Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and I'm sure you don't think I do.
Author's Note: Just a fun little piece between Harry and Draco. Review and let me know what you think. Thanks.
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The Nice Boys
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"My name is Harry," he spits, like an angry cat, his features twisted in a snarl.
"Stupid," Draco hisses. "Stupid of you to think – to think I would call you as a friend." He is coiled, tense and bitter, like acid and pressure and the lid is not on tight. "Potter."
Harry closes his eyes, breathes the damp and mould of the dungeons, of the basement. They open in a flood of green, like the curse they both know so well, and they stare, caught in each other; green on silver, like Slytherin pride and a bad cliché. Neither of them blinks for the longest time.
Then, "I am not a nice boy," Draco says on a low vibration and backs away, one step, two.
"I don't care." Harry's voice breaks and crackles. He lunges in a fit of anger and desperation, like fire in his stomach, reaching for the thinner boy, the paler boy. He falls to his knees, the lunge running short and he cradles his face in his hands, his long fingers pressing into his forehead. "Don't make me –" he chokes tightly, "Don't make me –" Unable to finish the sentence, Draco supplies, "Cry?" with the twisted lip of contempt.
Harry's eyes are closed tightly and they both know that was just the word he was thinking of. He takes in a shuddery breath and then speaks slowly, quietly, accusingly, "You think I've been playing with the nice boys my entire life? I've been around Voldemort more than I have my own father." He draws in another quaking breath, fighting the dry sobs that threaten to wrench and squeeze his stomach and lungs until they are bruised knots in a sore boy's body. "Jesus, you're practically family," he says and lets out a laugh – a short, strained bark that's gone as soon as it came.
He thinks he shouldn't. Shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't. They all tell him don't and be careful and can't. He's kneading his knuckles into his thigh and knows he can't take it back. He looks up at Draco, a question written on his face.
"I will not," Draco says on a little hiss of air, "Besmirch my family name with the likes of you." As soon as he says it he thinks it sounds stupid. He sounds like starch. But he can't take it back. Neither of them can take anything back.
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Fin.