The room is empty and dead. Soot clings to the walls where the flames licked the stone, and the air tastes of ashes and smoke, still, even though the fire stopped burning months ago. The blonde boy cards his hands through his hair, tugs on it until it looks like he will rip the strands from his head as if he could get rid of all those feelings inside him that way. It doesn't help, of course, but it's likely he can't even feel the pain in his scalp, because his cheeks are lined with tear tracks and his face is a grimace of the kind of agony that doesn't come from hair-tugging.
The fire is licking and burning and eating, and it's hot, so hot. The fine hairs on his arms are already singed although he hasn't come close enough to the burning beasts prowling the aisles yet, but this is Fiendfyre, it burns hotter and brighter than any other fire, as if the sun itself spat those monsters out and let them loose. He's crying, but he doesn't care.
The scorched door protests loudly when it's opened, wood groaning and hinges screeching, and the blonde whirls around to look at the intruder. Green eyes look back at him, and he curses, ignoring his weak knees as he stalks over to the boy with the scar on his forehead closing the door behind himself. "You," he accuses, but doesn't know how to go on, he just knows that the boy in front of him is the origin of all his problems, so he says again, "you!"
"I," the other boy says and raises one of his eyebrows. He's challenging the blonde, always, always challenging. His whole bloody existence is a challenge, and the Slytherin wants to reach out and hit him, let his whole frustration and anger and grief and pain out. And he does.
The first punch is a revelation, and he doesn't care about the stinging in his knuckles when they connect with a cheekbone.
He's climbing one of the shelves, one of his feet slipping, and he nearly falls. A scream tears from his throat, but he catches himself, holds on, pain shooting along his arms when suddenly his whole weight is tugging on them. Beneath him, a chimaera roars with the voice of the fire, claws scratching the wood of the shelves when it raises to its hind legs and tries to reach his dangling feet. He sobs and looks up, at the top of the shelf. He'll be safe there, but not for long, not with all those dragons and phoenixes circling through the air, fiery maws open and spitting. He's going to burn.
"It's—all—your—fault!" Every word is underlined with another punch, fists connecting with everything they can reach—stomach, ribs, sides, face. The raven-haired boy tries to defend himself, arms coming up for protection, and some of the blows are deflected, others find their target. Still, they are uncoordinated, weak despite the anger and fear and despair boiling inside the blonde like a deadly potion in its cauldron, belching toxic gas like he is spitting accusations.
With all the strength he has left, he pulls himself onto the shelf. The rubbish other Hogwarts students have hidden there over the centuries topples over the edge when he scrambles to his knees, books and trinkets left here and long forgotten fall into the waiting maws of the fiery beasts beneath, but it's not enough to still their hunger. Never enough. The fire eats and eats until there is nothing left, and nothing—nobody can stand in its way without being consumed.
"Jesus, Mal—ow!—stop it!"
Another blow, another punch. Curses mingling with pained grunts and accusations wet with tears. It's a symphony of pain, played in the room that once housed the history of students and teachers, mementos collecting dust over the years, and now is no more than the last remains of a battlefield, showing death and utter destruction.
"Will you calm down!" the raven-haired boy bellows, trying to hold on to the thin, bony wrists that are a proof of self-induced starvation. There's a trickle of blood coming from his nose, and his hair is more unruly than ever, his clothes rumpled, glasses askew.
"Shut up!" the other shouts, orders, pleas, "just shut up!"
There is a cry from below, his name spoken with the voice of a friend, and he looks over the edge to see fear-widened eyes stare back at him. The chimaera was joined by a sphinx, and together they prowl, teeth bared, shapes flickering and dancing. His hands are sweaty from the heat and his terror, but he still holds them out to the other boy dangling from a few shelves below. Teeth grinding and breath coming in short gasps, the air burning all the way into his lungs, he closes his fingers around a broad, muscular forearm, holding on for dear life—the one of his friend, or his own, he doesn't know.
Nails scratch and fingers pull, feet kick and teeth bite. There is a fire burning inside him and he has to get it out, now, before he is consumed. He wants the Gryffindor to fight back, wants to feel the pain blooming along his cheekbones and nose and jaw, wants to have a counterpoint to the agony within. But the raven-haired doesn't do more than defend himself, and it's kindling to the blonde's fire, and soon it will have him, eat him alive, chimaeras and dragons and serpents erupting from him.
Finally, tanned fingers close around pale skin, calloused hands enclosing soft ones, and he's pulled forward, tumbling to the ground in a heap of limbs, face pressed against a warm chest that doesn't smell of smoke and fire and death.
He can see them soaring through the air above the inferno, and he cries out for help, forgetting his pried and everything his father taught him throughout the years—show no weakness,we can hold our own, don't embarrass me. He doesn't care because he doesn't want to die, and there, on the broom, covered in soot and ash, with singed hair and ripped clothes, is the only one that can help—so he cries and yells, his voice nearly being swallowed by the roar of the fire—but the boy on the broom turns around and flies towards him, leaning over, a hand grasping his own and he's pulled up onto the broom. His arms instinctively wind around the waist in front of him, holding on and squeezing hard until the boy with the dark hair gasps. And they fly through the fire, dodging maws and clawed paws until the door of the room falls shut behind them.
A hand grips the back of his neck and pulls him up until green eyes bore into grey ones. He doesn't blink, he can't, even though he wants, because there is so much he sees in those eyes, emerald pools of emotions. Too intense, too much. It's overwhelming and he's drowning, but not burning. Not burning, thank Merlin, anything but burning.
Fingers wind in his silver-blonde hair, tugging him forwards, closer, until his eyes cross, but never does he brake the gaze, never does he look away. He can't. He won't. He doesn't want to.
The lips are dry and chapped, the breath is hot and short. There is a noise. A groan, a gasp, a sound of want and relief and finally!
Lips move against each other, then tongues, and it becomes a fight again. Hands tear on clothes and buttons fly every which way, but neither of them cares, neither abandons the search for more skin as finger dig into cloth and muscle, urgent and demanding. Teeth click and bite everything they can reach, mouth and tongue and neck and collarbone. A bare shoulder, a bare chest, pale and marred with a long scar, lips tracing it in silent apology. Long fingers combing through raven hair, tugging and twirling before sinking lower and pulling a sweater up, up and away.
Breathless demands for more inbetween moans and gasps, sweet melody of lust and desire. Hands fumble with belt buckles, once-white shirts balled up around elbows, elastic waistbands snapping when they are tugged down hastily.
Curses are spoken without malice as hands and mouths and tongues seek out sensitive points, drawing trails of electricity over sweat-slick skin.
More! and God! and Merlin! mixing with Yes! and Please! and Faster!
The room is cold, but they don't notice in the arms of each other, skin against skin, mouth against mouth. Nails leave thin, red lines on a tanned back and fingertips push bruises into pale hips as they grind against each other, pleasure rippling along nerves, salty tears mixing with salty sweat.
It's not enough, the blonde needs more, and everything, and the raven-haired is happy to comply, nervousness losing the battle against want and need. Legs are spread, thighs trembling, and the spell is shaky when it's spoken in a whisper before fingers push into heat and tightness, coaxing a drawn-out groan from thin, pink lips. The sound is kissed away, swallowed greedily like the sweetest nectar.
Hands hold onto arms tightly, fingertips digging into muscle and flesh. The blonde writhes and moans with pleasure under the ministrations of the raven-haired, but it's not enough. Not yet. He wants more. He needs more.
And finally, the Gryffindor pushes inside the boy beneath him, the angle awkward, the pressure too much. It's burning pain at first, and there's a hiss of discomfort, but when the boy with the scar on his forehead stills, the other shakes his head, urges him on, and he begins to move.
Stone scrapes against a naked back, leaves angry red marks, and soot leaves black smears on tanned and pale skin where it mixes with sweat. Groans become sweet cries as hips move together, an erratic rhythm with release as its goal.
Two boys, entangled, united. Marked and shaped into men by cruelty and war. They find each other on a former battlefield and cling to one another, seeking salvation in the other's embrace as pleasure washes over them, makes them cry and moan and hiss and gasp.
The Lion and the Snake, once enemies, now finding comfort in one another's arms.