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The Way (We Break)

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Harry doesn't hate Astoria.

He doesn't hate the way she cries when Draco recites his wedding vows, or the way Draco toys with her curls during their first dance. He doesn't hate her tiny waist, or her pouty bottom lip, or her perfect button nose. He doesn't hate her tinkling laughter, or her charming smile, or the way she rests her hand on his arm when she thanks him for coming to the wedding.

But god, he hates Draco.

He hates the way Draco whispers filth in his ear during award ceremonies. He hates the way Draco sucks him off in public washrooms and then kisses him with the taste of his own come. He hates that Draco is brilliant and dangerous, and nothing at all like Harry's loving, predictable Ginny.

He hates that even now, ten years later, Draco can still get under his skin.

 

Everything between them hurts, even the sex. When they've grown numb to the physical pain, they trade it for the emotional.

"You're pathetic," Draco hisses. He's down on all fours in a dingy Muggle hotel room, and Harry is biting the back of his neck. Draco tries to buck him off, then reaches back to clutch at his hair. "You're like a dog, Potter. You don't even care if I'm here or not, do you? You're just rutting against anything you can find.”

"That would explain why you're always so willing to bend over and take it like a bitch," Harry whispers. They're not even fucking yet. His cock is pressed against the back of Draco's thigh, and Draco is squirming underneath him, but they're not actually fucking. They haven't managed to stop rubbing and biting long enough for that.

Draco gives Harry's hair a vicious tug and snaps, "Enough, Potter. I don't have time for games tonight."

"Yes you do. You always have time for games," Harry replies as he wrenches Draco's hand away from his hair, then shoves him face down onto the mattress. Draco tries to struggle, but Harry ignores him and drags his tongue down the length of Draco's spine. He pauses just above the swell of Draco's arse and mutters, "Spread your legs."

"Fuck you," Draco spits.

Harry bares his teeth and forces Draco's thighs apart.

“You get off on this, don't you?” asks Draco. His breath catches when Harry's tongue pushes into him, but then he's talking again a second later, taunting and sneering until Harry wants to slap him. “Do you think about this when you're fucking your wife? Hm? Did you always get off on this, or did it start when you realised you'll never have me?”

“I have you every night, Malfoy,” says Harry, digging his fingernails into Draco's thigh. “I have you whether you're with me or not.”

 

They've been fucking for almost three years when Draco tells Harry that Astoria is pregnant. The conversation ends with a broken window and a bloodied fist, and two weeks later, Harry fucks Astoria on top of Draco's desk.

It was a mistake, he tells her afterward, and he's the one to blame. He tries to absolve her of guilt, because he doesn't hate Astoria. He doesn't.

But he hates Draco.

 

“You fucked my wife,” says Draco one week later. His teeth are clenched and his eyes are narrowed. “My pregnant fucking wife, Potter. She's pregnant with my child, and you fucked her.”

Harry stares at him and waits for Draco to hit him or curse him, or worse.

Draco does the one thing he doesn't expect: he balls his hands into fists and says, “If you ever touch me or my family again, I'll kill you,” then turns and walks away.

 

Seventeen years later, when Scorpius waltzes into Harry's office and asks for a summer internship, Harry tells him yes, because he doesn't hate the kid.

He doesn't.

But he hates Draco Malfoy