hp fic: Obsessive (Compulsive)
Title: Obsessive (Compulsive)
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC17
Words: ~6,700
Warnings: Angst, fightsex, semi-public sex, frottage, &c.
Summary: Harry dreams in red and white.
A/N: While on the phone the other night,![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
themostepotente said I should write less obtuse Marauders genfic and more filthy Harry/Draco porn. Evidently, her wish is my command. I'm not sure if this qualifies as filthy, but it's definitely all fucked up. Set during HBP, so the boys are 16.
Obsessive (Compulsive)
"Really?"
The question hangs there, stretching slow and liquid between the wall mirrors and clothes racks, a fair copy of Malfoy's disdainful, snotty drawl. Malfoy's mouth curves with its usual sneer; Harry has to force himself to breath, and his fingers tighten on the handle of his wand. Hermione's hand brushes over his wrist, small and warm and sweaty, her thumb pressed over the twitch of his pulse, but it doesn't ease the knot in his throat, isn't enough to stem his furious, rushing tide.
"Going to get some of your Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?"
Madam Malkin gasps and flutters; Harry barely hears her over the pounding in his chest, over the blood roaring in his ears.
"I see that being Dumbledore's favourite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter," Malfoy's mother says coldly. Her stark resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange is both expected and startling, but Harry can also find hints of Sirius in her features -- the arch of her brow, the precise shape of her nose -- and Harry's body suddenly aches around the hollow of Sirius' absence. "But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you."
There's a slight hitch in her voice, a shiver that contradicts the Pureblood expression on her face, and Harry itches to hold her uncertainty in his hands, to push on that weakness until it bruises under his fingers. He swallows Impedimenta and Densaugeo and Locomotor Mortis, and he calls Lucius Malfoy a loser with a hard smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
Malfoy lurches toward him, his snarl carved from alabaster and invective, but his dragging, unfinished robes billow around his feet. He stumbles past Hermione, pale hair sweeping into his eyes as he collides with a dressing table piled with hats, and Harry watches his hands shake with anger, looks at the sharp, tight line of his jaw.
Ron begins to laugh, low and throaty and warm, his chest shaking against Harry's shoulder.
--
"Honestly, Harry. That is enough."
Hermione's hands curl into the hem of her jumper. She is framed by the doorway, a staircase dissolving into shadows behind her, and Mrs Weasley's motherly burr comes up soothe the sharp angle of her shoulders: supper is ready, for anyone who is interested.
"I don't want to hear another word about Draco Malfoy being a Death Eater."
Harry slouches back into his chair, taps his foot until his leg shakes and the floor groans in complaint. His tongue feels thick, too large for his mouth; he can't explain the solid certainty in his gut, can't shape his fragments into a whole she understands.
"If it was anyone else... Crabbe or Goyle, anyone... you wouldn't be jumping to such conclusions," she insists. "You're only taking on so because... well, because it's Malfoy."
Ron's face is slightly pink around the edges, and Hermione's sigh seems to echo off the walls.
"It's ridiculous, Harry. Just ridiculous."
Harry shrugs and chews the side of his thumb, frowning at the torn and curling corner of a Chudley Canons poster as she bustles from the room. Ron stops short of following her out into the hallway; he glances back at Harry with his fringe in his eyes and his hand braced on the lintel.
"Well?" Harry asks quietly, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Do you think she's right?"
"Dunno, mate. Probably." Ron scratches his ear, apologising for his defection with a slow, crooked smile. "I mean, she usually is, isn't she?"
Harry tilts his head against the window, watches the sun blur and twist into the Burrow's vegetable garden.
--
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Harry falls rather slowly; in the long, suspended moment before he shatters against the floor, he watches the careful curl of Malfoy's lip, the perfect curve of Malfoy's wrist.
Pain slices through his shoulder and side, and the Cloak twists between his knees.
"I thought so," Malfoy says, tapping his wand against his thigh. His smile is colourless and edged like a knife. "I heard Goyle's trunk hit you."
Harry's eyes narrow on Malfoy's arm, on the shadow he knows is hidden under Malfoy's sleeve. Bile thickens in the back of his throat, hot and sour as it sits on his tongue; he wants that dirty skin under his hands, wants to dig his fingers into the skull and snake.
"You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here..."
Harry's nose surrenders to Malfoy's boot with a sound that's wrongly familiar -- a Beater bat returning a Bludger, Sirius' fist connecting with his mother's portrait, the Whomping Willow denting Mr Weasley's car.
"See you around, Potter... or not."
Harry closes his eyes and tries not to drown in the wash of blood flooding his mouth.
--
The Great Hall is warm with the last dregs of summer, the floating candles reflecting an afternoon sky that looks brittle and cracked, and Harry shifts in his seat, rolling his shoulders as he loosens his collar and tie. He feels frayed and bloodless, worn thin by school work and exhaustion, emptied of everything except the sharp, nameless anger always lurking in his corners.
Malfoy is watching him.
Heat twists Harry's face, crawling over the back of his neck; sweat prickles behind his ears and pools in the dip of his throat. Malfoy frowns softly and turns away, tilts his head toward Parkinson as she whispers into his ear, and Harry suddenly crumples, chokes with something similar to loss.
He hunches closer to the table, ignores the chicken Hermione is piling on his plate.
"You're far too thin," she grouses, her slim fingers sticky and shiny with grease. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you never eat. Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine." Harry reaches for the pumpkin juice and fumbles with his napkin and fork. "I'm all right, really."
She makes a soft, frustrated noise, plucking carefully at his sleeve. "Are you sleeping?"
Harry's bed is a haunted place at night, dark and cold and clouded with Morsmordre. He hears Malfoy's voice in the tight, aching silence, sees Malfoy's face every time he closes his eyes.
"Yeah, Hermione. I'm sleeping."
The lie waits nakedly between them, tastes bitter on the edges of Harry's mouth as he waits for her next appeal. His eyes are deep, livid bruises, and she is relentless, often wants more than Harry is able to give, but she slowly folds in on herself, lets her silence hang on the well of her lip before swinging her attention over to Ron.
"Have you even started your Charms essay, yet?" she asks, darting a hidden frown at Harry as her hand flutters at Ron's shoulder. "Only, twenty inches is quite a bit, and I know how you like to leave things until the last minute."
Harry's glasses are smudged, and the Slytherins are skirting the shadows near the door, but Malfoy's pale hair flashes at Harry like a sickly beacon.
"... Harry, are you even listening?"
"What?"
"I need the butter, if you don't mind," Ginny says, tapping a jacket potato with the tip of her knife. Her smile is soft, her hair warm and bright where it falls over her shoulder. "It's just by your elbow."
Malfoy glances at the Gryffindor table, his jaw taking a hard, tight line, and Harry wonders what it would feel like shattering under his fist.
--
The midnight quiet is heavy, feels restless as it rings in Harry's ears. He sighs under his breath, rolling back into his pillows, and mutters a Silencing Charm at the shadows closing in around his bed.
His hand stutters down his chest, and his fingers catch in the waistband of his pants. He's tired in a way that pulls on his skin and nags at his bones, and his mind hasn't been a safe place in weeks.
He strokes himself hard and fast, his curved palm almost furtive, his mouth yawning open and his arm thrown over his eyes. He tries to think of the usual things, of familiar, comforting things --
(Ginny's freckled shoulders and Ron's big, capable hands; the long, soft line of Hermione's throat and the way Cho's legs peek out of her Quidditch robes; the cute Muggle girl Dudley and Piers met in the park last summer, and the dark, secretive twist of Sirius' smile)
-- but they all fade and twitch away from him, fluttering just past his reach.
Harry's hips snap up roughly, his prick shoving into his hand, and Harry bites down on his lip until blood crawls over his tongue. His toes curl and his legs fall open, and he comes hot and thick over his fist to the thought of Malfoy's skin bruising under his hands and Malfoy's hair knotted between his fingers.
--
"Did you get your essay finished?" Ron asks, his voice sharp and bright in the quiet stretch of the Transfiguration Corridor. "I mean, twenty-five inches, with citations. Bloody Hell."
"Yeah, it's finished, I guess." A dull ache has settled in Harry's head, throbbing at his temples and pressing at the base of his neck. "It doesn't make that much sense near the end, but the words are all there."
Ron pauses a few steps ahead of Harry, wrinkling his nose as a chattering knot of First-Years briefly separates them like a wall. "You did better than me, then. Mine's a bad job all the way through. I'd hoped Hermione would-- "
"I offered last night, but you couldn't be bothered just then," Hermione cuts in shortly. "You had to talk football with Dean." She's a little behind Harry and writing as she walks, a roll of parchment bunched over her arm and an open book floating patiently at her elbow. "I also offered at breakfast, but you hadn't brought it with you."
"All right, all right."
Harry sighs. "We're early, I think." The classroom door is closed, flanked by Ernie MacMillan and Zacharias Smith; Harry slouches against the opposite wall and lets his rucksack sag by his feet. "If you ask her nicely, she might look at it now."
Ron's face flushes, his skin hinting at pink beneath his freckles, and his lower lip retreats between his teeth.
"Just give it here, before you strain yourself." Her hair is riotous, curling in several different directions at once, and she bats it away from her face with an irritated huff. "If it isn't complete rot, I can probably get it sorted."
"I'm pretty sure it's bollocks, all of it," Ron admits, but she's already murmuring and tapping parts of his essay with her wand. He smiles widely and nudges at Harry's elbow. "You know, we've got a free period after this. I was thinking we could have a fly."
Harry nods, his jaw splitting with a sudden, violent yawn.
"I know that sounds mental, because of the weather, but I -- well, hello," Ron grumbles, his tone souring around the edges. His hand tumbles down to Harry's wrist, his fingers warm and sweaty against Harry's skin. "Have a look at what the Kneazle dragged in."
Harry follows the careful line of Ron's frown, his stomach twisting when he finds Malfoy at the end of it, lurking near the aperture of the corridor like a horrid, ashen secret. He's sheltered from the rising press of students by large statue and the low sweep of a staircase, and Parkinson is with him, her hand looping in the spill of his sleeve as they whisper in a way that seems rushed and urgent.
"Tosser."
Harry's legs are shaking, and his hands are fisted in the folds of his robes.
"Pug-Face must be keeping him up nights," Ron says, a sneer crawling over his words. "He looks a bit rough."
Harry tilts his head, considers the hollows under Malfoy's eyes and the drawn angles of Malfoy's face. "He's been looking rough."
"Yeah, I guess. I really haven't noticed."
"Ron, I did the best I could. I tidied up the -- oh." Hermione lays her hand on Ron's rucksack, blinks into a slow, curious noise. "What are we staring at, then?"
"Malfoy," Harry mutters.
"Oh, honestly!"
"Never mind." Harry watches Malfoy's tongue, wet and pink as he worries the side of his thumb. "Just forget it."
Malfoy looks at Harry over Parkinson's shoulder, his eyes barely flickering before he turns away."
--
"Following me again, Potter?"
Malfoy's voice echoes darkly down the corridor, and it rubs Harry raw, hits him like a cold slap to the face.
His mind folds back to the dream he had early this morning, the same dream he's had every night this week -- a frantic, narrow vision where he is weak and crumpled and bleeding, where Malfoy's foot is solid and deadly on his neck and Malfoy's wand is aimed at his scar.
"I wasn't following you."
They're outside the Arithmancy classroom, a part of the castle Harry has only visited on the Map. He isn't quite sure why he came this way; Gryffindor Tower is in the opposite direction.
"Of course you were. You're always following me."
Malfoy crowds close along Harry's side, gripping bruises into Harry's arm and digging the tip of his wand under Harry's chin. His hollow eyes are curiously intent, and his mouth twists with an ugly sneer as he pushes Harry flat against the wall.
Harry wedges his elbow into Malfoy's gut, almost smiles when Malfoy grunts with pain and surprise. "I think you want me to be following you."
Malfoy's wand bites deeper into Harry's skin and the heel of his hand slams into Harry's chest, just below the sternum. Pain explodes in Harry's body, savage and bright, and he coughs out a hoarse, desperate groan, his lungs heaving as he hisses and shudders for air.
"Louder," Malfoy whispers, thick and incredibly close to Harry's ear.
Harry bares his teeth at the taut line of Malfoy's jaw, at the bluish veins thrumming along the smooth slant of Malfoy's neck. He can hear Malfoy breathing, can feel it where their bodies are pressed flush.
Malfoy's hair is in Harry's mouth, and Malfoy's prick is hard against Harry's hip.
Harry swings his arm around wildly, aims a punch at the sharp point of Malfoy's chin. His fist barely grazes Malfoy's cheek, the contact feathering off as Malfoy shrinks away; he snatches at Malfoy's hair, but Malfoy jabs at Harry's chest again, his other hand catching Harry around the throat, and Harry's breath deserts him in a sudden, harrowing rush.
"I said louder, Potter."
Harry quickly arches away from the wall, gasping louder than Malfoy as Malfoy's prick rides over his thigh. Malfoy stutters something into Harry's shoulder, his voice broken and raspy and raw; his hand tightens on Harry's throat, and Harry loses his footing as he tries to jerk away, his trainers squeaking shrilly against the floor. He grabs at Malfoy's untucked shirt, but Malfoy twists the wrong way and Harry's palm slides up Malfoy's side.
The corridor is silent and cold. Everything narrows to the warm skin under Harry's fingers and the ragged rise and fall of Malfoy's chest.
Harry shoves Malfoy away hard. Malfoy staggers backward, his eyes wide and his arms outstretched, and he crashes to the floor with a horrible, choking snarl.
It's full of pain and hatred and fear, and Harry wants to hear it again.
"I know it was you," Harry says quietly, levelling his wand at Malfoy's sprawling body. "You gave Katie Bell that necklace."
Blood stains the corner of Malfoy's mouth, and his smile is edged like a knife. "Prove it."
A reluctant creak rips through the corridor, and Harry chokes on Levicorpus as Professor Vector exits the Arithmancy classroom. Malfoy starts to find his feet, his pale hair spilling around the drawn angles of his face, and Harry melts into the shadows thrown by the open door, his legs shaking and his heart hammering in his chest. He tries not to stare at the blood smeared on Malfoy's face, obscenely red against the white cast of his skin.
"Mister Malfoy, what happened? Are you quite all right?"
Harry closes his eyes and fumbles with his Invisibility Cloak; everything is red and white, red and white.
"I'm fine, Professor. It was nothing." Malfoy narrows his eyes at the empty corridor, presses his thumb to the fracture on his lip. "Nothing at all."
--
Harry slips into the first broom cupboard he finds, slumping back against the door as it shudders closed with a sigh.
He's shaking too badly, can't get his trousers undone. He ruts against the heel of his hand, cursing and desperate, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth panting open and his hips working hard and fast and rough.
Malfoy is still breathing in his ear, and Malfoy's hair is still brushing his face. Malfoy is buckling to the floor, his eyes wide and his throat exposed and his mouth red and white.
It's nothing. Nothing at all.
His orgasm hits him like an Unforgivable, leaves him with a sullen ache hollowing his chest, hunched over and gasping into the darkness and dust.
--
"I ran into Seamus coming up," Ron says, pushing through the dormitory door. His rucksack hangs at his elbow, gaping open around his Charms text and the tail of a Gryffindor scarf. "He's really got a bag on today."
Harry shrugs and marks his place in the Half-Blood Prince's book with his thumb. "Seamus always has a bag on."
"Not like this. Told me to bugger off, he did, and all I wanted to do was pass him on the stairs."
The late afternoon sun squints brightly through the windows, etching white squares of light onto the dormitory carpet. Everything is hot. Harry feels muddled and slow, feverish in a way that pulls and drags on his skin, and he can't quite concentrate on the Prince's tiny scrawl. It's too cramped in the margins, wedged too closely between the lines.
"I wonder what's got his knickers in a twist." Ron perches on the edge of his bed, sighing as he unlaces his trainers. His freckled face is flushed with heat, and his fringe is stuck to his forehead in sweaty, ginger clumps. "Seamus, I mean. I've never seen him this fussed."
"I think it's Dean," Harry says, tucking the Prince's book under his pillow.
"Oh? What's he done, then?"
"I asked him to take Katie's place on the team."
Ron whistles through his teeth, his frayed trainer cradled in his hand. "That explains it."
"Yeah."
"Katie's still knocked out, is she?"
"I don't really know. Pomfrey won't let me in to see her," Harry rolls onto his back, stares up at the blank, shadowed ceiling. "She won't let anyone in. Not even McGonagall."
The bed squeaks in complaint as Ron shifts and his trainer hits the floor with a soft thud. "Well, Dean will make a brilliant Chaser."
Harry closes his eyes. He sees Katie splayed across the frozen walk behind the Three Broomsticks, hears Malfoy spitting out his name in a dark, empty hallway. Katie's mouth is open as her hands clench in the melting snow, and Malfoy is smirking as he dares Harry to prove it.
"He's not as brilliant as Katie."
"True, that. But if we can't have Katie--"
"We should have Katie," Harry snaps.
Ron blinks and scratches the side of his neck. Harry rolls over again, putting his back to the wounded expression on Ron's face.
--
Malfoy shoulders into Harry outside Transfiguration, his fingers briefly snagging in Harry's sleeve, and he hisses Potter under his breath as his mouth whips past Harry's ear.
Harry stumbles back, his rucksack falling to the floor. "Tosser."
"I didn't quite catch that," Malfoy drawls, and an amused murmur buzzes between Parkinson and Zabini. "Louder, Potter."
Heat rushes to Harry's cheeks, sharp and shameful and bright, and his hand shakes as he fumbles for his wand. Malfoy watches him calmly, without expression, his head tilted and his arm resting around Parkinson's shoulder. His hair is falling in his eyes and his lip is still slightly bruised.
"Arsehole."
"Can't hear you, sorry."
"Bloody fucking Death Eater."
Malfoy's eyes narrow and his sneer hardens around the edges. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Potter? Oh, wait. Your mother is dead."
Hermione catches Harry at the waist, bearing him back into the wall; a tapestry flutters near Harry's head, and Harry sputters against the dust creeping inside his nose, loses a Langlock in the hair curling wildly around Hermione's neck. He tries to twist away from her, but she plants her hand on his chest, pins him fast with her shoulder and hip, and Harry's skin prickles and crawls as Malfoy's mocking laughter rings in his ears.
"The Boy Who Lived," Malfoy says disdainfully. "I'm surprised you've managed to live this long, with no one to protect you but Weasels and Mudbloods."
Harry snarls a Jelly-Legs Jinx, his wand darting around Hermione's arm, but it's aimless and rushed, slides easily past Malfoy's ear, and Zabini snorts as a suit of armour loudly crashes to the floor.
"Nice try, Potter."
The classroom door groans open, and a well of escaping Third-Years rushes between them like a wave, dragging them in opposite directions as McGonagall's brogue nips at the younger students' heels. Hermione's fingers bite into Harry's wrist. He sighs and leans his head back against the wall, doesn't watch Malfoy slink away.
"Honestly, Harry. I--"
"Leave it out," Harry mutters, twisting out of her grasp.
Hermione frowns sharply, folding her arms. "I don't know why you bother. It's just Malfoy." She has a faint line of ink smudging her cheek, and her familiar, exasperated tone is brittle and worn thin, the way it's been since Lavender and Ron became Lavender-and-Ron. "He only wants to get a rise out of you."
"He called you a Mudblood."
"Yes, he did, and I don't intend to lose any sleep over it," Her mouth takes a curious twist, and she brushes tapestry dust from Harry's hair and face with careful, patient hands. "My father might be a Muggle dentist, but it's not like he's in Azkaban.
Harry coughs out a short, mirthless laugh, wishes it didn't sound so flat and hollow.
--
The classroom floor is dirty and cold, and Harry chokes out a strangled gasp, winces at the stone and grit biting into the heels of his hands.
"Potter," Malfoy hisses, his fingers knotting in Harry's hair.
Harry had only come into Flitwick's classroom to look for his Charms text, hadn't realised Malfoy had crept in after him until Malfoy was already behind him, until Malfoy was grabbing him and shoving him down, until Malfoy was crawling over him. Harry's nose is bloody and his thumb is broken and Malfoy's eye is swollen and black, but this stopped being a fight when Harry's fingers tripped on Malfoy's lips and Malfoy sucked them into his mouth.
Malfoy fists his hand in Harry's collar, wrenching Harry closer, and his hot, open mouth slides wetly up Harry's throat.
Harry should stop this now that he can, now that he's on top, should punch Malfoy's sneering face and slam his knee into Malfoy's bollocks, but Malfoy is holding him tightly at the waist, his hands sweaty where they've slipped past Harry's shirt, and the slow, filthy roll of Malfoy's hips is dangerous, addictive, very close to dragging Harry under.
"Move, Potter." Malfoy's head tips back, his throat smooth and pale as it flutters around a heavy noise. "I'm -- I'm not going to do all the work."
"I'm not -- you can't." Harry's arms start to shake, threatening to buckle, and his fingernails scratch into the floor. "We're not. Doing this."
"No?"
Malfoy's mouth curves around the word too slowly, all sharp white teeth and slick flashes of tongue, and he twists under Harry, liquid and easy, lets his breath fan over Harry's neck as their hard pricks push and ride together. Harry's skin burns hot and a low moan knots in the back of his throat; he hunches closer to Malfoy before he can stop himself, hides his next desperate sound in the sweat-sticky hair at Malfoy's temple.
"I thought so."
"Stop it."
"Louder, Potter. Say it like you mean it."
Malfoy's hands slide around to Harry's arse, dragging Harry closer, urging Harry to rock his hips down as Malfoy arches up to meet him. Harry shudders with every frenetic push and pull, curses and gasps into Malfoy's flushed, sweaty skin. He knows he should stop this, knows he shouldn't want it, but Malfoy is panting in his ear, raspy and breathless, and his fingers are in Malfoy's mouth again, sweet and hot and impossibly, impossibly wet.
Harry bites Malfoy's neck, just below the jaw, and Malfoy shivers under him, coming as he sucks Harry's fingers into the back of his throat.
The classroom is warm now, thick with the smell of sweat and sex, and Harry is horrified -- at himself, at Malfoy, at everything.
"Let me go."
Malfoy smirks up at him, murmuring something low and sated and wordless, and when Harry starts to shift off him, he slips his hand between their bodies and palms Harry's prick. His other hand curves down Harry's arse, his fingers teasing along the back seam of Harry's trousers as he mouths at the thin skin behind Harry's ear.
"I'm going to fuck you one day, Potter."
Harry's hips get away from him, and Malfoy smiles darkly as Harry twitches and ruts into his hand.
"I hate you, but I'm going to fuck you anyway. If I can't kill you, I want you screaming my name because I'm inside you."
Harry comes in a furious, seething, humiliating rush, with Malfoy's tongue on his skin and Malfoy's shirt knotted in his hands.
--
Harry pads down the narrow corridor that delves into the dungeons on invisible feet, his hidden hand bumping over portrait frames and tarnished plaques as it trails along the wall. The torches spit and sputter over his head, casting strange shadows that stretch across the floor before fetching up to stripe the tapestries. It's colder here than up in Gryffindor Tower, and musty from the lake water pressing on the walls, smells like storerooms and potions and dead things.
Crabbe and Goyle walk right past him.
He sits outside the stone wall that guards the Slytherin common room, curled up next to a hulking statue of Boris the Beleaguered. He isn't sure what he's doing down here, doesn't really know what he's waiting for.
--
Malfoy's tongue is behind Harry's ear, and his hands are under Harry's shirt.
"We can't--"
"You talk too much, Potter."
Harry's legs are heavy and reluctant, won't bend and twist away from Malfoy, won't move the way Harry wants. He's trapped, has cold stone biting at his shoulderblades and Malfoy's fingers digging bruises into his skin, but there's also a sharp, jagged heat curling low in his gut, a desperate rush he can feel everywhere.
When Malfoy crowds him closer to the wall he allows it, gasping as Malfoy thumbs his nipple and licks a wet line down his throat. Malfoy's thigh slides between Harry's, nudging right up against Harry's prick, and Harry allows that too; he sighs and curves his hands over Malfoy's arse, shifts until he can rub himself against the slow arch of Malfoy's hip.
Harry lets Malfoy pull his hair, lets Malfoy nip at the thin skin under his jaw.
They're nearly out in the open, pressed into a shallow niche created by a suit of armor and a sudden jut in the wall. The hallway is empty and dark, but Harry can hear footsteps shuffling at the far end, where it crosses a larger corridor that leads to the North Tower, and Harry's thick, shuddering breaths seem incredibly loud as they echo in his ears.
Malfoy opens his trousers, shoving them down to his knees, folding his fingers over Harry's as he pushes his prick into Harry's hand. His mouth is flushed and swollen and his eye is still dark with the last hints of a bruise; Harry rocks against Malfoy hard and fast, swallowing a moan before it skitters down the hall and gives them away, and he wraps his arm around Malfoy's neck and lets Malfoy fuck his hand.
It's not as strange as it should be -- just the soft drag of skin on skin and Malfoy's head heavy on his shoulder, Malfoy's breath hot and ragged on his neck. Malfoy does most of the work, arching and snapping into Harry at a frenetic pace, and Harry strokes him in the sweaty sliver of space between them, twisting his wrist and brushing his thumb over the head of Malfoy's prick.
Malfoy bites his lip when he comes, a drop of blood welling quick and bright at the corner of his mouth. He licks it away with a slick flicker of tongue and tugs on Harry's belt and zip.
Harry lets Malfoy bring him off, sees red and white, red and white.
--
"I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?"
Malfoy's voice is low, scraped to a sharp point. Harry hears a suit of armour squeak and shoes twisting impatiently on the stone floor; he crouches closer to the door, wishes he could see through the keyhole.
"I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish," Snape hisses darkly. Malfoy sighs in the back of his throat, and the rough, familiar sound curls around Harry's prick. "Already you are suspected in having a hand in it."
"Who suspects me? For the last time, I didn't do it, okay?"
The denial rings hollow and cold, cracking as it leaves Malfoy's mouth -- the same mouth that has kissed Harry's skin, has licked and sucked Harry's fingers.
"That Bell girl must've had an enemy no one knows about -- don't look at me like that! I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid, but it won't work -- I can stop you!"
Harry's hands are shaking, and the weight of the Cloak seems suffocating, incredibly close.
"Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see."
Harry slouches against the door. He's achingly hard and he thinks he's going to be sick.
--
"Harry, there's Poire belle Hélène downstairs, if you want any."
Ginny is bright and sudden in the doorway to Ron's room, wide eyes and freckled cheeks and a striped Weasley jumper with grass-green fringe at the fraying cuffs. Harry just stares at her, can't think of anything to say.
"Mum made it for Phlegm," she continues, perching on the edge of Ron's squeaky, sagging bed. "I'll never know where she got fresh pears this time of year."
"No thanks," Harry says finally. His chest feels knotted and tight. "I'm not hungry."
Ginny tilts her head, pushing her long hair over her shoulder. "Are you all right? You've looked knackered for days."
Harry hardly sleeps, except in ragged snatches that don't crawl over him until the sun starts blanching the night sky of colour. It leaves him shaky and stretched thin, his skin pulled tight and his nerves rubbed raw, but it's better than what he sees when he closes his eyes.
He dreams in red and white, of pale skin and a split lip, of Malfoy's skin under his mouth and Malfoy's come sticky in his hand.
"Yeah, Ginny. I'm fine."
--
Malfoy corners Harry on the train back to Hogwarts, three hours outside of London. The sky is a bleak, muted grey through the ice-frosted windows, the horizon only a blur, and Malfoy's fingers twist roughly in Harry's sleeve as he shoves Harry into an empty compartment.
Harry bites the inside of his cheek, tries to pretend he isn't already hard.
"Potter."
Malfoy's hand twitches toward Harry's hip, and Harry slams his fist against the hinge of Malfoy's jaw.
The compartment isn't big enough for this -- Malfoy elbows Harry's chest and Harry punches Malfoy's side; Harry tumbles into the seat and Malfoy reels into the door. They end up on the floor, Malfoy's hair in Harry's hands and Malfoy's leg hooked around Harry's thigh, and then Malfoy rolls them, puts Harry under him, and Harry hisses as Malfoy yanks on his flies.
Harry comes with his shirt under his chin and Malfoy's mouth on his nipple and the train rattling as it roars over a rough patch in the tracks.
--
"I don't know how much longer, all right?" Malfoy snaps, his cheeks flushing a sickly pink. "It's taking longer than I thought it would."
Crabbe frowns, folding his arms, and darts a sideways glance at Goyle.
"Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you're told and keep a lookout."
"I tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me," Harry says brightly.
Malfoy's eyes widen slightly before his face turns murderous and cold.
--
"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."
Harry watches Malfoy disappear, watches until he reappears.
--
Slughorn's round face pales behind his walrus moustache, and his hand trembles as he reaches for his gaping mouth.
The bezoar catches on Ron's tongue, sticks in the back of his throat. Ron's skin is clammy and cold and his lips are faintly blue, and Harry shakes Ron by the shoulders, pries Ron's jaw open with clumsy, shaking fingers.
Ron sucks in horrible, shuddering breath, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"Professor!"
"It's all right, Harry m'boy, it's all right." Slughorn divides a nervous frown between Ron's body and the bottle of mead waiting on the desk. "We'll need to get him to Pomfrey, of course, but he'll pull through. He's already getting his colour back."
Harry squeezes Ron's limp, frozen hand, traces his thumb over Ron's ashen cheek. "Professor, he's out cold."
"Yes, well. That's probably for the best, considering the day he's had."
--
(Another fistfight, another broom cupboard)
Everything is dark. Dust is curling in Harry's nose and Malfoy is on his knees.
"Don't say anything, Potter," Malfoy mutters, pushing Harry onto a listing, three-legged ottoman chequered in Ravenclaw colours. "Don't fucking talk."
Malfoy's mouth slides up his prick, soft and wet, his tongue slipping over the head before he sucks it into his mouth. His eyes close and his cheeks hollow, and Harry chokes on a heavy moan, knots his fingers in Malfoy's hair.
"Oh, fuck."
"I told you not to talk," Malfoy says, Harry's prick hard and slick against his cheek.
"You also said you wanted to hear me scream."
"Things were different, then. I don't give a shit any more."
Malfoy takes him back in, deeper, deeper, pale skin and flushed lips and his fingers teasing the crease of Harry's thigh. Harry gasps and arches toward that perfect heat and comes and comes and comes.
--
I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here.
I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly.
I need you to become the place you become for Draco Malfoy.
I need to see what Draco Malfoy is doing inside you.
--
"SECTUMSEMPRA!"
Malfoy falls and Myrtle screams and blood swirls on the tiles.
Everything is red and white, red and white.
--
Harry is stretched out on the tired and sagging common room couch, a blanket pooled at his feet and Ginny's head pillowed on his chest. She's nearly asleep, her mouth slightly open and her fingers curled under her chin; her hair burns copper and gold in the weak glow of the quietly dying fire, smells like the lavender and chamomile soap Mrs Weasley makes by hand. Harry brushes it from her forehead, counts the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, watches the moonlight and shadows play over her face.
He doesn't know if he loves her, isn't quite sure what that means. He thinks of the way Hermione's eyes follow Ron around a room, the way Cho's smile had made his chest feel tight, the way Sirius' rough, barking laugh had pulled at something slow and liquid deep in his gut.
Ginny murmurs softly into his neck, her warm lips fluttering against his skin, and her fingers hook in the collar of his shirt. He slides his hand up her back, brushes his fingers through her hair.
The fire expires without a sound.
--
Harry bumps into Malfoy outside of Potions, has his head down and his hand lost in his rucksack when his arm and shoulder crash into Malfoy's side.
Malfoy's sneer is crystalised, colder than it's been in weeks, but his fingers ghost over the inside of Harry's arm. "Watch where you're going, Potter."
"Fuck off."
The corridor is rammed with students, a milling rush that parts around their pantomime like the tide. Crabbe and Goyle lurk a few feet away, and Slughorn's oily voice booms through the closed classroom door. Harry pictures Malfoy bleeding as Moaning Myrtle screamed, and his hands clench into tight fists at his sides.
"All alone today?" Malfoy asks, his hand twisting in Harry's sleeve. "Where's your little Weasley girlfriend?"
Harry slams his elbow into Malfoy's side, smiles at the breathless grunt that catches in Malfoy's throat.
--
Harry's trousers and shoved down around his knees and his prick is riding against Malfoy's naked hip and Malfoy's hand is on his arse and Malfoy's mouth is working a warm, wet bruise into the skin behind Harry's ear.
Malfoy's come is all over his hand and Malfoy licks it away with quick flickers of tongue, and he reaches for Harry's prick and sucks Harry's fingers into his mouth, and Harry moans and closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall.
"You're so easy, Potter."
Malfoy rubs him and strokes him and bites him and whispers horrible, filthy things in his ear.
Harry pulls Malfoy's hair and doesn't think of Ginny and he pushes into Malfoy's hand and doesn't think of Ginny and when Malfoy bites his neck and twists his wrist Harry shouts and comes and doesn't think of Ginny, doesn't think of Ginny.
--
"I know you gave Slughorn that poisoned mead."
Malfoy is half-naked, still catching his breath. He narrows his eyes sharply and pushes his dishevelled hair out of his face.
"Ron nearly died."
Malfoy knees Harry in the bollocks, walks away as Harry crumples to the floor.
--
They kiss in the fragrant, mulchy shadow of Greenhouse Four, just soft mouths and curious tongues and two of Malfoy's fingers sliding up Harry's throat.
Hogwarts is frozen, perfectly still.
Harry pulls Malfoy closer by the hip, and Malfoy sighs into him, pushes him back against the warm, sweaty glass. His hand hides under Harry's shirt, his thumb tracing light patterns over Harry's skin, and his prick nudges Harry's thigh, but he doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. He brushes his tongue over Harry's again and again and again, wraps his arms around Harry's neck and curls his fingers in Harry's hair.
Malfoy's mouth is hot and wet and perfect, and Harry wonders what he's apologising for.
--
Harry's arm is sore and bleeding sluggishly, gritty from being pressed against the stone archway, and he hisses under his breath when Dumbledore's trembling hand stumbles over the gash.
"It's going to be all right, sir," Harry says, his fingers catching in Dumbledore's sleeve. Dumbledore's eyes are hollow and his beard is singed and wet. "We're nearly there... I can Apparate us both back... don't worry."
The Inferi had bled, but they hadn't stopped. You can't kill something that's already dead.
"I am not worried," Dumbledore says tiredly. "I am with you."
--
Moonlight glints weakly off Malfoy's wand, silver and cold, and Harry realises it hadn't been an apology at all.
"Severus... please..."
It had been goodbye.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Everything is green.
*
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC17
Words: ~6,700
Warnings: Angst, fightsex, semi-public sex, frottage, &c.
Summary: Harry dreams in red and white.
A/N: While on the phone the other night,
themostepotente said I should write less obtuse Marauders genfic and more filthy Harry/Draco porn. Evidently, her wish is my command. I'm not sure if this qualifies as filthy, but it's definitely all fucked up. Set during HBP, so the boys are 16.Harry, however, had never been less interested in Quidditch; he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy.
[Chapter 19, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince]
[Chapter 19, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince]
"Really?"
The question hangs there, stretching slow and liquid between the wall mirrors and clothes racks, a fair copy of Malfoy's disdainful, snotty drawl. Malfoy's mouth curves with its usual sneer; Harry has to force himself to breath, and his fingers tighten on the handle of his wand. Hermione's hand brushes over his wrist, small and warm and sweaty, her thumb pressed over the twitch of his pulse, but it doesn't ease the knot in his throat, isn't enough to stem his furious, rushing tide.
"Going to get some of your Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?"
Madam Malkin gasps and flutters; Harry barely hears her over the pounding in his chest, over the blood roaring in his ears.
"I see that being Dumbledore's favourite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter," Malfoy's mother says coldly. Her stark resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange is both expected and startling, but Harry can also find hints of Sirius in her features -- the arch of her brow, the precise shape of her nose -- and Harry's body suddenly aches around the hollow of Sirius' absence. "But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you."
There's a slight hitch in her voice, a shiver that contradicts the Pureblood expression on her face, and Harry itches to hold her uncertainty in his hands, to push on that weakness until it bruises under his fingers. He swallows Impedimenta and Densaugeo and Locomotor Mortis, and he calls Lucius Malfoy a loser with a hard smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
Malfoy lurches toward him, his snarl carved from alabaster and invective, but his dragging, unfinished robes billow around his feet. He stumbles past Hermione, pale hair sweeping into his eyes as he collides with a dressing table piled with hats, and Harry watches his hands shake with anger, looks at the sharp, tight line of his jaw.
Ron begins to laugh, low and throaty and warm, his chest shaking against Harry's shoulder.
--
"Honestly, Harry. That is enough."
Hermione's hands curl into the hem of her jumper. She is framed by the doorway, a staircase dissolving into shadows behind her, and Mrs Weasley's motherly burr comes up soothe the sharp angle of her shoulders: supper is ready, for anyone who is interested.
"I don't want to hear another word about Draco Malfoy being a Death Eater."
Harry slouches back into his chair, taps his foot until his leg shakes and the floor groans in complaint. His tongue feels thick, too large for his mouth; he can't explain the solid certainty in his gut, can't shape his fragments into a whole she understands.
"If it was anyone else... Crabbe or Goyle, anyone... you wouldn't be jumping to such conclusions," she insists. "You're only taking on so because... well, because it's Malfoy."
Ron's face is slightly pink around the edges, and Hermione's sigh seems to echo off the walls.
"It's ridiculous, Harry. Just ridiculous."
Harry shrugs and chews the side of his thumb, frowning at the torn and curling corner of a Chudley Canons poster as she bustles from the room. Ron stops short of following her out into the hallway; he glances back at Harry with his fringe in his eyes and his hand braced on the lintel.
"Well?" Harry asks quietly, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Do you think she's right?"
"Dunno, mate. Probably." Ron scratches his ear, apologising for his defection with a slow, crooked smile. "I mean, she usually is, isn't she?"
Harry tilts his head against the window, watches the sun blur and twist into the Burrow's vegetable garden.
--
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Harry falls rather slowly; in the long, suspended moment before he shatters against the floor, he watches the careful curl of Malfoy's lip, the perfect curve of Malfoy's wrist.
Pain slices through his shoulder and side, and the Cloak twists between his knees.
"I thought so," Malfoy says, tapping his wand against his thigh. His smile is colourless and edged like a knife. "I heard Goyle's trunk hit you."
Harry's eyes narrow on Malfoy's arm, on the shadow he knows is hidden under Malfoy's sleeve. Bile thickens in the back of his throat, hot and sour as it sits on his tongue; he wants that dirty skin under his hands, wants to dig his fingers into the skull and snake.
"You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here..."
Harry's nose surrenders to Malfoy's boot with a sound that's wrongly familiar -- a Beater bat returning a Bludger, Sirius' fist connecting with his mother's portrait, the Whomping Willow denting Mr Weasley's car.
"See you around, Potter... or not."
Harry closes his eyes and tries not to drown in the wash of blood flooding his mouth.
--
The Great Hall is warm with the last dregs of summer, the floating candles reflecting an afternoon sky that looks brittle and cracked, and Harry shifts in his seat, rolling his shoulders as he loosens his collar and tie. He feels frayed and bloodless, worn thin by school work and exhaustion, emptied of everything except the sharp, nameless anger always lurking in his corners.
Malfoy is watching him.
Heat twists Harry's face, crawling over the back of his neck; sweat prickles behind his ears and pools in the dip of his throat. Malfoy frowns softly and turns away, tilts his head toward Parkinson as she whispers into his ear, and Harry suddenly crumples, chokes with something similar to loss.
He hunches closer to the table, ignores the chicken Hermione is piling on his plate.
"You're far too thin," she grouses, her slim fingers sticky and shiny with grease. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you never eat. Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine." Harry reaches for the pumpkin juice and fumbles with his napkin and fork. "I'm all right, really."
She makes a soft, frustrated noise, plucking carefully at his sleeve. "Are you sleeping?"
Harry's bed is a haunted place at night, dark and cold and clouded with Morsmordre. He hears Malfoy's voice in the tight, aching silence, sees Malfoy's face every time he closes his eyes.
"Yeah, Hermione. I'm sleeping."
The lie waits nakedly between them, tastes bitter on the edges of Harry's mouth as he waits for her next appeal. His eyes are deep, livid bruises, and she is relentless, often wants more than Harry is able to give, but she slowly folds in on herself, lets her silence hang on the well of her lip before swinging her attention over to Ron.
"Have you even started your Charms essay, yet?" she asks, darting a hidden frown at Harry as her hand flutters at Ron's shoulder. "Only, twenty inches is quite a bit, and I know how you like to leave things until the last minute."
Harry's glasses are smudged, and the Slytherins are skirting the shadows near the door, but Malfoy's pale hair flashes at Harry like a sickly beacon.
"... Harry, are you even listening?"
"What?"
"I need the butter, if you don't mind," Ginny says, tapping a jacket potato with the tip of her knife. Her smile is soft, her hair warm and bright where it falls over her shoulder. "It's just by your elbow."
Malfoy glances at the Gryffindor table, his jaw taking a hard, tight line, and Harry wonders what it would feel like shattering under his fist.
--
The midnight quiet is heavy, feels restless as it rings in Harry's ears. He sighs under his breath, rolling back into his pillows, and mutters a Silencing Charm at the shadows closing in around his bed.
His hand stutters down his chest, and his fingers catch in the waistband of his pants. He's tired in a way that pulls on his skin and nags at his bones, and his mind hasn't been a safe place in weeks.
He strokes himself hard and fast, his curved palm almost furtive, his mouth yawning open and his arm thrown over his eyes. He tries to think of the usual things, of familiar, comforting things --
(Ginny's freckled shoulders and Ron's big, capable hands; the long, soft line of Hermione's throat and the way Cho's legs peek out of her Quidditch robes; the cute Muggle girl Dudley and Piers met in the park last summer, and the dark, secretive twist of Sirius' smile)
-- but they all fade and twitch away from him, fluttering just past his reach.
Harry's hips snap up roughly, his prick shoving into his hand, and Harry bites down on his lip until blood crawls over his tongue. His toes curl and his legs fall open, and he comes hot and thick over his fist to the thought of Malfoy's skin bruising under his hands and Malfoy's hair knotted between his fingers.
--
"Did you get your essay finished?" Ron asks, his voice sharp and bright in the quiet stretch of the Transfiguration Corridor. "I mean, twenty-five inches, with citations. Bloody Hell."
"Yeah, it's finished, I guess." A dull ache has settled in Harry's head, throbbing at his temples and pressing at the base of his neck. "It doesn't make that much sense near the end, but the words are all there."
Ron pauses a few steps ahead of Harry, wrinkling his nose as a chattering knot of First-Years briefly separates them like a wall. "You did better than me, then. Mine's a bad job all the way through. I'd hoped Hermione would-- "
"I offered last night, but you couldn't be bothered just then," Hermione cuts in shortly. "You had to talk football with Dean." She's a little behind Harry and writing as she walks, a roll of parchment bunched over her arm and an open book floating patiently at her elbow. "I also offered at breakfast, but you hadn't brought it with you."
"All right, all right."
Harry sighs. "We're early, I think." The classroom door is closed, flanked by Ernie MacMillan and Zacharias Smith; Harry slouches against the opposite wall and lets his rucksack sag by his feet. "If you ask her nicely, she might look at it now."
Ron's face flushes, his skin hinting at pink beneath his freckles, and his lower lip retreats between his teeth.
"Just give it here, before you strain yourself." Her hair is riotous, curling in several different directions at once, and she bats it away from her face with an irritated huff. "If it isn't complete rot, I can probably get it sorted."
"I'm pretty sure it's bollocks, all of it," Ron admits, but she's already murmuring and tapping parts of his essay with her wand. He smiles widely and nudges at Harry's elbow. "You know, we've got a free period after this. I was thinking we could have a fly."
Harry nods, his jaw splitting with a sudden, violent yawn.
"I know that sounds mental, because of the weather, but I -- well, hello," Ron grumbles, his tone souring around the edges. His hand tumbles down to Harry's wrist, his fingers warm and sweaty against Harry's skin. "Have a look at what the Kneazle dragged in."
Harry follows the careful line of Ron's frown, his stomach twisting when he finds Malfoy at the end of it, lurking near the aperture of the corridor like a horrid, ashen secret. He's sheltered from the rising press of students by large statue and the low sweep of a staircase, and Parkinson is with him, her hand looping in the spill of his sleeve as they whisper in a way that seems rushed and urgent.
"Tosser."
Harry's legs are shaking, and his hands are fisted in the folds of his robes.
"Pug-Face must be keeping him up nights," Ron says, a sneer crawling over his words. "He looks a bit rough."
Harry tilts his head, considers the hollows under Malfoy's eyes and the drawn angles of Malfoy's face. "He's been looking rough."
"Yeah, I guess. I really haven't noticed."
"Ron, I did the best I could. I tidied up the -- oh." Hermione lays her hand on Ron's rucksack, blinks into a slow, curious noise. "What are we staring at, then?"
"Malfoy," Harry mutters.
"Oh, honestly!"
"Never mind." Harry watches Malfoy's tongue, wet and pink as he worries the side of his thumb. "Just forget it."
Malfoy looks at Harry over Parkinson's shoulder, his eyes barely flickering before he turns away."
--
"Following me again, Potter?"
Malfoy's voice echoes darkly down the corridor, and it rubs Harry raw, hits him like a cold slap to the face.
His mind folds back to the dream he had early this morning, the same dream he's had every night this week -- a frantic, narrow vision where he is weak and crumpled and bleeding, where Malfoy's foot is solid and deadly on his neck and Malfoy's wand is aimed at his scar.
"I wasn't following you."
They're outside the Arithmancy classroom, a part of the castle Harry has only visited on the Map. He isn't quite sure why he came this way; Gryffindor Tower is in the opposite direction.
"Of course you were. You're always following me."
Malfoy crowds close along Harry's side, gripping bruises into Harry's arm and digging the tip of his wand under Harry's chin. His hollow eyes are curiously intent, and his mouth twists with an ugly sneer as he pushes Harry flat against the wall.
Harry wedges his elbow into Malfoy's gut, almost smiles when Malfoy grunts with pain and surprise. "I think you want me to be following you."
Malfoy's wand bites deeper into Harry's skin and the heel of his hand slams into Harry's chest, just below the sternum. Pain explodes in Harry's body, savage and bright, and he coughs out a hoarse, desperate groan, his lungs heaving as he hisses and shudders for air.
"Louder," Malfoy whispers, thick and incredibly close to Harry's ear.
Harry bares his teeth at the taut line of Malfoy's jaw, at the bluish veins thrumming along the smooth slant of Malfoy's neck. He can hear Malfoy breathing, can feel it where their bodies are pressed flush.
Malfoy's hair is in Harry's mouth, and Malfoy's prick is hard against Harry's hip.
Harry swings his arm around wildly, aims a punch at the sharp point of Malfoy's chin. His fist barely grazes Malfoy's cheek, the contact feathering off as Malfoy shrinks away; he snatches at Malfoy's hair, but Malfoy jabs at Harry's chest again, his other hand catching Harry around the throat, and Harry's breath deserts him in a sudden, harrowing rush.
"I said louder, Potter."
Harry quickly arches away from the wall, gasping louder than Malfoy as Malfoy's prick rides over his thigh. Malfoy stutters something into Harry's shoulder, his voice broken and raspy and raw; his hand tightens on Harry's throat, and Harry loses his footing as he tries to jerk away, his trainers squeaking shrilly against the floor. He grabs at Malfoy's untucked shirt, but Malfoy twists the wrong way and Harry's palm slides up Malfoy's side.
The corridor is silent and cold. Everything narrows to the warm skin under Harry's fingers and the ragged rise and fall of Malfoy's chest.
Harry shoves Malfoy away hard. Malfoy staggers backward, his eyes wide and his arms outstretched, and he crashes to the floor with a horrible, choking snarl.
It's full of pain and hatred and fear, and Harry wants to hear it again.
"I know it was you," Harry says quietly, levelling his wand at Malfoy's sprawling body. "You gave Katie Bell that necklace."
Blood stains the corner of Malfoy's mouth, and his smile is edged like a knife. "Prove it."
A reluctant creak rips through the corridor, and Harry chokes on Levicorpus as Professor Vector exits the Arithmancy classroom. Malfoy starts to find his feet, his pale hair spilling around the drawn angles of his face, and Harry melts into the shadows thrown by the open door, his legs shaking and his heart hammering in his chest. He tries not to stare at the blood smeared on Malfoy's face, obscenely red against the white cast of his skin.
"Mister Malfoy, what happened? Are you quite all right?"
Harry closes his eyes and fumbles with his Invisibility Cloak; everything is red and white, red and white.
"I'm fine, Professor. It was nothing." Malfoy narrows his eyes at the empty corridor, presses his thumb to the fracture on his lip. "Nothing at all."
--
Harry slips into the first broom cupboard he finds, slumping back against the door as it shudders closed with a sigh.
He's shaking too badly, can't get his trousers undone. He ruts against the heel of his hand, cursing and desperate, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth panting open and his hips working hard and fast and rough.
Malfoy is still breathing in his ear, and Malfoy's hair is still brushing his face. Malfoy is buckling to the floor, his eyes wide and his throat exposed and his mouth red and white.
It's nothing. Nothing at all.
His orgasm hits him like an Unforgivable, leaves him with a sullen ache hollowing his chest, hunched over and gasping into the darkness and dust.
--
"I ran into Seamus coming up," Ron says, pushing through the dormitory door. His rucksack hangs at his elbow, gaping open around his Charms text and the tail of a Gryffindor scarf. "He's really got a bag on today."
Harry shrugs and marks his place in the Half-Blood Prince's book with his thumb. "Seamus always has a bag on."
"Not like this. Told me to bugger off, he did, and all I wanted to do was pass him on the stairs."
The late afternoon sun squints brightly through the windows, etching white squares of light onto the dormitory carpet. Everything is hot. Harry feels muddled and slow, feverish in a way that pulls and drags on his skin, and he can't quite concentrate on the Prince's tiny scrawl. It's too cramped in the margins, wedged too closely between the lines.
"I wonder what's got his knickers in a twist." Ron perches on the edge of his bed, sighing as he unlaces his trainers. His freckled face is flushed with heat, and his fringe is stuck to his forehead in sweaty, ginger clumps. "Seamus, I mean. I've never seen him this fussed."
"I think it's Dean," Harry says, tucking the Prince's book under his pillow.
"Oh? What's he done, then?"
"I asked him to take Katie's place on the team."
Ron whistles through his teeth, his frayed trainer cradled in his hand. "That explains it."
"Yeah."
"Katie's still knocked out, is she?"
"I don't really know. Pomfrey won't let me in to see her," Harry rolls onto his back, stares up at the blank, shadowed ceiling. "She won't let anyone in. Not even McGonagall."
The bed squeaks in complaint as Ron shifts and his trainer hits the floor with a soft thud. "Well, Dean will make a brilliant Chaser."
Harry closes his eyes. He sees Katie splayed across the frozen walk behind the Three Broomsticks, hears Malfoy spitting out his name in a dark, empty hallway. Katie's mouth is open as her hands clench in the melting snow, and Malfoy is smirking as he dares Harry to prove it.
"He's not as brilliant as Katie."
"True, that. But if we can't have Katie--"
"We should have Katie," Harry snaps.
Ron blinks and scratches the side of his neck. Harry rolls over again, putting his back to the wounded expression on Ron's face.
--
Malfoy shoulders into Harry outside Transfiguration, his fingers briefly snagging in Harry's sleeve, and he hisses Potter under his breath as his mouth whips past Harry's ear.
Harry stumbles back, his rucksack falling to the floor. "Tosser."
"I didn't quite catch that," Malfoy drawls, and an amused murmur buzzes between Parkinson and Zabini. "Louder, Potter."
Heat rushes to Harry's cheeks, sharp and shameful and bright, and his hand shakes as he fumbles for his wand. Malfoy watches him calmly, without expression, his head tilted and his arm resting around Parkinson's shoulder. His hair is falling in his eyes and his lip is still slightly bruised.
"Arsehole."
"Can't hear you, sorry."
"Bloody fucking Death Eater."
Malfoy's eyes narrow and his sneer hardens around the edges. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Potter? Oh, wait. Your mother is dead."
Hermione catches Harry at the waist, bearing him back into the wall; a tapestry flutters near Harry's head, and Harry sputters against the dust creeping inside his nose, loses a Langlock in the hair curling wildly around Hermione's neck. He tries to twist away from her, but she plants her hand on his chest, pins him fast with her shoulder and hip, and Harry's skin prickles and crawls as Malfoy's mocking laughter rings in his ears.
"The Boy Who Lived," Malfoy says disdainfully. "I'm surprised you've managed to live this long, with no one to protect you but Weasels and Mudbloods."
Harry snarls a Jelly-Legs Jinx, his wand darting around Hermione's arm, but it's aimless and rushed, slides easily past Malfoy's ear, and Zabini snorts as a suit of armour loudly crashes to the floor.
"Nice try, Potter."
The classroom door groans open, and a well of escaping Third-Years rushes between them like a wave, dragging them in opposite directions as McGonagall's brogue nips at the younger students' heels. Hermione's fingers bite into Harry's wrist. He sighs and leans his head back against the wall, doesn't watch Malfoy slink away.
"Honestly, Harry. I--"
"Leave it out," Harry mutters, twisting out of her grasp.
Hermione frowns sharply, folding her arms. "I don't know why you bother. It's just Malfoy." She has a faint line of ink smudging her cheek, and her familiar, exasperated tone is brittle and worn thin, the way it's been since Lavender and Ron became Lavender-and-Ron. "He only wants to get a rise out of you."
"He called you a Mudblood."
"Yes, he did, and I don't intend to lose any sleep over it," Her mouth takes a curious twist, and she brushes tapestry dust from Harry's hair and face with careful, patient hands. "My father might be a Muggle dentist, but it's not like he's in Azkaban.
Harry coughs out a short, mirthless laugh, wishes it didn't sound so flat and hollow.
--
The classroom floor is dirty and cold, and Harry chokes out a strangled gasp, winces at the stone and grit biting into the heels of his hands.
"Potter," Malfoy hisses, his fingers knotting in Harry's hair.
Harry had only come into Flitwick's classroom to look for his Charms text, hadn't realised Malfoy had crept in after him until Malfoy was already behind him, until Malfoy was grabbing him and shoving him down, until Malfoy was crawling over him. Harry's nose is bloody and his thumb is broken and Malfoy's eye is swollen and black, but this stopped being a fight when Harry's fingers tripped on Malfoy's lips and Malfoy sucked them into his mouth.
Malfoy fists his hand in Harry's collar, wrenching Harry closer, and his hot, open mouth slides wetly up Harry's throat.
Harry should stop this now that he can, now that he's on top, should punch Malfoy's sneering face and slam his knee into Malfoy's bollocks, but Malfoy is holding him tightly at the waist, his hands sweaty where they've slipped past Harry's shirt, and the slow, filthy roll of Malfoy's hips is dangerous, addictive, very close to dragging Harry under.
"Move, Potter." Malfoy's head tips back, his throat smooth and pale as it flutters around a heavy noise. "I'm -- I'm not going to do all the work."
"I'm not -- you can't." Harry's arms start to shake, threatening to buckle, and his fingernails scratch into the floor. "We're not. Doing this."
"No?"
Malfoy's mouth curves around the word too slowly, all sharp white teeth and slick flashes of tongue, and he twists under Harry, liquid and easy, lets his breath fan over Harry's neck as their hard pricks push and ride together. Harry's skin burns hot and a low moan knots in the back of his throat; he hunches closer to Malfoy before he can stop himself, hides his next desperate sound in the sweat-sticky hair at Malfoy's temple.
"I thought so."
"Stop it."
"Louder, Potter. Say it like you mean it."
Malfoy's hands slide around to Harry's arse, dragging Harry closer, urging Harry to rock his hips down as Malfoy arches up to meet him. Harry shudders with every frenetic push and pull, curses and gasps into Malfoy's flushed, sweaty skin. He knows he should stop this, knows he shouldn't want it, but Malfoy is panting in his ear, raspy and breathless, and his fingers are in Malfoy's mouth again, sweet and hot and impossibly, impossibly wet.
Harry bites Malfoy's neck, just below the jaw, and Malfoy shivers under him, coming as he sucks Harry's fingers into the back of his throat.
The classroom is warm now, thick with the smell of sweat and sex, and Harry is horrified -- at himself, at Malfoy, at everything.
"Let me go."
Malfoy smirks up at him, murmuring something low and sated and wordless, and when Harry starts to shift off him, he slips his hand between their bodies and palms Harry's prick. His other hand curves down Harry's arse, his fingers teasing along the back seam of Harry's trousers as he mouths at the thin skin behind Harry's ear.
"I'm going to fuck you one day, Potter."
Harry's hips get away from him, and Malfoy smiles darkly as Harry twitches and ruts into his hand.
"I hate you, but I'm going to fuck you anyway. If I can't kill you, I want you screaming my name because I'm inside you."
Harry comes in a furious, seething, humiliating rush, with Malfoy's tongue on his skin and Malfoy's shirt knotted in his hands.
--
Harry pads down the narrow corridor that delves into the dungeons on invisible feet, his hidden hand bumping over portrait frames and tarnished plaques as it trails along the wall. The torches spit and sputter over his head, casting strange shadows that stretch across the floor before fetching up to stripe the tapestries. It's colder here than up in Gryffindor Tower, and musty from the lake water pressing on the walls, smells like storerooms and potions and dead things.
Crabbe and Goyle walk right past him.
He sits outside the stone wall that guards the Slytherin common room, curled up next to a hulking statue of Boris the Beleaguered. He isn't sure what he's doing down here, doesn't really know what he's waiting for.
--
Malfoy's tongue is behind Harry's ear, and his hands are under Harry's shirt.
"We can't--"
"You talk too much, Potter."
Harry's legs are heavy and reluctant, won't bend and twist away from Malfoy, won't move the way Harry wants. He's trapped, has cold stone biting at his shoulderblades and Malfoy's fingers digging bruises into his skin, but there's also a sharp, jagged heat curling low in his gut, a desperate rush he can feel everywhere.
When Malfoy crowds him closer to the wall he allows it, gasping as Malfoy thumbs his nipple and licks a wet line down his throat. Malfoy's thigh slides between Harry's, nudging right up against Harry's prick, and Harry allows that too; he sighs and curves his hands over Malfoy's arse, shifts until he can rub himself against the slow arch of Malfoy's hip.
Harry lets Malfoy pull his hair, lets Malfoy nip at the thin skin under his jaw.
They're nearly out in the open, pressed into a shallow niche created by a suit of armor and a sudden jut in the wall. The hallway is empty and dark, but Harry can hear footsteps shuffling at the far end, where it crosses a larger corridor that leads to the North Tower, and Harry's thick, shuddering breaths seem incredibly loud as they echo in his ears.
Malfoy opens his trousers, shoving them down to his knees, folding his fingers over Harry's as he pushes his prick into Harry's hand. His mouth is flushed and swollen and his eye is still dark with the last hints of a bruise; Harry rocks against Malfoy hard and fast, swallowing a moan before it skitters down the hall and gives them away, and he wraps his arm around Malfoy's neck and lets Malfoy fuck his hand.
It's not as strange as it should be -- just the soft drag of skin on skin and Malfoy's head heavy on his shoulder, Malfoy's breath hot and ragged on his neck. Malfoy does most of the work, arching and snapping into Harry at a frenetic pace, and Harry strokes him in the sweaty sliver of space between them, twisting his wrist and brushing his thumb over the head of Malfoy's prick.
Malfoy bites his lip when he comes, a drop of blood welling quick and bright at the corner of his mouth. He licks it away with a slick flicker of tongue and tugs on Harry's belt and zip.
Harry lets Malfoy bring him off, sees red and white, red and white.
--
"I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?"
Malfoy's voice is low, scraped to a sharp point. Harry hears a suit of armour squeak and shoes twisting impatiently on the stone floor; he crouches closer to the door, wishes he could see through the keyhole.
"I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish," Snape hisses darkly. Malfoy sighs in the back of his throat, and the rough, familiar sound curls around Harry's prick. "Already you are suspected in having a hand in it."
"Who suspects me? For the last time, I didn't do it, okay?"
The denial rings hollow and cold, cracking as it leaves Malfoy's mouth -- the same mouth that has kissed Harry's skin, has licked and sucked Harry's fingers.
"That Bell girl must've had an enemy no one knows about -- don't look at me like that! I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid, but it won't work -- I can stop you!"
Harry's hands are shaking, and the weight of the Cloak seems suffocating, incredibly close.
"Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see."
Harry slouches against the door. He's achingly hard and he thinks he's going to be sick.
--
"Harry, there's Poire belle Hélène downstairs, if you want any."
Ginny is bright and sudden in the doorway to Ron's room, wide eyes and freckled cheeks and a striped Weasley jumper with grass-green fringe at the fraying cuffs. Harry just stares at her, can't think of anything to say.
"Mum made it for Phlegm," she continues, perching on the edge of Ron's squeaky, sagging bed. "I'll never know where she got fresh pears this time of year."
"No thanks," Harry says finally. His chest feels knotted and tight. "I'm not hungry."
Ginny tilts her head, pushing her long hair over her shoulder. "Are you all right? You've looked knackered for days."
Harry hardly sleeps, except in ragged snatches that don't crawl over him until the sun starts blanching the night sky of colour. It leaves him shaky and stretched thin, his skin pulled tight and his nerves rubbed raw, but it's better than what he sees when he closes his eyes.
He dreams in red and white, of pale skin and a split lip, of Malfoy's skin under his mouth and Malfoy's come sticky in his hand.
"Yeah, Ginny. I'm fine."
--
Malfoy corners Harry on the train back to Hogwarts, three hours outside of London. The sky is a bleak, muted grey through the ice-frosted windows, the horizon only a blur, and Malfoy's fingers twist roughly in Harry's sleeve as he shoves Harry into an empty compartment.
Harry bites the inside of his cheek, tries to pretend he isn't already hard.
"Potter."
Malfoy's hand twitches toward Harry's hip, and Harry slams his fist against the hinge of Malfoy's jaw.
The compartment isn't big enough for this -- Malfoy elbows Harry's chest and Harry punches Malfoy's side; Harry tumbles into the seat and Malfoy reels into the door. They end up on the floor, Malfoy's hair in Harry's hands and Malfoy's leg hooked around Harry's thigh, and then Malfoy rolls them, puts Harry under him, and Harry hisses as Malfoy yanks on his flies.
Harry comes with his shirt under his chin and Malfoy's mouth on his nipple and the train rattling as it roars over a rough patch in the tracks.
--
"I don't know how much longer, all right?" Malfoy snaps, his cheeks flushing a sickly pink. "It's taking longer than I thought it would."
Crabbe frowns, folding his arms, and darts a sideways glance at Goyle.
"Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you're told and keep a lookout."
"I tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me," Harry says brightly.
Malfoy's eyes widen slightly before his face turns murderous and cold.
--
"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."
Harry watches Malfoy disappear, watches until he reappears.
--
Slughorn's round face pales behind his walrus moustache, and his hand trembles as he reaches for his gaping mouth.
The bezoar catches on Ron's tongue, sticks in the back of his throat. Ron's skin is clammy and cold and his lips are faintly blue, and Harry shakes Ron by the shoulders, pries Ron's jaw open with clumsy, shaking fingers.
Ron sucks in horrible, shuddering breath, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"Professor!"
"It's all right, Harry m'boy, it's all right." Slughorn divides a nervous frown between Ron's body and the bottle of mead waiting on the desk. "We'll need to get him to Pomfrey, of course, but he'll pull through. He's already getting his colour back."
Harry squeezes Ron's limp, frozen hand, traces his thumb over Ron's ashen cheek. "Professor, he's out cold."
"Yes, well. That's probably for the best, considering the day he's had."
--
(Another fistfight, another broom cupboard)
Everything is dark. Dust is curling in Harry's nose and Malfoy is on his knees.
"Don't say anything, Potter," Malfoy mutters, pushing Harry onto a listing, three-legged ottoman chequered in Ravenclaw colours. "Don't fucking talk."
Malfoy's mouth slides up his prick, soft and wet, his tongue slipping over the head before he sucks it into his mouth. His eyes close and his cheeks hollow, and Harry chokes on a heavy moan, knots his fingers in Malfoy's hair.
"Oh, fuck."
"I told you not to talk," Malfoy says, Harry's prick hard and slick against his cheek.
"You also said you wanted to hear me scream."
"Things were different, then. I don't give a shit any more."
Malfoy takes him back in, deeper, deeper, pale skin and flushed lips and his fingers teasing the crease of Harry's thigh. Harry gasps and arches toward that perfect heat and comes and comes and comes.
--
I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here.
I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly.
I need you to become the place you become for Draco Malfoy.
I need to see what Draco Malfoy is doing inside you.
--
"SECTUMSEMPRA!"
Malfoy falls and Myrtle screams and blood swirls on the tiles.
Everything is red and white, red and white.
--
Harry is stretched out on the tired and sagging common room couch, a blanket pooled at his feet and Ginny's head pillowed on his chest. She's nearly asleep, her mouth slightly open and her fingers curled under her chin; her hair burns copper and gold in the weak glow of the quietly dying fire, smells like the lavender and chamomile soap Mrs Weasley makes by hand. Harry brushes it from her forehead, counts the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, watches the moonlight and shadows play over her face.
He doesn't know if he loves her, isn't quite sure what that means. He thinks of the way Hermione's eyes follow Ron around a room, the way Cho's smile had made his chest feel tight, the way Sirius' rough, barking laugh had pulled at something slow and liquid deep in his gut.
Ginny murmurs softly into his neck, her warm lips fluttering against his skin, and her fingers hook in the collar of his shirt. He slides his hand up her back, brushes his fingers through her hair.
The fire expires without a sound.
--
Harry bumps into Malfoy outside of Potions, has his head down and his hand lost in his rucksack when his arm and shoulder crash into Malfoy's side.
Malfoy's sneer is crystalised, colder than it's been in weeks, but his fingers ghost over the inside of Harry's arm. "Watch where you're going, Potter."
"Fuck off."
The corridor is rammed with students, a milling rush that parts around their pantomime like the tide. Crabbe and Goyle lurk a few feet away, and Slughorn's oily voice booms through the closed classroom door. Harry pictures Malfoy bleeding as Moaning Myrtle screamed, and his hands clench into tight fists at his sides.
"All alone today?" Malfoy asks, his hand twisting in Harry's sleeve. "Where's your little Weasley girlfriend?"
Harry slams his elbow into Malfoy's side, smiles at the breathless grunt that catches in Malfoy's throat.
--
Harry's trousers and shoved down around his knees and his prick is riding against Malfoy's naked hip and Malfoy's hand is on his arse and Malfoy's mouth is working a warm, wet bruise into the skin behind Harry's ear.
Malfoy's come is all over his hand and Malfoy licks it away with quick flickers of tongue, and he reaches for Harry's prick and sucks Harry's fingers into his mouth, and Harry moans and closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall.
"You're so easy, Potter."
Malfoy rubs him and strokes him and bites him and whispers horrible, filthy things in his ear.
Harry pulls Malfoy's hair and doesn't think of Ginny and he pushes into Malfoy's hand and doesn't think of Ginny and when Malfoy bites his neck and twists his wrist Harry shouts and comes and doesn't think of Ginny, doesn't think of Ginny.
--
"I know you gave Slughorn that poisoned mead."
Malfoy is half-naked, still catching his breath. He narrows his eyes sharply and pushes his dishevelled hair out of his face.
"Ron nearly died."
Malfoy knees Harry in the bollocks, walks away as Harry crumples to the floor.
--
They kiss in the fragrant, mulchy shadow of Greenhouse Four, just soft mouths and curious tongues and two of Malfoy's fingers sliding up Harry's throat.
Hogwarts is frozen, perfectly still.
Harry pulls Malfoy closer by the hip, and Malfoy sighs into him, pushes him back against the warm, sweaty glass. His hand hides under Harry's shirt, his thumb tracing light patterns over Harry's skin, and his prick nudges Harry's thigh, but he doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. He brushes his tongue over Harry's again and again and again, wraps his arms around Harry's neck and curls his fingers in Harry's hair.
Malfoy's mouth is hot and wet and perfect, and Harry wonders what he's apologising for.
--
Harry's arm is sore and bleeding sluggishly, gritty from being pressed against the stone archway, and he hisses under his breath when Dumbledore's trembling hand stumbles over the gash.
"It's going to be all right, sir," Harry says, his fingers catching in Dumbledore's sleeve. Dumbledore's eyes are hollow and his beard is singed and wet. "We're nearly there... I can Apparate us both back... don't worry."
The Inferi had bled, but they hadn't stopped. You can't kill something that's already dead.
"I am not worried," Dumbledore says tiredly. "I am with you."
--
Moonlight glints weakly off Malfoy's wand, silver and cold, and Harry realises it hadn't been an apology at all.
"Severus... please..."
It had been goodbye.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Everything is green.
*