I am not certain what this is and I'm terribly sorry if it's not what you wanted. I haven't written fanfiction in ages. It's set sometime when they are still at Hogwarts.
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Whenever Harry looks at Draco, all he feels is anger. An anger running so deep that it makes his blood boil to the point of overflowing. It’s a wonder he hasn’t exploded yet, really.
Draco is always mocking him, poking at him, pointing out flaws, real or otherwise. Harry is at his breaking point. He doesn’t know how much more he can take.
One day, he’s walking out of potions class, intending on getting as far away as quickly as possible. Draco had spent the class mocking his potion-making abilities, laughing when his didn’t turn out just right. (It was third-best in the class, right behind Hermione and Draco.) It was frustrating beyond belief and he mostly just wanted to run up to his bed and scream into the pillow.
That is not at all what ended up happening.
He is only a step outside the classroom when someone grabs his sleeve and shoves him into a nearby broom closet. He has only a second to process the face in front of him before his mouth is being devoured like it was some rare sweet candy.
Hands are everywhere, grabbing, pulling, ripping. It is almost like they are fighting, a violent dance, not much of a change from usual. But the lips on his are bruising, the hands forceful. There is no doubt in his mind that he was going to be black and blue if he ever gets out of this and yet he can’t stop.
“Malfoy,” he gasps, trying to breathe. “What—”
“Shut up, Potter,” the other boy says, pulling his face in closer for another savage kiss.
And Harry does.
Somehow, their robes get shoved off and they're rutting against each other like the hormone-crazed teenagers they are. (That’s Harry’s excuse. He’s horny. Draco is there.)
It’s messy, when it happens, and embarrassing, too. Harry slouches against Draco, limp and sexed out. His pants feel sticky and he dreads walking back to the tower like that.
“You know I’m just having a bit of fun,” Draco says, that ever-present smirk on his face. Harry doesn’t know if he’s referring to what just happened or the endless mocking.
At this point, though, he doesn’t care. All he feels is a rush of embarrassment heating up his cheeks and then he’s rushing out of the closet.
no subject
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Whenever Harry looks at Draco, all he feels is anger. An anger running so deep that it makes his blood boil to the point of overflowing. It’s a wonder he hasn’t exploded yet, really.
Draco is always mocking him, poking at him, pointing out flaws, real or otherwise. Harry is at his breaking point. He doesn’t know how much more he can take.
One day, he’s walking out of potions class, intending on getting as far away as quickly as possible. Draco had spent the class mocking his potion-making abilities, laughing when his didn’t turn out just right. (It was third-best in the class, right behind Hermione and Draco.) It was frustrating beyond belief and he mostly just wanted to run up to his bed and scream into the pillow.
That is not at all what ended up happening.
He is only a step outside the classroom when someone grabs his sleeve and shoves him into a nearby broom closet. He has only a second to process the face in front of him before his mouth is being devoured like it was some rare sweet candy.
Hands are everywhere, grabbing, pulling, ripping. It is almost like they are fighting, a violent dance, not much of a change from usual. But the lips on his are bruising, the hands forceful. There is no doubt in his mind that he was going to be black and blue if he ever gets out of this and yet he can’t stop.
“Malfoy,” he gasps, trying to breathe. “What—”
“Shut up, Potter,” the other boy says, pulling his face in closer for another savage kiss.
And Harry does.
Somehow, their robes get shoved off and they're rutting against each other like the hormone-crazed teenagers they are. (That’s Harry’s excuse. He’s horny. Draco is there.)
It’s messy, when it happens, and embarrassing, too. Harry slouches against Draco, limp and sexed out. His pants feel sticky and he dreads walking back to the tower like that.
“You know I’m just having a bit of fun,” Draco says, that ever-present smirk on his face. Harry doesn’t know if he’s referring to what just happened or the endless mocking.
At this point, though, he doesn’t care. All he feels is a rush of embarrassment heating up his cheeks and then he’s rushing out of the closet.
“Fuck off, Malfoy.”