InsaneJournal

Fic: Draco Malfoy in Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom with a Foe Glass
AND THEY'RE OFF... AND WANKING!

Welcome to the inaugural post for HP WANKFEST 2011! We know you'll enjoy today's offerings, so... GO ENJOY! (And remember, if you like what you read and see, remember to give the writers and artists a little love.)

Title: His Own Worst Enemy
Author: jadzialove
Character: Draco Malfoy
Location: Myrtle's Bathroom
Prop: A Foe Glass
Other Characters: Moaning Myrtle
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Voyeurism
Word Count: 1030
Author's Notes: Thanks to S for the pre-read and encouraging words, and to C for the beta and general superb-ness. Inspired by D and our mutual belief that Myrtle and the Grey Lady, having a lot of time on their hands, find interesting ways to entertain themselves.


Myrtle had seen quite a lot in her years as a ghost—some of it nice, some of it... not so nice. None of it, though, held a candle to the sight she saw before her now.

Silently blessing the day, almost two decades ago, when the Grey Lady had taught her how to linger—between the ghostly plane and the real world, enabling her to see but not be seen—she floated closer for a better view.

He was glorious: his head thrown back, the white-blond hair shimmering, bathed in the light pouring in from the high windows of her bathroom. She loved to linger before revealing herself to him, watching him unseen whenever and wherever she visited him; not only to gauge his mood, but also because he was beautiful, and she wanted to look her fill before he knew he was being observed, before the shutters came down in his lovely grey eyes.

As she approached him, she noticed a small rectangular picture frame propped up behind the taps on the sink. Instead of the reflective glass one might expect, there appeared to be a crowd of shadowy, silhouetted figures displayed. She cast about in her memory to put a name to the object, but could not come up with one, though she was certain she should know what it was. The shadowy figures seemed restless in the glass, and one silhouette in particular, the one in the forefront, seemed familiar to her. It ceased to matter, however, when she could finally see Draco from the front, as well as what he was doing.

His robes were open, all the way down, one hand fingering the pinkish, newly healed injuries on his chest, and Myrtle felt a vicious stab of anger on his behalf, recalling how they'd come about. But then her eyes caught another movement, and looking down the too-prominent ribs, down his lower abdomen, following a silky trail of baby-fine blond hairs, she found his other hand.

Now, Myrtle may have died young, with no experience to speak of, but she'd been lingering for quite some time and had seen her fair share of male flesh. With this in mind, she felt certain that her assessment of Draco's was entirely objective.

He was utter perfection.

Not too big, not too small. His long elegant fingers were wrapped around the sturdy shaft moving the skin up and down, revealing then hiding the glistening, purplish tip. His bollocks were nicely shaped and even in size, and the V of his hips was blanketed in the same, downy blond hair that looked so wonderfully soft and silky.

His belly muscles quivered as he stroked, his rhythm sure and steady, and he was muttering something under his breath. His hand moved up and down the shaft with increasing speed, his face twisted into something a bit less angelic, though no less beautiful, and his muttering became a steady, low growl. He pushed his hips into his fist with growing force and began pinching one of the peaky nipples on his lovely chest.

She'd never longed more to be able to touch, to taste, to smell... but she could remember. She could remember: the sensation of heat building between her legs; the urgency of her own hand pressing, rubbing, circling and heating her sensitive flesh; could remember the pooling of heat deep within her; the delicious building of tension. And she wished. Oh, how she wished she could feel it again!

Draco's movements became almost wild and his growl turned into a mantra, chanted in time with his snapping hips and the slap, slap, slap of flesh on flesh.

"Fuck! Potter! Fuck! Potter! Fuck!" Over and over and over again until one last thrust of his hips, accompanied by a long, low mournful groan had him spurting his release thickly into the sink.

Though it wasn't possible, of course, Myrtle felt lightheaded, almost dizzy with want as Draco leaned heavily on the sink's edge, breathing erratically.

Then his spine stiffened suddenly and he stood upright.

"No, no, no, no!" Draco cried out, and began frantically fastening his robes.

Thinking fast, Myrtle moved to one of the cubicles to become visible again; she couldn't let him leave so soon!

"Draco? Are you all right?" she called out, as if she'd only just arrived.

He spun quickly around to face her, then pointed at the glass propped up behind the sink. "You said he didn't come here anymore!" he said accusingly. "You said no one would be here!"

Myrtle looked at the glass and found the familiar shadow had become more clearly defined as Harry Potter.

"He doesn't!" she responded, a plea in her voice. "He hasn't been for years, even though he said he would. And it's just as well, because he always had that horrible ginger with him. I promise! Don't go, Draco," she added desperately.

Draco, however, wasn't listening. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come here. And I won't, anymore. Too risky. Fucking Potter," he added with a snarl.

He seemed to have forgotten Myrtle was there, and as he grabbed the framed glass, Myrtle wondered if it wasn't a mirror after all, as it was now showing Draco himself within the frame.

Myrtle shrugged, then sulked as he rushed out the door. No one ever stayed or even cared if they hurt her feelings. It wasn't fair—not at all.

She huffed and crossed her arms, thinking about Draco's flight out of the room and what she'd just learned, if she'd interpreted it right, and she was certain she had. Though she hadn't expected anything of the sort, it didn't bother her one bit that Draco seemed to want Harry Potter in that way—it made him rather a more dashing and tragic figure in her imagination as she conjured the scenario in her head, and she would weep and wail for him and his unrequited, ill-fated love, for his heartbreak and sorrow.

Later.

Right now she was going to sit in her U-bend and relive every glorious detail of what she'd just witnessed, and commit it to memory.

And Myrtle had a very long memory.