Harry realises that she likes girls at the age of 22.
It’s not exactly a momentous occasion as such – it’s not that one day she wakes up wanting to kiss them and hold their hands and adorn herself in rainbow robes. It’s just that, over the course of a couple months in that year, the line of thought draws closer and closer to the front of her mind.
It’s funny, how it has never truly occurred to her before – I mean, to say she hasn’t liked girls before then is simply inconceivable – but there is a difference between liking girls and saying it like that. I like girls. Silly words. Scary. Ill-fitting, and yet somehow undeniably truthful.
Harry had never sat down and thought to herself: I might not be straight. Of course she was straight. Because straight didn’t mean liking boys – it meant normal. And Harry had had her fair share of abnormality, thank you very much. So she was straight.
That didn’t mean that she thought about the lines of their body particularly, of their low voices and big hands and square jaws. It didn’t mean that when she closed her eyes, when she fucked herself with her fingers, that she couldn’t think of tits and ass and long hair brushing in her face. Somehow, the word straight and the fantasies of women could co-exist perfectly fine in her mind, and frankly, she had had slightly more pressing issues at the time.
She doesn’t have enough distractions anymore, though.
Voldemort is dead, Hogwarts and the rest of the wizarding world is well on its way to recovering as best as it could, and although sometimes Harry still wakes up gasping thinking of smoke and limp bodies and green light and white faces – for the most part, life has kept moving. And it has moved into such normality that highlighting any remaining abnormalities in Harry was a mere inevitability.
So. Harry likes girls.
Coincidentally – or not – it is also around this time that Harry sees Draco Malfoy again for the first time since the trials. She has apparently kept herself busy – developing a line of respected potions, weeding her way back into society despite obvious resistance – rolling naked in money, presumably, with several men eating gold-dusted truffles off her body. Harry hasn’t seen her for a while. And hasn’t thought too much of her, either. Harry’s life doesn’t have room for gold-dusted truffles – or naked bodies.
Ginny and Harry haven’t exactly ended it, per say. They still love each other. There just isn’t…too much…sexual energy.
They needed room. Every couple needs room at some point, Harry likes to think. This is healthy. Harry’s recent revelation in no way affects this.
“Malfoy,” says Harry, frowning over at her ex-enemy. They’re in a pub – the Elf’s Ears – and Malfoy draws her body across the bar to sip her cocktail. She curves her slender back with the clear intent of showing off her figure in that way she does, and when she makes eye contact with Harry, her face is carefully blank.
“Potter.” She says, running her fingertip over the salted rim of the glass nonchalantly. “Pleasant surprise.” Her voice is still that long, grating drawl.
“Malfoy,” says Harry again, stupidly, staring at her, feeling compelled, for some reason, to say things, without actually knowing what things.
“Well,” Says Malfoy, leaning back after a long moment and sighing, cleavage heaving ridiculously. “If you’re just going to gape at me, I’d best be going. See you around, Potter.” Slinking past Harry, she’s out the door before Harry’s fists have even fully clenched.
She does see Malfoy around. In fact, the next time she sees her is at another pub – a gay pub. Well. A lesbian pub.
Harry’s in the corner, drinking a beer all by herself and trying not to be seen. She’s deliberately chosen a muggle pub – doesn’t want to be recognised. I’m not going to hook up with anyone tonight, she thinks. Or ever. I’m in a relationship.
But then she catches Malfoy’s eye – Malfoy who is dressed in a slinky silver dress which barely covers her crotch, Malfoy, who is quite obviously not wearing a bra – or maybe Malfoy catches her eye, but either way she finds the pair of them having a stand off by the bar again, only Malfoy is definitely tipsy.
“Didn’t know you liked girls then, Potter.” She sneers, draping herself back against the counter and taking a long sip of something red with a lemon slice.
“I don’t,” says Harry, automatically.
Malfoy rolls her eyes.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but unless my eyes betray me, that is indeed a bow tie upon thy neck.”
“You shouldn’t stereotype.” says Harry. “Behaviour is no indication of sexuality.”
Malfoy tips her head back, exposing the white length of her neck, and snorts.
“Is that what you plan on telling your boyfriend when he catches you eating pussy?”
Harry sucks in a breath and glares at her.
“Come on,” says Malfoy, laughing breathlessly. “Did you really come here to argue with a dirty little Death Eater like me?” She grabs Harry’s hand and pulls her into the middle of the dance floor, ignoring her sharp intake of breath.
“You’re not a Death Eater,” murmurs Harry, under the rise of the music. “You’re not…dirty.”
“Oh, watch me,” whispers Malfoy into Harry’s ear. “I can be so, so dirty.”
She turns and pushes back into Harry’s crotch, and then Harry’s hands are on her hips, in that tiny, tiny fucking dress – and maybe Harry is also a little tipsy, because the next thing she knows they’re back at Malfoy’s place and she’s sucking on that long white throat.
“Don’t like girls, do you,” breathes Malfoy from above her, and she’s got her against the wall, got that long silvery body right where she wants it. “I hope you know I’m not hiding a dick underneath all this.”
“God,” pants Harry, pinning her wrists to the wall beside her head. “Fuck you,”
“You know, it’s perfectly alright to want it.” Malfoy wraps one lean calf around Harry’s hip, almost lazily. Only Malfoy could make even sex seem languid. She flexes her ankle at the small of Harry’s back. “It’s perfectly alright to want tits, to want to lay it on me like I’m just a slut, just a fuck, to want to own it like a piece of meat.”
“Shut up,” says Harry.
“It’s okay to want to pound into someone like they’re worthless to you, to want to give it like he gave it, to have someone moan like a bitch in heat. That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? A dirty, Death Eater little slut with tits, a bitch, a quick, filthy fuck so you can give it like your boyfriend never could, like you knew he wanted to-”
“Shut the fuck up,” gasps Harry, and turns her face away with her palm digging into her cheek.
But Malfoy doesn’t shut up. She opens her eyes, smiling sweetly at Harry, eyes cruel.
“Or maybe,” she whispers. “Maybe you want to take it properly, to take it and take it until you can’t think, or breathe, until you’re just a body, until you’re just flesh, something to fuck, until all you belong to is somebody else’s pleasure, until you’re nothing without them, nothing at all, worthless, meaningless. Is that it Harry? Do you just want to be somebody’s tight little slut? Is that why you’re fucking me? Because it just isn’t as sick with somebody you don’t hate?”
Harry moans as Malfoy’s fingers find their way into her jeans, shoving roughly past the crotch of her pants, kneading the pad of her thumb into her clit, curling those long, cold fingertips so deep inside her she can barely breathe. She can barely breathe, and Malfoy crowds her back against the wall this time, a hand on her hip, smirking down at Harry. She leans in, as if for a kiss, and then bites Harry’s lip, tearing the skin, causing Harry to cry out and arch her back and for blood to drip down her chin and onto her chest. Malfoy moans, as if eating something delicious, and hikes Harry up so that her legs wrap around her waist, ankles crossed at her back. She kneads Harry’s ass with that hand, and Harry can tell she’s using the hand that’s working her as leverage too, because she’s pressing against the roof of her so hard that her manicured nails are digging in, digging right in and still curling and uncurling, and fuck, it’s uncomfortable, it hurts, and it’s so so good.
“Is that right?” Malfoy is saying. “Isn’t that right, you moaning little bitch. You’re like a whore, a whore the way you’re taking it. I only have two fingers in – did you know?”
“Fuck, Malfoy,” moans Harry, and in some deep recess of her mind she is surprised by how much she sounds like pure pornography. “Fuck, please, give it to me.”
“You want more?” Says Malfoy. “Is that what you want, more? You want me to fuck you with my fingers until you scream, until you can’t think, until you’re clenching down on me? Tell me,” she leans in, voice tickling Harry’s ear. “How long has it been since you’ve lost control? How long have you been thinking of this?”
“I want you,” says Harry. “I want you.”
“Well, then let me tell you how it’s going to be. I’m going to take you here, first, against this wall, and you’re going to scream, and then if you’re a good girl you’re going to eat me out, you’re going to suck me dry on your knees, and then I’m going to fuck you on the bed, until you can’t think of anyone or anything, until you can’t think of fucking a man again, until you can only think of me.”
“God,” says Harry. “Goddammit, you’re so dirty.”
“I’m so wet,” She whispers, voice low and heavy. “I’m so slick, you won’t even need your tongue, I could just ride your face after this.”
“Holy hell,” grunts Harry, and then she comes, and she does scream.
Malfoy doesn’t talk to her about it after. In fact, neither of them talk about anything – Harry slips out the next morning, and goes home and showers until her skin wrinkles on all the pads of her fingers. She then sits down, on her bed, and lies back to stare at the ceiling.
It’s barely a week later when Harry arrives on Malfoy’s doorstep at eleven thirty. Malfoy opens the door, gives her a one over – just basic jeans, a jumper, hair in the same messy ponytail – and then leans languorously against the doorframe and smirks.
“Back for more, are you Potter?”
“Can I come in?” says Harry.
“Do you want a drink?” asks Malfoy as she stalks down the hallway. “Or just a fuck?”
“A drink would be fine.”
Harry leans back against the kitchen table as Malfoy brings out two cocktail glasses and an ice box. The apartment is surprisingly simple, clean, modern – not quite how she imagined Malfoy living. Then again, nothing here is how she imagined it would be.
Malfoy slips off her dressing gown, and turns back around to reveal a lace thong.
Okay. Maybe a little like how she imagined.
Malfoy hands her the drink, eyes greyer than stone.
“What is this?” Harry asks, looking into her glass.
“Sex on the beach.” says Malfoy. “Want to try it some time?”
Harry stares at her throat bobbing as she tips back the drink. “When did you start drinking muggle drinks?” She asks.
“Around the same time I started fucking muggle women. Speaking of which –”
Malfoy leans in and reaches for Harry’s neck, pulling her in close enough to kiss her jaw. She bites down when Harry tries to speak.
“You’re up to something,” she gasps. “You hate muggles.”
“Mm,” says Malfoy, from behind her ear. “Well, people change. What happened to perfect Princess Potter? Aren’t you supposed to be riding Prince Weasley’s soft dick into the sunset instead of me?” Her pale hand has found its way back into Harry’s jeans, and all Harry can smell is her expensive perfume, and her soft skin, and the heat emanating off her pulse point.
“You’re just a pure-blood bitch,” She says, and tears Malfoy’s silk shirt at the back. Malfoy leans back, an eyebrow raised.
“Is it too much to ask that you fuck like a civilised person, Potter? I supposed you learnt that trick from our barbarian of a groundskeeper – ”
Harry pushes her back onto the table, shattering a cocktail, the sound of glass breaking as her fists lock around the other woman’s wrists. She hitches a leg up, knee at Malfoy’s groin, and pushes into her so hard it might be bruising. Malfoy just moans, grinning slightly, and Harry leans down and bites her neck, then tears away the front of her shirt too.
“You’re a piece of shit,” she says against Malfoy’s chest. “Good for nothing.”
“A piece of shit you’d like to finger?” asks Malfoy and Harry spits in her face.
Malfoy pushes back against Harry, trying to free her wrists, expression murderous. But although they’re roughly the same size, Harry is broader, and besides, she still has her magic. Malfoy brings her closer with her legs when Harry starts licking at her cleavage, scraping her teeth over the thin material of her bra, and she groans like an animal in pain.
“I fucking hate you, Potter. I hate you so goddamn much, I hate you I hate you I hate – ”
Harry pushes down her bra and kisses the rise of her breast, the curve underneath, sucking the dusky nipples between her teeth. Malfoy is moaning so loud it could wake up the whole street.
She leans in close, their cheeks brushing, as her hand tugs down that stupid thong and dips between Malfoy’s legs. It’s strange, touching another woman’s body, touching someone who is the same and still so opposite, so different, and when she twists her middle finger just right, and Malfoy cries out and stares up at Harry, eyes so dark, so wide, and still so infuriatingly knowing – it feels like something has unlocked inside.
The fucking turns into a routine. Harry turns up on that doorstep, over and over again during the course of the next few months – before breakfast, at lunchbreak, midnight, after drinks with Ron and Hermione – and every time is just as vicious. Sometimes Harry wonders if there’s something wrong with her, wrong with her for liking this – for enjoying the feel of hard wood crashing into her back, of finger nails ripping into her skin, for getting off on the nasty words the gush out of Malfoy’s mouth as they do it. They do it on the living room floor, on stairs, on the table, on the sofa, on a kitchen chair – sex is like a conversation with Malfoy. An argument, just like how it was back in school, except here each insult is a kick, a bite, a lick, a press and a gasp and a moan and it’s all sweat and skin – sex is a language, and Malfoy has a wide vocabulary.
It’s not so different now, from her fantasies at thirteen. There’s still this surreal quality – Harry is fine, civilised, normal, during broad daylight – it’s only when she’s with Malfoy that all that fight comes out, that all that want suffocates her most deliciously. There is nothing else like it. Sometime, she’ll still think about men, about broad shoulders and that V above the waistband, about Adam’s apples and stubble – and it’s all nice, it’s all very nice, but it doesn’t get her crazy with it. It’s not the same as it is with women. It’s like the breadsticks before the meal. Like the appetiser instead of desert.
God, girls get her crazy.
Sex with men has always been nice, too. It’s been awhile, but she and Ginny were in love once, or thought they were, or something – and it was nice, so nice. Good. Lovely. But with Malfoy, it’s like discovering what sex is supposed to be – sex is not supposed to be nice. Sex is not supposed to be a fun way to greet each other in the morning, or a couple of orgasms here and there – it is not about pleasure. It is about power. It’s about letting go of reality – who you are in the sack is not the same person as who you are out and about. It’s about want – it’s about how what you want can be traced back to what you hate. Want and hate. It’s the same energy, just dressed up differently.
Sex is not about love, not really. Sex is about fear. It’s about translating a nightmare into a wet dream.
Sex is just a different sort of honesty.
Harry is more honest with Malfoy than she ever is with anybody. She is most honest when is laid back and twisted, when her hands are behind her back and Malfoy’s riding her waist, or holding her head against her pussy – she’s most honest when she’s begging for it, or screaming, or crying until she can’t think.
She’s most honest when she isn’t thinking.
And Malfoy is too. The rest of it is a complete act – it’s like a set-up, like a porn movie, like a fantasy – all coy eyes and crude words and lingerie – Malfoy will bat her eyes as she asks whether Harry would rather be swallowing a dick right now instead of sticking her tongue inside her. But when Malfoy is on the floor, moaning, gasping, eyes scrunched up and nose all wrinkly as she tells Harry how much she needs it, how much she wants it, how she needs it harder – Harry believes it then.
Once, afterwards, Harry even asks: “When did you know you liked girls?” They’re on the bed breathing heavily, Malfoy on her back, Harry on her side, glancing down at her. She’s acutely aware of the curves of her own body – acutely aware of being a woman, of being desired by another woman – she can’t stop tracing that curve, that dip between her hips and ribs.
She’s rounder than Malfoy, and shorter – but Malfoy doesn’t seem to ever mind. Harry knows she’s reasonably attractive – she has a good body, and if killing the Dark Lord isn’t a turn on for most she doesn’t know what is – but Malfoy looks like a supermodel, and holds herself like one too. Also, A-class tits.
Malfoy raises a brow as she smokes a cigarette, looking over at Harry. She looks like she’s about to make a cutting comment, then decides against it for once. She exhales a greyed breath slowly.
“I always knew.” She says quietly, rolling the paper between her fingers.
“How?” says Harry.
Malfoy shoots her an incredulous look. “It’s a not particularly heart-throbbing story,” she says. “I just looked at some tits one day and thought: “Fuck, I want those in my face.”” She frowns. “That, and six packs were about as appealing as a loaf of bread.”
“I didn’t think you weren’t straight.” says Harry. “In school.”
“You didn’t know much of anything.” says Malfoy coolly. “Besides, I had long hair and wore red lipstick – you can’t be blamed.”
“Malfoy,” says Harry. “Are you gay?”
Malfoy looks at her for a long minute, then sits up straight. “Yes, Harry. I’m a lesbian. A great fucking dyke. And I like women, not girls – don’t infantilise me.”
Her hands curve around Harry’s waist, and she rolls them over so that she’s on top, and they’re facing. She leans in, and the whole world is just her scornful grin, and a silver bullet between teeth.
“I can’t believe you still call me Malfoy,” She says, rolling her hips deplorably. “Even though you’ve eaten maple syrup and whipped cream out of me.”
“Malfoy,” says Harry. “You don’t call me Harry.”
Malfoy leans in even closer, until there are no more gaps to close. “I bet I can make you call me Draco.” She purrs. “I bet I can make you do anything.”
She can’t – but Harry lets her, Harry lets her have this.
Once, she walks in on Malfoy as she is doing the dishes. She’s got a dressing gown on – fluffy and baby blue – and her hair is up in loose bun. Her face is scrubbed clean, and when she looks up Harry realises she’s wearing glasses.
Malfoy scowls, banishing away the glasses instantly and crossing her arms over her chest.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking, you entitled imbecile?”
Harry just smiles a little, despite herself, and leans against the doorframe. Malfoy is so small, she realises suddenly. Her presence is normally so vast, so liquid – filling up the container of their setting. Without her makeup, her dangerously straight hair, her fucking thongs – she becomes more real. Most touchable. More honest. Until now, Harry has only been fucking an idea.
“I didn’t know you needed glasses.” She says softly.
“Or about basic social etiquette, apparently. Why?” Malfoy leans back against the counter, recovering fast, and quirks a brow. “Do you have a domestic kink?”
Harry bites her lip and Malfoy rolls her eyes, wiping down the last plate.
“Potter,” she says. “You are disgustingly predictable. And cheap.”
“I could suck on your clit right here,” says Harry. “I could go down on my knees and roll it between my teeth until you forget what a dish even is.”
Malfoy keeps on running the cloth around the edges of the plate, catching each drop with the utmost concentration.
“I could fuck you with my tongue,” says Harry. “And bury four fingers inside you so deep you won’t be able to walk properly for the rest of the week.”
Malfoy stares into the plate like it’s the face of a long-lost lover.
“I could have you moan and moan until your voice is hoarse, and you’re dripping and coming all over me.”
Malfoy sighs, and flicks at a non-existent piece of dirt with her pinky.
“Well,” she says. “If you insist.”
Another time, Malfoy actually brings out a dildo.
“Oh god,” says Harry, from where she is lying naked on Malfoy’s bed, heart still racing from her last orgasm. “Really?”
“You’ll never catch me saying this in the presence of the patriarchy,” says Malfoy, climbing back onto the bed and straddling Harry. “But penetration sometimes feels okay.”
“Must we be such stereotypes?”
Malfoy casts Harry a look. “Potter,” she says. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’ve been verging dangerously into stereotype territory since you put that first tender digit in me.”
Harry tries not to grin.
“Besides, it’s not like we’re scissoring.” Says Malfoy.
“Is that actually a thing?” says Harry. “I’ve always wondered.”
“Now now,” tuts Malfoy. “If I wanted to fuck a straight boy, I wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place.”
“Can we try it?”
“Sure, sweetie.” Says Malfoy. “But first, turn around and show me that pretty Chosen One pussy.”
Scissoring is totally not a thing.
It’s even better once Malfoy brings out the strap-on.
“Can I wear it?” says Harry. “I want to top.”
“We’re gay women, Harry, not gay men.”
Harry looks over at Malfoy.
“You called me Harry.” she says.
“You’re not even gay.” Says Malfoy, loudly. “You have a ginger boyfriend who likes brooms entirely too much for any straight man. Tell me, do the curtains match the drapes? And if so, have you considered shaving little lightning bolts into it? He might have failed at murdering pussy, but will surely rise again – ”
Harry slams her into the closet doors, shaking the whole thing. “Malfoy,” she says. “You cheeky little shit.” And then her lips fall onto her jaw, neck, chest, her teeth, and they’re kissing messily against the wooden panels, lips and tongue and bruising skin. “Malfoy,” gasps Harry, and she drops to her knees, grasping Malfoy’s hip so hard they’ll leave imprints, smashing her back against the closet as her mouth kneads her mound over her pants, licking a heated path between her lips, nuzzling her face against her – Malfoy keeps making these little mewls from above, head banging back against the wood and eyes rolling back into her skull, and when she reaches for Harry’s head Harry stands back up and turns them, so that she can push Malfoy down onto the bed. She follows, on all fours above her, and fastens the strap on on hastily as Malfoy grinds onto her thigh, staring up at her lazily, cheeks flushed and lips heavy, and then Harry grabs her wrists and bites the apples of her cheeks.
“You only shut up when I’ve got your legs spread,” She tells her. “You’re only worth hearing when I’ve got you flat on your back like the wet bitch you are, like a whore trying to earn her next meal.”
“Fuck,” groans Malfoy, and she arches her back as Harry rubs her, easing her open with her fingers before pushing in the tip, teasing.
“You should see yourself,” says Harry. “You should see yourself when you’re like this.” She pushes in, hard, and Malfoy yelps, eyes snapping open as her legs wrap around Harry’s waist.
“You should see yourself,” repeats Harry, thrusting. “The whole world should get to see Draco fucking Malfoy, on her back with her legs in the air, getting fucked by the bitch she swore she wouldn’t touch.”
“Fuck,” moans Malfoy, and Harry reaches down, hooking her knees around her shoulders.
“Grab your ankles for me,” growls Harry. “I want you to say my name when you come.”
“Potter,” gasps Malfoy, digging her nails into her back and throwing her head back onto the mattress. She squeezes her eyes shut, her mouth stretched open. “Potter, Potter, Harry, fuck, Harry – ”
Harry snakes a hand down to play with her clit, and Malfoy just about snaps in half. She moans loudly, voice breaking in that perfect way it does whenever she climaxes, and Harry grunts, riding it out.
“Fuck,” she says, after a couple breathless heartbeats. She slides back out slowly. “That was fast.”
Malfoy finally opens her eyes again, staring up at Harry, dark hair spilling all into her face and sticking to her skin, and swallows.
“Turn over.” She says.
“What?” says Harry.
Malfoy shoves Harry off in one swift movement, and then settles between her spread legs.
“I want to ruin you.” She says softly, looking up at Harry with those slanted, luminous eyes, pupils drawing in Harry’s soul like a dementor’s kiss, and presses her mouth against her clit.
When Harry comes out to Hermione and Ron, it doesn’t really feel the way they tell you it will.
“Okay,” Harry says, fiddling with the dead skin on the side of her thumb. “I’m, um, bisexual.”
Hermione and Ron look at her from across the table.
“Okay, Harry.” says Hermione, after a couple awkward seconds. “That’s fine.” She puts a hand over Harry’s.
At the same time Ron says:
“Mate, we kind of know.”
Harry looks at them.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Hermione says slowly, looking a little guilty. “You did kind of keep that poster of Rihanna on your wall for a while.”
“To remind me of the muggle world!” exclaims Harry.
“Who’s Rihanna again?” asks Ron.
“And then there was Fleur.” says Hermione.
“What about Fleur?” says Harry.
“Well.” says Ron. “She’s a girl, isn’t she?”
“You stared at her a lot.” says Hermione.
“She was part Veela,” says Harry. “Everyone stared at her.”
“Yeah,” says Ron. “All the dudes. And lesbians, I guess.”
“And bisexuals,” says Hermione, giving Ron a stern look. “And anyway, what about Cho?”
“I didn’t ask for that kiss,” says Harry. “I was practically a bystander.”
“A bystander with a tongue in her mouth.”
“She was crying,” Harry points out.
“Tears don’t make it less gay.” says Ron solemnly.
“Or bisexual,” Hermione adds, looking at Ron again.
They’re all silent for a moment, taking long sips from their butterbeers.
“And then there was Malfoy.” says Hermione, after a poignant pause.
“No,” says Ron. “No, she doesn’t count, because Harry did not like her.”
“Hmm,” says Hermione, watching Harry choke on her butterbeer.
“Oh,” says Ron. “Oh, god, you didn’t like her, did you Harry?”
“No,” Harry says, with great difficulty and mental manuvering.
Ron takes a relieved sip of his drink. Harry waits for him to finish.
“I am having sex with her, though.”
Ron somehow still manages to start spluttering and coughing, and Hermione is forced to give her boyfriend a couple hard slaps on the back.
“Fuck,” he says, once he can breathe again. “Really?”
Harry swallows and looks at the table.
“Harry,” says Hermione. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“How did this even happen?” wails Ron, eyes glistening with deep distraught.
“Um,” says Harry. “I, basically, went to a lesbian bar. And, urgh, she was there. And we then kind of maybe had sex.”
“Harry,” says Hermione. “Do you two actually talk?”
The memory of Malfoy whispering “sweet nothings” into her ear whilst driving into her repeatedly on the kitchen table flashes across her mind.
“Urm,” says Harry. “Not really?”
“I need firewhiskey.” says Ron. “We all need firewhiskey. If the press gets a hold of this, the whole world will need to be doused in firewhiskey.”
“It’s just a casual thing,” says Harry. “It’s not like – like we’re dating, or something.”
They both stare at Harry.
“We’re not going to be dating.” Harry says, firmly.
“Harry,” Ron begins hesitantly, looking nervous. “Is scissoring actually a thing?”
Both she and Hermione cast him looks of disgust.
“I’m so disappointed,” mutters Hermione. “Why am I disappointed? I should have expected it.”
“Malfoy,” says Harry that night, twirling a lock of white hair between two fingers. They’re splayed across each other, the leftover lumos from Harry’s wand illuminating the sweat glistening over their skin. “Draco,”
Malfoy grunts, burying her face into Harry’s neck.
“Have you,” Harry says. “Have you ever thought about going somewhere? Like, together?”
Malfoy lifts her head, and stares down at Harry, eyes unreadable.
“What are you trying to say?” She says, voice very even.
“Nothing.” says Harry. “Nothing, I just –“
“I just wondered. I was just wondering if you maybe wanted to get to know each other. A bit.”
“You know me,” says Malfoy. “I stepped on your face.”
“Draco,” says Harry.
“Anyway,” says Draco, voice rising rapidly. “Why do you care? Are you in love, Potty?”
It’s a horrible thing to say, and Malfoy must know it, so Harry leaves the conversation and rolls over, staring at that muted light, and the way it ripples across the folds of the bed sheets.
Harry avoids Malfoy for a week after that. When she finally caves in again, she finds herself leaning against the wall, with Malfoy glaring at her from across the hall.
“You’re back.” says Malfoy, crossing her arms.
“Yes.” says Harry. “Shall I eat you out?”
Sometimes, over the last few months, Harry had been surprised by how soft Draco’s skin had been, how gentle it was to touch, like silk, like expensive face creams, like a cloud. She hadn’t been able to understand how something so soft could be so biting, could be so cold, could be so sharp. How curves could make up such hard lines. How people could be intimate, even whilst sharing so little, whilst being so dishonest. She hadn’t understood how walls could be built out of cotton, out of kisses, out of things so vulnerable. She didn’t understand relationships, and she didn’t understand how opposites could entwine like that.
Malfoy is all hard lines now.
“I didn’t know you were fucking other people.” is all she says.
“What?” says Harry.
“I thought you were a great fat dyke now.” Malfoy is smiling very unpleasantly.
“I like boys too.” says Harry. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“That you were sucking cock behind my back?”
“No,” says Harry. “I didn’t think you cared at all.”
There’s a moment where they’re just staring at each other.
“Weren’t you fucking other people too?” says Harry, suddenly curious and something else, something different rising in her as well. She tips her head to the side.
Malfoy flicks her wand and Harry is thrown against the wall.
Another flick and bonds come up and wrap themselves over Harry’s limbs, holding her in place. She struggles to catch her breath, head ringing.
“Fuck you,” says Malfoy, coming in close to her and dropping her wand on the ground. She grips Harry’s jaw, and raises her other fist as if to punch her, punch her so hard she bursts through the skin of Harry’s cheek, but somewhere on that journey something gets confused, and when Malfoy meets Harry’s skin it’s with a desperate kiss.
They kiss and kiss, Malfoy angling Harry’s chin with one hand, her tongue delving into Harry’s open mouth, tasting her, taking her, mouths clashing against each other that their lips are both bruised. Malfoy grabs Harry’s hips and shoves her further into the wall.
“Fuck you,” she gasps. “You’re no good. You deserve to hurt. You deserve to be torn apart.”
Harry gasps and arches her back into Malfoy, grasping onto the bonds so she can wrap her legs around her waist.
“You tore me apart,” says Malfoy, breathing heavily. “You ripped up my skin. Now I’m going to rip up yours.”
But when Malfoy’s hands find their way under Harry’s shirt, rubbing against all that hot hot skin, her fingers smooth over it in reverence, like worship. Harry can’t breathe, and all of her is aching so wonderfully.
“Is this a fantasy for you?” asks Malfoy, a hand dipping into Harry’s trousers and plunging in two fingers with no warm up, so that it would have probably hurt, if Harry wasn’t so wet. “Tell me, is this just a fantasy for you? Is this how you would have liked it when you were dating men, when you were fucking the Weasel? Is this how you imagined it, all this fighting back, all this hate, all this hurt?”
She smashes Harry’s head into the wall again, and Harry accidentally bites her tongue, causing her to cry out in pain. Draco leans in very close. Harry can feel her breath, feel her breathing, all over her, inside her, within. Harry can only feel, feel until thought is worth nothing.
“Is this what you wanted?” growls Draco. “All this ass, all this pussy, these tits? Is this what the fuck you wanted?”
“God, Draco,” Harry moans, voice breaking, her back bending like a bow being strung. “God, god, I want you.”
“Tell me you want me.” says Draco. “Tell me you need me. Tell me I’m the only one you need, tell me I’m the only one you see, tell me no one else can do it like this for you.”
“I only want you,” gasps Harry, clinging to the bonds, trying to kiss Draco. “I only see you.”
“Tell me I’m the only who gets you hot like this, the only one who makes you scream.”
“You’re the only one,” says Harry. “Fuck, you’re the only one.”
“Tell me you love my pussy. Tell me you couldn’t do this for a man; a man couldn’t make you feel like this.”
Harry groans, throwing her back and grinding into Draco’s fingers desperately.
“Tell me,” demands Draco. “Tell me you’ve never felt this way about a man.”
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” Harry gets out, and then she comes, voice twisting and breaking and body clenching around Draco, pulsating against the tips of her fingers.
Draco goes limp on top of Harry, and Harry makes the bonds disappear with a single thought, dropping her arms to wrap them around Draco. They’re both breathing, damp and messy, and Harry runs a hand through all that ice-like hair.
“Hey,” she says, lifting Draco’s head and kissing her forehead. “Hey.”
She pushes Draco back onto the ground, gently, like she’s handling a doll, and Draco is all loose, and melted, and liquid in Harry’s hands. Harry lays her down, and kisses her cheeks, her stupidly angular brows, her cupid’s bow, her chin, her nose. She kisses her neck – light, fluttery, the kind of kiss a mother feathers over her baby’s chubby arms as she rocks it to sleep – she kisses her sternum, her breasts, her shoulders, and her stomach. She runs a hand again through all that icy hair, and kisses her eyelids, and down, and down, and down, until Draco’s legs curl around Harry’s head and her body lifts and she gasps a little, and makes these soft littles mewls, these desperate little “oh, oh, oh” s, and until her voice goes dry as she buries her fingers into Harry’s hair and taps them against the nape of her neck, and climaxes with a fragmented moan that seems to keep on going, keep on stretching out, until her body goes slump again, and Harry is back to kissing her thighs and the tips of her hipbones.
And maybe sometimes sex is all take and give, and maybe sometimes sex is a gambling game, a game with each other, a game with yourself – maybe sometimes sex is a power flow, and maybe it’s best that way – but maybe sometimes it is also just a way of digging deeper into someone, shovelling all that extra earth, all that extra person out of the way, so that you can take a look at their core, so that you can feel it warm you, watch all that burning that goes on beneath them shine brighter on your face than it has before.
Maybe sex is about pleasure, and maybe it’s about pain, and maybe it’s about the delicate pulling and pushing between disgust and desire – maybe it’s about all of that, and maybe it’s also a very little bit about love. A very little bit about home. A very little bit about feeling safe, even when you’re raw. Maybe it’s about how safety is in the rawness, or rawness is in the safety.
Or maybe it’s just the ink, or just the paper, or just a conversation, or the room to grow. After all, words are just words, and letters are just letters, and at the end of the day, it just depends on what you’re trying to say.
It takes a couple more months after that for Harry to realise that she’s in love with Malfoy.
She breaks up with Ginny too, in that time – a quick conversation, the kind that only occurs when you’ve both been broken up for a while already – “I’m sorry,” say Harry. “No you’re not,” says Ginny, looking at his glass of orange juice. “And that’s okay. I’m sorry, too.” – he’s traveling now, exploring the world on a professional broom.
And Harry’s here now, lying between Draco’s legs, her back pressed against her front, reading a book as Draco eats an apple over her shoulder. They’re both half-dressed – a bra here, shirt there, probably a thong thrown in the mix somewhere – and Draco has to leave for work soon. Harry’s spent the night more and more after she broke up with Ginny, and Draco – Draco still goes hard, of course, but sometimes, she goes soft too, now.
“Topping doesn’t just refer to gay men, you know,” Harry’s saying, leaning her head back against Draco’s bare shoulder and putting the book down. “Can you really call yourself a lesbian when you don’t know the terminology?”
“Oh my god,” Malfoy says, swallowing a piece of apple. “You looked it up, didn’t you?”
“You’ve not been adverse to my research before,” Harry points out, referring to her newfound awareness of the g-spot, something Draco didn’t exactly complain about.
“Anyway, it’s mostly about men,” says Draco says, taking another bite. “Everything is.”
“Even in the gay world?”
“Especially in the gay world. Harry, the word gay is primarily for men. Why do you think they’re always talking about boy on boy couples?”
“It’s easier to imagine two boys dating.” says Harry quietly. “I…find it easier to imagine dating a man than a girl.”
Draco is silent for a long moment, and Harry starts to turn around when Draco pushes her away and stands up, tossing the apple core in the bin. Harry watches her get dressed properly.
“Maybe that’s because, deep down,” Draco says after a moment, pulling on a pair of black tights, rolling them over her calf and thigh. “Deep, deep, down, you don’t think women are people as fully as men are.” She moves on to the other foot, flexing her ankle as she dips it into the filmy material.
“I am a woman,” says Harry, staring at the curve of Draco’s heel. “How could I think that?”
“Really?” Malfoy sneers, and turns around, sifting through her wardrobe. “I thought you were a girl. And Christ – haven’t you ever heard of hating yourself?”
“You’d think so,” murmurs Harry. “Given the things you tell me to get me off when we fuck.”
Draco is silent, pulling on her robes as she avoids Harry’s eye in the mirror. The sound of swishing material folding in on itself fills the room.
“Maybe,” says Draco eventually, her voice cool as she brushes her hair. “You’re just straight.”
“Draco,” says Harry. Draco’s eyes flicker to the ground.
“Draco,” Harry says again. “I still want to go. Somewhere. With you.”
Draco puts down her brush, very quietly.
“Draco,” says Harry, looking at her. “I can’t imagine dating some random woman in general – but I, I –“
Draco is so still Harry almost thinks she’ll never move again.
Harry swallows her words and sits up. She stops looking at Draco.
She looks at the door.
“You can pick me up,” Draco says suddenly, voice hoarse. She clears it, and straightens her back even more. “At seven, on Wednesday evening, if you’d like. And not to take me to just anywhere, thank you very much – I have standards, as you know, and –“
Harry turns around and kisses her on the mouth.
“I know,” she says, after she’s pulled back and Draco is gasping. Her lips feel like they’ll tear in half she’s smiling so wide. “I know, I know, I know.”
Draco reaches up and traces her lip, not quite meeting her eye.
“You don’t know anything,” she says, quietly, brushing her finger back and forth.
Harry kisses her again.
“Does it bother you?” she says a couple minutes later, as Draco pulls her onto the bed, a hand on the back of her neck. “That I like boys as well?”
There’s a pause where Draco just swallows.
“Does it bother you?” says Harry. “That I like boys and I like girls, if I like you most?”
Draco finally looks up into Harry’s gaze, and there’s so much person in there, there’s so much earth that Harry just wants to bury herself inside.
“I suppose,” says Draco, voice shaking ever so slightly. “If that’s the case, then nothing bothers me at all.”
There’s no reason to protest after that.
And in the remainder of her 22cnd year, Harry realises that although liking girls is pretty neat– although liking girls is about hips and lips and recognisable skin, although liking girls is about demanding the most from the world, although it’s about learning to be selfish, to be kind, to be truthful with yourself – loving a woman is still the most honest thing she’s ever felt.