The Scent Of Malice | drarry

twelve | the failed antidote

Harry's newfound confidence was nothing short of life-changing.

He felt practically invincible walking around and knowing Malfoy couldn't hurt him any more because he had decided to enjoy it, and nothing gave him more pleasure than the torturous discomfort on the Slytherin's face whenever he was around.

He could practically see Malfoy's internal debate - Do I try to hurt him and give him the opportunity to embarrass me by not being hurt, or do I ignore him and risk looking weak anyway? There was no good option for him, and they both knew it.

Harry had even managed to get his place back on the Gryffindor Quidditch team by early November after three weeks off, much to Ginny's anger and disappointment.

"Reckon you can keep your emotions under control and ignore the Serpents in the crowd?" Oliver had asked, and Harry nodded confidently.

They'd won the following match, and the next, and were shaping up to win the last match before Christmas, too.

All of this was a source of great distress for Draco, however. How was he meant to hurt Potter when all he did in return was laugh in his face and ask if he wanted a kiss again? It was mortifying.

He'd been front row of Potter's first game back on the Gryffindor team, not armed with a banner as he thought they were pretty tragic, but prepared to shout some demeaning things whenever the Seeker flew past him. But it had been no use! Potter had entirely ignored him, except for two occasions when he'd bit his lip and winked in Draco's direction.

Hateful, useless boy. What good was bullying when the victim decided he liked it?

The most terrifying thing of all was that Draco was beginning to almost like it too, in an angry, hungry sort of way.

He'd always loved the thrill of a good fight or a challenge, and Potter's blatant, unashamed enjoyment of every confrontation Draco offered was beginning to be exciting to him too, though he wouldn't admit it to himself. He'd teach Potter to laugh at him, to take pleasure in the conflict between them. He'd find a way to hurt him some time soon.

But Harry genuinely didn't care. Whatever Malfoy offered him in terms of spite, he laughed at, and promised to think about "later on in bed", and that never failed to make the other boy red with anger.

And he had been thinking about it. Later on in bed, that is. Harry had decided to allow himself to fully experience his attraction to Draco Malfoy, and that meant enjoying it in every way possible.

So he stored up every interaction in his mind, every shove, every arrogant comment, every vicious insult, and at night with the drapes of his bed drawn, he would replay them again in all their agonising glory.

Draco bleeding, spitting, swearing, lashing out at him, slamming him against the wall, kissing him hard to embarrass him, laughing about it later.

The montage of images was head-spinningly excruciating and untouchably beautiful at the same time.

Harry's favourite memory above all others was always the Halloween kiss, when those fangs left tender red grooves in Harry's lips for hours and the whiskey lay hot on Draco's tongue as he'd swiped it painfully over the cuts he was inflicting, a conscious effort to force the stinging alcohol into the lesions.

The kiss the following morning was one Harry dwelt on less, however. It had been a confusing hot rush as always, but the emotions on Draco's face at the time had almost embarrassed Harry in their sheer intimacy and vulnerability, like it was something extremely private that Harry had walked in on by mistake. He felt like it was Draco's deranged attempt at an apology, which was so sad it was almost funny.