Benched

Disclaimer: All characters herein, belong to JK Rowling. I am only using them for my own twisted pleasure. No money is being made.


‘Benched‘
By: Christine


Harry angrily threw his Firebolt down, making a loud clattering sound through the deserted Gryffindor changing rooms; he cursed loudly and buried his face in his hands.

His team had technically won the Quidditch match against Slytherin, fair and square. Unfortunately, when Madam Hooch made an obvious error in her call, one of his teammates of course went into a tizzy, retaliating by whacking a Bludger at her, breaking her arm. Some days, he felt inclined to agree with Snape and the Slytherins about Gryffindor stupidity. Of course, he would never say that out loud.

Harry had stayed back, not wanting to be around anyone as he vented. His team understood, marching toward the changing rooms in charged silence, showering and dressing quickly before going about their business, leaving hastily to let Harry stew by himself.

Harry, sweaty, face red, and his hair sticking to his forehead, angrily removed his arm guards, shin guards, boots, and robes, throwing them down to land near his broom. He had brought his hands up to the fastenings of his trousers when he heard a familiar voice. He sighed, slumping for a moment, and thought, Fuck. I do not need this right now. Rolling his eyes, Harry whipped around angrily as the drawling voice asked, “What’s wrong, Potter? Throwing a snit for finally losing a match, eh?”

“What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?” Harry growled, eyes narrowed, hands on his hips as he glared at the boy across from him, who was standing just before the threshold of the door to the room. “Clearly you can’t read the sign on the door: it says Gryffindor changing room, Malfoy. If you’re looking for Slytherins’ you might want to follow that rank stench across the pitch. You’re familiar with it, right? The scent of deceit and betrayal?”

Draco smirked and moved further inside, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, leering, as he looked Harry up and down. “I came to gloat, of course,” he replied, tossing a cheeky grin at Harry. Harry responded by balling his hands into fists at his sides, wishing he could throw something at the blond’s head to knock that sneer off his face. “Why else would I be here, Potter? Certainly not for your arse.” Draco finished, his tone bored, as he casually studied his nails.

“Whatever, Malfoy.” Harry growled, spearing him with one last glare before turning around to finish getting undressed. “Now, bugger off and leave me in peace. I'm trying to change: the last thing I need is you watching me, suiting whatever voyeuristic fancy you've got now." Malfoy snorted, but remained silent.

Several tense minutes passed, but still, Malfoy didn't heed him, instead advancing further into the room, until he was a few feet from Harry. Harry concentrated on his hands unfastening his clothing, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed and stared ahead at the tiled wall, praying that Malfoy would get a clue and leave. He wasn’t happy Malfoy was there, watching him, for whatever asinine reason, but he wasn’t going to think about it. He just wanted to get undressed, shower and go to bed. It was late in the afternoon, but he felt a headache looming, and luckily, it was the weekend, so he didn’t have any classes that day.

While Harry was preoccupied with his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Malfoy come up right behind him, until he was suddenly shoved into the lockers, head whipping back, striking the metal with a loud ‘clang’.

Harry bounced off the lockers, dazed, glasses falling to the floor as he turned around and gave the blurry form of Malfoy an evil look.

Malfoy just smirked, and pushed him again, making Harry trip over the bench to land on his arse. “Malfoy, what the hell?” he bellowed, glaring at the blond blur, who suddenly kicked him in the side, making him gasp at the impact. The booted foot would probably leave a bruise he knew he’d see in the morning.

Before Draco could kick him again, Harry grabbed hold of the other boy’s foot and twisted, making Draco lose his balance and fall to the side. Draco turned and glared at Harry before getting to his feet and rushing at him. Harry sidestepped, pulling back his arm only to lunge his fist at the blond’s face, catching him in the mouth, splitting it. Draco’s head snapped back at the force, and he gasped at the pain from the split for a second before lunging after the Gryffindor, grabbing a fist full of sweaty hair, eliciting a yell out from Harry at the vicious tug.

Harry grunted as he grabbed at Draco’s wrists, twisting and scratching at skin, trying to dislodge the blond’s hands from his hair; it felt as if Malfoy were trying to rip his hair out in chunks. Even with his efforts, Draco wouldn’t let go: only yanking harder. Harry turned his head as best as he could and bit down as hard as he could on Draco’s arm, making the boy howl in pain and let go, swearing and clutching at his gnawed-on arm.

Harry took that free moment to turn quickly and run for the exit, but was stopped by Draco, who knocked him flat on the cold, hard floor. Malfoy grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his forehead into the floor. Harry hissed and gasped at the impact, feeling blood pour from his nose.

As he writhed on the floor, cradling his nose and trying to quell the blood flow, he didn’t have time to thwart Malfoy as he seized him by his ankles and dragged him over toward the bench. Thank God, it’s not broken, Harry absently thought, moaning as the back of his head landed on the tiled floor with a thump. Malfoy turned him over and muttered a spell, forcing his hands over his head to bind to the leg of the bench with conjured ropes.

Harry sloppily kicked out at Draco, missing him each time. “Let me go, Malfoy, or I’ll hex your arse!” He screamed, twisting and pulling at his restraints. Draco raised a hand to strike Harry across the face; Harry cried out in pain, lip bleeding from the blow.

“I don’t care what you want, Potter,” Draco casually spat, licking the sweat at his lips. His hands moved down to the fastenings of Harry’s trousers, pulling them open, yanking them and his underwear down and off his legs, nails scratching as he did so, causing Harry to hiss in pain. Draco, in a sudden fit of inspiration, balled up the brunet’s underwear and stuffed them into Harry’s mouth, but made sure the boy below him could still breathe. If he had wanted to kill Harry Potter, a Killing Curse would have sufficed, without all the mess that came with suffocating.

Draco picked his wand up from the floor and waved it at Harry, muttering another spell the boy below him couldn’t hear over the blood rushing past his ears. Harry, in turn, squirmed and mumbled as best he could around the sweaty gag in his mouth, nose wrinkling in disgust at having his underwear in his mouth, as he felt his arse become slick with something cold and slimy.

He watched, horrified, as Malfoy unfastened his trousers: a hunger for revenge and humiliation glinting in those silver eyes. Harry swallowed thickly, watching with impossibly wide eyes as Malfoy pulled out his cock, rock hard, and shuffled forward on his knees towards Harry’s arse, raising and roughly spreading his legs out wide. Harry’s fight recovered, and he tried kicking at him once more, but was thwarted by the vice-like, bruising grip on one of his legs.

Lips parted, Draco smirked as he held his cock and without even pausing to tease the Gryffindor, pushed forward until he was balls deep inside the boy beneath him. The gag muffled Harry’s painful cry at the sudden piercing, intrusion. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he tried in vain to withdraw from the blond on top of him, renewing his efforts to squirm away and yanking at his bonds.

Draco gripped Harry’s splayed legs tightly as he leaned forward, shoving in and out with brutal thrusts, enjoying the muffled cries and screams wrung from the dark-haired boy. His hands slipped on Harry’s sweat-slicked legs, and he regained his hold of them, continuing his relentless pounding; he sped up as he felt his orgasm quickly approaching, feeling enthralled at the revenge he was taking out on Potter’s tight, velvety arse. Throwing his head back, Draco came hard inside of Harry, mouth open and dry from panting heavily, Quidditch robes sticking to him as his sweat began to cool.

Harry turned his head as tears leaked from his eyes and remained still, unable to throw the blond boy from off of his body, feelings of humiliation and abuse by his enemy welling in him, threatening to burst through the tightness in his chest. Used.

Draco spared no moment in pulling out quickly; he smirked at the slight smear of blood he spotted oozing out of the abused hole, mingled with his semen. Draco turned, picking his wand up once more, and waving it first at himself, and then Harry, cleaned them both off with a spell. Harry still lay there on the cold floor, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath and something more.

Draco flourished his wand a second time, vanishing the ropes from around Harry’s wrists, glad to see that they hadn’t left any marks as Harry had only struggled feebly, almost as if he had succumbed to his fate.

Harry sat up then, pulling the makeshift gag out of his mouth and sniffling back tears, not looking at Draco as he put his underwear back on. He leaned close to the bench or rather the bench held him up, and looked for his trousers while ignoring the blond. He never saw Draco’s shadow over him, only felt his brutal hand as it slammed his forehead on the edge of the bench, intent on knocking the brunet out cold. Harry slumped over, falling sideways, unconscious.

Draco then decided to stand up, stretching the kinks out of his muscles, and wincing at the bruises he knew would begin to appear a few hours from now. He took a moment to look around at the mess they’d made, and with a sigh, went about cleaning up and rearranging things the way they’d been. Sparing a glance down at the unconscious boy on the ground, Draco grabbed Harry’s trousers and began the tedious effort of pulling them back onto the brunet’s body, refastening the fastenings after clothing the dead weight. Draco dragged Harry over to the bench and rearranged his body to make it look as if he had fallen over the bench, landing on his arse.

Afterwards, the blond looked around for Harry’s glasses, muttering a quick spell to repair them as they had broken in the midst of their scrap. He walked back over to the brunet and placed them on the boy’s face, looking around to be sure he had fixed everything. When everything was in order to his approval, he pointed his wand at the prone Seeker and quietly said, “Obliviate.”

Draco nodded to himself, satisfied with his work, and turned to walk out of the Gryffindor changing rooms with a proud little swagger to his step, leaving Harry behind on the hard floor.

It was a few minutes before Harry stirred, sitting up groggily as he brought a hand to his head, groaning at the throbbing pain he felt. He felt like he’d gotten hit with a Bludger. He blinked his bleary eyes, looking around and wondering what on Earth had happened. How’d I end up on the floor? He pondered to himself, frowning. His memory was foggy at best, and whatever illuminating thoughts that flitted past, escaped just as quickly, too slippery to grasp.

Harry grabbed onto the bench as he stood up, pausing a moment as a feeling of dizziness swept through him. He furrowed his brows, hissing as he felt a strange pain in his arse shoot up his spine. His eyes swung from the lockers to where he had woken up, and Harry frowned. Huh… I must have tripped over the bench and knocked myself out. Still didn’t explain why his arse had felt as if he’d tripped and landed bum-first on his Firebolt.

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry finished undressing and limped slightly to the showers. Once finished, he slipped into his school uniform and exited the changing room, heading towards Gryffindor Tower, still wary and confused by the situation. He hurt, but it wasn’t excruciating, and he certainly didn’t want to waste Madam Pomfrey’s time over a little bump to the head and a curiously sore arse.

He went up to his dormitory shared by the other seventh years, taking his shoes off as he fell onto his bed, tired for some unknown reason. They plagued him, his curious thoughts, until he fell into a troubled sleep, unable to remember what had happened to him.

When he woke up the next morning, he thought he had the strangest dream, of a fuzzy figure topped with hair of the whitest blond.... Then again, maybe it was just his imagination.

END