1.
After the fact, Harry had to admit– to himself, not to Malfoy or McGonagall– that the second hit had been unnecessary. Malfoy’s hands were both covering his broken nose, so there was no threat, no reason for Harry to punch him again. Besides the fact that the git deserved it for what he’d said about Dumbledore.
Before Charms, Harry and Hermione had been talking about the Skeeter sequel. The book unabashedly delved into rumors of Dumbledore’s love life.
“It doesn’t matter that Dumbledore was gay,” Hermione said to Harry softly.
“I know that,” Harry said. “I just think the way Skeeter talks about it makes him sound like a pervert or something.”
Behind them came a snort.
Harry turned around to see Malfoy and Parkinson by the archway. “That would have made for a much better name for your little club,” Malfoy said. “Perverts’ Army.”
“This is a private conversation,” Hermione said.
“Perverts United,” Parkinson said, and Malfoy laughed.
Harry’s blood boiled. “Dumbledore was not a pervert,” he said through his teeth.
Malfoy shrugged. “Maybe not,” he said. “But the truth’s all there in Skeeter’s book. Dumbledore was definitely a poof.”
Harry stood, and before he knew what he was doing, he’d punched Malfoy in the nose.
It wasn’t a fair fight, though it should have been. Malfoy was taller than Harry, and muscular in a willowy sort of way. But he fought like a girl, always had. He was prone to slap, or bite, where Harry would throw a good, solid punch. Then again, maybe it was Harry who fought like a girl. After all, he’d learned to punch from Hermione.
McGonagall was speaking. Harry forced himself to listen. Her stern gaze was leveled across her desk at him and the still-bleeding Malfoy.
“You must remember you are setting an example for the younger students. After all that has happened in the past year, Hogwarts must be a united front against prejudice. That goes for you, too, Mr. Potter–”
“Sorry,” Harry interrupted, “Professor, I don’t think I’ve shown any prejudice. It was Malfoy who was making prejudiced remarks. About Professor Dumbledore.”
“Potter is being obstreperous. I was stating the facts,” Malfoy snapped. “Skeeter said Dumbledore was a poof. That’s all I said.”
McGonagall’s left eyebrow raised by a centimeter.
“See?” Harry said. “Prejudiced. And homophobic.”
“Homophobic? That’s grand,” Malfoy said, “coming from our resident gay-basher.”
“What?” Harry asked. “I haven’t bashed any gay people.”
“Tell that to my nose!” Malfoy exclaimed.
“Oh, so your nose is gay now?” Harry asked.
“Boys.” McGonagall intervened in a clipped tone. Both Harry and Malfoy were silent.
McGonagall sighed. “You are both, simply put, too old for this. Mr. Potter, no more violence will be tolerated. Mr. Malfoy, please do your best not to provoke Mr. Potter. If I hear about an outburst from either of you, or Merlin forbid another little tussle, you will both be on the train back to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters as quickly as I can have the elves gather your belongings. Understood?”
“Understood,” both boys chorused. Harry met McGonagall’s eye sheepishly. Malfoy was looking at the floor.
“Out,” McGonagall said. “And to the Hospital Wing, Mr. Malfoy.”
Outside of the Headmistress’s office, Harry turned angrily to Malfoy. “This is all your fault.”
“Mea culpa? Surely not,” Malfoy said, wiping blood from his still dripping nose. “I’m not the one with the bloody knuckles.”
“At least I'm not the one with the bloody dark mark,” Harry said.
It was a low blow, if not uncalled for, Harry knew. And as comebacks went, it didn’t flow particularly well.
Still, Malfoy’s lips tightened. “Fuck you, Potter.”
“You and your gay nose wish,” Harry said.
The Headmistress’s office door opened behind them.
“Out,” McGonagall said. “Don’t make me ask again.”
2.
The next time, it wasn’t Harry’s fault. Not really. He’d been skulking around the castle at night as of late. It was hard to sleep. He dreamt of nothing but Snape and Remus and Sirius and Tonks and Fred and Voldemort’s twisted face. He always woke wanting to hit something.
Harry’s feet took him to the Astronomy Tower. He’d been brooding about Dumbledore ever since finishing that blasted Skeeter book. He'd wanted some time to reflect on the man: his life, his death, everything he told Harry and didn’t tell him.
He wasn’t expecting anybody else to be there, but when he saw a flash of white hair on the stairs, he wasn’t surprised.
This was supposed to be Harry’s spot to mourn tonight. He was aware McGonagall would not be forgiving if they were caught in a row out of bed, but he couldn’t help himself.
“What are you doing up here, Malfoy?” Harry called out, “Reminiscing?”
Malfoy turned from the railing. His nose was straight again, Harry noticed, and he felt something like disappointment.
“Oh yes,” Malfoy drawled, “I’m thinking back to the glory days. Maiming Muggleborns. Killing Dumbledore. Getting Crucio’d by the Dark Lord.”
“You didn’t kill Dumbledore,” Harry corrected. “You only tried to. You couldn’t have done it.”
“Because I’m not a killer?” Malfoy sneered. He leaned back against the railing opposite Harry. Malfoy had an air of casual disinterestedness, as if it didn’t bother him to be at the scene of his almost-crime.
“Because you’re a coward,” Harry said, feeling righteous anger rise in his throat like bile. “You were a coward then, and you’re a coward now, sneaking back up here while everyone’s asleep. Aren’t you banned from the tower?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, snuggled up with a few of your fangirls?” Malfoy argued, taking a few steps down towards Harry. Harry could smell his cologne.
“I’m here to mourn,” Harry said firmly.
“Of course,” Malfoy said. “Mourning your massive poof of a professor. Tell me, Potter, did he ever tell you about his preferences? Or–” Malfoy paused, grinning. “Dear me– did he show you?”
Harry’s fist collided with Malfoy’s jaw. Malfoy groaned and tried to hit Harry back. Harry grabbed his wrist and wrenched it away, pinning Malfoy against the stair railing.
“You’ve no right,” Harry said. “No right to talk about Dumbledore like that. And no right to be so fucking prejudiced.”
“I’m not prejudiced,” Malfoy gasped.
Harry snorted. “Right,” he said, shoving Malfoy’s shirtsleeve up. “And what’s this?”
The dark mark looked strange and shriveled in the low light. Malfoy’s forearm was bruised in Harry’s grasp. Malfoy attempted to scratch Harry in the face, and Harry elbowed him in the stomach.
Malfoy’s knees buckled, and Harry had to hold him up with one arm. His nails dug into Malfoy’s wrist. “Dumbledore never did anything— anything inappropriate with me,” Harry hissed. “Get bent.”
“I am bent, you twat,” Malfoy said, stepping on Harry’s foot.
“You are not,” Harry said.
“I am,” Malfoy leered. “Just like your favorite dead professor.”
That would have been Remus, actually, but there was no need to bring him into this.
“You’re not gay,” Harry said again. Malfoy was having him on. He was sure of it.
“Oh, but I really am,” Malfoy said, “fancy a kip up to the Astronomy Tower for a snog? Oh, wait. We’re already here—”
Harry hit him in the mouth. Malfoy moaned aloud. The sound was unbelievably obscene. Malfoy’s pupils were blown, his grey eyes wide and wild. “Potter,” Malfoy said, breath ragged. He licked his bloody lip.
Harry wanted to lean down and—
He ran.
3.
Nearly a week had passed since their nighttime encounter. Harry had been watching Malfoy at every opportunity for signs that he was really gay. At breakfast, he’d watched Malfoy bite around the edges of his toast like a ponce, and coo over his eagle owl. He’d watched Malfoy with Parkinson, the way he kissed her cheek and called her “darling”.
He’d watched Malfoy fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror after a particularly steamy Potions class. He’d watched the swing of Malfoy’s hips when he walked down the halls. He noticed how Malfoy wore his trousers tighter than anyone else’s.
He made eye contact with Malfoy across the Great Hall over dinner on Friday. The git had the nerve to wink. Harry forced his gaze away.
“Malfoy says he’s gay,” he said loudly, interrupting Ron and Hermione’s conversation next to him.
They both blinked at him. “Hagrid says he’s half giant,” Ron said.
“Fleur says she’s French,” Ginny said across the table. “Zacharius Smith says he’s a git.”
“Did everyone know about this except for me?” Harry asked, feeling almost as out of the loop as he had the summer before his fifth year.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, sounding awfully fond.
“Surely not everyone,” Ron said reassuringly. “There must be a house elf in Romania who doesn’t know.”
“He was— you know— with Blaise Zabini at the start of term,” Hermione said. “You must have seen them together. They weren’t very subtle.”
Harry’s brain short-circuited. “Well, that’s just unfair to the girls,” he said eventually, “two attractive blokes like that.”
Ginny snorted into her pumpkin juice.
“He told me he was gay,” Harry said, “And I—” he buried his head in his arms.
“What did you do?” Hermione asked gently.
“I accused him of being a homophobe,” Harry said. “And, er, bashed him about a bit.”
“That’s rich,” Ron said, laughing from his chest. “Honestly, Harry, Malfoy’s so prejudiced, he probably would be homophobic if he weren’t as bent as— as—“
“As the tail of a blast-ended skrewt,” Ginny finished. Hermione hid a chuckle behind her hand.
Harry sighed, risking another glance across the Great Hall. Malfoy was gesturing to the other eighth year Slytherins. He was reenacting their fight from the previous night, as he looked to be punching himself in the mouth. Harry wondered what Malfoy was saying— “And then I told Potter I was gay, and he started spewing slurs and beat me,” most likely.
“I’ve got to apologize,” he said. “I don’t want him to think I’m a homophobe."
“Mate, I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Ron said. “Maybe leave it be.”
Ginny nodded emphatically.
Hermione looked thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she said. “If you can actually talk to him without fighting, you might find out you have more in common than you thought.”
For some reason, this made Ron laugh even harder.
After dinner, Harry cornered Malfoy in an alcove beyond the Great Hall. For once, he was alone, without his usual gaggle of Slytherins.
“What is it now, Potter?” Malfoy drawled. “Here to spew more hatred and violence?”
“You’re gay,” Harry blurted, unsure of where to start in his apology.
Malfoy wrinkled his nose attractively. “So I said the last time you hit me. I admit, I’m loathe to say it again.”
“I believe you, I mean,” Harry said. “Everyone says that it’s true.”
Malfoy’s gaze hardened. “Oh, everyone says so, do they? What did they tell you?”
Harry sensed he’d made a misstep. He'd meant to apologize. “Only about you and Blaise Zabini,” he said, which made Malfoy’s gaze harden even more.
“Oh, yeah?” Malfoy said. “Everyone told you all about how I let Blaise Zabini stick his— ,” he stopped himself. "You know what, Potter? Fuck you," he said, and tried to shove past Harry, but Harry reached out and caught his wrist again.
“Stick his what?” Harry asked, though he could guess.
Malfoy twisted his wrist out of Harry’s grip and slapped him on the cheek.
Harry, out of pure instinct, knocked Malfoy across the face. His knuckles throbbed. For some reason, all of the blood in his body seemed to be rushing south. He was glad that his robes hid his reaction.
Malfoy gaped at him, holding his jaw. “You’re a fucking sadist,” he said, his voice shaking.
The monster in Harry's chest roared with agreement. Ashamed, he stepped aside and let Malfoy pass.
4.
Harry hadn’t exactly meant to eavesdrop. He was outside the Potions cupboard, heading to get more toadstools.
“Does it hurt terribly, Draco?” Parkinson’s whinging voice sounded from inside the cupboard.
It was so reminiscent of their third year that Harry couldn't help but huff a laugh to himself.
Malfoy’s response was equally whingy. “You and I both know it’s worse than that.”
“So it hurts oh-so-terribly good.”
Harry wondered what Parkinson could possibly mean by that.
“Shut up,” Malfoy said without any venom. “There’s finger marks. On my wrist. And he hit me again. And before, in the mouth. And before that, in the jaw. And he broke my nose.”
Harry had the distinct feeling that he was being talked about.
“How kinky,” Parkinson drawled, in a rather accurate impression of Malfoy’s nasally, posh voice.
“I’m going to hex you,” Malfoy said. “His bloodlust is insatiable. He’s a monster. He’s abusing me.”
“You must be over the moon,” Parkinson said. Malfoy ignored her.
“You know, I tried to wank this morning,” he said, “but my wrist hurt too badly. Do you think I should sue Potter for emotional damages?”
“That’s more information than I ever needed to know, darling,” Parkinson said. “And you can’t wank over him and sue him at the same time. That’s just not on.”
Harry dropped his toadstool-less basket with a loud clatter. Malfoy was wanking over him?
The noise from outside the cupboard must have alerted the Slytherins to his presence. The next thing Harry knew, Malfoy was on top of him, attempting to wallop him with his Potions book. Parkinson ran out of the cupboard, shrieking after Slughorn.
“Eavesdrop on my private conversations one more time, Potter, and I’ll maim you!”
“The Potions cupboard is a public space, you creep,” Harry said, grabbing Malfoy’s Potions book and smacking his arm with it.
Malfoy gasped, but didn’t roll off of him, wrangling his book back. “I’m the creep? You’re the one lurking in the shadows!”
“At least I’m not wanking over anyone,” Harry lied.
Malfoy flushed. His face looked becoming when it wasn’t so pale.
“Ever heard of a joke, Potter?” Malfoy asked weakly, and went to wallop him again, but Harry caught his wrist in his hand and squeezed.
Malfoy gasped again.
“If you’re not wanking over me,” Harry asked, “how come you didn’t heal this? You like it, don’t you? You like when I–”
“Hurt me?” Malfoy asked in a tone that was probably meant to be sarcastic, but which sounded more like a request than anything else.
Harry felt all of his blood rush to his trousers, where unfortunately, Malfoy could probably feel it. Even more unfortunately, Slughorn chose that moment to arrive.
“Boys,” he shook his head. “Do I have to tell Professor McGonagall about this, or can you both return to your seats?”
They both returned to their seats, Harry adjusting himself under his robes. He watched Malfoy do the same.
5.
Harry did it on purpose this time, just to see how Malfoy would react. He’d made some snide remark about Ron’s family. Harry slammed him into the stone wall, a little harder than he’d meant to.
“Oi!” snapped one of the portraits. “Careful!”
Malfoy gaped at Harry. His eyes watered.
“Got an apology for Ron here?” Harry asked.
“Mate, what are you doing?” Ron asked. “You can let him go.”
Harry gave Malfoy another shove.
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said to Ron, “That no one in your family knows proper money management.”
Harry pressed his arm against Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy groaned at the same time as Ron made a strangled noise of offense.
Harry let Malfoy go. He was looking too pleased with himself. “Actually, Ron, you should hit him.”
Malfoy had the nerve to look disappointed.
Each day brought more of the same. Malfoy hadn’t been so antagonistic since they were second years. It took little to nothing to get Harry to respond, mostly because it was what Malfoy wanted. He wanted Harry’s fist in his face. Harry was sure of it. It probably had something to do with Malfoy being gay, or just being a masochistic git. Whatever it was, it made Harry’s blood run hot.
It was another late night walking in an abandoned corridor when Harry ran into Malfoy alone. Previously that day, Malfoy had made a crack at Hermione’s buck teeth— a weak attack, since they’d been gone for years— and Harry had stamped on his foot. Malfoy had whimpered, a pathetic sound that went straight to Harry’s groin.
Now, he was walking towards Harry with a determined stride. Malfoy opened his mouth, presumably to say something insulting, but Harry beat him to it. He knew what he wanted to try with Malfoy this time, and it wasn’t a fight.
“You’re a slag,” Harry said.
Malfoy looked taken aback. He stopped walking. “Excuse me?” He asked.
Harry ignored him. “I heard all about what you let Blaise Zabini do,” Harry said, though he hadn’t. “Bet you’d let anyone do that. Bet you’d let me.”
“I’d never let you,” Malfoy sneered.
Harry took a step closer. “You let me hit you,” he said.
“Let you hit me?” Malfoy said. “It’s not my fault you treat me like a house elf.”
“Oh, so you don’t run your mouth on purpose to get my hands on you?” Harry countered.
Malfoy opened his mouth and closed it.
“You know, you could just ask me,” Harry said, stepping into Malfoy’s personal space. They were so close now, he could see Malfoy’s pale eyelashes flutter.
“Ask you," Malfoy murmured. "Ask you...are you bent?” he asked, which wasn’t what Harry had been expecting.
Harry started to answer, but Malfoy slapped a hand over his mouth. “No," he said, "I don’t care. just do it. Touch— hurt me. Put your hands on me.”
Harry stepped even closer, backing Malfoy up against a wall, and wedged his knee between Malfoy’s legs. He ran his hand through Malfoy’s hair. It was as soft as it looked. He gave it an experimental tug. Malfoy groaned. “Salazar,” he said breathlessly.
Harry pulled harder. “See?” he said. “You’re a slag.”
Malfoy laughed a little. “You’re a poof,” he said, and Harry wrapped his hand around Malfoy’s neck. “Maybe,” Harry said.
Malfoy choked a little. Harry loosened his grip. “Kiss me,” Malfoy said.
Harry did. He found it was the best kiss he’d ever had. Malfoy’s lips were as push as a girl’s, though his body was all lean muscle against Harry’s. Malfoy let Harry bite at his lip and wind his hand through his hair. “Hit me,” Malfoy said when they pulled apart.
“I don’t want to,” Harry said, and found that it was true.
Malfoy looked confused. It was the most adorable expression Harry had ever seen on his pointy face. Harry kissed him again, and again, until Malfoy’s knees were buckling.
“Why won’t you hit me?” Malfoy gasped after a while. “You hate me.”
“I don’t think I do,” Harry said. “I think I just want to give you what you want.”
Malfoy smiled with all of his teeth. For once, Harry didn’t feel like punching them out.
“In that case,” Malfoy said, and kissed him again.