Summary: h/d slash. Harry and Draco have a fight that is interspersed by second person stream of consciousness. Can be seen from either’s POV. You choose.
Disclaimer: These characters are being held captive against their will by JKR and WB and Scholastic and all those other %*#^-ing corporate entities. I am just taking them out for a walk in my twisted little land of slash. I promise to return them safe and sound in one piece with mostly everything intact. (Expect maybe their virginity…)
Author’s Note: The stream of consciousness can be seen from either’s POV. You get to choose. If it makes you feel better, read it twice, and think about each of them one time.
In the middle of the charms corridor, a scene was unfolding. Harry and Draco had been walking in opposite directions towards each other until they halted a respectable distance away when they saw the other.
“Potter,” Malfoy nodded with exaggerated pleasantry and blocked Harry’s way. He pretended to accidentally sidestep in the same direction as Harry when Harry kept trying to get around him and feinted innocence and surprise at Harry’s growls of frustration. He knew it was immature, but it was amusing. Actually, it was more like essential. Like if he didn’t cause trouble with Harry, the world would somehow stop turning on its axis.
“Malfoy, absolutely delighted to see you too, old chap. Now get the fuck out of the way and leave me alone,” Harry replied with little humor. He knew it was immature; he shouldn’t have flared up and lost his temper, letting Malfoy get to him so easily, but Malfoy always did, always seemed to have this effect on Harry, always knew how to rub Harry the wrong way, knew which buttons to push to have Harry at attention.
“Ahh, Weasel and the Mudblood, right on time,” Draco sneered as Hermione and Ron came around the corner. “Can’t go anywhere without your little entourage, can you? I expect the rest of the fan club to be showing up any second now.”
Harry snorted indignantly, “Like you can talk. I thought poor ikkle daddy’s boy couldn’t even use the bathroom by himself, without those lumbering masses of what I suppose are human beings there with you.”
By this time Ron and Hermione had already drawn their wands, and Crabbe and Goyle had pushed up their sleeves quite dramatically. But Harry and Draco didn’t need to draw their wands, because both already had them whipped out from the outset. And a crowd was already gathering.
Harry and Draco simply couldn’t pass each other in the halls without causing a scene.
// They say there’s a fine line between love and hate. Huh, more like lust and hate.
I can’t remember when I realized this, I can’t remember when I first got hard after one of our many altercations, but I remember that when I was younger, at night I would lie there behind the curtains in the bed and go over every little interaction that between us that day. And I would always end it with me on top of you on the ground, pounding your face to a pulp and ripping your robes and all. Nowadays, I still imagine you as being on the ground under me, but it’s a different reason why I rip your robes off and a different kind of pounding that I do.
The hat thought I was suited for Slytherin. Indeed. I can’t even separate my hormones from my previously actual rational and productive thoughts.//
“Daddy’s boy, eh? At least I have a father who wasn’t stupid enough to get murdered,” Draco raised an eyebrow and looked bored.
“That’s because your dad was too fucking busy licking Voldemort’s arse all the time! I’d say it was another habit you picked up from the Malfoy side, but frankly Narcissa isn’t half bad at it either,” Harry growled.
“Licking Voldemort’s arse? Potter, I never knew you were into such things. Although that can be arranged, if you want,” Draco said amusedly.
“Malfoy, even for such a sick fuck as yourself, that is really too fucked up. Next time, keep your perverted fantasies to yourself,” Harry yelped indignantly.
Draco countered, “Potter, even for such a hormonal, unstable person as yourself, there is really an upper limit to how many times you can use the word ‘fuck’. In the future, please spare us and do try to keep your perverted fantasies to yourself.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully and said, “Or is that some kind of Freudian slip? Are you trying to compensate for your abysmal lack of getting any?” Draco broke Harry’s personal space as he stepped forward and peered into Harry’s eyes, mockingly imitating a psychiatrist and coming scarily close. His silky voice rang out, “What other little secrets are we repressing here?”
//I do nothing but watch you all day long, but subtly, carefully, so that no one, not even my two best friends, notices the lust. And if they do ask me what I’m looking at, I tell them the truth. That I’m glaring at you. And they nod and accept that and don’t try to discuss it further because they know I’ll get snappy and also because hating each other is what we’ve been doing from Day One, we’ve always done that, and it’s old habit by now. It’s old habit to eat my every meal and watch from across the Great Hall what you put in your mouth. It’s not hard to determine what your favorite foods are, and it’s become automatic for me to judge how effectively they would disguise the taste of poison and record that in my memory. But that’s before my mind turns to noticing the obscene way you unconsciously lick the rim of your goblet and, oh gods, think how would it feel for you to rim me.
From my perch in the back of the class, I’ve made a careful study of every detail of your appearance from the back. I’ve memorized the exact way you hold your quill and how you stroke the feathers thoughtfully between your lips and unconsiously lap up any ink that splatters on your hand, storing away the fact that you seem to have no qualms about ingesting unknown fluids, but then I turn to thinking how that would feel when you’re sucking me off. I see from behind how you unroll the parchment with your right hand, not bothering to use your left very much even for the most basic of things. Weakness there, your avoidance of your left hand. You’d think the house Quidditch star would be more ambidextrous. Well, when Voldemort comes back, I’ll remember the fact that you’re dependent on your right side, because right now I’m busy wondering about how skilled your right hand really would be and how it would feel working all over my body and then finally slipping down to finish me off.
And I am so hard in my robes in the middle of a lecture about Cruciatus, but when the teacher calls on me, I still manage to give the right answer, since I know more about that curse than you can ever possibly imagine, and I see you turn around and glare at me. And all that hatred radiating from those rare colored eyes doesn’t wilt my erection; instead, it shoots to straight between my legs and only makes me harder. I whisper an obscurity charm at my lap, so the two sitting on either side of me won’t notice my hand slipping inside my robes and jerking off. I’m used to doing this in our classes by now, and besides, why would I need to pay attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts anyway?//
Harry shoved Draco back roughly. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Then you could finally have something to jerk off to besides thoughts of ugly pugly Pansy?”
Draco cast an encasing charm around the two of them, so that Mudblood and her stupid boyfriend couldn’t send any interference their way. Neither could Vince and Greg come charging through and get finished with Potter before he had his turn. He really could not stand being shoved. No one shoved a Malfoy without getting some back.
He pulled his arm back and belted Harry in the mouth. Both their wands clattered to the ground and rolled to the side unnoticed. By now, the two were taking swings at each other, but both had managed to step aside and dodge the blows until Harry came charging at Draco and knocked him flat on the ground. Draco struggled valiantly underneath Harry, but Harry had pinned both of his arms above his head to the ground, and Draco could do nothing but buck up to try to throw Harry off. And then they both froze. And looked to the side where their wands had rolled. And undeniably knew exactly what they were actually poking each other with in their lower halves.
//But at the end of the day, that’s all I’m left with. My little jerk-off fantasies and memories of views of you from behind. Huh, didn’t anyone ever tell you to never turn your back, because that presents a convenient opportunity for someone to stab you? And never let your enemy become as familiar with your back as I have become, letting them see your every weakness. But even if I could stab you in the back – and with all that I know of you, you wouldn’t stand a chance – I wouldn’t.
Although in another sense, I would. I would have you on your stomach, streaming sweat down your back and covering in bite marks. You would turn around and grasp my cock to slick me up smoothly, and catch one last kiss before burying your head into my pillow. And then I would stab into you, enter you, penetrate you. Would you be a virgin, saving yourself for me? That’s probably unlikely, considering the amount of girls and boys who frequently throw themselves at you. But here, in my lonely little enactments by myself, you are. You are as tight as fuck, and it feels as good as fuck, both knowing that I am your first, as well as physically.
And then I would back out, cock oozing delightfully, and I would do it again. And again. And you wouldn’t so much as stand a chance. You would be screaming and crying and shuddering and slamming your hips back into mine, to feel how deeply I could pierce you. You would have your hand wrapped around your own cock, to pump hotly into the mattress. And then when I come, gushing heatedly inside of you until you think you can feel it flowing up your throat and into your mouth, you come too, not a second later, and the firm clenching of your muscles around me squeeze every last drop out of my balls until I think I’ve been milked completely dry.
And then when I collapse on top of you, you slide out slowly from under me, and we lie there, you with your arm wrapped around my shoulders and stroking my hair and whispering promises into my ear of how much you hate me and always will. And I nod sleepily off, thinking about how much I hate you too.//
They both stopped struggling suddenly, and Draco pressed his advantage. He bit Harry on the neck. Painfully.
Harry practically screamed, “Get the fuck off of me, you – you – arrh, just get off!” Draco was right. He really did have trouble thinking of things to say without using the work ‘fuck’.
Draco hissed at Harry, “Has the sudden blood rush somewhere else deprived your brain from functioning properly? Need I point out that it is you who is on top?”
“Good observation, Malfoy. I top.” Harry blushed. He didn’t know why that came out and decided to roll off of Malfoy before he made things even worse. They both stood up and brushed themselves off with incredible calm. Harry bent over to pick up their wands and handed Draco’s back civilly.
Draco looked at him with almost a look of surprise, but Harry doubted his facial expressions could change that much, at least not in public. Harry just smiled innocently and said, “I think you should take better care of your wand in the future, Malfoy. It seems to be suffering from poor use.”
Draco said mournfully, “Yes, I agree. It does seem to have undergone rather horrific indignities,” and added a pointed look at Harry’s wand.
Harry decided not to shoot back a comeback to humiliate Malfoy more over his interesting reaction, when he realized that Malfoy would just reciprocate and draw attention to Harry’s similar predicament, and Harry was already sufficiently embarrassed.
They both broke the encasement charm when they stepped back out at the same time to stand by their friends, who were wondering how the how the fight had ended without intervention or death, and what was going to happen next. How would it end? Was it over now?
Well, it wouldn’t be, not until one of them walked away first.
//You pass me in the halls, and you pretend you don’t feel it. You pretend the air isn’t sparkling with the charged energy between us, you act as though I mean nothing more to you than the dust you walk on. Oh, but you do feel it. I know you feel it too. And yet every time you turn your back. You walk away from me, leave me. I’m probably more familiar with your posterior view than the back of my own hand, so used to seeing it I am. All those times you up and turned away and left me to glare at your receding figure as you saunter away with your two lackeys. And then also all those hours and hours I spend staring at the back of your head in classes, tuning out Binns’ droning and McGonagall’s intonations. Well, it’s not really like the conscious act of tuning stuff out, it’s more like that everything else fades to a murmur and blurs into the background whenever you’re there. You dim everything else in my perspective. Voldemort could show up right then and there to whisk me away, and yet all I’d be registering in the room was you.
You can try to deny it, you can try to walk away. But that’s not going to work forever. Because you can’t deny it. You know it as well as I do. You belong to me. You are mine. In our past, as of now, and for forevermore. And someday, I’ll have you. I’ll have you exactly where I want you. And you won’t be able to turn away from me anymore. Not at all.
But then you wouldn’t want to, anyway. //