Roughhousing in the Gryffindor Locker Room

"I wish I had been there in 1892," said Ron, tying his boot laces. "You don't see the Chudley Cannons win the League everyday."
"Or any day," observed Harry wryly. He resumed buttoning his fly. "Still, today's brooms..."

The two boys, freshly showered, were redressing after a late afternoon bit of Seeker practise. At least for Harry it was practise. For Ron, it was as close as he would ever get to playing in a real Quidditch game. This thought made him more than a little cross.

"Next time we do more Plumpton Passes..."
Ron signaled for Harry to be quiet.

Walking stealthily over to an equipment closet, Ron stopped again and listened. Harry pulled on his shirt.

With a violent movement, Ron tore open the closet door. A figure in disheveled robes tumbled out.
"What have we here?" inquired Ron.

Draco Malfoy blushed and tried to raise his head high. He needn't give these two Muggle-lovers any explanation as to why he might have been watching them shower. It was his business, not theirs. Unfortunately for him, they disagreed.

"Fuckin' poof!" Ron grabbed Draco's hair and, twisting it, held him on the ground.

"Get off me, you bastard!" squealed Draco.

Harry walked over to them.
"Such language, Mr. Malfoy," he said in his best Snape voice. "That will be two points from Slytherin." The first kick hit Draco in the stomach. The second bruised his ribs.

Draco squirmed and tried to get up. Ron pulled his hair tighter.
"I don't think Mr. Malfoy has learned his lesson," he sneered.
"A few more points from Slytherin, then," decided Harry.

A kick to the groin stopped Draco's attempts at escape and his position quickly became defensive. More kicks - Draco couldn't be sure how many - punctuated the next few minutes. His groans and the impact of Harry's steel-capped boots were the only sound in the locker room. Draco was breathing heavily.

Ron tried to hold his quarry tighter and, while rearranging his grip, brushed a hardening bulge at the front of Draco's pants.
"He's fuckin' gantin' on it!" cried Ron in disgust.

Harry stopped kicking and tore open the front of Draco's pants. The Slytherin's excitement was evident.
"Fuckin' sicko."

Draco took the kick to his testicles with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He felt vaguely disappointed when Ron released him and finished dressing. Draco remained on the floor, exposed and huddled in a fetal position. He tried to say something, but Ron kicked him in the face.

The two Gryffindors left, discussing the difficulty of performing a Woollongong Shimmy in the rain.

Draco tasted the blood in his mouth and smiled. The soreness of his body lessened as he was filled with something like postcoital bliss.

When he awoke an hour later, Crabbe and Goyle were standing above him. He had told them to meet him for a bit of Gryffindor bating, not realizing that he would wind up having such a fine chance of watching Harry bathe.

The two looked down at Draco: his bruised and bloodied face, his torn pants, and his spent privates.
Filled with righteous indignation, Crabbe began to punch the homosexuality out of the now-abhorrent Malfoy. Goyle helped his friend by holding Draco's arms. When Crabbe tired, they switched places.

Had his swollen lips allowed it, Draco Malfoy would have smiled from ear to ear.