"You didn't even try to stop her, did you?" His voice was low, almost smiling, quiet in that way that forced you to listen to him, no matter how angry you were. Quiet in the way that said he was about to say something unforgivable, again. "What's one fewer Weasley when the Boy Who Lived could have a chance at--"
His words sparked the rage that always lurked in the pit of Harry's stomach these days and, growling, Harry lunged towards him. Slammed him into the wall. Clenched his jaw, thought about saying You don't have a right to say that or At least I did something or maybe just Fuck you, Malfoy, but he'd said it all before and it never fucking made a difference. It was as though Malfoy was trying to provoke him.
Hermione would tell him to be the better man, to walk away, and he'd tried that, but Malfoy was under his skin--a disease--and he always came back to find Malfoy's face plastered with that mocking smirk that he couldn't wipe off. No, he wouldn't punch him. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
He slammed him into the wall again; a wince briefly crossed Malfoy's face. Harry dropped his hands to his sides, clenched his robes in his fists as though he were clinging to a ledge at the top of a tower. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn't know what he could say.
Malfoy's tongue, dusty pink and the only part of him that was not sharp at all, but delicately rounded, slid across his lips, coating it with a film of spit and watered-down blood. I did that, Harry thought, and shame and lust joined the anger still churning in his belly.
Malfoy shook his head, smoothed his robes over his shoulders, where Harry had wrinkled them. Raised an eyebrow. His face was flushed and his hair fell over his eyes. "What, not going to hit me this time?" he said, and Harry couldn't figure out if that was disgust or hate or disappointment behind his sneer.
This time. Said as though Harry should be ashamed, as though Malfoy didn't practically ask for it. But, god, he did feel ashamed. He couldn't be around Malfoy, shouldn't; it got worse every time. Harry got more frustrated every day Voldemort was gone, every day that passed with nothing important to fill it; Malfoy seemed to know better every day where to pick to make him fall apart.
"Leave me alone." The anger was receding but he itched to punch him. God, he hated himself sometimes.
"You came to see me."
"Fine. I'll go." He made his way to the door. He didn't hurry; he didn't want Malfoy to think--to know--
"Potter." Harry stopped. "Don't be a dick."
Then arms, bony and almost fragile despite the muscle, were around his shoulders. Thin, warm lips against his neck. The last of Harry's anger fell away.
"I'm sorry," he said, turning in Malfoy's arms.
"It's OK; it's not as bad as you--" Harry stiffened. "It's not as bad as it could have been." A smile on Malfoy's lips, earnest and, Harry thought, probably genuine, for once. Harry touched his cheek, arched up to kiss him tenderly. He could taste his blood.
"Sorry," he whispered again.
His words sparked the rage that always lurked in the pit of Harry's stomach these days and, growling, Harry lunged towards him. Slammed him into the wall. Clenched his jaw, thought about saying You don't have a right to say that or At least I did something or maybe just Fuck you, Malfoy, but he'd said it all before and it never fucking made a difference. It was as though Malfoy was trying to provoke him.
Hermione would tell him to be the better man, to walk away, and he'd tried that, but Malfoy was under his skin--a disease--and he always came back to find Malfoy's face plastered with that mocking smirk that he couldn't wipe off. No, he wouldn't punch him. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
He slammed him into the wall again; a wince briefly crossed Malfoy's face. Harry dropped his hands to his sides, clenched his robes in his fists as though he were clinging to a ledge at the top of a tower. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn't know what he could say.
Malfoy's tongue, dusty pink and the only part of him that was not sharp at all, but delicately rounded, slid across his lips, coating it with a film of spit and watered-down blood. I did that, Harry thought, and shame and lust joined the anger still churning in his belly.
Malfoy shook his head, smoothed his robes over his shoulders, where Harry had wrinkled them. Raised an eyebrow. His face was flushed and his hair fell over his eyes. "What, not going to hit me this time?" he said, and Harry couldn't figure out if that was disgust or hate or disappointment behind his sneer.
This time. Said as though Harry should be ashamed, as though Malfoy didn't practically ask for it. But, god, he did feel ashamed. He couldn't be around Malfoy, shouldn't; it got worse every time. Harry got more frustrated every day Voldemort was gone, every day that passed with nothing important to fill it; Malfoy seemed to know better every day where to pick to make him fall apart.
"Leave me alone." The anger was receding but he itched to punch him. God, he hated himself sometimes.
"You came to see me."
"Fine. I'll go." He made his way to the door. He didn't hurry; he didn't want Malfoy to think--to know--
"Potter." Harry stopped. "Don't be a dick."
Then arms, bony and almost fragile despite the muscle, were around his shoulders. Thin, warm lips against his neck. The last of Harry's anger fell away.
"I'm sorry," he said, turning in Malfoy's arms.
"It's OK; it's not as bad as you--" Harry stiffened. "It's not as bad as it could have been." A smile on Malfoy's lips, earnest and, Harry thought, probably genuine, for once. Harry touched his cheek, arched up to kiss him tenderly. He could taste his blood.
"Sorry," he whispered again.