wanderingsoul
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Love, Hate and Friendship (NC-17) H/D/R
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rolwing
A/N: Not quite sure where this is going, but there will be sex and violence to some degree, so I have rated it NC-17 just in case. I suspect it will go somewhat there.
Love, Hate and Friendship
Chapter 1: The Fine Line
He beat his fists against the wall, beat them until his hands were cut and the wall stained with his blood. It was beyond reason. How could this be happening to him? How could such thoughts find their way into his head? Maybe he should be beating his head against the wall instead of his fists!
“Ron, what the hell are you doing?” Harry’s voice was filled with shock.
Ron groaned and turned to look at his best friend. “Nothing. Just getting rid of some tension.” Of course, he didn’t expect Harry to buy that. But he could hardly tell him the truth!
Harry stared at Ron. “Nothing? You call beating the wall like it was Malfoy’s face nothing?”
Ron cringed. He had to mention that name, didn’t he?
Harry reached out and grabbed one of Ron’s wrists. He turned his hand over, looking at the ragged cuts on the side. “Something must be pretty wrong for you to do this, Ron.” His voice was gentle. He had never seen Ron do anything like this before.
Harry was no stranger to pain. He had experienced more than his share in his young life. He had learned to embrace it, to use physical pain to drive away the pain that went deeper than the body. But Ron was not like that. Ron hated pain, feared pain—almost as much as he feared spiders. Oh, he was as brave as any Gryffindor could hope to be, but Harry knew that deep down, Ron feared pain. So to see him deliberately pounding his fists against a sharp stone wall was cause for serious concern.
Ron turned his face away and tried to pull his hand from Harry’s grasp. But Harry was not letting go. Ron could have made an issue of this and could have pulled his hand away—Ron was lean, but his muscles were much more developed than Harry’s. Harry’s years as Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team had toned his body, given him definition, but the last two years as a Beater had given Ron shoulders and biceps that Harry could never hope to have. But there was no point in making an issue. If he pulled away, Harry would only grab at him again. Harry never let go of something once it entered his head. He was worse than Hermione in that.
“Ron?” Harry prodded.
Ron met Harry’s eyes. Harry could see a range of emotions racing through them. One thing about Ron, he couldn’t hide his feelings. This was a real problem for Ron, but it made it much easier for his friends to know when he needed them. Harry could see Ron needed him now.
Harry reached out and touched Ron’s cheek, running his fingers gently over the sharp cheekbones and slowly down the soft—incredibly soft—curve to his chin. It was a sensual gesture, more than a sexual one. He had meant it to be a comforting gesture, but it was hard to keep it to just that.
“Ron?” Harry whispered “Tell me. You know you can tell me anything.”
Ron shook his head. “Not this, Harry.” He looked at Harry, his eyes pleading. “I can’t…”
Harry brushed his fingers across Ron’s lips. “It’s ok, Ron…”
“Well isn’t this a pretty picture,” a drawling voice interrupted.
Ron started, blushing furiously to the roots of his red hair. Harry just sighed and turned around. “Malfoy, you have the timing of the Devil, do you know that?”
“Didn’t know you fancied Weasel, Potter.” Malfoy snickered, but his habitual smirk was a little tight.
Harry met Malfoy’s steadily. “And what business of yours would it be who I fancy?” There was a challenge in his voice, as though there were words spoken underneath the words.
Draco looked at Harry for a moment. His eyes flickered slightly and he looked away for a brief second. When he looked back his eyes were cold, as cold as the gray clouds overhead. “None whatsoever, Potter.” He looked Harry up and down—slowly, as if making mental note of every detail. Harry felt it. He felt it as if it had been Malfoy’s hands instead of his eyes. And that annoyed him. He felt heat rising to his cheeks. And that moved him from annoyance to anger.
“Then there isn’t any reason for you to stick around then, is there, Malfoy?” Harry felt his fists clenching. Damn it! He knew immediately that Draco had seen that.
A slow smile spread across Draco’s face and he came to stand in front of Harry, well within reach of Harry’s clenched fists. He raised one eyebrow slightly as he raised his chin, thrusting it out slightly. “You’d love to hit me, wouldn’t you, Potter?” he taunted softly. He leaned a little closer to Harry. “You like to hit, don’t you? You just love that feeling of pounding your hard fists against soft flesh, don’t you, Harry?” He turned to Ron, who was starting open-mouthed, looking from one to the other.
“You didn’t know that about your Harry, did you, Weasel?” He chuckled softly as Ron glanced quickly at Harry. Harry was breathing hard. His hands were no longer clenching, but his fingers twitched slightly—as if itching to return to a fist.
“Your Harry likes it rough. Likes his pleasure mixed with pain. Don’t let his soft touch fool you, Weasel.
Don’t think that because he whispers soft caresses in your ear that his hands are going to be as gentle. Look at them now, Weasel.”
Ron couldn’t help it, he looked down at Harry’s hands. They were clenched tightly now, his knuckles white with tension.
“Oh, his breath might be soft in your ear, tender on your skin—but his hands… “ Malfoy looked at Ron, his lips curling into a sly smile. “Shall I show you what his hands can do, Weasel? Care to see the bruises? The scratches? Of course, he’ll take as good as he gives. At least that should give you some measure of comfort, Weasel. When he’s done with you, you can give him what he gave you, if you ca-“
Draco stopped as Harry’s fist connected with his mouth. His head snapped back, and he took a steadying step, but he didn’t fall. He reached up and wiped his hand across his mouth. He looked at the blood on his hand. He laughed slightly, but Harry noticed that he winced a little from the cut on his lip.
“Did you see that, Weasel? That was what you call foreplay. Or at least it is for Potter.” Draco turned back to Harry. He ran his finger under his lip, catching the little trickle of blood. He ran his tongue slowly over his lips, then licked the blood from his finger. He stopped, looked pointedly at Harry then slipped his finger into his mouth, sucking on it for a moment before slowly withdrawing it from between his lips. Then he laughed softly and turned and walked away.
Harry stared after him then looked down at his own hand. There was a gash across his knuckles and his own blood was slowly mingling with Malfoy’s, forming a trickle that ran down his arm. He was breathing hard now, rage—and something else—racing through his veins.
“Harry…” Ron’s voice shook.
Harry quickly turned to Ron. “Ron, I’m sorry, I…” He stopped. He really didn’t know what to say to Ron. Ron was his best friend. How could he make him understand…
Ron looked at Harry. His own pulse was racing. Now what? He was even worse off than before! He knew Harry fancied him. He had suspected it for the last year and a half—and knew it for at least half of that time. It was hard not to know. Harry never actually said anything, but he had caught him watching him as he lay in bed, caught him glancing his way in the shower. There had never been anything…lewd in those looks, just longing. And Harry seemed to make a point of touching him from time to time—nothing obvious, just like when they were at dinner and Harry asked him to pass the pudding it seemed that his fingers brushed against his just a little longer than was absolutely necessary. Or when they were taking their seats in class, Harry would brush his shoulder against his as he passed him—even though there was plenty of room to walk by. And honestly, he didn’t really mind. And if he were really being honest, he quite liked the idea of Harry fancying him.
But Harry fancying him just made it more difficult to tell him. And now! Now there was no bloody way he could tell Harry! Not after what he had just seen… Ron was no fool. He might not be as brilliant as Hermione or even as bright as Harry… but even he understood what had just happened. Harry hated Draco. Draco hated Harry. That was a given. It was one of the ultimate truths of the universe. You could no more question that than you could question that the earth was round and revolved around the sun. And it wasn’t really what Draco had said about Harry. Not what he had implied with his offer to show him the bruises. It was what he had seen in Malfoy’s eyes that had convinced him. And what he heard in Harry’s voice just now. How could he not have known? Harry hated Draco. Draco hated Harry. And Harry and Draco were lovers.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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