The Scent Of Malice | drarry

nineteen | mean it

"If there's a next time, you have to mean it," - the words Harry had spoken so forcefully drifted round his head, but he lost all conviction in them the second the other boy so much as looked at him.

He fully cracked the first night of the next Quidditch practice, of course - there had been some kind of weird hot tension in the air all evening, and when Harry asked the blonde what to do with it he grinned and said "Just wait till it passes", though his eyes suggested something else entirely.

Harry felt a hot rush run through him.

"Is that what you want to do?" he asked, his heart rate picking up.

"Not really," Malfoy replied in the usual lazy drawl that Harry found so attractive.

It was growing dark and cold enough on the pitch that everyone else was heading very swiftly for the showers, but there was enough light still for Harry to make out Malfoy's defined features under his shock of wind-tangled blonde hair, and it had to be acknowledged that he looked very, very tempting.

His pretty silver eyes were so fixed on Harry's from under their long lashes that Harry began to feel literally sick with how badly he wanted to be near the other boy.

"Will you mean it?" he whispered, and felt his heart wrench ever so slightly when he got the answer he expected. Of course not.

"But I can still show you a good time," Malfoy offered, and what was Harry going to say to that - no? It seemed ridiculous. He didn't think the word was even in his vocabulary when it came to Malfoy.

He could ask me for literally anything and I'd give it to him, Harry thought to himself, his eyes only stinging slightly at the pain of the realisation. The clothes off my back, the food off my plate, all the money in my bank. He can have it.

He hated himself for giving in so fast once the pitch was empty though, and melting so easily into the kiss Malfoy offered him against the back of the changing room building.

But he didn't protest at the familiar biting roughness of the kiss, or at the pain of Malfoy's rings tangling through his hair, or even when Malfoy forced the Gryffindor jumper up over his head to make Harry shiver in the November air (keeping his own green jersey hypocritically down), though Harry knew that that was as much an act of Malfoy's cruelty as his desire.

As the term slipped away towards Christmas it became somewhat of a habit for the two boys to hook up after the bi-weekly Quidditch practices and Harry looked forward to those days more than any others, though they were always his saddest days, too.

"This doesn't mean anything, ok?" Malfoy would mutter, pushing Harry down onto his knees in the showers or round the shadowy back of the changing block.

Every time that line would crush Harry like a stone, but he always submitted.

"We don't have to do this," he whispered painfully on the third or fourth occasion, and Malfoy's expression became pleading.

"Please let me," he replied in a slightly broken voice, holding Harry's hips hard as if to make sure he stayed. "I want to so badly. Please."

"But I'm still nothing to you?"

A pause; solid and earth-shattering.

"I ... I can't have it any other way."

Harry despised himself for letting that one slide, though the desperation had admittedly added an interesting new dimension to the sex that evening.

Malfoy had called him Harry again after that - he normally only ever did that when they were fucking, so this was a novelty.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," he'd mumbled, hands fumbling hard to slip his joggers fully up over his hips again.