Calanthe

Gush

When detention is the battleground and pumpkin juice the weapon of choice, which
general’s tactic will win the war?

Every once in a while Harry wished he’d let the Sorting Hat put him anywhere but bloody
Gryffindor. There was a lot to be said for Gryffindor most of the time: nice views from the
tower, general acknowledgement of one’s bravery over being saddled with less cool
traits like brains or self-interest, and a Head of House like McGonagall. However, there
was also a lot to be said against Sorting into Gryffindor: thousands of stairs up to the
tower, general mockery of one’s bravery instead of having useful traits like brains or self-
interest, and a Head of House like McGonagall. It was a fact that no other Head of House
doled out detentions to their own like she did.

“Potter, I am fed up of your persistent time-wasting in my lessons. I expect sixth years

with N.E.W.T.s on the horizon to be able to maintain concentration for more than two
minutes at a time. When I set a written exercise it’s because I know you will learn from it,
and not because I wish to provide you and Mr Weasley with scheduled time for launching
projectiles at your Slytherin classmates.”

“But--”

“I expect better from my Gryffindors, which is why your detention this evening will be
spent reacquainting yourself with chapters twelve to fourteen in your Guide to Advanced
Transfiguration.”

“But--”

“There will be sixteen inches of notes, Potter -- notes that Malfoy and you will bring to
my office at nine-thirty sharp.”

“Malfoy?! But--”

“Or later, if the pair of you choose to spend your evening bickering like infants instead of
reading.” McGonagall stared over the top of her square glasses, her eyes transmitting a
challenge Harry knew he wasn’t man enough to take; so much for bloody bravery. He
slumped back in his chair, silenced at last.

“Very good,” she said, pausing at length to drill home her victory. “Since you have yet to
prove your trustworthiness whilst in close quarters with Mr Malfoy, I have rendered

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wands ineffective in this classroom for the duration of your detention.”

Harry’s clenching fists might have been hidden in the folds of his robes, but the satisfied
tightening of McGonagall’s lips told him that she’d clocked his mood anyway.

She turned and walked away, leaving Harry to stare daggers at her back. At the threshold
she produced her wand and, stepping backwards one pace into the corridor beyond, she
scored a line of molten lava into the stone floor between the doorjambs and watched it
fade until it vanished altogether. “Can’t have you leaving before the allotted time, can
we?” she said.

Harry’s mouth opened despite having nothing to say on the matter, but before he could
come up with anything articulate, she’d walked away and left him. Cow. How come Ron
got Zabini and Harry drew the short straw? Ron had started it anyway, so by all rights he
should have got Malfoy while Harry had two hours’ relative peace with the lower ranking
one of the evil minions.

He made a half-arsed effort to rustle through his book to the beginning of chapter
twelve, and when he dipped his quill into the inkpot, the happy thought that Malfoy
obviously wasn’t coming brought a smile to Harry’s lips.

“I fail to see what’s so amusing about wasting an evening in detention.”

Sinking feeling already halfway to his stomach, Harry looked up and watched Malfoy
breeze unknowingly past the barrier spell. He picked a desk on the farthest side of the
room and sneered, his pinched, ferrety features summoning a feeling of intense hatred
deep inside Harry. “Shut it, Malfoy. If it wasn’t for you and your goons I’d be--”

“Hanging on that Mudblood’s every word in the slum that passes for your common room
while you sorted your recent newspaper clippings and stuck them in your scrapbook, no
doubt,” Malfoy snapped.

Taking only a moment to decide which insult to challenge, Harry leapt his feet. “Don’t
you call her that!” he shouted, drawing his wand out of habit and pointing it at Malfoy’s
head.

Malfoy snorted and ignored the threat. “No denial on the scrapbook, I note. Not that I’m
surprised. Your ego is legendary.”

The thought of pounding Malfoy’s face to mush filled Harry with a wave of pleasure. The
distracting sensation gave him enough time to rethink his strategy and lower his wand.
“It must be hard, being so jealous of me,” he said as he flopped back into his chair and
enjoyed the downturn of Malfoy’s expression. “All that money and power, yet your dad
still had to get sent to Azkaban to get more column inches than me. And that was only
for one day.”

For once in his life Malfoy looked genuinely threatening, all puffed up and bristling. Harry

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basked in his success and waited for Malfoy to discover that his wand was firing blanks.

“At least I’ve got a father,” Malfoy said, his voice low with venom.

The warm and fuzzy glow in Harry’s stomach solidified to stone, and he wondered how
many more seconds he was going to have to spend cooped up with Malfoy, and whether
McGonagall had alerted the infirmary in case they resorted to non-magical methods of
duelling.

Harry turned his attention back to his textbook and parchment and did his best to ignore
Malfoy’s rustling and huffing. Several minutes later the sound of a chair scraping across
the floor signalled the end of the disruption, and Harry hunched yet further over his book
so that he didn’t have the added annoyance of seeing Malfoy on the periphery of his
vision.

A few more minutes later Harry reread for the fifth time an incomprehensible paragraph
on alchemy and the ethics of Transfiguration, and rubbing at his eyes, he happened to
glance across at his fellow detainee-slash-nemesis and barely contained a derisive snort.
Malfoy’s writing materials were laid out with set square precision, and he was furiously
dabbing at an ink splotch on a page of his pristine textbook. Harry looked down at his
own dog-eared, scribbled-in book and allowed himself a grin. If Malfoy had been given
the Half-Blood Prince’s Potions textbook, he’d probably have slung it back at Slughorn in
disgust amidst protestations about other people’s cast offs; not the greatest example of
Slytherin self-interest, but poetic justice in Harry’s view.

“What are you looking at?”

“Just wondering how long before you give yourself a stroke.”

“What? What on earth are you on about? I’m not stroking; I’m blotting.”

Harry opened his mouth to clarify, recognised the pointlessness, and shut it again. Malfoy
seemed to take this as permission to carry on speaking.

“Bloody inhumane conditions. When my father hears about this he’ll ….”

Malfoy appeared to think better about expounding on the potential repercussions. Harry
doubted Lucius wielded much power from his cell in Azkaban. He enjoyed watching
Malfoy struggle to keep his mouth shut, though; it was much more entertaining than
Advanced Transfiguration theory.

“This is not a detention, it’s premeditated torture,” Malfoy chuntered on, apparently
imagining that Harry gave a toss. “I’m entitled to sustenance,” he barked. “Pumpkin
juice!”

It occurred to Harry that a genetic predisposition towards mental infirmity might explain
a lot of things about the Malfoys.

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“Pumpk-- ah,” Malfoy amended, pleased, as a large jug of juice and a tumbler appeared
on his desk.

“What the …?” Harry exclaimed, shocked not so much that Malfoy had demanded a
drink, but that it had appeared. Apart from the fact that he hadn’t said ‘please’, Harry
was mildly annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it himself. Now he wouldn’t be able to ask
for a drink on principle, however thirsty he felt, and watching someone else enjoy a nice,
cold pumpkin juice was more effective in creating a thirst than the hottest of summer
days.

Malfoy stared at Harry as he picked up the jug, poured himself three-quarters of a

glassful of juice, and emptied the glass in one long series of gulps.

“Ahhh,” Malfoy sighed as he poured himself a second glass and set the jug down, close
to empty. Harry looked longingly at the dribble of juice left in the bottom of the
condensation-frosted jug, imagining its refreshing tang on his tongue. Malfoy’s
expression made it clear that he wouldn’t be offering to share, and as he raised the
tumbler again he shot Harry the smuggest smile he’d had ever felt the urge to wipe off
Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy’s Adam’s apple worked rhythmically as he swallowed mouthful after chilled

mouthful of the second drink, and when Harry caught himself staring he felt
uncomfortable, like he’d been spying on something more intimate. Harry felt his quill
bend dangerously in his fist and realised that both his hands were balled up tight.
Seconds too late he realised that Malfoy had also spotted this, and as if to underscore
the moment Malfoy dashed the dregs from the jug into his glass and finished that off
too.

Malfoy exhaled loudly and settled back as though he was lounging on a comfortable sofa
instead of a wooden chair. When he said, “Pumpkin juice!” for a second time, conjuring a
fresh jug and glass, Harry knew the gloves were off; it was psychological warfare, and
both sides were bent on winning.

“I find the pumpkin juice particularly refreshing at this time of year, don’t you agree,
Potter?” Malfoy said, suddenly solicitous.

“If you say so,” Harry responded acidly.

“I do say so, Potter, I do.” This time when he raised the jug to pour, Malfoy tipped the
juice from several inches above the rim of the glass so that the slosh of liquid tumbling
was exaggerated in the quiet of the classroom. Harry watched Malfoy’s spidery fingers
trace lines through the water droplets on the outside of the glass before he lifted it back
to his lips and took a measured sip. This time he swilled the juice around his mouth as a
connoisseur of fine wine might do when sampling a bottle, and his eyelids fluttered
closed as he swallowed. “Quite delicious,” Malfoy said with feeling. “The perfect aid to
concentration, don’t you find?”

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Harry considered Malfoy contemptuously for a few moments before picking up his quill
and turning back to his book. The words on the page were a blur, mainly thanks to the
fact that the focus of his attention was sitting ten feet away on the other side of the
room, making a drama out of sipping his drink. The clink of glass against wood rang out
with annoying regularity, and Harry knew that Malfoy was punctuating his every swig
with an aural performance for his benefit.

Time crawled by, and Harry made a perfunctory effort to scratch out a few notes, well
spaced to give the appearance of exaggerated quantity. A smattering of intentional
spelling mistakes also took up a reasonable amount of room on the page, but Harry was
still a good eight inches short of measuring up to McGonagall’s demand.

When a third jug of pumpkin juice appeared on Malfoy’s desk, the temptation to run to
the other side of the room and empty it over his smug fucking head was overwhelming.
The only redeeming aspect of the charade was that it was pretty clear Malfoy wasn’t
thirsty any more, and he was only drinking out of spite. Harry allowed himself a knowing
smile, and Malfoy faltered as he lowered the half-empty glass back to the desk. Surely it
couldn’t be long now until Malfoy felt the weight of several pints’ worth of pumpkin juice
on his superior, pureblood bladder. Harry looked across at the doorway and hoped the
barrier spell hated Malfoy as much as he did. Clearly confused, Malfoy tracked the glance,
but couldn’t decipher its meaning.

Halfway down the third jug, Malfoy shoved his chair back and headed for the door,
sneering in Harry’s direction as he went. Anticipating the entertainment to come, Harry
pointedly laid down his quill and sat back, arms crossed, waiting for Malfoy to get to the
doorway.

Sure enough, the moment Malfoy attempted to cross the threshold there was an orange
flash and a thunderous clap, and he was bounced back into the room. “What the fuck?!”
Harry watched a blotchy flush climb up Malfoy’s neck and onto his cheeks, and silently
acknowledged that McGonagall was the best Head of House a pupil could ever want.

“Toilet’s just over there,” Harry said, pointing past Malfoy to the door on the opposite
side of the corridor. Ah, so close, but so very far away.

“This is an outrage!” Malfoy screeched. “I am being held prisoner!” And then, face
pressed against the crackling barrier, he continued, “I demand to be let out this instant!”

Harry laughed out loud, finding Malfoy’s hair-trigger temper a matter of great hilarity.

“Filch!” Malfoy shouted. “FIIIIILCH! Let me out immediately!”

The more Malfoy shouted, the more colourful his language became, to mention nothing
of his face. Harry was rocking back and forth on his chair, fully in the grip of hysterical
laughter. He laughed so hard that he knocked the desk, upending the inkwell all over his
parchment, but he was too far gone to care.

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It didn’t take Malfoy long to focus his anger, and within moments he was looming over
Harry’s chair. “Whatever you’ve done to the door I suggest you get your wand and let me
out. Now,” he snapped.

Barely able to breathe through his guffaws, Harry couldn’t answer, which wound Malfoy
even tighter until his eyes bulged out of their sockets as the tension of holding it in grew.
Strange, how the removal of access to the toilet transformed the desire to go into
desperation.

“You won’t think it’s funny when you can’t get to the toilet either,” Malfoy said, possibly
in the hope that his observation would convince Harry to release his nefarious grasp on
Malfoy’s freedom.

Collecting himself with effort, Harry said, “I think I can last one more hour given
that I haven’t downed four pints of pumpkin juice in quick succession.”

Malfoy’s expression turned sourer still, and because it was too good an opportunity to
miss, Harry retrieved his wand and demonstrated its uselessness with a flourish. “Why
don’t you get the house-elves to bring you a pot to piss in?” The picture in his head was
so funny that Harry started laughing again, and he didn’t stop for a while by which time
Malfoy had strode back to the doorway to examine the barrier spell in more detail. Harry
watched him and was amused to detect an uncomfortable jiggling partially hidden by
Malfoy’s robes.

Looking over at Malfoy’s abandoned desk, Harry saw the half-full jug and the glass.
Estimating their combined capacity, he reflected that Malfoy was probably so bursting
for a pee that even if both vessels had been empty there would likely be a substantial
overflow by the time he was done urinating.

Malfoy continued muttering, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” under his breath, and didn’t turn when
Harry got out of his chair, or ask him where he was going.

The glass had retained the coolness of the pumpkin juice so that when Harry picked both
pieces up, they slipped slightly in his grip courtesy of the moisture on their surfaces.
When they clinked together Malfoy stopped swearing and swung to face Harry. “Want
my sloppy seconds?” he challenged, but Harry didn’t bite. Instead he carried them back
to his own desk, slid his textbook and parchment to the side, and placed them right in
the middle. He contemplated them in silence for a minute or two before lifting the jug,
checking first to see that Malfoy was watching.

He tipped the handle slowly so that the tiniest splash trickled into the glass below. The
sound echoed off the stone walls, and Harry watched Malfoy’s lip quiver in reaction.
Attention back on the jug again, Harry lifted his arm higher, letting out drop after
plopping drop into the glass until he tipped the jug further and the stream of juice
thundered down like a waterfall, slopping out of the glass and onto the desk in fat
droplets.

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Malfoy quaked visibly, his breaths loud and choppy. His body appeared to be vibrating in
an effort to contain the comical hopping from one foot to the other that usually
accompanied being absolutely bursting for a wee. His gaze was riveted on the orange
flow, caught in the crosshairs of calamity with no hope of a reprieve.

When the splashing ceased he looked murderously at Harry. “I suppose you think you’re
funny,” he spat, so Harry lifted the glass and swilled it slowly in his hand. The pumpkin
juice swirled in random ellipses, precariously close to the rim. Malfoy’s mouth hung open,
and Harry thought he might cry. “Stop it,” Malfoy snarled, injecting as much venom into
the inflection as his weakened constitution would allow. “Stop it before I smash that
glass right in your face.”

“As if.” Harry slammed the glass down on the table and laughed, ingesting Malfoy’s
suffering as the juice rolled over the top of the glass and over his hand, pooling on the
desk so that the other spills were absorbed into a larger pool, inches wide and almost the
colour of that first, dehydrated piss of the day. In fact, now Harry thought about it, he
was certain there’d been an accompanying whimper from Malfoy too.

Almost immediately the pacing started, with Malfoy marching back and forth between
the open door with its glimpse of freedom, and his desk. As the lap count increased,
Malfoy’s legs bowed more and more and his spine curved down until his gait suggested
he was carrying a heavy and awkward load. Which Harry supposed he was, really. Every
so often Malfoy would pause by the open door, knees and thighs clenched tightly
together, craning his neck on the off-chance that someone was coming along to effect
his release. Pointless, given how out of the way the classroom was, but Malfoy was at the
clutching-at-straws stage, and it was etched all over his every move. His fingertips
pattered arrhythmically against the pads of his thumbs and he bounced on the balls of his
feet in time with some inner tempo that Harry supposed kept the urge at bay. But for
almost another half an hour? It seemed unlikely.

In a short space of time panic set in, and Malfoy bore an expression that suggested some
complex inner battle was going on as he tried to think his way out of his predicament,
and failed. His face became more mobile than Harry had ever seen it, shifting at speed
between fear, fury and pain, his mouth twitching around half-formed, soundless words.

“Perhaps if you finished the rest of the juice off you could use the jug?” Harry offered
smugly.

“Fuck you, you thick fucker,” Malfoy replied, voice wobbly with the effort needed to
retain the illusion of calm, fruitless though it was.

“I’m just saying.” Harry shrugged, smirking at the peculiar roll that had worked its way
into Malfoy’s stagger.

“Well, don’t. Don’t speak, don’t breathe, don’t look at me.”

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“I’m only trying to help,” Harry said, palms up in emphasis. Malfoy’s fists flexed closed
and then opened again, probably at the realisation that if he engaged Harry in a brawl
and the slightest touch landed on his stomach he wouldn’t be able to stop the inevitable
flood. Harry smiled sweetly and watched a vein throb in Malfoy’s temple. Who ever knew
that a detention could be so rewarding?

Malfoy’s hands gripped the door frame and his body language exuded such distress that
Harry almost felt sorry for him. Almost but not quite, because how could anyone feel
sorry for such an obnoxious dickhead? Not Harry, at any rate.

Picking up the glass he tipped the juice at great height back into the jug, splash by noisy
splatter, and watched Malfoy fall to his knees and then into an ungainly sitting position
whilst doing his best to stifle a sob. “Why don’t you just go in the corner?” Harry asked.
“You’re not shy are you?” He knew full well that if Malfoy did get it out and go for one
he’d be admitting defeat, and everything now depended on how far Malfoy could bear to
go to win.

“I told you to fuck off,” Malfoy barked from his undignified heap on the floor, the harsh
tone undermined by the tightness in his throat.

“But even if you’ve got a really, really small prick and I tell the whole school about it,
that’s got to be better than filling your shoes, right?”

Malfoy was going to cry any second; his lips wobbled and Harry swore there were tears
in his eyes. He thought it was one of the most satisfying moments of his life, even ranking
above beating Malfoy to the Snitch every year. His body throbbed warmly, a tickle of
feathers on his abdomen.

“Stop it!” Malfoy whined, and those two syllables were enough to tell Harry that he’d
won, that Malfoy was about to lose it, and that he was really going to piss himself any –
second – now. The roar of victory crashed through Harry’s body and he rocked back on
his heels into its embrace, feeling fierce and invincible, and better than Malfoy in every
way that mattered. There was no way – no way – that Malfoy could believe he’d got
enough willpower to make it to the end of detention and across the corridor.

But as the euphoria subsided it was replaced by an insidious and growing fascination
with Malfoy’s imminent humiliation. Harry was hungry for it, nostrils flaring in
anticipation of that corroborating first whiff of acrid piss, and he hung in the air over
Malfoy’s crumpled body like a vulture waiting for tasty morsels to be spilled.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Harry said. “No one except you and me need ever know that you
pissed yourself like an overexcited child because you were a greedy bastard.”

He couldn’t stop – didn’t want to either, because watching Malfoy show himself up was
priceless, and because a small and previously hidden part of Harry’s psyche was enjoying
it in a way that wasn’t quite normal. This was Malfoy – fastidious and coiffed to within an
inch of his life – yet any moment now that image of him was going to change forever,

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and Harry wanted to savour every dirty moment of his downfall.

“Nngh,” Malfoy gurgled, hunching over in a vain attempt to relieve some pressure from
his bladder. His eyes were wild, two stormy dots in the middle of discs of white, and on a
split second whim Harry jumped forward as though to pounce on him, and that was
when it happened.

Harry saw it in his eyes first – the horror and the relief that he’d given up the struggle to
hold it in, and the release of a pressure Harry could hardly imagine – it was all there to
read, and he lapped up Malfoy’s cringing submission to his need.

Malfoy’s eyes squeezed shut, eyelashes lined with unshed tears of frustration, and he
turned his head away, teeth clenched, as if in denial of what was happening. His legs
were angled in so that his knees knocked together, protecting his crotch from direct
view. Except that there was an exposed triangle of grey flannel framed by lean thighs on
two sides, and the stone floor on the third, and through that slate-coloured fabric a jet
blackness bled up, dull at first as the woollen fibres absorbed the piss and discoloured,
and then a glossy sheen as the fabric was saturated and, finally, flooded through and
dripping.

The stain spread slower than Harry would have imagined, accompanied by Malfoy’s
fractured whimpering of relief and an entertaining range of scrunched up facial
expressions. Before the urine patch had swallowed all the grey covering his crotch,
yellow-tinted wetness started to leak out onto the floor where Malfoy’s bum rested, and
suddenly the pool of piss expanded, a tidal ripple washing the boundary outwards,
signalling the moment when he gave up all pretence of trying to hold back. Breath came
out in a sigh so erotically charged that it could have accompanied masturbation, and
Harry was mortified to realise that he was the one who’d done it.

Heat flooded his face so that the colour was a match for Malfoy’s, and his instinctive
fumble to draw his robes around himself for protection resulted in the back of one
carelessly flung hand discovering that his cock was hard. Harry froze, cataloguing the
jumble of feelings in his body before checking Malfoy’s face for signs that his erection
had been spotted. Under cover of his robes, Harry pressed his thumb against the head of
his prick, more to confirm his fear rather than anything else. He knew he was lucky that
Malfoy was otherwise occupied, or that single indiscretion might have led to any number
of manipulable advantages in a forthcoming skirmish. The thumb remained in contact
though, and as Malfoy’s piss kept on coming, Harry wondered what it would feel like to
have all that stinking pumpkin piss gushing unfiltered over his hand while Malfoy thanked
him for finally allowing him to go.

The image was too vivid, too precise, for Harry to fob it off as boyish revenge, but he
couldn’t stop thinking about it as the cloudy puddle crept out from Malfoy’s arse and
lapped at the heels of his shoes. Finally a smell like acidic Sugar Puffs and stale man
drifted up and caught Harry’s attention. His mouth watered enough to press home the
perverted subtext, and he could have stood there for ages watching Malfoy sit in his own
piss and stink, but the burning orange crackle of the barrier spell signalled their release,

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and quick as a flash Malfoy jumped to his feet and fled, leaving behind the faint miasma
of urinals, his books, a peculiarly shaped patch of piss, and wet foot-shaped prints shining
against the uneven slabbing.

Harry resisted the temptation to squat and place his hand in Malfoy’s dirty water, to test
how warm it was from its journey through Malfoy’s body, and how bitter or pumpkin-
sweet, but it was a close call. Instead he adjusted his prick, imagining wet fingers on his
skin and, trying not to think about the implications of its interest in the proceedings or
how full his balls were suddenly feeling, collected his books, and left the classroom as
calmly as he could force himself to. He did not take a detour to the toilet across the
corridor.

Bloody detentions, he thought as he hobbled away, hard cock trapped painfully in his
underpants.

Bloody McGonagall.

And bloody Draco Malfoy, with his cold, chafed thighs and his ruined trousers and his
underpants soaked with piss.

What a bloody night.

~oOo~

Harry didn’t care what Ron or Hermione thought, or anyone else for that matter.
Something was going on, he just knew it – more than Katie and the necklace, as if that
wasn’t enough. It was something to do with Malfoy missing Quidditch, and Harry’s
suspicions kept leading him back to the Room of Requirement. If he had to spend the
rest of the school year prowling the corridors, he was going to find out what Malfoy was
up to, so when he’d looked at the map and seen two sets of feet, the other belonging to
Goyle, heading in a circuitous route away from the rest of the roaming pupils, Harry had
cast his homework aside and left the confines of his dormitory.

He followed roughly the same path Malfoy and Goyle had, scanning the corridors for
signs of anything out of the ordinary but being disappointed. Wending his way closer to
the Room of Requirement, Harry sharpened his senses, convinced that he must be
almost on top of Malfoy by now.

Sure enough, he rounded a corner and caught sight of some furtive looking movement.
Homing in on a cluster of statues, Harry was surprised by the sudden appearance from
behind them of a flustered Draco Malfoy, who made a beeline for him.

“Potter,” Malfoy stage whispered. “I’ve been looking for you.” He drew near to Harry
and used an outstretched arm to guide him back the way he’d come.

“Oh yeah? Why?” Harry allowed mistrust to drip over his words, and he took a step away,

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enough room to draw his wand without impediment if it came down to it.

Malfoy grinned. He looked like a corpse chewing a mouthful of wasps. “Well, you know,”
Malfoy said coyly.

Harry discreetly moved into duelling stance. “No I don’t,” he said, but he was starting to
get a weird feeling in the pit of his belly.

Malfoy lurched closer, crowding Harry and making him back up. He leered in a repulsive
manner. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?” It was spoken coquettishly, a parody of
flirtation. “You haven’t forgotten,” he continued confidently.

Too true. Harry had not forgotten, and while he had envisaged any number of repeat
performances, such thoughts were firmly compartmentalised as fantasy on the basis that
Malfoy was just too untrustworthy to be around.

“There’s a toilet just along the corridor,” Malfoy said, indicating back behind Harry, and
there was a tempting and squirmworthy undertone to his assertion, one that grabbed
Harry’s attention and wrested it away from his original purpose. “I need to go quite
badly,” he added slyly, and now there was no mistaking Malfoy’s meaning; Harry felt a
flush of heat expand slowly across his chest, and something that definitely shouldn’t,
started to swell.

“Why should I care?” Harry’s voice was full of bravado.

“Because you liked it,” Malfoy shot back. “I know you did. And … and I liked it too.” That
last part was added tentatively, although who wouldn’t shrink from admitting they
enjoyed having pissed their pants in full view of someone they despised?

Malfoy sidled ever so slightly closer – close enough that Harry had to turn his face away
to avoid bumping noses – and the invasion of his personal space caused the skin on the
front of his body to prickle in an interesting and not unpleasant manner.

“If we don’t go soon,” Malfoy whispered in his ear, “I might not make it.”

Harry’s eyes closed on the memory of that dark stain seeping up through the close
weave of Malfoy’s trousers, and the horrified relief in his eyes as he let go and messed
himself while Harry watched. He remembered the sense of triumph, of power in the face
of Malfoy’s helplessness, but most of all he remembered how much he’d liked it, how
hard he’d been because of it, and that he wanted to see it again.

Fingers brushed against his hip, and Harry’s eyes jerked open in time to see a small girl
hefting an ancient and chained textbook that must have weighed half as much as she did.
His compromising position caused an instinctive response, and he pulled away from
Malfoy’s hypnotic proximity. The girl’s glance darted in their direction and then shot
away so that she gave the impression of studying the statuary up ahead.

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A hand closed, vice-like, around Harry’s wrist. “Ignore her,” Malfoy said urgently, his
voice a conspiratorial murmur. “She’s nobody.”

Harry reluctantly turned his focus away from the girl, whose clumsy progress was taking
her in the general direction of the Room of Requirement. She looked odd, like she’d been
hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx, and something about the Restricted Section niggled at the back
of Harry’s brain.

“It’s getting worse,” Malfoy breathed, and Harry’s hand flexed in response to the feel of
the warm cloth against which his hand was now being pressed. There was a subtle
movement, a little shift of something resisting the push of Harry’s palm, and he
swallowed hard, knowing that when he looked down his hand would be cupped around
something intimate, and more shockingly yet, Malfoy’s.

Malfoy made a noise in the back of his throat and ground himself purposely against
Harry’s compliant hand. “I might have to go right here,” he said, mouth brushing Harry’s
earlobe. “I can’t hold it in. I’ve needed to go for hours.” There was no mistaking the
thickening of need, both in his voice and in other places too.

Harry looked down and watched himself knead Malfoy’s cock to semi-hardness in the
confines of his trousers. The hand was disconnected, moving with purpose in
contradiction of the blankness inside his head. He could feel the swollen furl of Malfoy’s
penis, picture the dimpled slit in the crown as it pursed in preparation. He imagined the
steaming rush of Malfoy letting go right against his palm and he groaned, head dropping
forward so that it touched Malfoy’s cheek.

“You know what you’re doing,” Malfoy’s voice persisted, “making me hard so I won’t be
able to piss. You like watching me in pain, don’t you, Potter?”

Harry couldn’t answer either way; one answer would make him a pervert and the other
would make him a liar – not the sort of information any sane person would volunteer to
the likes of Malfoy, with his mean mouth and dangerous views and his full, aching
bladder on the verge of failing.

“I need to go so badly I don’t think I can get any harder,” Malfoy said, turning his face so
that it was buried in Harry’s hair, his breath hot against Harry’s scalp. “Please,” Malfoy
whined. “Please, Harry, let me piss first, and then -- anything you like.”

Desperation like surely that couldn’t be faked, and Harry felt his face stretch to
accommodate an unpleasant smile. He could get used to hearing Malfoy beg.

Malfoy’s body was wriggling, on the edge of his control, as he tensed from side to side in
an effort to clench muscles that were rebelling against the building abuse. Harry could
feel his barely perceptible jiggling, and he pulled sharply at the crotch seam of his own
trousers so that his hard-on could get a bit more room to grow.

“I’ve really got to go,” Malfoy hissed. “I’m going to burst.”

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“Then why don’t you just do it?” Harry replied, making it clear by his tone that he’d enjoy
nothing more than watching Malfoy get a second soaking. He slid his hand out from
under the cover of Malfoy’s own, gently, suggestively even, before jabbing the tips of his
fingers hard into the thin softness of Malfoy’s lower stomach and taking pleasure in the
resulting wheeze and the way he doubled over to escape the digging.

“Fuck!” Malfoy grunted, voice taut with distress. “That bloody hurt!” He didn’t stand up
straight again, and his face glowed a sickly pink colour that filled Harry with a perverse
satisfaction at the pain of his predicament.

“If it bothered you that much you’d have gone to the toilet before you came looking for
me, wouldn’t you,” Harry told him, mildly surprised at the callousness in his voice,
especially since raging hormones were doing a fine job of messing with his higher brain
functions. “And we both know you don’t really care whether you make it or not.”

“I don’t want to do it,” Malfoy said. “I don’t want to p … piss myself again. Please don’t
make me.”

“You want to do it,” Harry said. “You want me to tell you to do it, don’t you?” Something
flashed in Malfoy’s eyes, but he nodded weakly all the same.

A sudden noise grabbed Harry’s attention and he swung away from Malfoy, hand almost
on his wand.

“No!” Malfoy whispered roughly. “Look at me.” A hand shot out and gripped Harry’s
chin, and in his heightened state Harry shoved back until Malfoy was against the wall and
his eyes were wide, obviously anticipating a punch that didn’t come.

Now Malfoy was all Harry could see: the slip of tongue visible between two rows of
perfectly straight teeth, and the shallow breaths forcing his chest up and down.

“We need to go this way now--”

Harry cut off Malfoy with a curl of his lip, and Malfoy’s shoulders settled back against the
wall, all indication of fight gone.

“Go on then, if you want to do it so much.” Because there was no way Harry could admit
it out loud. There was no way he could say do it again because I’ve been thinking about it
for weeks. Not to Malfoy, who couldn’t be trusted where he was concerned. Who
shouldn’t ever be given power over anyone.

“Please, no,” Malfoy murmured, but it was weak, affected, and they both knew it. The
thrill of victory pushed Harry’s cock all the way to hard.

“Do it,” Harry threatened, hand slipping from its grip on his wand to rest menacingly on
Malfoy’s clavicle.

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“Do it now.”

And with a triumphant grin and a moment’s strain, Malfoy did.

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