Title: Clear
Chapter 5: Sado-masochism
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R for slash themes
**WARNING**: THIS STORY CONTAINS SLASH THEMES – WHICH MEANS HOMOSEXUAL RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN TWO MALE CHARACTERS. YOU ARE ADVISED TO LEAVE IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THIS.
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed in this story do not belong to me, but to the Harry Potter series by JK Rowling. This is all FICTION; none of it is true. No profit was made from this story. I bear no responsibility for anything you may claim from this story, you have been warned.
LAST WARNING. SLASH. HOMOSEXUALITY. LEAVE IF YOU DON'T LIKE.
Notes: Thanks to the reviewers!!!! Thanks so much! Heeheehee…Much thanks to May, the very evil bunny, ClarKeRaVen, alistar, Evil Laughter, efa, Summer, Anne Phoenix (no offense taken!), Lady Malfoy II (maybe…!), someone who's too lazy to login, Heavens_beyond, GlacierFlame, bondagechic, IncubusSuccubus, in-a-crushd-tin-box, Patchfire, Marionette, Gwendolyn Malfoy, Lunadeath, mellony melody, Sera Luanma, Hoshikio-Malfoy, J (BleedingEros), Moonblade, Little Bunny Fu Fu, and scythefire!!!
Oh! Also, I realize that vodka is colorless, just that I was going to put whisky but it isn't as fun for a drunk Draco to say "Whis-Kee!" than for him to say "Vod-Ka!" I apologize profusely for this HORRIBLE mistake. I was also looking over my previous chapters and realized parts of it don't really make sense. Sorry!!! Hmmm. Must make bigger effort in correcting stuff and beta-ing.
Happy reading! Hope you like this part more than the last one! Ick. Seem to be suffering from a slight writer's block. Thx to BleedingEros for beta-ing!
I apologize (again) for run on sentences…
***
It was, rather, official.
Draco Malfoy was a part-time sadist, part-time masochist. What else could he be with the very existence of Potter? If he wasn't thinking up things that would hurt Potter the most (whether he did it or not was a different matter), then he was thinking of Potter, and that alone was a masochist act in itself. It burned inside of him, burned so deep that not even Draco knew how to stop it, burned so strongly that it gradually swallowed his whole being, consuming his entirety, and –
Stop. It. Stop it. He was doing it again. He was thinking about Potter again, and the dagger already buried in his heart twisted a little more, and his heart bled a little more, and he died a little more as [he couldn't help it] an image of Potter formed before his eyes, smiling, beckoning, waiting. Wanting. Ready. For him. For Draco.
Sleep would be unsuccessful once more. It was a strange, foreign concept to him now, sleep. Ever since the reality of the situation hit him, Draco tossed and turned endlessly every night, thinking about Potter, wondering how he slept (right side left side stomach back mouth open legs arms sprawled?), replaying every encounter they made that day, going over every spoken word, every exchanged glance, every secret study of Potter's profile, Potter's back, Potter's habits, vices, and every little quirky detail about Potter that usually remained hidden like the way he'd finger his wand with his left hand before attempting to Transfigure any object, and it was only when he Transfigured. He would rub it with his right thumb right before performing any other spell, but Transfiguration was – ack. Stop.
Draco tossed and turned endlessly every night thinking about Potter and the Weasley girl (he could not cannot would not call her by her wretched name), thinking about the way her lips would find his, thinking about they way her hands would stroke his, thinking about Potter stroking her, thinking about Potter's lips forming sweet words of forever, and then Draco would a frustrated sob and think about not thinking about Potter.
It was as if Fate was playing a cruel joke on him. And laughing loudly while doing it.
The really sadistic part was that Potter completely missed the whole subtlety of the sadistic acts themselves. And the really masochistic part was that Draco completely missed the realization that whatever he was doing, it was subtle, it was sadistic, and most of all, if affected Potter tremendously.
He had no idea that it drove Potter insane when Draco accidentally brushed his hand reaching for an ingredient at the Potions cupboard. It crazed him when, during non-contact hours, Draco would strut around school wearing clingy black trousers and a fitting black turtleneck, parading around him the whole damn day. It was simply maddening in an infuriating manner the way Draco's eyes smoldered and his perfect lips curved into a smirk whenever they threw insults at each other.
Potter had no idea that Draco's heart stopped, oh so very painfully, every time the slightest contact was made with his own skin. Potter had no idea that Draco dressed like that all the time and, during the struts, found the ache inside deepening with each glimpse of him. Potter had no idea that Draco's eyes smoldered with desire and the knowledge that acting upon said desire was unthinkable and impossible because of a certain (damned to be sure, in Draco's opinion) Weasley girl.
Potter had no idea that the pain their encounters caused was because of Draco. Similarly, Draco had no idea that the pain he felt was because of unknowing sadistic actions towards Potter which caused him the aforementioned aching in his heart.
Oh, it was all such a huge mess. Fate was sure having a ball.
"Hey, Draco, you awake?"
"What is it, Goyle?"
A chuckle. "Listen, Vincent just told me a joke, you wanna hear?"
"No. Go away."
"Come on, Draco. You're no fun anymore. You used to like joking with us."
"Used to. Now go away."
"Draco…what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." Draco sat up and flung his curtains apart. "Now tell me and go away and let me sleep in peace."
Goyle eyed him warily. "OK. So. This masochist goes up to a sadist and goes, 'Hit me' and the sadist goes, 'no'." He grinned expectantly. "Well? What do you think?"
Draco just stared at him.
"OK, OK." Goyle held his hands up defensively. "I'm going back downstairs. You sure you don't want to come to the party? It is Pansy's birthday. And it is only ten o' clock."
Draco stared at him some more before snapping his curtains shut and falling back onto his bed. He could hear the sound of heavy footsteps as Goyle left the room. "Night, Draco."
Gregory Goyle was grinning as he made his way to the Slytherin common room. Vincent Crabbe looked up at him impatiently as he entered. "Well?" he said.
Goyle grinned. "I was right. He is so…well, you know." To say whatever he was going to say was worse than swearing in front of McGonagall, in the eyes of Slytherin. "He'll be bringing out his violin soon, maybe even tonight, you see if he don't."
"Doesn't," corrected Crabbe absently. "How do you know about his violin?"
"I just do. Intuition. Just like you can feel what you paint, and make us feel it when we see it."
"I suppose I get what you mean. Is he going to be OK?"
Goyle nodded. "Sure. Give it a while. He'll make a move soon…see if he don't."
"Doesn't."
"Whatever."
***
Harry was wandering through the school, trying to seek places he had never been before. He was, at present, walking down a corridor that was dim, dusty, and appeared ill-used from neglect over time. There was currently one door to his left. The others had moved, or were pretending to be walls, and Harry couldn't be bothered to search them out. He was looking for a fast, new hiding place ever since his third-floor closet had been discovered.
He had also decided never to go to the rose gardens again, for very private and very personal reasons, namely that a certain someone may be there with their certain someone as well.
He opened the door slowly, amazed that something so old and rusted could still open noiselessly. And when Harry looked in, he felt as if it was too large a coincidence for it to be real. Malfoy was in the room, most obviously. Though he tried to tell himself to just calm the fuck down and stop blushing, he nevertheless felt his throat close momentarily and his face heat up immediately, but simmer down again just as quickly. The door was silent as Harry inched in and shut it behind him.
Harry was facing Malfoy's right, and he could see that Malfoy was holding a violin. A gentle hand held the bow lovingly, moving it in smooth, soothing strokes, the magnificent instrument tucked tenderly under his chin. Long, slim fingers were spread on the fingerboard, and they moved slightly as the sound of a rich, warm vibrato filled the room. Malfoy had his eyes closed, and Harry could see the outline of his lashes through the bright moon (was it brighter tonight, or were his pupils dilated?), curving upwards softly like a feather, and the sweep of his brow, and the arch of his cheekbones against the moonlight pouring in through the large window, and the sleek waterfall of silvery hair flowing past his shoulders, one single stray lock falling into his face.
But it was the expression on Malfoy's face that made Harry's heart leap almost as soon as he forced himself to calm down. Harry, were he the most eloquent person in the universe, would not be able to put it into mere words at that moment. To do so would be tainting the dear, sweet perfection he was facing right then; it felt, to Harry, dangerously close to blasphemy to try doing so. Just the look of pure bliss, of the unadulterated ecstasy, of the simple passion that Harry knew glowed from the depths of Malfoy's soul made Harry want to sigh in pain and pleasure – pleasure from the music, from Malfoy so close to him, from the whole situation, and pain from the music, from Malfoy so far away, from the whole situation.
Whatever Malfoy was playing, Harry liked it. A lot. Perhaps because it suited Malfoy, suited the whole atmosphere of the room, suited whatever Harry was feeling right now as [oh dear God, when did I start?!] he just stood there, Invisibility Cloak as his cover of darkness, heart beating so hard and fast that he could feel the pulsation in his fingers, neck, toes, head…and in his nether regions of which Harry would not like to admit. All because of Malfoy and his goddamn violin.
by the time you realize you're already deep in the middle of it and there's no cure you'll just have to drown or burn or fly fly fly high into the sky and be loved and be cherished and be sacred but that's not the path you are free to walk that's not the path you can choose that's the path that they must choose for you all these escapes from the middle of it are not chosen by you but by them they choose because you are not yours anymore and every action you do is dictated by them because oh dear God you love them just SO MUCH
Harry must have gasped, or breathed a strangled breath, or moaned sotto voce because Malfoy's fingers froze, his right hand stopped its movement, and the soft line of his jaw hardened as he removed the violin from under his chin and faced the room, eyes darting, mouth set in a thin line, brow furrowed, hands clenched around the violin and bow, only moments ago held so affectionately. He couldn't stand it – perhaps this was also part of the Gryffindor bravery, but Harry felt the urge to throw his cloak off, and so he did.
Malfoy blanched as Harry swept his cloak off. "Malfoy," he said.
And after a long pause in which Malfoy stared at him, he replied, "Potter."
To Be Continued…!
P.S. The horrible sadist/masochist joke was told to me by my SAT teacher…
