On the night of the Leaver's Ball, Draco ended up sitting alone, perched precariously on the wide marble railing of the balcony, resting his arm on one knee and letting his other leg dangle off into the darkness below. From this vantage point he could see the revelers inside, reflected against the glass. He watched the girls all trussed up in their pink and blue and green dresses and high heels they would be regretting in the morning, the boys with their hair pressed back, faces scrubbed, smelling like a cologne factory and shoe polish, pairing off happily and dancing badly. He had performed his requisite dances, he had inched away and let his partner get swept up by someone else. He wanted the night air, and the quiet. He rested his head against the wall.

So, this was it. School, finished. He had no precise idea what happened next, and he didn't really care. Yet. For the moment there was something tugging on him, some sadness in this leaving that the party inside just jostled an didn't quiet. It was like longing for a pause in a conversation that never came, waiting for a particular course in meal that had ended. Going to meet a train that had been delayed, or cancelled, or had been put out of service long ago.

Draco was startled when the door opened, and a black-suited figure came through. For a moment the music blared, light spilled out onto the stone floor of the balcony, and Draco heard laughter; there was a momentary shadow against the stone, sharp from the light behind it, with hair that was never meant to be anything other than a mess, the outline of glasses, thick shoulders. The door clicked shut again and Harry walked forward to the railing, putting his hands flat against it and exhaled slowly.

The first time Draco knew that Harry felt something for him was nearly two years before. It was a long time to know something like this, and he had gotten used to the idea. They were in class, potions, cutting some root or slug or some other, and Draco had put his hand over Harry's to try and show him how to slice it properly. Draco had thought nothing of it; he was holding the scalpel all wrong, Snape had explained it a million times, he would correct him and go back to stirring the cauldron. No point in losing marks over Potter's idiocy. But when he touched Harry's hand he could feel him jolt, he could feel Harry's heartbeat quicken, out of the corner of his eye he saw Harry's Adam's apple bob up and down as he choked back something like, well. Something like it indeed.

At first he had just been surprised. He didn't know Potter was that way, he didn't know Potter was the sort. It was all the same to Draco, and he was mildly flattered. After all, this was Harry Potter, getting all hot and bothered over a little touch from Draco. H could have used it to his advantage, but he didn't. In some strange way, he respected it, he treasured it, even at the beginning. In retrospect, he wondered if that wasn't when he should have stopped to wonder.

He was very raw, Potter was, very clear and honest and unable to hide much. Draco knew this because once he discovered the truth he tested it. The following week he managed to brush against Harry's thigh and saw the same thing; breath caught in his throat, cheeks turning red, a slow blink, a bit of otherworldliness in his face, as though he were daydreaming. He kept catching Harry looking at him across the Great Hall at meals, during Quidditch practices, in class.

He thought it was just a very ill-concealed crush. Draco would rise from his seat sometimes, walk across the classroom to sharpen his pencil, and then walk back, the entire time feeling Harry's eyes on him, seeing his head turn to follow him out of the corner of his eye. He wondered how Harry could bear to be so obvious about it, if he was trying to get Draco's attention, if he was looking for a fist in his face. Really now. Draco didn't so much mind, but it wasn't something that just happened at Hogwarts, and he was quite sure the others would find it endlessly amusing, disgusting, and case to attack Harry whenever possible. The press would have a heyday. It wasn't what you would call normal. The boys locker room had no screens or dividers in the showers because the boys weren't expected to be checking each other out. This sort of thing could get him beaten into the ground, if he wasn't careful. But he wasn't careful. Draco would grind the pencil sharpener, look up, and see Harry still staring at him. Was he looking to be a laughing stock, or what?

Sometimes he would stare right back, less obviously, and realized that no one else seemed to notice it. His friends were apparently chalking it up to his profound ability to daydream anytime anywhere, and sometimes they would interrupt his meditations to ask if he was alright, if his scar hurt him. Once, in Potions class, sixth year, they looked each other straight in the eye during one of these moments and Potter didn't even have the decency to blush. Draco raised an eyebrow and Potter just scowled at him. It was boggling. All that staring, why? Did Potter think Draco was a spy, that he needed constant supervision? Did Draco require the kind supervision that drifted from his face down to his chest, and lingered on his groin?

Then one day when they were having an argument, wands out, a duel threatened, Draco saw Harry's face flush, his hands shake, his eyes fill with lust and hatred and fury, and he knew that Harry wasn't trying to be obvious. He honestly didn't know the truth himself. If Draco challenged him on it, he would probably be shocked. Appalled. Horrified. Draco didn't challenge him.

It was so pretty, watching Harry's whole body transform and shiver when Draco touched him. And he found plenty of reasons to touch him. Draco would shove up against him in the halls, tug on his robes, push him toward the stairs, put a hand on his shoulder in a way that was meant to seem menacing to others but was actually very gentle. Sometimes, if the contact were great enough, he caught hints of more obvious reactions, reactions that had to be hidden with robes or dealt with in the privacy of the boys bathroom. It was flattering, really. It was an amusing little game all of his own that made Draco feel powerful, important, and endlessly desirable.

But it was also charming, in a strange way. From the beginning Draco had never wanted to make his knowledge public. It was only for him, these anxious breaths, this quivers, bit lips, heavy eyelids, quickly overheating skin. It was a private show for Draco to watch Potter tense his jaw, lick his lips, curl his fingers, he could caress him gently and then just imagine what he dreamed of that night.

And it invaded his own dreams as well, dreams of Potter, eyes shut, mouth open and quivering a little with his rapid breath, robes hanging open and Draco's lips on his neck. It was a new idea. It was Potter's idea, really. On his own Draco didn't think he'd have come up with it, not really. It wasn't as though there were any other boys who made him think this way; if it had been Weasley, or Finnigan, or Goyle (God forbid) or any of the others, no doubt he would have told everyone and let them all have a laugh. Or he would have just slapped him and told him to get a grip on himself, "But not in front of me, thankyouverymuch." But with Potter, somehow. Well, it was all different.

There was nothing unhealthy in thinking about it, was there? How could he not think about it? Detention, sixth year: polishing cutlery in the Great Hall. Potter focused on the cloth in his hand, his fingers covered in silver polish, legs crossed n the chair and knees pressed against the table. A bit of silver polish on his cheek bone. Draco stared at that bit of polish for a good twenty minutes before he lifted two fingers to Harry's face and smeared it further across his cheek. Harry looked up, surprised, and then dipped his fingers into the jar of polish dragged them on Draco's cheek in return. Those fingers touched him a little too long. They didn't look at each other. Neither of them said anything.

Potions, sixth year: Potter's calf flush up against Draco's under the table, and neither of them moved. The corridor between the Great Hall and Dumbledore's office, seventh year: they wrestled and Draco felt Potter's erection under his hand and knew that Potter felt his as well. They swore in each other’s faces and Draco got a black eye. Later that evening all Draco could think about was corduroy and flannel, and the smell of moth balls and peaches and sweat. Nothing unhealthy in thinking about it, was there?

The corridor in front of the library, seventh year, just after Christmas: Harry and Ginny Weasley. Draco had run across them accidentally, on the way to return some books. Her arms were wrapped around his shoulders, his hands slipped over her back and twining in her hair. His lips, his tongue, moving gently over hers, teasing, drawing her hesitant kiss into a wildly passionate one. She moaned. Draco watched Harry's tongue slipping in and out of her mouth and could almost feel Harry's breath on his face from twenty feet away. His eyes widened. Well. Apparently Harry knew how to kiss. His first thought after that was: there's just no way he's serious about her. Draco's stomach dropped. He was horrified with himself. He was jealous.

The Quidditch pitch, seventh year: Draco had caught the snitch, the Slytherins were roaring with delight. He stood on the grass and grinned, he was so happy he felt like he was still flying, like his feet were a good foot off the ground. Harry, dropping out of the sky and walking over to him, hand out. Harry congratulated him, defeated, but smiling. They gripped hands and Harry's lip twitched. Draco thought about that kiss and watched Harry's lips, saw his tongue, his teeth behind his smile. Harry's fingers on his wrist for a moment. Harry's breathing hitched, but it could have been from the game.

The boys locker room, just afterward: water pouring over him, soap in his hair, still feeling light and happy, he turned his head to see Harry putting his clothes on and watching him. Harry's chest and stomach red from the heat of the water, his eyes trailing over him, Adam's apple bobbing. Draco closed his eyes and didn't move. It felt so good to be looked at.

The Leaver's Ball, an hour ago: Draco danced with Pansy, and she nibbled on his neck. He glanced over to see Harry, dancing placidly with Hermione, watching him and biting his lip. Did he feel it? That burning jealousy? Draco hoped he did. He leaned closer to Pansy and kissed her. When he looked up again, Harry was gone.

"Couldn't find a replacement for your date, Potter?" Draco attempted to sound calmly amused, but the comment came out sounding rather vicious instead. Harry nearly jumped, clearly surprised to hear anyone's voice out here in the darkness, and turned to look at him. Draco had seen Harry walk into the ballroom with Ginny, and then later watched her attach herself like a leech to Seamus Finnigan's mouth. Granger had rolled her eyes and tugged Harry off to the dance floor.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" The same old antagonism. In spite of the fact that Harry’s voice was filled with distrust, with even with some scorn, hurt, sorrow, Draco could count on him moving closer. It was always this way. He chuckled.

"Mmm. Same as you, I assume. My date," he gestured back toward the ballroom, and watched Harry take few steps toward him, "found someone more...willing to be gnawed upon, you see." He leaned gracefully back against the wall again, watching Harry slide his hand along the railing. Pansy had nabbed Blaise Zabini at the punch bowl after he had pushed her off him for trying to give him a hickey.

Harry sighed. "Not a shock in either case, is it." He stopped for a moment and looked back into the ballroom. He made a face and stepped closer to Draco again.

"Not really." Draco smiled. Draco knew that this was how it would go, this slow and shuffling progression toward him. Harry was like an insect attracted to light; he was unconsciously drifting toward Draco even as he smirked a little at him. Draco wondered what he thought he was doing, wondered if he ever needed to explain it to himself. The way his body turned toward Draco in a room, the way he responded so wantonly (innocently) when Draco touched him. What does he call that, late at night, with his own hands on himself between his sheets?

If Draco didn't know better, he would think Harry might come right up beside him, wrap an arm around his waist, whisper something sweet, something desperate and lustful and hopelessly ineloquent into his ear, and kiss him. Kiss him the way he had kissed Ginny, that open mouth, that careful tongue. Draco exhaled slowly. Harry had stopped a few feet away, and was looking down at his shoes. He looked sad, his hair falling forward onto his face, his fingers tapping nervously on the railing. His glasses slid partway down his nose. Did he mourn the loss of that Weasley girl? Perhaps. For now, at least.

"Potter."

"Hmmm?"

Draco pulled his legs over the railing and stood, leaning back against the marble. They stood side by side, hands nearly touching against the railing. Draco closed his eyes for a moment, and then felt the heat of Harry's fingers next to his own. One last small shift, to make contact. Skin to skin. Draco opened his eyes and saw that Harry had closed his. He left one hand on the railing and turned, looking carefully at Harry's face. Such bliss there, ignorant, confused, peaceful bliss. What happens next, Draco thought, is entirely his fault.

Harry's eyes flew open when Draco put the palm of his hand against Harry's face, thumb grazing his cheekbone, fingers stroking the back of his neck. The shock had barely registered on his face when Draco leaned forward and kissed him.

Much later, after all of the confusion, the drama, the clandestine meetings and tears and bitter arguments and small betrayals, after the late night confessions and admissions, commitments and agreements; once they achieved the calm acceptance that brought them into mundane normalcy, Harry told people, playfully, that he had been very skillfully seduced by Draco. Draco never bothered to correct him.

End