There was silence in the halls, but he felt searching eyes on him, making the fine hairs on the base of his neck rise.
Suddenly, Harry was pushed against the hard walls of Hogwarts, cool stone digging into his back. He struggled against the strong hands that held him there. It wasn't working. Each pull made his attacker come closer and closer, pressing up against him in the most intimate way. He tried to move more urgently. A gasp escaped his lips; the grip on his wrists had tightened an incredible amount.
Hot breath wafted over his cheek. It appeared he wasn't the only one panting in exertion, in heat.
Then, warm lips covered his, and Harry's attempts calmed considerably, as did the death grip on his arms. Though this kissing was tame compared to the jostling that had gone on moments before, it was still rough and violent.
Harry nipped at Dean's lips as the other boy nudged him back. Harry's shoulder blades were digging painfully into the solid wall of the corridor, but he hardly noticed.
His lips were left alone when Dean bent over, inclining his head to gain better access to Harry's throat. Harry felt teeth scrape against the skin there, sucking and playing with it idly. The teased flesh was left alone for a moment or so, given slight reprieve as skilled fingers snuck under Harry's shirt.
They writhed and moaned, caressed and devoured, moved and slid – time passing quickly as they moved towards ecstasy. They were not quiet about it, caring little for the comfort of the other. They scratched and bit, digging nails into flesh at every opportunity. It was all about taking, and each of them took from the other exactly what they needed.
When they were done, both Harry and Dean slumped to the floor, all weak knees and sticky fingers. Some places ached and others tingled with excited energy. Lazy smiles crossed their faces, and their lips somehow found each other again.
All too soon, however, reality kicked in.
Harry tried to look nonchalant, because Dean had all but spelled out the fact that they were just friends other than these brief encounters long ago.
A grin crossed his features once they cleaned themselves off with hasty spells, noticing just how much time had slipped by, and he rubbed his wrists. "Merlin, Dean. You have a tight grip!" His voice sounded too loud in the unoccupied corridor, echoing too many times and travelling too far. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying not to show his insecurity and discomfort on his face.
A flash of worry, if Harry wasn't mistaken, worked its way across Dean's features. He seemed to suppress the emotion, and waved his hand dismissively. "You love it," he said, offering a half-smile in apology.
Harry's remarkably pointy elbow made contact with Dean's side, eliciting a playful huff from him.
"It's true!" Dean said defensively. "Admit it, Potter, you're masochistic through and through. Like being held down and restrained, hurt, don't you, dirty boy?"
A shiver ran down Harry's spine, making him quake inside. He tried not to show it, but he assumed the blush gave him away. Dean stood up, looking anywhere except at Harry, suddenly unsure. It hurt, given the events that had transpired just moments earlier, but after the few months they'd been doing it, Harry was used to the brush-off. The slight pang of pain just above his heart reminded him that it was absurd to request they cuddle, and he also got to his feet, fantasies of comfortable intimacy beyond fooling around in corridors dispersing.
They looked at each other, fidgeting from the discomfort of the parting.
"So," Dean said, trailing off and looking at a point behind Harry's left ear.
"Yeah," answered Harry, moving one hand up to comb through his hair. He cocked his head to the side, shrugging his shoulders and flicking stray strands of hair in front of his eyes. He was hiding.
"Goodbye, see you later."
Dean turned, heading down the corridor. He held his head high, all signs of what they'd done erased from view. The confidence in his saunter tore at Harry's insides, but he tried to push the feelings away.
He had agreed to the arrangement, after all.
Even Harry could see that his less than ideal childhood had hindered his ability to keep emotions out of the relationship. He'd been so starved for love that even this fling – these meaningless liaisons – made his heart warm and his hopes rise. It was easy for him to tell himself that he had to get rid of Dean to clear his mind… or confess his feelings to the boy. Otherwise he'd go mad.
But he could choose neither. Going without Dean – the result of either choice – would be like going without water, because Harry suspected he couldn't survive without Dean. He had grown too close to Dean, and unfortunately it had not gone both ways.
Even when his glasses weren't on, Harry could see that.
Dejected and feeling worse than ever, Harry turned around and walked away. He tried not to show anything outwardly, because aside from being an occasional thing, it was also secret. He hated secrets, and hated Dean for making one more for him to keep. Harry, caught up in his thoughts and worries as he was, didn't see Dean peeking out at him from around the corner, eyes following Harry's silent moves.
He didn't see the longing and hopefulness in those dark eyes; simply continued walking.
Dean slumped to the ground, rubbing at his eyes, wondering when he'd fallen for Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, and wondering if he'd ever work up enough Gryffindor courage to tell him. Harry. His Harry.
This was written for the Pairing Diversity Bootcamp Challenge – fic 2/5o with the prompt "love hurts", as well as the Slash/Femmeslash Random Pairing Challenge by willowscribe on HPFC.