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More Than Nothing	By : Qestral Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8583 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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More Than Nothing ch 2: Unconfessed

Chapter
Two: Unconfessed

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Harry
did a fantastic job of ignoring Draco the next day, which really was
not unusual. This time, however, it was too pointed, strangely
obvious, as he didn't even look in the general direction of Draco's
end of the room.

Or,
at least, that's what Draco thought. It was the grudging realization
that he'd just never noticed Harry's utter lack of concern until now
that kept him from making a scene; being ignored by someone who
should acknowledge his presence drove Draco mad. He was doing a fine
job of hiding it outwardly, but any motion felt exaggerated, too loud
or dramatic as he slammed scrolls down on the desk, scratched his
quill furiously over parchment, put too much force into each step so
he was nearly stomping about the classroom.

Harry
didn't notice, or if he did, he was discreet about it.

By
the end of Potions alone, Draco was about ready to scream with rage,
if anything to make the other boy look up.

This
is insane, he thought. There's no reason to get this bent out
of shape. Potter never paid attention to you in class. This
thought incensed him even more, so he added, It was one of the
rules; no acknowledging each other during school hours. It was
the rule that had made the majority of their sixth year slip by so
uneventfully. Draco had quit tormenting Harry Potter and his
Gryffindor companions, and Harry was less vindictive on the nights
when they met. It worked out beautifully for both of them—Harry
spent less time curbing the anger of those around him, and Draco's
outward decency was mistaken for maturity.

It
was that 'maturity' that prevented him from lashing out at anything
with a pulse now. He saw no sense in losing house points this close
to the end of the year, anyway.

As
soon as class was released for the day, Draco disappeared into the
Slytherin dungeons and his dormitory, determined to sit somewhere
undisturbed by the presence of anyone else to think through his
anger. Bitterness and resentment flooded his mind for a moment with
the memory of Harry telling him he should learn to control his
emotions, that he'd only grow into a bitter old man if his immediate
response to personal slights was revenge. He resented the memory
because of who he associated it with; he was bitter because Harry had
told him this when they'd spent an evening not fooling around but
fighting.

Draco
knew that fight was directly his fault, and he hated to admit it.
Harry had been in the storage room, waiting for his arrival, and
Draco had stormed in with his robes whirling and immediately began to
inform Harry at a high volume—complete with colorful
language—just how awful anyone Harry associated with really
was.

If
Draco had fumed like that to Crabbe and Goyle, they would've nodded
and added their own stupid comments and allowed Draco to rage until
he either calmed down or went to bed.

Harry,
on the other hand, had no qualms with pointing out—in just as
loud a voice with equally expressive words—how much of a prat
Draco had been, even going so far as to say Draco had instigated it
all and was only pissed now because it backfired. This had outraged
him further, mostly because it was true.

Draco
hated having his own errors put on display, even if there was only
two people in the room.

It
didn't even matter anymore that Harry yelled as much as he had that
night. That whole day had been one Draco wanted to forget, one of
those days he wanted to label “bad” and refuse to
acknowledge as having happened for the rest of his life. He'd called
Granger a mudblood and McGonagall had heard him. He'd ripped into
Weasley for his shabby-looking everything and Weasley had promptly
gone completely red and punched Draco in the gut. He'd dropped a vial
of something noxious in the Potions lab, and the substitute (damn
Snape for catching a cold on THAT day, of all days) had promptly
docked house points and assigned him detention before he and all the
other students could escape the room. Draco had spent the detention
cleaning every possible surface he could reach to remove any
remaining evidence of the foul stuff, whatever it was, and the
substitute had only released him at eleven that night because she'd
gotten sick of listening to him whine about it.

He'd
had enough time to shower and change before rushing to meet Harry,
thinking he could take it all out on him and everything would be
better. He'd forgotten whose friends he had been messing with, or
maybe just expected sympathy, however undeserved.

Draco
had forgotten, most importantly, that Harry had no reason to be
patient with him.

“What
makes you think you didn't deserve any of that?” Harry had
snapped at him, and Draco sucked in a breath to retaliate and
stopped, unable to think of anything. “You ruined class, you
attempted to publicly humiliate two different people for absolutely
no reason, and you have the balls to come in here and go on like
you're the victim? Who do you think you're fooling, Malfoy?”

“Don't
start with me, Potter, I've had a miserable day and I don't have the
patience to deal with your righteous crap!”

“Your
day was lovely, compared to making Hermione upset over a stupid
racial issue and throwing Ron into another bout of hating his
family's financial situation. Are you really so self-centered that
you don't realize the effect you have on other people, or does it
just not matter to you?”

Draco
felt something recoil internally, like a slap on the wrist only to
the inside of his ribcage, and he fish-mouthed for a response. His
grey eyes flashed in anger at being so cornered—this was not
how things were supposed to work.

There
was a long fight between him and Harry, and Draco could no longer
remember what most of it was about, though a large part of it dragged
up examples from years earlier of things that no longer mattered,
shouldn't have mattered. Apparently, they did; that was the night
Draco began to realize there was a world beyond himself, and this had
been a deeply unsettling acknowledgement.

“You
need to learn how to work through your anger instead of redirecting
it,” Harry had told him bluntly, when they had both stopped
howling. “Or one of these days, you'll be in a life or death
situation and the only people around to save you will be the ones who
will want to save you the least.”

Given
the circumstances of their lifetime, Draco didn't doubt Harry knew
what he was talking about. Everything had been feeling darker, more
foreboding, since their fourth year—the year Voldemort had
returned.

Family
history with the Death Eaters or not, everyone was at risk.

“What
do you propose, then, Potter?” Draco had spat, resisting this
change in dynamics. “Anger management? Therapy?”

“Seeing
how you'd probably push the therapist into anger management for all
your tirades, no,” Harry responded waspishly. “You're
going to have to work through it on your own.”

“Right,”
sniped Draco, “Since I know exactly what to do.”

“Oh,
shut up, Draco, no one knows exactly what to do. If you think that
what you're about to say will make someone really pissed, then don't
say it.” Harry paused, then added pointedly, “No matter
how much you think they deserve it.”

After
all that, they'd both felt too awkward and too exhausted from
fighting to do much else but go to bed. Draco didn't send a request
to meet again for a week after that, when the guilt had finally worn
off from the last attempt. He didn't want to admit it yet, but he
felt bad for bringing all the baggage into that evening's round of
the game.

Some
inner voice that sounded vaguely like Pansy Parkinson sniped, "If
you bring that much baggage into something that's nothing more than
sex, you'll never be able to get a stable relationship!”

Draco
heard the real Pansy Parkinson laugh uproariously at
he-didn't-care-what in the common room, and he had to resist the urge
to grab a pillow from his bed, run out, and smother her with it. None
of this was her fault, not even the inner voice that mimicked her so
well, or so he tried to reassure himself; though she might've
actually said something like that at some point.

He
sighed in vexation, aware that admitting Pansy had nothing to do with
any of this was a sign that Potter's words had taken some
effect. A year ago, he would've promptly yanked the door open and
told her to shut up.

Emotions
swirled in his heart and mind. Draco sat down on his bed, took a deep
breath, and began to sort out his thoughts.

*

It
had taken more energy than he'd cared to expend to not snap at Draco
that day during classes. Harry hadn't even wanted to see him at all,
and it felt like Draco was going out of his way to make sure he was
noticed.

He
rationally told himself that it wouldn't have made any sense to tell
him to knock it off; after five and a half years, everyone else had
gotten used to Draco's foul temper, and while even Ron had to admit
he'd gotten better at not taking it out on people, that said nothing
for inanimate objects.

Harry
knew from personal experience that Draco would still take out his
aggressions on the living. He'd been on the receiving end of it more
times in the last eight months than he'd ever thought he would do
voluntarily. Those were the only occasions he'd been willing to
accommodate for Draco.

It
was just one of the rules—anger was fine, as long as there were
no marks of evidence later. What they did was about stress relief,
not having a punching bag.

Harry
didn't even know what to call what they did. Or rather, what they'd
been doing up until last night, he reminded himself. It's ended
now. He felt his stomach clench at the thought, and tried not to
remember that his stomach had done the same thing when he told Draco
they needed to stop. That clenching feeling only brought back the way
it had felt, trying to pull away from Draco's mouth, from his warm
body in that cold room.

That
had hurt more than he wanted to admit, a pain he never thought he'd
feel after being with Draco.

He
tried to tell himself it didn't matter what they called it, now,
since it was over and they were the only two who knew it had happened
at all. Harry referenced it as a game just so he didn't have to
describe it in words any bigger than that. Draco had called it 'their
little game' once, and 'game' had become their fallback word. It fit;
it was a word that meant using terms like 'rules' to structure what
was and wasn't okay was safe. They needed that structure, though now
Harry wasn't sure why; it would've been less painful if they were
allowed to hit each other once in a while. It might've taken some of
the emotional edge off of what they did.

But
then, they hadn't really predicted the emotions.

Maybe
I wouldn't have wanted to stop it if we could've hit each other once
in a while, he thought idly. Hard to get emotional with that
sort of treatment.

He
had thought over what their game was, analyzed it into the barest
details so finely that Hermione would've been proud. What he came
down to was that their game was unnatural and hurtful. It wasn't
right to only acknowledge someone when you wanted to get off, and it
wasn't right to do what they did without any emotional attachment.
For so long, the 'emotional attachment' was based in anger and
frustration, which was something they could both handle; when you're
a teenager, there's always something to be angry about, even if it's
just being up late to cater to someone else's sexual needs.

When
he caught himself pretending Malfoy did any of what he was doing out
of an actual, sincere concern for him, however, Harry knew something
about their arrangement had gone horribly wrong.

The
first time it had happened, Draco's head had been at his crotch, his
mouth firmly wrapped around Harry's dick and bobbing back and forth
at a leisurely pace. Harry had simply forced the thought out of his
mind, twisted his fingers into the blond hair at the back of the
other boy's head and forced him to move faster.

In
that same night, however, bent over Draco's lithe form, Harry's hand
running over the other boy's shaft and kissing him fiercely, he heard
him moan, saw his white-blond hair brush against his flushed cheek
and catch in the sweat on Draco's temple and he thought You're so
beautiful. Harry hadn't even realized he'd been kissing with his
eyes open, unconsciously watching him fall away into ecstacy.
Moment's later, their kiss broken as Draco whimpered and began to
thrust upward into Harry's hand, his stomach brushing Harry's still
exposed cock, something Harry couldn't put into words rose and broke
in him. As he watched and felt the blond writhe beneath him, he shot
his load onto Draco's stomach.

The
timing was perfect; Draco lost his own seed at the same moment,
making an absolute mess of his abdomen. If he noticed how much sprog
covered him, or had been at all aware of Harry orgasming twice, he
never said anything.

The
three days between then and the next time they met had been filled by
Harry distractedly trying to understand why it was so important that
either of them care for the other. That wasn't what the game was
about. It was about getting off through means other than actual sex;
neither of them wanted to give their virginity to the other. But
their game didn't have any rules on emotions other than anger and
frustration—they hadn't even considered affection an option,
and Harry wasn't about to lay that one on the table for discussion.

Harry
didn't even want to confess it had become a problem.

He'd
spent three months trying to ignore it, thinking that if he did it
would fade, just like that innocent crush he'd developed on Hermione
in second year. That had disappeared, they had settled into the
'friends zone', and that was fine.

With
Draco, however, that wasn't a possibility. There was no room to be
friends, since they didn't acknowledge each other outside of the
midnight hour—sometimes a little later—and the nature of
the game was purely about satiating baser instincts. Noticing that
Draco smirked with the other side of his mouth when he was turned on
and feeling predatory, or that his hair did the most sex-godly thing
Harry had never imagined when they were fooling around, or that
Draco's fingers leaving red trails as they dragged down his back or
over his rump was a most delightful turn on right along with that
little noise he made in the back of his throat—none of
these things were supposed to happen.

Harry
sighed and flopped backwards onto his bed, not really focusing on
anything, reassuring himself silently that ending their game was
necessary. It had stopped being just about releasing sexual tension
and mental stress.

Somehow,
unimaginably, he had started caring about Draco, and that was too
dangerous of a territory for him to want to be in.
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