Title: For Love of the Game
Rating: R to be safe. Smutty boysex, foul mouths.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Notes: Written for Taylor, who wanted destructive H/D.

"What do they say, Ron?"

The other boy riffles through the book, blinking away drowsiness from the heavy air. Three cards lie face-up on the little table before him, and three cards are before Harry.

"Er, well, this bloke," he points to the Knight of Swords, "means either skill or bravery, or war and destruction. And that's your past."

"I hate it when it's this obscure."

"Yeah, really. And then that one," it is the middle card, "means you're on a journey."

"Huh."

"And this means..."

"Oh, my dear!"

Trelawney hovers over their table, peering with great anxiety at Harry's tarot cards.

"You have the Hanged Man!"

"She gets you every time, mate."

Parvati leans over and says, "Oooh!"

Lavender shivers and whispers, "Suspension, the card of the Dying God, self-sacrifice."

In divination, everything is always about death.

-

"You're going to die, Potter. Aren't you scared?" Malfoy corners him at the bottom of the stairs. Harry's almost glad that he told Ron and Hermione to go on ahead; he doesn't want Ron to care, he doesn't want Hermione to give him advice to do things he's going to do anyways.

"No. It's just the stupid hanged man." He doesn't even know why he responds. He should know better, right? Maybe it's just habit.

"Exactly. Self-sacrifice - you're such a fucking martyr. You know what else it means, Potter? Revision, being stuck in a dilemma. Self-denial. Do you believe in that divination shit?

"No," Harry lies.

"Well, you should."

-

"You wish I were him, don't you, Potter. That disgusting dirty mutt. Wish he was here instead of me." Harry glares and yanks fine blonde hair and scratches red lines down Malfoy's throat, but Malfoy just smirks and grips the other boy's thin shoulder harder, fingers digging in.

"You're sick and perverted, you know that, Potter? If they could find a body, you'd still be lusting after it."

Lies, all of them. Harry would like to say that, to shove those words down that throat, but he just doesn't. He's not sure he can.

-

He'd like to divine the lines on those palms, or read who Malfoy is by running calloused fingers through that slick blonde hair, finding bumps on his skull.

"Honestly, Potter. Do you expect to find anything out from those, other than the fact that Quidditch practice is a bitch?"

"I knew that, wanker."

"Then stop with the head thing, prat. I want you to pay attention to my other one. Move south."

Harry would like to find what it is that makes him the way he is. He's not sure if he'd destroy it or worship it; these habits are hard to break.

-

"Fuck," he says, and it's the only word he can think of. Sensation explodes within him, and there's no distinguishing between pleasure and pain, there's just something attacking that bundle of nerves and he's going to die, die even though he'd thought he was already dead. It's not good or bad, it's just raw feeling, and it is the most alive he has felt in days. "Fuck."

"You've got that right," Malfoy hisses in his ear as he slams into him again and again. "I'm going to screw you until you don't know who you are or what your name is."

Harry would be grateful for that, but he knows it won't happen. This is punishment, and punishment doesn't bring good things.

-

What the hell do you think you're doing, is what Harry would like to say. He could be indignant, and disgusted, and push him away, except it's far too late. Neither of them knows who instigated this, whatever the hell it is, but then again neither of them wants to be the one who is laughed at and grabbed again and humiliated.

Something tells Harry he has nothing to lose in saying it, saying something, but he doesn't listen, because he's still got everything to gain.

-

"Why me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter."

"Yes you do. Why me? Why aren't you victimizing someone else? Blaise? Or, or Seamus, Terry, Ernie - Ron even."

"Stop blithering."

"Why, then?"

Malfoy shoves him up against the wall, and uneven stones dig into his back painfully. "I love it when you get so angry and flustered. You're so fuckable then." He breathes hot down Harry's neck, biting, and oh god it burns, it burns. He tries shoving Malfoy off, but his arms feel weak and he doesn't know if he cares enough. There are bigger things to worry about.

-

Hermione catches him alone in the Room of Requirement, just after a DA meeting.

"Is anything wrong, Harry?"

She's noticing the bruises around his wrists, the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the hollowness of his voice.

"What, you mean other than Voldemort plotting to kill us all?"

"Harry, it's not that, it's just those –"

"I'm a little stressed right now, okay? That's all. And Quidditch. You know."

Harry brushes past her and out of the room, down the darkening stone hallways. Sometimes he wishes she didn't care so much. He doesn't want to answer those questions; he doesn't want the thing with Malfoy to be real, except sometimes it is the only real thing he has.

-

"Why do you even bother?"

"With what?"

"Me."

"I'll tell you."

Cold now, dark, his silhouette against the pale, lightening sky.

"You're easy power. Any minute, I could hand you over to the Dark Lord. The Killing Curse, Morsmordre, and it'd be chaos in Hogwarts, and a victory for me, and the Dark Lord."

Harry's head feels light, he's dizzy, he doesn't know what he's gotten himself into.

"What's stopping you?"

Malfoy's smirk is audible.

"My mother always says, play for the love of the game. It's not the goal," and the pale, naked figure bends down to pick up his wand, "it's the journey."

He points it directly between Harry's eyes.

"Except, now you know what I'm playing at."