(no subject)
Name: Now what?
Writer: Margot/football_girl
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG-13.
Genre: Humor/Romance-ish
Words: 1,220
Summary: As many of these stories go, the rivals have a bloody fight, which results in sexing against the wall. Once the bizarre, unexpected, over-powering passion is gone, however, the question which is not often pursued in all "these stories" comes up: Now what?
A/N:This was written for the Round Four (and this picture) of a great, wonderful community you should all join - slash_friday. Originally, this was going to be angsty, but it turned into humor-like faster than I could help it. :) Also, it was written very late at night, so if it sucks, don't hesitate to tell me so so I can re-write it.
Draco was looking at professor Snape intently, following his every move with his eyes, and looking quite immersed in the lesson. If anybody was to snap Draco out of his reverie and ask what Snape was drawling about, however, the blonde would honestly have to say he had no idea.
Even though Draco looked extremely fascinated in the role that fungi played in insanity-inducing draughts, there was only one purpose of the undue attention he was giving Snape - to prevent himself from giving due attention to anyone else. With his peripheral vision, he could see the piercing gaze of the one he was trying so hard not to look at. Curiosity was killing him. He knew that if he allowed himself just a small glance, he’d know everything - what the other felt about the situation and where to go from there. He knew too well, however, that what he desperately wanted to know would show in his own eyes as well, and he wasn’t quite sure what that would turn out to be.
The night before had quickly progressed from one of the worst nights of the year, to one of the most bizarre. He had gotten an owl from Lucius, inquiring about his last Quidditch game, dripping with sarcasm and spite. Slytherin had lost to Gryffindor yet again, and Lucius was “just curious” as to which wave of fortune took the Snitch from right under Draco’s nose, and placed it right into Potter’s hand?
It was the usual after that. Draco threw the bits and pieces of the letter off the tower along with the owl that had delivered it, disregarding his father’s demand for an “immediate reply”, and stormed down to the Quidditch pitch. Whenever he felt bad about a previous game, the only thing he saw fit was to practice more. Losing, in itself, was a hit below the belt for a Slytherin, but losing to Harry Potter was simply not to be tolerated.
Draco found, in fury, that the Slytherin locker-rooms were locked, but soon discovered this was not the case with Gryddindor’s. He was almost sure nobody would be there at the time when everyone should be having dinner, especially not any of the Gryffindors, who were bound to be celebrating their victory.
He was very, very wrong.
Of all people, he ran into Potter. After that, things happened a little fast. Insults flew, and, short after that, so did the equipment and fists. The war of “I hate you, you slimy, disgusting git!” and “No, I hate you more, you smelly pile of dragon dung!” ensued. Draco found nothing wrong when Potter accidentally tore his shirt in half, and didn’t even find it at all peculiar that he soon accidentally did the same to Potter’s, but he did miss the moment when their fighting suddenly transformed into making-out against a wall in the showers.
It was bizarre, it was surreal, and Draco soon realized that it was completely unconscious. It seemed that Potter didn’t seem to notice the change right away, either. In a few moments, the two boys were standing in front of each other, Harry’s hands still around Draco’s neck, and Draco’s, around Harry’s waist. Harry was looking terrified, and Draco would’ve enjoyed that immensely, if he could be sure he wasn’t wearing the same look himself.
“Um… This happens… When you fight… Sometimes… You lose your head and don’t know what you’re doing… No. I mean…” Harry trailed off. He had no idea what he meant, but felt the need to say something.
“Yes, we’re just holding each other half-naked because that’s how fights usually end.” Draco meant it to be malicious and sarcastic, but it came out flat and very emotionless.
What right had he to make fun of Potter now? He wasn’t sure who initiated this … thing, but it was as likely as not that he did.
The boys stared at each other for a couple of more minutes. Draco didn’t hate having Potter’s arms around him, though it was certainly insane that they were still standing there - close, speechless, and not knowing what to say or do. Finally, Harry leaned back in.
“What… What are you doing, Scarhead?” It was a weak protest, but Draco thought he was doing better for himself. He sounded more confident. Maybe because he could finally feel his toes again.
“Dunno.” Harry shrugged. “Does it matter? Could this get worse?”
Draco was surprised with Potter’s acceptance of the situation. He felt like he had just stepped into the Fairy Land. He could see logic in Harry’s words, though. They hated each other and wished each other dead, but that didn’t prevent them from ending up in each other's arms, doing something very different from what, he was sure, they fantasized doing to each other after every single one of their rows.
He let his hands fall helplessly by his side. Harry, meanwhile, leaned in and proceeded kissing Draco - not with too much emotion or passion, but almost fulfilling the natural flow of events. Draco stood, motionless. He thought of his father, of professor Snape, of Harry’s disgusting friends, and, most of all, what this whole thing meant for both of them. With hesitation, he raised his hands back to Harry’s waist, but right at that moment, the change rooms’ doors slammed open.
“Harry!” The voice sent chills down Draco’s spine. Not only were they about to be discovered, but by Potter’s carrot-looking girlfriend on top of all that.
Harry pushed Draco into the wall, whispered something about keeping quiet, and rushed out of the showers. Draco stood against the wall, listening to Potter explain to Ginny that he was just looking for something, that he accidentally tripped over a pile of equipment and tore his shirt, and that of course he wasn’t cheating on her, because she was the only one he loved.
Draco waited for the two to leave with a smirk on his face. He could see how it was now. Tomorrow, he could black-mail the Gryffindor to keep his mouth shut and never bring the incident up, and convince him that all that happened for the sole reason that Draco was drunk on Fire Whiskey, and had no idea what he was doing, and, more importantly, with whom.
The lesson had ended. Snape, as usual, was the first one to leave the class, giving his students one last look of loathing. The students soon followed. Draco didn’t move. He could sense that neither did Harry. This was the perfect chance for him to act out his perfectly formulated plan.
“Potter,” he said slowly, making sure his voice was calm, loud, and full of loathing and disgust. “About yesterday. I think it’s in your best interest to shut your pipes about that and forget it ever happened. I was drunk on Fire Whiskey and - “
Draco turned around to face Harry and froze. The Gryffindor was standing near the door, his hands on a now latched lock with a smirk the likes of which Draco could never suspect the goody-goody Potter could pull off.
“So, Fire Whiskey, was it?” Harry asked him slyly, making his way to Draco desk. He waved his wand, and a bottle of Fire-Whiskey appeared and settled itself on Draco’s desk with a crash. “You want me to shut it? Make me.”
Writer: Margot/football_girl
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG-13.
Genre: Humor/Romance-ish
Words: 1,220
Summary: As many of these stories go, the rivals have a bloody fight, which results in sexing against the wall. Once the bizarre, unexpected, over-powering passion is gone, however, the question which is not often pursued in all "these stories" comes up: Now what?
A/N:This was written for the Round Four (and this picture) of a great, wonderful community you should all join - slash_friday. Originally, this was going to be angsty, but it turned into humor-like faster than I could help it. :) Also, it was written very late at night, so if it sucks, don't hesitate to tell me so so I can re-write it.
Draco was looking at professor Snape intently, following his every move with his eyes, and looking quite immersed in the lesson. If anybody was to snap Draco out of his reverie and ask what Snape was drawling about, however, the blonde would honestly have to say he had no idea.
Even though Draco looked extremely fascinated in the role that fungi played in insanity-inducing draughts, there was only one purpose of the undue attention he was giving Snape - to prevent himself from giving due attention to anyone else. With his peripheral vision, he could see the piercing gaze of the one he was trying so hard not to look at. Curiosity was killing him. He knew that if he allowed himself just a small glance, he’d know everything - what the other felt about the situation and where to go from there. He knew too well, however, that what he desperately wanted to know would show in his own eyes as well, and he wasn’t quite sure what that would turn out to be.
The night before had quickly progressed from one of the worst nights of the year, to one of the most bizarre. He had gotten an owl from Lucius, inquiring about his last Quidditch game, dripping with sarcasm and spite. Slytherin had lost to Gryffindor yet again, and Lucius was “just curious” as to which wave of fortune took the Snitch from right under Draco’s nose, and placed it right into Potter’s hand?
It was the usual after that. Draco threw the bits and pieces of the letter off the tower along with the owl that had delivered it, disregarding his father’s demand for an “immediate reply”, and stormed down to the Quidditch pitch. Whenever he felt bad about a previous game, the only thing he saw fit was to practice more. Losing, in itself, was a hit below the belt for a Slytherin, but losing to Harry Potter was simply not to be tolerated.
Draco found, in fury, that the Slytherin locker-rooms were locked, but soon discovered this was not the case with Gryddindor’s. He was almost sure nobody would be there at the time when everyone should be having dinner, especially not any of the Gryffindors, who were bound to be celebrating their victory.
He was very, very wrong.
Of all people, he ran into Potter. After that, things happened a little fast. Insults flew, and, short after that, so did the equipment and fists. The war of “I hate you, you slimy, disgusting git!” and “No, I hate you more, you smelly pile of dragon dung!” ensued. Draco found nothing wrong when Potter accidentally tore his shirt in half, and didn’t even find it at all peculiar that he soon accidentally did the same to Potter’s, but he did miss the moment when their fighting suddenly transformed into making-out against a wall in the showers.
It was bizarre, it was surreal, and Draco soon realized that it was completely unconscious. It seemed that Potter didn’t seem to notice the change right away, either. In a few moments, the two boys were standing in front of each other, Harry’s hands still around Draco’s neck, and Draco’s, around Harry’s waist. Harry was looking terrified, and Draco would’ve enjoyed that immensely, if he could be sure he wasn’t wearing the same look himself.
“Um… This happens… When you fight… Sometimes… You lose your head and don’t know what you’re doing… No. I mean…” Harry trailed off. He had no idea what he meant, but felt the need to say something.
“Yes, we’re just holding each other half-naked because that’s how fights usually end.” Draco meant it to be malicious and sarcastic, but it came out flat and very emotionless.
What right had he to make fun of Potter now? He wasn’t sure who initiated this … thing, but it was as likely as not that he did.
The boys stared at each other for a couple of more minutes. Draco didn’t hate having Potter’s arms around him, though it was certainly insane that they were still standing there - close, speechless, and not knowing what to say or do. Finally, Harry leaned back in.
“What… What are you doing, Scarhead?” It was a weak protest, but Draco thought he was doing better for himself. He sounded more confident. Maybe because he could finally feel his toes again.
“Dunno.” Harry shrugged. “Does it matter? Could this get worse?”
Draco was surprised with Potter’s acceptance of the situation. He felt like he had just stepped into the Fairy Land. He could see logic in Harry’s words, though. They hated each other and wished each other dead, but that didn’t prevent them from ending up in each other's arms, doing something very different from what, he was sure, they fantasized doing to each other after every single one of their rows.
He let his hands fall helplessly by his side. Harry, meanwhile, leaned in and proceeded kissing Draco - not with too much emotion or passion, but almost fulfilling the natural flow of events. Draco stood, motionless. He thought of his father, of professor Snape, of Harry’s disgusting friends, and, most of all, what this whole thing meant for both of them. With hesitation, he raised his hands back to Harry’s waist, but right at that moment, the change rooms’ doors slammed open.
“Harry!” The voice sent chills down Draco’s spine. Not only were they about to be discovered, but by Potter’s carrot-looking girlfriend on top of all that.
Harry pushed Draco into the wall, whispered something about keeping quiet, and rushed out of the showers. Draco stood against the wall, listening to Potter explain to Ginny that he was just looking for something, that he accidentally tripped over a pile of equipment and tore his shirt, and that of course he wasn’t cheating on her, because she was the only one he loved.
Draco waited for the two to leave with a smirk on his face. He could see how it was now. Tomorrow, he could black-mail the Gryffindor to keep his mouth shut and never bring the incident up, and convince him that all that happened for the sole reason that Draco was drunk on Fire Whiskey, and had no idea what he was doing, and, more importantly, with whom.
The lesson had ended. Snape, as usual, was the first one to leave the class, giving his students one last look of loathing. The students soon followed. Draco didn’t move. He could sense that neither did Harry. This was the perfect chance for him to act out his perfectly formulated plan.
“Potter,” he said slowly, making sure his voice was calm, loud, and full of loathing and disgust. “About yesterday. I think it’s in your best interest to shut your pipes about that and forget it ever happened. I was drunk on Fire Whiskey and - “
Draco turned around to face Harry and froze. The Gryffindor was standing near the door, his hands on a now latched lock with a smirk the likes of which Draco could never suspect the goody-goody Potter could pull off.
“So, Fire Whiskey, was it?” Harry asked him slyly, making his way to Draco desk. He waved his wand, and a bottle of Fire-Whiskey appeared and settled itself on Draco’s desk with a crash. “You want me to shut it? Make me.”