#robin's mind after flufftober: NOW IS THE TIME. FOR HURT

[rockingrobin69]

Arshole to arsehole violence

Malfoy is long silences and twitchy fingers. He never smiles, but doesn’t always scowl anymore, and he doesn’t speak, although Harry hears him practice sometimes. At night when everyone else is asleep. Slow, scratchy notes from behind the bathroom door. He probably does it in front of the mirror, watches the thick lump of his tongue barely move behind his chapped lips. Harry sure does stare at it a lot. Finds himself picturing Malfoy’s mouth even when he isn’t looking.

Malfoy is turtlenecks and socks. It’s roasting hot inside the house and he’s always covered, as if on principle. Sometimes Harry wants to shout: we know, all right, we all know about the mark, and we know about the scars, and we fucking know, so cut it out already. His socks are unerringly straight and perpetually black. Sometimes Harry wonders how he knows to match them if they’re all the bloody same. Finds himself thinking, what if they are both left-feet right now, and how would he even know?

Malfoy is infuriating eyerolls and sort-of funny sighs. For someone who reportedly hasn’t said a word in however-many years he’s one expressive wanker. Harry, dunno, kind of likes it when Malfoy’s eyebrow arches and he instantly knows what that means. Likes that they get to look at each other when the adults are being arseholes and know, immediately, that Malfoy sees it too.

Malfoy is petty and cranky, is sarcasm and impatience, is angry, all the time, anger-anger non-stop every minute of every hour of every day. He sleeps as badly as Harry and he eats even worse and he’s constantly walking around like it’s everyone else’s fault, and he’s determined to make them pay. Harry… yeah. Harry can’t say he’s so different after all.

It’s weird that they’re not kids anymore. Harry’s so used to having to prove himself, to fight for a seat at the table, that he still does it subconsciously, and sometimes even for Malfoy’s sake. Not because—it’s not that he trusts him. It’s not that Malfoy did one useful thing for them ever since the big one. But it’s them against Molly and Albus, against mum and Moody. It’s them versus them, and Harry, uncomfortably, got used to the new world order. There’s always a lot of getting used to and discomfort. There’s always a lot of shit, and now Malfoy lives here.

Sometimes Harry says mean things to him just for the practice. Like ‘What happened, wolf got your tongue?’ or ‘better for everyone if you were just dead’ or ‘off my fucking bed, Malfoy, it’s mine, get off’. Sometimes even that isn’t enough and he says really, really nasty stuff, like, ‘is that why they didn’t want you at Grimmauld anymore?’ and watch with satisfaction as all the colour drains out of Malfoy’s face and the way he sort of, crumples into himself, goes small-small-small until the sour patch in the base of Harry’s throat throbs. It’s usually enough to drag something terrible out of him, a truly wild revenge the sort Harry can only dream of: Malfoy is creative and fucking diabolical. Harry thinks that’s when they get along best—when they’re being as cruel as bloody possible, when they break everything around to the tiniest bits and devour it ravenously, choke on it.

The part about Grimmauld stings him too. That they didn’t want him there either. That the fucking Marauders who thought they were so cool and good and dangerous chose Malfoy of all people to crash with them for all that time and didn’t even let Harry come visit.

What’s so special about Malfoy, anyway? Apart from the not-talking and the pacing around like a cat in a cage, apart from how he’s always so fucking serious and nippy and oh-so alert. Apart from the arch of his calves and the way his neck goes just about forever, and the shell of his ear and the tilt of his lips. How he leans on walls and every single doorway, how he breathes real deep and the look in his eyes. How he climbs in Harry’s bed and refuses to leave, just, refuses, stretching and moaning until Harry has no choice but to give up. Malfoy’s a slut and Harry’s so into it that he can hardly speak sometimes. Maybe that’s why Malfoy’s really quiet, and not the whole tongue thing. It’s been years and he should have got a lot better by now.

Maybe that’s the thing that drives Harry mad (he means, the most, more than the rest of it). Malfoy should have been fucking over it, the way all the others seem to be, Ron and Gin and Hermione and Dean and Neville. But he’s like Harry, like that. Bitter. Not better.

Malfoy is mostly a riddle and a curse. And a distraction, sometimes, in the brand-spanking-new world everyone seems so excited about, and a co-conspirator and a nemesis number two. He’s pathetic, and gorgeous, the sexiest thing Harry’s ever seen with both eyes, and just enough of a wet-cat to high-kick all the right places in Harry’s belly. Harry can’t stand him and wants him, badly, worse than he’s ever wanted anything: and has him, has him, clasped so tight he’s gagging, and begging for Harry’s hands to go tighter still. He’s a slut for pain and Harry is too, he’s a maniac and Harry is worse, he’s beyond repair and Harry is—ha—he’s the rat and Harry’s the trap, he's the parasite to Harry’s host, he’s the sickness to his blood and the only thing that matters.

Malfoy is here, which is all of it in a nut shell. And Harry won’t let go.