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Harry was doing good, really, at pacing himself.
He’s made a habit of hobbies since the war: walking rounds over the castle, keeping an eye on anything that needs reinforcement or a missed repair, attempting to study for his NEWTS, spending time in the shared 8th year common room, greeting the elves in the kitchens while asking for a cup of tea as his nightcap. It had helped, molding the mundane back to familiarity, making his everyday since everything ended a crutch to lean on.
He was trying to occupy himself with the simplicity of a life he was never acquainted with since childhood to the point of not having the chance to think about him. Much. He just saw the folded end of the map buried underneath stacks of abandoned books one evening. He unwittingly pulled it free, swiping an arm over a cluttered desk, and spreading the map out smooth in front of him.
It had been a habit, too, when his eyes immediately spotted the glowing golden dot labeled with a too familiar name. It had been a blood-etched habit—one that was spent with years following a blonde head of hair across the Great Hall and the mindless observation of ticks in classrooms—by the time it had escaped his notice, the nightly routine of opening the map underneath the covers or underneath the sluggish glow of a candle in the dark, to watch the name make its way up to the sixth floor, turning the corner to the boy’s bathroom for each evening without fail.
God. Harry was doing so, so good.
And now he’s here.
Underneath his cloak, standing in plain sight in the middle of an all-too familiar bathroom, watching as Draco Malfoy writhed under his hand’s ministrations, where Harry had once cut him open and left him bleeding.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck Malfoy.
Fuck him.
He wishes he could fuck him.
Harry tries his damnedest to keep quiet, to keep his feet stationary, to stop his hands from twitching at his sides as his breath hitches, and the rise and fall of his chest paced itself. He keeps still, mimicking his play at death in the forest even when no eyes are on him, no one asking him if dear, saccharine sweet Draco Malfoy still lived.
Except he wasn’t in the forest anymore and this wasn’t a fucking battlefield. It was just him and Malfoy—beautiful, vulnerable, moaning, whining Malfoy—in this bathroom like they had been years ago. Sure, yes, Malfoy had one hand traveling the pale expanse of his chest, nails dragging down harshly along the scars as the other wrapped itself tightly over his shaft with the thumb brushing over the pink, wet head of his cock with each pass. His Slytherin green tie was haphazardly thrown over his thighs, his balls peeking from out of his unzipped trousers, and there’s drool escaping the seam of his lips, but it’s fine because Harry will be normal about this, as he usually is with everything Draco Lucius Malfoy.
It’s not as if he’s imagined this exact moment during stressful nights hunting down horcruxes or when he’s so overwhelmed with boredom in the lonesome of his dormitory he starts imagining blonde hair and gray eyes with a pale chest and a fragile neck decorated with silver scars made by his own design.
Harry holds his breath, keeping still, as his eyes follow each movement of Malfoy’s shaking body with trepidation, committing each writhe of Malfoy’s limbs to mind. The tremor of his legs and the tense stiffness of his hips, the inundated shift of his arm pumping his hand up and down his cock, quick and breathless little gasps punched out of his lungs.
Harry wants to see Malfoy thrashing under him, going quiet and still when he's taken all he can give. Harry wants to feel Malfoy’s sharp nails grasping and clawing and cutting, blood smearing against his palms, scattering across the length of his skin like stardust.
Eye for an eye.
Harry wants to feel the rough gashes of the hastily healed wounds mapped on Malfoy’s chest scratching against his own, wants the wounds to open back up and for Malfoy to stain Harry’s skin.
Harry wants it. Harry wants it all.
He feels his body react, before fully hearing it. Turning the letters in his head and processing what it means to have them together, what it means for Malfoy, what it means for Malfoy to say it at this moment, what it means for them.
Harry’s cock twitches in his trousers before he understands that Malfoy had just whined out a sweet Potter high in his throat.
Harry’s legs stride over to Malfoy before he even realizes, his arms moving to rid himself of the cloak, and hearing the distant thump of the cloth meeting the ground in a harsh drop of weight, and hears the tight swing of a blade before he could even reach out and touch.
“Fuck!” Harry swiftly shifts his weight from reaching down to Malfoy’s prone body to landing on his ass on the hard, tiled floor, moving away when Malfoy swings the blade again with wet, sticky hands. “Malfoy, what the fuck!”
Harry makes a move to grab at his wand from his back pocket, before he realizes there’s no magic brandishing the air and the near sharpness he felt came from a real, tangible item clutched between fingers.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here, Potter.” Malfoy hisses out, pointing the sharp end of his blade towards Harry, the polished silver glinting under the low gleam of light, but Harry’s eyes are taken with the slick covering Malfoy’s fingers as it tightly wraps itself around the hilt. He wonders if his grip is slipping.
“What the fuck are you doing with a knife, Malfoy?”
A distant voice calls out from deep in Harry’s mind. Something’s wrong. He looks at Malfoy’s shaking hands harder, studies the unfamiliarity of his grasp against the weapon, and figures, Where’s your wand?
He scoffs. “No different than a wand, just another tool with a single-minded purpose for concentrated violence.” You, of all people, would know what I mean, goes unsaid. Harry hears it resoundingly from where they stand. Malfoy tucks his knees up to his chest, no doubt a measly effort to cover himself up, bringing a hand down between his legs to tuck himself back in. “Now, what the fuck were you doing leering at me in the fucking dark, you uncivilised debased asswipe.”
Harry raises an eyebrow and lets his eyes wander down what more he can see of Malfoy: his sweaty hair sticking to his temples and curling at the ends, the unbuttoned front of his shirt and the pinking skin of his chest, trails from his neck down to his ribs in the shape of his fingernails and Harry’s magic.
Harry stares at the scar tissue rise and fall with each errant breath Malfoy takes, admires the deformation on the otherwise pristine Pureblood opus of Malfoy’s body, and feels a sick sense of pride clutching at his chest.
The kind of pride that got angels cast out of heaven after bearing their teeth at their divine.
Harry swallows the feeling down.
“You mean, leering,” Harry enunciates with a raised eyebrow and a taunt curling on the corners of his mouth. “at you while you were fucking up your fist with my name falling from your lips?”
A grim line overcomes Malfoy’s mouth, staying silent for a few beats, still keeping Harry at knifepoint then, “You have no right, Potter.”
Harry scoffs. “This isn’t just your bathroom to use, Malfoy.” It’s mine just as much as it is yours.
“It’s the dead of the night and you expect me to believe you simply walked all the way from Gryffindor Tower to use the bathroom here? I know you’re quite daft, Potter, but don’t drag all of us down with you.”
Malfoy moves to swipe the blade on whatever he could reach of Harry before Harry moves to kick at Malfoy’s wrist hard, watching as he drops the knife and clutches at his bruising wrist. He doesn’t look over to see Harry grab for the knife, nor does he fight when he gets maneuvered on his back, Harry settling his weight on the tops of Malfoy's thighs.
“Why do you have this, Malfoy?” Harry keeps a hand to balance himself on the side of Malfoy’s head, the other gripping the hilt of the blade tightly as he rests it flat against the skin of Malfoy’s collarbone.
He waits out Malfoy, eyes half-lidded, breathing erratically, and keeping his hands to himself before he moves to dig the razor-edge point of the blade hard enough to break through skin.
A hot line of red pools from the point of contact and drips down to Malfoy’s nape. Harry feels the slight quiver to the thighs underneath him, watches the way Malfoy blinks slowly, as if suspended in time, and Harry raises the red-tinged blade from his collarbone.
“Fuck,” Malfoy slurs out, eyes glazing over, and dizzy as a drunk. “A condition to come back to Hogwarts was to be under probation.” He swallows harshly, keeping his eyes on Harry’s hand. “My wand was to be confiscated outside of class hours and I, I needed something on me to defend myself against wizards, Potter, not like a measly muggle weapon could bring them any real harm like they’ve done unto me.”
Malfoy spoke in a rush, still eloquent but the words kept tangling on the tip of his tongue as his eyes darted over from between Harry's eyes and his hand. Harry’s been making the effort to seem bored, but he knows Malfoy can see the curious fascination from underneath the green, the desire to act on Malfoy’s vulnerability. Naked and laid out, an object before a real person. It was cutting through the air sharp and severe and Harry couldn’t bring himself to hate where he was, what he was doing, who he’s with.
Not enough to make him admit he likes it, though.
Harry drags the tip of the knife down the small bead of blood on his collarbone down to the cage of his ribs, protruding against soft, pale skin, otherwise unmarred except for the remnants of Harry, remnants from one night over in the same bathroom.
“This feels kinda familiar, doesn’t it?” Harry hums out, acting indifferent. He tries to empty out the emotion in his eyes as he slides the knife lightly along the length of Malfoy’s body, listening carefully at the quickening of Malfoy’s breath and the hummingbird pace of the beat of his heart. “How do you French refer to it?”
Malfoy stutters on a gasp when Harry traces the scarring with the knife. “Déjà vu.”
Harry swallows around the revolting desire in his throat at Malfoy’s whisper and squeezes around the hilt tighter. Harry wonders if he’d like it this time around if he carved a space for himself into Malfoy again, if he'd like it better when he knows what he's doing.
“I truly wonder,” Harry starts, forcing his hand to stay above the skin, tamping down on his child-like desire to dig and see capillaries bloom from underneath his fingertips. “had you meant to come here of all places to fuck your hand?”
“Change of scenery.”
“Not much of a change if you’ve been coming here every night for the past few weeks.”
Malfoy makes a weird sound at the back of his throat. “Pray tell, how would you know this?”
Harry ignores the question and turns the knife upright, as if he would stab clean through the center of Malfoy’s chest. “Do you like being reminded of what happened here, Malfoy?” He tries not to breathe too harshly, to keep his hands steady.
Malfoy hisses, low and derisive. “Answer me first, Potter.”
“You’re not the one with the knife in your hand, Malfoy.”
He draws the blade down, to the concave of Malfoy’s stomach, stopping at the button of his trousers before pointedly staring at the strain of his hard cock from underneath the zipper. Harry raises a pointed eyebrow.
“Adrenaline,” Malfoy simpers out. “Don’t act big with me, Potter, you’re not faring any better.”
Harry scowls, looking in between his legs. He could feel how his cock filled out, fat and straining against the metal lining of his zipper. He’s somewhere between delighted and disturbed at his reaction.
“I think I am,” Harry takes his weight off his other arm and brings the hand down to the thin, pearlescent neck, staring at the sluggish flow of blood from the collarbone. He swipes a thumb at the trail, smears it at the hollow of Malfoy’s throat, and settles his fingers around the circumference of it. “I mean, I think I quite like seeing you like this.”
Malfoy lets out something delirious, straining harshly against his throat as Harry pushes him back harder into the hard ceramic floors of the bathroom, watching as the veins in his neck bulge out underneath the pressure. “You’re perverted, Potter. A lecherous degenerate. What would they say about the Saviour following boys into bathrooms in the dead of night?”
“Don’t care,” Harry scoffs, flexing his hand around the slender width of Malfoy’s neck, testing slight pressure against the veins flanking the sides, and feels manic glee when the cut between Malfoy’s eyebrows grows deeper. “Besides, you’re worse. What were you doing here, huh, Malfoy? What have you been doing these past few nights,” Harry shifts his hips, knocking his thigh against Malfoy’s fattening cock. “Hard up on memories of making you bleed, of me. What would daddy dearest say?”
“Probably that he was right all along about you.” Malfoy smiles wildly as Harry raises an eyebrow, the bones of his fingers pushing insistently against his neck. “You’re just some wretched, hormone-driven idiot this pathetic excuse of a Wizarding World society put all their hopes and dreams unto—” Harry tightens his hold around Malfoy’s neck until he feels Malfoy’s hands come up to hold onto his wrist—just holding, clamping his mouth shut to bite down on the wheeze forced out of his throat.
“Did he say all of that before or after knowing you pull at your cock to the thought of me?”
“Always so fucking crass, Potter.” Malfoy huffs, letting his hands drop back to his sides. “You’d think with all your talk of cock, you’d know what to do with yours by now.”
Harry lets go of his neck, tacky, half-dried blood brushing against his pale skin.
“What’s your angle, Malfoy? Do you want me to fuck you?” Harry asks, voice an incredulous whisper against ceramic, and Malfoy just looks at him like he’s stupid, like Harry’s the stupid one to think Malfoy would answer no.
“I suppose there’s a reason why Granger’s touted as the brilliant one and not you.” At Harry’s very much still baffled expression, Malfoy almost laughs. “You’re very dim, Potter.”
Harry laughs, the sound hollow to Malfoy’s ears, his back digging into the hard ceramic floors of the bathroom as he watches Harry idly twirl the knife between lithe, magic-worn fingertips. “You’re disgusting, Draco.” His voice sounding out in a whisper, half-awe, half-ridicule, like he’s surprised to find out Malfoy’s as fucked up as he is, like if he speaks loud enough the illusion disappears and Malfoy’s back to sweet, perfect Pureblood. “I could kill you right now, cut you open and leave you bleeding for me to witness. I’m hurting you and you’re getting off on it. You’re fucking disgusting.”
“Yeah,” Malfoy answers easily, breath hitching at the tip of the knife trailing against the curve of his cheek. “But you’re obsessed with me. What does that make you?”
Loathing hit Harry in a hard rush as he rolls the words around in his head, as he stares at smug, sweet, Malfoy with smiling bloody, swollen lips, spread out underneath him, and he couldn’t look away.
“Fuck you,” Harry murmurs, breathlessly, as he works on the fly of his trousers one-handed, other hand settling the knife at the hollow of Malfoy’s throat.
“Yes, yes, you hate me, we’ve established that. You might’ve worked that out of your system ages ago if you just hadn’t been so idiotic.”
Harry grunts for an answer, ignoring the self-satisfied smirk splitting Malfoy’s lips open. Harry gives himself a few tugs, fingers slick with Malfoy’s blood, pre pooling at the head, sweetening the slight friction around his cock. He squeezes at the base tightly before letting go, his cock curving upwards his stomach. It doesn’t escape Harry’s notice how the glazed over look comes back to Malfoy’s blown out eyes.
Harry makes a show of fluttering the blade across Malfoy’s collarbones, down to his chest, the tip of the knife beckoned by the blushing capillaries, a full body flush taking over the pale expanse of Malfoy’s body, Harry going light-headed with desire to see Malfoy struggling beneath him.
Something wet and craving pours into Harry’s throat when Malfoy shifts more restlessly from under his arm, a broken gasp of Potter, and labored breaths leaving red-stained lips. Something deep and obtrusive tries to crawl out of Harry, something he’s concealed for as long as he knew how to hide and make the undesirable parts of himself small.
It comes easy to Harry, getting angry. It was a mindless, red-blooded emotion he tapped into like a mirror reflection and he couldn’t help but want to make people hurt. It was no help that Malfoy made it so much easier to get angry—a pretty, willing target Harry couldn’t help but want to break in.
Harry doesn’t mind the urge half the time, doesn't think too hard about it. It was how he learned to love, after all. Sometimes he’s not sure what it means. Harry isn't too sure on what to do about love but he thinks he’s cut Malfoy open before. He thinks love might not be much too different from wanting to see what his insides look like.
“You missed me here, Malfoy? Missed it when you felt me inside?” Harry drags the tip of the knife over the pink, puckered skin, going over the harsh bumps and raises of rushed healing and volatile magic. Harry smiles as he watches red rivulets bead up at the trail.
Malfoy lets out a strangled breath, a warbled Potter leaving his lips as Harry pushes the tip deeper into his skin, fully reopening healed scars into gaping wounds. “Don’t bleed too much,” Harry warns. “You’ll waste it. It’s all the lube you’re getting.”
He thinks he hears Malfoy laugh ruefully and Harry almost laughs with him as the hard frame of his wand insistently presses against his back, a reminder of magic at Harry’s fingertips if he so wishes to purify Malfoy and rend him anew.
Harry ignores the thought, watches red honey-like lines drip from the curves of Malfoy’s body, and clicks his tongue. “Messy.”
“I can be messier, Potter.” He’s sure Malfoy meant it as a threat against his person, if the nasty curl on his lips was any indication to go by, but Harry can’t help the molten heat cloying in his stomach, anyway.
“No thanks,” Harry bites out. “You’d like that, though, wouldn’t you, Malfoy? Always want me to clean up after you, always want me after you.”
Harry hears his breath hitch. “And if I do? What will you do, then?”
“Say it and find out.”
Malfoy smirks up at him, like he knows how Harry desperately wants a reason to act on his words, to have Malfoy to blame for it. “I’d sooner rather die, Potter.”
Harry flashes him a faint smile before he moves to slash at Malfoy’s trousers, the knife making huge gashes down Malfoy’s clothing, before Harry forcefully tears down the remaining parts with his hand, lifting one of his legs and drops it on his shoulder. He frees Malfoy’s bottom and thighs from the scraps and Harry regards him for a moment, lets his hands wander down the spread of Malfoy’s thighs, tracing patterns with the tip of the knife in the crease of where his thigh meets his ass, before, “Everything about you really is pretty, huh, Malfoy.”
A thumb brushes over the tight furl of Malfoy’s hole, feeling how it twitches in anticipation. Harry lifts one of his hands and presses it against the open slashes decorating Malfoy’s chest, reveling in the hiss of pain he makes from behind clenched teeth as he slathers his palm with the sticky, sweet of Malfoy’s blood.
Harry drops the bloodied hand to between Malfoy’s legs, pressing two slick fingers at his hole and slides it in without preamble. Malfoy groans, the sound coming out watery and uneven, hips jerking and scratching himself down the sharp end of the blade and he lets out a sound that’s almost a scream.
The knife skates down around Malfoy’s balls, dragging the blunt side down the skin, before bringing it up to the softness of his stomach. “Eager, aren’t you?” Harry pants out, fucking his fingers past the tight ring of muscle with as much ease as he can with the scarce blood. “Have you where I want you and now you can’t help but throw yourself at me."
“Hm,” is as much as Malfoy can manage between the sudden stretch of his ass around Harry’s fingers and the shallow cuts he’s made on his body, coming and going as Harry pleases him to, and Malfoy looks idol-like, suspended in blood and slick at the shrine of Harry’s pleasure.
As if he were hypnotized, Harry wedges in another finger alongside the two already filling Malfoy up. He can tell it hurts, that it was too early, but Malfoy relaxes further into his touch and he realizes Malfoy needs this just as much as he does. Harry strokes his fingers inside and brushes against the spongey, softness of prostate and Malfoy nearly spasms violently. Harry keeps the flat of the knife against him.
He’s leaking precum all over himself and Harry shivers when his hips thrust against Malfoy’s thigh, the thick heat of his cock rubbing up against the slick softness of the underside of his skin and Harry whines, the sound embarrassingly needy and desperate against his throat as he slips his fingers out of Malfoy.
The broken skin along the crease of Malfoy’s thigh sluggishly oozes out blood and Harry slips his cockhead against the skin to wrap his shaft around the blood, rubbing the fat, flared out head of his cock over Malfoy’s tight hole, pushing in slowly with a groan.
“Fuck,” Harry can’t tell if he or Malfoy says it, but he clenches his teeth and closes his eyes at the too warm, too tight feeling surrounding his cock, his free hand moving to squeeze tightly around the base. “Fuck, Malfoy.”
“Fuck me proper, Potter,” Malfoy grunts out, keeping his hips still and breaths shallow, head tilted up and baring his neck up to Harry. He feels the minute shake of Malfoy’s legs against his shoulder, even as he says, “Don’t make me tell The Prophet you’re a remarkably boring fuck for the Saviour.”
Harry drops the knife to the floor beside Malfoy with a loud clang against the ceramic and covers Malfoy’s mouth with a large, blood-drenched hand. He bites down on a groan when he feels the wetness of Malfoy’s tongue licking at the creases of his palm, pressing down harder when he feels teeth against skin.
His hips jerk and he starts fucking his cock in earnest, sliding in so deep, Harry deludes himself into thinking he’s carved the shape of his cock into Malfoy’s stomach. With a single-minded focus to come, Harry ruts harshly against Malfoy, letting his mouth run as he listens to the high-pitched moans he forced out of Malfoy’s throat.
“I’m filling you up, Malfoy. Another part of you I’ve cut myself into and you fucking want it,” He feels Malfoy groan against his hand, before soft kisses trail over his palm and Harry can’t take it. He rips his hand off of Malfoy’s mouth and busies himself with lifting his other thigh and settling it down his shoulder, rolling his hips and dragging his cock out to the tip before fucking back in.
Harry chokes on a laugh, a distant sound to even himself as he pushes inside slow and hot and sweet inside Malfoy, forearms straining against the force to push Malfoy’s thighs against his chest, to keep him pressed down against the tiles. “I don’t even have to fuck you to make you mine. I’ve opened you up, you spilled your blood for me,” Harry lowers his head, settling his mouth behind Malfoy’s ear, leaving a tender peck, before biting into his neck—a kiss as searing as a brand, binding as a collar. “You’re a sick little whore, you Purebloods’ Madonna, and you’re mine.”
Malfoy’s sex-roughened huffs melt into a high-pitched, delirious laugh, tinkling against the walls. “You’re stupider than I thought you were if you had just realized, Potter.”
Harry lets out a sound between a sob and a moan, sheathing himself in deep, forceful thrusts as Malfoy snakes a hand to hold Harry by his nape. “You want to break me, Potter,” Malfoy groans out, hips rutting hard against Harry, hard enough to ache. “You want to be the one to break me open and put me back together.”
Harry’s eyes are blown out, green melting into bright, hot gold and pooling as he nods near-frantic, whispering yeah, yeah, I do, I want it, I wanna break you, make you mine.
“You’re gonna come?” Malfoy asks and all Harry can do is nod, biting at the inside of Malfoy’s thigh and licking it better. He feels a hand fists at his hair, forcing him to look at the sweet smile on Malfoy’s lips. “Then come,” he whispers, gray eyes looking back at Harry. “Come for me, Harry.”
The first thing Harry feels is blinding pressure as he empties himself inside Malfoy, bone-deep and drawing impossibly tight in his stomach, and then bright, searing pain, right by his stomach.
Malfoy’s foot maneuvers from behind Harry’s head to kick him hard at his chest and Harry’s soft, pleasured, loose from orgasm body easily moves away from Malfoy’s prone figure, cock slipping out with cum and blood trailing behind, as Harry instinctively clutches below his rib.
It’s far too much and far too sticky for Harry to assume it’s sweat and his mind comes back to him when he sees the sharp glint of silver clutched in Malfoy’s hand, red dripping from the tip and winking at Harry menacingly under the gleam of moonlight.
He watches helplessly as Malfoy picks himself up. His shirt, messy and bloodied, falling by the tops of his thighs gets tugged down aimlessly with trembling hands before Malfoy runs to leave the bathroom with his knife, not glancing back once at Harry.
Harry would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation—how familiar it is, with their roles reversed—if the pain hadn't started hounding at his brain, black spots conjuring up in the corners of his vision. He blindly reaches for his wand, still tucked in his back pocket and makes a non-verbal half-assed healing spell at his wound. He watches in fascination, his skin knitting itself back together with the guidance of his magic, leaving behind a tender pink spot where Malfoy drove the blade in.
Harry observes the scar tissue and deliriously thinks Malfoy’s cut him open and fit himself inside Harry, too.
He’ll come back. Harry smiles.