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Hurt for the Right Reasons

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The rain came down hard as Harry's broom collided with Malfoy's. Both their hands closed on the struggling Snitch and they rolled, broom tails tangled, plummeting toward the pitch.

Over the gale, if the nearest students in the crowd were using amplifying charms (and probably if they weren't), they'd be able to hear Malfoy's foul mouth and Harry's equally interesting rejoinders. But the words hardly mattered once the first punch was thrown, and nobody could hear Madam Hooch's whistle over the scream of rain, cheers, and booing.

They hit the ground hard, stumbling off their broken brooms. Malfoy was reaching for his wand when Harry tackled him into the mud. The Snitch was long gone as they rolled, punching and kicking.

"I had it, you filthy bastard!" Malfoy yelled when his face was no longer pressed into the muddy ground.

"You had fuck all, Malfoy!"

And then they were tumbling once more, Malfoy's blond hair tipped mud-brown and soaked, Harry's robes torn and hanging.

Madam Hooch gave up the whistling and pulled her wand instead, and the two boys slid abruptly apart through the mud. Neither was content to leave it at that and they scrambled up and ran, slipping, toward one another, colliding and rolling to the ground once more, fists pounding, impacting a jaw, a stomach. Insults flew now rather than Quidditch players, all the rest of whom stood dripping and staring, too drenched and exhausted to cheer on their side.

The game had gone on for three hours. And this was the end result: no Snitch in sight and two Seekers coming to blows. It was surely no surprise that it had come to this. Except that everyone would have expected a proper duel between the two --- not what amounted to nothing more than mud wrestling.

"I'll kill you, Potter!" Malfoy shouted, even though it was his face pressed to the muck, his arm wrenched up behind his back.

"Do it!" Harry countered. His robe was now completely ripped away from his left shoulder, his glasses gone. "Do it, you little ferret!"

And then they rolled some more, until Malfoy was on top, one hand at Harry's throat and the other fumbling for his wand. Harry landed a punch to Malfoy's mouth, and they were off again. Finally Dumbledore's wand threw them apart and kept them that way, though they both fought the force field and rammed at it like mad animals.

"ENOUGH," Dumbledore's voice boomed over the pitch, and all fell silent, even the rain. "This match is hereby postponed until the Seekers have undergone their month-long detentions. Everyone go back to your Houses and dry off before dinner." Then, not amplified, "Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy." The force fields fell away, and they stalked toward the center of the pitch where Dumbledore stood.

The boos from the crowd came from everywhere, every house, and they were all directed at the two of them.

*

Harry scowled as he siphoned the water off the pitch with his wand and then walked over to the bucket they'd been provided where Malfoy already waited, if anything looking surlier than Harry felt, which was almost -- would have been -- funny under different circumstances.

At least the rain had stopped. But now it was dark and getting cold and though they were almost done, it didn't lighten Harry's mood.

"Hurry up," Malfoy grumbled. No 'Potter', certainly no colorful nicknames, although they had each come up with some extremely creative epithets in the heat of the moment, Harry had to admit.

"Sod off," Harry muttered back, no real rancor in it. Perhaps it was the dressing down he'd gotten from Dumbledore. Perhaps it was having to physically carry the bucket with Malfoy, cooperating lest they spill it and have to start all over. Maybe it was the way the sliver of moon barely lit the lake where they had been depositing their cargo for two long hours now, missing dinner altogether. Perhaps it was the way his boots sucked at the mud with every step.

Or maybe it was knowing he was just as much to blame for losing that Snitch and postponing the match as Malfoy. Maybe it was becoming his most despicable self that had sapped his ire to the extent where he no longer wanted to pound Malfoy's chin into a less pointy state; he just wanted to quit the whole sorry mess.

He just wanted some sodding treacle tart -- and he knew he didn't deserve it.

"This should be the last bucket, right?" Malfoy said as they hefted it and began their trek to the lake.

Harry cast a look back over the pitch. It was damp but no longer sopping. He nodded. "I expect."

"Thank Merlin."

Harry compressed his lips in order not to spontaneously agree.

They emptied their bucket into the lake, their arms shaking now with the effort and fatigue. When the last drop dripped, they just stood there for a moment, almost unable to believe it was over. Then they turned and began trudging back to the pitch.

Harry couldn't conjure any memory of the feel of hot water cascading over his body, but he tried to feel at least relief if not excitement that that's precisely what he was now destined for. One glance at Malfoy showed him to be equally dispirited. Harry, for just one moment, almost let himself feel bad for the git. His lip was now swollen, his jaw turning a motley purplish color, his hair stringy and hanging muddy in his eyes as he appeared too tired to simply swipe it away. Harry couldn't say he didn't look as bad; he just had trouble imagining anyone looking worse than Malfoy did at that moment.

They exchanged no words as Malfoy slogged back to the Slytherin locker room and Harry began searching for his broom. In all the commotion, he'd neglected to discern how bad the damage was. He found it in the corner of the stadium. Or rather, he found most of it. His beloved Firebolt was one step above dust.

And just like that, the rage at Malfoy bloomed within him once more. As he held the shreds of his broom, he remembered, distinctly, that Malfoy had taken the first punch. Furthermore, Harry knew Malfoy'd have a new broom sent by tomorrow, whether his father was locked away in Azkaban or not. He still had family who, for whatever reason, loved him. He had a thousand times more money than Harry.

Harry chose to disregard the fact that he, too, had enough money to buy a replacement broom. That wasn't the point. His Firebolt had been a gift from Sirius. His Firebolt had meant more than gold to him. Now it was gone. Sirius was gone. Malfoy had money. Malfoy had parents. And the bloody bastard had thrown the first goddamned punch!

Harry dropped his broom fragments and balled his hands into fists. He felt like he could kill someone. The rain began again, but Harry hardly felt it resoaking him as he walked, fast and hard, across the pitch and toward the Slytherin locker room.

*

Draco barely had the wherewithal to peel off his ruined uniform. But peel it off, he did. His whole body ached, and as he revealed it, he saw the bruises that would form tomorrow shadowing his skin: his left side around his bottom ribs looked particularly ugly. He avoided the mirrors altogether and stepped up to the showers, cranking the lever and then groaning aloud when the hot water hit his battered body.

He hadn't even reached for the soap when he heard the voice.

"This whole thing is your f-f-ault."

Draco turned his head sharply, looking over his shoulder at Potter standing there, as ripped and ragged and dirty as if he'd been fighting the Dark Lord himself. The only thing that marred the picture he made was the thunderstruck look on his face and the fact that it was directed at Draco's bare arse.

Draco was too exhausted for rage, but Merlin's bollocks, if Potter wanted to strike him down in the showers, Draco would be damned if he wasn't going to get bloody clean first! He turned under the spray and threw his arms out in invitation, too arsed with the whole thing to care that Potter could now see all his bits.

"Go ahead, Potter!" he shouted. "Kill me for trying to catch the bloody Snitch! Draw your wand and fucking do it! I dare you, you half-blood, 'Chosen', cocked up son of a--"

Potter came at him quickly, strode straight into the spray, and Draco didn't defend himself -- hell, something in him welcomed it -- as Potter shoved his back hard against the cold tile, hands pressed to Draco's chest.

"That's it, Potter," Draco goaded. "Finish me. You know you want to. We both had that Snitch and you know it. As if that even matters anymore -- as if ANY of this shit matters! But go ahead, you daft tosser. Kill me." The fire of hate within Draco shifted. It became something else. All the fear and responsibility that had eaten at him the entire year surfaced. He really almost wanted Potter to do it. At least it would be Potter. He'd rather it was Potter. Draco blinked his eyes and waited, the water pouring over them both.

Potter was breathing in his face, and Draco suddenly felt no fear, only exhilaration, only a fatalistic determination to see this through one way or another. He almost didn't care that he was half hard against Potter's clothed thigh. Draco smiled with the half of his mouth that was still operable. "Do you have the bollocks, Potter?"

They stood, squared off against each other in the deluge, the water washing the mud off Potter's uniform, circling Draco's bare feet and Potter's heavy boots. They stared into each other's eyes.

And then Potter crashed his mouth down on Draco's and started snogging him.

Draco opened his mouth in shock, and Potter's tongue shoved between his lips. It only took one gasp of a moment, and then Draco shoved back, and they were kissing so rough they'd bruise. Draco's lips were once again splitting and his jaw hurt, but he didn't care. His cock went fully hard from Potter's mouth on his, and he tilted his head, grabbing Potter around the neck and clawing at his shoulders, his back, making Potter hiss into his mouth. And then Potter was ripping off his robes, the fabric tearing the rest of the way and falling in a wet heap behind him.

Draco licked at Potter's bottom lip, tasting salt and his own blood and dirt. He licked it into Potter's open mouth, and Potter groaned.

Potter groaned.

His hands were everywhere, hard on the bruised and unblemished skin alike. Draco gave as good as he got, ripping open Potter's trousers to find him hard and ready. He wrapped his hand around it, and Potter gasped into Draco's mouth. Water ran down their faces as they breathed against each other, kissed hard, gasped apart to breathe again, all the while Draco stroking between Potter's legs.

"Maybe you'd rather fuck me first then," Draco suggested, his voice changed from arousal. He jerked his fist up, rough with Potter's thick cock. God it was a fine cock, too. Of course it was. The arsehole. He didn't care that he was trembling as he grabbed for the oil he used when he needed a post-game wank. He poured it over Potter's cock, over his own. He took them both in hand and pulled. His shaft slicked against Potter's and they rutted tentatively together, avoiding one another's eyes. Several tense moments passed like that, until Draco blinked up to catch Potter watching their cocks rub and duel between them, hips rhythmically thrusting. Then Potter looked up and caught Draco watching him, and Draco's heart thudded horribly for those two blistering seconds before Potter took him by the shoulders and spun him and Draco's chest hit the tile with a satisfying smack.

"You ever buggered a boy?" Draco breathed, his voice quavering just a little from the fear and the excitement. "You a virgin, Potter?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Potter seethed.

Draco smiled. He couldn't even feel the pain any longer. "I bet you are. I bet you're about to give it to your mortal enemy -- your sweet virgin prick."

Potter's hand came around and covered his mouth, warm and salty and strong. His oiled cock stroked between Draco's arse cheeks, and Potter, shaking, aimed.

And Draco couldn't even tell Potter what a hypocrite he'd been, saying all that -- couldn't tell him, This is my first time, too. You're my first, Potter.' And he didn't want to. Everything was so cocked up. He just wanted this one thing. He wanted to hurt for the right reasons for once.

Draco braced against the wall. Potter's hand slipped away from his mouth, and then he fumbled behind Draco to point his prick in the right direction. Draco felt it nudging him indiscreetly, inexpertly. Then Potter pushed. It took a moment, but then Potter's cock popped inside and then slid, harsh and eager, all the way in, stretching Draco painfully with every inch.

Two tears squeezed their way from the corners of Draco's eyes, and because he expected Potter to start ramming it home, he held his breath, stinging, fingers clawed against the wall. But Potter just shuffled his booted feet closer. He just stilled there, up Draco's arse. He just leaned his forehead against Draco's shoulder, his hair dripping water down Draco's chest -- and he whimpered. Potter whimpered, tight and small, throbbing inside him.

They stood like that for breathless eons. They stood like that, pressed tight together and aching, until Draco started to get angry that Potter wasn't just fucking him already -- that he wasn't just taking it. Draco needed him to take it. He needed Potter to wrest this responsibility from him and make him forget.

And it stung and burned and he was too full and stretched and his cock was ready.

Draco slowly let out his breath, feeling his arse relax just a little, and he reached back, touching Potter's hip. Potter breathed against him a few moments more, then lifted his head from Draco's shoulder, drew back, and then pushed, slow and perfect, back inside.

They both groaned. Potter started fucking him, and Draco met his lazy thrusts, the pain slipping away to be replaced by the most urgent need he'd ever felt. Potter slid hot up his arse, and Draco clawed at his hip. Potter started fucking him faster, grunting softly on each entry.

"Merlin..." Draco breathed.

Potter's answer was to grab his leg, hike it up, open Draco even more, change the angle. He started whipping his hips, and Draco felt it close, drawing up tight inside him. He lifted his leg, arching more, not giving a toss that he must look like an utter whore, and started fisting his own cock hard. Potter's hand squeezed his thigh in time with his fucking, and soon Draco's hand was going so fast, it was a blur.

"You gonna come, Draco?" Potter breathed in his ear.

Draco nodded. No more games. No more lies. Just this. Just them together like this. The shame could wait.

"Me...too..." Potter's breath hitched. Then he started to come inside Draco, moaning and burying himself deep, grinding, grinding, grinding, and Draco started shooting all over the wet wall.

"Do it like that," Draco chanted, the way Potter's cock stroked into him making him feel like he'd fly apart. "Do it fucking like that."

Potter pistoned inside him, until he let out one last gasp and slowed, lowering Draco's leg. Draco's cock spasmed dry once more, and then he sagged between the wall and Potter's body. They were both breathing harder than they had even when they'd fought.

Potter eased his cock out, and they both hissed. Draco rested against the wall for a moment, two moments, three. He heard Potter's movements and assumed he was dressing, but when Draco finally turned, it was to see Potter naked now, too.

He watched Potter swallow, and then Draco grabbed a bottle of his body wash and tossed it to him.

"Thanks," Potter said. Then he joined Draco under the spray, soaping up his hands and then returning the bottle to Draco. Neither of them acknowledged that they could have done a cleaning charm and been done with it. They washed off silently, not touching but standing so close under the shared shower head that they bumped unintentionally every so often.

Draco washed the mud out of his hair and watched Potter do his underarms. He wanted to bury his face there. He wanted to drop down onto his knees and suck him off. There was a blue-black mark on Potter's chest that Draco's elbow must have put there. Potter's soft cock hung dark and strong between coarse-haired thighs. Draco gulped and turned around. He finished cleaning up without looking at Potter anymore. He didn't like the way it felt in his stomach when he looked at him -- all fluttery like a girl's.

He didn't like looking at Potter's body and knowing they'd just fucked.

He didn't want to want it to happen again.

Nothing like that could ever happen again.

When they were done, Potter turned the water off. Draco found two towels and threw Potter one.

"My clothes are, uh, over there," Potter said sheepishly, indicating his own locker room. He wrapped the towel around his waist. Draco swallowed hard.

"You've got your wand, haven't you? Accio them, why don't you?" he suggested. His voice sounded strange now. He wasn't a virgin anymore. He'd been fucked. By Harry Potter. Everything was hazy and drunk and sideways.

"And blow the door off my locker? No thanks, Malfoy," Potter said with a grin.

Draco nodded, dropping his gaze and then opening his own locker for his change of clothes. Potter left, and when Draco stepped out into the dripping night, he was nowhere to be seen. Draco started back toward the castle as though nothing had changed.

His whole body screamed that absolutely everything had changed.

And before he reached the front steps, he heard Potter running up behind him.

"Hey!"

Draco frowned and kept walking, though now with Potter by his side in clean denims, a tight t-shirt, his hair damp still. Draco's arse ached. His lip throbbed.

"Thought maybe there might still be some food somewhere."

Draco slanted a look Potter's way.

"Let's check out the Hall. Yeah?"

"Fine."

There were, in fact, two dishes set out at the same table, waiting for them.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy." It was McGonagall. "Ready for supper?" She stood there with her hands clasped in front of her as though he and Potter hadn't just had rough sex in the showers. As if she couldn't tell.

Draco just stood there, but Potter spoke up. "We weren't sure we'd get any, Professor."

"Well, we can't have the two best Seekers at the school going hungry," she said with a tight smile. "I'll leave you to it and trust there won't be any brawling over the rolls?"

"No, ma'am."

Draco just dropped his eyes. He could still feel Potter's cock inside him -- moving inside him. He wondered if Potter could still feel him, too. He gave no indication.

They sat opposite each other, Draco gingerly, although Potter didn't seem to notice. Food appeared in overflowing glory on their plates, and they ate in relative silence, Potter ravenous.

When there were nothing but crumbs left, Potter sat back, replete. "I just ate enough for three people," he said.

Draco looked up at him. He had no idea what to say. He had no idea about anything. He could feel the mark on his arm and only now realized Potter may have seen it. He swallowed, and the color drained from his face.

"Look, Malfoy," Potter said then. "You were right. I'm sorry about the match. It doesn't matter. Does it?"

Draco stared at him.

Potter played with his fork. "It won't happen again," he said. Then he looked up rather pointedly. "The fighting."

Draco's face had begun to ache again, and his smile was lopsided and sickly.

"I suppose we ought to..."

"Yeah." Draco stood, and they made their way, the table between them, to the door. When they reached it, however, Potter suddenly pulled him into the shadows against the wall and cupped his head, pressing his lips to Draco's.

Draco, stupidly, blindly, unthinkingly, opened his lips and let Potter delve inside. He felt the wicked flutter in his stomach and just barely kept himself from wrapping his arms around Potter's neck. He did press his palms to Potter's warm chest.

When Potter pulled back, he said, "I'm not sorry for that. And I don't care if you are. I mean, I do care if you are -- I don't want you trying to kill me around every corner, and I fully recognize that you very well might." He huffed a sigh and continued his one-sided conversation. "I know you're up to something, Malfoy. There's no use denying it. And I plan to stop you." His fingers slipped through the hair at the nape of Draco's neck, and Draco shivered involuntarily. "Maybe this is how I'll manage that." He smirked. And before Draco could decide to stop him, Potter leaned back in and snogged him some more, soft and deep and slow. This time, Draco's arms did wrap around his neck.

Draco had begun to fear, through the dense lust, that they'd snogged in the corner so long someone was bound to find them, when Potter finally pulled back again. Humiliatingly, Draco actually stumbled toward him. Potter, again, didn't seem to notice. "I can help you," he whispered. "Dumbledore can help you."

The words brought reality back in, and Draco's lip quivered until he firmed it.

Potter's hand slipped down his chest, his stomach, lighting at the waistband of his trousers. "Now my mark's on you, too," he said, confirming Draco's worst fears. "Which one will you choose, Draco?"

Potter raised his eyebrows once, stepped back, and then walked out of the room, leaving Draco to disintegrate against the wall.

*

It had been a month since it had happened, and Harry wasn't sure what to do, if anything.

Well, something needed done. He'd tried unsuccessfully to corner Draco -- after classes, after meals, before bed -- and not just to snog him or try to pull him into a dark classroom to bugger him again (or touch his cock or maybe get sucked or all the other things Harry couldn't stop thinking of) but to somehow help him.

He'd seen the Mark after all -- how could he not have? -- and he'd fucked him anyway. Harry had fucked a Death Eater. His first time -- because Draco had been right -- had been with a Death Eater.

Except that Harry couldn't reconcile it. He'd seen the Mark, but it hadn't seemed quite real. Not as real as Draco's body against his own, as sliding home inside him had been, as Draco's breathy taunts, "Do it like that. Do it fucking like that."

He'd lost his virginity to Draco Malfoy. Harry felt all kinds of mental for that. He felt ashamed -- as though he could never tell his friends. He felt unutterably excited -- as though he couldn't wait to tell his friends. He felt bereft -- because it had been a month, and they were supposed to be snogging every eleven seconds; they were supposed to be all over each other; they were supposed to be laughing at really insipid jokes and holding hands and blushing and whatnot.

But that's not who they were. That's not who they would ever be.

Still, Harry had been abusing his own hand at least thrice daily to the memory of what had happened.

He'd also spent several sleepless nights simply watching his map. Watching Malfoy down in the Slytherin dungeons, still and vulnerable. Harry lay there wanting him and aching for the nihilistic pain he'd seen in Malfoy's eyes in that locker room. Because whatever Malfoy was doing, Harry felt quite certain he didn't want to be doing it.

It was the very start of summer when Harry finally got his wish to get Malfoy alone, though it wasn't under the circumstances he'd hoped for. He heard the crying and shortly after found Malfoy in the bathroom, hands gripping the sink, shaking with his sobs.

"Draco," Harry called quietly, the name falling from his lips easily. He'd gotten a lot of practice recently, albeit with his hand on his cock and no one around to hear him try it out.

Malfoy spun, drawing his wand. Harry kept his hands free, though the urge to arm himself was great.

"It's okay. It's just me," he said, even though that hardly seemed like a reason for Malfoy to lower his wand. They'd shared one rough shag and some truly stellar snogging. Was Malfoy supposed to drop his guard entirely now? Harry really looked at him -- at the deep bruises beneath his red-rimmed eyes. Merlin... Harry opened his mouth to say something more, but Malfoy cut him off.

"It was me. Katie Bell," he sobbed. "It was me. The mead...everything...it was me."

Harry swallowed. "I know."

Malfoy lowered his wand and turned back to the sink.

"When I told you I wanted to help you...when I shagged you...I knew." He walked over to where the other boy slumped. He touched the quivering shoulder. "He can help you. If you let him." Something was coming alive in Harry now -- something hopeful.

"What do you know, Potter?" Malfoy spat.

"I know you're in an impossible position." And I know how you taste. I know how you sound when someone's inside of you.

Malfoy turned to him. "He...he's going to kill them. He'll start with my m-mother."

Harry swallowed and saw his own mother falling before his eyes, heard her terrible scream. He nodded. "I understand, Draco." His hand slipped down his arm. He wanted to take Malfoy's hand, but he waited. "Will you go to Dumbledore? Will you tell him?" Then because he couldn't stop himself from it, Harry cupped his damp cheek. "I'll go with you."

Malfoy blinked. He looked horribly beautiful like this. Yet Harry felt no sense of triumph, no vindication. Malfoy nodded jerkily, and Harry moved his hand, tightening it in Malfoy's hair.

"Good." He smiled tremulously. "Come with me."

"Look at me," Malfoy cried. "I can't-- I don't want anyone to see me like this."

"If one person says one cruel word to you, I'll make them sorry," Harry found himself saying, feeling it so strongly his jaw clenched.

Malfoy swallowed. "You'd do that for me?"

Harry nodded. He remembered rolling with Malfoy in the mud, the other boy's arm at his throat -- remembered resting his head on Malfoy's shoulder while he adjusted to the feel of fucking him. It was all the same now. It was all this. For this. Toward this.

"Come on."

Malfoy nodded. And then Harry finally took his hand. They walked out into the open like that, newly united, raw around the edges. They walked through the halls, Draco's hand in Harry's, silent and fragile, for all the world to see.