Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Yadda, yadda, yadda, you know the drill—don't sue the deranged slashy fangirl. Please. #innocent eyes shine imploringly at you#
Author's note: This is weird. I freely admit that. ^_^ I wasn't going to post it, but I changed my mind—it's a quizzical little piece of angsty PWP (with a lemon-y fresh citrus scent to boot), but I sort of like it—I hope you enjoy it too. (Oh, I also need to mention that I started out this story trying to imitate the style of the Lady of Shalott in her A Weather of the Heart trilogy and Vanity Fair in her Broadway! Harry and Draco ficlet, but failed miserably, which accounts for the altered style exhibited later in the passage.)
Reminder: This story has slash. For those of you who don't know what that indicates, it means that there is a homosexual relationship (in this case, one between Draco and Harry). If this disturbs you or makes you uncomfortable in any way, please click your back button now.
"What?"
"You heard me, Potter. Strip."
"But-but why? I never agreed to do this!"
"I thought we had an understanding, Potter. This is part of my condition. Now, get naked—or should I go find Dumbledore and tell him what his favorite little student has been up to?"
"No!"
A strange, strangled silence.
"…No. That won't be necessary."
The soft sound of fabric rustling; brushing against skin and hair and sliding to the floor.
A smirk.
"Sadistic bastard."
"Oh, you do know just the thing to say to make me feel all warm and tingly inside, Potter."
"Fuck you, Malfoy."
"I was hoping you'd be open to the prospect, yes."
"What?!"
"You know, you really are dense, even by 'hero' standards."
"What the bloody Hell do you want from me, Malfoy?! You said the condition was to strip. As you can see, I've done that. So that's it—that's the end of our agreement."
"No, you idiot. I said that was part of my condition. You were so eager to comply that you never gave me the chance to finish dictating terms."
Mutual glowering.
"I hate you, Malfoy."
"Yeah, yeah; sure you do. Now stay still."
"And why would I want to do—hey! Stop that!"
Innocently: "Stop what?"
"That! Stop it—don't touch me."
"But I think you like it. I know I do."
Weak and uncomprehending: "You sick fuck…"
"You're trembling, Potter."
"…It's cold. You're cold. Get away—"
A hot mouth descends onto a startled one; teeth clink awkwardly, but neither notices.
White hands and dainty arms embrace with unexpected strength, like an alabaster cage.
The captive turns his head sharply to the side in one quick movement, bucking against the vice-like grip he's in.
"Get off!"
A patronizing twinkle of mirth in gray eyes.
"Why don't you make me?"
The body presses closer to the other boy's.
Rubbing; raven hair being brushed back tenderly from a jagged scar; the fluttering of dark eyelashes.
"I hate you, Malfoy, I really do."
It is gasped out; breathy and almost desperate.
A languid smirk.
"You said that already, Potter. You're getting repetitive."
Closer…closer. And everything just feels so good.
"That's because I--" a small nip at his neck; a gasp "--mean it."
Malfoy thinks that the taste of Potter's neck is simply divine. He moves to touch the other's jaw.
"Turn around, Potter." It is whispered and intimate.
"No."
Surprise.
"No?"
"No. You're going to watch my face while you do this, Malfoy."
Perhaps he thinks Malfoy will see a monster in his eyes, and everything will be made okay again.
The blonde is intrigued by this paradox; but then again, he's always been intrigued by Potter. The boy makes him feel baffled and attracted and curious all at once—he never quite knows just what's going on in the gallant Gryffindor's head, but he wants to climb in and see. He thinks that maybe when he's buried halfway to Paradise and both boys are screaming and the sweat makes them clean, he'll finally find out.
"Masochist." Chiding.
"Pervert." Defensive.
The Syltherin contemplates the validity of the words.
"You have a point," he concedes.
He wonders if anyone knows how many times he's woken with cum on his sheets and Potter's face on his mind. He's lost count.
His clothes are hastily removed.
Malfoy shoves his leg between the shorter boy's thighs and hungrily claims the ambrosia of his companion's full lips. Potter can feel the stones under his head, pressing against his back and his ass and the back of his legs, and he doesn't know what to think—he tries not to think—as his skin and his teeth and his hair are devoured with awed eyes and frantic kisses—and hands. His hands are everywhere.
Then the knee is removed and the hands clench on his hips, and Harry knows what's coming next.
"Right here against the wall?!" Shocked. Indignant.
"Right here against the wall." Affirmative. Determined.
And Harry Potter lost his virginity against the stone wall of a empty classroom.
And Draco Malfoy lost his virginity against the stone wall of a empty classroom.
Harry was a screamer; he arched when he came—saw sparks when he blinked—and it was beautiful.
Draco liked to feel; he liked the way that Harry felt—the way Harry made him feel. He muffled his cries by biting against Harry's smooth shoulder, and that was beautiful too.
It seemed like this would never end—the morning would stretch on and on and stay there forever; real life was just a figment of their imagination.
They moved to the table, the chair, and finally the floor—and each time they learned a little more about living and less about hate, and it seemed like everything was lost in a golden haze from the sunshine pouring in the window.
And when they were done they were sticky and wet and sated, and Draco never thought he could feel this good.
But then Harry remembers to feel violated and Draco remembers to feel nothing at all, and their intimacy is destroyed with layers of clothes.
Harry knows that Draco's lost his leverage over him through this—now what they shared is just one more secret to hold; one more experience to shut away and never think about; one more scar to bear without comment or complaint.
Draco sees the look on his face—the thoughts flashing in those accusing green eyes—and they say their goodbyes without ever speaking a word.
Draco's eyes say "It's over?" and Harry's say "It never began," and both boys know this will never happen again.
Harry turns to leave and he's thinking about what he's lost—what Draco has taken; he is furious and vaguely horrified. He wishes he never knew the way a promise felt burning in through his pores (when his lover was in him and around him and pushing right through him until that indescribable unity was reached), only to have it broken heartbeats later (because dreams like that aren't really real—didn't you know?); he wishes he could scream and curse and rant and pound his angry little fists right through fragile bones (shatter the face that lies so sweetly and you'll shatter the illusion); he wishes he could turn back time and bypass all his pain and mistakes (there are too many—far too many—and did you ever wonder what would happen if you'd never been born?).
"Go to Hell, Malfoy," he says, and it is choked, but it still hurts.
And then he is gone, but Malfoy stays behind, and he knows he's not a poet (but he thinks he knows now how a kiss can kill), and this classroom is abandoned (no one will ever find out), and there's blood on the floor and words in his mind (a single thing he needs to say), so he writes.
And then he leaves too (and he goes a different path), and Sunday afternoon sunshine floats all through the room to turn cracks and crevices to gold; on the wall there are words in red written with shaking fingers, and they say: You are as Perfect as the Sun; if I get too close, you can destroy me.
Draco knows it's already too late for salvation.