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On Harry's first day of Auror training, Gawain Robards stands in front of his recruits, eyes bright with barely repressed excitement, and smiles. It’s not a happy smile. It’s something feral, something animalistic and terrifying in its glee. Harry’s seen smiles like it before, and it makes an answering instinct inside of himself sit up and take notice. This is a call to war in bared teeth and curved lips, and though Robards gives a speech that has Harry’s classmates cheering, all Harry can remember is the flash of too-sharp teeth and the hardness of Robards’ eyes.

Auror training is extensive and exhausting. Harry spends long days learning casting techniques, spells, and magics somewhere between light and dark. There's studying, too. Hours hunched over moldering law books that he can barely get through without his eyes watering from the incomprehensible language as much as the dust. He drags Hermione in to help, but even she gets lost, having to flip back and forth between books, cross-referencing cross-references, until they're both left with headaches and no clearer idea about whether an unattended broomstick results in a fine of five Galleons or 500.

The easiest part of his training, which comes as a shock to Harry, is the hand-to-hand  combat lessons. Harry always fought his battles with magic and his friends, and when he first walked onto the mats spread across the Auror gymnasium, he assumed anything he did without either was sure to be a quick and immediate failure. But as his trainer, a veteran Auror named Calder Baggs, walked him through the first day—one leg before the other, hips cocked, weight on your back foot, don't tense up so much, that's better—it was like riding a broom for the first time. His body knew this, even if his mind didn’t, and now, three weeks into the training course, he's warmed up and facing off against one of his classmates, blood singing in his veins.

His sparring partner today is Frank Hale, and he certainly lives up to his surname. He's a massive bloke, well over six feet tall and weighing fifteen stone at a minimum. He towers over Harry, even though he's put on a solid layer of hard muscle since starting training. But where he's a whipcord, Hale is a wall of a man. When he takes off his exercise shirt, baring muscles that look like they might have their own muscles, Harry swallows, suddenly feeling like he's about to bite off way more than he can chew. But as Harry shrugs out of his own shirt, leaving him in only loose shorts, bare feet, and wrapped hands, Baggs stands off to the side, leaning up against the gymnasium wall, arms crossed, one foot raised, looking as if he couldn't be less worried about Harry's safety if he tried. Harry checks the wraps on his hands again, making sure his knuckles are protected and giving him something to channel his anxiety into, then nods to Hale.

"Tap out if you need it, and try not to break anything," Baggs shouts to Harry and Hale. "Whenever you're ready, chaps."

There's hardly a beat before Hale's leaning in, using his height to his advantage. He swings for Harry's chin, and Harry's only just able to duck back and avoid the blow. Hale's left fist comes in low immediately after, glancing off of Harry's ribs, and, off-balance and winded, Harry stumbles back, his bare feet sliding against the padded mat beneath him. Hale grins and presses forward.

Harry ducks and weaves, making use of his smaller stature and lighter body to keep ahead of Hale's hammer-like fists. It's exhausting and a bit terrifying, and the longer his careful retreat continues, the more his pulse beats in his ears. It's all he can do to keep his breath and his feet, and slowly his focus narrows to the space between him and Hale, and the speed that he's using to keep himself safe.

He lands a few punches, but they're glancing things. Hale manages to catch him hard on the side, up near his kidney, and the pain of it makes Harry's breath catch. It's a near miss when Hale comes in with a roundhouse, Harry's dodge so close to being too late that he can feel the wind from Hale's fist moving through the air.

Harry's ears start ringing, and as he tries to get more oxygen into his body, he sees it. A break in Hale's defenses, his left side suddenly, blindingly open. Something snaps in Harry, and he darts forward, taped fists pounding against the sensitive skin above Hale's ribs. When the man flinches into the blow, Harry strengthens his attack and lands a hard upper-cut in the man's stomach. The noise Hale makes is somewhere between a grunt and an exhale, and as he folds over, mouth gasping, Harry's left hook comes in hard to the hinge of Hale's jaw.

Head snapping to the side, Hale's eyes roll back as he falls to the mat, one arm outstretched. Ears still ringing, Harry takes a step back, is pushed aside as Baggs rushes forward and starts calling for a Mediwizard. He turns Hale onto his side, checks his airway, then looks up at Harry, who is still taking slow, uncertain steps away from Hale's limp body. But instead of anger, Baggs looks pleased. He smiles at Harry, and it's like the first day of Auror training all over again, sharp and white.

That's how he finds out about the fight club. He feels like an idiot calling it that, but the under-the-table-official name is worse, so he settles for fight club instead. And, honestly, that's what it is. It's a bunch of Aurors and Aurors-in-training in the basement of the Ministry, swearing to not tell a soul about how they beat the shit out of each other on Thursday nights. If some pretentious asshole wants to make it sound like it's something more than that, that's his business. As far as Harry's concerned, it's blood and bruised knuckles, and it doesn't deserve any more pretense than that.

Baggs brings him into the fold, as it were, with a sharp clap on his back and a nod towards the gathered group of men clustered in an abandoned storage room in the lowest level of the Ministry.

"Been doing this for years," he explains. "My trainer brought me in when I was just starting out, and now"—he gives Harry a grin that might be proud—"I'm bringing you in."

Most of the Aurors are wearing Muggle-style exercise clothes. Joggers and tight dark shirts. Harry's wearing something similar, though his shirt is white. Only a handful of the men have their knuckles taped up, and when Harry asks about it, Bagg shrugs.

"We don't all fight. Some are just here to observe."

Harry chooses to not consider what that says about these men, that they'd take time out of their lives to watch violence. Instead, he walks into the room, feels eyes on his back, and listens to the quiet murmur of voices fall silent as everyone slowly realizes who he is.

"Bit unfair, bringing the Master of Death!" someone shouts from the crowd, and Baggs laughs next to Harry.

"Don't worry, he's not here to kill anyone, just kick your arse."

The room erupts into cheers, and Harry's shoved, not unkindly, towards the center of the ring. He's grinning, that same feral, too-sharp thing that he saw on Robards', on Baggs' faces, and he sees it returned by the men gathered around him. It makes fire leap up in his gut, some deep-seated heat that makes his hands itch and ache.

The first man tossed in the ring with him isn't anyone he recognizes, but since there are four or five different training groups, that's not a surprise. It takes Harry a minute and a half to put him on the ground. The second doesn't fare much better. By the third, Harry's covered in sweat, and he tears his shirt over his head, tossing it away and sighing at the cool feel of air on his overheated skin.

He loses track of his opponents. They keep coming, though Harry keeps putting them on the ground. His arms shake and his hands hurt so much, they go numb, but he keeps fighting, keeps shuffling his trainer-clad feet around the concrete floor. He smells, tastes, iron. Everything narrows to the man across from him and the pounding in his ears, and Harry revels in it. He feels alive in a way he hasn't since defeating Voldemort, since the end of the War, since fighting his way across the grounds of Hogwarts. He's alive in the way that someone can only be when faced with their own mortality, and he sings with it.

Eventually, he falls. It's bound to happen. He's tired and only human. So when his arse lands hard on the ground, and he can't get up, even though he wants to, it's not a surprise or a shock. It's an inevitability. He leans back, stares up in the face of his attacker, and then can't stop the grin from erupting across his bloody face when the man offers Harry his hand. He takes it, aching and happy, and they both grin at each other, their teeth too white in their sweat- and blood-streaked faces.

When Baggs helps Harry find his shirt, casts a quick Episkey to the cut over Harry's eyebrow, and then leads him from the basement, he doesn't say anything.

Not until Harry does.

"When's the next one?"

Baggs smiles, and Harry feels his blood sing. "Next week."

It goes like that for a while. Harry steps into the center of the ring, fights tooth and nail against challenger after challenger, until he's finally tired enough to be knocked down or knocked out—the first time is a shock; it feels a little like dying in the Forbidden Forest, and though he should hate it, it doesn't stop him from coming back—and then it repeats. He's covered in bruises and cuts, only willing to heal the ones that will show when he's dressed. The others, he leaves as reminders. Ways to bring that sense of life, of living, back by pressing hard against them throughout the day.

Harry could think about what it all means, but he doesn't want to. He knows that most well-adjusted men his age don't go looking for fights like this, don't wait with anticipation for the sting of bone against flesh. He knows that he's still carrying scars from the War, from a childhood spent chasing after a literal monster with the only goal being that creature's death. It's all there, in his mind, in his nightmares. He knows this isn't normal. But it makes him feel better. It gives that indinstict, but undeniable, ache within his chest an outlet. It's like lancing a boil or squeezing pus from a wound. It eases the pressure, eases the ache, lets him live his life like a somewhat normal man. If it means that he's spilling his blood across a basement floor Thursday nights, if it means he's smashing teeth from other Auror's mouths, if it means that his ribs are covered in bruises, what does it matter? He's not hurting anyone who isn't asking for it.

It's fine.

It's fine, until it isn't. Until one night, when Harry goes down the stairs into the basement, already feeling the pull of adrenaline in his blood, he's faced with a crowd of men that he doesn't recognize.

Except for one.

Draco Malfoy hasn't changed much with time. He's still pointy, still put together in a way that makes Harry want to ruin him. He's taller than the last time Harry saw him, his body lean and confident beneath his button-up shirt. Though it isn't cold, Malfoy is wearing leather gloves, and he pulls them from his hands with a languid ease that makes Harry's teeth clench. When Malfoy sees Harry, he draws his eyes up from Harry's toes to the top of his head and back again, then turns away, dismissing Harry without words.

It's infuriating. The desire to fight grows, unruly and barely tamed. Harry rolls his shoulders, follows Baggs to their usual spot near the side of the ring, and watches Malfoy as he talks to the men that Harry doesn't know, hasn't seen before.

Baggs leans in, tracking Harry's eyes. "Unspeakables. They join in from time to time, but not often."

"What about him?" Harry tips his chin towards Malfoy. "What's he doing here?"

"Newest recruit, I'm told. No one's been able to beat him, though he hasn't been in the ring tonight."

"How long have the others been fighting?"

"Hour or so," Baggs says.

Harry rolls his shoulders again, then reaches for the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head. The Aurors around him take a step back, and his side of the room falls quiet as he steps forward.

"Malfoy," he shouts, drawing the blond's attention from his friends to Harry. "You're here for a fight, yeah?"

Malfoy gives Harry another contemptuous once-over. "I've yet to find one."

"My apologies. Didn't mean to keep you waiting."

Malfoy's smirk is a familiar thing, though there's a bit of heat to it that Harry doesn't remember. Still, Harry knows what it feels like to want to break Malfoy's nose, and the expression on Malfoy's face does little to temper that familiar emotion.

"Let's get on with it, then. I've been waiting for this a long time."

Malfoy undoes the buttons on his shirt with a spell, then shrugs it from his shoulders. He's wearing a white vest top underneath, and Harry's shocked at the taut muscle it barely disguises. Malfoy's trim, his chest wide and well-defined. His arms flex as he steps into the ring, his hands loose by his sides and untaped.

"You don't want to tape those up?" Harry asks as he steps forward.

Malfoy smirks. "I know what I'm doing, Potter."

"Of course you do."

Baggs steps into the ring, glancing between Harry and Malfoy. "All right, boys. Let's leave the sweet talk for later. You know the rules."

Harry raises his fists, gets his hips square, his weight on his back foot, and waits. Malfoy's eyebrow raises, but he mimics Harry's posture, somehow looking both aloof and dangerous. They circle each other, the crowd jeering and cheering around them. That familiar sense of focus starts falling over Harry, and he watches Malfoy move, waiting for an opening.

"Don't know how you managed to get dragged into this," Malfoy says, knocking Harry from his hyper-concentrated state. "Seems a bit lowbrow for the Boy Who Lived."

Harry doesn't reply, just darts in with a quick jab that has Malfoy leaning back. He doesn't look surprised or uncomfortable when he does it, though. It's as if his air of nonchalance is part of his stance, his skin, and as he continues to dodge Harry's testing punches, Malfoy is as unperturbed about it as he would be about a cup of tea that was slightly too hot.

"Not entirely sure what all this talk has been about," Malfoy continues, ducking Harry's fists. Malfoy jabs so fast that all Harry sees is a blur, followed by the sharp shock of pain along his ribs. "This hasn't been particularly exciting."

Harry grits his teeth and pushes forward, raining blows down on Malfoy. He dodges or blocks them, dipping and weaving with each punch as if he knows where it's coming from before Harry even throws it. He's like water, like wind, a natural, beautiful thing that can't be stopped or captured or contained. Harry feels futile anger growing in his chest, and he growls as he continues trying to hit Malfoy.

Something lights in Malfoy's eyes when he looks at Harry, and then his body, so lithe and easy and relaxed before, changes. Those muscles, the ones that have had him dodging Harry's fists as if they were nothing, tighten, lock, and then he's the one on the offensive. Harry's forearms ache from the hits that Malfoy lands, each one precise and deadly. He doesn't know where to go, can't lower his guard without risking a blow to the face, can't protect his ribs well enough to stop Malfoy from landing blow after blow against them. A low coil of fear starts to grow along with the bone-deep ache in his chest, but Harry shoves it aside. There's something animalistic growing within him, a fight-or-flight response that he can't deny, and as he lets it loose, he meets Malfoy's cool, grey eyes and knows that he's met his match.

They fight until sweat streams down both of their bodies. Harry's whole focus is on Malfoy, whose shirt is drenched through. Their hands flash past each other, landing punches while missing others. Harry's muscles ache, but his blood is hot. A part of him thinks he could do this forever. That he could fight Malfoy like this, just the flesh and blood of the both of them, for eternity.

Until his foot slips.

It's a minor thing. Something that's happened to him before. A bit of loose gravel on the concrete. His trainer catches it, slides, and Malfoy's on him like a storm. Harry feels each shockingly sharp hit of Malfoy's bare knuckles against his face like a knife. His head swims, his ears ring, and then the ground is hard and cold and unforgiving, like Malfoy, against his back.

He stares up at the ceiling of the basement, vision swimming with stars, and tries to catch his breath, uncertain what, exactly, has just happened.

When Baggs finally pulls Harry to his feet, he staggers and stares after Malfoy, who's already put his shirt back on and is doing up the buttons. His hair is barely out of place.

Harry doesn't think he hit Malfoy once.

The next week, Harry doesn't enter the ring. Instead, he lurks around the edges, waiting for the group of Unspeakables to come down the staircase into the basement. He doesn't have to wait long. Malfoy's white-blond hair glints in the lights, his face relaxed in a smile that hides the calculating fighter beneath. Harry does his best to stay unseen, but a moment after Malfoy's foot hits the concrete floor, his eyes find Harry leaning against one of the support pillars. His smile sharpens, and he gives Harry a quick nod. Harry glowers back, arms crossed, and doesn't shift from his position. Malfoy must take it as a victory of sorts because his grin widens, and he turns his back to Harry with a slight spring in his step.

"You gonna try him again?" Baggs asks, coming to stand next to Harry.

Harry shakes his head, and Baggs laughs quietly.

"Got you scared, then?"

"No." Harry watches as Malfoy starts unbuttoning his shirt, eyeing the veteran Auror who's stepped into the ring for the first bout. "Trying to figure him out."

Baggs claps him on the shoulder. "Good luck, then."

Malfoy looks more comfortable in the center of a dirt ring than he has any right to. His clothing is the least posh Harry's ever seen him in, but it's still carrying a sheen of expense in its fabric. His joggers are only a little loose, and the fabric looks soft, but light. His trainers are black and unscuffed, his vest-top—a black one this time—tightly fitting and showing off Malfoy's lean musculature in subtle, shifting shadows. With the contrast of his pale hair and skin and the stormcloud grey of his eyes, he's striking in a way that Harry isn't fully able to consider, not while he's trying to figure out what kind of fighter Malfoy might be.

It's clear after his first bout that Malfoy is, as ever, shrewd and calculating. He doesn't charge in like Hale would, doesn't depend on speed or agility to make his opponent suffer. No, Malfoy is relaxed and calm. His guard isn't lowered, not precisely, but he gives the impression that it is. His fists aren't clenched tightly. His arms aren't tensed, ready to spring. He looks languid, carefree. That is, of course, until his opponent attacks. Then, Malfoy is all whipcord strength and fluid agility. He lets his opponent wear himself out, dodging attacks and waiting patiently to strike when the opportunity presents itself. His hands move so quickly Harry can barely track them. It's easier to watch for the response from Malfoy's opponent, the way the man's body bends and crumples under Malfoy's lightning-quick strikes. By the time the other man is knocked to his knees, head bowed as he pants and taps out, Harry's breath is coming fast and hard.

Malfoy is a thing of beauty, and Harry can't wait to get in the ring with him again.

It doesn't happen that night, or the week after. Though Harry keeps fighting, he doesn't face Malfoy. It seems as if the other man has decided that fighting Harry would be giving Harry something he wants, and since Malfoy has always been a recalcitrant shit, he sticks to the periphery whenever Harry enters the ring. And because Harry's a petty arse in his own right, he returns the favor. They dance around each other, avoiding confrontation in favor of expressionless glances and long, considering examinations of each other's fighting styles.

Harry's bloodied more often than Malfoy is—Harry only sees Malfoy get his lip split once—but it doesn't stop Harry from winning fights. There are times where he has to spit blood from his mouth or clear it from his eyes midway through, but it only seems to make that feral instinct in him grow in response. Malfoy, in sharp contrast, is cool, collected, calm. He never tapes his knuckles and hands before a fight and somehow never comes out of them with bruises. His precision is frightening, scalpel-sharp, and Harry has yet to find a weakness.

So when they finally face off against each other in the ring again, a part of Harry is already prepared to end the fight with his arse in the dirt. They're both shocked when Harry gets through Malfoy's guard and bloodies his lip. Malfoy touches a hand to the shockingly bright red of his blood, looks at it, then grins at Harry, the color smearing across his teeth.

"Well done, Potter. That's the last time you put your hands on me."

They dance around each other, and while Malfoy lands the majority of hits, Harry gets a few more in before he falls to the ground. His palms scrape against the concrete floor, and as he stares up at Malfoy, whose chin is smeared with drying blood, he wants nothing more than to bring this man down. It grows in him until it overpowers the ringing in his ears, and when Malfoy holds out his elegant, bare hand to help Harry up, Harry bats it aside and rolls to his feet before stumbling away.

Harry doesn't know why he's in the basement. It's not Thursday. The ring is gone, its vaguely defined edges removed after yesterday's fights. It feels dirty now, with the crowd gone and the floor cast in a too-bright artificial light. Harry drags his toe across the floor, sending bits of gravel scattering as he wonders what he's doing here, and why he's still so desperate to break Malfoy's face.


Harry turns, startled into a fighting stance, and watches as Malfoy calmly walks down the stairs. At the raised eyebrow, Harry lowers his arms, tries to feel less awkward about being caught out like this.

"What're you doing here?" he asks.

Malfoy smirks before sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. "I should ask you the same."

"Dunno." Harry turns away from Malfoy, stuffs his own hands into his robe pockets, uncertain what to do with them here when they're not turned to fists. "Thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself."

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

He laughs. His footsteps are loud on the concrete, and when they stop, Harry turns around again. Malfoy's leaning against a support pillar, his feet crossed at the ankles as he takes in Harry. "I think I know what you're doing here." At Harry's furrowed brow, he continues. "The same thing I'm here for, Potter. Trying to figure out how to best each other."

"You've beat me every time we've fought each other, Malfoy. I'm not entirely sure there's much more besting you need to do."

"That's only because you're playing by the rules. I've seen you when you really fight." He gives the room a contemptuous look. "It's nothing like this."

"You still won."

"An empty victory, though. Who wants to beat a dog when it's leashed?"

"I'm not a dog," Harry snarls.

Malfoy shakes his head. "You are when you fight. And"—he holds an elegant hand up, stopping Harry before he can speak—"that's not a bad thing. That instinct saved your life when we were children, and it'll do the same for you as adults. But this place? It's limiting you."

"And what about you?" Harry asks, gesturing at Malfoy in his trim, black suit, his high-sheen Oxfords, the open collar of his shirt. His hair is elegantly pushed back from his face, though a few strands have escaped the hold of whatever styling product Malfoy used this morning. They hang across his forehead in a way that's both artless and styled. "Why do you do this?"

"To feel something," he says before pushing himself away from the pillar. "Now, do you want to see what you can do without everyone watching?"

Harry's blood heats. "What're you suggesting?"

"A fight, Potter." Malfoy's grin is a wicked thing. "No rules, no-holds-barred."

"And why would I agree to that?"

"Be honest with yourself. You've wanted to beat my face in since we were children." He holds his arms open as if offering himself. "Now's your chance."

Harry can't deny that he's tempted by the offer. His hands are itching, and he fights the urge to clench them into fists. But there's more at risk here than bruised knuckles and split lips. Malfoy's an Unspeakable, and Harry's still in training. He'd be putting his career at risk, taking on Malfoy in a one-on-one fight. If something went wrong, it'd be Harry's word against Malfoy's, and for some reason, Harry's not entirely sure the two wouldn't balance each other out.

Draco smirks at Harry's hesitation. "Scared, Potter?"

It's the sneering tone of his voice that does it, the ice-hot scrape of it across Harry's already thin patience. His heart racing, blood pounding, Harry undoes the fastenings on his Auror's robe and slides it from his shoulders, folding it carefully over his arm before laying it on the dirty ground.

"Let's go, Malfoy."

Malfoy laughs quietly, eyes darkening. He shrugs out of his suit jacket, starts undoing the buttons at his cuffs, rolls his shoulders as Harry does the same. They step into the center of the room, in the center of the missing ring, and square off.

"No magic," Malfoy says softly, "but otherwise, no rules. No holding back."

"Quit stalling, Malfoy. Let's get on with it."

The world falls quiet. Harry's dress shoes scratch against the concrete floor. He can hear Malfoy's breath, slow and even. They circle each other, arms raised, fists poised, until Draco darts forward, eyes bright and teeth bared.

His fists crash into Harry's forearms, and it's just like every other fight they've had up till now. Harry does his best to fend off Malfoy's blows, ducking and weaving through the flurry of blows, but he can't break through Malfoy's defenses, keeps getting pushed farther and farther back under the barrage. Frustration grows, and though he keeps his feet, he can't get a fucking shot in.

"C'mon, Potter," Malfoy sneers as he continues pummelling Harry's body. "Stop holding back."

He snaps. With a shout, he charges Malfoy, whose eyes grow wide and, Harry thinks, gleeful. It sets Malfoy off-center, though, and Harry's able to duck under the man's guard and get a solid right into his ribs. Malfoy's breath rushes out, and Harry follows with a left, then a right jab at Malfoy's chin. Neither hit solidly, but Harry feels the graze of Malfoy's jaw against his knuckles, and his ears start ringing. There's blood on his knuckles, and he doesn't know whose it is.

Malfoy quickly steps back, getting distance between himself and Harry, but now that Harry knows how to break through Malfoy's defenses, he keeps pressing closer and closer. As Harry ducks another volley of blows from Malfoy, Harry gets in under his guard, slides to the side, and puts his foot behind Malfoy's. With a quick swipe, he sends the blond man tumbling to the ground in an inelegant sprawl. And though the rules say that Harry should let Malfoy back up, that he should look for the man to tap out, that he should pause and wait, Harry follows Malfoy to the ground, fists raised and ready.

He straddles Malfoy's waist, pins him to the ground, and starts taking shots at Malfoy's smug face. Somehow still lithe and nimble, even trapped between the heavy weight of Harry's thighs, Malfoy avoids Harry's punches, his head whipping side to side against the concrete. His right fist crashes into Harry's kidney, a sharp, lancing pain that has Harry bending double, mouth open as his breath is forced out in a grunt.

Neither of them move. Harry's hands are on the floor, bracketing Malfoy's face. There's a bit of blood leaking from the corner of Malfoy's mouth, a bright spot of red against his pale face. His eyes are flinty and dark, and this close, Harry can make up the individual chips of stone that turn them a riotous swirl of grey. They're both breathing hard, and the sound of it fills the space, drowns out the ringing in Harry's ears, and he's not entirely sure which of them moves first, but they do.

Their mouths crash together like fists, but it sends Harry's heart rate racing. He can taste the iron tang of blood, and he slides his hands into Malfoy's hair, holding him still so Harry can dive deeper into the kiss. Always fighting, though, Malfoy bucks beneath Harry, catching him off-guard and rolling Harry onto his back. Malfoy presses his hips forward, forcing Harry's legs to bend back towards his chest, and then Malfoy's got Harry pinned and writhing. Harry wraps his legs around Malfoy's hips, tries to flip the man again, but when Malfoy ruts down against him, the hard line of his cock digging into Harry's, he's willing to tap out and let Malfoy win this particular battle.

Surrender shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel like silken hair tangled around Harry's fingers, like hard and shifting muscles holding him down, like the rigid line of fire pressed into the crease of his hip. Malfoy's body above his shouldn't feel like it belongs there, but as they kiss, as Harry loses himself to overwhelming desire, he knows it does. This is what they've been fighting towards, this need for physical release, for ownership. Harry's wanted to leave his mark on Malfoy for years, and now, with his fingers scrabbling at the waistband of Malfoy's trousers, pulling the starched white shirt from them so Harry can get his skin on Malfoy's, he does.

His nails dig into Malfoy's back, and though he hisses in pain against Harry's mouth, he arches into it. Harry helps Malfoy shrug out of his shirt, his hands tangling in the fabric as it loosens from Malfoy's shoulders. He tosses it aside, heedless of where it lands, distracted by the hard muscles no longer hidden by clothing.

Malfoy looks like he's carved from stone, and Harry runs his hands over those sharp planes, shocked at the warmth of Malfoy's skin. He lingers on Malfoy's nipples, feels smug satisfaction when his gentle touch makes Malfoy squirm. Malfoy fights back, though, and tangles his fingers in Harry's hair, pulling it hard enough to make Harry's eyes water. He gives into the painful command, lets Malfoy guide Harry's head back far enough for Malfoy to bite at the underside of his jaw and the long line of his neck. Malfoy's tongue is hot and insistent against Harry's pulse, his hands burning pressure against Harry's body. The concrete is a cold shock against his back when Malfoy rucks Harry's shirt up, but then Malfoy's hands drift lower, cupping him through his trousers, and it's all Harry can do to just breathe.

He fumbles for the button of Malfoy's fly, sneaks his hand beneath the fabric to take Malfoy's cock in a too-tight grip. Malfoy curses, then groans when Harry drags his fist to the base of Malfoy's cock, then back to the tip, his calloused thumb rubbing against the head. Their fists bump together, then their cocks, and Harry isn't certain when Malfoy managed to pull Harry's prick free from his trousers, but he's not complaining. They both open their hands, tangle their fingers together, and groan when they press against each other, both of their cocks wrapped in their fists.

It becomes a dance between them, so similar to the way they circle each other in the ring. Their hands move in tandem, easy and persistent, while they kiss, open-mouthed and desperate.

"Just like that," Malfoy pants, his fingers tightening around Harry's. "Fuck, Potter."

He doesn't want to glow beneath Malfoy's praise. His whole life, he's been fighting, pushing, taunting this man, and long habit makes him feel recalcitrant and contrary. But Malfoy bends his head to Harry's shoulder, lets his open mouth rest against the curve of Harry's neck, and bites. The ache of it washes over him, drags Harry's conflicted emotions with it, and all he wants to do is make Malfoy bow with pleasure, rather than pain.

"Come on," he urges, thrusting his cock into their combined grip, tightening his legs around Malfoy's hips. "C'mon, Malfoy."

"Tell me"—Malfoy shivers—"tell me what you want."

Harry grabs at Malfoy's hair, pulls his head up from the curve of Harry's neck, and forces him to meet Harry's eyes. Malfoy's pupils are so wide, they've turned his eyes black. "You know what I want," he gasps, dragging Malfoy in for a bruising kiss. "Give it to me."

"Fuck." Malfoy kisses Harry again. It's too much teeth, too much force, but Harry loves it. He loves the roughness, loves the scrape and bite, the tang of blood. Malfoy's hips pick up speed. His hand tightens. Harry's balls draw up as the pleasure of Malfoy's touch, his mouth, reaches a breaking point. A moment later, Harry's coming, his whole body a taut curve of clenched muscle as the orgasm rips through him. Malfoy curses again, and then he shakes and shudders, and Harry feels warmth on his stomach, the sensation nearly lost in the waves of pleasures racing through his body.

They come down slowly, both of them fighting to catch their breath. Harry's hand is sticky and a bit cramped from the fight and the too-tight grip he's had on his and Malfoy's cocks. For the first time since the whole thing started, he looks down at their pricks pressed together. Even softening and with pleasure still warming his body, the sight of Malfoy's cock against his sends a sharp lance of desire racing through him.

A moment later, Malfoy groans and pushes himself away, his hands falling from Harry's body with a gentle caress. He stands, leaving Harry spread out on the floor. Malfoy's hair is a disheveled mess, his trousers hanging open with his prick still hanging from the fly. Idly, he tucks himself away, looking around with a soft frown.

"Where the hell did you put my shirt?" he asks, glancing back at Harry before falling silent. A smirk crosses his face as he drags his eyes across Harry's body. "You're a mess, Potter."

"I'd forgotten how observant you are." Harry wandlessly Scourgifies himself, then starts putting his clothes back to rights. He waves in the general direction he thinks he tossed Malfoy's shirt. "It's over there somewhere."

"No, it isn— Ah, yes. You're right."

Harry lays still for a moment longer, then rolls to his side, then up to his feet. His body is loose and relaxed, muscles sore from the fight and being pressed to the floor by Malfoy's weight. Rolling his shoulders, he watches as Malfoy puts his shirt back on and tries to tame the mess of his hair. It makes him smile. Malfoy turns, tugging his cuffs to his wrists, and catches the lingering edge of it.

"See something you like, Potter?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

Harry's grin grows. "Nope. Not even a little."

Malfoy scowls, then reaches for his discarded suit jacket.

"Malfoy," Harry says, a warm fondness filling his chest when the man keeps his back to Harry. "Draco."

That startles him, and he spins around, eyes wide and irate. "What is it, Potter?"

"I'll see you next week?" Harry's heart is racing. He doesn't know what the question means, what it implies, but he knows he wants to see Malfoy again, wants to chase and pin down whatever this is between them. There's a name for it, one Harry doesn't know yet, one he wants to learn.

Malfoy swallows, straightens his shoulders. His lips are swollen and red, and there's a split in the corner of his mouth. When he smiles, it splits open again, blood beading there. "Next week, then."

Harry bounces on the balls of his feet, hands already curling into the familiar shape of fists, his body humming with anticipation. He wants to rush forward, to crush his mouth against Malfoy's or put his fist in the man's gut. He can't separate the urges, only knowing that he wants his skin on Malfoy's again. Instead, he settles himself, nodding as Malfoy finishes dressing and heads for the exit.

As he watches Draco disappear up the stairs without looking back, all Harry can think about is next week and what Malfoy will look like spread out on the ground beneath him, lips reddened by Harry's hands, in one way or another.