"Revenge fuck - doesn't it feel good to loathe
The pain inside you bleeds away
Thrust by thrust" – Zeromancer

It's been seven years since the last time I saw you at your own trial. I never expected to find you in the city of Miami of all places, least of all in a gay wizard's club grinding yourself obscenely against a pole with nothing on but an officer cap and thigh-high boots. A black leather coat and the little strip of leather that rode up your ass lay at your feet.

You haven't noticed me yet. Would you recognize me if you did? No – by the glassy look in your dark eyes, you're high on something and you've probably been doing this for so long that the faces of the men that come to watch you debauch yourself must blend all into one.

I'm standing by the bar with a thick glass of firewhiskey in one hand, mostly untouched, heart beating along with the thrumming pulse of the slow, dark melody you're swaying to. I feel like the minute I drink from it you'll do something to make me choke on it again. And I'm having a hard enough time trying to control my shock, nevermind my body's inappropriate response to your hips, your heavy-lidded eyes and lusty smile.

I've been fired, dumped and only wanted a drink and maybe watch some pretty boys dance. Party City Miami is said to have the most beautiful and sensual dancers. And best of all it's far enough away from home.

Is that why you're here too? I wasn't really going to ask you, but when you drop on the floor, legs splayed in front of a red-faced, paunchy man in a Muggle suit, and I can't even recognize the Draco Malfoy that used to walk the halls of Hogwarts with long strides and a pompous tilt of his head, I feel a desperate urge to know the answer.

I tell myself it's not my dick doing the thinking. Harry Potter could never lust after Draco Malfoy, not in any universe. The idea is absurd. After all I did to you and after all you did to me, how can I ever conceive of burying my face between your thighs?

No. I'm just curious as to why you're here all drugged up and fucking the stage floor as old men throw money at you. That's the real reason I leave the bar and my firewhiskey. As I get closer to the stage and the shimmering colored lights, I stand out, fit and young among hoary, thick-faced men. The minute I approach the end of the stage, you look at me. For a minute I think my heart stops. What will you do?

I'm left confused when you gift me with a lazy grin and crawl over to me. With your pupils dilated and heavy lids, I have trouble looking for the cool silver of the Malfoy glare I remember; but you've buried that too deeply under some potent narcotic. Your canines are rather sharp and your grin invites danger.

Your body is just my type; slender, long-limbed, toned just right – not too lightly, not too heavily. With a thin waist, shapely thighs and a voluptuous milk-white ass that begged to be fucked. You shouldn't be that perfect, as if custom made for me.

Once you're in front of me, you pick yourself up on your knees and sway to the low, sensual beat of the song. Your face is slack and slick with sweat, and you don't seem to notice your own impending demise when you look straight at me. You have a dark sensuality that calls to me – or perhaps to the darkness in me.

I don't want you. But I do want to fuck you, hard and unlovingly. Maybe that's just what I need. Everyone always tells me that I've been a loose cannon since the war. I know I have issues. Maybe driving my dick into you while pretending I'm killing Death Eaters will take the edge off my anger.

I make up my mind – or maybe you made it up for me. It's not like it would have ever occurred to me to take you home had you been striding around in traditional robes with your pointed nose in the air. But come to think of it – that makes it all the more appetizing: seeing you debased, your Pureblood pride destroyed.

When you leave the stage, I go back to the bar to find my drink still there. I take a sip, wondering how I can get to you. There are bouncers everywhere. Turns out, though, I needn't have wasted my energy. You walk up to me in a tight, white button-up shirt and grey slacks that hug your perfect thighs and ass. Even clothed you're still something to behold.

You lean in, lightly brushing your lips against my ear when you say, "Meet me at the end of the alley behind the building in ten minutes, Harry."

Harry. You're just Malfoy to me. A Malfoy to destroy over the bedsheets. And maybe I'll think of your father watching from hell while I do. What would he do if he knew his failed prodigy was a slut for his enemy? Just the thought's got my blood rushing with adrenaline, the kind that surges before a battle.

Your steps are a little unsteady as you make your way to the back door and disappear.

The end of the alley opens up to Ocean Drive. You're standing under the neon lights of a Muggle Cuban cafe across the street of a large Blockbuster building. The serving window is just opening as the sky turns gray with dawn's first light, and you're there ordering two "Coladas".

When you hand me a plain little white cup, I find out its a jarringly sweet espresso. "Helps sober you somewhat," you say with a lazy, slurring drawl. Your voice hasn't changed a bit, dripping with entitlement as if you hadn't just been balls-naked grinding your hips in front of drooling perverts for money.

I abandon my colada over the tiled counter and lean it to tell you, "I don't want to have coffee with you, Malfoy."

That's when you step back, swaying on your feet a little but you hide it with a nasty little smirk on your lips. "So uncouth. What's to be excepted though, hm?" You lean in and your breath is sweet and spicy, liquor and colada, as you say, "Raised by animals."

You always did know where to hit me to make it hurt the most. But there's a steadily growing queue of drowsy, early-rising construction workers mixed with late-night clubbers in front of the serving window on a busy avenue.

I hope my smile tells you I'm not affected. Fuck you and fuck the Dursleys. I'll be thinking of ripping through them when I ripping through you.

Your tittering tells me you have no clue what you're doing. And what's to be expected from you? More self-destructive decisions? Is that what you're doing here? Is that why you came up to me? It certainly looks like you're asking for it.

Doesn't matter in the end, does it? I take you by the elbow and walk you across the street. You object as you quickly dump the coffee cup on the counter, but you barely managed to place it on the edge and it falls with a resounding crash. The crowd turns to look and the Cuban lady behind the window shouts at us.

I take you to the alley behind Blockbuster and apparate us to my hotel suite in Surfside. I'm rich and unlike my teenage self, I'm not humble about it. The royal suite is damn fucking opulent, every room overlooking the Atlantic with floor-to-ceiling windows and furnishings modern and gleaming gold; gorgeous and sleek like you.

You belong in places like this, not on filthy club floors. But I like you filthy. I like waving what you lost in your face.

You stumble away from my hold, whistling and looking about like a happy child. Your steps are unsteady with nowhere near the grace you had on stage. I'm certain you must have taken something else after your performance. Did you think it would make what we're about to do easier for you?

I still can't work out your angle in all of this so I grab you by the waist and pad you down to make sure you haven't got any hidden devices. You seem all too comfortable with Muggle things so far. Then I run an inspection spell over your wand.

You titter foolishly and mumble something about foreplay. We won't be having any of that. When I'm confident this isn't a setup, I drag you into my bedroom and push you on top of the enormous bed facing the view of the sunrise over the sparkling ocean. That's way too romantic for my tastes but I don't have time to close the shades.

I loosen my tie and think of a better idea than just tearing off your designer clothes. Something that can establish my dominance a whole lot more effectively.

"Undress," I tell you. "Slowly."

While I'm looking down at you.

You don't hesitate with your heavy-lidded gaze on my face as you sit up and unbutton your shirt. You're clumsy and sluggish at first, then you breath out a laugh and whip out your wand from your sleeve. Pointing it to your chest, you drag it down and the buttons come undone. Then you open your shirt, gently dropping it from your shoulders but you don't remove the sleeves so it hangs from you elbows as you begin to undo your trousers, thighs spread wantonly. Your wand stupidly left forgotten on the edge of the bed. For a coward, you always did love to court danger.

Perhaps that's why I get nervous looking at you. This is dangerous. I can't let you get the upper hand.

So when you stand up and drop your trousers and boxer briefs in one, stepping over them and up to me, I grab you by your neck with one hand and with the other I grip your waist, hard, and kiss you unkindly, roughly, dominating and biting your hot lips. You moan, your hands digging into my hair.

And because you're enjoying this too much I squeeze you in my grip, bruising your side, your neck. Your flesh is firm, smooth and warm. Young and alive, and all too content for my peace of mind but I'm satisfied when your lips slacken as you choke, your hands dropping from my hair to grip at my wrist.

I see every nasty prank you ever pulled on me, your spoiled nonsense, your ignorance when you joined a cause you knew little of and let Voldemort mark you, own you, and control you. But you stupidly jumped right into that, just as you jumped right into this.

I let go of your neck and yank your left wrist up to my mouth to bite that God-forsaken tarnished flesh. You flinch and cry out, tearing at my hair as my teeth break your skin. Blood is warm and coppery, but there's an acidic undertone to yours, filled with shitty Muggle chemicals.

When I draw back you shove me away and this makes me laugh. "What's another mark, Malfoy?" I get in your face, enjoying the hazy confusion on it, the crease between your brow, the pain leaking through your drugged gaze.

"I'm just another powerful wizard, here to tell you what to do and what to think. You like that don't you? You're whole life you needed someone stronger to give you direction – If not your father then it was Voldemort and now that both are gone, here you are. So lost you need drugs and sex to fill the space where Lucius took up. Anything to drown out your mind. Do you want me to take his place?"

I suppose you're cognitive enough to feel anger and sorrow when my words hit home. Those emotions lace your whispered words, "Fuck you, Potter." You sound a little soberer. I like that.

Even though I'm sliding my hand across your throat, you don't push me away, but I still don't like how taut your body is, as if ready to bolt. I don't let it show that I am lost too, adrift in my pain. I have a thought, a brilliant one. A solution for us both.

My lips brush your ear when I decide to let you in on it. "Let me take over you."

"You'll hurt me."

"So?"

Malfoy leans back but I wrap my hand around his waist and draw him back in. "I'll only give you what you deserve. Nothing more."

"Nothing more?"

You want it but you're insecure. I feel it in your breath, how much you want it.

"Only what you deserve," I tell him against his trembling lips. I give him a harsh kiss. "Only what I need." He kisses me back, his hands on my biceps, running up my arms, across my back. He hisses as his left forearm rubs against my shirt. The blood is hidden in the black.

I push you forward and unto the bed where you lie pliantly. At first, I wanted to tie you up but instead I grab your thighs and pull you to the edge of the bed before flipping you over to have you bent over it, your perfect ass offered up to me.

I don't like how cooperative you are with my rough treatment. I want you to be more demanding. I want the old Malfoy.

Perhaps yanking your hair will draw a better reaction out of you and sure enough, you cry out in pain, your body tenses and squirms in resistance. I keep my grip on your hair, baring your neck so that I may lean over you and bite down on it from the side. You scream through gritted teeth and it's music to my ears.

I should have done this back in Hogwarts.

I straighten up and pull out my wand to magically spell lubricant into you. A cold gesture. If you had been a lover I'd have lathered my fingers and played with your ass, gradually bringing you to ecstasy, making you mad for me.

But I hate you.

The lube in you is cold; you hiss. I pull my cock out and ram the tip into you, relishing your scream. Clearly you weren't ready for it but neither was I. I didn't expect you to be so tight. Perhaps you're not the whore you made yourself to be, but it doesn't matter.

"Loosen up," I tell you.

You answer me in pained moans.

"Do you want it?"

"Yes," you hiss and arch up into me. Your legs quiver deliciously as you spread them wider.

That's all the confirmation I need. I hammer my cock into your red asshole until I'm balls-deep and I grow thicker the more I hear your cries and moans synced to my thrusts.

I lean over you and my voice comes out more of a growl than I intended when I say, "Does your boy-pussy hurt?"

You groan loudly, then whisper, "Y-yeah. Your cock's so big, Harry. You're ripping me open."

I pull out nearly to the tip and ram back in before thrusting as fast and violently as I can. And I'm strong. Built powerfully enough to make you shake like a land drill. Your knuckles are white as you grip the sheets like a life-line. You're screaming loudly, moaning and gasping, and I yank your hair to tear another exquisite cry out of you.

I lean forward and bite into your shoulder, taking the pale flesh between my teeth and sucking hungrily. When I reach your cheek I feel it wet with tears. I lick them, relishing the taste. My mouth is all over you. God, I fucking needed this for so long and I hadn't even known. I'm starving. Can't get enough of you.

You're pushing up to meet my thrusts, the flesh of your ass ripples as it slaps loudly against my pelvis. My thick, red cock looks like a jackhammer driving into your ass; I even change angles and twist it around just as if I were trying to rip a hole deep inside you.

You're shouting dirty things that mean nothing to me. But I can tell you like it. You like telling me how your boy-pussy is burning, that my cock is ripping you in half. You like calling yourself my worthless whore and that you want me to dominate you.

But I hate it that you like it. The more you beg me to take control of you the less I feel in control.

I pull out sharply and you cry out in protest. That's a little better. I pull you up across the bed by the hair and you hiss and sob in pain. Much better. I turn you over when I thrust back into your ass so I can see the look in your eyes when I strangle you. They swell red-rimmed and tears stream down your temples. The pillow under your head grows damp.

A crease between your brows which are curled upwards reflects the pain and pleasure you're in. Your red lips are slackened, you're gasping, choking and sobbing. Those are the sounds I want to hear, not your fucking slut talk.

"Harry," you choke out.

Fuck it, I'm almost finished. Whether you come or not is irrelevant. I can hear myself grunt as that sweet orgasm explodes, your greedy ass gripping my cock tight. I guess my grasp around your slender neck has been tighter than I thought. I'm both disgusted and thrilled by the feel you struggling desperately underneath me as I pump my semen into you.

Once I'm finished, I let you go and pull out harshly; you let out a sound that's between a groan and a sob when I do. You're still hard when I tuck myself back in and I look down at you, fully intending to feel superior and yet...

Maybe that was what I needed. Now I don't know. Maybe I had fucked all my anger into you.

You're splayed out, tear-streaked cheeks, eyes filled with hurt, gasping, my fingers imprinted on the white skin of your neck, covered in welts and bite marks. You're unsatisfied, in pain, and I don't think you realized that letting me do this to you was not the solution.

The big sun paints you in pale gold, your white skin glows and the damage I caused you looks so stark and ugly. Your hair is bright and beautiful even though it's messy and tangled. I should have taken the time to close the blasted window shades.

And the Dark Mark is still bleeding. The white sheets are tainted red under you. The guilt is still eating you up inside, isn't it.?

And now I feel like shit. Now that the rage is gone, the old Harry, the one before the war is suddenly back, revived and chewing me out for what I've done. It's quiet except for the sound of your ragged breaths. Everything seems still while I watch your tears fall.

"I'm sorry."

You laugh wryly, hoarsely, and it makes you cough. "Piss off, Potter. The fuck are you sorry for? You're the hero."

I've got nothing to say to that. Hero doesn't seem like the right word for me.

"I'm the bad guy, remember?"

And I'm not as good as you think but there's no reason to tell you that. I think you want to look at things all black and white more than anyone else. Why is beyond me.

I've hunted criminals for the past five years. The worst scum on the Earth. None are ever remorseful. Evil men never think they're wrong.

You're not a bad guy. I never really thought you were.

I'm fucked up for having done this but so are you. I realize this when you tell me, "I always thought I would like to see you feel sorry for yourself, Potter. Guess I was wrong."

Is that what this is about?

"You thought you could escape your guilt by putting it on me or something?"

Your smile looks self-deprecating. "I've always been a sorry Slytherin. My plans always backfire. Especially when it comes to you"

"You're too reckless when it comes to me."

You look away and I cannot stand the sad, distant look in your eyes. It's not the type of hurt I wanted to bring you. You're quiet for a good while and I'm losing more control every second that ticks by.

Did I ever even have it?

"You're not leaving," you ask softly. I can tell you want something – I hear it in your voice.

I ignore that. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

He shrugs, still looking away. "There was nothing left for me back home. How could there be? I met the wizard that owns the strip club at the Three Broomsticks after I was turned away. He offered me the luxury I was accustomed to as his kept boy for a few months. Then put me to work."

"Did he trick you into it?"

"Does it matter? Why the concern now?"

When it comes to you there's always cause for concern. Whether to beat you, fuck you, or save you. There's no way in hell I'm ever admitting that to you. You have a firm enough hold over me as it is.

"I want to start over," I say instead. Only half the truth and it still makes me feel vulnerable, terrible, but fuck it. What's more pain than what we're already in?

When your head snaps my way and I catch that hopeful gleam in your eye, I finally get this itch of desire, the first sign of life in me in years. I want something too and it's in that gleam.

You ask, "Want a safe-word for next time?"

I shake my head. You misunderstood. "I don't want to hurt you," I tell you and I think it might be the first honest words I've ever spoken to you. "I did but now I don't. Or maybe I never did. I don't know what's wrong with me."

You laugh harshly and it stings. But then you wrap your legs around my hips and pull me down to you. I fall on you gracelessly with a grunt and when you whisper in my ear, "I like the feeling of you clothed against my bare skin," I start to grow hard again.

I cannot help myself and rub my hard-on against yours. Maybe I'll blow you, rim you and penetrate you like a lover. Like a lover. I don't think you are one yet. I don't want to be with you, I just want to feel you. You feel damn good to me.

Your voice drips with devious amusement when you tell me, "You should have fucked me back in Hogwarts."

"Why?"

You kiss me. Your kisses are gentler than mine. Bittersweet but just as uncomfortable. When you let me go you say almost spitefully, "I wouldn't have let Voldemort mark what belonged to you."

Merlin's fucking balls. You always did know how to sting me you fucking snake.