Malfoy. God. Of all people. And tonight of all nights.
Harry almost punches the cobweb-covered wall of the third-floor corridor
in frustration. He wants to be alone. Malfoy has already done
enough damage for one day. And yet, here he is, in Harry's way.
Again.
On another night, he might have turned and left Malfoy alone. On another
night, Harry might have corralled his temper, found somewhere else cold and
dusty and deserted to sit alone, ignored what he really wanted.
Not tonight.
Malfoy is about to enter an unused classroom when Harry strikes. Lightning-quick,
Harry pins Malfoy to the wall, hands up over his head, hood down over his
eyes. Malfoy lets out a grunt of surprise, and Harry tightens his grip
on Malfoy's wrists. "You shouldn't be here, Malfoy." The cadence
of it is half menacing, half desirous.
Malfoy strains against Harry's hold on him, but he says nothing. Harry
responds by pressing closer to him, making it perfectly clear what he's asking
for, no, what he's telling Malfoy he's going to take from him.
Yes, Harry will be taking tonight, thankyouverymuch.
Still no protest from Malfoy.
So Harry bites his shoulder, making Malfoy gasp out something echoing pleasure.
Harry arches an eyebrow. "Like that, do you?"
When Malfoy finally responds, it's in a voice low and raw. "Potter,
I --"
But that's as far as he gets. Before Malfoy can voice anything else,
before he can take a cheap shot at Harry's parents, or mock Harry's obvious
desire, pressed as it is alongside Malfoy's own, Harry silences him, pulling
him into a kiss that's a heady mixture of tongue and teeth and fire.
He's got Malfoy up against the wall, closer than close, erections unmistakable
and nudging, rubbing against each other in the little space that remains
between them.
But Harry wants more.
He drops Malfoy's wrists and uses both hands to push Malfoy's robes off his
shoulders. Malfoy's arms drop to his sides, and, as Malfoy's robes
pool at their feet, Harry wonders why Malfoy's not fighting him off, now
that he's no longer restrained. When Malfoy pushes off Harry's own
robes and ducks in to bite near Harry's collarbone, Harry understands.
With each undressing the other, the seemingly insurmountable number of layers
of Slytherin and Gryffindor uniforms find their way piece by piece to the
corridor floor.
When Harry pins Malfoy to the wall again, they are naked and hard and panting
and there are sparks in the air all around them. Lust prickles every
inch of Harry's skin. Harry can almost wrap his mind around the heat
of this -- the pure desire in this hatred-turned-passion -- but it's not
the time for thinking, not with Malfoy trapped between him and the wall,
willing and blazing with want. So Harry stops thinking and drives himself
into the heat of Malfoy's body without warning or preparation.
Malfoy gives a muffled scream which then becomes a panting whine and finally
a cooing mewl as Harry works his hands over Malfoy, his back, his hip, his
thigh, his cock. As Harry runs his thumb up the underside of Malfoy's
cock a second time, Malfoy whimpers Harry's name.
The heat of it, two-syllables of lust-driven utterance, ignites Harry, and
he thrusts deeper into Malfoy, completely at the mercy of the moment.
But even through the haze of his lust Harry knows that this is a fire of
flash paper: quick-starting and intense but short-lived, leaving no lasting
warmth. As Harry comes, biting hard on Malfoy's shoulder once more,
he feels the last few flames flicker and die out.