Break So Badly
Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the Harry potter franchise, nor do I own the song Make Damn Sure by Taking Back Sunday.
Inspired by a challenge by my friend and little sister, Rina, who wanted this song written out in a story. I hope this works for you Rina-love!
"You are everything I want
'Cause you are everything I'm not"-Taking Back Sunday, Make Damn Sure
Draco Malfoy could not pin point what exactly it was that made him despise Harry Potter at the level that he did. Maybe it was the way the boy's hair always had to look ridiculous in its messy fashion, or maybe it was the round glasses that did not flatter bright green eyes at all perched on his nose. Maybe it went beyond appearances to the unwarranted fame that the boy was slathered in, and the popularity that the boy did not justly deserve. Maybe it was the entire story of Harry Potter's life that made Draco Malfoy hate him so much, even if the boy could not help it. It's not like Harry Potter would have wanted the dark lord to kill him that night but still, the fact remained that he had survived in the very noticeable atrocious scar on his forehead. Draco hated that scar almost as much as he hated the boy it marred. Why, of everyone in this world, had Harry Potter survived the killing curse?
Draco Malfoy did not believe in love. It was not his fault, really. He had grown up under the impression of his father, who believed that emotions in general were signs of weakness. And Lucius Malfoy hated weaknesses. So Draco had learned not to feel at all, and had learned only to view the world through blank eyes.
Until he had met Harry Potter, at least.
There was the root of it all; Draco just did not want to see it. The reason Draco Malfoy hated Harry Potter was not for his fame, for his rejection of friendship, or how he looked, but simply because Harry Potter was the only person who had the ability to make Draco feel something other than fear and pain.
Around the Boy-Who-Lived, Draco found himself start to live. Whether it be through insults, through laughter at Harry's expense, anger at that insults thrown back at him—anything at all, it made him feel so many things that he was not even aware of it all. All he could really see that in Harry Potter, he had met his match—not only in Quidditch but in insults, in spirit. But then, Harry was also so different from him that it was…fascinating.
Draco could not understand why Harry cared so much about every person; he could not fathom why Harry would let himself fall just to prove a point. He was annoyingly heroic and brave, two traits Draco could admit to himself willingly that he could never possess. He didn't want them. Because if he became heroic and brave, then he would be like Potter.
He enjoyed their differences too much.
He got thrills from being Harry Potter's enemy, because no one else was. No one else at Hogwarts dared to be. He was proud to say that he was the only one who had the guts to insult Potter to his face; proud of the fact that he knew that he could get under Potter's skin. He was the only one that ever could.
Through jeers and insults Draco began to get to know Harry Potter, and through a mutual hatred Draco found that his feelings for the boy—this boy who lived to frustrate him, bother him and downright intrigue him—began to expand into emotions that made Draco only loathe the boy more.
Why was it that now that he looked at the boy, he felt a wrenching feeling in his gut? Why was it that now that he looked into those emerald eyes, he could not look away?
He only knew that to make up for the strange feelings he had to get rid of them; that was what his father had always told him. Things did not just 'go away', but would only rest when they were acted upon. To ignore these emotions would only make them worse and Draco could not let that happen.
And so one day, after Quidditch practice Draco resolved to put an end to these strange emotions and tracked his rival down.
Luckily when he found Potter he was alone, wandering the corridors with his head down, his jaw working silently as though he were struggling. Draco could not stand the sight of him.
"Well if it isn't Potty," he called, swiftly blocking the other boy's path. Harry did not even look up from the ground at him; Draco felt fury that he could not see those green eyes. The boy could at least look at him!
"Potter!" he barked, stepping directly in front of the bespeckled boy until he could feel Harry's breath on his chin. He felt a chill that he passed off as disgust. What else could it be?
He was so close to Potter…
How close was too close?
"What is it Malfoy?" Potter's nonchalant voice responded, those Killing Curse eyes of his slowly drifting up to meet Draco's stormy ones. Calm into anger, green into grey. Grey eyes narrowed and flashed.
"What, can't I just bother you? Or do you think yourself too saint like to be bothered at all?" he sneered. Something inside of his gut twisted, as always, when he saw Harry's eyes flash with such intensity at his words.
Oh yes, all the passion Draco could never possess was right there, staring back at him. It made his throat tighten.
"It doesn't take much at all to be bothered by you Malfoy; even your face bothers me."
A twinge shot through his heart only to be coated in ice, frozen there, pierced in his heart. Frozen so that it remained; frozen so that he could not feel the pain of it at all. He has taken worse insults before, all from Potter; his heart is littered with gaping holes and tiny spears.
But he does not notice.
He prefers not to.
"The feelings mutual Potter," he spat back, the rivalry so natural on his lips. "You think I want to stand here looking at you?"
Potter leveled him with a cold look then, his intense gaze seeming to darken as suspicion joined the anger in his eyes.
"If you don't want to look at me, then why are you bothering me Malfoy?"
And there it was; the one question that Draco Malfoy found that he could not answer. The one question that really had no answer. He could not explain the feelings that squirmed under his skin whenever he thought of Harry; he could not stop comparing himself to the dark haired boy. It was perhaps the one thing Draco Malfoy could never really figure out through scheming and thinking alone.
The traits of a Slytherin would not work here, when Draco stood on such uneven ground before the boy he had thought only a year ago was the bane of his existence, and now…
"Malfoy are you actually speechless?" Potter smirked at him, and Draco was confused by the twisted feelings of hate and lust that spiraled through him at that look. He could only rely on his innate sneering skills and sharp tongue to save him.
"I just don't wish to waste anymore words on you Potter!" Why had he sought Potter out again? Everything seemed fuzzy; he could see nothing but Potter, still wearing that haughty smirk, still looking completely…
"Again, I repeat: then why did you bother talking to me in the first place Malfoy?"
Draco's mouth felt traitorously dry. "I told you—to bother you!"
To bother him how, exactly?
…Oh Merlin his thoughts were taking a turn for the worst!
Potter had the gall to just roll his eyes at him. "Whatever you say, Malfoy. Now, if you're done being a little pest, I'm leaving."
But Potter had not gotten more than a step before Draco's hand darted out and latched on to the sleeve of the other boy's robe, halting him. Potter stopped and looked at him with more annoyance now, his brow raised slightly; but Draco barely noticed. There was something boiling inside of him; something that was scratching at the surface as he looked down at his hand, clenched tightly around Potter's sleeve. He had not even meant to move at all, so how did this happen…?
His head was filling up with so much smoke, hazy in anger that Potter would dare try to walk away from him, and under the film of anger, plucked away with difficulty, there was something else, something that tangled him up in such a way…
A feeling that he hated; feelings in general squirming to the surface of his skin as he stared into that face he loathed, his other hand growing tighter and tighter on Potter's robes. And he thinks that this time, he will not let him go until all of these feelings are out.
Until Harry is broken down, along with all the feelings he brought with him.
"I hate you Potter," he sneered, all the malice a voice alone was capable of holding coming to the surface. "I hate you so much that I just want to—"
He cut himself off before he could say anymore and Potter starts glaring at him with eyes blazing as always, always blazing. They never stop.
"Tell me something I don't know, Malfoy," the other boy spat at him, "Why don't you grow courage and actually say all that you wanted to say. Or are you so frail you can't even express yourself?"
If there had always been one thing Draco Malfoy could not stand, it was to be insulted on his bravery. Sure, he knew very well that he did not have a lot of it; he was smart enough to know that when the going gets tough, the safest thing to do is just run, which he had done before. He was not exactly ashamed of it—after all, it had seemed like the smartest idea—but he would be damned if he let Harry Potter, of all people, mock him for it.
"I just don't want to waste anymore words on you, Potter," he snarled back. Despite his words, or perhaps in spite of, he could not let his hand fall from the savior's sleeve, keeping him where he was, where Potter was. He could not let him go.
Potter raised a brow, still smirking in that way that was slowly proving to make Draco insane. "Oh really? If you don't want to waste words on me then why aren't you letting me leave?"
And here Draco had hoped that the idiocy of the Gryffindors would kick in and Potter wouldn't notice that less than small detail.
Draco forced his best glare to his eyes as he deepened his sneer to as deep as it would go. "I refuse to let you turn your back on me, Potter!"
I refuse to let you walk away from me again!
Potter stared at him, his smirk falling in lieu of shock. Draco could not resist the stab of satisfaction that went through him, even though he was slightly embarrassed of his words. He really could not stand to see Potter just leave him behind as always, as though he were not worth any trouble; as though the severity of Draco's hate for him meant nothing…
Hate and the emotion that flits within it, trapped and smothered and just as passionate…
But he would show Potter, with his too bright green eyes and his perfect smug little smile. He will show him just what it meant to disrespect a Malfoy; he would show him just what it meant when a Malfoy felt.
Potter did not expect the fist that slammed into his face with a sickening crack. And although it hurt Draco's knuckles, to see the Golden Boy fall back and clutch his face with wide eyes more than made up for it. It nearly almost brought a smile to his lips before he found his sentiment returned tenfold, the rush of pain that filled his face almost glorious as he stumbled back, cursing as he felt his eye grow numb. Oh yes, it would definitely be black tomorrow. He glared at Potter and a dark bruise already forming on Potter's right cheek, slowly growing larger as he glared at it, and felt another staggering sense of satisfaction. Now when ever Potter looked in the mirror he would think of Draco, and know not to mess with him. He would think of Draco…
"What the fuck Malfoy?" Potter growled at him, reaching up to rub the dark stain of a bruise on his cheek. "What the hell was that for?"
"For simply being you Potter," Draco sneered back, "Does there have to be a reason to that? Anyway, you deserved it."
"I deserved it?" Potter repeated, outraged.
"Yes," Draco replied primly, as though Potter's rage did not bother him. "You turned your back on me. No one does that to a Malfoy."
Potter's eye twitched a little as his outrage only grew, mixing with a bit of incredulity. "My god," he hissed, "you really are the most egotistical being I've ever come across! And to have you know Malfoy, I have nothing more to say to you, so it would make sense that I walk away. After all, I really don't want to listen to you anymore than I already have."
Draco has never hated him more as that smirk returns to those lips, has never felt such fire in his veins as he felt then as Harry Potter turned away from him again. Again. Too many times, one time too many—his insides are knotted, his veins are tangled, and he had to suddenly, just had to, get rid of that smirk, get rid of Potter's pride, Potter's fucking effect on him. He just had to.
And so it only made sense suddenly, in the perfect sense that a breaking wall made, that his lips would be up against Potter's. It only made sense that the arch rivals meet on this level as well.
He ignores Potter's gasp of surprise as he moves in like a predator attacking it's prey, tongue hungrily seeking the other boy's to render him immobile, to taste and take all of him and not give it back. Never give it back.
He only grew rougher as he felt the hard body beneath his start to struggle, holding his grip tighter and tighter like an anaconda to its prey, hoping in time to squeeze the life out of it. What he got instead was much worse.
As his pale hand absently trailed harshly across Potter's cheek he pressed into the bruise that had so recently been formed there, feeling with sinister pleasure the body go rigid beneath his in what he hoped was pain. Sinister pleasure morphed into another kind of pleasure instead as, unexpectedly with a growl Potter came to life, and the lips he was ravaging were fighting back. Hunter to hunter, prey to prey.
In one swift move it was suddenly Potter pinning Draco to the wall as he ravaged the Slytherin's mouth, pressing the blondes body uncomfortably, savagely, unmercifully, between his hot hard body and the cold wall behind him. It was almost as though he were trying to crush him, break him. Draco barely noticed. He felt nothing besides the scrapes of Potter's teeth against his, the wet silkiness of Potter's tongue dueling with his in such complex moves it beat a Wizard's Duel any day. It was much more pleasurable too.
There were flashes of light, tingles, burns. An inferno he wanted to throw Potter in as he pressed him closer and closer, a passion that he wanted to end Potter with. Draco was too close to the flames, that passion, himself to realize that he too was standing within them. Right next to Potter, as they broke one another down through tongues and guttural groans and hands clawing over hot flesh. It was a whole different mind game now; or was it a mind game at all?
There were no longer any minds at all, only bodies pressed flush against another, only heat and primal feelings that swept Draco away, left him dizzy, left him fighting. But then, with Potter he was always fighting, wasn't he?
When Potter pulled away from him to gasp in breath harshly, Draco relentlessly followed his lips. He would let Potter asphyxiate himself so long as his lips were still on his. Who needed to breathe when there were so many other things? Things that not even he could completely understand.
And Potter just had to make it all worse by, between the wet pull of their lips, muttering his name. His name. "Draco…"
His actual name; not Malfoy, not ferret, not git, just Draco. In a place within him that under Potter's lips was unfurling, he felt a stirring that shook his entire core. A shockwave that was so intense it burned, too close to his heart, too close to his soul, his everything—
He was feeling. He was actually feeling something, and it was not hate, or bitterness, or resentment. And it always was Potter who made him feel it—no one else.
Potter was pressing into him, into him more and more and more so that he could feel more than just the lines of that hard body, that impressive erection—
So close that he could feel every beat of Potter's heart, and it matched his own, nearly beat for beat. Beat for beat. That more than anything finally snapped through the cloud of lust he had been drifting through, hitting him like a blow to the body as, gasping, he yanked himself away from the other boy to stare at him with wide, unseeing silver eyes.
"Oh my god," he whispered helplessly to himself, staring at the panting Potter. "What have I done?"
He did not stick around to wait for Potter to talk to him, or hex him, or do whatever he was planning. In an instance he was doing what he had always done best, running away from this new problem that arose and not once looking back.
He did not see the dark green eyes watching his back the whole way to the Slytherin common room, hollow and hungry.
That night Draco dreamed of red. He dreamed of a bed of red, a sea of silky blood that washed over him infinitely. And amongst that violent red, he saw eyes of an emerald green, watching him, touching him in burning caresses that made the red even brighter, vibrant, as it cloaked him completely. They were lying together and yet they were too far apart. And Draco thought, with a start, that he wanted to close the distance between them, just reach out across the red and—
He woke up trembling with a name on his lips that he dared not utter. Sitting up in bed he could only stare down at his faintly trembling hands and wonder why this was happening to him.
And then remember again and again the feel of soft lips and know that it was his entire fault in the first place.
He did not fall back to sleep; instead he could only close his eyes and shiver all night at the feeling of kisses that were no longer there.
The next day saw Draco tripping over everything. Well not really everything, and not all the time; he found himself tripping over everything Potter said—only always Potter said—and stumbling over his own feet whenever those green eyes flashed on him.
Which, he happened to notice, they flashed on him quite a lot.
Not that he was looking or anything. No, the mere sight of Potter made his stomach twist in what he preferred to think of as disgust. It could never be anything else. He told himself repeatedly throughout the day that he had just kissed Potter in the first place to psyche the other boy out—it's not like he had wanted to kiss him without a purpose or anything. He just wanted to fuck with Potter's mind, but he never had thought that his mind would end up fucked over too.
And it was, as usual, all Potter's fault.
With that in mind, and all other aspects pushed cruelly to the back corners of his conscious, Draco forced himself to meet Potter's green gazes towards the end of the class. He forced himself to look over at Potter and, like the great bastard he knew he was, smirk at him victoriously.
He was trying to make Potter believe that the night before had always been under his control and the kiss they had shared had all just been a plot to embarrass Potter. He was trying to make it seem that way, but Potter—the destroyer of all of Draco's plans—did not seem to be buying it for a second.
In hindsight Draco supposed that there was countless evidence that proved him wrong; not only had Draco been the one to freak out and run away last night, but he had not told any of his Slytherin cohorts. Why hadn't he told them?
Was it because he was embarrassed? That seemed highly unlikely. He could have easily lied and told them all that he had suffered the worst kiss at the hands of Harry Potter and watched them all have laughing fits over it. He could even tell them that Potter had initiated the kiss just to further embarrass the golden boy. By morning the whole school would have known, and Potter would have been far too embarrassed to keep flashing his bright eyes in Draco's direction.
But that night when he returned to the Slytherin common room, he found that he could not say a word. He walked right by them all, straight to his room, and although he thought about telling them, a cold sensation in his heart stopped him. It was too cold.
His body was tingling, his lips moist as he climbed into bed, falling into the familiar green silken sheets. Sheets a shade darker than Potter's eyes. Not that he noticed; no, he was not thinking that, he was not thinking that at all.
He shut his eyes and was tormented by the feel of soft lips pressed against his. His heart sped up in his chest, his muscles twitched. And in his sleep, his lips moved to form a name that even in his subconscious was always there.
It was only a matter of time until Potter caught up with him. For an entire week Draco had endured Potter's eyes on him, following him throughout the day, straying wherever he went. More than once he knew that Potter had tried to talk to him; he had seen him try to approach him through the throngs of students in the hallways and had ran from him. Perhaps it was not the bravest thing to do, but he was a Malfoy; and at this point, he could even admit that Malfoys were a little on the cowardly side.
But it was not like he was afraid of Potter. No, he was just unsure of his standing with the Gryffindor since the…mishap. The mishap that should have never, despite the wild beating of his heart whenever he thought back to it, have happened.
In fact, it had not happened at all; Draco could have almost convinced himself that that really was the case if not for Potter's eyes following him around everywhere. Those Killing Curse eyes…
Stupid Potter, he had to ruin everything, didn't he?
Potter just couldn't leave it alone. It had just been a mistake; there certainly was no reason for Potter to suddenly become so…obsessed with him. No reason at all for all the stares, the followings, the attempts to talk to him…
No reason at all.
But Potter, the bloody Gryffindor, eventually did give him a reason. A reason which Draco could not avoid when one day after Potions he found himself pulled rather violently by the arm into a nearby empty classroom. His shout of surprise did not alert the slow witted Crabbe and Goyle in time, and with a slam and a muttered spell—said in a frightening familiar voice—the door was locked and sealed shut; no one could get in, no one could get out.
Alas it was time. Keeping his eyes trained resolutely on the dark wooden door as though he gaze alone could open it, Draco stood stock still, barely breathing really as next to him he felt his arch rival shift, felt hot breath skim his cheek. Potter had yet to let go of his arm and it was a heavy weight against him, pulling him down. Pulling him closer to a warm, hard body—
Memory could be a cruel thing. It could hold bad memories just as well as it could hold good ones and some times, just some times, it was hard to tell the difference between the two.
Draco's mind was assaulted with the memory of how Potter's body had felt against his, how perfectly it had slid across his own, so tight and hot and hard… He could remember Potter's scent, so musky and spicy, so tasty that is seemed almost to be edible…
But it was not just a memory anymore. Potter's body was suddenly right there again, against his as though it had never left, so warm and solid and real that Draco knew that this could not be one of the dreams he had been continually having. Potter's scent once again wafted up to take his mind and set it ablaze as he moved closer and closer, and was the hand on his arm moving up further and further?
The sensations were playing with him, scattering trails across his mind that made his body tingle and the muscle in his chest twist and turn with spasms. He was frozen as scalding lips met the skin of his neck, skin suddenly so hyper sensitive that the feel of those soft lips roving all over was all he could feel. And, really, all he wanted to feel.
But Draco Malfoy was never one to let the basic instincts take over. The strange fluttering in his chest, the swirling in his brain that he had never felt before—they were both the perfect things to draw him from his lust, that thorny thing that was digging into him deeper and deeper, especially as he gathered enough strength to turn and face his assaulter.
He could just barely resist a moan at the…sight Potter made. His green eyes, the eyes that Draco hated, the eyes that he could not look away from, could not avoid. Eyes he could never hide from. They stripped him bare, the darkened lust in them torturing his mind, his body, everything he dared to believe was apart of him. And the way those eyes stared at him, as though they were devouring him whole…
The will to speak was all but effectively lost, but the Malfoy pride that always lurked under the surface and the fierce reminder in the pit of his mind that Potter was his rival managed to unstuck his tongue. Looking Potter straight in those dark eyes as well as he could, Draco decided that a few important things needed to be answered before things went on.
Not that he would allow things to go on…
Potter was…
"Potter what do you think you're doing?" Okay, so even Draco could hear the slight tremor in his voice. But still, it was better than nothing. Although, by the way Potter's eyes seemed to darken even more at his words, Draco was starting to wonder if he should have said anything at all.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Potter all but purred, and Draco barely restrained himself from jumping back in surprise when he felt a warm hand glide over his collarbone. Trying his hardest to repress his shiver, Draco took a large step back away from Potter.
He told himself in his mind that this was just another battle between them, and Draco was determined to win; he should have known that stupid, confident, stubborn Potter wouldn't let him. He never did.
As he backed up a step Potter took two steps forward, covering up the ground Draco had made until he was nearly flush against the blonde again. His eyes were practically glowing in his face just like they did when they fought, Draco could not help thinking. But this was a fight of an entirely different nature and, try as he might, Draco could not seem to forget that.
His mind was tripping all over the place as he stared into the eyes in which he could all but see all of his weaknesses. They burned back at him, everything unspoken and everything forbidden, in the face of Harry Potter. In everything Harry Potter was. He was shaking at the thought.
"What do you want from me?" he found himself whispering into the face of his weaknesses, into the face of his enemy. Potter's presence took up the entire room and made it suddenly impossible to breathe. "Potter, what do you want?"
So simple. They had never asked one another anything before; only demanded it. Draco had kissed Potter in the hopes of seeing a weakness in him, in the hopes of breaking him down; but here he was, a week and a half later, doing exactly what he had intended to do to Potter. Everything was crumbling around him in a way only Potter ever managed to do—only this time, no words were needed. No insults, no fierce glares and shouts of hatred. Just one look, darkened by a lust Draco did not—could not—entirely conceive, and he was done for.
Potter always won and as Potter's lips drifted closer to his own, those green brimming eyes that seemed to reflect everything, Draco's most obvious weaknesses drew closer, Draco suddenly had the wild thought that it did not matter anymore if Potter won. It did not matter at all.
"What do I want?" Hot breath hit his lips, trembling and waiting for the soft pair that matched them to crash into them. "What do you think I want Malfoy?"
Somewhere Draco knew the answer; it was always the answer when it came to them—Potter and Malfoy, so passionate in their hate for one another, always after only one thing—
Against Potter's lips Malfoy's lips curved into his familiar smirk. "To break me down."
Lips met, meshed, clashed and fell apart and it was perfect, it was so passionate that Draco's heart pounded, that his entire body seemed to lift. It was only ever Potter—who made him feel, who made him fight, who made him think. And it was only ever Potter who could blast through the walls of his control, blast through all the lessons his father had ever taught him, all the things he believed were true but could never be anything but far, so far, from the truth that was never there.
He had felt things more than hate for Potter, and he felt them bubble back up inside of him as against his enemy he pull him closer and closer, too close and yet not close enough. Walls crumbling, walls forming; lips screaming insults, lips spreading passion. One was the other and yet they were the same as Potter seemed to hollow him out with his hands, his lips, and fill him back up with new things, break him down, break him around. Break him so that he was irreparable.
Somewhere in the fumbling of clothes, in the ripples that filled the spaces that had been so empty before inside of him, he saw a flash of green eyes and words whispered against his skin, so softly that Draco barely caught it. "I've wanted to break you down so badly, for so long…"
And somehow through the kisses and touches and fire Draco met those green eyes evenly, darkened always for him, only ever for him. "Me too Potter," he rasped through shaky breaths in a shaky world, just before Potter took him under. "Break me."
Break me free; break me down; break my heart until I can feel you, I can feel you, and set me back together again.
"Draco, I'm never going to let you get too far from me…" Against his skin, into his heart. A deep voice, strong hands, green eyes. "I can't let you go."
Emotions, breaking free in bursts of pleasure, in the flicker of green and a voice whispering his name, always his name to fill up his heart, fill up his grave.
Draco remembered how it had all started, how they had ended up here, coming together on the floor of an unused classroom. He remembered in flashes of white the way he had not let Potter walk away from him, how he could not let him go; and he knew that the feeling—this passion, this burning in his chest, he was not going to let go of anytime soon. Into Potter's mouth he moaned his consent.
Predator had become prey; prey had become predator. But was that really the end? Back and forth, back and forth they were breaking apart, opening up, laying together. So close, so close.
Draco clung to Potter as he felt sweat slip down his face. Or was it sweat at all? Draco did not know that he was crying, but Potter did. But Harry did. Harry always knew, he always saw. The enemy who knew his enemy always saw, and Harry kissed the tears away.
Every last one.
As Harry held him close, sinking him deeper into his side, Draco could only think of one thing—there were worst ways to fall.
Hmm, I like it, although in some parts I confused even myself, haha. But I'm really just happy it's finished, this was hard to write because it's a vague song! But thank Rina for my inspiration!