I'm not in Denial

Harry – Malfoy goes Mad

“Oh, if it isn’t Potty and the Weasel…”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut as the familiar cold, drawling voice reached his ears. He knew it was too good to last. He’d had the best Potions class ever, since there was peculiarly no Snape or Malfoy, and the excellent Quidditch practice convinced him that it would only be a matter of months before the Cup was Gryffindor’s again. Harry opened his eyes in slow trepidation, hoping he was just imagining the Slytherin’s voice.

Damn.

There Draco Malfoy was, right in front of them and in all his malevolent glory. His smirk was as maddening as always, yet his eyes had a different look about them. Instead of being derisive and mocking, he just looked completely pissed off. Malfoy’s silver eyes flicked over Ron and his sneer grew, if possible, even more infuriating.

“Nice outfit, Weasley. I didn’t know the mud look was back in, but I suppose you’ve got to be as creative as you can with your wardrobe. After all, you can barely afford a personality. Knit your own socks too, do you?” Harry could see the gleam in Malfoy’s eyes as Ron clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white and his face reddened even more.

“Just leave us alone, Malfoy,” Harry said simply, trying to steer his shaking friend in the other direction. He really wasn’t in the mood to be wound up by the Slytherin, and he knew he had to draw Ron away from the situation before he did something violent.

“I’d rather not, Potter,” Draco scoffed, practically spitting Harry’s name out. “It’s so much more fun here with you two; the Golden Couple of Hogwarts. What do you do, Weasley… Swallow it?”

“Eat Hippogriff dung, Malfoy,” He snarled through clenched teeth, clearly trying to hold his shaking, irate self from punching the Slytherin in the face. Harry could see it took all Ron’s self control not to attack the smirking blonde and he was silently praying that Malfoy would just walk off before he caused Ron to do something that would get his best friend into serious trouble.

“I’d rather not, Weasley,” he said with quiet warning as he stepped even closer, a sudden flash of pure anger ablaze in his normally emotionless and cold eyes. What was he doing? Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere in sight and Ron could easily fight and beat the shorter boy. “I don’t want to resort to what your family have to eat when the bills roll in.” Harry was ready to hold Ron back when he would (obviously) produce a flailing punch, but to his surprise… it didn’t happen. His best friend was still rooted to the spot, his ears burning redder then Harry had ever seen them but his blue eyes narrowed in utmost revulsion and strained composure as his freckles disappeared beneath his scarlet complexion. He was afraid that steam would be coming out of Ron’s ears any minute.

“Yeah, well at least my family like me,” the redhead hissed in a voice Harry hardly recognised. He’d never seen Ron like this. Ron continued in a dangerous whisper, almost smirking. “At least my father doesn’t want me dead. But hey, does anyone actually want to you alive, Malfoy? Why don’t you do us all a favour and jump off the Astronomy Tower…?” Harry had automatically known that Ron had gone too far. Before either of them knew it, Draco had pounced on the redhead, making Ron fall smack on his back and was straddling him. Then the Slytherin started hitting the stunned Gryffindor with such brute force that Ron had to shield his face with his arms, obviously in shock from the abruptness of the attack and Draco’s sudden superhuman strength. Harry, who primarily was too taken aback to move, tried to pull Draco off of his friend by grabbing two fistfuls of his robes, but the uncontrollable Slytherin wasn’t affected and dealt with this nuisance by slamming his already perfectly-placed elbow into Harry’s stomach sharply, causing him to keel over with the sudden blow. Harry felt the wind knocked out of him and gasped for breath as his glasses fell awry and he lost his footing. He could taste the salty taste of blood in his mouth as his jaw collided with the stone floor and heard his glasses smash, but he tried to ignore it. He needed to get back on his feet. He needed to rescue Ron…

Reaching out in blind desperation for anything to help him, Harry’s fingers suddenly wrapped around a rough type object. Just by the feel of the item, he could discern that it was the handle of his Firebolt. Dragging it towards him, he got to his knees; his head spinning and his eyes completely out of focus. He could barely distinguish a silver blur leaning over the indistinct limp body of his friend, and with all the strength left in him, Harry got to his unstable feet, lifted the Firebolt up passed his head and swung it vehemently across the back of the Slytherin’s head. Draco toppled over and fell across Ron’s chest, out completely cold.

Sorely moving to Ron’s side, Harry pushed Draco weakly off his friend, then took a sharp intake of breath. Even without his glasses, he could see the haze of blood all over Ron’s face and the redhead didn’t appear to be getting up.

“Harry! I’ve been looking for you two everywhere…” Hermione’s sudden appearance was never more welcome. He could hear her breath catch in her throat as she looked upon the scene and heard her footsteps ground to a halt as she whimpered faintly. “Oh, God. Ron…”

“Hermione, get Dumbledore…” Harry managed to say in shaky gasps as he rolled up his robes with pained arms and placed them under Ron’s bleeding head. Hermione watched, paling as she shook her head in terrified disbelief; she was rooted to the spot. “Hermione! Go!”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Hermione dropped the books and school supplies in her hands with a loud thump and ran at full speed down the hallway, wiping the pricking tears from her eyes in the process with the back of her hand and leaving a traumatised Harry shaken and by his broken and still friend. He should have brought his wand. Even if it was Quidditch practice, he should have had it in an inside pocket in his robes. How could he have been so stupid to wander around the school with bastards like Malfoy around to…

He turned to look at the blonde, who was now lying on his back beside Ron but still had a leg over his friend. Harry pushed it fiercely away in loathing as he stared at the Slytherin in nothing but pure hatred. The bottom half of Malfoy’s face, including the tip of his nose, was dripping in vivid red blood against his ghostly white skin and Harry was glad that Ron had at least got a few hits in himself… but this was short-lived when he thought about what Malfoy had done to the redhead in return. Harry, who had seen so much death and gore in his fifteen years, had never witnessed so much blood in his life.

But as much as he hated Malfoy, this wasn’t his style.

He never fought with his fists and was usually cold and, though Harry hated to admit it, used his intelligence and dry wit to assist him in confrontations. Then why had he threatened them with such raw anger and violence? Was it something to do with the Howler he’d received this morning? Harry snorted when he thought about the sympathy he’d felt for Malfoy at breakfast. In his opinion, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.

He suddenly heard a rush of footsteps behind him and turned around desperately on his knees to face the four fast approaching blurs. He immediately felt a concerned hand on his shoulder as two of the figures swarmed around the two unconscious boys.

“Harry, are you alright?” the tallest blur, which was holding his shoulder, asked. Harry nodded mutely and numbly at Dumbledore’s words as he heard Hermione’s voice tremble something then felt her shakily drop down to her knees beside him and hand him an object. She’d repaired his glasses. Taking them in quivering gratitude, Harry slipped them on and felt his world focus around him.

He wished it didn’t.

It looked so much worse then he had expected. Ron was lying in a pool of his own blood, making his usually vibrant hair look faded and worn out, especially atop his pale, lifeless and bloodied face. Harry felt Hermione’s shaking hand slip into his and he took it immediately. The two friends stared at each other in desperate fear then back to Ron as Madam Pomfrey and Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, who appeared to be just as pale and frightened as them, levitated Ron and Malfoy into stretchers and preformed clean-up spells on the blood-covered hallway.

That was when Harry noticed it.

Of course, without his glasses he could barely make out a rat from a teacup but with them he could see the smallest detail. And with them he could see the prominent and red oval mark on Ron’s neck.

“Harry?” He broke out of his reverie and turned around to see a pale and still trembling Hermione look at him warily. He didn’t even realise that the stretchers were floating already halfway down the hallway. Smiling at her weakly to assure her he was alright, he slipped his arm comfortingly around his friend’s shoulders as they followed shakily behind the teachers to the Infirmary.

Draco – A Vicious Act of Lust

All he saw was red.

That cruel little crack about his father… Weasley’s bloody composure… making him feel as fucking suicidal as he felt… It all suddenly evoked within his mind and made his body tremble.

He was fucking enraged.

Desire and hatred spiralled together frenziedly until there was only him. Those furious eyes, hellish hair, snarling mouth and the uncharacteristic spite. The magnificence of his wrathful furore was radiating out of him like a glowing beacon and inadvertently entrapping Draco. The Slytherin needed to touch him. He needed to throw his icy self into his scorching power. He just needed him in anyway…

And then he caught himself.

He realised what Weasley had done to him. He had made him feel. He still made Draco want him.

He made him want to pin him down and have his wicked way with him; both sexual and brutal. There was no denying it now. He never wanted anything so much then the fiery Gryffindor at that moment…

Draco’s hands clenched at his sides.

He wanted to kill him.

He had never felt such base anger pumping like pure passion through his veins, ready to burst any moment from the pressure. He also never felt such undiluted hate for the bastard for throwing him in such turmoil and poisoning his mind.

That was when he pounced.

The look of terror on Weasley’s face was practically orgasmic. Did he know how well fear suited his features? Draco could feel the Gryffindor wriggling frantically beneath him in not anger, but desperation. He didn’t even have the time to gift Weasley with a patented Malfoy smirk.

Even when Draco wanted to beat the bastard for making him feel like this, the redhead still turned him on. Did he even know what he was doing to him?

The Slytherin punched him across the face and could have sworn he heard his jawbone crunch beneath his knuckles.

Here he was. Lying limp, frail and pinned down between the blonde’s legs, a place Draco had always imagined him to be; groaning in husky pain and squeezing his dazzling eyes shut in agony. All Draco really needed to do was lean over to kiss him on that exquisite mouth…

He punched him with the other fist across the nose. He definitely heard that break. Red liquid spurted out with the mighty impact over his freckled face and made Weasley cough, choking down on his own blood, gasping for air and practically begging in surrender, though no words escaped.

Draco wasn’t letting him off so easy. Did the Weasel ever make things that straightforward for him? His hated lust bubbled within him even more.

He punched him again. Then again. And again. And again. Left. Right. Right. Left. A crunch here. A black eye there. Fists smothered in his liquid insides and his own pale face splattered with Weasley’s blood.

He suddenly felt a pair of hands grab his robes, but nothing could break his moment. He slammed the hindrance with his elbow, and it seemed to go away. He stopped for a moment, breathing heavily and charged with rage. Draco heard something thump to the ground behind him and heard a crash of glass. Hey, maybe he’d killed Potter, too.

Well, he could only dream.

He turned back to the object of his abhorrent affection and paused, examining him almost devotedly. Even covered in blood and with a broken nose, Weasley was still one of the most stunning things he’d ever seen. Why couldn’t he just get the little fucker to leave him alone?

And before he had even realised he had done it, the Slytherin had leaned over and swiftly slipped his tongue into the redhead’s limp mouth, exploring every crevice and relishing in the combination of sweetness and salty blood. He pressed his lips with bruising and hungry force over the Gryffindor’s and ravenously kissed, ran his tongue over and sunk his teeth viciously upon the soft, tempting flesh of his bottom lip. This taste was beyond anything he had ever imagined in all those nights he’d stayed awake and imagined the boy in his bed, kissing him wantonly.

He was in sweet ecstasy.

He ran his hands over the hard chest beneath him then even further down to his belt buckle, pulling at it furiously.

If truth be told, Draco had never in all his life dreamed of raping Weasley. When he would actually allow himself to fantasise about the redhead, Ron was always squirming with pleasure beneath him as he held him down, growling in frustration from being denied to touch the Slytherin back; always calling out Draco’s name in pure, rough enthusiasm.

However, Draco knew he wasn’t himself. That fucking redhead was driving him insane and he needed to possess him… not giving a shit who was watching. His infamous Slytherin control was deteriorating, but he was too far-gone to detest the Gryffindor for having this effect upon him.

Nuzzling his nose down from Weasley’s cheek to the curve of his soft neck, he fluttered hard kisses across his broken jawbone and viciously sucked at the cold, freckled white flesh of his throat. Cold?

He suddenly withdrew warily.

He had a moment of sudden clarity.

He had nearly just killed Weasley and was now kissing the unconscious boy like there was no tomorrow and in the wide-open hallway. And he’d done it in front of Potter. The bespectacled Boy Wonder would tell the whole school and Weasley would look down at him in disgust. He snarled.

Fucking Weasley.

He’d kill the poor Mudblood-lover before he told anyone what had happened. And then, before he knew it, something blunt thundered at the back of his head and he was out cold.

* * * * *

When he awoke all he saw was a blinding white, making the Slytherin wince with the sudden light. What the heck was this? Death? Or even heaven? Even disorientated, the boy could smirk. If he could be sent anywhere, heaven would be by far the last place on the list. Taking a while to gather his focus, he lazily blinked his pale grey eyes and found himself looking straight up at a lamp. Shit. He knew where he was.

“Oh, you’re awake. I was wondering when you would grace us with your presence, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco turned his head to find the source of the voice as he sat up groggily, using his weak elbows as leverage. Madam Pomfrey bustled over to him with an unmistakable air of authority and a harsh look in her eye. Without another word, she placed the back of her hand on the pale boy’s forehead for a temperature reading, which he took no time at all in shrugging off viciously.

“Why the heck am I here?” he snarled. She looked down at him with a confused scowl. He almost enjoyed the way she could never quite disguise her dislike for him.

“You don’t remember?”

He didn’t have time for guessing games. He needed to go and visit Hades to make sure she hadn’t started another fight in the Owlery again. And why was he lying here anyway? There was nothing wrong with him. Lifting his hand to hastily pull back his sheets, the Slytherin instantly bit upon his lip to stifle a yelp. Both his hands, which he now noticed were thoroughly bandaged, were throbbing with the most excruciating pain and the very slightest of movements caused tears to spring automatically to his eyes.

“Broken knuckles in both your hands, Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey informed with a wry smile as she brought over his breakfast tray. Jesus. How the hell had he done that? She practically slammed the tray in front of him and then turned to attend to the other beds when Draco noticed her distinct sudden halt. Looking up, he saw that she was looking at the Infirmary entrance.

Dumbledore was standing in the doorway and was looking so dangerous that Draco sniggered inwardly at the unlucky bugger he would be unleashed upon. The old man’s flashing eyes scanned across the room carefully, looking around with hawk-like precision and finally fell on… him.

Shit.

If Draco had thought that Dumbledore had an unwelcome look on his face the day Draco had crash-landed on his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One, that was nothing to the intense and piercing expression he was currently fixing on the Slytherin. He could put a Basilisk to shame. Draco wanted to look away, but Dumbledore’s stare forbade it and instead his eyes lingered to where Dumbledore’s eventually rested. On the next bed.

Draco turned his pounding head blearily to peer at the bed to his right.

His redhead was lying unconscious on the sterile white sheets, looking not only deathly pale but utterly awful. Both of his eyes were black and swollen, his freckled cheeks were adorned with blazing red cuts and scratches, a giant bruise resembling the colour of a sunset rested upon the bottom of his presently weak right jaw, his lips had split in several places causing the need for Madam Pomfrey to perform magical stitching and the broken and blue bridge of his nose was currently being supported by a strip of powerful white surgical tape. He didn’t seem to be breathing. He looked so… lifeless. It just wasn’t right for someone as vibrant and striking as him to look so washed out.

Then it suddenly flooded back to him like some queasy nightmare. He had done this. Draco had beaten Weasley to an inch of his life. And he’d ruined that fucking beautiful, expressive face.

An unfamiliar feeling within his stomach bubbled as he examined the broken body beside him.

Guilt.

He tried to shrug it away.

That’s why his fists were bandaged. He’d broken his knuckles in his mission to attack Weasley. He felt vaguely nauseous remembering it all. Was it any wonder the boy looked so awful? With impact that amount, he was surprised he hadn’t killed him. Shit. He hadn’t killed Weasley. The fucking Gryffindor was going to continue to torment him.

After almost hours of silence and Draco recalling the brutal events in his head, the old man finally spoke.

“Do you know what I find peculiar, Mr Malfoy?” The blonde Slytherin hated it when Dumbledore got all conversational. Why couldn’t he just say, “You’re an evil little prick who doesn’t deserve to live” and spend less time just telling Draco he was suspended? Draco didn’t answer; hoping that maybe staring at Dumbledore coldly would make him go away… Apparently, it wouldn’t. “I have been sitting here deliberating with great interest on how you succeeded in getting Mr Weasley’s blood smeared in excess upon your mouth.” His eyes were twinkling with slight amusement as Draco paled even more. “Tendency to drink blood, Mr Malfoy? Perhaps your vampire-like disposition will also explain the bruise upon Mr Weasley’s neck…?”

Shit. He knew. He bloody knew. Draco wondered if he clapped his hands long enough if a horde of fairies would come and take him away. He broke into a cold sweat as he licked at his swollen and bruised lips nervously. He needed to be composed and not to pass out. He tried to look Dumbledore defiantly in the eye.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re…”

It didn’t last long though. His words trailed away with the sudden appearance of a figure stepping out from behind the tall headmaster. Potter.