Fighting Dirty

~~Fighting Dirty.

The pub was dingy, the lighting bad. Its age was dripping down its walls along with the butterbeer and the liquefied dirt. It was certainly atmospheric. An authentic British wizarding pub, serving the discontent wizard since Salazar himself had made a practice of bringing his underage lovers here, away from his uptight compatriots. Harry nursed his drink, his hair falling into his eyes, and he thought about how he should never have come back to Hogsmeade, and he never should've began this whole nonsense with magic, and he never should've gone along with anyone's idea of what he was or what he should be doing, because what he should've been doing was running away from home at age seven or some such. He probably would've ended up at approximately the same place in life. He sighed, trying to avoid self-pity and failing.

Someone was calling his name, he realized distantly. Probably someone else he would have to placate and insist he wasn't who he was to. Not that he didn't have long years of practice, he thought morosely.

"Potter!" The voice came again, clearer now. "Potter! Why, if it isn't Gryffindor's Golden Boy, in the flesh!" Malfoy sneered, with the same old delighted malice. Old, just like the bar-stool, just like Harry was himself. Celebrating his birthday incognito in a pub, over a drink he'd just as soon spit out as swallow. It was symbolic, somehow. Right. Well, it was right and symbolic right until Malfoy showed up, at which point all carefully built-up symbolism was completely ruined. In tatters, even.

Harry groaned. He -knew- this would happen. Well, not -quite- like this, but-- this more than qualified for "disaster", he thought, already planning how to get back at Ron, the traitor. Ron, who was, right this minute, happily reaping the fruits of his not-so-devious scheme to get Hermione to "come around." In this case, around the corner, into the nearest alleyway.

Harry shook his head. Who knew Hermione would ever go for it? He -knew- he shouldn't have bet with Fred and George on his best friends' love lives, but he was so -certain-. It was -Hermione-, for Merlin's sake. Plus, it was his birthday, and he liked winning bets on his birthday, since they were all too poor now to give each other normal sorts of gifts. This way, they could pool their resources without feelings of guilt or overt patheticness. That was the idea behind the stupid little tradition, anyway.

"Potter?" Harry made himself blink owlishly, affecting a look of complete innocence. He wasn't as good at it as he used to be, and this was Malfoy. Malfoy never trusted him, which was fine, because he never trusted Malfoy. It worked out, usually. He made himself giggle, weakly. It sounded like a cough, and he wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. Yeah, who would believe this was the Great Harry Potter, indeed. Malfoy would, probably. This must be his dream come true. "Me? Harry Potter? You must be joking."

Malfoy sat down across from him, propping his legs up on the adjoining chair and smirking. "Oh, I don't joke when it comes to you, Potter. Too good of an opportunity to waste, don't you think? Why joke, when you can destroy and pillage and-- well. Annoy, I suppose."

Malfoy grinned. Harry blinked. This was disconcerting. Perhaps he'd had too much to drink. Yes, that must be it. That would explain why Hermione suddenly wasn't gay anymore and why Malfoy had not only seen through his (admittedly rather thin) disguise, and was now grinning at him like nothing was the matter. Of course, perhaps to Malfoy, nothing was. Harry always hoped something was not right with the bastard's head, just so he wouldn't have to feel guilty bashing it in someday. It could always be viewed as an improvement.

"You don't annoy me, Malfoy. You do destroy my blissful solitude, but you can't be blamed for existing. Though if you don't get the hell away right this second, I may change my mind about that little fact." Harry was vaguely surprised at his vehemence. It must be the alcohol talking. Any moment, he'd start to see two of Malfoy, and then three, and then four. Any moment now.

Malfoy gaped at him for a few seconds, his mouth parted slightly, his eyebrows raised so high they disappeared beyond his disgustingly boyish fringe. He had a fringe, now. He looked more like a ferret than ever, Harry thought. And then Malfoy started laughing, pounding the table and upsetting Harry's alcohol, splashing it a little. Harry began to get -really- mad. This was simply inexcusable. Although perhaps dire wand action was excusable. It was a pity his wand would probably would start sprouting flowers if he Cursed anyone, right at the moment. Such was his luck.

"You're more amusing than you used to be, Harry. The years have been good to you," he said, still grinning. It was disconcerting, knowing that he didn't mean it, that he'd noticed that the years have been far from good to Harry. It was just plain -disturbing- that this bothered Harry. Of all people, of all the people that he wished would go to hell and stay there to breed, it was only Malfoy that he wouldn't want to notice the circles under his eyes and the limp straightness of his hair, with the dirty patches of grey and the thinning around his forehead. Oh well. Beggars can't be choosers, all that.

"Oh, bugger off. Don't you have anything better to be doing? Like torturing cockroaches or something? I'm sure they could hunt those up for you around here if you asked nicely." Harry's smile slipped a little, when he noticed Malfoy wasn't grinning anymore. He was just -looking- at him now, and it was rather disturbing. Harry thought about telling him to go fuck himself, but somehow, he knew it would come out limp and pathetic. Rather like he looked.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looked rather good, for an evil git with a dead Death Eater father and an insane mother and all his money down the drain. His eyes sparkled slightly, and his suit looked expensive, and was that... glitter in his hair? It looked like it, sparkling in the candlelight. He was still as vain as ever, apparently. Well, some things never changed, Harry supposed.

"Mmm," Malfoy hummed, looking distracted by something right above Harry's eyebrows. Oh yes. His missing scar. His one blessing. "Some things never change, do they, Potter? You act exactly like you always have, exactly like when your scar was there. You must miss it something terrible. That, or me." His eyes turned piercing, and Harry thought, in some small, usually ignored portion of his brain, that he'd never imagined Malfoy's eyes could look like that. Attentive and almost-- open. Not malicious or petty or gloating. He didn't think he liked this look at all. "Did you miss me, Potter? Did you think of me, while they tortured my father in Azkaban and while they pulled all those spells on me to make me talk, while Dumbledore did nothing, while you fought the good fight with a crystal-clear conscience? Did you?"

"I never think of you, Malfoy," Harry said easily. "And I'm glad. I don't think of the past at all. I am who I am, and my friends are who they are, and my enemies-- well, they are who they are, obviously. Doesn't mean I need to remember anything I don't want to. You don't know me, Malfoy-- never have, never will. And that's fine, because I don't know you either. And it's better that way, isn't it? We have nothing to say to one another. You know that too."

"Oh, that's good Potter, that's really good. You're more full of shit now than even I was, and that's some accomplishment. I must say I didn't think it'd go like this, when we met. I rather thought you'd pull a wand, and so would I, and we'd finally see what the other was made of, eh? Looks like you're too drunk for that though," he said considerately. "Perhaps next time." And he wasn't smiling, but he wasn't not, either. It was rather maddening, Harry thought calmly. He was rather maddened.

"That's right. I'm too drunk and I'm too tired and look, Hermione's fucking Ron up against a wall right now, so I really don't want to be having this conversation, all right? I don't want to look at your stupid smooth-skinned face, with your brilliant eyes and your fucking perfect mouth. I just don't need that right now, so why don't you just--"

Harry shut up. He wasn't -that- drunk, whatever he said. He kept his mouth closed and maybe if he kept his eyes closed this would all go away, the pub would just disappear like so much smoke and light, and he would wake up in his own messy bed by the narrow window overlooking nothing much at all. He could watch the artificial lights of Muggle London and think of Ron and Hermione without picturing them both naked, and everything would be as fine as it ever was, which was all he could hope for these days. All he wanted to hope for.

Still, nothing went his way anymore, and he knew that, so hoping was rather stupid.

"Well, well," Malfoy drawled, and Harry hated that drawl with the fiery burning passion he thought he'd forgotten along with everything else he'd left behind on his eighteenth birthday. "What do you know." He grinned again, and Harry's stomach sank, leaving him feeling nauseous and all too sober. "Perhaps this is more interesting than drawing wands and drinking to toast your-- what was it-- twenty-fourth birthday now. Did you know? They still have an article in the Prophet every year, proclaiming it's Harry Potter's birthday today, and any letters sent to congratulate the Boy Who Lived To Tell About It would be forwarded to his new, super-secret address. Although I never would've thought by 'super-secret' they meant, 'right outside of Hogwarts'. You don't get out much, do you Harry? No matter, we can fix that."

Harry felt a headache coming on. Holding his head in his hands, he still snorted with incredulity at Malfoy's never-ending gall. It would almost be amusing if he didn't want to kill him for it, if only because he couldn't really kill himself. That wasn't really something the savior of the wizarding world -did-, was it? No. Killing the sons of Death Eaters was okay though, if a little overly impulsive.

"Oh fuck you, Malfoy." Harry paused, running that through his aching head a few times. It sounded wrong, somehow, but he couldn't put a finger on it. Apparently he was still talking even as he thought this, because, "...but not literally, because that would be too much to inflict on either of us, at this point. At any point. Oh god, I think my headache just got worse." Harry could've cried, except that Malfoy was there, and he really -would- have had to kill himself then.

Draco looked at him, that calculating sparkle back in his clear grey eyes. Harry repressed a sigh. He was trapped and he knew it. "What if I told you I want you, Potter?"

Harry choked, spitting butterbeer everywhere, completely speechless now. He might have half-way expected it, but that didn't mean he was prepared. Malfoy's mouth twitched at the corners, his lower lip trembling slightly. Harry's eyes widened, barely able to believe he was unable to look away, he was being completely bloody -obvious- now. And yet. And yet, he couldn't seem to -stop- and it was really a -nightmare-, and the flaxen-haired wonder was grinning, his fringe gleaming golden in the candlelight, his teeth small and twinkly white.

"W-what?" he croaked, finally, wiping at his mouth with the back of one hand absent-mindedly.

The twitching became stronger, Malfoy's eyes closed briefly and a strange little laugh burst out of him. He seemed as surprised at this as Harry, but watching those huge green eyes stare blankly at him was just sending him into further fits of mirth. Harry was getting really, really, -really- annoyed now. Just because he had one little slip of the tongue-- okay, several times-- did -not- mean-- well, it really didn't mean anything, but it -certainly- didn't mean--

Malfoy had calmed down, and was back to watching him. Harry didn't much prefer this either, but he really didn't feel like opening his mouth to complain. Perhaps he could just -leave-, without saying anything. Ron and Hermione could get... wherever they decided they were going, by themselves, certainly. They were all mature adults. Theoretically.

"Kiss me, Potter." Malfoy was dead-pan. Harry went rigid, his mind frozen in a way any number of evil horrors haven't quite managed to make it. This was probably his worst nightmare. Except if maybe Malfoy was wearing leather pants (though he might have been, it -was- rather dark). Harry thought it best not to glance down and check, all things considered.

"What?" he squawked. His vocabulary was rather shameful, it was true. Grace under pressure didn't mean a large vocabulary under pressure, did it? Harry told himself it didn't. He was good at believing the things he told himself, these days.

"You heard me." Malfoy wasn't smiling, or smirking, or even moving, and more than anything, Harry just wanted to smack him upside the head and walk off.

"Yeah, I heard you, all right, to my sincere regret." A deep sigh escaped him, and he was back to feeling old and tired and dirty again. "Whatever it is, give it up, Malfoy. It's never going to work. I can see right through you."

Slowly, Malfoy smirked, looking insufferably smug again. "Oh, really, Potter. How utterly, beautifully, untrue. Although, at one time, I suppose you might have had something there. It was sweet, wasn't it? The way we circled each other, waiting for the right moment to strike. Although you probably thought I was the one circling and you were the one nobly defending your moral high ground, or something."

"Circling you?" Harry barked a short, painful little laugh. "I barely knew you existed when you weren't in my fucking -face-, Malfoy. I know, because as soon as I ceased seeing it every day, you disappeared from consciousness as swiftly as if you'd never been there. And I bet you thought of me all the time, eh? Nothing else to make your life worthwhile, was there? What with dear old dad good and dead, Harry Potter no longer pre-occupying anyone but yourself, and you-- without money or your loyal slobbering goons to follow you around. Or a clue. You must've been so blue. Poor, poor Malfoy. No one there to pity you but yourself at last. Must've been a shocker."

It felt good, saying that, knowing there were no consequences. Even if Malfoy -did- pull a wand, Harry wasn't drunk anymore, and Malfoy didn't stand a chance. His father certainly hadn't. Not even Voldemort had, in the end. No, none of them stood a chance against the Great Harry Potter.

And suddenly, there really -was- nothing else to say. Malfoy was just looking at him, his mouth slightly open, like he was seeing him for the first time, yet -again-, and for some reason he didn't enjoy watching that stupid stunned look as much as he may have imagined he might. The way that usually sneering mouth had turned vaguely slack and unguarded. The way those eyes were more opaque than usual, unblinking, focused on him so tightly. He didn't want to see any of it.

Harry got up, knocking the chair back, walking towards the door without a word. His mouth curled at the gust of cool evening wind that greeted his face when he stepped outside, almost something to smile about. He had gotten a few steps into the deepening July twilight, when the sudden, firm grip around his forearm halted him. He hissed, twisting around and glaring at his somewhat expected pursuer.

"I -hate- you," he growled, staring straight into the other's eyes for possibly the first time that evening, and not caring one whit. It didn't matter anymore, really. He could say anything, now. Do anything. Nothing more to break. He felt almost free, all of a sudden, and he hated that, too.

"Really? This is hate, you say?" And before Harry knew it, Malfoy was shoving him back against the wall, grabbing the traitorous bulge in his trousers. Kneading.

"Fuck-- you-- Malfoy," he snarled, but it was no use, anymore.

"Now? Oh, -kinky-. I should've known," Malfoy whispered, in what was nearly a hiss against his ear. Harry fought back a shudder. This was rapidly getting completely out of his control, and he told himself he hated it, and it wasn't working except to make him ever more dangerously angry with himself, with Malfoy, with the whole fucking messed-up world that had driven him to this. This-- empty, furious groping outside pubs while his two best friends did who-knows-what in some back alley, with the full knowledge of his happy consent. He wanted to growl and bite Malfoy's neck and just-- take him, right there. In full sight of everyone who wanted to look. Look and see Harry bleeding -Potter-, fucking like an animal in a filthy, noisy, run-down pub.

"Still," Malfoy panted, and his breaths were hot little puffs of air inflaming the skin of Harry's neck to the point of madness. "We're in public, after all. Living dangerously has always been more your style than mine." Harry could feel that hated smirk, heating up his flesh to an unbearable, desperate level. "Though I might be persuaded...."

Malfoy's hand tightened on the other boy's crotch. There was a gasp and then, sudden movement, pushing away the hands, twisting to push the other boy against the wall, wand at his throat.

"Leave. Me. -Alone-, Malfoy. I won't ask again." And possibly, he had never meant anything more, even as his hips betrayed him and he thrust a little, just a little, against the other's sharply angled hip.

All he got in return was a ragged laugh, so thick and low in the throat, it nearly undid him. "Oh so predictable, Potter. You poor, violated innocent. My heart bleeds, it really does. I suppose it's excusable. I'd bet you hadn't got any for -ages-, have you." Malfoy smirked, his eyebrows raised suggestively. "Or maybe-- maybe -never-. Oh. Oh. This is too good." He licked his lips, grinning at the look on Harry's face. "Better than I dreamed, really."

Harry was so angry he couldn't -think-, and he knew he was saying things he would regret in mere moments, but he just couldn't bring himself to -care-, anymore. "What do -you- know, Malfoy? You don't know a fucking -thing-. I -told- you. I -told- you to stay the fuck away. Is this it? Is this what you think you -want-?" He pushed more obviously against the other's crotch, grinding mercilessly, wringing gasp after gasp from the other boy as he bared his neck to Harry, throwing his head back in complete surrender. And it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. "What do you want me to say? Yes. Yes. -Yes-, goddamn you. I want you. I wanted you. I have always-- always-- wanted this-- you-- at my mercy."

His whole body pressed along Malfoy's, he bent his head, tracing a path up Malfoy's neck with his tongue, ignoring all the little whimpers and pleas and moans that were streaming from the other's mouth, clamping down hard on his own need to make them.

"Not-- not like this--" Malfoy gasped out, weakly. Harry thought he might laugh, but he hadn't the breath, and he didn't think Malfoy would appreciate the fine humor of the situation in the state he was in.

"Like this. Like this, yes. Like you think you could come in your trousers even just hearing me tear you down, hearing me tell you everything you never wanted to hear or to remember later, all those stupid fucking petty insults. Like you think if I don't touch you you'll die. Like you feel your breath get stuck somewhere on its way out, like you'll asphyxiate if I don't just-- shut up and shove my tongue down your fucking -throat-. Just like this. I wanted you so much, sometimes I thought I could -choke- on it. Just like that, Malfoy."

And oh, this felt good. So wrong and so painful, it was perfect. Just like that.

Malfoy's head wasn't thrown back anymore, and he was looking at him, eyes unwavering and even though he was still panting, his chest heaving against Harry's, something wasn't going according to plan, because suddenly, Malfoy seemed sober. Sober, and dead serious.

He knew. He knew what this meant, what this was costing Harry, he knew they'd never go through with it, that Harry would stop at the last moment, that he didn't really mean it, and this was all yet another fight, yet more posturing, just another, more personal insult to them both. He knew, and for a dizzy moment, Harry regretted it.

"It doesn't matter, Potter. Don't you get it? None of it fucking -matters- anymore. The rules are blown. You think you've won, but you have no idea what I can do. No. Fucking. Clue. Potter."

And slumped as he was against the wall, held up by Harry's hips still jammed against his, Harry's legs wound in between his, he pushed free. He was once again in Harry's face in seconds, changing their positions yet again, his grip tightening around Harry's tie. His pupils were so dilated his eyes were glittering pitch black, the silver a distant memory Harry didn't know he had.

Harry felt mesmerized, frozen in place. He didn't know who this was, who -he- was, anymore. It was so impossibly real, more real than anything, ever-- and yet so impossible, so surreal-- it was just him and Malfoy, alone in all the universe. Alone and at odds. And Harry knew this wasn't even what would be commonly considered a fight, but he stood to lose something much more difficult to defend than his life. He didn't know what, but he knew to be afraid.

There was silence, for awhile, and they just looked at each other, unwilling to move or to speak, unwilling to face whatever came next. Harry wished for his morose wallowing in Ron and Hermione's little rendezvous nearby, wished for his stale drink and his self-pity, right then, more than perhaps anything except Malfoy's mouth against his, in his, his teeth knocking against his own. And yet, he wasn't ready for it, for that hissing voice pressed as tightly against his skin as his own wand had been against Malfoy's, just moments ago.

Malfoy was speaking, urgently, liltingly, and Harry didn't want to hear, didn't want to listen, didn't want a lot of things. That usually didn't change anything though, and it didn't this time, either. "I want to fuck you. So hard. So hard your bones break, your heart explodes, your skin catches fire, your mind bends until you don't know anything or anyone, not even yourself. Until all you can see or feel or know is me alone. I want to fuck you and never stop, you understand? Never. Not for as long as you live. It would always be me, only me, me inside you all the bloody time. You'll never be free of me. I will -be- your blood, your bones, your breath, your heartbeat. You would still remember what I -was-, then, but it would not matter. Nothing else would matter. Nothing outside my mark on you."

"Yes, well." Harry's voice was flat.

"What?" Malfoy breathed, looking rather blank and exhausted. Perversely, after his impassioned speech, his erection had gone down, and he was, quite possibly, blushing, having difficulties meeting Harry's eye.

"Shut up."

"What?"

"I said. Shut. Up. Never speak of this again. Do you understand?"

Malfoy flinched, just a little, and Harry felt a bit better. Perhaps he could turn this into a fight, after all. He didn't think he could -win-, exactly, but if he defeated Malfoy, he'd finally leave him the hell alone, wouldn't he? He could be-- alone-- in peace. Finally. It was what he wanted. It was how he got where he was, and he liked where he was, and he liked not remembering. He wouldn't give it up so easily.

"I don't understand. I thought we had something," he whined, backing away from Harry. His features were transparent in their bewildered, childish hurt.

"You thought--" Harry started laughing. "You thought we--" He was bent over, clutching his knees and wheezing. "Oh, good one, Malfoy. Good one."

Draco looked indignant. "But what about that time you--"

"I had indigestion. And a bad day. Hermione had messed up a spell, and she just wouldn't shut up about it. I had to take it out on someone-- you were there-- you know how it is." Harry waved a hand. "No hard feelings. Well, anymore."

"And that time you--"

"Yeah, yeah. Ancient history. Haven't you noticed? No one cares about stupid little school rivalries anymore. We're -old- now, Malfoy. I'm what-- twenty-four? I feel ancient. You're starting to have wrinkles around your eyes, have you noticed? I can't even pretend you're worth it anymore."

"You-- you-- you noticed my skin-tone?" Draco seemed to not even bother pretending he had dignity.

Harry's lip curled in distaste.

"Oh cut it out. This is pathetic, even for you. Let's just pretend this never happened. Better for both of us, really. I can go back to my oh-so-happy anonymity and you can go back to... well, whatever it is you have to go back to. This little reminiscing session, while amusing, has worn a little thin for both of us, don't you think?"

"But we had something. You know we did. We did-- it was-- the way you looked at me-- like you wanted me to disappear-- poof-- on the -spot-. And okay, a lot of people looked at me like that. But that's not the point. I could see it. I could see it in your -eyes-. You couldn't stop looking, and you wanted to."

"We had nothing," Harry said, and he believed it. Malfoy could hear it in his voice, he knew that. Malfoy's face showed it. "You know we had nothing. This is all just scrambling for some meaning in the pointlessness of our existence where there is no Voldemort and no Gryffindor and no Slytherin, nothing to hold on to, nothing to be better than, because we have done it all, haven't we. Good and bad and it's all boring and stupid and it seems like anything that burns has to be a good thing. Well it isn't. I don't want this. I may think I want you but all I want is to forget you."

"You-- bastard-- you're lying, you fucking stupid-- stupid--" Malfoy seemed to have trouble insulting him now, and in some distant, closed-off corner of his mind, Harry found this amusing. He'd never thought he'd see the day. Then again, he'd never thought he'd -live- to twenty-four, in the first place, so all of this was a surprise, really, every single day he'd lived past eighteen.

"You think so? Well, maybe you're right. Maybe this was a lie, and maybe everything was a lie, and maybe nothing has been. Time will tell, won't it, Malfoy." Harry's lip curled, but it wasn't a smile, and it shocked him vaguely, to know his face could move that way, while all he wanted was still--

"You can't do it. You can't walk away from this. From me." Malfoy's eyes were burning, and he had the set, manic look of the true believer. Harry felt sad. "You could never ignore me no matter how much you try, -Potter-. You want me -in- you. Fuck, I can practically -feel- your pulse race when I say your -name-, you -fuck-. Come back here!"

Harry was walking steadily into the darkening light, putting one foot in front of the other, and it felt good. He was one year older. Yet another year. Perhaps this year would be different. Things changed, didn't they? They did.

"Maybe next year, Malfoy," he called back, not looking to watch the dumbfounded, stricken look change inevitably to rage on Malfoy's face. Some things were predictable, never changed. There was him, and Malfoy, and time passing-- he counted to forty-two.

"Potter!"

Harry closed his eyes. He'd hoped it would be more than a minute, at least.

"Yes," he said, nearly inaudible.

"Yes?" Malfoy sounded incredulous, slightly breathless from having had to run after him.

"Damn you, Malfoy, what more do you want from me? Don't you ever-- just-- give up?" Harry glared.

Malfoy smirked, which was probably yet another one of those unchanging constants of the universe. "If you have to ask, you're not ready to know," he said, stalking toward the other boy, backing him into an alleyway. Dark and smelling distinctly of rats and garbage and old semen and oh-- all the perfect aromas for their coupling, Harry was sure.

He reached out, tilting Harry's chin up, almost smiling when the green glare turned up a notch.

"Where to start, Potter. Where to even -start-." Malfoy leered at him.

"You're such a bloody pervert, Malfoy. Can't say I'm surprised," said Harry, rolling his eyes.

And he wasn't. Harry wasn't surprised. Sternly, he repeated to himself that he wasn't pleased, either. It was just a matter of time, he told himself comfortingly. The hatred and evil and pathetic wallowing in self-pity were just in remission.

~~