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lomonaaerenTitle: Come Slowly, Eden
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco, Blaise/Pansy
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex, profanity, “eighth year” fic, more fluff than you can safely consume.
Word count: ~17,000
Summary: Harry didn’t mean to start liking Draco Malfoy. It just happened.
Author's Note: This was written foramour3559 for her generous donation to the cause of help_chile. She asked for a fic set at Hogwarts, with supportive Blaise and Pansy, and Harry liking Draco first. The title is taken from the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem.
Come Slowly, Eden
First Moment
Harry remembered exactly where he was standing when he realized the truth, which made him smirk triumphantly when he thought of the way Hermione would respond. She would say that he couldn’t feel something like this, that it was too strange and against all common sense, odd and foreign, and he was probably letting disappointment over Ginny’s refusal to get back together with him overpower his logic. If he just thought about it rationally…
But the thing was, Harry had thought about it, and he could remember where he was standing when it happened. So the memory was clear and sharp, and that meant he wasn’t crazy, and Hermione was the one who would have to shut up and listen respectfully to him.
If he had ever told her about this, which he didn’t intend to.
But, you know, if he had. It would have made sense.
He was standing outside the Great Hall on the first night of the new school year, listening to yet another row between Ron and Hermione, and bracing himself for the stares of the students when he entered. He was wondering if he had made a mistake by coming back. The Auror program would have taken him without his NEWTs. He could have made a career of destroying Dark wizards—
And that was the problem. He wanted something else, something at once lighter and more substantial. He didn’t know what that was, only that he would know it when he saw it.
Then a sensation ran through the students around them, and he turned his head.
He remembered exactly where he was standing. He could have pointed to the stone.
Draco Malfoy strutted past him, in company with several other Slytherins. He sneered in all four directions, and then at the floor, as if he wanted to show the air and the other students and every spare corner of stone that he owned it. He was walking in an odd way, lifting his feet too high, and Harry thought that was meant to add to the strut.
Harry saw him closely. For once, Malfoy was ostentatiously ignoring him, probably because he knew they would fight if he looked at Harry and he didn’t want that to spoil his little display. Harry had plenty of chances to see whether this was a fake assurance, whether Malfoy was just putting on a show for the others to build up the confidence of Slytherin House—a confidence they didn’t deserve to have, but that wasn’t the point right now—or not.
He wasn’t.
Malfoy had come through the war, and he was still himself, unabashed and arrogant.
Harry felt his mouth water. He remembered that. He remembered that Hermione said something sharp to him, probably to keep him away from the fight that anyway wasn’t happening (and when would Hermione learn to trust his judgment better?), and he didn’t hear what it was, because he was paying attention to Malfoy.
The world was changed after the war, but no one seemed to know quite in what way. There were funerals to attend, dead people to weep over, injuries to heal, Death Eaters to capture, but also the death of a Dark Lord to celebrate, survivors to hug, jokes to crack, a school to rebuild. So sometimes people shone and sometimes they drooped, but they were all changed.
Harry didn’t feel like he was a new person, even after he’d died and come back to life. He wished people would stop staring at him and asking what it was like to be a victor in the war. It wasn’t like anything, not for him. He was still the same torn and confused person he’d always been, especially after Ginny told him, gently, to sod off.
But Malfoy…
He’d stood up under the blow. He was the same as ever.
Or, well, not the same same, that would be stupid, but he didn’t pretend that this was a glorious new world and he needed to change his behavior to suit it. He looked sleek and self-satisfied, and his voice was the same sneering whinge as always, and Harry would not have been surprised to hear him say something about “my father,” the same as always.
He had survived. He had endured.
And Harry was fascinated by him.
Malfoy didn’t need to be a hero. He might have tried. He might have tried to look meek and tame and like a good little supporter of the Ministry. Even though Harry had got both him and his parents off, it would have been prudent. But he didn’t need to. Or he didn’t see it that way. He dared to look around and bite and screech, like some—some bloody cockatoo or something.
He was free in a way that Harry could never be, self-important in a way that Harry should have found disgusting but was interested in because everyone else seemed so uncertain, and powerful in his own right. That arrogance would make dents in the soft shells people had wrapped around them right now. Not all the glances Malfoy got were disgusted. Some people looked thoughtful, as if they wanted him to show them the way forwards.
And Harry thought much the same thing.
He wanted Draco Malfoy.
*
Draco sneered at the people around him, because sneering at one’s best friends wasn’t done, especially given the news they had just greeted him with.
“But I always thought I would marry you, Pansy,” he said stubbornly, turning his head so no one could read his lips whispering the words. “Or that I’d be Blaise’s lover.”
“Well, we chose each other, instead,” Blaise said, while Pansy blushed and looked at the floor, obviously unhappy.
Draco sneered at a second-year Hufflepuff and made her clutch her robes and squeak, cowering back from him. That made him feel somewhat better, so that he could speak normally to Blaise. “You didn’t have a right to choose each other without consulting me. My future depended on one of you. It wasn’t polite.”
“But it’s done,” Pansy said, and her voice was gaining strength instead of weakening. Draco turned and stared at her, displeased. Pansy lifted her chin and swallowed. “I’m with Blaise now, and I’m not going to leave him just because you would enjoy dating him.”
“Or you,” Draco felt compelled to remind her. “My choice could have settled on you. You never know.”
Pansy gave him a sad look, but shook her head. “I don’t think it would have,” she said. “I was never enough for you, even when we were children.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Draco said roundly. “You didn’t stand still long enough for me study you. I wanted you to come back to me once every three months, remember, and tell me how you had changed. I could have decided if the change was enough for me, that way.”
“Don’t you realize how arrogant that sounds?” Blaise asked.
“If anyone has a right to be arrogant, it’s me.” Draco halted in front of the doors to the Great Hall and folded his arms, staring at them expectantly. He thought it was stupid that all of them needed to wait here as if they were first-years condemned to sit under the Sorting Hat. Didn’t McGonagall have any taste, tact, or sense of what was due to the returning eighth-years?
“Why?” Blaise asked with a snort. “When your family barely survived the war, and you and your mother escaped Azkaban but your father didn’t?”
“Father always knew he would go to prison,” Draco said, with a sigh for the childishness of the world that he addressed to the doors. They were the only solid objects near him, the only ones that would understand the need to remain firm against the flightiness of other people. “He made preparations to ensure that Mother and I were all right before he went. And that’s why I can be arrogant.”
“Because your father planned ahead?” Draco wasn’t looking at Blaise right now, but he knew he was folding his arms. That was audible in his tone of voice. “My mother did, too. In fact, she planned so far ahead that she never became a Death Eater.”
Pansy intervened. She thought she was so subtle when she tried to keep him and Blaise from rowing, Draco thought, but she had no idea. Draco detected every stratagem that was used against him and defeated it with his marvelous cunning. “Potter’s staring at you, Draco.”
Draco turned and glanced casually over his shoulder. As a matter of fact—and she did not always let fact intervene with her interventions—Pansy was right. Potter was staring at him as though someone had clocked him over the head.
Draco snorted and turned his shoulder. “Potter isn’t worth bothering with.”
The doors opened at last, and they strode into the Great Hall, Draco leading the way, his House, fashion, and everything else that mattered.
In Slughorn’s Class
“I think the proper ones to brew a potion as complicated as Amortentia would be Mr. Malfoy and—Mr. Potter.” Slughorn beamed foolishly in Harry’s general direction.
Harry swallowed. His palms prickled with sweat as he stepped up to the demonstration cauldron that Slughorn had placed in the front of the class. He wiped them off on his school robes and told himself that he should have known Slughorn would choose both of them. The idiot still thought Harry was some kind of Potions genius, and he liked to have Harry show Malfoy up, maybe because Snape had favored Malfoy.
But it was the first time Harry had been so close to Malfoy since he realized that he liked him. He shot little nervous glances sideways, but Malfoy didn’t react. He leaned one elbow against the cauldron and nodded in response to the instructions from Slughorn on how to brew Amortentia, which he probably already knew.
I should think he’s a horrible person, Harry thought. Brewing a potion like that. He probably used it to make people lust after others, as a joke. He probably used it on first-years. I have to remember who he is, especially if he really hasn’t changed.
But Harry’s crush wouldn’t listen to reason. Malfoy smirked, and Harry saw the boy he had known, grown old enough now that it wouldn’t be stupid to try and get over the rivalry.
For the first time, though, he thought of something, something that made him pause in worry. If Malfoy really hadn’t changed, then why should he reconcile with Harry? He would do nothing but sneer at him, insult his dead parents, walk past him with a shove, not look at him differently.
Harry was still mulling over that problem when he realized that it was silent around them. He looked up, absurdly hoping Malfoy might have said something gentle, and realized that Slughorn had finished his instructions on the potions recipe and was pointing to the supply room. Malfoy walked a few steps in that direction, then paused and gave Harry an annoyed glance over his shoulder.
“Coming, Potter?” he drawled.
Harry grabbed his own throat to prevent himself from speaking an innuendo and followed Malfoy.
I just have to figure out how to make him pay attention instead of ignoring me and everything I say.
*
Potter was acting bloody creepy.
He was staring into the distance as if distracted, which he normally never did when Draco was nearby. A Gryffindor so perfect would think that one had to watch out for sneaky Slytherins and their tricks, after all. And he hadn’t listened to Slughorn’s speech, which, since nearly half of it was praise for Potter’s supposed Potions skill, meant he had missed out on a diet of the words he liked most.
Then there was the clutching at his throat as he followed Draco in to gather their supplies.
Maybe he thinks he’s dying of poison and he intends to blame me, Draco thought, and began watching Potter’s face for signs of the most common poisons: blueness, shortness of breath, a tightening of the mouth as though the victim had swallowed a lemon.
Potter’s face turned red instead of blue, though, and he whirled away and nearly knocked down a jar of hawthorn petals as he reached out blindly. Draco sprang to steady the jars, and couldn’t prevent a note of contempt from creeping into his voice. “What is wrong with you, Potter?”
“Why were you staring at me?” Apparently the imaginary poison had rendered Potter’s voice hoarse and almost non-functional.
“Because I never tire of how remarkably stupid your face looks,” Draco said, and congratulated himself on a nice save. He plucked the ingredients they would need neatly from Potter’s hands. He noticed that Potter went still and shivered when their fingers brushed.
And he’s so disgusted he can’t even bear to touch me, Draco thought, rolling his eyes as he pulled his hand back and turned towards the Potions classroom. That ought to answer his question of whether I would poison him right there. The best venoms are contact venoms. How can he be the kind of student Slughorn praises and not know that?
Then he remembered some of the things Professor Snape had said to him about Slughorn’s taste and discrimination, and smirked. Potter had never attained to any real knowledge of potions under someone worthy to teach the subject. God knew what kind of fancies and laughable ideas his head was stuffed with.
“Malfoy?”
“What’s wrong with your voice, Potter?” Draco turned his head back and arched his eyebrow. “Someone scatter Dog Star Anise into your porridge?”
From the confused look on Potter’s face, he had no idea what the joke meant, and cared less. “I want to know something,” he said.
“Well, ask.” Draco balanced the jars on his palms, and he knew he made it look both good and easy. Potter’s eyes focused on his hands in envy. Draco smiled. Not that he’ll ever consciously recognize the envy. That would mean admitting something about me was admirable.
“Never mind,” Potter whispered, and this time his voice was practically strangled. Draco made a mental list of poisons that might have caused that as they stepped back into the classroom. In case Potter did come down with something, his friends might blame Draco even if he didn’t. It was always good to be prepared.
Slughorn was visibly disappointed when Draco did both the lion’s share of work to brew the Amortentia and to make it look presentable. Draco felt his heart surge and bound in him. Disappointing idiots was one of the things he lived for.
On the Quidditch Pitch
Harry crouched over his broom and circled, watching the Gryffindor players yell and swoop beneath him. He was already higher than he needed to be; he knew the Snitch was hovering near the long grasses at the edge of the Forbidden Forest and not moving.
But he didn’t want to chase the Snitch right now, heresy though that would have sounded to Ron. (Hermione would probably have assumed he wanted to study and dragged him inside before he could explain the truth. Not that he wanted to explain the truth).
He wanted to think. And it seemed that no matter where he turned in the school, everyone’s mouths and eyes were full of Malfoy.
Bloody Malfoy had brewed the most perfect potion Slughorn had ever seen. Malfoy had astonished McGonagall with how well he had turned a sparrow into a kitten. (Harry had been there, and knew the kitten had had suspiciously feathery front legs, but it was still better than anyone else in the class except Hermione could do). Malfoy had made some joking remark about Neville and Hannah, who were dating now, and it had been repeated all over the school—but no one could tell anyone else what it was, for fear that some impressionable firstie might be listening.
Harry knew that he was only listening harder for mentions of Malfoy; that was why he heard them all the time now. It was like hearing a new word you’d just learned everywhere for a week.
But that didn’t help, especially because it was Hermione-logic, and Hermione-logic had nothing to do with the thing that tightened his throat when he looked at Malfoy, or made the blood rush down between his legs.
Malfoy was unapologetic. He was brave; he was the only Slytherin who didn’t cower when a new edition of the Daily Prophet came out, but took it from the post-owl and read it, coolly. Harry suspected that was a mask, but it was still one he would have given anything to wear during those awful years when the Prophet was reporting that he was mad or the Heir of Slytherin every time he turned around. Or even now, when they found something to celebrate in his smallest movement.
Malfoy strolled alone through the corridors where his friends went in frightened groups. And there was a rumor that a Ravenclaw fifth-year who had been bullying Slytherins had been found with his bollocks turned inside-out. Since Madam Pomfrey, the only one who could confirm that rumor, wasn’t talking, Harry didn’t know if it had actually happened. Or if someone else might have done it.
Malfoy spoke up in classes, answered questions, and refused to notice the way that the professors tried to pick someone else. It was as if he had decided that he wanted to learn things, and he wouldn’t let prejudice stand in the way of his goal.
Harry would have liked to save younger students—just because it was right, not because anyone expected it of him. He would have liked to be a serious student.
And he had no chance of that, and one would assume that a former Death Eater like Malfoy didn’t, either. But he did those things, all the same.
Harry frowned. These were all things that he had pondered before. So far, being up on the broom wasn’t helping him with his thinking; it just made his mind circle around the tracks with slightly greater clarity. This was a rut, there was another…
Maybe I should decide what I’m going to do instead of what I think.
It would help if he knew more about Malfoy than the glimpses he was getting from the outside, which almost certainly had gaps and things wrong with them.
Harry sat up. Of course. Why was he thinking instead of doing? He should go spy on Malfoy and see what that revealed. It was what he had done during sixth year, and he had been right that Malfoy was doing something evil, despite what Ron and Hermione said. He smiled and tore down towards the grass. He found the Snitch on the way and scooped it up casually, bouncing it in his palm as he landed in front of his startled team and grinned at them.
“Practice is over for today,” he said. “Go shower and get back in the castle. Remember we have a strategy meeting for tomorrow.”
“Mate?” Ron pushed his hair back from his face and frowned at Harry. “What’s going on? You said we were going to stay out here an hour!”
“That was before I remembered that I’d put off my homework,” Harry lied smoothly, and rolled his eyes at the chorus of groans that rose around him. “You could all use more time to work on it, too, admit it!”
They trailed away into the showers, complaining in six-part harmony. Harry hastily locked the balls in their box and collected the few brooms left lying around, then hurried over to the showers, too. He couldn’t count on Malfoy to go to one place as regularly as he had gone to the Room of Requirement during sixth year. It would take a bit of preliminary spying to learn his schedule and how strictly he followed it. Maybe he could—
He saw a flash of familiar hair and ducked out of sight before he even thought.
Malfoy was just coming into the showers, Zabini beside him.
This is perfect, Harry thought in glee as he steadied himself against the door he was hiding behind. I’m so smart.
*
“I really wish you would stop banging on about this, Draco,” Blaise said, rolling his eyes. “We knew your opinion the first night of term. Talking about it all the time won’t change things.”
“But you should have considered me before you began this relationship,” Draco said stubbornly. It was a late evening with nothing to do. The first-year Slytherins had hardened to the point that they no longer automatically believed the stories invented to frighten them, and Draco hadn’t found any conveniently unguarded firsties from the other Houses. He had come down to the pitch, pulling Blaise with him so they could row while they flew, and now he found the Gryffindor side of the building full. They’d have to wait. Draco leaned against the door, noting absently that it seemed the wall behind it was softer than usual, and folded his arms. “I had a claim on you.”
“One that existed in your head,” Blaise retorted. “Just like your claim on Pansy only exists in your head.”
Draco scowled and pressed back harder. The door moved a little, then stopped again, and Draco thought he heard a muffled squeak. Someone had probably left a pile of Quidditch equipment there, he thought. He could ruin it, but he felt too lazy to look. Arguing with Blaise was more interesting. “You know I wanted to fuck you.”
Another squeak. That Quidditch equipment is probably already ruined if it makes that much noise just from being pressed on, Draco thought. Maybe it got wet.
“Isn’t that a crude way of putting it,” Blaise muttered, but he had relaxed, and his eyes shone with the fun of the taunting game.
“It’s the straightforward way,” Draco said, and dropped his voice to a purr. He didn’t want to break Blaise and Pansy up, not really, but it would be marvelous if he could make them wonder and regret giving up what they knew they’d had a chance at. “Don’t you want to go to bed with me? Think about it. Thrusting, fast and deep, our skin squealing as we rub against each other, you panting and writhing beneath me—”
Blaise sneered as the leather piled behind the door squeaked again. “What makes you assume that you would be on top?”
Draco gave him a patient look. “Because only one person can be, and you know where you belong.”
Blaise rolled his eyes. “You’re not nearly as dominant as you like to think you are.”
“Come here, taste me, and try,” Draco said softly, and parted his lips, waiting to see if Blaise would resist or not.
Of course, he did. His newfound fidelity to Pansy was rather disturbing, Draco thought as he watched his best friend shake his head and walk back to the doorway, pausing to point an accusing finger at Draco. “Someday you’re going to meet someone you’ll want to fuck you,” he said. “I want to be there the day it happens.”
“Maybe it would have been you,” Draco said, dropping his voice. “You’ll never know if you don’t try. Let me have my way a few times, and I’ll be relaxed and pliant enough that you could roll me over.” Never in your wildest dreams, Blaise, but how will you know that if you don’t try?
“You’ll never bend,” Blaise said, stepping outside. “You’re stiff all over.”
“That’s a very good thing, when you know how to use it,” Draco said, and followed him. Because the Gryffindors were here, the castle, or the walk back to the castle, was as good a time to row as any other.
He thought he heard someone slip and fall behind him, near the door, as they left, and snickered. He hoped it was one of the Gryffindors.
Disturbing Daydreams
It didn’t matter where Harry went, whether his eyes were open or closed, whether he was sitting in the Great Hall or fighting desperately not to doze off as he listened to Binns.
(Well, all right, so it was better when he had his eyes closed and was lying in bed, but that wasn’t the point).
He still saw the images that had come spilling from Malfoy’s mouth—well, words, but the words formed images so easily it ought to be a crime. Malfoy talked about fucking Zabini so vividly that Harry wondered how many times they’d done it, and in what positions. Had Malfoy ever let Zabini top? Had they tossed each other off? Watched each other wank? Sucked each other off?
The questions came and went, and around the second day Harry started wondering if Malfoy fucked girls, too. And what really happened in the Slytherin common room, which supposedly became quieter than any other room in the school at night despite Snape not being around anymore. And if Zabini was going to change his mind any time soon and agree to let Malfoy have him.
He’d be a fool not to, Harry thought, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he squinted blearily across the Great Hall. It was morning, the third morning since he’d heard Malfoy and Zabini talking, and Malfoy sat in his chair and ate an apple as calmly as though his sleep had been undisturbed. I mean, look at him.
It had been easy not to look at Malfoy before, due to Voldemort and the way he’d acted since first year; that was the only excuse Harry could give for not noticing his perfection long since. Malfoy’s pointy face had sharpened, and to call it “pointy” now was using too weak an adjective. He looked strong and determined, instead. His blond hair was bright enough that Harry wanted to touch it and make sure everything about it was real. (He would wager it wasn’t).
Malfoy had eyes of a clear grey that reminded Harry of Sirius’s. Of course Malfoy wasn’t Sirius and Harry would be stupid to think he was, but they were related. Maybe all the Blacks had those eyes.
Malfoy had a quiet grace to his walk that reminded Harry he could really fly. He never got the Snitch, of course, but that was a law of the universe, and one Harry had no intention of changing no matter how attractive Malfoy became.
Well, there were certain circumstances that—
“Mate?”
Harry blinked and turned his head. Ron was sitting beside him, one eyebrow curled up in a way that reminded Harry so strongly of Malfoy Harry had to bite his lip. He didn’t want to blurt out the wrong name by mistake.
“Are you all right?” Ron asked carefully. “You were staring at the Slytherin table and frowning like one of them enchanted your broom to throw you off.” In an instant, he’d swiveled around and was glaring himself. “Did they do that? I bet it was that prat Malfoy, wasn’t it?”
“No, Ron, nobody did that,” Harry said, catching Hermione’s eye. Or trying to catch it, rather. She was involved in an enormous book that said History of the Founders on the cover, and didn’t even twitch at the patient note in Harry’s voice. Harry sighed. He was probably on his own to handle this one. “I was just staring randomly at one point while I tried to put Quidditch strategies together in my head. It just happened to be the Slytherin table.”
“I came up with a great combination of moves last night,” Ron said, animated in an instant, reaching out and snatching up the salt from the corner of his plate to slam it into the center of the table. “It goes like this. When our Beaters first lift into the air, we send them after the Slytherin Chasers, and then…”
Harry fixed half his attention on the conversation out of necessity, while the other half remained on Malfoy. He’d finished the apple and was lazily licking his fingers.
Harry’s stomach lurched. His tongue felt as if it were on fire. No, that was his lips. He licked them.
And Malfoy looked up and right at him.
Harry tore his gaze away, feeling his cheeks heat up. This was stupid. This was insane. He shouldn’t be thinking about what it would feel like for Malfoy’s fingers to clamp onto his hips, or the long, hissing sigh he would make, his mouth falling open, when he began to fuck Harry. His hips wouldn’t snap down and then up with hard thrusting movements. He wouldn’t feel fantastic inside. Harry hadn’t even had sex with a girl, for fuck’s sake. How did he know what it would feel like?
Malfoy would probably be rough just for the sake of being rough, just because it was Harry Potter he was fucking.
Apparently, Harry’s cock had no problems with that.
“Pay attention to my strategies right now and not yours, Harry,” Ron complained.
With a sigh, Harry looked back at the table and the plates, forks, and cup Ron had dragooned into joining the salt cellar as representatives of the players. If he could think about Quidditch, he could stop thinking about Malfoy.
Malfoy, who was probably fucking Zabini and Parkinson in his head during the day and in his bed at night. Look at him right now, laughing at a joke from Zabini and touching his shoulder with a hand that lingered a bit too long.
Harry swallowed. Jealousy tasted a lot like bile.
*
Potter’s behavior was starting to worry Draco.
He didn’t want to worry about Potter. He had come back to school intending to enjoy the life he should have had last year, if his father hadn’t been an idiot and decided to join Lord Snake-face. Draco had seriously contemplated trying to find a Time-Turner so that he could travel back in time and persuade his father not to do that, but maybe then he wouldn’t be born or something, so he’d reluctantly given the idea up.
He was trying to have a normal year. He joked with Blaise and Pansy. He defended Slytherins from the harassment that “heroes” like Potter were too busy to notice. He played pranks and he excelled in Potions, though Slughorn continued to prefer the taste of Potter’s arse to his. He was living in a way that no one could blame, unless they were going to blame him for existing and looking like his father, in which case Draco wasn’t interested in their opinions anyway.
But Potter was following him, the way he had in sixth year.
At first, he followed Draco with his eyes. They would be in Potions and Draco would look up at the feeling of an intense gaze, thinking Slughorn was judging him, only to see Potter staring at him like a hungry dog.
Then Potter just “happened” to be behind him when he entered the Great Hall at meals, or walked through the corridors to his classes. Draco shuddered with relief when the door to the Slytherin common room closed at night. At least Potter couldn’t follow Draco there, no matter how he wanted to.
And then Draco saw Potter whip out of sight when he was coming out of the Quidditch showers one day, still pulling his shirt over his head and carrying his robes draped over his arm.
That was the most disturbing of all. What if he had seen Draco naked?
Draco had to pause, because his own reaction to that was complicated and not easy to put into words.
But Potter did so many other stupid and disturbing things that it was easy to replace the complex emotions with simple exasperation. He followed Draco down to the dungeons, and only left when Blaise and Theo both came out and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco. He worked with Draco on a potion in Slughorn’s class and insisted that Draco take the credit when it turned out perfectly. He raised his voice during a heated Gryffindor argument that Draco hadn’t paid attention to until then to claim that not all Slytherins were bad.
Of course, he went on to say that he was talking about Professor Snape and the ones who had fought during the Battle of Hogwarts, but his eyes were on Draco when Draco dared to look up to meet his.
As days passed, Draco decided what Potter’s behavior most resembled. It didn’t have the dark edge that it would if Potter still suspected Draco of a crime, and what would be the point of defending Draco in conversation with his friends if he did? And he didn’t want to be Draco’s friend, or he would have come up and asked directly. Or he would have called for a truce. That would be the best way to make the other Gryffindors leave the Slytherins alone, which Potter clearly wished for.
But if he had a crush…
It was incredible. It was amazing. It was laughable. It was stupid, because surely not even Potter could act like such a child after he had gone through a war and realized that he liked someone else.
It was true.
Draco started catching Potter’s eye and smiling at him more often, and watched what happened.
Potter blushed. He dropped his spoon in his soup. He dropped Potions ingredients (which Slughorn managed to blame Draco for, but even a detention didn’t lessen the fascination of Draco’s discovery). He stared back at Draco, open-mouthed, forgetting himself for a moment, before he would shake his head and turn resolutely away.
The resolution would last a few hours. Then his eyes would come back, and he would lick his lips.
Of course, once Draco knew that Potter had a crush on him, he had to decide what to do with it.
It didn’t take him long, especially when he thought about that complicated reaction he’d had to the thought of Potter seeing him naked.
The Lure
Harry sighed and leaned against the wall. Quidditch practice had gone terribly that night. The Beaters had crashed into each other, Ron had missed the Quaffle three times, and the Chasers were involved in a long and complicated row that Harry couldn’t figure out no matter how many times he listened to it and kept sabotaging each other. Harry’s muscles ached with the constant flights he’d had to take to all corners of the pitch, and his throat ached with yelling.
Their match with Slytherin was next weekend. Harry didn’t know if they would be ready by then.
After a few minutes, he made his way into the school, watching gloomily for any sign of his team. He’d sent them ahead of him to “recover and think about what they should be doing,” but in reality, he’d wanted to ensure that he didn’t catch up with them before they got to Gryffindor Tower.
No one else was in the entrance hall as Harry stumbled wearily through it. So he was the only one to see the two Slytherins pushed up against the shut doors of the Great Hall, their legs and arms and tongues wrapped around each other.
Malfoy had his back to Harry, but by this point Harry would have known him anywhere, and he could see the smushed pug-face of the other well enough to identify her.
Parkinson.
Jealousy surged like flame along Harry’s muscles, and he acted without thought. Drawing his wand from his sleeve, he pointed it at Parkinson and gave her a hotfoot.
Parkinson squealed and leaped straight up, then stamped in a circle, trying to get rid of the flames. Malfoy turned around and gaped at Harry. Harry, chuckling viciously and not regretting what he’d done at all, fell into a defensive stance, expecting a hex.
But Malfoy continued to stand there, mouth open. Harry blinked in confusion. He knew that his memories were a few years old by now, but even the new Malfoy he’d seen since the war wouldn’t have left it at this. He would have flown at Harry, mouth open in a snarl, hurling any curse that he thought wasn’t likely to get him in trouble. In fact, he might have done more of that this year, since he was so committed to protecting other people from Slytherin.
Then Harry saw the blond hair shifting and melting into dark, the clear grey eyes that he had learned to know so well from covert glimpses turning black.
Polyjuice.
Harry spun around and searched the corners of the entrance hall. Malfoy wouldn’t be far away from a prank like this. Harry didn’t know why he’d set it up, or maybe Zabini had taken the Polyjuice just so that Parkinson could feel what it was like to kiss Malfoy, or so that he could experience Malfoy’s body from the inside, but Harry didn’t think so.
A flicker of a black robe, a green tie, and pale hair darted around the corner in the direction of the dungeons.
There.
Without even thinking about it, Harry gave chase.
*
Draco leaped the last of the stairs and set off directly into the heart of the dungeons, trusting on speed to leave Potter behind. Cleverness would have been a lot easier, but he couldn’t do it. Not when Potter was already this close and had seen enough of him to know that he was behind this prank.
Not that it was meant as a prank. Not exactly. Draco had just wanted to see what Potter would do if he saw “Draco” kissing someone else. At the same time, he didn’t want to choose a random Slytherin who would be sure to babble about Draco’s intent and victim all over the Slytherin common room, and he hadn’t wanted to get between Blaise and Pansy, the only ones he could trust, himself.
There was Polyjuice aplenty in the Potions storeroom, though—Draco could only shudder at the thought of what Slughorn must do with it all—and it was simplicity itself to get into it after the precautions that Professor Snape had taken to guard it. The addition of a strand of Draco’s hair and a bit of pouting and whinging to make it seem he still resented Blaise and Pansy dating, and the thing was done.
Of course Draco had had to hide nearby to see what happened.
And of course Potter had decided that he was to blame and looked around too quickly, and seen him.
Draco suddenly paused, becoming aware of the lack of footsteps behind him. He threw himself into an alcove, where he would at least have stone at his back if he had to fight, and looked cautiously down the corridor.
Nothing. No one. The dungeons had never looked more innocently deserted.
Draco smiled, knowing what must have happened. Blaise and Pansy had stopped Potter for him. They would reunite in the Slytherin common room for a good laugh later, especially over the confirmation that Potter really did have a crush on Draco, or at least cared an awful lot about who he happened to be kissing.
Draco stepped out of the alcove.
Someone grabbed him around the waist and jammed a wand into his neck.
“Ha, got you now, Malfoy,” Potter snarled into his ear.
The shudder that ran through Draco’s body was not terror.
A Little Contest
Harry wanted to dance and howl with sheer triumph. He had been the smart one this time, whatever Malfoy might think. He was the one who had outwitted the Slytherin who strutted about and pretended that he was so sly.
He had won.
And now he was closer to Malfoy than he had been at any point since they started the school year. His arms were locked around Malfoy’s ribs, which heaved with his breath. That breath whispered across Harry’s neck and made him think confused thoughts about things being hot and cold at the same time. His wand had found a soft nestling place on that jutting jaw, and Harry wondered what other places on Malfoy’s body were softer than they looked.
“Potter,” Malfoy whispered.
Harry shivered—not because of the whisper, he told himself, but just because it was odd to hear his name spoken like that, by anyone¬—and responded, “Yeah, Malfoy?”
Malfoy twisted savagely to the side, thrusting back with one elbow and up with his hand at the same time. Harry reeled, caught between the pain of a blow to his solar plexus and an ache in his nose and mouth that made him think one or the other was broken. He flailed with his wand, but Malfoy had stepped beyond his reach already. Probably running all the way to the Slytherin common room like the coward he was, Harry thought, with some spite.
Then a hand grabbed his wrists and locked them together in place behind his back, while Malfoy’s wand settled in the curve of Harry’s throat, over his pulse, like it belonged there.
“Who has who, now?” Malfoy hissed into his ear. He sounded exultant. Harry felt shivery, because Malfoy’s breath was in a whole new place this time, and Harry had never known earlobes could be sensitive.
Harry took a moment to take stock of his position, considering and reconsidering the positions of his hands and feet. Then he smiled. Malfoy hadn’t bothered to take his wand away.
“You don’t want to rethink that?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Malfoy said, with typical haughtiness and snottiness and everything, really. “I have you, and you can’t move away from me. That means I won. Winning is good.”
Harry rolled his eyes and cast a nonverbal charm through his wand. It was almost the only spell he could manage nonverbally, but that didn’t matter when it was the perfect spell for the situation.
Malfoy flailed as his feet suddenly locked themselves together, and his wand fell away. Harry skipped free and turned around, kneeling beside Malfoy, taking the time to reposition his wand where it would do the most good—right in the middle of Malfoy’s chest, pressing against his sternum. Malfoy shook his head several times, as if he were hurt where it had connected with the floor, and then stared up at Harry.
“Like I said,” Harry murmured, his grin bursting across his face, “you might want to rethink that.”
Malfoy gave a snarl and lunged upwards, unfairly fast, snatching Harry’s wand in one hand and his neck in the other. Harry froze, terrified to struggle too hard lest he break his wand, and Malfoy rolled him over and pinned him down. The way his legs were frozen was an advantage at the moment, because they formed one solid block that made Harry unable to effectively fight once Malfoy got him in the right hold.
Malfoy’s wand jabbed back into his throat. He did seem fond of that, Harry thought, his heart beating with the unexpectedness of the attack and indignation that this had happened to him, of all people, the wizard who had defeated Voldemort.
“Ah-ha,” Malfoy said, his breath raking Harry’s face. It was just as warm as Harry had imagined, making him shiver again, but not as sweet. Harry wrinkled his nose. What did he have for dinner, onions?
Harry punched Malfoy in the solar plexus, where he’d hit Harry a few minutes ago, and watched in satisfaction as his eyes crossed and he slumped down with a weak grunt. Harry kicked Malfoy’s hand until his weak grip on Harry’s wand faltered, and then he was back where he wanted to be, this time with conjured ropes carefully holding Malfoy’s wrists and arms down, his legs slung on either side of Malfoy’s hips, and his grin sweet and vicious.
“No,” Harry said. “Ah-ha.”
*
Draco let his eyes shut. He wanted to be upset, but what had just happened was so ridiculous that he was closer to laughing instead.
He and Potter would always challenge each other, always struggle against one another—and always be doomed to that struggle, because they were too evenly matched. Yes, Potter was good at chasing the Snitch and better at catching it than Draco was, but he wasn’t good enough to make Draco feel humiliated and give up playing Seeker forever. And yes, Draco was good at coming up with plans to get Potter in trouble, but they never worked well enough that he felt he never needed to do it again.
Draco imagined them as a pair of dogs forever chasing circles around each other, or a pair of Quidditch players falling from the sky, then straightening and soaring back up enough to attain some height, then getting entangled again. There was so much that connected them, tied them, so much that they would never escape from.
And Draco was beginning to realize that he might not want to escape.
“Malfoy?” Potter sounded half-worried, half-indignant. “Are you going to sleep? Wake up.” His wand jabbed Draco in the chest. “I want you to wake up and acknowledge that I won, for once.”
“Never permanently,” Draco murmured, opening his eyes and peering into those green ones, obscured by glasses and so much else. He craned his neck up, moving dreamily, obeying the realization he had just had about their entanglement more than anything else.
He reached Potter, and dragged him down with the force of his kiss, a kiss so harsh that it burned through his veins like drinking Firewhisky. Draco gasped, and then kissed again to see if the same thing would happen.
It did. And then of course he had to try it for a third time.
Potter began to splutter around the fourth kiss. Draco let him go and licked his lips absently, unsure whether he wanted to savor the taste or the strangeness. It felt good, but that alien feeling was also there. They were entangled, but they had never done anything like this. It was a contest where Draco couldn’t see the end and didn’t automatically know which one of them was better.
“What—” Potter said. Then he stopped, perhaps because of the condescending look Draco was giving him, perhaps because it was plain to even his dim mind exactly what had happened. He touched his lips, looked at his hand as if to check whether the kiss had rubbed off on it, and then leaned in and frowned ferociously into Draco’s face.
“You can’t do that,” he said. “I was supposed to do that. I was the one who thought of it first.”
Draco sneered at him. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said, even though he half did and that was part of the fun. The outlines of their contest were becoming clearer to him now, and Draco was smugly pleased to find out he was winning so far. “Maybe you thought of it first, but I was the one who had the courage to try it.”
Potter flushed. “Courage?” he demanded, spit flying everywhere. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“No, you don’t,” Draco said. He was already tired of Potter’s idea of biting repartee, and he could think of better things for him to do with his lips than spit. “Come here.” He lifted his head, seeking Potter’s mouth again.
But Potter shook his head and raised himself up, and thanks to the stupid bonds around his wrists, Draco couldn’t pull him back down and make him surrender the way he would have liked to. Instead, Potter pushed his hair out of his eyes and stared at Draco as if this was all his fault and said, “It should have been different.”
“What should have been?” Draco demanded, frustrated this time by Potter’s lack of grammatical specificity. “This kiss, or the crush that you have on me, or this fight, or something else?”
Potter’s mouth fell open. “You know about—about what I feel for you?”
“What’s wrong? Think calling it a crush is undignified?” Draco mocked, but Potter just stared at him with a stubbornly open jaw, and Draco gave in. “Yes, of course I do. The next time you want to hide a secret like that, try not to stare openly at the object of your affections in Potions.”
“It should have been different,” Potter said, his frown deepening. “I was thinking about it, and I hadn’t decided yet, but it should have been different.”
“And once again, I ask you, in what way?” Draco was getting annoyed. His arms ached from the awkward position they were tied in, his lips wanted Potter’s back again or else a drink of water, and he really didn’t think he could reach his wand from here. “What would you have done?”
“I don’t know,” said Potter. “Let me think about it.” Then he leaned towards Draco and narrowed his eyes. “And no more giving Polyjuice to other people and letting them pretend to be you while they snog Parkinson. Or anyone else,” he added. “Male or female. Especially not Zabini.”
Before Draco could point out how stupid he sounded, Potter had snapped his wand down and removed the ropes around Draco’s wrists and the spell that kept his legs locked together. Then he’d marched down the corridor, his scowl as dark as though he was on his way to detention.
Draco retrieved his wand and conjured a glass of water for himself, then sipped it and watched the way Potter had gone. Try as he might, no new thoughts, and no profound ones, occurred to him about what had happened.
“Well, fuck me,” he told no one in particular, and stood up to make his way back to the entrance hall, where Blaise and Pansy were waiting for him.
Part 2.
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco, Blaise/Pansy
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex, profanity, “eighth year” fic, more fluff than you can safely consume.
Word count: ~17,000
Summary: Harry didn’t mean to start liking Draco Malfoy. It just happened.
Author's Note: This was written for
amour3559 for her generous donation to the cause of help_chile. She asked for a fic set at Hogwarts, with supportive Blaise and Pansy, and Harry liking Draco first. The title is taken from the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem.Come Slowly, Eden
First Moment
Harry remembered exactly where he was standing when he realized the truth, which made him smirk triumphantly when he thought of the way Hermione would respond. She would say that he couldn’t feel something like this, that it was too strange and against all common sense, odd and foreign, and he was probably letting disappointment over Ginny’s refusal to get back together with him overpower his logic. If he just thought about it rationally…
But the thing was, Harry had thought about it, and he could remember where he was standing when it happened. So the memory was clear and sharp, and that meant he wasn’t crazy, and Hermione was the one who would have to shut up and listen respectfully to him.
If he had ever told her about this, which he didn’t intend to.
But, you know, if he had. It would have made sense.
He was standing outside the Great Hall on the first night of the new school year, listening to yet another row between Ron and Hermione, and bracing himself for the stares of the students when he entered. He was wondering if he had made a mistake by coming back. The Auror program would have taken him without his NEWTs. He could have made a career of destroying Dark wizards—
And that was the problem. He wanted something else, something at once lighter and more substantial. He didn’t know what that was, only that he would know it when he saw it.
Then a sensation ran through the students around them, and he turned his head.
He remembered exactly where he was standing. He could have pointed to the stone.
Draco Malfoy strutted past him, in company with several other Slytherins. He sneered in all four directions, and then at the floor, as if he wanted to show the air and the other students and every spare corner of stone that he owned it. He was walking in an odd way, lifting his feet too high, and Harry thought that was meant to add to the strut.
Harry saw him closely. For once, Malfoy was ostentatiously ignoring him, probably because he knew they would fight if he looked at Harry and he didn’t want that to spoil his little display. Harry had plenty of chances to see whether this was a fake assurance, whether Malfoy was just putting on a show for the others to build up the confidence of Slytherin House—a confidence they didn’t deserve to have, but that wasn’t the point right now—or not.
He wasn’t.
Malfoy had come through the war, and he was still himself, unabashed and arrogant.
Harry felt his mouth water. He remembered that. He remembered that Hermione said something sharp to him, probably to keep him away from the fight that anyway wasn’t happening (and when would Hermione learn to trust his judgment better?), and he didn’t hear what it was, because he was paying attention to Malfoy.
The world was changed after the war, but no one seemed to know quite in what way. There were funerals to attend, dead people to weep over, injuries to heal, Death Eaters to capture, but also the death of a Dark Lord to celebrate, survivors to hug, jokes to crack, a school to rebuild. So sometimes people shone and sometimes they drooped, but they were all changed.
Harry didn’t feel like he was a new person, even after he’d died and come back to life. He wished people would stop staring at him and asking what it was like to be a victor in the war. It wasn’t like anything, not for him. He was still the same torn and confused person he’d always been, especially after Ginny told him, gently, to sod off.
But Malfoy…
He’d stood up under the blow. He was the same as ever.
Or, well, not the same same, that would be stupid, but he didn’t pretend that this was a glorious new world and he needed to change his behavior to suit it. He looked sleek and self-satisfied, and his voice was the same sneering whinge as always, and Harry would not have been surprised to hear him say something about “my father,” the same as always.
He had survived. He had endured.
And Harry was fascinated by him.
Malfoy didn’t need to be a hero. He might have tried. He might have tried to look meek and tame and like a good little supporter of the Ministry. Even though Harry had got both him and his parents off, it would have been prudent. But he didn’t need to. Or he didn’t see it that way. He dared to look around and bite and screech, like some—some bloody cockatoo or something.
He was free in a way that Harry could never be, self-important in a way that Harry should have found disgusting but was interested in because everyone else seemed so uncertain, and powerful in his own right. That arrogance would make dents in the soft shells people had wrapped around them right now. Not all the glances Malfoy got were disgusted. Some people looked thoughtful, as if they wanted him to show them the way forwards.
And Harry thought much the same thing.
He wanted Draco Malfoy.
*
Draco sneered at the people around him, because sneering at one’s best friends wasn’t done, especially given the news they had just greeted him with.
“But I always thought I would marry you, Pansy,” he said stubbornly, turning his head so no one could read his lips whispering the words. “Or that I’d be Blaise’s lover.”
“Well, we chose each other, instead,” Blaise said, while Pansy blushed and looked at the floor, obviously unhappy.
Draco sneered at a second-year Hufflepuff and made her clutch her robes and squeak, cowering back from him. That made him feel somewhat better, so that he could speak normally to Blaise. “You didn’t have a right to choose each other without consulting me. My future depended on one of you. It wasn’t polite.”
“But it’s done,” Pansy said, and her voice was gaining strength instead of weakening. Draco turned and stared at her, displeased. Pansy lifted her chin and swallowed. “I’m with Blaise now, and I’m not going to leave him just because you would enjoy dating him.”
“Or you,” Draco felt compelled to remind her. “My choice could have settled on you. You never know.”
Pansy gave him a sad look, but shook her head. “I don’t think it would have,” she said. “I was never enough for you, even when we were children.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Draco said roundly. “You didn’t stand still long enough for me study you. I wanted you to come back to me once every three months, remember, and tell me how you had changed. I could have decided if the change was enough for me, that way.”
“Don’t you realize how arrogant that sounds?” Blaise asked.
“If anyone has a right to be arrogant, it’s me.” Draco halted in front of the doors to the Great Hall and folded his arms, staring at them expectantly. He thought it was stupid that all of them needed to wait here as if they were first-years condemned to sit under the Sorting Hat. Didn’t McGonagall have any taste, tact, or sense of what was due to the returning eighth-years?
“Why?” Blaise asked with a snort. “When your family barely survived the war, and you and your mother escaped Azkaban but your father didn’t?”
“Father always knew he would go to prison,” Draco said, with a sigh for the childishness of the world that he addressed to the doors. They were the only solid objects near him, the only ones that would understand the need to remain firm against the flightiness of other people. “He made preparations to ensure that Mother and I were all right before he went. And that’s why I can be arrogant.”
“Because your father planned ahead?” Draco wasn’t looking at Blaise right now, but he knew he was folding his arms. That was audible in his tone of voice. “My mother did, too. In fact, she planned so far ahead that she never became a Death Eater.”
Pansy intervened. She thought she was so subtle when she tried to keep him and Blaise from rowing, Draco thought, but she had no idea. Draco detected every stratagem that was used against him and defeated it with his marvelous cunning. “Potter’s staring at you, Draco.”
Draco turned and glanced casually over his shoulder. As a matter of fact—and she did not always let fact intervene with her interventions—Pansy was right. Potter was staring at him as though someone had clocked him over the head.
Draco snorted and turned his shoulder. “Potter isn’t worth bothering with.”
The doors opened at last, and they strode into the Great Hall, Draco leading the way, his House, fashion, and everything else that mattered.
In Slughorn’s Class
“I think the proper ones to brew a potion as complicated as Amortentia would be Mr. Malfoy and—Mr. Potter.” Slughorn beamed foolishly in Harry’s general direction.
Harry swallowed. His palms prickled with sweat as he stepped up to the demonstration cauldron that Slughorn had placed in the front of the class. He wiped them off on his school robes and told himself that he should have known Slughorn would choose both of them. The idiot still thought Harry was some kind of Potions genius, and he liked to have Harry show Malfoy up, maybe because Snape had favored Malfoy.
But it was the first time Harry had been so close to Malfoy since he realized that he liked him. He shot little nervous glances sideways, but Malfoy didn’t react. He leaned one elbow against the cauldron and nodded in response to the instructions from Slughorn on how to brew Amortentia, which he probably already knew.
I should think he’s a horrible person, Harry thought. Brewing a potion like that. He probably used it to make people lust after others, as a joke. He probably used it on first-years. I have to remember who he is, especially if he really hasn’t changed.
But Harry’s crush wouldn’t listen to reason. Malfoy smirked, and Harry saw the boy he had known, grown old enough now that it wouldn’t be stupid to try and get over the rivalry.
For the first time, though, he thought of something, something that made him pause in worry. If Malfoy really hadn’t changed, then why should he reconcile with Harry? He would do nothing but sneer at him, insult his dead parents, walk past him with a shove, not look at him differently.
Harry was still mulling over that problem when he realized that it was silent around them. He looked up, absurdly hoping Malfoy might have said something gentle, and realized that Slughorn had finished his instructions on the potions recipe and was pointing to the supply room. Malfoy walked a few steps in that direction, then paused and gave Harry an annoyed glance over his shoulder.
“Coming, Potter?” he drawled.
Harry grabbed his own throat to prevent himself from speaking an innuendo and followed Malfoy.
I just have to figure out how to make him pay attention instead of ignoring me and everything I say.
*
Potter was acting bloody creepy.
He was staring into the distance as if distracted, which he normally never did when Draco was nearby. A Gryffindor so perfect would think that one had to watch out for sneaky Slytherins and their tricks, after all. And he hadn’t listened to Slughorn’s speech, which, since nearly half of it was praise for Potter’s supposed Potions skill, meant he had missed out on a diet of the words he liked most.
Then there was the clutching at his throat as he followed Draco in to gather their supplies.
Maybe he thinks he’s dying of poison and he intends to blame me, Draco thought, and began watching Potter’s face for signs of the most common poisons: blueness, shortness of breath, a tightening of the mouth as though the victim had swallowed a lemon.
Potter’s face turned red instead of blue, though, and he whirled away and nearly knocked down a jar of hawthorn petals as he reached out blindly. Draco sprang to steady the jars, and couldn’t prevent a note of contempt from creeping into his voice. “What is wrong with you, Potter?”
“Why were you staring at me?” Apparently the imaginary poison had rendered Potter’s voice hoarse and almost non-functional.
“Because I never tire of how remarkably stupid your face looks,” Draco said, and congratulated himself on a nice save. He plucked the ingredients they would need neatly from Potter’s hands. He noticed that Potter went still and shivered when their fingers brushed.
And he’s so disgusted he can’t even bear to touch me, Draco thought, rolling his eyes as he pulled his hand back and turned towards the Potions classroom. That ought to answer his question of whether I would poison him right there. The best venoms are contact venoms. How can he be the kind of student Slughorn praises and not know that?
Then he remembered some of the things Professor Snape had said to him about Slughorn’s taste and discrimination, and smirked. Potter had never attained to any real knowledge of potions under someone worthy to teach the subject. God knew what kind of fancies and laughable ideas his head was stuffed with.
“Malfoy?”
“What’s wrong with your voice, Potter?” Draco turned his head back and arched his eyebrow. “Someone scatter Dog Star Anise into your porridge?”
From the confused look on Potter’s face, he had no idea what the joke meant, and cared less. “I want to know something,” he said.
“Well, ask.” Draco balanced the jars on his palms, and he knew he made it look both good and easy. Potter’s eyes focused on his hands in envy. Draco smiled. Not that he’ll ever consciously recognize the envy. That would mean admitting something about me was admirable.
“Never mind,” Potter whispered, and this time his voice was practically strangled. Draco made a mental list of poisons that might have caused that as they stepped back into the classroom. In case Potter did come down with something, his friends might blame Draco even if he didn’t. It was always good to be prepared.
Slughorn was visibly disappointed when Draco did both the lion’s share of work to brew the Amortentia and to make it look presentable. Draco felt his heart surge and bound in him. Disappointing idiots was one of the things he lived for.
On the Quidditch Pitch
Harry crouched over his broom and circled, watching the Gryffindor players yell and swoop beneath him. He was already higher than he needed to be; he knew the Snitch was hovering near the long grasses at the edge of the Forbidden Forest and not moving.
But he didn’t want to chase the Snitch right now, heresy though that would have sounded to Ron. (Hermione would probably have assumed he wanted to study and dragged him inside before he could explain the truth. Not that he wanted to explain the truth).
He wanted to think. And it seemed that no matter where he turned in the school, everyone’s mouths and eyes were full of Malfoy.
Bloody Malfoy had brewed the most perfect potion Slughorn had ever seen. Malfoy had astonished McGonagall with how well he had turned a sparrow into a kitten. (Harry had been there, and knew the kitten had had suspiciously feathery front legs, but it was still better than anyone else in the class except Hermione could do). Malfoy had made some joking remark about Neville and Hannah, who were dating now, and it had been repeated all over the school—but no one could tell anyone else what it was, for fear that some impressionable firstie might be listening.
Harry knew that he was only listening harder for mentions of Malfoy; that was why he heard them all the time now. It was like hearing a new word you’d just learned everywhere for a week.
But that didn’t help, especially because it was Hermione-logic, and Hermione-logic had nothing to do with the thing that tightened his throat when he looked at Malfoy, or made the blood rush down between his legs.
Malfoy was unapologetic. He was brave; he was the only Slytherin who didn’t cower when a new edition of the Daily Prophet came out, but took it from the post-owl and read it, coolly. Harry suspected that was a mask, but it was still one he would have given anything to wear during those awful years when the Prophet was reporting that he was mad or the Heir of Slytherin every time he turned around. Or even now, when they found something to celebrate in his smallest movement.
Malfoy strolled alone through the corridors where his friends went in frightened groups. And there was a rumor that a Ravenclaw fifth-year who had been bullying Slytherins had been found with his bollocks turned inside-out. Since Madam Pomfrey, the only one who could confirm that rumor, wasn’t talking, Harry didn’t know if it had actually happened. Or if someone else might have done it.
Malfoy spoke up in classes, answered questions, and refused to notice the way that the professors tried to pick someone else. It was as if he had decided that he wanted to learn things, and he wouldn’t let prejudice stand in the way of his goal.
Harry would have liked to save younger students—just because it was right, not because anyone expected it of him. He would have liked to be a serious student.
And he had no chance of that, and one would assume that a former Death Eater like Malfoy didn’t, either. But he did those things, all the same.
Harry frowned. These were all things that he had pondered before. So far, being up on the broom wasn’t helping him with his thinking; it just made his mind circle around the tracks with slightly greater clarity. This was a rut, there was another…
Maybe I should decide what I’m going to do instead of what I think.
It would help if he knew more about Malfoy than the glimpses he was getting from the outside, which almost certainly had gaps and things wrong with them.
Harry sat up. Of course. Why was he thinking instead of doing? He should go spy on Malfoy and see what that revealed. It was what he had done during sixth year, and he had been right that Malfoy was doing something evil, despite what Ron and Hermione said. He smiled and tore down towards the grass. He found the Snitch on the way and scooped it up casually, bouncing it in his palm as he landed in front of his startled team and grinned at them.
“Practice is over for today,” he said. “Go shower and get back in the castle. Remember we have a strategy meeting for tomorrow.”
“Mate?” Ron pushed his hair back from his face and frowned at Harry. “What’s going on? You said we were going to stay out here an hour!”
“That was before I remembered that I’d put off my homework,” Harry lied smoothly, and rolled his eyes at the chorus of groans that rose around him. “You could all use more time to work on it, too, admit it!”
They trailed away into the showers, complaining in six-part harmony. Harry hastily locked the balls in their box and collected the few brooms left lying around, then hurried over to the showers, too. He couldn’t count on Malfoy to go to one place as regularly as he had gone to the Room of Requirement during sixth year. It would take a bit of preliminary spying to learn his schedule and how strictly he followed it. Maybe he could—
He saw a flash of familiar hair and ducked out of sight before he even thought.
Malfoy was just coming into the showers, Zabini beside him.
This is perfect, Harry thought in glee as he steadied himself against the door he was hiding behind. I’m so smart.
*
“I really wish you would stop banging on about this, Draco,” Blaise said, rolling his eyes. “We knew your opinion the first night of term. Talking about it all the time won’t change things.”
“But you should have considered me before you began this relationship,” Draco said stubbornly. It was a late evening with nothing to do. The first-year Slytherins had hardened to the point that they no longer automatically believed the stories invented to frighten them, and Draco hadn’t found any conveniently unguarded firsties from the other Houses. He had come down to the pitch, pulling Blaise with him so they could row while they flew, and now he found the Gryffindor side of the building full. They’d have to wait. Draco leaned against the door, noting absently that it seemed the wall behind it was softer than usual, and folded his arms. “I had a claim on you.”
“One that existed in your head,” Blaise retorted. “Just like your claim on Pansy only exists in your head.”
Draco scowled and pressed back harder. The door moved a little, then stopped again, and Draco thought he heard a muffled squeak. Someone had probably left a pile of Quidditch equipment there, he thought. He could ruin it, but he felt too lazy to look. Arguing with Blaise was more interesting. “You know I wanted to fuck you.”
Another squeak. That Quidditch equipment is probably already ruined if it makes that much noise just from being pressed on, Draco thought. Maybe it got wet.
“Isn’t that a crude way of putting it,” Blaise muttered, but he had relaxed, and his eyes shone with the fun of the taunting game.
“It’s the straightforward way,” Draco said, and dropped his voice to a purr. He didn’t want to break Blaise and Pansy up, not really, but it would be marvelous if he could make them wonder and regret giving up what they knew they’d had a chance at. “Don’t you want to go to bed with me? Think about it. Thrusting, fast and deep, our skin squealing as we rub against each other, you panting and writhing beneath me—”
Blaise sneered as the leather piled behind the door squeaked again. “What makes you assume that you would be on top?”
Draco gave him a patient look. “Because only one person can be, and you know where you belong.”
Blaise rolled his eyes. “You’re not nearly as dominant as you like to think you are.”
“Come here, taste me, and try,” Draco said softly, and parted his lips, waiting to see if Blaise would resist or not.
Of course, he did. His newfound fidelity to Pansy was rather disturbing, Draco thought as he watched his best friend shake his head and walk back to the doorway, pausing to point an accusing finger at Draco. “Someday you’re going to meet someone you’ll want to fuck you,” he said. “I want to be there the day it happens.”
“Maybe it would have been you,” Draco said, dropping his voice. “You’ll never know if you don’t try. Let me have my way a few times, and I’ll be relaxed and pliant enough that you could roll me over.” Never in your wildest dreams, Blaise, but how will you know that if you don’t try?
“You’ll never bend,” Blaise said, stepping outside. “You’re stiff all over.”
“That’s a very good thing, when you know how to use it,” Draco said, and followed him. Because the Gryffindors were here, the castle, or the walk back to the castle, was as good a time to row as any other.
He thought he heard someone slip and fall behind him, near the door, as they left, and snickered. He hoped it was one of the Gryffindors.
Disturbing Daydreams
It didn’t matter where Harry went, whether his eyes were open or closed, whether he was sitting in the Great Hall or fighting desperately not to doze off as he listened to Binns.
(Well, all right, so it was better when he had his eyes closed and was lying in bed, but that wasn’t the point).
He still saw the images that had come spilling from Malfoy’s mouth—well, words, but the words formed images so easily it ought to be a crime. Malfoy talked about fucking Zabini so vividly that Harry wondered how many times they’d done it, and in what positions. Had Malfoy ever let Zabini top? Had they tossed each other off? Watched each other wank? Sucked each other off?
The questions came and went, and around the second day Harry started wondering if Malfoy fucked girls, too. And what really happened in the Slytherin common room, which supposedly became quieter than any other room in the school at night despite Snape not being around anymore. And if Zabini was going to change his mind any time soon and agree to let Malfoy have him.
He’d be a fool not to, Harry thought, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he squinted blearily across the Great Hall. It was morning, the third morning since he’d heard Malfoy and Zabini talking, and Malfoy sat in his chair and ate an apple as calmly as though his sleep had been undisturbed. I mean, look at him.
It had been easy not to look at Malfoy before, due to Voldemort and the way he’d acted since first year; that was the only excuse Harry could give for not noticing his perfection long since. Malfoy’s pointy face had sharpened, and to call it “pointy” now was using too weak an adjective. He looked strong and determined, instead. His blond hair was bright enough that Harry wanted to touch it and make sure everything about it was real. (He would wager it wasn’t).
Malfoy had eyes of a clear grey that reminded Harry of Sirius’s. Of course Malfoy wasn’t Sirius and Harry would be stupid to think he was, but they were related. Maybe all the Blacks had those eyes.
Malfoy had a quiet grace to his walk that reminded Harry he could really fly. He never got the Snitch, of course, but that was a law of the universe, and one Harry had no intention of changing no matter how attractive Malfoy became.
Well, there were certain circumstances that—
“Mate?”
Harry blinked and turned his head. Ron was sitting beside him, one eyebrow curled up in a way that reminded Harry so strongly of Malfoy Harry had to bite his lip. He didn’t want to blurt out the wrong name by mistake.
“Are you all right?” Ron asked carefully. “You were staring at the Slytherin table and frowning like one of them enchanted your broom to throw you off.” In an instant, he’d swiveled around and was glaring himself. “Did they do that? I bet it was that prat Malfoy, wasn’t it?”
“No, Ron, nobody did that,” Harry said, catching Hermione’s eye. Or trying to catch it, rather. She was involved in an enormous book that said History of the Founders on the cover, and didn’t even twitch at the patient note in Harry’s voice. Harry sighed. He was probably on his own to handle this one. “I was just staring randomly at one point while I tried to put Quidditch strategies together in my head. It just happened to be the Slytherin table.”
“I came up with a great combination of moves last night,” Ron said, animated in an instant, reaching out and snatching up the salt from the corner of his plate to slam it into the center of the table. “It goes like this. When our Beaters first lift into the air, we send them after the Slytherin Chasers, and then…”
Harry fixed half his attention on the conversation out of necessity, while the other half remained on Malfoy. He’d finished the apple and was lazily licking his fingers.
Harry’s stomach lurched. His tongue felt as if it were on fire. No, that was his lips. He licked them.
And Malfoy looked up and right at him.
Harry tore his gaze away, feeling his cheeks heat up. This was stupid. This was insane. He shouldn’t be thinking about what it would feel like for Malfoy’s fingers to clamp onto his hips, or the long, hissing sigh he would make, his mouth falling open, when he began to fuck Harry. His hips wouldn’t snap down and then up with hard thrusting movements. He wouldn’t feel fantastic inside. Harry hadn’t even had sex with a girl, for fuck’s sake. How did he know what it would feel like?
Malfoy would probably be rough just for the sake of being rough, just because it was Harry Potter he was fucking.
Apparently, Harry’s cock had no problems with that.
“Pay attention to my strategies right now and not yours, Harry,” Ron complained.
With a sigh, Harry looked back at the table and the plates, forks, and cup Ron had dragooned into joining the salt cellar as representatives of the players. If he could think about Quidditch, he could stop thinking about Malfoy.
Malfoy, who was probably fucking Zabini and Parkinson in his head during the day and in his bed at night. Look at him right now, laughing at a joke from Zabini and touching his shoulder with a hand that lingered a bit too long.
Harry swallowed. Jealousy tasted a lot like bile.
*
Potter’s behavior was starting to worry Draco.
He didn’t want to worry about Potter. He had come back to school intending to enjoy the life he should have had last year, if his father hadn’t been an idiot and decided to join Lord Snake-face. Draco had seriously contemplated trying to find a Time-Turner so that he could travel back in time and persuade his father not to do that, but maybe then he wouldn’t be born or something, so he’d reluctantly given the idea up.
He was trying to have a normal year. He joked with Blaise and Pansy. He defended Slytherins from the harassment that “heroes” like Potter were too busy to notice. He played pranks and he excelled in Potions, though Slughorn continued to prefer the taste of Potter’s arse to his. He was living in a way that no one could blame, unless they were going to blame him for existing and looking like his father, in which case Draco wasn’t interested in their opinions anyway.
But Potter was following him, the way he had in sixth year.
At first, he followed Draco with his eyes. They would be in Potions and Draco would look up at the feeling of an intense gaze, thinking Slughorn was judging him, only to see Potter staring at him like a hungry dog.
Then Potter just “happened” to be behind him when he entered the Great Hall at meals, or walked through the corridors to his classes. Draco shuddered with relief when the door to the Slytherin common room closed at night. At least Potter couldn’t follow Draco there, no matter how he wanted to.
And then Draco saw Potter whip out of sight when he was coming out of the Quidditch showers one day, still pulling his shirt over his head and carrying his robes draped over his arm.
That was the most disturbing of all. What if he had seen Draco naked?
Draco had to pause, because his own reaction to that was complicated and not easy to put into words.
But Potter did so many other stupid and disturbing things that it was easy to replace the complex emotions with simple exasperation. He followed Draco down to the dungeons, and only left when Blaise and Theo both came out and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco. He worked with Draco on a potion in Slughorn’s class and insisted that Draco take the credit when it turned out perfectly. He raised his voice during a heated Gryffindor argument that Draco hadn’t paid attention to until then to claim that not all Slytherins were bad.
Of course, he went on to say that he was talking about Professor Snape and the ones who had fought during the Battle of Hogwarts, but his eyes were on Draco when Draco dared to look up to meet his.
As days passed, Draco decided what Potter’s behavior most resembled. It didn’t have the dark edge that it would if Potter still suspected Draco of a crime, and what would be the point of defending Draco in conversation with his friends if he did? And he didn’t want to be Draco’s friend, or he would have come up and asked directly. Or he would have called for a truce. That would be the best way to make the other Gryffindors leave the Slytherins alone, which Potter clearly wished for.
But if he had a crush…
It was incredible. It was amazing. It was laughable. It was stupid, because surely not even Potter could act like such a child after he had gone through a war and realized that he liked someone else.
It was true.
Draco started catching Potter’s eye and smiling at him more often, and watched what happened.
Potter blushed. He dropped his spoon in his soup. He dropped Potions ingredients (which Slughorn managed to blame Draco for, but even a detention didn’t lessen the fascination of Draco’s discovery). He stared back at Draco, open-mouthed, forgetting himself for a moment, before he would shake his head and turn resolutely away.
The resolution would last a few hours. Then his eyes would come back, and he would lick his lips.
Of course, once Draco knew that Potter had a crush on him, he had to decide what to do with it.
It didn’t take him long, especially when he thought about that complicated reaction he’d had to the thought of Potter seeing him naked.
The Lure
Harry sighed and leaned against the wall. Quidditch practice had gone terribly that night. The Beaters had crashed into each other, Ron had missed the Quaffle three times, and the Chasers were involved in a long and complicated row that Harry couldn’t figure out no matter how many times he listened to it and kept sabotaging each other. Harry’s muscles ached with the constant flights he’d had to take to all corners of the pitch, and his throat ached with yelling.
Their match with Slytherin was next weekend. Harry didn’t know if they would be ready by then.
After a few minutes, he made his way into the school, watching gloomily for any sign of his team. He’d sent them ahead of him to “recover and think about what they should be doing,” but in reality, he’d wanted to ensure that he didn’t catch up with them before they got to Gryffindor Tower.
No one else was in the entrance hall as Harry stumbled wearily through it. So he was the only one to see the two Slytherins pushed up against the shut doors of the Great Hall, their legs and arms and tongues wrapped around each other.
Malfoy had his back to Harry, but by this point Harry would have known him anywhere, and he could see the smushed pug-face of the other well enough to identify her.
Parkinson.
Jealousy surged like flame along Harry’s muscles, and he acted without thought. Drawing his wand from his sleeve, he pointed it at Parkinson and gave her a hotfoot.
Parkinson squealed and leaped straight up, then stamped in a circle, trying to get rid of the flames. Malfoy turned around and gaped at Harry. Harry, chuckling viciously and not regretting what he’d done at all, fell into a defensive stance, expecting a hex.
But Malfoy continued to stand there, mouth open. Harry blinked in confusion. He knew that his memories were a few years old by now, but even the new Malfoy he’d seen since the war wouldn’t have left it at this. He would have flown at Harry, mouth open in a snarl, hurling any curse that he thought wasn’t likely to get him in trouble. In fact, he might have done more of that this year, since he was so committed to protecting other people from Slytherin.
Then Harry saw the blond hair shifting and melting into dark, the clear grey eyes that he had learned to know so well from covert glimpses turning black.
Polyjuice.
Harry spun around and searched the corners of the entrance hall. Malfoy wouldn’t be far away from a prank like this. Harry didn’t know why he’d set it up, or maybe Zabini had taken the Polyjuice just so that Parkinson could feel what it was like to kiss Malfoy, or so that he could experience Malfoy’s body from the inside, but Harry didn’t think so.
A flicker of a black robe, a green tie, and pale hair darted around the corner in the direction of the dungeons.
There.
Without even thinking about it, Harry gave chase.
*
Draco leaped the last of the stairs and set off directly into the heart of the dungeons, trusting on speed to leave Potter behind. Cleverness would have been a lot easier, but he couldn’t do it. Not when Potter was already this close and had seen enough of him to know that he was behind this prank.
Not that it was meant as a prank. Not exactly. Draco had just wanted to see what Potter would do if he saw “Draco” kissing someone else. At the same time, he didn’t want to choose a random Slytherin who would be sure to babble about Draco’s intent and victim all over the Slytherin common room, and he hadn’t wanted to get between Blaise and Pansy, the only ones he could trust, himself.
There was Polyjuice aplenty in the Potions storeroom, though—Draco could only shudder at the thought of what Slughorn must do with it all—and it was simplicity itself to get into it after the precautions that Professor Snape had taken to guard it. The addition of a strand of Draco’s hair and a bit of pouting and whinging to make it seem he still resented Blaise and Pansy dating, and the thing was done.
Of course Draco had had to hide nearby to see what happened.
And of course Potter had decided that he was to blame and looked around too quickly, and seen him.
Draco suddenly paused, becoming aware of the lack of footsteps behind him. He threw himself into an alcove, where he would at least have stone at his back if he had to fight, and looked cautiously down the corridor.
Nothing. No one. The dungeons had never looked more innocently deserted.
Draco smiled, knowing what must have happened. Blaise and Pansy had stopped Potter for him. They would reunite in the Slytherin common room for a good laugh later, especially over the confirmation that Potter really did have a crush on Draco, or at least cared an awful lot about who he happened to be kissing.
Draco stepped out of the alcove.
Someone grabbed him around the waist and jammed a wand into his neck.
“Ha, got you now, Malfoy,” Potter snarled into his ear.
The shudder that ran through Draco’s body was not terror.
A Little Contest
Harry wanted to dance and howl with sheer triumph. He had been the smart one this time, whatever Malfoy might think. He was the one who had outwitted the Slytherin who strutted about and pretended that he was so sly.
He had won.
And now he was closer to Malfoy than he had been at any point since they started the school year. His arms were locked around Malfoy’s ribs, which heaved with his breath. That breath whispered across Harry’s neck and made him think confused thoughts about things being hot and cold at the same time. His wand had found a soft nestling place on that jutting jaw, and Harry wondered what other places on Malfoy’s body were softer than they looked.
“Potter,” Malfoy whispered.
Harry shivered—not because of the whisper, he told himself, but just because it was odd to hear his name spoken like that, by anyone¬—and responded, “Yeah, Malfoy?”
Malfoy twisted savagely to the side, thrusting back with one elbow and up with his hand at the same time. Harry reeled, caught between the pain of a blow to his solar plexus and an ache in his nose and mouth that made him think one or the other was broken. He flailed with his wand, but Malfoy had stepped beyond his reach already. Probably running all the way to the Slytherin common room like the coward he was, Harry thought, with some spite.
Then a hand grabbed his wrists and locked them together in place behind his back, while Malfoy’s wand settled in the curve of Harry’s throat, over his pulse, like it belonged there.
“Who has who, now?” Malfoy hissed into his ear. He sounded exultant. Harry felt shivery, because Malfoy’s breath was in a whole new place this time, and Harry had never known earlobes could be sensitive.
Harry took a moment to take stock of his position, considering and reconsidering the positions of his hands and feet. Then he smiled. Malfoy hadn’t bothered to take his wand away.
“You don’t want to rethink that?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Malfoy said, with typical haughtiness and snottiness and everything, really. “I have you, and you can’t move away from me. That means I won. Winning is good.”
Harry rolled his eyes and cast a nonverbal charm through his wand. It was almost the only spell he could manage nonverbally, but that didn’t matter when it was the perfect spell for the situation.
Malfoy flailed as his feet suddenly locked themselves together, and his wand fell away. Harry skipped free and turned around, kneeling beside Malfoy, taking the time to reposition his wand where it would do the most good—right in the middle of Malfoy’s chest, pressing against his sternum. Malfoy shook his head several times, as if he were hurt where it had connected with the floor, and then stared up at Harry.
“Like I said,” Harry murmured, his grin bursting across his face, “you might want to rethink that.”
Malfoy gave a snarl and lunged upwards, unfairly fast, snatching Harry’s wand in one hand and his neck in the other. Harry froze, terrified to struggle too hard lest he break his wand, and Malfoy rolled him over and pinned him down. The way his legs were frozen was an advantage at the moment, because they formed one solid block that made Harry unable to effectively fight once Malfoy got him in the right hold.
Malfoy’s wand jabbed back into his throat. He did seem fond of that, Harry thought, his heart beating with the unexpectedness of the attack and indignation that this had happened to him, of all people, the wizard who had defeated Voldemort.
“Ah-ha,” Malfoy said, his breath raking Harry’s face. It was just as warm as Harry had imagined, making him shiver again, but not as sweet. Harry wrinkled his nose. What did he have for dinner, onions?
Harry punched Malfoy in the solar plexus, where he’d hit Harry a few minutes ago, and watched in satisfaction as his eyes crossed and he slumped down with a weak grunt. Harry kicked Malfoy’s hand until his weak grip on Harry’s wand faltered, and then he was back where he wanted to be, this time with conjured ropes carefully holding Malfoy’s wrists and arms down, his legs slung on either side of Malfoy’s hips, and his grin sweet and vicious.
“No,” Harry said. “Ah-ha.”
*
Draco let his eyes shut. He wanted to be upset, but what had just happened was so ridiculous that he was closer to laughing instead.
He and Potter would always challenge each other, always struggle against one another—and always be doomed to that struggle, because they were too evenly matched. Yes, Potter was good at chasing the Snitch and better at catching it than Draco was, but he wasn’t good enough to make Draco feel humiliated and give up playing Seeker forever. And yes, Draco was good at coming up with plans to get Potter in trouble, but they never worked well enough that he felt he never needed to do it again.
Draco imagined them as a pair of dogs forever chasing circles around each other, or a pair of Quidditch players falling from the sky, then straightening and soaring back up enough to attain some height, then getting entangled again. There was so much that connected them, tied them, so much that they would never escape from.
And Draco was beginning to realize that he might not want to escape.
“Malfoy?” Potter sounded half-worried, half-indignant. “Are you going to sleep? Wake up.” His wand jabbed Draco in the chest. “I want you to wake up and acknowledge that I won, for once.”
“Never permanently,” Draco murmured, opening his eyes and peering into those green ones, obscured by glasses and so much else. He craned his neck up, moving dreamily, obeying the realization he had just had about their entanglement more than anything else.
He reached Potter, and dragged him down with the force of his kiss, a kiss so harsh that it burned through his veins like drinking Firewhisky. Draco gasped, and then kissed again to see if the same thing would happen.
It did. And then of course he had to try it for a third time.
Potter began to splutter around the fourth kiss. Draco let him go and licked his lips absently, unsure whether he wanted to savor the taste or the strangeness. It felt good, but that alien feeling was also there. They were entangled, but they had never done anything like this. It was a contest where Draco couldn’t see the end and didn’t automatically know which one of them was better.
“What—” Potter said. Then he stopped, perhaps because of the condescending look Draco was giving him, perhaps because it was plain to even his dim mind exactly what had happened. He touched his lips, looked at his hand as if to check whether the kiss had rubbed off on it, and then leaned in and frowned ferociously into Draco’s face.
“You can’t do that,” he said. “I was supposed to do that. I was the one who thought of it first.”
Draco sneered at him. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said, even though he half did and that was part of the fun. The outlines of their contest were becoming clearer to him now, and Draco was smugly pleased to find out he was winning so far. “Maybe you thought of it first, but I was the one who had the courage to try it.”
Potter flushed. “Courage?” he demanded, spit flying everywhere. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“No, you don’t,” Draco said. He was already tired of Potter’s idea of biting repartee, and he could think of better things for him to do with his lips than spit. “Come here.” He lifted his head, seeking Potter’s mouth again.
But Potter shook his head and raised himself up, and thanks to the stupid bonds around his wrists, Draco couldn’t pull him back down and make him surrender the way he would have liked to. Instead, Potter pushed his hair out of his eyes and stared at Draco as if this was all his fault and said, “It should have been different.”
“What should have been?” Draco demanded, frustrated this time by Potter’s lack of grammatical specificity. “This kiss, or the crush that you have on me, or this fight, or something else?”
Potter’s mouth fell open. “You know about—about what I feel for you?”
“What’s wrong? Think calling it a crush is undignified?” Draco mocked, but Potter just stared at him with a stubbornly open jaw, and Draco gave in. “Yes, of course I do. The next time you want to hide a secret like that, try not to stare openly at the object of your affections in Potions.”
“It should have been different,” Potter said, his frown deepening. “I was thinking about it, and I hadn’t decided yet, but it should have been different.”
“And once again, I ask you, in what way?” Draco was getting annoyed. His arms ached from the awkward position they were tied in, his lips wanted Potter’s back again or else a drink of water, and he really didn’t think he could reach his wand from here. “What would you have done?”
“I don’t know,” said Potter. “Let me think about it.” Then he leaned towards Draco and narrowed his eyes. “And no more giving Polyjuice to other people and letting them pretend to be you while they snog Parkinson. Or anyone else,” he added. “Male or female. Especially not Zabini.”
Before Draco could point out how stupid he sounded, Potter had snapped his wand down and removed the ropes around Draco’s wrists and the spell that kept his legs locked together. Then he’d marched down the corridor, his scowl as dark as though he was on his way to detention.
Draco retrieved his wand and conjured a glass of water for himself, then sipped it and watched the way Potter had gone. Try as he might, no new thoughts, and no profound ones, occurred to him about what had happened.
“Well, fuck me,” he told no one in particular, and stood up to make his way back to the entrance hall, where Blaise and Pansy were waiting for him.
Part 2.
