Russian Roulette by Lovely_Slytheriness
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: 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.
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Draco Malfoy’s eyes were grey steel in the semi darkness. “Hello, Potter.”
Harry gestured towards the velvet chair across the table where he sat alone in the candlelight.
“Malfoy. Please, do sit down.”
Malfoy slid into the chair in the same graceful, effortless way he did everything else.
Harry had expected nothing less, of course. There had been three years since the last time he’d seen Draco Malfoy, but people like Malfoy didn’t just change.
Malfoy’s long fingers tapped against the polished wood of the table, his gaze gleaming with poorly masked scorn when he asked: “How’s Smith, Potter? Still blonde and flexible? You know, people were really wondering about you after our breakup. Said you were trying to find a… What’s the word? Ah, a
substitute for me.”
“Zacharias is nothing like you,” said Harry stiffly, his knuckles whitening around the object he was hiding beneath the table.
Malfoy arched an amused eyebrow.
“Is he
not blonde, tall, snotty and filthy rich? I must be misinformed. Not to mention blind.”
Harry glared.
“He would never treat me the way you did. Speaking of which, how’s Blaise Zabini doing? Is he still the same spineless prettyboy he used to be?”
Bringing up the topic of Blaise Zabini was difficult. It was not, however, nearly as difficult as seeing the smirk that played across Malfoy’s face in the waxy glow.
“I wouldn’t call him spineless,” said Draco callously. “He did touch the property of the great Harry Potter, didn’t he?”
“I never said you were my
property.”
“Well, you certainly acted as though I was. You turned the table over once at a restaurant because the waiter asked for my phone number. Wasn’t that a bit extreme, Potter? I really believe I could have gotten us a generous discount, had you not been so rude.”
“I didn’t want a discount,” Harry snapped. “I wanted you. To myself.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Malfoy said tonelessly. “I’ve been told I’m quite enrapturing.”
“Who told you that, Zabini?”
Harry knew it was petty. It was useless. But he needed it; he needed to hear Malfoy speak about Zabini, much like a fly would fly into the fire that will kill it, or the addict would seek out their drug of choice – hearing Malfoy speak of Zabini was like the blade of a knife against a sore itch, so painful but so oddly relieving.
“He tells me a lot of things. Would you like me to tell you all of it? Mind, he’s not very talkative outside of the bedroom, I’m afraid.”
Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest, and Harry’s eyes fell upon the ugly Dark Mark, black and absurd next to the white skin. Malfoy had always covered it when they were together, but now his sleeves were rolled up. Harry reached across the table and traced the snake with the tip of his fingers.
“He likes this,” Harry said simply. “He likes the fact that you’re marked, doesn’t he? That’s why you show it off like this. It turns him on.”
Malfoy slapped his hand away instantly. He stared stonily.
“You’re insane, Potter. You really are. Completely and utterly off your bloody rocker. You should get help. I’m surprised Granger hasn’t arranged for it already. She’s a healer, isn’t she? Or is she too busy populating the earth with Weasley these days to notice that the good ol’ Boy Wonder has lost it?”
“Shut up,” Harry ordered, very eloquently indeed.
Malfoy’s presence always robbed him of his wit.
“Once again you’ve stunned the world with your verbal skills, Potter.”
Harry felt that it was time to cease talking, and get to the matter at hand.
He placed the revolver on the table.
“Shiny,” Malfoy remarked.
“Have you ever played Russian roulette, Malfoy?”
“You cannot possibly be serious.”
Harry looked him steadily in the eye under silence, letting him know that he was in fact quite serious indeed. Malfoy looked at the weapon.
“What’s in it for you?”
“Revenge.”
Malfoy touched the revolver.
“And what’s in it for me?”
Harry smiled now.
“Honour.”
Malfoy looked at him, eyes narrowed in doubt.
“There was never any honour between you and me, Potter. You know it as well as I do. There were only different ways of screwing each other over. There’s no honour in that.”
Harry’s eyes met Malfoy’s in a challenge.
“You slept with Blaise Zabini behind my back, Malfoy. I know there’s no honour between us. But tell me, can you walk away from this, knowing that you’re not only a cheating bastard, but a coward as well? I’m telling you to spin that revolver, put it to your head, and pull the trigger. I’ll do the same. If we’re lucky, the chamber is empty. If we live, we live. If we die, we die. Now... Are you in or are you out?”
Malfoy’s eyes gleamed.
Harry spun the revolver.
Malfoy’s steely eyes were morbidly intense across the table, his hair almost absurdly flaxen in the semi darkness.
Harry put the gun to his head, feeling nothing as he pulled the trigger.
Malfoy looked away. Harry smirked.
The silence was raw between them when Harry slowly put the revolver back to the table.
Malfoy’s hands reached for his cigarettes. Smoke curled around them, and no one spoke.
Harry watched Malfoy’s long fingers. He knew those hands well.
He knew them from when he watched Malfoy work in Potions, years ago.
He knew them from when he watched Malfoy fly, those fingers wrapped around an expensive broomstick.
He knew them from when they were clenched into fists and driven into the line of his jaw.
He knew them from years of watching Malfoy gesture vividly to illustrate his anecdotes.
Harry’s jaw tightened.
He knew them from when he would wake up in the Slytherin’s dormitory, Malfoy’s slim fingers laced with his.
Those mornings had been rare, of course. But they had occurred, and Harry had been happy. He remembered what it was like to wake up next to Malfoy, his nose buried in the crook of his neck, breathing him in under a serene silence. He remembered how he’d trace the tip of his fingers along Malfoy’s eyebrows and nose, along his neck and collarbones, knowing that Malfoy wouldn’t mind; wouldn’t push him away, but would simply lay there, holding Harry’s hand and letting him have everything he wanted.
“I really hurt you didn’t I?” Malfoy said conversationally, like some would have asked about the weather.
Harry could lie. He could tell Malfoy that he hadn’t been hurt, and Malfoy would believe him. Harry had never lied to Draco Malfoy. He had hated him for years, he’d loved him and spent years trying to forget him, but he had never lied to him. He saw no reason to start now. Malfoy was going to die by this table anyway.
Harry’s tone was cool when he said: “Yes.”
He looked at Malfoy.
“You’re sweating, Draco.”
The cigarette shook between Malfoy’s fingers but his gaze was firm and determined, a slight smirk playing over his face like a suggestive shadow.
“Isn’t this how you prefer me? Sweaty, desperate and completely at your mercy?”
The smoke from Malfoy’s cigarette curled around them much like memories brought back by Malfoy’s words curled around Harry’s mind. He smiled softly, watching under silence how a drop of sweat rolled down the pale curve of Malfoy’s neck, disappearing beneath the crisp collar of Malfoy’s shirt.
“You know me well.”
Malfoy peered at him.
“Do you want it to be loaded, Potter?”
Harry’s eyes glinted like emeralds under water.
“Just pull the trigger.”
Not replying, Malfoy brought the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Malfoy’s entire body twitched as the adrenaline played in vain through his veins. His face was white as his eyes drew open and he realised that the chamber had been empty.
“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” said Harry serenely.
Malfoy didn’t answer, and ash fell from his cigarette. His gaze was still averted.
Harry reached across the table and took the gun from him, his fingers brushing against Malfoy’s. His skin was not otherworldly smooth or warm or special, but it was Malfoy, and that alone was enough to make Harry’s heart skip a beat.
Pathetic.
Harry spun the revolver, his eyes fixed upon Malfoy, whose gaze was glued to the weapon between them. He brought the gun to his head yet again, noting how Malfoy consistently avoided looking at him.
“Malfoy. Look at me.”
Grey eyes met green, sneer met indifference.
“What are you waiting for Potter?”
“Nothing.”
Harry pulled the trigger, and again there was nothing but a soft clicking.
Malfoy took a deep breath through his nose, and Harry knew he was nervous.
Harry knew Malfoy very, very well.
When Harry reached across the table this time he placed his fingertips gently to Malfoy’s temple, stroking softly as he put the gun down in from of him.
Malfoy’s eyes remained closed.
Harry watched him, not even bothering to pretend that he didn’t love that face.
Malfoy reached for the revolver, and Harry grasped his wrist. He needed to ask Malfoy this question, or it would haunt him forever.
“Did you ever stop loving anyone?”
Malfoy’s eyes met his, the revolver to his head and his finger by the trigger. He wasn’t trembling, anymore.
“No.”
Malfoy’s eyes fell closed; the realisation dawning on Harry like ice cold water along his spine, and Malfoy pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot echoed hollowly in the room.
Malfoy’s blood was bitter in Harry’s mouth.
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