Fest Fic: Desire Unveiled Part I (Draco/Harry)
Title: Desire Unveiled
Author: frayach
Prompt: 27
Prompt Submitted By: vaysh11
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Word Count: 15,200
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This story takes place during The Order of the Phoenix when Draco and Harry are 15. There is no adult/child sexual content. The sex is between Harry and Draco, so yes, they are underage, but there is no statutory rape involved - just consenting teenagers.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s Notes: This story is for vaysh11 whose prompt I chose. It will not surprise her to learn I didn’t entirely stick to her prompt - once I started writing, the story assumed a life of its own. But I hope very much that she enjoys it nonetheless. In addition to thanking the mods for letting me climb on the bandwagon at the last minute, I want to thank A.R. for her superb Brit-picking/SPaG editing and wish nursedarry a quick recovery.
Summary: Harry is emphatically NOT a pouf, and thus his reoccurring fantasies involving Draco are due to his Occlumency lessons with Snape, NOT to his sexuality. Or so he tries to convince himself. Meanwhile, Voldemort has returned, and Harry is about to learn that he is the Chosen One - whether he’s ready or not.
You don’t know yourself, Harry Potter.
Harry clenches his fists and screams that he does - that he does know himself, but as so often happens in dreams, his scream is nothing but a forced breath that strikes no cords.
Voldemort leans over him.
How can you defeat me, little boy, if you can’t even defeat your own monsters?
He laughs. His breath is cloying like an old woman’s perfume. A subterfuge for decay.
“I have no monsters,” Harry wants to say, but he’d be lying, and he shall not tell lies. Not even to Voldemort. Not even in his dreams.
You’re so blind, you don’t even know what they are, do you?
Harry can only stare into those eyes that’d peered unblinkingly beneath death’s shroud. There’s no reasoning with such a wind-thrashed void of a mind. There’s no point in even trying. Voldemort laughs again.
You are nothing but a child, he croons. Ickle Potty.
Suddenly, Voldemort’s face melts like wax and transforms into Dudley’s who’s laughing and jeering because he’s caught Harry sitting on the toilet with his jeans around his ankles and his dick in his hand.
“Get out!” Harry screams. “Get out! Get out! Get Out!” He isn’t sure who he’s addressing anymore.
Someone shakes him. Hard.
“Wake up!” Ron hissed in his ear. “Before you wake the others!”
Harry opened his eyes to red and gold and the sound of snoring. To his horror, he was on the verge of coming just as he’d been before Dudley burst into the loo.
“You were crying out again,” Ron whispered.
Harry sat up, careful to keep his lap covered, and rubbed his scar.
“Bloody hell. What’d I say this time?”
Ron bit his lip.
“C’mon, Ron! Just tell me so I can go back to sleep.”
Ron looked away. “You called out for Malfoy.”
Harry stared at him, bewildered. “But I wasn’t dreaming about Malfoy,” he said. “I was dreaming about You Know Who.”
Ron stood and walked back to his bed, carrying himself in a familiar way that told Harry he was angry about something.
“Whatever you say, mate,” he said, tugging up his duvet and rolling onto his side, turning his back on Harry. “Whatever you say.”
* * * *
Merlin’s manky pants! What was that?
Appalled, Harry stared at the transparent jars floating around Snape’s office. What the hell was that thing? A fish of some kind? A bulging eye pressed against the glass, staring accusingly as though Harry was the cause of its misery. And what was that fleshy glob with purple spots pulsing like a heart? And that thing that looked like a frog but whose gaping mouth was filled with fangs?
“Me, Potter! Look at me!”
Harry took a deep breath and hauled his gaze back to Snape’s cold dark eyes.
“Perhaps you do not appreciate the seriousness of your situation,” Snape said, his voice lowered to the tickle of a spider’s legs crawling across the back of Harry’s neck. “Perhaps you believe you already possess everything it will require to defeat the Dark Lord.”
Harry crossed his arms and glared at Snape’s face, wax-shallow in the torchlight.
“Defeat Voldemort,” he replied. “Sir.” He was determined not to let the greasy git intimidate him.
Snape took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment as though he was praying to the god of forbearance. When he opened them again, they bore into Harry’s skull like twin augers.
“For the last time, do not say the Dark Lord’s name!” Snape shouted, smacking his desk with the palm of his hand so loudly that Harry jumped despite himself. A frail plant in a pot on Snape’s desk shrieked and fainted. In the ensuing silence, Harry could hear nothing but the snap and crackle of the torches and his own shallow breaths.
“You are weak, Potter! You’re just like your father! Undisciplined, arrogant and . . . shameless.”
The last word dropped from a shout to a malevolent hiss. Harry shuddered with revulsion and rage.
“Never speak of my father like that again!” he yelled, clenched-fist furious. “Unlike you, my father was a great man . . .”
“Legilimens! Snape practically screamed the word, and Harry was suddenly dragged like a leashed dog through the slime of his childhood memories: books with torn-out pages, grey holey underpants, a curled lip twitching on his aunt’s face, cobwebs in his hair, his uncle’s beefy mocking laugh, a plate of food on the floor and no fork and spoon to eat it with, whole days at Mrs. Figg’s, birthdays ignored, meals withheld, Dudley’s fist in his stomach and nothing but shame shame shame as his body matured . . .
“No! Stop!”
He fell to his knees on the flagstone floor. Those memories were secrets no one knew - not even Ron and Hermione, but now Snape knew them. Snape of all people!
“Stop,” he said weakly. Defeated and mortified. He looked up at Snape’s face expecting to see a sneer. He wasn’t surprised when he did.
“You are an open book, and a dull book at that,” Snape said emotionlessly although his eyes glittered with beetle-bright malice. “The Dark Lord will read your mind like a copy of The Quibbler and then crumple it into a ball and discard it like so much worthless rubbish.”
Harry winced and looked away.
“If you wish to survive, you must learn to shut him out of your thoughts, your dreams, your plans, your . . . fantasies. Look at me, Potter!”
Harry hadn’t even staggered to his feet before Snape pierced his mind again. Harry’s body shook trying to shove him back. It felt like holding a door closed against an attacking army. His shirt was damp with sweat, and his breath rasped in his ears.
“Please!” he begged, hating himself, but he couldn’t take it another second. He’d never had to fight so hard. Every last muscle and sinew in his body strained to the point of collapse. His lungs couldn’t hold enough air; his heart couldn’t pump enough blood; his gutted mind couldn’t close as Snape’s magic squeezed his stomach, forcing out his memories like vomit and shit as though his body was nothing but a tube of toothpaste.
And then all of a sudden it stopped. Harry looked down and saw that he’d pissed himself. He braced for the inevitable derisive laugh, but Snape merely twitched his wand in the direction of Harry’s crotch and said “Tergeo.”
Harry clambered to his feet. He was exhausted and aghast at his weakness.
“This has been a waste of my time,” Snape said, his words scalpel like in their precision. “You are pathetic, Potter. I expect you to practise diligently before our next session.”
He turned away and walked to his supply cabinet where he began pulling down jars and phials and examining their contents. When he looked back at Harry, he frowned as though surprised to find him still there.
“You’ve been dismissed,” he said. “Go back to Gryffindor or I shall be forced to dock house points for trespassing.”
Harry blinked. Was that all? Were they really done? Somehow . . . somehow it felt wrong, although why he couldn’t say. It certainly wasn’t that he wanted to remain in Snape’s company for a second longer, but . . . something . . . something . . . private . . . had happened, and . . . And, what? Did he want a hug or something?
He cringed at the thought. Snape had returned to sorting through his potion ingredients. After a moment that felt far too long, Harry shouldered his satchel and left, making sure to slam the door behind him.
He wandered for a while, taking his time returning to the tower and sticking to the darkest corridors. He didn’t want to see anyone, let alone talk to them. What was he going to do for the rest of the evening? There was no way he’d be able to focus on homework - his mind felt like it was rubbed as raw as his ankles after a day of wearing new shoes. He wanted to Summon his broom and fly like a maniac for hours, but his muscles were too sore. And sleep was positively out of the question. He needed . . . something . . . he needed . . .
He needed to come.
The realisation struck him like an unseen Bludger flying out of the mist. He stopped in his tracks, shocked at himself and rather horrified . . . not to mention confused. But the truth was in the gathering tension in his groin.
There was a lavatory between the Charms and History of Magic classrooms that was used only during the day. Harry walked to it as quickly as possible without running, praying the whole way that he wouldn’t encounter anyone who wanted to stop and chat. When he finally reached his destination, he entered the stall farthest from the door and locked it.
The urge to come was intense and seemed to press against his bladder. He grabbed his crotch through his trousers as though he was trying to keep from pissing himself again. He felt under pressure and uncomfortable. It was nothing like the way he felt when he wanked in his bed at night. It was more urgent and even a little painful.
He unbuckled his belt and wrenched open his fly, probably ruining the zip in the process. He slipped his hand into his pants and closed his eyes, trying to think of the girls in Ron’s magazines, but he couldn’t make his mind latch onto a single image. Maybe it was the Occlumency lessons or his exhaustion or the sheer need to come, but for the first time, he had no control over his thoughts as they presented one image after another. The back of Dean’s neck as he bent his head over a drawing. Wood’s arse as he slipped off his pants in Gryffindor’s locker room. Corner’s shoulders as he practised his Patronus. Seamus’s chest when he pulled off his jumper. Malfoy’s crotch as he sat in a chair with his legs spread open . . .
The last image knocked the breath from Harry’s lungs, and he started coming into his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting it to be over yet and pictured Malfoy’s crotch again, not giving a shit that he was thinking about a boy - not even giving a shit that it was Malfoy. It felt too good. He simply couldn’t give a shit about anything else.
But then it was over, and suddenly he did give a shit. A really big shit.
It was the Occlumency lessons. There was no other explanation. Snape, the bastard, had fucked with his head and weakened his brain. He wasn’t a pouf. He got hard watching the blokes in Ron’s magazines slide their dicks in and out of the girls’ cunts. He came thinking of men coming on girls’ faces. How could he be bent if he got off on blokes fucking girls?
He tore a handful of toilet paper from the roll and wiped off his hands. He was still shaking slightly, but he felt calmer. He was tired but no longer exhausted. His mind felt whole again. He felt centred and present. He wished these things made him feel better about the fact that he’d come over thoughts of boys in general and Malfoy in particular. But they didn’t. They only made him feel worse.
* * * *
Merlin’s mouldy biccie, Malfoy was a giant, hairy twat.
Harry watched him breathe on his Inquisitorial Squad pin and then shine it with the hem of his robe.
Wanker.
“Did you see that? What an arsewipe,” Ron growled in Harry’s ear.
“He’s just doing it because he knows you’re watching him,” Hermione whispered. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of getting under your skin.”
Ron harrumphed. “You sound like mum when Fred and George are being prats.”
“It’s the same idea. You’re too easy to infuriate. Stop reacting and people will leave you alone.”
“‘Easy to infuriate’? Did you hear that, Harry? . . . Harry?”
Ron elbowed him in the ribs, and Harry turned to glare at him.
“Ow! What’s your problem?”
He’d been watching Malfoy make fun of Neville and strenuously reminding himself why he hated Malfoy so much. Malfoy was a boy, and not only that, he was a git. A stupid ugly git with a pointy face and stupid hair . . . and stupid eyes . . . and stupid . . .
Ron elbowed him again and peered at Harry like his optician did when he checked Harry’s eyes to see if he needed new glasses.
“My problem? What’s your problem?” Ron asked. “You’ve been staring at Malfoy since class started.”
Harry quickly turned his attention to the apple he was trying to Transfigure into a turtle.
“I can’t help it,” he mumbled. “He’s such a bloody prat.”
“And that’s new?”
“No, of course not,” Harry said defensively. “It’s just that he grows even pratier by the day.”
He looked at the blackboard and tried again to follow McGonagall’s wand-work instructions. Suddenly a turtle head burst through his apple’s shiny peel. He and Ron both stared in amazement. Even Hermione looked impressed.
“Oh, how sweet!” Parvati exclaimed, and suddenly Harry was surrounded by cooing fifth-year girls all vying at once to pet his apple-turtle’s head.
“Bugger,” Ron groused. “I wish I chose the turtle.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You thought Transfiguring a quill into a Flobberworm was going to get you a date to the next ball?”
“Hey,” Ron exclaimed. “Flobberworms are cute! I used to have one for a pet before I got Scabbers.”
“I’m sure it was very cuddly,” Hermione replied.
“More cuddly than Scabbers . . .”
Harry ignored his friends and the encroaching gaggle of girls and instead used the distraction to look at Malfoy again. Malfoy had chosen the same spell, and his apple hadn’t just sprouted a head, but four legs and a tail too. He was obviously having difficulty with the turtle’s body though because McGonagall was helping him perfect his wand motions. Harry scowled at his own motionless turtle. It’d be a miracle if he managed the legs, let alone the shell.
He lifted his gaze to Malfoy’s face and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He wished he didn’t feel compelled to look at Malfoy because looking at Malfoy made him think about Malfoy, and thinking about Malfoy wasn’t something he wanted to do. In fact, thinking about Malfoy made him feel the same sense of disgust with himself that he felt when he tore off a healing scab or picked his nose and ate the bogey. But much in the same way he sometimes couldn’t resist doing revolting things, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the fact that, like him, Malfoy had a prick and that his prick got hard when he wanked. The thought made Harry unaccountably crazy. He wished Malfoy didn’t have a prick, so he could stop thinking about it because thinking about it felt like eating bogeys or missing the urinal and peeing on his trainers, or getting shit on his hand by accident when he wiped his arse . . .
“Harry, mate, you’re still staring at him,” Ron whispered. “If you’re not careful, some arsehole’s gonna say you’re in love with him.”
Harry recoiled in horror. “In love with him?” he said indignantly. “If anything I’m in hate with him.”
“I’m just sayin’” Ron said. “Look!” He pointed at Zabini who was glancing at Harry and whispering something to Pansy Parkinson. “That prick’ll say anything to get a laugh.”
Harry blushed and turned in his chair so he couldn’t be tempted to look at Malfoy anymore.
“Arseholes,” he said. “God, I loathe that House. They’re all a bunch of pricks. Especially Malfoy.”
“Again,” Ron said. “Is that news? What’s got you so wound up about Malfoy these days? He hasn’t done anything git-like in at least a week.”
“His mere existence is git-like,” Harry replied.
He tapped his apple so hard with his wand that the turtle head snapped at it and withdrew.
“Damn you! Grow legs!” he yelled at it.
McGonagall swept over to their side of the room, the nails on the soles of her laced boots clicking on the flagstone floor.
“Language, Mr. Potter,” she said. “‘Damn you’ is not a spell. Five points from Gryffindor.”
Everyone around him groaned. Harry looked at McGonagall crossly but was mollified when he saw her regretful expression.
“What seems to be the trouble?” she asked, and then glanced at Harry’s “turtle.” She sighed.
“Transfiguration is an essential skill, Mr. Potter, and this is a relatively simple assignment.”
Harry’s cheeks reddened. “Maybe my turtle’s shy,” he mumbled, and McGonagall actually smiled for a fleetingly second. It softened her features considerably.
“Mr. Malfoy is working on the same assignment and having some success,” she said. “Why don’t you spend the rest of the class working with him?”
Horrified, Harry looked up at her, pleading with his eyes.
“Even though I may have phrased it as such, that was not a suggestion,” she said.
“But professor . . .” he said, realising when the words left his mouth that he was whinging like a first-year.
She frowned at him and cleared her throat - a sound more expressive than words could ever be.
“Do not force me to deduct more points from my House, Mr. Potter.”
Harry sighed and picked up his turtle-apple. The walk over to the Slytherin section of the classroom took an eternity; he felt like everyone was staring at him, but at last he found himself standing in front of Malfoy’s desk. Malfoy looked up at him with an arched eyebrow.
“Potter,” he said. “Piss off.”
“McGonagall made me come over here,” Harry replied. He held up his turtle-apple by way of explanation. “It’s not like I want to work with you.”
Malfoy laughed with malicious glee.
“Having difficulty, Potty? How surprising.”
That was it. Harry was not going to spend the remainder of class sparing with Malfoy. He turned to go back to his desk. Avoiding Malfoy’s presence was worth losing points, but as soon as Seamus saw what he was doing, he glared at Harry balefully.
“Don’t lose us anymore bloody points, Harry,” he said warningly. “You already lost us fifty today in potions.”
Harry grimaced. It was true. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he wasn’t The Boy Who Lived and Gryffindor’s Seeker, some sixth or seventh-year would’ve hexed the crap out of him by now. He was the main source of deducted House points. Except maybe Fred and George.
He turned and stalked back to Malfoy and sat down at the empty desk beside the annoying ponce.
“Just shut it,” he said when Malfoy opened his stupid poncy mouth.
“I was going to tell you how to Transfigure the legs,” Malfoy said. “But you told me to ‘shut it’.” He made a motion with his fingers that suggested he’d zippered his lips closed. Harry rolled his eyes.
“You know what I mean,” he said. “I just meant don’t be a prat, although I realise pratishness is your natural state, and it’ll be hard for you.”
“Ha ha,” Malfoy said with what he probably thought was a withering glare. “You’re so very witty, Potter . . .”
“And you’re so very gitty,” Harry replied.
“Boys!” McGonagall called from the Hufflepuff section. “If you both don’t have fully Transfigured turtles by the end of class, you’ll be spending Friday night here completing your assignments. Have I made myself understood?”
“Fucking cow,” Malfoy mumbled, and Harry kicked him in the shin.
“Don’t talk about my Head of House that way,” he hissed.
“I’ll talk about her anyway I please.”
“Not if you don’t want my turtle shoved up your arse.”
Malfoy opened his mouth to reply when suddenly a smile threatened to unfurl his sneer.
“Shut it, Potter,” he said and turned his attention to his turtle. Harry could see him struggling not to laugh. It felt like a kind of victory. They didn’t even have to throw hexes, and he’d already won.
Then Malfoy reached down under his desk and adjusted his prick.
Harry closed his eyes when he felt blood rush to his own. He tried to swallow in an effort to moisten his suddenly dry throat. What was wrong with him?
“Show me how to Transfigure the fucking turtle,” he growled, opening his eyes. “And hurry up about it. We don’t have all day.”
“Demanding, aren’t we?” Malfoy said with a smirk. “Here, watch me.”
He spoke the spell and then flicked and swished his wand, but he moved so fast that the demonstration was lost on Harry.
“Slower,” he snapped.
Malfoy smirked again and waved his wand so sluggishly that again it was lost on Harry.
“Jesus Christ,” he snapped again. “Faster.”
“Potter,” Malfoy said with a disturbing grin. “You’re quite the pushy bottom.”
A what? Harry frowned at him. “What the hell’s a pushy bottom?” he asked. It sounded like some kind of Quidditch stunt, and he’d be damned before Malfoy knew a stunt that he didn’t.
Malfoy dropped his head onto his desk, scaring both of their turtles and causing them to pull their heads back into their apples. He laughed so hard his shoulders shook. When he looked up again, his face was pink and damp.
“Merlin, you’re pathetically stupid,” he wheezed. “A ‘pushy bottom’ is a demanding bloke with a dick up his arse. Faster, slower, harder,” he added breathily. “That’s you, Potter. A pushy bottom.”
Harry could only stare at him. Dick. Arse. Jesus.
“Shut it,” he said. It wasn’t the cleverest comeback, but it was all he could think of with the image of a dick sliding in and out of an arsehole invading his brain.
Ugh. Who did that??
“Disgusting,” he added belatedly.
Malfoy arched an eyebrow. Smug self-satisfied expressions must run in the family.
Harry blushed and looked away and started frantically swishing and flicking his wand. Bloody turtle! Maybe if he tried every movement he could think of, something would eventually work. Arseholes were for shitting, for Merlin’s sake! Not for shoving dicks in! What if you got shit up your dick? Then what?
He shifted in his chair, suddenly excruciatingly aware of his own arsehole. It wasn’t a part of his body he thought about very often except when he’d eaten something spicy or waited too long to take a shower after getting sweaty playing Quidditch on a hot day. And then, of course, there were those unpleasant times when there was no toilet paper handy.
Nobody in their right mind would willingly touch somebody’s arsehole, let alone put their dick in it!
“You’re a pervert, Malfoy,” he said. “Stop talking to me.”
Malfoy shrugged. “Fine,” he said airily. “Good luck finishing the assignment without my help.”
They spent the rest of the class in silence, flicking their wands at their apple-turtles. By the end, Harry hadn’t accomplished more than a head and tail, and Malfoy had had no further luck with the shell.
“Bugger,” Harry grumbled. “I guess I know what I’ll be doing Friday night.”
“Interesting choice of words, Potter,” Malfoy said with a gag-inducing wink as he stuffed his turtle in his satchel.
“Fuck off,” Harry muttered. He picked up his own satchel, turned his back on Malfoy and began walking to the door.
“Again. Interesting choice of words,” Malfoy called after him.
Despite his better judgment, Harry turned and stomped back.
“Just for your information,” he said, “I’m not a pouf. You may like dicks shoved up your arse, but I think it’s disgusting.”
“Maybe your arse is disgusting,” Malfoy replied. “Didn’t that Muggle clan of yours teach you to wipe after using the toilet?”
Harry wanted to run away, but he didn’t want to give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing he was embarrassed. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” he tried to drawl.
“You started it. You were the one talking about buggering.”
“It’s a turn of phrase, you wanker.”
“You just keep telling yourself that, but it’s obvious, Potter, you’re just as bent as I am.”
Harry gaped. Did the git just say what Harry thought he said? Who’d ever just announce he was a sausage licker like it was no big deal??
“You’re admitting that?” he said incredulously. “Just like it’s nothing . . . and to me, of all people? Are you mental?”
Malfoy shrugged. “The only reason it’s front page news to you is that you’re an oblivious arse. I came out the beginning of the year, you moron.”
Harry was dumbfounded. His dorm mates mocked poufs as much as Hufflepuffs and Professor Binns. Actually, they mocked poufs more than Puffs and Binns. The thought of being bent and them finding out . . . Harry shuddered. He couldn’t think of anything worse.
“So you like having pricks shoved up your arse,” he said hoarsely.
“I never said that,” Malfoy drawled. “Maybe I like shoving my cock up someone else’s arse.”
Harry winced at Malfoy’s use of the word “cock” in much the same way people winced when he referred to You Know Who as “Voldemort.”
“So, you like shit.”
“Wow. No wonder you’re so fucked up.”
“I’m not ‘fucked up.’ You’re the one who’s fucked up if you like shit.”
Malfoy sneered. “How old are you, Potter? Five?”
“No, I just don’t like shit. Which makes me normal, by the way.”
“Well, I don’t like shit either.”
“Really? You just said you did.”
“I did not! God, Potter, you piss me off so much! Saying I’m gay does not mean I like shit. Merlin! You’re so fucking stupid . . .”
Suddenly McGonagall appeared. Bloody hell. She’d probably been in her Animagus form and heard every word they said, although why he should be embarrassed at the thought, he didn’t know. Malfoy was the one who should be embarrassed. Mortified even.
“You boys are fifteen,” McGonagall said as though they’d forgotten. “But you have mouths like seasoned Aurors. Twenty points from both your Houses. Now off with you or you’ll miss lunch.”
Harry picked up his satchel and made his way to the door mumbling obscenities under his breath. Malfoy followed mumbling his own obscene litany.
“And, boys!” McGonagall called after them. “Don’t forget! This classroom Friday night at seven o’clock. Don’t be late - especially you, Mr. Potter. I’ve noticed you’ve developed a tardiness problem.”
“How exciting,” Malfoy said gleefully. “Our first date, Potter. You bring the wine and roses, and I’ll bring the condoms and lube.”
Harry didn’t reply. He figured dashing toward the stairs would convey his message of horror and revulsion more clearly than any words could.
* * * *
Voldemort is holding Harry’s prick in his reptilian hand. His fingernails are the colour of tea-stained teeth and pointed like the tip of a dagger.
They’re in Little Hangleton again. Cedric’s body lies cast aside like a doll with which its child has tired of playing. His eyes stare sightlessly at a night sky roiled by an approaching storm, and the surrounding gravestones seem to close in around him like vultures.
Death Eaters stand around the steaming cauldron. Harry can feel their nerves vibrating with excitement. The mist smells of their unused cloaks only recently unpacked from cedar chests.
Pettigrew isn’t going to cut his wrist this time, and this time Harry pleads for mercy.
* * * *
He was winded and could smell his sweat. It stunk.
“I can still see your thoughts,” Snape snarled between his own shallow gasps. He was also breathless, but his arm was straight and sure as he pointed his wand at the place between Harry’s eyebrows.
“I’m trying!” Harry shouted.
“Not hard enough!” Snape shouted back.
“I need to rest,” Harry panted. “Just for a second . . .”
“The Dark Lord will not let you rest,” Snape bellowed. “And neither will I.”
Agony shredded Harry’s mind as Snape dragged his thoughts from it as though they were a strand of barbed wire being dragged through a pudding. Sirius throwing his arm around his shoulders. Mrs. Weasley crushed him against her bosom. Mr. Weasley asking him how a blender works. Hermione bathing his wounded hand and offering to erase the words that he, himself, had engraved. Ron cheering his retrieval of the Horntail’s egg. Remus smiling at him with quiet pride and handing him a piece of chocolate. Seamus laughing at his jokes. Neville writing his Herbology essay for him. Dean drawing his portrait. Dumbledore looking at him, his eyes twinkling with fondness. Luna smiling dreamily when she discovers her Patronus. Malfoy’s expression of grudging admiration when Harry catches the Snitch an instant before Malfoy can . . .
Snape dropped his wand, and both of them stood panting until they caught their breath.
“Stupid boy,” Snape hissed at him, fury woven through every word. “I now know everything and everyone who’s important to you. If I wanted to break you, as I can assure you the Dark Lord does, then I would hunt down each one of them and force you to watch me torture them to death. Because of you. Because you are lazy and weak!”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears like he used to during thunderstorms when he was a child.
“Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut up!”
To his surprise, Harry heard Snape sigh and slowly opened his eyes.
“I told Albus that this would be a disaster,” Snape said, turning away and walking to a window where he stood gazing out at the minnows and waving reeds. “He’s his father’s son, not his mother’s. He isn’t curious. He doesn’t want to learn. He’s as thick as mud and as shallow as a child’s wading pool . . .”
“I know you’re talking about me,” Harry said. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m still in the room . . . sir.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Snape snapped, turning away from the window. “You are coddled and pampered. Someone needs to tell you the truth. God knows, Sirius won’t.”
Harry’s temper flared like a struck match.
“Don’t talk about my Godfather!” he yelled. “He’s a hero like my Dad! You’re just jealous . . .”
Suddenly, Snape pointed his wand at him again. His face was contorted with rage.
“Legilimens!” he shouted with more fury than even Harry’s uncle had ever managed.
Harry braced himself as though expecting a hot blast of desert wind and pictured himself slamming his mind shut like a door and bolting it with as many bolts as secured the castle’s gates. He turned his hatred into a blockade. But it was only a matter of seconds before Snape reduced it to rubble . . .
He’s kissing Malfoy like he’d kissed Cho and touching Malfoy’s shoulders, his back, his face, his hair. Malfoy’s touching him too, sliding eager hands up and down Harry’s sides from his armpits to his waist. Malfoy’s warm breath smells of mint, which disappoints Harry for some reason he can’t explain. He doesn’t know what to do with Malfoy’s body. But he knows what he wants Malfoy to do to him: he wants Malfoy to touch his prick. He’s ready to beg, ready to bargain, ready to plead. He’s never wanted anything so much in his life. He’s hard, aching, straining against his fly. Please! If only Malfoy will touch him . . .
He staggered backward, suddenly free of Snape’s relentless mental probing.
They stood for a long time staring at each other.
“Soooo . . .” Snape said at last.
Harry was shaking all over as he grabbed his robes and satchel. He felt tears of humiliation and confusion sting his eyes.
“Leave me alone,” he shouted. “Just . . . just leave me alone!”
He was crying now. Crying in a way he hadn’t cried since he was locked away in his cupboard. And he was hard and aching and terrified.
Snape’s face was expressionless - impossible to read. He made no attempt to stop Harry from leaving.
Harry ran to the door, dodging floating jars, and slammed it shut behind him.
It was a trick. Snape hated him. He’d planted those thoughts! He’d made Harry think . . . things about Malfoy. They weren’t real. They didn’t mean anything. Snape had done it to make a fool of him. He wasn’t a bloody pouf! And he most certainly wasn’t attracted to Malfoy!
Snape’s derisive words echoed in his head as Harry ran to the loo, shoving aside all awareness as he slammed the stall door shut. It happened after every lesson now. He got hard, longed to come and wanked to random images of faceless boys until right before his orgasm when he thought of Malfoy. He imagined Malfoy touching his own prick, sliding the foreskin up and down over the swollen shiny head. The moment Malfoy came, so did he. Then he collapsed onto the toilet and waited till the shuddering subsided. When it did, he felt a sense of peace and contentment that wasn’t shattered until he remembered about what and who he’d been fantasising.
When he did, his world fell apart, and he sat for a long time, his trousers still around his thighs. Sometimes he cried. Other times he could only wish that he could.
He was running up the stairs as fast as he could when someone grabbed his arm. He wheeled around, wand drawn.
“Harry!” Hermione cried. “It’s me!”
He lowered his arm and then, as though all of his bones had turned to mashed potatoes, sank onto the step and put his face in his hands.
“Oh my . . . Harry, what’s wrong?”
He felt her put her arms around him, and he leaned against her, limp with exhaustion.
“Snape,” he ground out.
“That’s right,” she said. “I forgot you had another Occlumency lesson this evening.” She gave him a squeeze and pulled away to look at his face. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shook his head. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was talk about it.
“It’s really very difficult, isn’t it?” she said. “Ever since you started your lessons with Snape, I’ve been reading about mind penetration spells and how to block them. But, Harry, if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’re a brilliant wizard. Don’t forget, you can conquer the Imperius Curse.”
“It’s different,” he mumbled. “I can’t explain . . . it’s like . . . it’s like having a parasite in your brain.”
“It sounds horrible.”
He wiped his nose and nodded. “Yeah, it is.”
She smoothed the hair back from his brow. “But it’s important,” she said softly. “You have to keep You Know Who from . . .”
“I know I do!” he snapped.
She nodded and pulled away. He instantly felt guilty.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re right. I know Dumbledore and even stupid Snape is right, but . . .” He sighed. “I just wish I could be normal for one bloody day.”
“I know,” she said soothingly.
“It’s every night now,” he said. “The dreams, I mean. It’s like there’s no escape. I feel like I’m going mental. Maybe I am.”
“No, you’re not,” she said fiercely, taking his hand. “You were right about Mr. Weasley. You saved his life.”
But the fact that he’d been right wasn’t what Harry wanted to hear at the moment because what else was he right about? Was he right about Malfoy?
“I’ve got homework to do,” he said, standing up with the help of the banister. Hermione laughed.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you use homework as an excuse not to talk about your feelings.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he muttered.
He let her loop her arm through his. They climbed the stairs together and waited silently for each staircase to swing and dock with a loud clunk. Finally, he found the nerve to ask the question he knew he had to.
“Hermione?”
She looked up at him. “Yes?”
“Do . . . do you think I might be . . .”
But he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Might be what?” she said encouragingly.
But he couldn’t go on.
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”
She looked at him, but he didn’t return her gaze. He was too busy kicking himself for having almost said the stupidest thing on earth. When they finally reached the library, he was able to breathe normally again. He’d never been so happy to see Madam Pince. He almost thought he could kiss her.
Almost.
* * * *
Friday night came much too soon.
He hadn’t told anyone about the detention with Malfoy, so it came as a surprise to Ron who’d assumed they were going to the Ravenclaw party with the rest of their dorm mates.
“You what?” he asked incredulously.
Harry pried himself out of the common room’s sofa like a morose pearl from a squishy oyster.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Maybe if I can make the bloody turtle work, I’ll join you later.”
“Bloody hell, Harry!” Ron exclaimed. “I heard Penelope’s going to show everyone her new tattoo, and I also heard it’s in a place not even the teeniest of bikinis would reveal. How can you miss that? Tell McGonagall you’re sick.”
“Right,” Harry replied. “Like I’m going to lie to McGonagall.”
Ron nodded, looking defeated. “Okay,” he said. “I can see your point.”
Harry stomped up to the dorm, refusing to think about why he planned to take a shower and put on his cleanest jeans and nicest jumper - the expensive one he’d bought in Diagon Alley over Christmas hols because Hermione had told him it complimented his eyes. Ron gave him a strange look when he saw Harry at the mirror trying to tame his hair.
“Hot date, sweetie?” the mirror asked. Harry blushed and glared at it.
“Far from it,” he muttered.
Malfoy was already there when Harry arrived. He was sprawled at his desk, flicking his wand lazily at his apple-turtle as it munched on a head of lettuce.
“Mc-G was right,” Malfoy said. “You do have a tardiness problem.”
Harry went to the desk farthest from Malfoy’s and dropped his satchel on the floor.
“Shut it, ferret,” he said.
“My my,” Malfoy drawled. “Aren’t we hostile tonight? What’s wrong, Potter? The Weasel has a headache?”
Harry rounded on him before his brain caught up with his body. He realised only after it was too late that he was holding up his fists like a boxer and probably looked like a complete berk. He blushed.
“I said, shut it,” he growled. “I’m not in the mood for your crap.”
Malfoy looked at him with both eyebrows raised, which was a new look for him.
“God, Potter,” he said, raking his eyes over Harry’s body from his trainers up to the top of his head and back down again. “Have pity on a poor pouf and stand down before I come in my pants.”
Harry immediately dropped his hands. Merlin, what was he thinking? His goal for the evening was to Transfigure his fucking turtle and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to spar with Malfoy, verbally, magically or physically. Especially physically.
“You’re sick,” he said and sat down. His turtle had withdrawn both its head and its tail so that it resembled nothing more than an apple again. He groaned.
Malfoy tore his head of lettuce in half and chucked it at Harry, who barely caught it in time before it smacked his face.
“Give it that, and it’ll come out,” Malfoy said. “You’ve probably been starving the poor thing.”
“It’s a bloody apple. You can’t starve a piece of fruit,” Harry grumbled, but he nonetheless put the lettuce near the part of the apple where he guessed the turtle’s head might be.
After that, he and Malfoy didn’t speak for a long time except to say the bloody Transfiguration spell over and over and over again.
“It’s not working,” Harry groused a quarter of an hour later, slumping in his chair and glaring at his turtle . . . apple . . . whatever the hell it was. It had a leg now, but its tail had disappeared.
He looked over at Malfoy, who hadn’t made any progress either and was starting to get red in the face.
“I hate this,” he growled. “I was going to go to the Claws’s party tonight.” He hit his apple with his wand. “Stupid turtle.”
“I was going to go too,” Harry said. He didn’t know why he was sharing such information. It wasn’t like he wanted Malfoy to go with him!
Malfoy looked over at him. “Is that why you dressed up?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
Harry blushed. “Yeah,” he replied. “Wait, no . . . I didn’t dress up.”
A grin slithered its obnoxious way across Malfoy’s face. “Really?” he said. “Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’re angling for a shag.”
Harry felt his blush heat up even more. “I’m not planning to . . . shag anyone tonight,” he said. “It’s just that the rest of my clothes needed washing. God, Malfoy, is sex all you think about?”
Malfoy assumed a thoughtful expression for half a second. “Why, yes,” he said. “I do believe it is.”
“Pervert,” Harry muttered. “Novo Alius, Quicumque Procul Vita!”
Suddenly the turtle’s tail reappeared, and Harry actually shouted with joy.
“Finally! Dear mother of God, that took forever!”
Malfoy laughed. “Is that what you say when you’re wanking and finally come?”
Harry ignored him. Malfoy was clearly trying to get a reaction out of him, and he was determined not to give him the satisfaction.
“Shut it, Malfoy,” he said. “And get a life while you’re at it.”
For some reason his remark only made Malfoy laugh harder.
“Take your own advice, Potter,” he said. “I’m not the one cringing in the closet like a little girl.”
“I’m not cringing in a closet,” Harry replied. “I’m just not an arse-bandit like you. And for your information, I went out with a girl . . .”
Malfoy laughed again. He looked truly amused and not as though he was merely faking it.
“You mean Cho Chang?” he guffawed. “She told everyone you kiss like a Flobberworm and have the romantic skills of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”
“She said what?” Harry exclaimed indignantly. “Cow! She’s the one who kisses like a Flobberworm, not me. Kissing her felt like kissing a soggy sponge. Ugh!”
Malfoy tut-tutted at him. “You shouldn’t call your lady friend a cow,” he said. “It’s not chivalrous. I’d never call Boot a wanksplat.”
Harry felt his gut twist for some reason. Boot? Terry Boot? What would someone like Malfoy see in someone like Terry Boot?
“You daft git,” he said. “Boot’s not a pillow biter. He has a crush on Hermione.”
“I know,” Malfoy replied unfazed. “He kept calling me ‘Mudblood’ as I was fucking him . . .”
Harry was out of his chair in the blink of an eye and bearing down on Malfoy like the Horntail bore down on him during last year’s tournament. He drew back his fist and would’ve landed a punch if Malfoy hadn’t thrown his turtle-apple at him.
“OW! FUCK!” he yelled, trying to shake off the turtle-thing, which was biting his thumb. “GET IT OFF ME!”
“Sorry, Potter,” Malfoy drawled from the safety of the other side of the room. “Haven’t you heard that snapping turtles hold on till the break of dawn? Looks like you’ll be going to the Ravenclaw party with a reptile as an accessory.”
“Avifors!” Harry shouted. The turtle turned into a turtledove and flew up to perch among the candles on the wrought iron chandelier.
Malfoy wasn’t laughing anymore.
“You arsehole,” he snarled. “That was my bloody turtle.” He pointed his wand at Harry’s “turtle.”
“Bombarda!” he shouted, and Harry’s apple-turtle exploded, splattering him in a mixture of pulp and turtle bits.
Harry stood frozen for a moment, staring down at his ruined jumper. Then he raised his head to look at Malfoy.
Malfoy was pale with shock. He dropped his wand, and it clattered on the floor.
“Oh my God,” he said.
Harry stared at him.
“You killed my assignment, you twat.”
Malfoy stared back at him, and they stared at each other for a long time until their chins started wobbling as they tried to keep from breaking into laughter.
It was a lost cause. Harry had to hold onto his desk to keep himself from falling down. He was laughing that hard.
Malfoy was in no better state. He was laughing so hard there were tears squeezing from his eyes. He staggered over to Harry and plucked a mangled turtle tail out of Harry’s hair and flung it in the direction of McGonagall’s desk . . .
. . . and then Malfoy kissed him - and just like that, in the blink of an eye, they were snogging like mad.
It wasn’t like kissing Cho. Malfoy wasn’t passive and soggy. He kissed Harry determinedly, opening his mouth and goading Harry into opening his too, even though Harry didn’t really want to. It felt weird, but the sensation made heat coil in his lower belly in a very familiar way. He’d been thinking about pushing Malfoy away, but the tightening coil made it impossible. Quite the opposite of making him want to push Malfoy away, it made him want to pull Malfoy as close as possible.
It was as though Malfoy had read his mind. He put his arms around Harry, and suddenly there was no space between their bodies. Then Malfoy did the unthinkable and slid his tongue into Harry’s mouth. Harry had heard about French kissing, of course, but it was still a shock - and a not altogether welcome one. This time he really did try to pull away, but Malfoy only tightened his embrace, and Harry had no choice but to slide his own tongue into Malfoy’s mouth.
The instant their tongues touched, Harry’s simmering excitement exploded throughout his entire body. Stunned, he reached up and put his arms around Malfoy’s neck. He could feel himself trembling and was only a little bit embarrassed instead of mortified like he knew he should be. When Malfoy tilted his head slightly, Harry followed and let Malfoy deepen the kiss even though he was starting to struggle to breath. He’d been fighting off a cold, and one of his nostrils was blocked. His brain began to feel starved of oxygen, but it wasn’t bad enough to make him pull away.
Their tongues slipped and slid against one another like eels. Malfoy ran a hand up Harry’s back and combed his fingers into Harry’s hair while the other slipped off Harry’s waist and came to rest right on top of Harry’s tailbone. Nobody had ever touched him there before - Cho had had her arms around his neck. It felt very intimate, and suddenly Harry was terrified that Malfoy might feel his hard-on. He tried to put some space between their groins, but it only made Malfoy pull him closer. And then he felt something and realised it was Malfoy’s own hard-on. Harry’s knees almost gave out, and he went from holding Malfoy to clinging to him. Malfoy had an erection! It blew Harry’s mind. For some reason, he’d thought he was the only one who was aroused. He still didn’t want Malfoy to feel his hard-on, but he definitely wanted to feel more of Malfoy’s.
He got his wish when Malfoy took his hand and put it between them.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry knew that if he began rubbing Malfoy’s prick that he would definitely become gay, and despite being desperate to do just that, he kept his hand still. But he didn’t pull it away, not even when Malfoy started moving his hips. He felt a little bit like he had the time Sirius let him have a glass of firewhisky. Was Malfoy going to come? He was hard against Harry’s palm, and each time he pushed his hips forward he made a soft, almost inaudible, breathy moaning sound.
Harry’s arousal had reached a point where he knew he, himself, could come with only a tiny bit of encouragement. But he didn’t want to, and he didn’t want Malfoy to either. Coming was something you did in the privacy of a locked stall or a curtained bed. It was definitely not something you did with someone else present. He was afraid he might make a sound - or that Malfoy might make a sound that Harry would never be able to forget . . .
. . . but Malfoy clearly wanted to come. His thrusts were no longer mistakable as random movements. They were insistent in their search for enough pressure to produce an orgasm. They hadn’t stopped kissing, but Malfoy was starting to sound like he was having trouble breathing. Harry tried to pull his hand free, but Malfoy’s grasp on his wrist was like a vice.
“Gonna come,” Malfoy whimpered into their kiss. It was the first time either of them had spoken, and suddenly Harry was acutely aware of what was about to happen. It scared the hell out of him and gave him the strength to yank his hand free and push Malfoy backwards.
The look on Malfoy’s flushed face stabbed Harry in the chest. He turned, grabbed his satchel and bolted for the door.
Go to Part II
Author: frayach
Prompt: 27
Prompt Submitted By: vaysh11
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Word Count: 15,200
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This story takes place during The Order of the Phoenix when Draco and Harry are 15. There is no adult/child sexual content. The sex is between Harry and Draco, so yes, they are underage, but there is no statutory rape involved - just consenting teenagers.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s Notes: This story is for vaysh11 whose prompt I chose. It will not surprise her to learn I didn’t entirely stick to her prompt - once I started writing, the story assumed a life of its own. But I hope very much that she enjoys it nonetheless. In addition to thanking the mods for letting me climb on the bandwagon at the last minute, I want to thank A.R. for her superb Brit-picking/SPaG editing and wish nursedarry a quick recovery.
Summary: Harry is emphatically NOT a pouf, and thus his reoccurring fantasies involving Draco are due to his Occlumency lessons with Snape, NOT to his sexuality. Or so he tries to convince himself. Meanwhile, Voldemort has returned, and Harry is about to learn that he is the Chosen One - whether he’s ready or not.
You don’t know yourself, Harry Potter.
Harry clenches his fists and screams that he does - that he does know himself, but as so often happens in dreams, his scream is nothing but a forced breath that strikes no cords.
Voldemort leans over him.
How can you defeat me, little boy, if you can’t even defeat your own monsters?
He laughs. His breath is cloying like an old woman’s perfume. A subterfuge for decay.
“I have no monsters,” Harry wants to say, but he’d be lying, and he shall not tell lies. Not even to Voldemort. Not even in his dreams.
You’re so blind, you don’t even know what they are, do you?
Harry can only stare into those eyes that’d peered unblinkingly beneath death’s shroud. There’s no reasoning with such a wind-thrashed void of a mind. There’s no point in even trying. Voldemort laughs again.
You are nothing but a child, he croons. Ickle Potty.
Suddenly, Voldemort’s face melts like wax and transforms into Dudley’s who’s laughing and jeering because he’s caught Harry sitting on the toilet with his jeans around his ankles and his dick in his hand.
“Get out!” Harry screams. “Get out! Get out! Get Out!” He isn’t sure who he’s addressing anymore.
Someone shakes him. Hard.
“Wake up!” Ron hissed in his ear. “Before you wake the others!”
Harry opened his eyes to red and gold and the sound of snoring. To his horror, he was on the verge of coming just as he’d been before Dudley burst into the loo.
“You were crying out again,” Ron whispered.
Harry sat up, careful to keep his lap covered, and rubbed his scar.
“Bloody hell. What’d I say this time?”
Ron bit his lip.
“C’mon, Ron! Just tell me so I can go back to sleep.”
Ron looked away. “You called out for Malfoy.”
Harry stared at him, bewildered. “But I wasn’t dreaming about Malfoy,” he said. “I was dreaming about You Know Who.”
Ron stood and walked back to his bed, carrying himself in a familiar way that told Harry he was angry about something.
“Whatever you say, mate,” he said, tugging up his duvet and rolling onto his side, turning his back on Harry. “Whatever you say.”
* * * *
Merlin’s manky pants! What was that?
Appalled, Harry stared at the transparent jars floating around Snape’s office. What the hell was that thing? A fish of some kind? A bulging eye pressed against the glass, staring accusingly as though Harry was the cause of its misery. And what was that fleshy glob with purple spots pulsing like a heart? And that thing that looked like a frog but whose gaping mouth was filled with fangs?
“Me, Potter! Look at me!”
Harry took a deep breath and hauled his gaze back to Snape’s cold dark eyes.
“Perhaps you do not appreciate the seriousness of your situation,” Snape said, his voice lowered to the tickle of a spider’s legs crawling across the back of Harry’s neck. “Perhaps you believe you already possess everything it will require to defeat the Dark Lord.”
Harry crossed his arms and glared at Snape’s face, wax-shallow in the torchlight.
“Defeat Voldemort,” he replied. “Sir.” He was determined not to let the greasy git intimidate him.
Snape took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment as though he was praying to the god of forbearance. When he opened them again, they bore into Harry’s skull like twin augers.
“For the last time, do not say the Dark Lord’s name!” Snape shouted, smacking his desk with the palm of his hand so loudly that Harry jumped despite himself. A frail plant in a pot on Snape’s desk shrieked and fainted. In the ensuing silence, Harry could hear nothing but the snap and crackle of the torches and his own shallow breaths.
“You are weak, Potter! You’re just like your father! Undisciplined, arrogant and . . . shameless.”
The last word dropped from a shout to a malevolent hiss. Harry shuddered with revulsion and rage.
“Never speak of my father like that again!” he yelled, clenched-fist furious. “Unlike you, my father was a great man . . .”
“Legilimens! Snape practically screamed the word, and Harry was suddenly dragged like a leashed dog through the slime of his childhood memories: books with torn-out pages, grey holey underpants, a curled lip twitching on his aunt’s face, cobwebs in his hair, his uncle’s beefy mocking laugh, a plate of food on the floor and no fork and spoon to eat it with, whole days at Mrs. Figg’s, birthdays ignored, meals withheld, Dudley’s fist in his stomach and nothing but shame shame shame as his body matured . . .
“No! Stop!”
He fell to his knees on the flagstone floor. Those memories were secrets no one knew - not even Ron and Hermione, but now Snape knew them. Snape of all people!
“Stop,” he said weakly. Defeated and mortified. He looked up at Snape’s face expecting to see a sneer. He wasn’t surprised when he did.
“You are an open book, and a dull book at that,” Snape said emotionlessly although his eyes glittered with beetle-bright malice. “The Dark Lord will read your mind like a copy of The Quibbler and then crumple it into a ball and discard it like so much worthless rubbish.”
Harry winced and looked away.
“If you wish to survive, you must learn to shut him out of your thoughts, your dreams, your plans, your . . . fantasies. Look at me, Potter!”
Harry hadn’t even staggered to his feet before Snape pierced his mind again. Harry’s body shook trying to shove him back. It felt like holding a door closed against an attacking army. His shirt was damp with sweat, and his breath rasped in his ears.
“Please!” he begged, hating himself, but he couldn’t take it another second. He’d never had to fight so hard. Every last muscle and sinew in his body strained to the point of collapse. His lungs couldn’t hold enough air; his heart couldn’t pump enough blood; his gutted mind couldn’t close as Snape’s magic squeezed his stomach, forcing out his memories like vomit and shit as though his body was nothing but a tube of toothpaste.
And then all of a sudden it stopped. Harry looked down and saw that he’d pissed himself. He braced for the inevitable derisive laugh, but Snape merely twitched his wand in the direction of Harry’s crotch and said “Tergeo.”
Harry clambered to his feet. He was exhausted and aghast at his weakness.
“This has been a waste of my time,” Snape said, his words scalpel like in their precision. “You are pathetic, Potter. I expect you to practise diligently before our next session.”
He turned away and walked to his supply cabinet where he began pulling down jars and phials and examining their contents. When he looked back at Harry, he frowned as though surprised to find him still there.
“You’ve been dismissed,” he said. “Go back to Gryffindor or I shall be forced to dock house points for trespassing.”
Harry blinked. Was that all? Were they really done? Somehow . . . somehow it felt wrong, although why he couldn’t say. It certainly wasn’t that he wanted to remain in Snape’s company for a second longer, but . . . something . . . something . . . private . . . had happened, and . . . And, what? Did he want a hug or something?
He cringed at the thought. Snape had returned to sorting through his potion ingredients. After a moment that felt far too long, Harry shouldered his satchel and left, making sure to slam the door behind him.
He wandered for a while, taking his time returning to the tower and sticking to the darkest corridors. He didn’t want to see anyone, let alone talk to them. What was he going to do for the rest of the evening? There was no way he’d be able to focus on homework - his mind felt like it was rubbed as raw as his ankles after a day of wearing new shoes. He wanted to Summon his broom and fly like a maniac for hours, but his muscles were too sore. And sleep was positively out of the question. He needed . . . something . . . he needed . . .
He needed to come.
The realisation struck him like an unseen Bludger flying out of the mist. He stopped in his tracks, shocked at himself and rather horrified . . . not to mention confused. But the truth was in the gathering tension in his groin.
There was a lavatory between the Charms and History of Magic classrooms that was used only during the day. Harry walked to it as quickly as possible without running, praying the whole way that he wouldn’t encounter anyone who wanted to stop and chat. When he finally reached his destination, he entered the stall farthest from the door and locked it.
The urge to come was intense and seemed to press against his bladder. He grabbed his crotch through his trousers as though he was trying to keep from pissing himself again. He felt under pressure and uncomfortable. It was nothing like the way he felt when he wanked in his bed at night. It was more urgent and even a little painful.
He unbuckled his belt and wrenched open his fly, probably ruining the zip in the process. He slipped his hand into his pants and closed his eyes, trying to think of the girls in Ron’s magazines, but he couldn’t make his mind latch onto a single image. Maybe it was the Occlumency lessons or his exhaustion or the sheer need to come, but for the first time, he had no control over his thoughts as they presented one image after another. The back of Dean’s neck as he bent his head over a drawing. Wood’s arse as he slipped off his pants in Gryffindor’s locker room. Corner’s shoulders as he practised his Patronus. Seamus’s chest when he pulled off his jumper. Malfoy’s crotch as he sat in a chair with his legs spread open . . .
The last image knocked the breath from Harry’s lungs, and he started coming into his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting it to be over yet and pictured Malfoy’s crotch again, not giving a shit that he was thinking about a boy - not even giving a shit that it was Malfoy. It felt too good. He simply couldn’t give a shit about anything else.
But then it was over, and suddenly he did give a shit. A really big shit.
It was the Occlumency lessons. There was no other explanation. Snape, the bastard, had fucked with his head and weakened his brain. He wasn’t a pouf. He got hard watching the blokes in Ron’s magazines slide their dicks in and out of the girls’ cunts. He came thinking of men coming on girls’ faces. How could he be bent if he got off on blokes fucking girls?
He tore a handful of toilet paper from the roll and wiped off his hands. He was still shaking slightly, but he felt calmer. He was tired but no longer exhausted. His mind felt whole again. He felt centred and present. He wished these things made him feel better about the fact that he’d come over thoughts of boys in general and Malfoy in particular. But they didn’t. They only made him feel worse.
* * * *
Merlin’s mouldy biccie, Malfoy was a giant, hairy twat.
Harry watched him breathe on his Inquisitorial Squad pin and then shine it with the hem of his robe.
Wanker.
“Did you see that? What an arsewipe,” Ron growled in Harry’s ear.
“He’s just doing it because he knows you’re watching him,” Hermione whispered. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of getting under your skin.”
Ron harrumphed. “You sound like mum when Fred and George are being prats.”
“It’s the same idea. You’re too easy to infuriate. Stop reacting and people will leave you alone.”
“‘Easy to infuriate’? Did you hear that, Harry? . . . Harry?”
Ron elbowed him in the ribs, and Harry turned to glare at him.
“Ow! What’s your problem?”
He’d been watching Malfoy make fun of Neville and strenuously reminding himself why he hated Malfoy so much. Malfoy was a boy, and not only that, he was a git. A stupid ugly git with a pointy face and stupid hair . . . and stupid eyes . . . and stupid . . .
Ron elbowed him again and peered at Harry like his optician did when he checked Harry’s eyes to see if he needed new glasses.
“My problem? What’s your problem?” Ron asked. “You’ve been staring at Malfoy since class started.”
Harry quickly turned his attention to the apple he was trying to Transfigure into a turtle.
“I can’t help it,” he mumbled. “He’s such a bloody prat.”
“And that’s new?”
“No, of course not,” Harry said defensively. “It’s just that he grows even pratier by the day.”
He looked at the blackboard and tried again to follow McGonagall’s wand-work instructions. Suddenly a turtle head burst through his apple’s shiny peel. He and Ron both stared in amazement. Even Hermione looked impressed.
“Oh, how sweet!” Parvati exclaimed, and suddenly Harry was surrounded by cooing fifth-year girls all vying at once to pet his apple-turtle’s head.
“Bugger,” Ron groused. “I wish I chose the turtle.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You thought Transfiguring a quill into a Flobberworm was going to get you a date to the next ball?”
“Hey,” Ron exclaimed. “Flobberworms are cute! I used to have one for a pet before I got Scabbers.”
“I’m sure it was very cuddly,” Hermione replied.
“More cuddly than Scabbers . . .”
Harry ignored his friends and the encroaching gaggle of girls and instead used the distraction to look at Malfoy again. Malfoy had chosen the same spell, and his apple hadn’t just sprouted a head, but four legs and a tail too. He was obviously having difficulty with the turtle’s body though because McGonagall was helping him perfect his wand motions. Harry scowled at his own motionless turtle. It’d be a miracle if he managed the legs, let alone the shell.
He lifted his gaze to Malfoy’s face and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He wished he didn’t feel compelled to look at Malfoy because looking at Malfoy made him think about Malfoy, and thinking about Malfoy wasn’t something he wanted to do. In fact, thinking about Malfoy made him feel the same sense of disgust with himself that he felt when he tore off a healing scab or picked his nose and ate the bogey. But much in the same way he sometimes couldn’t resist doing revolting things, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the fact that, like him, Malfoy had a prick and that his prick got hard when he wanked. The thought made Harry unaccountably crazy. He wished Malfoy didn’t have a prick, so he could stop thinking about it because thinking about it felt like eating bogeys or missing the urinal and peeing on his trainers, or getting shit on his hand by accident when he wiped his arse . . .
“Harry, mate, you’re still staring at him,” Ron whispered. “If you’re not careful, some arsehole’s gonna say you’re in love with him.”
Harry recoiled in horror. “In love with him?” he said indignantly. “If anything I’m in hate with him.”
“I’m just sayin’” Ron said. “Look!” He pointed at Zabini who was glancing at Harry and whispering something to Pansy Parkinson. “That prick’ll say anything to get a laugh.”
Harry blushed and turned in his chair so he couldn’t be tempted to look at Malfoy anymore.
“Arseholes,” he said. “God, I loathe that House. They’re all a bunch of pricks. Especially Malfoy.”
“Again,” Ron said. “Is that news? What’s got you so wound up about Malfoy these days? He hasn’t done anything git-like in at least a week.”
“His mere existence is git-like,” Harry replied.
He tapped his apple so hard with his wand that the turtle head snapped at it and withdrew.
“Damn you! Grow legs!” he yelled at it.
McGonagall swept over to their side of the room, the nails on the soles of her laced boots clicking on the flagstone floor.
“Language, Mr. Potter,” she said. “‘Damn you’ is not a spell. Five points from Gryffindor.”
Everyone around him groaned. Harry looked at McGonagall crossly but was mollified when he saw her regretful expression.
“What seems to be the trouble?” she asked, and then glanced at Harry’s “turtle.” She sighed.
“Transfiguration is an essential skill, Mr. Potter, and this is a relatively simple assignment.”
Harry’s cheeks reddened. “Maybe my turtle’s shy,” he mumbled, and McGonagall actually smiled for a fleetingly second. It softened her features considerably.
“Mr. Malfoy is working on the same assignment and having some success,” she said. “Why don’t you spend the rest of the class working with him?”
Horrified, Harry looked up at her, pleading with his eyes.
“Even though I may have phrased it as such, that was not a suggestion,” she said.
“But professor . . .” he said, realising when the words left his mouth that he was whinging like a first-year.
She frowned at him and cleared her throat - a sound more expressive than words could ever be.
“Do not force me to deduct more points from my House, Mr. Potter.”
Harry sighed and picked up his turtle-apple. The walk over to the Slytherin section of the classroom took an eternity; he felt like everyone was staring at him, but at last he found himself standing in front of Malfoy’s desk. Malfoy looked up at him with an arched eyebrow.
“Potter,” he said. “Piss off.”
“McGonagall made me come over here,” Harry replied. He held up his turtle-apple by way of explanation. “It’s not like I want to work with you.”
Malfoy laughed with malicious glee.
“Having difficulty, Potty? How surprising.”
That was it. Harry was not going to spend the remainder of class sparing with Malfoy. He turned to go back to his desk. Avoiding Malfoy’s presence was worth losing points, but as soon as Seamus saw what he was doing, he glared at Harry balefully.
“Don’t lose us anymore bloody points, Harry,” he said warningly. “You already lost us fifty today in potions.”
Harry grimaced. It was true. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he wasn’t The Boy Who Lived and Gryffindor’s Seeker, some sixth or seventh-year would’ve hexed the crap out of him by now. He was the main source of deducted House points. Except maybe Fred and George.
He turned and stalked back to Malfoy and sat down at the empty desk beside the annoying ponce.
“Just shut it,” he said when Malfoy opened his stupid poncy mouth.
“I was going to tell you how to Transfigure the legs,” Malfoy said. “But you told me to ‘shut it’.” He made a motion with his fingers that suggested he’d zippered his lips closed. Harry rolled his eyes.
“You know what I mean,” he said. “I just meant don’t be a prat, although I realise pratishness is your natural state, and it’ll be hard for you.”
“Ha ha,” Malfoy said with what he probably thought was a withering glare. “You’re so very witty, Potter . . .”
“And you’re so very gitty,” Harry replied.
“Boys!” McGonagall called from the Hufflepuff section. “If you both don’t have fully Transfigured turtles by the end of class, you’ll be spending Friday night here completing your assignments. Have I made myself understood?”
“Fucking cow,” Malfoy mumbled, and Harry kicked him in the shin.
“Don’t talk about my Head of House that way,” he hissed.
“I’ll talk about her anyway I please.”
“Not if you don’t want my turtle shoved up your arse.”
Malfoy opened his mouth to reply when suddenly a smile threatened to unfurl his sneer.
“Shut it, Potter,” he said and turned his attention to his turtle. Harry could see him struggling not to laugh. It felt like a kind of victory. They didn’t even have to throw hexes, and he’d already won.
Then Malfoy reached down under his desk and adjusted his prick.
Harry closed his eyes when he felt blood rush to his own. He tried to swallow in an effort to moisten his suddenly dry throat. What was wrong with him?
“Show me how to Transfigure the fucking turtle,” he growled, opening his eyes. “And hurry up about it. We don’t have all day.”
“Demanding, aren’t we?” Malfoy said with a smirk. “Here, watch me.”
He spoke the spell and then flicked and swished his wand, but he moved so fast that the demonstration was lost on Harry.
“Slower,” he snapped.
Malfoy smirked again and waved his wand so sluggishly that again it was lost on Harry.
“Jesus Christ,” he snapped again. “Faster.”
“Potter,” Malfoy said with a disturbing grin. “You’re quite the pushy bottom.”
A what? Harry frowned at him. “What the hell’s a pushy bottom?” he asked. It sounded like some kind of Quidditch stunt, and he’d be damned before Malfoy knew a stunt that he didn’t.
Malfoy dropped his head onto his desk, scaring both of their turtles and causing them to pull their heads back into their apples. He laughed so hard his shoulders shook. When he looked up again, his face was pink and damp.
“Merlin, you’re pathetically stupid,” he wheezed. “A ‘pushy bottom’ is a demanding bloke with a dick up his arse. Faster, slower, harder,” he added breathily. “That’s you, Potter. A pushy bottom.”
Harry could only stare at him. Dick. Arse. Jesus.
“Shut it,” he said. It wasn’t the cleverest comeback, but it was all he could think of with the image of a dick sliding in and out of an arsehole invading his brain.
Ugh. Who did that??
“Disgusting,” he added belatedly.
Malfoy arched an eyebrow. Smug self-satisfied expressions must run in the family.
Harry blushed and looked away and started frantically swishing and flicking his wand. Bloody turtle! Maybe if he tried every movement he could think of, something would eventually work. Arseholes were for shitting, for Merlin’s sake! Not for shoving dicks in! What if you got shit up your dick? Then what?
He shifted in his chair, suddenly excruciatingly aware of his own arsehole. It wasn’t a part of his body he thought about very often except when he’d eaten something spicy or waited too long to take a shower after getting sweaty playing Quidditch on a hot day. And then, of course, there were those unpleasant times when there was no toilet paper handy.
Nobody in their right mind would willingly touch somebody’s arsehole, let alone put their dick in it!
“You’re a pervert, Malfoy,” he said. “Stop talking to me.”
Malfoy shrugged. “Fine,” he said airily. “Good luck finishing the assignment without my help.”
They spent the rest of the class in silence, flicking their wands at their apple-turtles. By the end, Harry hadn’t accomplished more than a head and tail, and Malfoy had had no further luck with the shell.
“Bugger,” Harry grumbled. “I guess I know what I’ll be doing Friday night.”
“Interesting choice of words, Potter,” Malfoy said with a gag-inducing wink as he stuffed his turtle in his satchel.
“Fuck off,” Harry muttered. He picked up his own satchel, turned his back on Malfoy and began walking to the door.
“Again. Interesting choice of words,” Malfoy called after him.
Despite his better judgment, Harry turned and stomped back.
“Just for your information,” he said, “I’m not a pouf. You may like dicks shoved up your arse, but I think it’s disgusting.”
“Maybe your arse is disgusting,” Malfoy replied. “Didn’t that Muggle clan of yours teach you to wipe after using the toilet?”
Harry wanted to run away, but he didn’t want to give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing he was embarrassed. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” he tried to drawl.
“You started it. You were the one talking about buggering.”
“It’s a turn of phrase, you wanker.”
“You just keep telling yourself that, but it’s obvious, Potter, you’re just as bent as I am.”
Harry gaped. Did the git just say what Harry thought he said? Who’d ever just announce he was a sausage licker like it was no big deal??
“You’re admitting that?” he said incredulously. “Just like it’s nothing . . . and to me, of all people? Are you mental?”
Malfoy shrugged. “The only reason it’s front page news to you is that you’re an oblivious arse. I came out the beginning of the year, you moron.”
Harry was dumbfounded. His dorm mates mocked poufs as much as Hufflepuffs and Professor Binns. Actually, they mocked poufs more than Puffs and Binns. The thought of being bent and them finding out . . . Harry shuddered. He couldn’t think of anything worse.
“So you like having pricks shoved up your arse,” he said hoarsely.
“I never said that,” Malfoy drawled. “Maybe I like shoving my cock up someone else’s arse.”
Harry winced at Malfoy’s use of the word “cock” in much the same way people winced when he referred to You Know Who as “Voldemort.”
“So, you like shit.”
“Wow. No wonder you’re so fucked up.”
“I’m not ‘fucked up.’ You’re the one who’s fucked up if you like shit.”
Malfoy sneered. “How old are you, Potter? Five?”
“No, I just don’t like shit. Which makes me normal, by the way.”
“Well, I don’t like shit either.”
“Really? You just said you did.”
“I did not! God, Potter, you piss me off so much! Saying I’m gay does not mean I like shit. Merlin! You’re so fucking stupid . . .”
Suddenly McGonagall appeared. Bloody hell. She’d probably been in her Animagus form and heard every word they said, although why he should be embarrassed at the thought, he didn’t know. Malfoy was the one who should be embarrassed. Mortified even.
“You boys are fifteen,” McGonagall said as though they’d forgotten. “But you have mouths like seasoned Aurors. Twenty points from both your Houses. Now off with you or you’ll miss lunch.”
Harry picked up his satchel and made his way to the door mumbling obscenities under his breath. Malfoy followed mumbling his own obscene litany.
“And, boys!” McGonagall called after them. “Don’t forget! This classroom Friday night at seven o’clock. Don’t be late - especially you, Mr. Potter. I’ve noticed you’ve developed a tardiness problem.”
“How exciting,” Malfoy said gleefully. “Our first date, Potter. You bring the wine and roses, and I’ll bring the condoms and lube.”
Harry didn’t reply. He figured dashing toward the stairs would convey his message of horror and revulsion more clearly than any words could.
* * * *
Voldemort is holding Harry’s prick in his reptilian hand. His fingernails are the colour of tea-stained teeth and pointed like the tip of a dagger.
They’re in Little Hangleton again. Cedric’s body lies cast aside like a doll with which its child has tired of playing. His eyes stare sightlessly at a night sky roiled by an approaching storm, and the surrounding gravestones seem to close in around him like vultures.
Death Eaters stand around the steaming cauldron. Harry can feel their nerves vibrating with excitement. The mist smells of their unused cloaks only recently unpacked from cedar chests.
Pettigrew isn’t going to cut his wrist this time, and this time Harry pleads for mercy.
* * * *
He was winded and could smell his sweat. It stunk.
“I can still see your thoughts,” Snape snarled between his own shallow gasps. He was also breathless, but his arm was straight and sure as he pointed his wand at the place between Harry’s eyebrows.
“I’m trying!” Harry shouted.
“Not hard enough!” Snape shouted back.
“I need to rest,” Harry panted. “Just for a second . . .”
“The Dark Lord will not let you rest,” Snape bellowed. “And neither will I.”
Agony shredded Harry’s mind as Snape dragged his thoughts from it as though they were a strand of barbed wire being dragged through a pudding. Sirius throwing his arm around his shoulders. Mrs. Weasley crushed him against her bosom. Mr. Weasley asking him how a blender works. Hermione bathing his wounded hand and offering to erase the words that he, himself, had engraved. Ron cheering his retrieval of the Horntail’s egg. Remus smiling at him with quiet pride and handing him a piece of chocolate. Seamus laughing at his jokes. Neville writing his Herbology essay for him. Dean drawing his portrait. Dumbledore looking at him, his eyes twinkling with fondness. Luna smiling dreamily when she discovers her Patronus. Malfoy’s expression of grudging admiration when Harry catches the Snitch an instant before Malfoy can . . .
Snape dropped his wand, and both of them stood panting until they caught their breath.
“Stupid boy,” Snape hissed at him, fury woven through every word. “I now know everything and everyone who’s important to you. If I wanted to break you, as I can assure you the Dark Lord does, then I would hunt down each one of them and force you to watch me torture them to death. Because of you. Because you are lazy and weak!”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears like he used to during thunderstorms when he was a child.
“Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut up!”
To his surprise, Harry heard Snape sigh and slowly opened his eyes.
“I told Albus that this would be a disaster,” Snape said, turning away and walking to a window where he stood gazing out at the minnows and waving reeds. “He’s his father’s son, not his mother’s. He isn’t curious. He doesn’t want to learn. He’s as thick as mud and as shallow as a child’s wading pool . . .”
“I know you’re talking about me,” Harry said. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m still in the room . . . sir.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Snape snapped, turning away from the window. “You are coddled and pampered. Someone needs to tell you the truth. God knows, Sirius won’t.”
Harry’s temper flared like a struck match.
“Don’t talk about my Godfather!” he yelled. “He’s a hero like my Dad! You’re just jealous . . .”
Suddenly, Snape pointed his wand at him again. His face was contorted with rage.
“Legilimens!” he shouted with more fury than even Harry’s uncle had ever managed.
Harry braced himself as though expecting a hot blast of desert wind and pictured himself slamming his mind shut like a door and bolting it with as many bolts as secured the castle’s gates. He turned his hatred into a blockade. But it was only a matter of seconds before Snape reduced it to rubble . . .
He’s kissing Malfoy like he’d kissed Cho and touching Malfoy’s shoulders, his back, his face, his hair. Malfoy’s touching him too, sliding eager hands up and down Harry’s sides from his armpits to his waist. Malfoy’s warm breath smells of mint, which disappoints Harry for some reason he can’t explain. He doesn’t know what to do with Malfoy’s body. But he knows what he wants Malfoy to do to him: he wants Malfoy to touch his prick. He’s ready to beg, ready to bargain, ready to plead. He’s never wanted anything so much in his life. He’s hard, aching, straining against his fly. Please! If only Malfoy will touch him . . .
He staggered backward, suddenly free of Snape’s relentless mental probing.
They stood for a long time staring at each other.
“Soooo . . .” Snape said at last.
Harry was shaking all over as he grabbed his robes and satchel. He felt tears of humiliation and confusion sting his eyes.
“Leave me alone,” he shouted. “Just . . . just leave me alone!”
He was crying now. Crying in a way he hadn’t cried since he was locked away in his cupboard. And he was hard and aching and terrified.
Snape’s face was expressionless - impossible to read. He made no attempt to stop Harry from leaving.
Harry ran to the door, dodging floating jars, and slammed it shut behind him.
It was a trick. Snape hated him. He’d planted those thoughts! He’d made Harry think . . . things about Malfoy. They weren’t real. They didn’t mean anything. Snape had done it to make a fool of him. He wasn’t a bloody pouf! And he most certainly wasn’t attracted to Malfoy!
Snape’s derisive words echoed in his head as Harry ran to the loo, shoving aside all awareness as he slammed the stall door shut. It happened after every lesson now. He got hard, longed to come and wanked to random images of faceless boys until right before his orgasm when he thought of Malfoy. He imagined Malfoy touching his own prick, sliding the foreskin up and down over the swollen shiny head. The moment Malfoy came, so did he. Then he collapsed onto the toilet and waited till the shuddering subsided. When it did, he felt a sense of peace and contentment that wasn’t shattered until he remembered about what and who he’d been fantasising.
When he did, his world fell apart, and he sat for a long time, his trousers still around his thighs. Sometimes he cried. Other times he could only wish that he could.
He was running up the stairs as fast as he could when someone grabbed his arm. He wheeled around, wand drawn.
“Harry!” Hermione cried. “It’s me!”
He lowered his arm and then, as though all of his bones had turned to mashed potatoes, sank onto the step and put his face in his hands.
“Oh my . . . Harry, what’s wrong?”
He felt her put her arms around him, and he leaned against her, limp with exhaustion.
“Snape,” he ground out.
“That’s right,” she said. “I forgot you had another Occlumency lesson this evening.” She gave him a squeeze and pulled away to look at his face. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shook his head. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was talk about it.
“It’s really very difficult, isn’t it?” she said. “Ever since you started your lessons with Snape, I’ve been reading about mind penetration spells and how to block them. But, Harry, if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’re a brilliant wizard. Don’t forget, you can conquer the Imperius Curse.”
“It’s different,” he mumbled. “I can’t explain . . . it’s like . . . it’s like having a parasite in your brain.”
“It sounds horrible.”
He wiped his nose and nodded. “Yeah, it is.”
She smoothed the hair back from his brow. “But it’s important,” she said softly. “You have to keep You Know Who from . . .”
“I know I do!” he snapped.
She nodded and pulled away. He instantly felt guilty.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re right. I know Dumbledore and even stupid Snape is right, but . . .” He sighed. “I just wish I could be normal for one bloody day.”
“I know,” she said soothingly.
“It’s every night now,” he said. “The dreams, I mean. It’s like there’s no escape. I feel like I’m going mental. Maybe I am.”
“No, you’re not,” she said fiercely, taking his hand. “You were right about Mr. Weasley. You saved his life.”
But the fact that he’d been right wasn’t what Harry wanted to hear at the moment because what else was he right about? Was he right about Malfoy?
“I’ve got homework to do,” he said, standing up with the help of the banister. Hermione laughed.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you use homework as an excuse not to talk about your feelings.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he muttered.
He let her loop her arm through his. They climbed the stairs together and waited silently for each staircase to swing and dock with a loud clunk. Finally, he found the nerve to ask the question he knew he had to.
“Hermione?”
She looked up at him. “Yes?”
“Do . . . do you think I might be . . .”
But he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Might be what?” she said encouragingly.
But he couldn’t go on.
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”
She looked at him, but he didn’t return her gaze. He was too busy kicking himself for having almost said the stupidest thing on earth. When they finally reached the library, he was able to breathe normally again. He’d never been so happy to see Madam Pince. He almost thought he could kiss her.
Almost.
* * * *
Friday night came much too soon.
He hadn’t told anyone about the detention with Malfoy, so it came as a surprise to Ron who’d assumed they were going to the Ravenclaw party with the rest of their dorm mates.
“You what?” he asked incredulously.
Harry pried himself out of the common room’s sofa like a morose pearl from a squishy oyster.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Maybe if I can make the bloody turtle work, I’ll join you later.”
“Bloody hell, Harry!” Ron exclaimed. “I heard Penelope’s going to show everyone her new tattoo, and I also heard it’s in a place not even the teeniest of bikinis would reveal. How can you miss that? Tell McGonagall you’re sick.”
“Right,” Harry replied. “Like I’m going to lie to McGonagall.”
Ron nodded, looking defeated. “Okay,” he said. “I can see your point.”
Harry stomped up to the dorm, refusing to think about why he planned to take a shower and put on his cleanest jeans and nicest jumper - the expensive one he’d bought in Diagon Alley over Christmas hols because Hermione had told him it complimented his eyes. Ron gave him a strange look when he saw Harry at the mirror trying to tame his hair.
“Hot date, sweetie?” the mirror asked. Harry blushed and glared at it.
“Far from it,” he muttered.
Malfoy was already there when Harry arrived. He was sprawled at his desk, flicking his wand lazily at his apple-turtle as it munched on a head of lettuce.
“Mc-G was right,” Malfoy said. “You do have a tardiness problem.”
Harry went to the desk farthest from Malfoy’s and dropped his satchel on the floor.
“Shut it, ferret,” he said.
“My my,” Malfoy drawled. “Aren’t we hostile tonight? What’s wrong, Potter? The Weasel has a headache?”
Harry rounded on him before his brain caught up with his body. He realised only after it was too late that he was holding up his fists like a boxer and probably looked like a complete berk. He blushed.
“I said, shut it,” he growled. “I’m not in the mood for your crap.”
Malfoy looked at him with both eyebrows raised, which was a new look for him.
“God, Potter,” he said, raking his eyes over Harry’s body from his trainers up to the top of his head and back down again. “Have pity on a poor pouf and stand down before I come in my pants.”
Harry immediately dropped his hands. Merlin, what was he thinking? His goal for the evening was to Transfigure his fucking turtle and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to spar with Malfoy, verbally, magically or physically. Especially physically.
“You’re sick,” he said and sat down. His turtle had withdrawn both its head and its tail so that it resembled nothing more than an apple again. He groaned.
Malfoy tore his head of lettuce in half and chucked it at Harry, who barely caught it in time before it smacked his face.
“Give it that, and it’ll come out,” Malfoy said. “You’ve probably been starving the poor thing.”
“It’s a bloody apple. You can’t starve a piece of fruit,” Harry grumbled, but he nonetheless put the lettuce near the part of the apple where he guessed the turtle’s head might be.
After that, he and Malfoy didn’t speak for a long time except to say the bloody Transfiguration spell over and over and over again.
“It’s not working,” Harry groused a quarter of an hour later, slumping in his chair and glaring at his turtle . . . apple . . . whatever the hell it was. It had a leg now, but its tail had disappeared.
He looked over at Malfoy, who hadn’t made any progress either and was starting to get red in the face.
“I hate this,” he growled. “I was going to go to the Claws’s party tonight.” He hit his apple with his wand. “Stupid turtle.”
“I was going to go too,” Harry said. He didn’t know why he was sharing such information. It wasn’t like he wanted Malfoy to go with him!
Malfoy looked over at him. “Is that why you dressed up?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
Harry blushed. “Yeah,” he replied. “Wait, no . . . I didn’t dress up.”
A grin slithered its obnoxious way across Malfoy’s face. “Really?” he said. “Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’re angling for a shag.”
Harry felt his blush heat up even more. “I’m not planning to . . . shag anyone tonight,” he said. “It’s just that the rest of my clothes needed washing. God, Malfoy, is sex all you think about?”
Malfoy assumed a thoughtful expression for half a second. “Why, yes,” he said. “I do believe it is.”
“Pervert,” Harry muttered. “Novo Alius, Quicumque Procul Vita!”
Suddenly the turtle’s tail reappeared, and Harry actually shouted with joy.
“Finally! Dear mother of God, that took forever!”
Malfoy laughed. “Is that what you say when you’re wanking and finally come?”
Harry ignored him. Malfoy was clearly trying to get a reaction out of him, and he was determined not to give him the satisfaction.
“Shut it, Malfoy,” he said. “And get a life while you’re at it.”
For some reason his remark only made Malfoy laugh harder.
“Take your own advice, Potter,” he said. “I’m not the one cringing in the closet like a little girl.”
“I’m not cringing in a closet,” Harry replied. “I’m just not an arse-bandit like you. And for your information, I went out with a girl . . .”
Malfoy laughed again. He looked truly amused and not as though he was merely faking it.
“You mean Cho Chang?” he guffawed. “She told everyone you kiss like a Flobberworm and have the romantic skills of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”
“She said what?” Harry exclaimed indignantly. “Cow! She’s the one who kisses like a Flobberworm, not me. Kissing her felt like kissing a soggy sponge. Ugh!”
Malfoy tut-tutted at him. “You shouldn’t call your lady friend a cow,” he said. “It’s not chivalrous. I’d never call Boot a wanksplat.”
Harry felt his gut twist for some reason. Boot? Terry Boot? What would someone like Malfoy see in someone like Terry Boot?
“You daft git,” he said. “Boot’s not a pillow biter. He has a crush on Hermione.”
“I know,” Malfoy replied unfazed. “He kept calling me ‘Mudblood’ as I was fucking him . . .”
Harry was out of his chair in the blink of an eye and bearing down on Malfoy like the Horntail bore down on him during last year’s tournament. He drew back his fist and would’ve landed a punch if Malfoy hadn’t thrown his turtle-apple at him.
“OW! FUCK!” he yelled, trying to shake off the turtle-thing, which was biting his thumb. “GET IT OFF ME!”
“Sorry, Potter,” Malfoy drawled from the safety of the other side of the room. “Haven’t you heard that snapping turtles hold on till the break of dawn? Looks like you’ll be going to the Ravenclaw party with a reptile as an accessory.”
“Avifors!” Harry shouted. The turtle turned into a turtledove and flew up to perch among the candles on the wrought iron chandelier.
Malfoy wasn’t laughing anymore.
“You arsehole,” he snarled. “That was my bloody turtle.” He pointed his wand at Harry’s “turtle.”
“Bombarda!” he shouted, and Harry’s apple-turtle exploded, splattering him in a mixture of pulp and turtle bits.
Harry stood frozen for a moment, staring down at his ruined jumper. Then he raised his head to look at Malfoy.
Malfoy was pale with shock. He dropped his wand, and it clattered on the floor.
“Oh my God,” he said.
Harry stared at him.
“You killed my assignment, you twat.”
Malfoy stared back at him, and they stared at each other for a long time until their chins started wobbling as they tried to keep from breaking into laughter.
It was a lost cause. Harry had to hold onto his desk to keep himself from falling down. He was laughing that hard.
Malfoy was in no better state. He was laughing so hard there were tears squeezing from his eyes. He staggered over to Harry and plucked a mangled turtle tail out of Harry’s hair and flung it in the direction of McGonagall’s desk . . .
. . . and then Malfoy kissed him - and just like that, in the blink of an eye, they were snogging like mad.
It wasn’t like kissing Cho. Malfoy wasn’t passive and soggy. He kissed Harry determinedly, opening his mouth and goading Harry into opening his too, even though Harry didn’t really want to. It felt weird, but the sensation made heat coil in his lower belly in a very familiar way. He’d been thinking about pushing Malfoy away, but the tightening coil made it impossible. Quite the opposite of making him want to push Malfoy away, it made him want to pull Malfoy as close as possible.
It was as though Malfoy had read his mind. He put his arms around Harry, and suddenly there was no space between their bodies. Then Malfoy did the unthinkable and slid his tongue into Harry’s mouth. Harry had heard about French kissing, of course, but it was still a shock - and a not altogether welcome one. This time he really did try to pull away, but Malfoy only tightened his embrace, and Harry had no choice but to slide his own tongue into Malfoy’s mouth.
The instant their tongues touched, Harry’s simmering excitement exploded throughout his entire body. Stunned, he reached up and put his arms around Malfoy’s neck. He could feel himself trembling and was only a little bit embarrassed instead of mortified like he knew he should be. When Malfoy tilted his head slightly, Harry followed and let Malfoy deepen the kiss even though he was starting to struggle to breath. He’d been fighting off a cold, and one of his nostrils was blocked. His brain began to feel starved of oxygen, but it wasn’t bad enough to make him pull away.
Their tongues slipped and slid against one another like eels. Malfoy ran a hand up Harry’s back and combed his fingers into Harry’s hair while the other slipped off Harry’s waist and came to rest right on top of Harry’s tailbone. Nobody had ever touched him there before - Cho had had her arms around his neck. It felt very intimate, and suddenly Harry was terrified that Malfoy might feel his hard-on. He tried to put some space between their groins, but it only made Malfoy pull him closer. And then he felt something and realised it was Malfoy’s own hard-on. Harry’s knees almost gave out, and he went from holding Malfoy to clinging to him. Malfoy had an erection! It blew Harry’s mind. For some reason, he’d thought he was the only one who was aroused. He still didn’t want Malfoy to feel his hard-on, but he definitely wanted to feel more of Malfoy’s.
He got his wish when Malfoy took his hand and put it between them.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry knew that if he began rubbing Malfoy’s prick that he would definitely become gay, and despite being desperate to do just that, he kept his hand still. But he didn’t pull it away, not even when Malfoy started moving his hips. He felt a little bit like he had the time Sirius let him have a glass of firewhisky. Was Malfoy going to come? He was hard against Harry’s palm, and each time he pushed his hips forward he made a soft, almost inaudible, breathy moaning sound.
Harry’s arousal had reached a point where he knew he, himself, could come with only a tiny bit of encouragement. But he didn’t want to, and he didn’t want Malfoy to either. Coming was something you did in the privacy of a locked stall or a curtained bed. It was definitely not something you did with someone else present. He was afraid he might make a sound - or that Malfoy might make a sound that Harry would never be able to forget . . .
. . . but Malfoy clearly wanted to come. His thrusts were no longer mistakable as random movements. They were insistent in their search for enough pressure to produce an orgasm. They hadn’t stopped kissing, but Malfoy was starting to sound like he was having trouble breathing. Harry tried to pull his hand free, but Malfoy’s grasp on his wrist was like a vice.
“Gonna come,” Malfoy whimpered into their kiss. It was the first time either of them had spoken, and suddenly Harry was acutely aware of what was about to happen. It scared the hell out of him and gave him the strength to yank his hand free and push Malfoy backwards.
The look on Malfoy’s flushed face stabbed Harry in the chest. He turned, grabbed his satchel and bolted for the door.
Go to Part II