mildlunacy: (bam! harry time)
[personal profile] mildlunacy

3.  Blood

what bothers me
is that you don't know how you feel
what scares me
is that while you're telling me stories
you actually
believe that they are real

~ Ani DiFranco

It was the way Malfoy leaned. He wouldn't  even be caught dead looking at him, but he'd be leaning, and Harry thought he shouted, look at me!

Harry hadn't been able to look away.

Malfoy's sharp hips in tight jeans, and his cruel smirking mouth, and the way he'd look at him as if he could see through him: all that made him so angry back then. Malfoy didn't know shit about him! Had he?

Harry liked to think he was a nice guy, pretty even-tempered. Malfoy made him feel like a savage, a caged animal, ready to rip Malfoy's throat out or die trying. He'd tried so hard to be above it all, to be reasonable, but Malfoy wouldn't stop pushing, so in the end he'd gotten what he deserved, hadn't he? He'd asked for it, hadn't he?

He'd hated feeling that way. Filthy and angry and out of control desperate needing skin.  It was just fucking. It shouldn't be a big deal, anyway. Everyone did it, Harry thought. Everyone did it with everyone.

Except Ron probably didn't want to cry after he'd gotten a blow from some random girl by the bleachers, and didn't bite the mouth of his last girlfriend, feeling the blood trickle down his chin. Harry hadn't even realized he'd been snogging Malfoy that one time, and had come to himself with his hands buried in the other's hair, near-delirious from the breathy moans  Malfoy made, like he was melting in place. The more Malfoy moaned, the harder they snogged, so that both their lips ended up swollen and red.

He hated it, he couldn't get enough and he hated it. His whole identity felt like it was melting along with those moans. He was getting addicted and he couldn't stop.

There were so many of those times, moments he didn't know what to do with. Any sane person would say none of that stress was worth the relief it got. Not remotely. There were moments, like two months or so into their thing in school, when they'd happen to be sitting in neighboring tables in the library. They were both silent. Harry thought  he could feel Malfoy's body heat from ten meters away.

"Hey, do you remember how to make this potion work?" Malfoy asked him calmly, out of nowhere.

"Oh," he said vaguely. "Yeah." And he got out his Potions textbook and went over to help with the problem over at Malfoy's table. Hermione had been tutoring him and Ron in Transfigurations, which was the only reason either of them could stay on top of it, what with Quidditch practice trumping everything. Ron and Hermione had gotten together at the beginning of the year, finally, but this meant Hermione got to put down ultimatums regarding their study habits and allotted Quidditch time. Harry would have resisted, but she had Ron wrapped around her little finger. Honestly, it was pretty weird, since both of them had known her since they were eleven, but even Harry had to admit Ron was a lot more tolerable now that he was a 'taken man'. Regardless, this was the only reason why Harry was any good in class, compared to Malfoy, who wasn't bookish but clearly put more effort into studying than did Harry.

"Thanks," Malfoy said, a while later.

Harry started. He found himself bent over a book at Malfoy's side, casually repeating the things Hermione had explained earlier in his own words. Malfoy took notes, of all things. For a second he'd forgotten it was Malfoy, and treated him like any other human being. It was… disconcerting. The images of Malfoy's hot sticky skin in his hand and his attentive, calm face overlapped and crumpled together in his mind almost painfully. The sudden erection was as disturbing as the pleasure he got seeing Malfoy's  face with respect written on it.

He muttered something antisocial and borderline rude and clumsily went to get his books, scrambling to get out of the library before his blush reached his face.

Then there was the time Hermione saw them, accidentally walking together to the dining hall just after a mutual wank: after all, it was lunchtime and they were headed in the same direction. They couldn't help but walk together. Unfortunately, Malfoy's face hadn't quite reached its usual pasty color, so he sported a fetching blush. Harry himself was in an annoyingly good mood, having just shot a particularly strong one. Whatever the reason, as soon as Hermione saw them, she said: "Oh, Harry. Why didn't you tell me you got a boyfriend?"

He really should have shot that down properly, but it didn't quite compute for one moment too long. Meanwhile, Hermione's eyebrows climbed higher, Malfoy made a sound like he choked on a fishbone before making a sharp retreat to his usual spot near his mates, and Harry's indignant denial sounded lame even to his own ears.

For weeks after that, Hermione would make well-meaning remarks about being willing to listen, how her older cousin was gay, and how she always would support Harry's choices and would be his friend no matter what. If it was anyone but Hermione, Harry would have gotten angry and told them where to shove their useless advice and their assumptions, but this was Hermione, so Harry only stammered and felt guilty and embarrassed and more guilty still. Harry wasn't a total asshole; he knew Malfoy, at least, was actually queer, and what they were doing was wrong on all sorts of levels, but one of them was that Harry's experience was fundamentally different. He knew Malfoy didn't really want Harry to treat him the way he did, though of course all his good intentions went out the window as soon as he saw Malfoy in the flesh again. Harry didn't like being an asshole. He wanted to really love someone. In the end, of course, he got together with Ginny, which solved that problem. Hermione stopped badgering him, and she had the grace to leave the 'don't hurt her or else' conversation to Ron. Small favors.

Harry wanted to love someone, but in the cold light of morning, with Ginny sleeping on her stomach with her arse colored with bruises left by his fingertips, he doubted he could. He felt like shit. He couldn't make her happy. He was the asshole creep he'd fought throughout his life, the creep he'd despised in Malfoy from the beginning. Little selfish bastard, he'd thought. Relies on his daddy for everything. Can't even do his dirty work by himself, always lugging those two bloody bruisers with him everywhere, thinking he looked tough, but he only looked like an idiot. Malfoy thought everything revolved around him, and Harry was never going to be like that. Harry was a decent human being. The bile was so thick, he could almost imagine shooting himself in the head to get the taste out of his throat.

That was going to be the end. He was going to break up with her. But then Ginny turned over, and her breasts were tipped pink, round and perfect, just like her arse, so he bit down on her nipples. She was mostly asleep, but she moaned and opened her whole body to him, ever so sweetly. Before he knew it, his body was on top of hers, his cock inside her, and she hadn't done more than move onto her back. He liked it this way: with Ginny slow and groggy, her eyes sticking shut with sleepiness, and her arms pinned above her head as he took what he wanted. Like scooping up pie.

At some point, as always, something snapped, and justifying himself became all too easy. He wanted to. He craved it. How bad could it be? He was the way he was, and Ginny accepted that. He was a lucky man.

It was three days later that Harry came to the gay bar, having gotten off work early. He didn't really have a plan in place except some notion of a nice nondescript blond bloke to bring home with him, test the waters a bit. On some level, he realized this could turn into a train-wreck all too easily-- women were like that-- so he thought non-threatening and low-key were key points to keep in mind. Also bisexual, of course.  For this first time, he'd have to play it safe, have the other cock be present simply to satisfy Ginny's needs. It wasn't about Harry, that way: it was about the two of them having some variety to spice things up. Harry wouldn't have to do anything, and it would be like a free porno starring his girlfriend. He could wank to her sexy body and noises of pleasure; she'd feel powerful, sexy and in control. What was wrong with that? It was win-win. It was every man's fantasy.

It was Malfoy, sitting calmly in the corner, smoking. He didn't know Malfoy smoked, was Harry's first thought. His second thought, or rather unbidden split-second image, was to imagine Malfoy's penis  sliding wordlessly into Ginny that morning instead of his own. His third visual covered up Ginny's thighs entirely with Malfoy's bony hips in his mind, and Harry saw himself on top, giving it to him up the arse in sharp little jabs, making Ginny cry and clutch at Harry's arms. She looked a little uncomfortable, almost in pain from Malfoy's rapid pistoning, and it only made Harry's stomach stoop sharply, wanting to see her gasp louder. In his vision, Malfoy's face was totally invisible, with only the slick motion of his hips and the sweat on his back clear to Harry's mind. And then there was nothing but the sight of Malfoy's mouth in the flickering neon light by the bar, with his pale skin glowing a fierce, sharp blue.

Harry could never remember what he'd said, if anything, to get Draco Malfoy out of his seat and into the alleyway back exit. He'd probably said nothing. He vaguely remembered coming up to Malfoy's seat in the at the left corner, watching him nurse his drink meditatively until he snapped and defiantly met Harry's eyes.

"So. Cat got your tongue?" Malfoy drawled, but it was soft and lacked the usual sneer.   He knocked back his alcohol and stood, and Harry simply turned around and headed for the exit. It was that simple. He thought he could hear soft, measured steps behind him, but he didn't turn around until he was there.

This was like a dream, but not any dream Harry actually had about Malfoy. There was a surreal quality to their motions and the clarity of Malfoy's eyes on him. As soon as the door shut, they moved in unison, their lips sealing together in one inevitable swoop, as if drawn by down by gravity alone. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Harry observed and near-panicked, but his body had ideas of its own: they were snogging for only the second time ever, as if it was the most natural thing anyone ever did.  Malfoy poked his tongue in, testing his welcome, and heat shot thickly down to Harry's stomach in an instant. Distantly, he was embarrassed: was he some stupid virgin, or what? Malfoy's tongue had barely brushed against the side of Harry's own. None of the indignation mattered, and he only groaned and sucked slowly at Malfoy's lower lip. In a minute, he settled into the rhythm of it, and got comfortable as he gripped the other's arse, pulling Malfoy's body up his leg to settle against his hip.

Someone was moaning, and it was unclear whom; it wasn't just one person. Their flies were open and they fumbled at bare skin. That remained an afterthought, a secondary thing to the shock of swallowing Malfoy's spit. They kissed on and on, long after they'd come, and a bit after Harry started to notice the garbage and urine smell of the alleyway around them. It stank here.

At last, they slowed down and simply brushed each other's mouths together silently. There were no tongues, only the heat and silky feel of the shirt covering of Malfoy's chest and one of his legs sliding between Harry's, smearing congealing come between them where their zippers were open.

Malfoy mumbled something, licking at Harry's mouth something like a kitten: in tiny, precise vertical strokes.

"Nnnn." Harry sighed and offered his neck, which Malfoy obediently licked. His blood felt congealed, slowed with carnal pleasure. Of course, it never could disguise that current of bitterness that told him this was Malfoy. He was still sprawled languidly against the wall, barely upright with his cock half-hard and come smeared on a flash of pale belly. Harry pushed away from him, propping an arm against the wall as he hung his head and breathed out.

"I hear your father's old business associates may be looking for you. You should watch your back."

Malfoy's eyes focused, sharp and calculating. He snorted. "I'll make sure to remember that."

"I'm a cop, Malfoy," Harry said flatly. "I'm not trying to give you a hard time." He tensed up when Malfoy laughed dryly, not in a mean way.

"You don't give a shit about me, and that's fine. You don't have to pretend."

Harry's mood soured.  "Either way, you must know there's going to be a Muggle trial for one of them. They've just extradited Karkoroff's son from Romania, and the natives here are getting restless again. That arsehole has been supplying them with guns. The department can offer you protection if you play ball with us."

"Don't tell me." Malfoy raised a dubious eyebrow, giving Harry a bit of a nostalgic pang. "You were looking for my answer in my pants all along."

"Go ahead and mock me," Harry spat. "I'm only trying to reason with you like a normal human being. My mistake."

"You must have an angle on this, though. I mean, Jesus, Potter, you haven't even zipped up your trousers. Don't talk to me about reasonable with your dick hanging out."

Harry glared at him and grabbed at Malfoy's own cock rather than zipping up his own. "Yeah," he said roughly. "I've got an angle, sure." He gave Malfoy a jerk, watching him hiss through his teeth with satisfaction. "Yeah…." He gave a few more absentminded pulls, until he licked his lips, focus returned. "I know a slimeball like you isn't about to come running to the cops just because your daddy's old friends are restless. Hell, you may be considering getting into the business yourself. I heard the Malfoy fortune isn't what it used to be, and you're not exactly up for marrying your way into the black, are you?"

Malfoy paled, then flushed, pushing Harry away with such sudden force that he stumbled. Malfoy had never been physically violent, preferring to leave the dirty work to others. Now, he seemed to have forgotten he needed brothers Dull and Duller to do some damage, and sparks of barely banked violence sizzled the air between Malfoy's clenched fists.

"Something else you want to say, Potter? Go ahead. Make my fucking day."

"I want you to fuck my girl."

Harry didn't even see it coming. Next thing he knew, he was crashing into the wall, his head knocked back into brick with the force of Malfoy's punch. His ears rang, and he could feel something wet and sticky trickling hotly down his neck. He slid to the ground with a smile on his face, and he coughed weakly, tasting blood. He could only focus on the fact that Malfoy's cock was eye-level now, and it was hard as his own, an angry purplish red, pulsing with blood.

If only Malfoy hit him harder. They'd have both enjoyed it. Just like the good old days.

He shook his head and groaned, wincing. "That's one hell of a swing you've developed, Malfoy. Maybe I shouldn't have been worried. I'm sure you'll show those bastards a proper welcome without our assistance. Who cares about guns when you can stop bullets with your dick?"

They both looked down, and Malfoy gasped, turning around and fumbling with his zipper awkwardly. "Bugger! Why do you always have to-- ah! Bugger!"

"Did the zipper get you?" Harry asked mildly.

"Bloody hell, Potter, why do you have to be such an arsehole? What the fuck did I ever do to you? Leave me the hell alone! You can take your bloody protection and your girlfriend and shove them up your face, motherfucker!" He started down the alley to the street without another word.

When it hit Harry that he was serious, he shot to his feet, cursing at the stab of pain to his temple, and caught up with him right before the final dumpster met the street.

"Wait! Wait." He huffed. "Ow. Wait."

"What." He didn't turn around.

"Sorry. I mean, I was serious, I really think you'll need some back-up for a few weeks. Do me a little favor, and I can make that happen without you having to testify against that bastard. Otherwise, simply come to the station, give your statement and we can get you  set up. Come on, be reasonable!"

Malfoy turned around, completely incredulous. "You mean, you were serious? That's what you want? For me to fuck your little girlfriend? What the bloody hell are you on about?"

Harry flushed. "It's complicated, and it's none of your business, but me and Ginny are trying to work out an arrangement, okay. I'd rather it be someone I'm comfortable with than some stranger, so that's where you come in."

"Wait, wait, so you're comfortable with me fucking your precious pure girlfriend? Are you mental? Do you even realize how fucked up this is or have you become that delusional?"

Harry's mouth thinned. "Look.  It's pretty straightforward: I don't feel all that threatened by you getting any funny ideas or starting an affair with her, do I?" Harry was starting to feel a bit defensive in spite of himself, seeing the incredulous look failing to go down on Malfoy's face. "We've already gone pretty far in that direction already, that one time. It's not that different, just… the other way around. It's an easy deal. Think of it as relationship counseling if it helps."

"No, it doesn't bloody help! You-- I have no words for you! I never thought I'd say this, but I'm starting to feel pretty sorry for Weasley. I'm sure she didn't sign up for this."

Harry's fists clenched, his head smarted, and he was starting to think that perhaps this was a really bad idea. Maybe so, but damned if he was going to give up now.

"I'm not asking you to approve, am I? If you don't want to, that's your choice, but our relationship is none of your bloody business, Malfoy.  Stay the hell out. What matters is whether you want to be shot in the head from across the street by someone you'll never even see."

Malfoy didn't flinch, but Harry could see the slight narrowing of his eyes. He'd never been known for his courage. "I don't know nearly enough for them to simply take me out," he said, but it lacked force.

"You really may not know shit, but how sure do you think they are about that? They're not  your family: they can't know the reality of your relationship with Mr. Malfoy. They'll want to make sure to minimize risk, no matter what. And if you really don't know enough to be a good witness, the department   will still help you, but of course you won't be a high priority. You know how it is with budget cuts. My deal isn't so bad, is it? You may even enjoy it."

There was a pause. "When did you become such a crooked cop, Potter? What happened to you? I used to think you were an self-righteous little prick back in school, but I respected you."

"Shut up! You think you know me?" Harry took a few heated steps forward, till the streetlights hit his face. Malfoy was looking at him calmly, as if it was someone else who'd gotten a hard-on from trying to smash Harry's face in. "You always said we weren't that different," he muttered. "Maybe you were right." Malfoy's searching look only made Harry angrier. "I don't mean I'm some Nancy boy, all right? We both do what we have to do. If you don't get it, well then I don't expect you to."

"Christ." The startled look was still there, driving Harry up the wall. "You're seriously fucked up, man."

"It's you!" he yelled, unable to hold back the accusation anymore. "It was always you! It's your bloody fault  I'm like this, isn't it? It all started with that stupid mistake in sixth year, and it just never stopped. Who do you think is responsible for fucking me up, anyway? If I'm not the Golden Boy you're expecting, it's because I can't stop-- I can't stop-- fuck!"

He took Malfoy unaware, and banged him back against the dumpster, grabbing the other's head between his hands and devouring his mouth like he was a starving man. Grinding up against him mindlessly for long moments, he thrust his tongue in unconcerned by rhythm or pleasure,  until he tore himself away and ran without looking, only stopping five minutes later, in a  part of the neighborhood he needed a second to recognize. Luckily, he was in walking distance from the Tube.

Numbly, he made his way to the train, his mind empty of all thought and feeling as he stared out silently into the fast-moving dark.

It took four days for Malfoy to leave  a short message on his phone: "Don't make me regret this."

Harry got the voicemail  on his lunch-break, having settled down with his fish and chips and coffee by the fountain near the station. It was the sort of early spring morning that made one feel a little more energetic and hopeful: crowded but not too much so, slightly breezy and nippy if you weren't wearing layers, but generally warm for March in London. There was a vague scent of green things mixed in with the usual mixture of exhaust, pigeon poop and street-vendor curry. He repeated the message several times, and he still wasn't actually sure how he felt about it.

Here, in the brisk sunshine, wearing his uniform and thinking vaguely about his current caseload, having anything to do with Malfoy, or even thinking about his private life too deeply, seemed grotesque. Whoever it was that had done all those desperate things to keep Malfoy where he wanted him: that wasn't anyone Harry recognized as himself. His behavior towards his girlfriend was similarly unreal, and mostly ignored unless something forced him to remember. He twisted the phone in his hand, humming. He could simply ignore it. He should ignore it. No doubt Malfoy himself would be relieved. Further, he should call in a favor or two and set up a detail to follow Malfoy while the heat died down; it wasn't just for his sake: those arseholes would be sure to swarm around him like flies around shit. It only made sense to have Malfoy followed. In fact, Harry was going to do that regardless of Malfoy's decision, so the whole drama of asking him to choose was purely spur-of-the-moment theater. Theater he was at a loss to justify or explain.

It was a simple case of reason and common sense controlling his base desires, the ones which at this very moment, sitting in public with a coffee-cup half-full in front of him, conspired to tent his trousers. What he wanted wasn't what he should have. What he wanted wasn't even what he wanted long-term. It was madness to gamble his relationship and his self-control on purely momentary satisfaction.

So what Harry did next simply didn't make much sense: he called Malfoy from his work phone, where the message had gotten forwarded but which Harry reserved for outgoing work calls.

He called Malfoy from his work phone, with his trousers around his ankles, standing in a grotty park stall with his dick in his other hand.

He called Malfoy with only fifteen minutes to until he was due at his office, with the fish and chips left to cool on the metal table, and the coffee-cup emptied in one gulp, lying discarded on the ground.

At Malfoy's brief 'hullo', his breathing got choppy and he immediately asked him, low-voiced, grinding out each word: "What are you wearing?" Like some creepy street molester they'd pick up.

And it was all so filthy and creepy and wrong, so Malfoy's response was all the more striking: like a circuit closing, his breaths turned sharp in response. Then he told him: it was pyjamas and slippers,  a towel around his neck. What kind of pyjamas? It was his old plaid pyjamas, worn through with holes showing, since he was doing the washing today. Where is the hole? The breaths turned harsh: it was between his legs, right at the seam.  How did you manage to tear pyjamas there? He used to spread his legs as far as they would go, but the fabric would pull, and finally started to rip. What were you doing? There was a tell-tale slick sound for a response the first minute, but he answered: this. Just this? There was a slight gasp. You can tell me. Silence, with slight noises he couldn't quite hear over his own breath. Shit, tell me! His legs were spread wide and he'd been trying to stick it in. Stick what in? Come on, I'm so close! Fingers, he whispered. Good. Good boy, Draco. That's good. What about now? Bastard. A grunt, then: yeah. Oh yeah, I want you to remember this when you come inside her. There was a pause, a curse, and finally a disgruntled sigh. What? He'd lost his erection, and he was hanging up now.

Five minutes later, Harry was still sitting on the dingy toilet, head in his hands. How the hell had it come to this point? Any way you looked at it, Malfoy would've done it if he'd said it was a threesome. Hell, he'd done it already when he'd had to watch. It's not like Malfoy secretly wanted to this time; Harry himself didn't really want to. Rationalizations about what Ginny wanted aside, since Ginny likely wanted this to have been a bad dream, what he wanted was to fuck Malfoy himself. To be honest, he was just being a stubborn arse. There's no way he'd go back on his word now that he'd told Malfoy what he intended to get. He knew it, Malfoy knew it. At this point, his whole department probably knew it.

It would almost be funny if it didn't smell so bad here, and he wasn't late from his break and feeling peckish again.

When he called Malfoy again two days later, he was alone in his bed, and it was after midnight. He'd had trouble falling asleep, and called without thinking as soon as his mind inevitably turned to sex.

"What now." Malfoy sounded groggy, and there was a bit of a whine in his voice.

"What about doing it next weekend?" Harry said, surprising himself.

"Is that what you called me about at three in the morning? I'd have thought you'd try to convince me Her Majesty's Secret Service is after me this time, at least."

Experimentally, he didn't answer, and instead gave his cock a languid pull. There was silence at the other end of the line, and finally Malfoy spoke, sounding annoyed: "Don't tell me you want a wank at this hour, too."

Harry's mouth tightened. "You liked it well enough last time." Dear god, I sound like his boyfriend.

"Yeah, well, there are times I like chicken liver well enough, but then I realize I'm rat-arsed and likely to chuck up any second."

"Don't tell me you're getting shirty because of that one thing I said last time." Harry could almost feel Malfoy's eyebrow rise.

"I'm not getting bloody shirty, all right? Oh hell, you've woken me up in the middle of the night to ask me to roger your girlfriend for you, haven't you. And you know what? I can't be arsed."

"You-- you promised!" he sputtered.

"So? Do her yourself. If you're up for it. Now, I'm going back to sleep."  Malfoy hung up.

When he put it that way, Harry wasn't too sure why he wanted it himself anymore, but he supposed it mostly had to do with the fact that Malfoy was saying no. That was not to be tolerated.

He was pretty sure if he called Malfoy again, he'd lose any respect he may have, not to mention any self-respect. With that in mind, he set a team of two loyal department lads, wet behind the ears and eager to prove themselves worthy to everyone's favorite Scotland Yard prodigy,  Harry Potter.  He told them to make themselves  available to the bloke first, so he knew he's safe now, all that.

A call wasn't long in coming.

"You self-righteous tosser! Do you ever pay attention to what anyone else wants except yourself?"

"When I need to," Harry said mildly. "Don't try to pretend you don't appreciate having those boys at your back. Those two have a good field record, and those sweet dull faces must remind you of your old mates, eh? So how about we do it next weekend?"

Malfoy puffed a dry laugh. "Don't bother trying to play oblivious, you git. If you think I need-- no,  I deserve protection, that's police business, isn't--" Malfoy drawling tones got cut off with a sudden yell, and the line disconnected.

Harry called back again and again, and no one picked up, so he ordered a trace on the call and got a car to Beak and Lexington Street, which was hardly very far, being right at Piccadilly. When he saw a small ring of people clustered at the corner, his stomach dropped. He bit out orders to call for the medics,  jumping out of the car before it quite stopped.

"Police! Stand back!" Harry yelled, half-a-second before he would have started shoving. Instead of Malfoy on the ground, he saw the broad form of McAllister with Malfoy huddled over him. He was making an odd keening sound, but there was no obvious wound.

"Stand back, Mr. Malfoy," he said firmly. "You'll have to let the medics do their job. Olsen! Ford!"

While his lads took over crowd-management and kept the situation under control, Harry pulled Malfoy into the back of the car, shutting the door and asking some brisk questions. It was soon clear that Harry had been right on one thing: Malfoy hadn't seen it coming. He'd almost forgotten he actually had a detail on him until he heard the people's exclamations as the man threw himself on him, pulling Malfoy under as he dropped. Aside from staring at the blood on his hands with wide eyes, Malfoy wasn't much help.

"They shot at me, Potter!" Malfoy said for the fifth time. "I need a tissue. Do you have a tissue?" He raised wide grey eyes at him, blinking slowly as he held out trembling blood-stained hands. His starched white cuffs were stained as well. He'd have to make sure and make time to visit McAllister every night this week.  It was the least he could do.

"Right. Sit tight, I'll drive you to A&E." He didn't wait for Malfoy's okay and got in the driver's seat, phoning the department to let them know the change of plans as he wove in and out of traffic. The boss won't be happy, but no one would be surprised.

"I don't need a doctor," Malfoy said with a ghost of his usual peevishness.  "It's McAllister, Potter."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Right. You've gone into shock, but you don't need to worry. Everything will be fine."

"They would have killed me if not for McAllister," Malfoy said, ignoring him.

"I know," he said, but didn't touch him. He was torn, unsure he wanted to, sure Malfoy would either crumple or lash out, but regardless it would be wrong. Simple expressions of human kindness seemed wrong between them, he thought.

Harry found him crying only that time they'd duelled, before they'd started messing around sixth year, right after Mr. Malfoy's conviction. He remembered that Malfoy made a small gurgling sound before falling silent on the tile floor. He also remembered he didn't stay to watch. He'd only made it around two corners before he was stopped by Professor Snape, and the inevitable sequence of cause and effect was set in motion. It ended up with Harry sitting quietly in the Hospital Wing, breathing in and out slowly as he watched Malfoy sleep.

"I do hope you're reflecting upon your actions, Mr. Potter," Snape had told him. "You've got to learn you can't get away with everything. I daresay you've met  your match in Mr. Malfoy." After a hanging pause, he made a small clicking noise in his throat and nodded stiffly: "Then, good night."

Staring at Malfoy's frail body lying motionless, his taunting, sharp mouth relaxed in drugged sleep, Harry felt like he was suffocating. The resentment was too much. I could do for you before you wake up, you little fucker.

He'd never really know how he managed to stay in his seat, and not swing a leg easily over Malfoy's torso and let him get a taste of his own medicine. Then again, he wasn't that kind of bloke, was he? That's the whole point, arsehole.

It was likely because Malfoy was crying, even in his sleep. His mouth parted, those pale eyelashes fluttering like a newborn's…  who wouldn't want to stuff a pillow over their own face, so as not to look?

A part of him felt it was a test of sorts. The more he resisted the various black thoughts that came to mind, the better he felt about himself. The one that wouldn't leave him longest was probably the desire to push a finger into Malfoy's mouth.

Gag him. Make him wake up. Make him sorry.

Finally, at a point in time no different from any other, Harry got up and left without looking back.

His fists only managed to unclench and his breath to calm as he lay in his own bed, listening to his roommates snore in a homey symphony.

After that, Harry went out of his way not to look at Malfoy, not to speak to Malfoy, not even to think about Malfoy. It was a relief, really. He hadn't been himself for awhile, that was all.

Back in the car, Harry couldn't quite find it in himself to seize this moment. Malfoy being vulnerable awakened all sorts of bad memories. Looking over at him when they'd stopped for a red light, seeing him pale even for pasty skin, with his arms wrapped around his middle as he stared out the window… Malfoy cut a lonely, shrunken figure. Harry kept his hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead, breathing in and out.

The deep breathing returned when he sat at Malfoy's bedside again. This time it was nothing serious, but the doctor advised they keep him a few hours for observation. Of course this involved intravenous sedatives and "some vitamins", though who knew what that greenish-yellow liquid really was. It hadn't taken much to take Malfoy down, and he'd been under for over three hours now.

Harry hadn't noticed when he'd started absent-mindedly tracing circles around the injection site on the top of Malfoy's hand. It was a little soothing, and no one was around, so he continued.

It wasn't that he pitied him. Right now, he didn't even want him. He couldn't imagine something that would have normally been a no-brainer, like pushing up the paper gown and starting to suck. Hell, it may be better without Malfoy conscious enough to make inane commentary. Instead of pushing down the thin sheets, he straightened them, looking out the window at the anemic late afternoon sunlight. Inevitably, the room looked out onto skyscrapers, grey sky and cement, but there were birds out there somewhere.

"I hate the-- bloody-- smell," Malfoy said in a weak croak, then sighed.

"Yeah." Harry answered before fully processing, but then he jumped. He snatched his hand away guiltily, but Malfoy didn't appear to notice.

Harry got up awkwardly. He was here in an official capacity. "Let me know when you're ready to give a statement. I'll be around another hour. Just page the nurse."

"Don't go," Malfoy said, unblinking, and Harry twitched again. He had to fight not to fidget.

"The nurses are right here. You'll be ready to go soon."

Malfoy turned his head towards the window silently, his shoulders sharp and thin in that ridiculous paper outfit.

Harry swallowed, then made his way towards the armchair in the opposite corner by the window. He'd meant to go there all along, he thought.

"I'm going to get some kip," he said, trying to get comfortable. It was startlingly easy.

"Thanks," Malfoy whispered.

"I didn't do anything," Harry said, not opening his eyes.

"Mm." There was the rustle of paper as Malfoy turned over on his back again.

Harry was almost asleep for real when Malfoy whispered: "Do you really want me to?"

Only if you want to.

Only if you want me.

Harry never answered aloud; in a half-asleep state, all that came to him were scattered images from his fantasy scenarios. In some of them Malfoy was a woman, and in some of them Harry was the one being fucked. There were too many things he wanted, and too many things he wished he didn't, that were wrong, that were impossible, that made him sick.

In that space, it made sense to Harry that Malfoy's body was his body; his body was Malfoy's. He wanted to own it completely, to use it as if it was his own. In the darkest wish, he would also be used: Malfoy would need him, and would simply take him, and consume everything that's his. She's mine too, Potter, he'd say, smiling. And Malfoy's cock would be his cock, owned through owning Ginny in turn. Of course he'd know; Malfoy's body would know the secrets of Harry's body. He wouldn't need to say it, but he'd know, and that would destroy Harry. That would be the end, and as much as that would destroy him, Harry wanted-- needed-- Malfoy to know.

It made sense:  if Malfoy could do Ginny, then Harry, too, could be fucked. The ultimate wrong. It would only be fair.

You don't have a choice, Malfoy would say. You think this is your body now?

The worst would be when Ginny watched, as she did by the end of that montage.  Harry sobbed, his legs bent back all the way to his shoulders. Ginny wore a look of horror and pity; it killed him to have her see him like this: reduced to a shameless hole. She was his queen. He begged Malfoy to stop, please stop, but naturally, Malfoy didn't care what Harry said or wanted, though that was obvious. Throughout the sobbing and denials, Harry's cock twitched and spurted, dancing on its own.

Over and over, Malfoy took him, until Harry stopped caring about his audience or anything else. Over and over, until Harry no longer remembered who was fucking whom. One moment he was on his back, being raped, and the next he was the one holding Malfoy's shoulders down.

You little fucker! Beg me!

Yeah, Malfoy gasped, and suddenly he was grinding into Harry's hole, sneering. You like this.

It never ended.

Malfoy was there when Harry woke up, embarrassingly enough.

The window shone dimly from the office windows facing them, and Harry could see Malfoy's profile reflected in it.

Malfoy stood near him in still silence, leaning on the windowsill wearing an unfamiliar black turtleneck and tight jeans. His figure was remote, more severe than Harry ever recalled seeing it except at Mr. Malfoy's funeral. Harry had come in an official capacity, though at the time he'd wished he didn't.

"Has someone come?"

Malfoy frowned. "Mother, naturally. Who else would you expect?"

"And you didn't wake me?"

"You seemed tired," Malfoy said in a flat tone.

"It's up to me to make that kind of call, Malfoy. I'm on the clock here," he said, though of course that was a lie.

"Yeah. I should trust your judgment more," Malfoy said quietly.

Harry flinched. "You shouldn't. I'm sorry."

"I owe you."

"You don't," he said, feeling inexplicably tired. "It's my job."

At that, Malfoy turned to face him, eyes clear. It was obvious he'd been crying, but that simply made him more inaccessible at that moment.

Malfoy moved silently, straddled Harry's hips and ground down on his lap in a single light twist.

Harry blushed at his own immediate and blatant reaction, and something faint lit up in Malfoy's eyes before it was hidden, and he got up again before Harry could remind him where they were. It wouldn't have been very convincing, since Malfoy was so composed and Harry was already breathing hard through his nose.

"Your job."

"Yeah," Harry breathed, but he didn't tug Malfoy back down.

"So you want it, then?"

Yes. "What?"

"Your prize," Malfoy said evenly, as he was speaking to a child.

"Oh." Harry's lips twisted, as if he tasted something sour. "That."

"What, you thought I was offering to fuck you?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "That would be unprofessional, wouldn't it? You're just doing your civic duty, aren't you, Potter?"

He'd gone from cold to so hot it made him dizzy, but he wouldn't be humiliated. He had his word. He had a girlfriend. He didn't need Malfoy's arse on his cock when he could have anything of his girlfriend that he chose to have.

This was why, though. This was why he did those daft things, like taking out his tool in full view of several of his friends, that time, wanking until Malfoy couldn't stand it anymore. It was Malfoy; why shouldn't he spread his legs for Harry? It was obvious he wanted to. It was his fault, the way he was, the way he was never Harry's unless he forced the issue. He never made it easy. He'd liked to rub Harry's face in it, how much he wanted it, how much he could withhold. How many times had Harry had to look and not touch?

It seemed like his whole school career involved looking at Malfoy looking back at him. He'd never wanted this. Malfoy was a pathetic little bastard who wasn't worth his time. He didn't need him. He'd had brilliant mates. Ron's little sister was gorgeous. Malfoy was just this little creep who used to make grade-school taunts way past their sell-by date.

"Fine," Harry said, and got up. "Fine. Call me and we'll set up a good time."

He meant to leave, but instead he couldn't quite get past Malfoy without pulling him up against the wall, fastening his mouth on his neck and sucking hard till Malfoy hissed again.


He never said stop, though. He never said stop when it hurt.

part 3b
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mildlunacy: (Default)
the artist formerly known as lunacy

October 2012

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