Chapter 14: Crushingly Close

Chapter 14: Crushingly Close

Disclaimer: After 13 chapters, these characters are still not mine. Surprise, surprise!

Warnings: Sexual…yeah, sex. Bad words. General "mature" themes.

So fucked up, Harry thought, staring across the slate gray expanse of glassy water before him, This is so bloody fucked up.

He could hardly believe that the past few months were really his life. They seemed like a dream, something far away and unreal, happening to someone else entirely, and yet there he was. There he was, having just shagged Draco Malfoy.

There was no telling how wrong that sounded…but it had been so good, to be so close to another human being, living blood and flesh, veins intertwined…He was covered in the evidence, bruises left by insatiate teeth covering his neck and burning, bleeding scratches raked over his back and chest, half-glowing in the growing darkness.

There was no way these were going to fade any time soon, and it kept getting harder to breathe-

So fucked up, Draco thought, closing his stormy eyes and resting his head against the mercifully cool stone of the dungeon wall, This is so bloody fucked up. He had scratches running up and down his back, hardcore proof. He'd been in quite the compromising situation, he realized (on the floor, Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, cold tile beneath the trembling soles of his feel), but as usual, he wasn't the one doing the compromising. He never was. He was the parasite. He fed on the insecurities and fractious, destructive desires of others. Little half-moons of blood stung his sides, where lascivious nails had bitten into his flesh and into his consciousness. Now that he thought about it, he realized he hadn't meant to take it that far, but he liked to live in the moment. Or at the very least pretend he did.

Something in his chest was tightening, that deep and painful well where tears boil and flow. Harry looked up, forcing them back to their source. He would not cry. He would not cry over Malfoy. He would not pervert the natural order of things that much. Underneath all this, he surmised, their must still be some trace of the way things used to be. The way things were supposed to be. He longed to laugh like he used to. To spend his time with Ron and Hermione, complaining about Umbridge and Snape and pretending to study while playing exploding snap in the backs of their classrooms (Hermione didn't much take part in the latter). And yet…and yet he felt that there was nothing in the world worth giving up this malignant fire for. It tore apart all he knew, and left in it's place something…no, he didn't want to say better. It was something different. And sometimes, that felt like better.

Draco's life, it seemed, had become a series of incorrect answers, but only because the test was so damn subjective. He was going to fail, and right then, he didn't particularly care. There were better things to do than waste the next two years of his life in this blasted castle. He clawed at the damp stone floor, its rough surface drawing pinpricks of blood from the sensitive flesh. It hurt, and he liked it. He'd never really been a masochist – it was quite a recent development, but he could see why some people shredded their wrists with razor blades. He wouldn't sink that low, however. No, he was better than that. He was better than breaking down – over Harry Potter, of all people. He would not pervert the natural order of things that much.

Harry got to his feet, every fibre of him straining. It hurt to move still, and not just because if the physical pain – the intensity of this sudden, torrid affair was eating away at him. He was running, constantly running, just to stay in one place. Seemingly of its own accord, his fist collided with the tree he'd been leaning against. Pain shot through his knuckles and down his arm, already raw skin protesting. He'd never been a masochist, not really, and he didn't think he was very well suited to it. It seemed fiercely futile, fighting against yourself, even when there was nothing else one could do. He punched the tree again, and began to treck through the mud back to the castle.

Draco arched his back against the wall, stretching his protesting muscles. He dragged himself to his feet. His aching skin and lips craved something soft, soft touch, liquid velvet. Blaise, or…Potter? He promptly turned around and banged his head into the wall with as much force as he dared. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. He was fucking Potter. That was all. And soon, it would be over. Sex was supposed to be simple. Everything else was infuriatingly labyrinthine, but pure physicality was supposed to be violently guileless. His stone world had inverted around him and he was damn sick of it. He picked up the half-empty bottle of absinthe that had rolled across the stone away from him and drank deeply. Yeah, he was going to get fucked up.

Harry ran his hands through his hair, pulling only slightly harder than he meant to. Every inch of him ached, stung, begged for something soft, soft touch. Draco. He craved this hushed coercion, the pain that it brought, the love. The heard beating beneath his fingertips, tornado eyes. He craved it and he hated it. March's warming wind played across his face as he walked, kissing his neck and cheeks in the dark, a phantasm. He felt empty. He felt ingenuous. His heart pounded against its bone cage, remonstrating against him, and he had the very distinct feeling that it didn't belong to him at all anymore.


"Harry!" Hermione's voice rang across the common room, breaking into the quiet shell that surrounded him, "Where have you been all day?"

"I've – well, you know, just-" Harry began. He was tired, starving, bleeding, he could hardly think, let alone formulate a coherent sentence-

"Never mind," she interrupted, "We've got a lot to do if we want the D.A. to pass their Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s. We talked to the Hufflepuffs earlier, and they said that Tuesday works for them, so you'll need to-"

"Hermione," Harry said tersely, "Can you…not…right now?"

"Harry," Ron started, "Is something…going on?"

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. An interrogation, even from those who meant well, was the opposite of what he needed just then. "No, it's nothing," he sighed.

"Harry, honestly," Hermione narrowed her eyes, "You're running off to who-knows-where at all hours. You're barely eating. Ron says you talk in your sleep. It's no use lying to us,"

Harry's fists clenched. He could hear his blood swirling and crashing in furious waves against his skull.

For the first time in his life, he stopped trying to control himself. His lips formed the words before he knew what he was doing, his tongue curling around the insidious vowels- "Fuck you."

He turned on his heel and left.


A/N: Sorry this one took forever, loves. There's been school (finals, ew), drama, my laziness, etc, etc. This title comes from Garbage/Nine Inch Nails, aka, two of the best bands ever. Like, ever. And the "tornado eyes" comes from a Kill Hannah song, I forget which one…By the way, find the Alice Through The Looking Glass shoutout and you get a cookie. Anna, you know where it is, don't say it. Much love/Cake