his pants and trousers, hiding but not erasing the violent red hand prints and scratch marks all over his pale arse and thighs.
Harry licked his lips at the image.
Malfoy snorted. “You are something else, Potter.”
Harry scowled and scrambled to his feet. “I’m something else? Who was the prat who came up to me, begging me to hit him, and then to fuck him, huh?” He grabbed his wand off the table and quickly spelled himself clean.
“That would be me,” Malfoy said with surprising openness. It startled Harry, and by Malfoy’s slow, knowing nod, it was pretty obvious that he could read Harry like a book. “Listen, we’ve both got our histories, and nothing is going to erase that, but we both survived, and now, neither of us can live without the fight. So go back to your comfortable little illusion, Potter. Shake hands and kiss babies. Bugger Ginny Weasley if you must. But when you need the fight, you know where to find me.”
Harry stared at him, speechless, as he flicked his wand towards the table where he’d been working. His potions ingredients vanished, cauldrons flew back to their spots, and chairs uprighted themselves. The room looked untouched, ready for class, as if nothing had happened.
Harry looked down at his split knuckles from where he’d punched Malfoy, and marvelled numbly for a moment before looking back up at Malfoy.
Malfoy smirked, then walked out of the classroom.
Harry followed him.
*********