hpkinkfest | FIC: "Sores" (D/H, NC-17)

Title: Sores
Author:

mijeli
Prompt Number: #85 submitted by

winterstorrm
Kink Showcased: hate sex
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Draco/Harry and vice versa
Summary: It's been going on for weeks. They don't talk about it.
Warnings: Some pretty dirty talk and excessive use of the f-word. Some violence.
Word Count: ~ 3,500
Author's Notes: Writing this was more fun than my moral conscience should have allowed ;-) Dear

winterstorrm, and everyone else who chooses to read – I hope you enjoy the result!
Many thanks to

paean_sf for the beta.

Sores

Once again, the burn of shame isn't strong enough.

Harry's face is hot with rage and embarrassment and he wants to smash things – he probably does if the sound of exploding pipes is anything to go by – and god, it smells in here, of a number of boys having washed themselves.

And he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop.

Why they keep meeting in the sodding Slytherin bathrooms, Harry can only suspect. Probably so Malfoy can rub something in his face, the stuck-up prick who still walks around Hogwarts castle as if he owned the place. No trial or disowning is going to change that.

"Move, Potter," hisses Malfoy and shoves Harry into the wall. The tiles are slippery and Harry pushes back. "Stop that," he snaps. Stop – not that. Not the greedy hands. That, shoving him. Malfoy has no right touching him, as if. As if he was in control.

Harry's face is burning up and he tries not to look at Malfoy, but at the same time he's not trying very hard. And Malfoy's there, so very there. He's everywhere. Harry smells his sweat and body products and hears him breathing harshly through damp bathroom air.

"What's wrong?" There's not a bit of concern in Malfoy's voice.

Harry raises his chin, heart pounding. "Nothing," he retorts, "except for the filth in your dungeons."

"They don't live up to your standards?" Malfoy snarls. "Go fuck your ginger girlfriend, then."

It's so far below the belt Harry should punch Malfoy, punch him hard. In the stomach until all breath whooshes out of him.

He doesn't. When did he stop punching Malfoy for being the giant horrific git he is? Harry can't remember.

The pipes are old, water comes drizzling down like fog. For a second it's eerily quiet.

In those quiet moments, it's all Harry can do not to bolt. When confusion catches up with desire, with the drunk swirl of his lust – he wants to fuck Malfoy's brains out, wants to shut up his hateful little mouth with his cock and lips and wants to make the git swallow back every single insult he ever –

– when awareness creeps in and he's got to wonder what the hell he's doing. What they are doing. It's been going on for weeks. They don't talk about it.

There's really nothing to be said. Should either of them start this conversation, everything would be over and that's that.

Blood is rushing to Harry's head and pounding in his ears.

Malfoy's pink in the face, mouth drawn tight. He's frowning from beneath his fringe – not as immaculate as it was during Potions, or dinner – and his eyes are so angry Harry expects him to land a blow any moment. He always expects it. Fucking Malfoy doesn't mean trusting him.

"You're such a coward," says Malfoy with malice. "How on earth did you vanquish a Dark Lord?"

Harry eyes him up and down derisively; he knows it infuriates Malfoy like nothing else. "With Expelliarmus. Looks like you didn't pick a strong Lord to crouch to."

And fuck, if that doesn't do the trick. Harry blinks and watches Malfoy's face contort with rage and with this unique brand of hate that only he manages. No one else looks at Harry like that. Then Malfoy's on him, shoving so hard Harry's skull thumps dully against tile and he groans. Malfoy is going to make it hurt for that.

"I hate you, Potter," Malfoy snarls as he rips open Harry's pants, and really, it would be absurd if it hadn't happened before, and it's absurd anyway and Harry gasps for breath. "Hate" – The buttons – "you" – gone (once again), damp drizzly air hits the front of Harry's boxers. He's half-hard with anticipation, but he has a feeling Malfoy won't do anything about it.

"How dare you."

His glasses gone and landing across the room with a cracking sound. (He's memorised the Mending Spell some time ago.)

Harry grows aware of his own harsh panting – is he scared? would he run? – then Malfoy pulls down Harry's underwear with force and scratches his nails across Harry's haunches. A sharp hiss breaks from between Harry's lips and he bites down instantly. No weakness. Malfoy's done worse things and it wasn't anything Harry hadn't dealt with.

Hadn't made him pay for.

When Malfoy hits Harry's left shoulder, Harry turns almost instantly. They're not playing a game any more. Maybe never were. If he tries to figure out what they're doing, there's the running issue again.

But then, he never runs.

The heat rushes back to his face full-force as Malfoy roughly pushes his fingers into Harry's arsehole. It's so filthy he can't even think about it. Shame is burning in Harry's cheeks and he wants to sob with the obscene need to have this, be this, abandon awareness and just feel the humiliating ache for what it is.

"How dare you complain about cleanliness," whispers Malfoy behind him. He does that a lot, saying nasty things while his fingers are up Harry's arse. He never pulls them out, though.

Malfoy's fingers are moving and it isn't pleasurable and he's a selfish bastard, but Harry's anchored to something he couldn't name and he wants it. Wants this. They're in each other's hands. The world spirals in until it is only them, them.

Water drizzles on his face, curves down the tiled wall that's growing hot under Harry's cheek.

He reaches back and pulls Malfoy's hair. It's so fucking soft, it doesn't even fit the head it belongs to.

+ + +

"If you call her that again, I'll kill you."

Malfoy's upper lip curls. "Finish the job, you mean?"

Harry's wand is already in his hand. Sometimes he thinks he might actually kill Malfoy; when he's spat just one more insult, when he's called Hermione a "Mudblood" one time too many.

Then he remembers Malfoy lying in a puddle of his own blood and pauses.

Harry disarms him and takes just a moment to treasure the frightened look on Malfoy's face before he's on him. Their bodies melt into one, one fighting body, one pulsing crotch and hammering heart. Everywhere their skin touches it's on fire. Harry closes his eyes, and for a short while it feels as if there was actual closeness – just a spot, hidden somewhere well-concealed.

Then Malfoy sneers and he's Malfoy again, through and through. And Harry wants to punch him, but even more he wants to take his cock between his lips and taste him. Make him come undone and let the prat believe he's in control.

When Harry drops to his knees Malfoy almost crows with delight.

"That's how I like you best, Potter." His voice is so superior Harry wants to choke him.

He rips open Malfoy's pants – making sure to ruin the stupid dressy garment – and before the complaint has even died on Malfoy's lips, Harry has taken his cock in as deep as he can.

Malfoy groans low in his throat, as if he couldn't fight it. It's a great sound because it's unguarded and doesn't sound like Malfoy at all. Only the scent and taste of his arousal – of the sweat in his groin and pubic hair – is familiar and unique and what makes. Makes Malfoy Draco, only for a little while.

Harry sucks harder, listens closely.

Malfoy doesn't make the sound again – he's biting his lip hard enough to draw blood – but he's tangling both hands in Harry's hair. Brutally yet with enough room. For Harry to pull back and breathe.

Air.

Then Harry looks up – not glances, looks, vision only half-obscured by his own sweaty hair – to say something with his eyes. Malfoy meets them. So much heat, a fucking fire simmering underneath his white skin. Sprawled against the wall with a ridiculous flush, Malfoy is at Harry's mercy and he won't forget about it.

Harry's throat rebels only once as Malfoy fucks his mouth, then he relaxes and the fingers on his scalp tighten. A ring of pressure. Malfoy is panting obscenely every time his cock hits Harry's palate.

Yes and yes and yes and yes. And Malfoy can, because next time he'll let Harry do it. Harry will count the “Mudblood”s until then.

+ + +

"Of course you'd have this," says Malfoy as Harry pulls off his Invisibility Cloak, and Harry can almost taste his envy. He wants to drop the Cloak, then thinks better of it and stuffs it in the pocket of his jeans. Malfoy watches him with a sneer plastered on his pallid face.

"It's not like you'll keep those on," Malfoy says quietly.

+ + +

The next time Harry fucks Malfoy is the last time he'll have the git complain about sore knees.

"I should've guessed you'd be a princess about this," Harry mocks. He won't admit that his own knees hurt as hell after last time they met. Even his Quidditch team mates had noticed the bruises and he'd lied about falling off, and Ron had frowned and said, You never fall off, Harry, unless Malfoy's involved.

Malfoy only rolls his eyes. "Give me your Cloak."

"No."

"Why the fuck not? It's big. And if you think I'm using that hideous jumper of yours, even if a giant once owned it –"

"You're not touching that Cloak."

"Then you're not touching me."

Finally Harry's buried to the hilt in Malfoy's tight, hot arse and Malfoy complains not once and Harry thinks that using the Cloak was a brilliant idea after all. He grips Malfoy's hips hard enough to bruise. When he glimpses down to see, there are purple marks from before tonight.

Harry looks, but Malfoy's head is bowed and he's rocking back with quiet, rhythmic mumbles. His spine protrudes from his skinny back like a chain of pearls and Harry wants to stroke it touch it show Malfoy that he's looking at him. That he sees him open and vulnerable and yet the world doesn't end.

"Malfoy," he groans. Malfoy doesn't acknowledge it. Harry reaches around his bony hips and squeezes Malfoy's cock. He's never done that before from this angle and it's awkward – but. Malfoy starts trembling. He's still not close, not any time soon, but that's it with Harry's restraint. Every nerve in his body sings and overheats, then the ground is swept out from under him and he's weightless. Harry howls and comes, in stutters, empties himself inside Malfoy in desperate little thrusts.

"You have no fucking stamina, Potter," says Malfoy from somewhere and pushes him off. Harry's too tired to finish him.

He thinks of Herbology today and of Malfoy mouthing words at Neville's back. Then he listens to the urgent flapping of skin on skin, the choked moaning. Once undressed, Malfoy has no finesse at all.

+ + +

Malfoy has never found him during the day before. When eventually he does, Harry is wearing that jumper again and Malfoy does touch it, even if he almost rips it.

"Hands off," Harry growls, but his voice is way too low and the message is at odds with his grappling hands.

"It's so fucking ugly," pants Malfoy, pushing him, stone, wall, yes, "it offends my eyes."

"And why should I care?"

Then they stop talking because really, it's pointless, and this works so much better when they don't. The thrill of this being the break between double Charms adds a whole new level of excitement, of risk. Harry hardens stupidly fast when Malfoy palms him through his clothes; he bites down a moan, but just barely. His heart is thundering through his head and cock and through the entire corridor and what if someone comes through and sees them but no one does, not yet, and very soon Malfoy's nimble fingers will have Harry stop thinking.

"God," Harry breathes. He needs. He has to. He grabs Malfoy by the hair and pulls him in and – "Not my hair, Potter!" – but Harry whispers something like, Shut up, and bites down on Malfoy's neck.

Malfoy struggles to get free – clearly, he hadn't planned on being marked like this – but his restraint makes it all the nicer.

"Fuck you," curses Malfoy. Harry pulls his hair tighter. Then Malfoy squeezes him so hard through his pants that Harry sees stars, and a pitiful whine makes its way out of his throat and echoes through the hallway.

The sound shuts them both up. If someone finds out, this is over.

"You can't even get this right," says Malfoy hoarsely.

Harry meets his eyes, despite the flaming heat in his cheeks. "Maybe I want you caught with your pants down."

"My pants aren't down."

"Not yet."

They never kiss, but when Malfoy raises his eyebrows and sneers as if he wasn't the Death Eater scum he is, Harry wants to. The heat inside that snarling mouth must be unbearable.

"Now," says Harry and cants his hips, "do something about this."

Malfoy's face reddens further – and oh, how he hates it when Harry orders him around – but he's not leaving. Power surges inside Harry and he can't help grinning.

"You look like a fucking moron," Malfoy says. Harry licks his lips in anticipation.

+ + +

After that, they are less careful. They're touching between classrooms, Quidditch showers, on the way to the forest or Astronomy Tower. Harry notices Malfoy is particularly tense when they climb those stairs, and not without satisfaction he watches the pointy jaw clench. Malfoy is at his most aggressive then, but Harry likes it. When Malfoy throws him against one windowpane or another – and often Harry's sure they could be seen from the other side – he suspects that no one else stands up to Malfoy like Harry does. No one but Malfoy confronts Harry, either.

It's not even always sex. Sometimes all they exchange is a quick grope, a snarl that reeks of lust. Possessive, Harry thinks, and that alone makes no sense: there's nothing they expect from the other. Knowing they don't have the right to make demands is what makes them equals, for once.

"Potter," Malfoy pants into Harry's ear, right outside Professor Vector's classroom, and Harry has about one second to cover them with his Cloak until Parvati rounds the corner. She looks confused, but there's no way she could assume what's really happening two feet away.

Malfoy pulls Harry's hair, never breaking their gaze.

Do you want to get caught, you prick? Harry thinks he asks with his eyes, but he can't speak. It's hot under the Cloak when you share the air. His eyes are watering with pain.

Parvati continues down the corridor.

Harry elbows Malfoy, and only when the prat falls against him, Harry feels his body shake with silent laughter.

One morning, Harry wakes to a quiet Gryffindor dorm room and suspects he's the first one awake. His eyes flutter open and he trails a lazy hand up his stomach. Puts the other on his sternum. His skin is sleep-warm and stubbly in some places he just started shaving.

The realisation comes leisurely, similar to the journey of his hands. He knows another's body – Malfoy's body. Ridges and angles explored for longer than he cares to admit. He hadn't even tried to learn them; it had just happened.

+ + +

Almost two weeks pass before Malfoy offends Ron's family in front of the entire year. It's not like a lot of people are listening – most students have decided to ignore the Slytherins in favour of peace – but Harry hears him. Harry always does and Malfoy's annoying drawl has as a way of standing out against a backdrop of voices.

"What did you say?" he asks, stepping in front of Malfoy, and of course everyone's listening now.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. Infuriating as it is, the git still has a few inches on Harry and makes sure to impress them at every occasion. "You wanted something, Potter?"

Harry's blood is boiling. How dare he? How dare he, after everything?

"Harry," he hears Hermione's voice from somewhere behind him, "leave it."

"What. Did. You. Say," Harry repeats as calmly as possible and he knows how dangerous that sounds. He can read it in Malfoy's pale grey eyes.

Malfoy never backs away from him, not even when he's cold with fear, and he shouldn't.

Things are spoken between them, though no word is uttered. Going to blow the cover, Potter? And: I still hate your fucking guts.

I'm not hexing you if you don't.

But Harry has no intention to hex Malfoy – it's not nearly personal enough. And 'personal' is a border they've long overstepped.

"Take it back," Harry demands, hands clenched into fists.

"The fuck I will."

Next thing he knows, Harry's knuckles are aching with the force of his blow and Malfoy's staggering back, eyes closed and hands pressed to his face.

Then hands are gripping Harry and pulling him back. It's Ron and Dean, he notices.

Malfoy stands, unsteadily, by himself. There's a quick worried glance from one of the other students – a Ravenclaw? – but Malfoy's friends aren't here, have never returned to Hogwarts, and the prat is defenceless and bleeding.

Harry feels something drop into his gut. It's not pity. It could be regret.

Malfoy's eyes are burning with hate and in the second he pulls his hand away, Harry sees bright red blood gush from his nose. It's trickling down Malfoy's lips and chin and staining his formerly impeccable white shirt. Malfoy looks even paler than usual. Harry wants to do something and wishes everyone else was just gone or Malfoy would reciprocate or something. But moments tick by and, eventually, Ron squeezes Harry's left shoulder and Malfoy straightens and walks down the corridor.

He never took back what he said, Harry realises.

But his blood was so red, a fire pulsing through his absurdly slender body. Harry feels cold and wrong and disgusted with himself as he turns to his friends and tells them it's fine, he overreacted, they haven't fought in weeks. He doesn't know how it happened.

+ + +

It seems that proportionally to Harry's regret and plans never to hit Malfoy again, Malfoy's thirst for revenge grows. Interestingly enough, he doesn't enact his revenge with petty hexes or more insults (at least no more than usual), but with the cold shoulder. Harry hardly sees him any more between classes, and whenever he checks on their bathroom – the one in the Slytherin dungeons he's come to think of as "theirs" – Malfoy isn't there. Without Malfoy in it, Harry grows fully aware of the room's sad and disgusting glory.

He comes back a handful of times.

+ + +

"I hate you," Malfoy hisses with feeling through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry," says Harry, because it's been acid on this tongue for weeks and – god, finally he has this back and he doesn't know why and won't question it.

Malfoy looks at him, utterly bewildered, through the hazy fog of lust. His pupils are blown wide but his mouth is slack with surprise.

"For hitting you," Harry clarifies, breathless. "Not for you hating me."

"Is that so."

"Are we here to talk?"

Malfoy touches him roughly, brutally almost with his nails hacked into Harry's waist. His breath is hot and damp and it smells intimate, a secret shared. No one else gets to see him like this.

Harry leans closer, closer still. His cock is straining against the fly of his jeans. His heart is threatening to burst out of his chest.

Next to Malfoy's nose – straight again, and pointy, and perfect – there's a scab in the shape of a T. "Didn't you heal this?" Harry asks, eyes shooting up to Malfoy's. His voice sounds funny; it must be all the pent-up energy surfacing at the sight of a stupid healing wound.

"No," Malfoy replies. Not What does it look like, you imbecile?, not even a roll of eyes. Just the staring, as if he was making up for lost time.

Harry still has his hands on the small of Malfoy's back, where he put them when they tumbled through the door and fell against it. He holds on a little tighter. Possessively, perhaps, even though that makes no sense at all. Warm cotton and the promise of body heat.

Pulsing fire.

"Are you going to touch me, or what?" Malfoy asks, his own voice husky. He doesn't appear to be in a hurry, though, only looks and looks.

And Harry is sorry for punching Malfoy, even if it was for Ron, when what he really wants is something else entirely. "Hm," he murmurs and leans in to, finally, kiss that snarling mouth. After all, Malfoy has come back.

+ fin +