The Scent Of Malice | drarry

twenty six | an exercise in self control

The first thing Draco wanted on his return to Hogwarts was ecstasy, sex, and a good fucking nap, in that order.

He'd had a rough couple of weeks at the Manor to say the least and had come back to school angry, touch starved, and (though he despised the word) horny. Where was Potter when you needed him? The git hadn't seemed happy to see him back for the Spring term, a fact which Draco deeply resented.

He was meant to fall to his knees immediately in delight upon Draco's return, and kiss the ground he walked on, or at least offer to suck his dick behind the broom sheds. Not bloody ignore his insults over the welcome feast, and refuse to sit by him in Astronomy again.

"What's the matter with you?" Draco hissed as Potter pulled his books over to a desk nearer the tower's windows. "Afraid I might finger you?"

But Potter didn't rise, which was beyond infuriating. Who did he think he was? He'd had two whole weeks to get over the incident with Weasel, and though Draco wasn't denying it was traumatic (I can't believe she actually touched me, he'd shuddered on more than one occasion), surely a saint like Potter could find it in his heart to forgive and forget?

By now, they were a week into term, and it was getting ridiculous. Draco hadn't relied on his own hand for relief so much in years, and he was getting extremely bored of it.

He thought about sleeping with someone else, anyone else, but it somehow didn't sit right in his mind. He hadn't been lying when he told Potter no one else satisfied him the same. Bloody stupid git with his sexy bed-hair and his sexy voice and his sexy everything else. I despise him.

Their first Quidditch practice of the new term was a dark Thursday evening, and once again the Slytherin and Gryffindor slots overlapped, so Draco assumed he'd at least be in luck afterwards, like he normally was.

But Harry noticed the hungry look in Malfoy's eyes the second he came over to him after practice, soaked in sweat and radiating sexual frustration, and it was all he could do not to physically flinch away from him.

"I don't think I can do this," he said, and Malfoy's face fell.

"You're not still holding a grudge for the Weaslette incident, are you? Because Potter, I told you, it was non-consensual, she just went for my-"

"No, it's more than that," Harry shook his head. He wondered how to give his sadness words. Malfoy's eyes drank him thirstily up while he waited, almost primal in his need, and Harry could tell that once again their minds were speaking different languages.

"You left without saying goodbye," was all he managed. His voice cracked, and he knew he hadn't conveyed even a glimmer of what he'd wanted to say. He sounded pathetic, infantile, and Malfoy scoffed unsympathetically.

"Is that seriously what you've been so moody about?" he demanded. "That I didn't say goodbye to you???"

Harry stayed quiet, but Malfoy only gathered momentum.

"What am I, your fucking boyfriend? Did you want a kiss bye-bye? Want me to tell you how I'd miss you?"

By now the taller boy was leaning in very persuasively, Harry could almost feel his body heat, count his abs through his soaked down jersey, but he told himself he wouldn't give in.

He pressed a hand to his own stomach; he could feel his pulse there but willed it to slow. Be still, my aching heart.

"I just expected to see you," Harry said in a hurt little voice. "And you didn't even write to me."

"Write?!" Malfoy's eyes were wide with indignation and surprise. "What the hell was I meant to write?"

"Anything!"