1

"And Potter misses the Snitch again! Let's hope one of our Seekers catches it before it gets dark!"

Harry glared in the general direction of the commentator's box. He knew it wouldn't be seen from this distance, even without the encroaching snowstorm, but it made him feel better nonetheless. Then he tried his best to shut out Zacharias Smith's commentary - he knew the Hufflepuff boy was just bitter at not being selected for his own house team.

Struggling to gain a proper grip on his wet broom, Harry looked around desperately for a familiar flash of gold. The thick, swirling snow made visibility virtually non-existent, and the dizzying dance of fat flakes left Harry feeling more than a little disorientated.

Not even the thick leather of his gloves could keep the biting cold from chilling Harry's fingers down to the bone, and he had long since lost the feeling in the lower half of his face. Forcing himself to focus on the game, rather than the conditions, he circled higher above his team-mates, all the while casting his eyes about for a glimpse of the Snitch.

A sudden jolt to his broom caused Harry to slip. Clinging on for dear life, he fought desperately to retain his hold. The voice booming down the microphone, and the roaring of the crowd were a distant echo to him. The only thing he was aware of in that moment was the expression on Draco Malfoy's face as he reached out and literally plucked the Snitch from the air in front of him.

Harry'd always thought he'd be a good loser, but until now it was something he'd never really had to put to the test. But the sight of the Slytherin team celebrating madly, with Malfoy at the heart of the group, proved his theory wrong.

The anger at being robbed of victory, his final opportunity to beat Malfoy, bubbled in Harry's chest. Despite the animosity between them having faded somewhat when Malfoy switched sides in the war, their rivalry when it came to Quidditch still burned strong. Harry scowled fiercely in the Slytherins' direction, plotting various ill-advised revenge attacks. It was only the knowledge that his own team were watching him expectantly, waiting to take their lead from him, that Harry relented and reluctantly guided his broom to the ground.

Draco couldn't quite remember a time when he had felt this good - not even the excitement of Christmas, with its promise of abundant presents could compete with the exhilaration that had consumed him as he curled his fingers around the Snitch, feeling its tiny wings beating futilely against his palm.

And to have literally snatched it from under Potter's nose - well, that only heightened the sensation.

Draco chuckled to himself as he enjoyed his post-game shower. As he worked the shampoo into thick suds on his hair, he mentally replayed the crucial moment over and over. Clipping Potter's broom had been an accident. Fortuitous, yes, but an accident nonetheless. And that made the victory all the sweeter. Not only had he beaten Potter, but he'd done it fair and square—not something a Slytherin could usually lay claim to with any truth.

Of course, the Gryffindors, and Potter especially, wouldn't see it that way. And Draco was already relishing the prospect of his next encounter with the Boy Who Lived. There was something in the physicality of their confrontations that Draco savoured long after the bruises faded.

Draco never questioned why this was, and any time his subconscious – or Pansy for that matter – attempted to suggest there was a deeper, repressed reasoning behind his actions, Draco stomped on it immediately.

Rinsing himself clean, Draco grabbed a clean towel off the rail, wrapped it around his waist, and headed back to the changing room. His team-mates were in various stages of dress already, and were loudly discussing the game in gleeful tones.

Draco paused and gave a pointed look at both Crabbe and Goyle. Vince was generally hopeless, but Greg could usually be relied upon to take the hint. Sure enough, he was soon ushering the team out of the changing rooms and back up to the school.

Draco let out a contented sigh as silence descended around him. He much preferred to change alone. Not because he was ashamed of his body - on the contrary, Draco was extremely proud of what he saw reflected in the mirror. However, there was a certain amount of work necessary to maintain the level of perfection he had achieved, and Draco had no real desire for an audience as he buffed, moisturised, and generally preened.

Once his routine was complete, Draco applied a carefully aimed Drying Charm at his hair, nodding in satisfaction as it fell in gleaming strands, the ends just kissing his jaw line.

Next came his clothes, and whilst Draco could hardly be described as a lover of Muggles, he was never one to let principles get in the way of looking good. And he had only to admire the reflection of his arse in those 501's to know that it was worth the sacrifice. A thin-knit blue jumper went on top - even though it was winter in the Scottish Highlands, Draco's cloak had Warming Charms woven into its expensive fabric.

Leaving his dirty clothes where they lay on the floor - because, after all, what were house-elves for? - Draco swung his cloak over his shoulders, picked up his broom and headed out of the changing rooms.

Despite lingering long after his team-mates, Draco found himself leaving at the same time as the Gryffindor team. Having more sense than to confront the no-doubt morally-outraged lions when on his own, Draco slid back inside the doorway and waited for them to pass.

His caution was rewarded further when he heard the Weasel and his little sister talking.

"Should I go back and wait for him, do you think?"

For a moment Draco held his breath, thinking they were discussing him. His fears were dispelled by the next overheard sentence.

"No. Best to leave him alone, Gin. You know how Harry gets when he's brooding. He'll come up when he's ready."

It was all Draco could do not to cackle gleefully at this piece of news. Here was an opportunity too good to miss. Potter, alone, and no doubt hurting over his defeat at Draco's hands. Already a frisson of excitement was coursing through his body at the thought of their confrontation. And there would be a confrontation, Draco was determined of that.

"Get lost, Malfoy. I'm not in the mood."

"What's the matter, Potter? I never had you pegged as a sore loser." Draco smiled maliciously. "How did it feel to lose, by the way?"

"I'm sure you've had enough experience that you don't need me to explain it to you."

Potter trudged onwards in the snow, refusing to even turn and acknowledge Draco's presence. And there was nothing guaranteed to annoy Draco more than being ignored. He cast about furiously in his mind for something to provoke Potter – he wasn't giving up yet.

"Must be that old broom of yours," Draco said almost casually. "Maybe you should ask your godfather to buy you a new one."

Draco let out a nasty-sounding chuckle as he noticed Potter come to a halt. "Only you can't, can you? What with him being dead and all."

And there it was, Draco thought dazedly. The one thing that could always be relied upon to draw a reaction from Potter.

Pain exploded in his nose as he fell to the ground. He looked up from his sprawled position, ignoring the familiar sensation of blood trickling down his throat. Potter loomed over him, his fists clenched and eyes flashing in anger — a perfect picture of an avenging angel.

Before Potter had time to move, Draco kicked out hard, taking his legs from underneath him. As Potter's entire weight landed on top of him, Draco reflected that this probably hadn't been the wisest manoeuvre he'd ever made.

They tussled on the ground, each fighting for a position of dominance, and neither caring about the bitter cold seeping through their clothing. It was really more of a wrestle, than a proper fight, Draco reflected as he struggled to get a decent blow in. They were too close together for any real impact to occur--the only possible danger came from the threat of a stray knee in the wrong place.

Potter slammed him over on his back, wrenching Draco from his musings. He found his hands were pinned to the ground above his head, while Potter straddled his body, panting with the exertion.

And suddenly there it was. Not the stray limb to his groin that Draco had feared, but something far more surprising, and ultimately dangerous for both of them.

Draco let out an audible gasp, and Potter stilled instantly--his face hovering mere inches above Draco's. Draco watched intently as a lone droplet of melted snow travelled slowly down a wayward strand of Potter's hair. It landed with a soft splash on his face.

Instinctively, Draco flicked out his tongue and captured it. Then Potter was the one gasping, his cheeks flushed from more than just their tussle and green eyes wider than Draco would have ever thought possible.

And then Draco realised that Potter wasn't the only one sporting an inappropriate hard-on. His own trousers were feeling decidedly tight, and as Potter shifted in a clearly desperate attempt to flee the scene, Draco snatched hold of his hands and thrust upwards.

Later, when he was more rational and not addled with lust, Draco was hard pushed to explain what had possessed him. But right then, in the moment, with Potter's hard cock pressed snug against his own--well, thinking wasn't exactly top of Draco's list of priorities.

Then Potter crashed his mouth down onto Draco's; noses bumped, teeth clacked, and there was the unmistakeable coppery taste of blood. But in all his experience, and Draco would be the first to admit he'd had plenty, never had something as simple as a kiss brought him so close to coming in his own pants.

The fight for dominance that characterised every one of their interactions transferred seamlessly into the kiss. Hands tangled in soaking wet hair, teeth nipped at already bruised lips, and they rutted frantically against each other with scant regard for their public location.

"Fuck, Potter," Draco gasped, after Potter ground against him particularly forcefully.

Potter groaned something that sounded suspiciously like "Malfoy." Only his lips were attached to Draco's throat at the time, and it sounded rather muffled.

Harry was barely able to form a coherent thought - his brain was completely overloaded with a burning need that coursed through his body with every thrust.

That it was Malfoy, someone he'd always disliked immensely, who was responsible for these feelings, didn't sink in. Only the press of a hard cock against his own, and the wet tongue licking a slick trail along his throat, managed to register.

And then it was over.

Harry heard Malfoy let out a soft whimper and felt his body tense beneath him. He pulled back just in time to witness what was possibly the most erotic sight he'd ever seen; Malfoy, head thrown back, eyelids fluttering closed, lips swollen and parted as if in silent prayer.

This sight, along with the continuous pressure on his own erection was enough to tip Harry over the edge. Letting his head fall forward, Harry buried his face in the crook of Malfoy's neck, nuzzling the soft flesh as he groaned his own completion.

Once the heady glow of orgasm had faded, a sense of icy cold horror gripped Harry. He scrambled off Malfoy, looking around desperately in the snow for his glasses, which had become lost in their earlier battle.

Hearing a soft snort, Harry reluctantly turned to face Malfoy, and was startled to see him holding his wand. For a brief moment Harry panicked - his hands were still trembling so much, he doubted he could manage to hold his wand, much less coax his brain into producing a spell.

"Accio Potter's glasses."

Harry felt a moment's disappointment at not hearing the Obliviate he half expected. Giving his head a slight shake in a vain attempt to clear his thoughts, Harry reached out and grabbed his glasses from Malfoy's hand.

"Thanks," he mumbled, not quite able to make eye contact.

"Anytime, Potter," Malfoy replied, and Harry had to work hard to convince himself that he had imagined the leer.

Harry got to his feet and gazed towards the castle, desperately scanning the horizon for signs of any witnesses to his moment of madness.

"This never happened," he said firmly, before walking in the direction of the school without a backwards glance.

Draco lay on his back in the snow, still revelling in the fuzzy warmth of his climax.

"Oh, it happened, Potter," he said softly to himself. "You're not getting away with it that easily."

Eventually the wet and cold permeated even the strong charms on his cloak, and Draco was forced to quit his position. Getting to his feet, he cast first a Drying Charm, and then swiftly followed it with a cleaning one. His lips curled upwards slightly at the thought of Potter's sticky journey back to Gryffindor tower.

On the walk back, Draco found it hard to keep a smile from his face. He mused on his next encounter with Potter--and there would be another one, he was determined of that. He wouldn’t let Potter pretend that things hadn’t changed between them. Not when they had. Irrevocably.

His musings were brought to an abrupt halt as he neared the main doors where an irate-looking Professor McGonagall harangued Potter.

"Ah, Mr Malfoy. Now why aren't I surprised to see you here--and in a similar state to Mr Potter?"

Her crisp, clipped tones vanished the remainder of Draco's pleasure-induced haze, and set him to panic in an instant. He might be determined to force Potter to acknowledge what had happened between them, but he certainly wasn't prepared for it to be discussed over tea and biscuits in the staff room.

Potter was resolutely staring at the ground and offered no help to Draco whatsoever. He floundered for a moment before replying.

"I'm sorry, Professor, I'm not sure what you mean."

"Don't play me for a fool, Mr Malfoy. The game ended over an hour ago, and both your team-mates are long back in their respective common rooms. You two are the only ones left out here, and considering your various cuts and bruises, it's fairly obvious what has been going on."

"Professor, I was just—”

"Don't make it worse by lying, Mr Potter. As it is, you will both serve detention with me tonight." She paused here and shook her head almost sadly. "I'm very disappointed in the both of you. I thought you had grown past such childish behaviour; clearly, I was wrong."

Draco had to resist the temptation to roll his eyes; did she really think that sort of pathetic guilt trip would work on him? One look at Potter told that Professor McGonagall had at least hit one of her marks, and Draco found himself shaking his own head.

"Back to your common rooms, both of you. If I hear there's been anymore of this nonsense, I'll be taking the matter to the Headmaster."

"Did you just see that?"

"Huh?" Blaise reluctantly dragged his attention away from the punch bowl and turned to face Pansy.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Did you just see that?" she repeated, a little louder this time.

Blaise looked vainly around the room for a clue as to what she was referring to. "No?"

Pansy shook her head. "Useless. How you ended up in Slytherin I'll never know. I always thought yellow was more your colour."

"Pansy." Blaise's voice held a warning note and wisely his girlfriend relented.

"Fine," she huffed. "Draco just came back, and he's gone straight into the dormitory."

"So?" Blaise glanced longingly at the punch bowl.

Pansy gave him a sharp nudge. "This is Draco we're talking about. He's finally beaten Potter at Quidditch, and he isn't out here celebrating like mad with the rest of us. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious?"

Blaise ran his eyes over the assembled crowd as if noticing for the first time that his friend wasn't present. "That is strange," he admitted finally, before a broad grin spread over his face. "Maybe he just wants to celebrate alone."

"There's more to it than that," Pansy insisted. "Draco would never pass up the opportunity to lord it over the rest of us - not when he's the hero of the hour. Something's wrong, and I'm going to find out what." She didn't wait around for Blaise's reply, but spun on her heel and headed towards the boys' dormitories.

"Don't blame me if you walk in on him wanking," Blaise called after her.

Pansy carried on walking, a smirk on her face--she hadn't the heart to tell her boyfriend it wouldn't be the first time.

Without bothering to knock, Pansy swiftly disabled the Locking Charm Draco had placed on his door. The way she figured it, if he hadn't bothered to put decent wards in place, then he obviously wasn't that concerned about being disturbed.

"Fuck!" Draco exclaimed as Pansy sat herself down on the bed at the side of him. He tugged the sheets up higher to cover his bare chest. "What are you doing in here?"

"Funnily enough, I was about to ask you the same thing. There's quite a celebration out there, and the man of the moment is missing."

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm just not in the mood for company."

Pansy snorted. "C'mon, Draco, this is me you're talking to, not Crabbe. You know I'll drag it out of you in the end, so save us both a lot of time and effort and just tell me now."

"There's nothing to tell."

Pansy reached out her hand and touched his cheek. "Oh, really? Well this bruise says otherwise. Was it Potter? Have you two been fighting again?"

"Yes," Draco replied quickly. "We got into a fight over the game, and McGonagall gave us detention, and now I'm really not in the mood for company, so if you don't mind..."

"There's more to it than that. You're acting all shifty. Tell me, Draco, or I'm going back out into the common room and telling everyone about that time I caught you wearing your mother's dress."

"I was seven!" Draco protested.

Pansy shrugged. "Take your pick."

Draco scowled. He knew Pansy well enough to know that not only would she follow through with her threat, but that she would also embellish the story to such a point that everyone would believe he was a confirmed cross dresser before the evening was out.

"Fine," he ground out. "Potter and I had a row. We fought for a bit, and then he kissed me and humped my leg till he came in his pants."

Pansy snorted loudly. "Very funny. That's quite a story. Now tell me what really happened."

"That is the truth. I don't see why it's so hard to believe that Potter finds me attractive."

"Draco, he hates you. Has done since the first year. Why would he suddenly start dry humping you now?" Pansy shook her head and got to her feet. "If you want me I'll be in the common room telling Greg how that teal dress complimented your complexion."

"Potter."

Harry had done his best to ignore Malfoy throughout the day and had no intention of acknowledging him now if he could help it. He carried on with his assigned task and paid no heed to the pointed looks being shot his way.

"Potter."

A sharp poke to his leg with a broom handle had Harry forgetting his resolution. He glared fiercely. "What d'you want, Malfoy?"

"You."

The broom in Harry's hands fell to the floor with a noisy clatter.

"Is there something wrong, Gentlemen?"

"Uh, no," Harry mumbled, eternally grateful it was Madam Hooch who had ended up supervising their detention, not his far more perceptive Head of House.

Harry picked the broom back up off the floor and began clipping its tail. He tried not to think about the enormous pile of school brooms that were still awaiting his attention.

"I see you've brought your own personal stalker with you," Malfoy taunted, clearly unable to remain silent.

Harry looked up to where Ginny was hovering uncertainly around Madam Hooch's desk. The thought of how far off the mark Malfoy was made him smile.

"Does she know about your preferences?" Malfoy pressed. "Have you told her how you prefer a nice hard cock to a pair of squishy breasts?"

"Malfoy!" Harry turned to face him in alarm. "Will you please shut up?"

An amused smirk crossed Malfoy's face. “‘Please’? Well, you must be serious. I don't think I've ever heard you use that word to me before." He paused for a moment to pick up another broom. "She'll work it out eventually, you know. You not being able to get it up will be quite the clue."

Despite himself, Harry couldn't help the small smile that curved his lips--if he hadn't known better, he would almost have thought Malfoy was concerned for him.

"I wouldn't worry about Ginny," Harry replied finally. "I'm not the one here she's interested in."

Malfoy's eyes widened in horror and he began spluttering. "Y-y-you mean she..." He tailed off here, almost as though he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

Harry looked at him puzzled for a moment, before a wide grin split his face. Clearly Malfoy had misunderstood his meaning and was now labouring under the delusion that he was the object of Ginny's affections.

Harry debated for a moment over whether to tell him the truth or not. It was possible that, being Malfoy, he would use the truth to his own advantage, but it was also far more likely that he would try to humiliate Ginny mercilessly over her supposed obsession.

"It's not you," he said shortly. "She doesn't fancy you."

A look of relief swept Malfoy's face, swiftly followed by one of puzzlement. "But if it's not me, and you said it wasn't you, that means," he paused and glanced around the room, "Madam Hooch," he whispered, almost gleefully.

Harry just nodded, silently praying that Malfoy would let it go.

"So what you're saying," Malfoy continued, "is that despite her love of Quidditch, the Weaselette really isn't into riding brooms at all."

Something about the glint of amusement in Malfoy's eyes, the way his brows arched expectantly, and the rather obvious twitching of his lips, had Harry grinning despite himself. "It's not funny," he protested.

"Oh, on the contrary," Malfoy replied. "It's extremely amusing. I'll be particularly interested to hear how the Weasel takes this piece of news."

"Don't you dare say anything to Ron," Harry growled, suddenly feeling slightly sick for having betrayed Ginny's confidence, and to Malfoy of all people.

If it was possible, Malfoy looked almost offended. "I have no intention of spreading this around, Potter. I'm fully aware of how narrow-minded people can be about such things. I was just thinking that the Weasel won't be quite so quick to call me a ponce, when he finds out his sister's a dyke!"

"Ron doesn't mean anything by it," Harry answered, but even to his own ears it sounded weak.

"Of course he doesn't. That's why you've been so honest with him about your own preferences, is it?"

Harry flushed a vivid red and busied himself with the next broom. Malfoy was right, of course - not that he'd ever let the git know that. Over the last few months Harry had found himself entertaining an increasing number of fantasies involving other men--the previous day's encounter with Malfoy had just confirmed what he'd already suspected deep down. And Harry was far from confident of Ron's acceptance. Hermione wouldn't be a problem, though she would probably drive him crazy with questions and books on the subject, but Ron...that was another matter entirely.

"I trust I can leave you two to finish off without any further trouble?"

Harry turned his attention to Madam Hooch, infinitely grateful for her having interrupted; he nodded in agreement.

"Of course," Malfoy replied. "Potter and I have reached an...understanding now."

Harry looked at him sharply, fearful of the implication in his tone. However, neither their teacher nor Ginny appeared to have noticed anything unusual.

"I'm glad to hear that, Mr Malfoy. Just stack the brooms back in the cupboard when you're done, and see you return directly to your common rooms."

With that, both she and Ginny left the room, leaving Harry and Malfoy alone together for the first time since their encounter on the Quidditch pitch the day before.

Harry quickly turned his attention back to his work, not wanting to give Malfoy any opportunity to resume the awkward conversation. He unscrewed the bottle of oil and began polishing the broom in his hand diligently.

"Nice action you've got there, Potter," Malfoy observed, and Harry's heart sank. "I'd never have had you pegged as such an expert broom polisher."

"Leave it alone, Malfoy," Harry muttered.

"Oh, on the contrary," Malfoy replied, getting to his feet. "I have no intention of leaving it, or you alone."

Harry watched nervously as the other boy headed over to the door. For one brief moment, he hoped that Malfoy was planning to leave, but then he murmured a Locking Charm, and Harry's heart was in his throat.

The look that Malfoy shot him as he turned back round caused the nerve endings in Harry's body to come alive, shooting tiny pulses of electricity to his body. As Malfoy stalked towards him, intent clearly written all over his face, Harry scrambled to his feet.

"What are you doing?" he asked, backing away slowly, until he felt the cold press of wall against his back.

"I'd have thought that was obvious," Malfoy replied, insinuating his body into Harry's personal space. "I plan to try out your broom polishing skills for myself."

"W-what?" Harry could have kicked himself for asking such a redundant question, as Malfoy's hands were making it increasingly obvious exactly what he was doing.

"I wasn't lying earlier," Malfoy whispered, his lips a hair's breadth from Harry's ear. "I do want you."

"We can't...You can't do that here." Harry's voice rose a notch in panic as Malfoy's fingers made short work of the buttons on his jeans. He squirmed in a half-hearted attempt to free himself.

"Just relax," Malfoy murmured softly, one hand running up and down Harry's arm, almost as if trying to soothe a startled wild animal. "You know you want this."

And considering Malfoy's fingers were now wrapped around his cock, his extremely hard cock, Harry didn't really think he was in a position to deny it.

Harry let his head fall back against the wall and bit down on his lip in an effort to stifle a whimper. Damn, Malfoy was good at this. His grip firm but teasing as he stroked the length of Harry's shaft. When his other hand slipped inside Harry's trousers and began kneading the soft flesh of his arse, Harry began wondering how he would ever be able to endure a day that didn't promise more of the same.

Malfoy picked up the pace, his strokes becoming firmer, faster, and Harry couldn't help but arch off the wall towards the source of the delicious sensations.

"Please," he begged, not entirely sure what he was begging for.

It seemed that Malfoy thought he knew the answer, because his hand travelled further down Harry's arse, fingers sliding between his buttocks until they teased Harry's puckered entrance.

Harry was too far gone in the pleasure emanating from his cock to protest the action. And when Malfoy finally breached him with one slender digit, all Harry could do was groan loudly as his come spurted all over Malfoy's hand.

"Like that did you, Potter?"

Harry opened his eyes partially and saw Malfoy grinning back at his. His eyes widened as Malfoy raised his fingers to his lips and began lapping Harry's come off them.

"Fuck," Harry groaned.

"Oh, we will, but not tonight," Malfoy assured him, reaching for the fastenings on his own trousers.

Before he had time to consider the action, Harry reached out and batted Malfoy's hand away. "Let me," he muttered, fumbling with the buttons.

Malfoy's eyes widened slightly in surprise, and Harry grinned in satisfaction. Then he manoeuvred them around until it was Malfoy pressed up against the wall.

Harry was more than familiar with the sensation of a cock in his hand, but up until now it had always been his own. There was an almost heady sense of empowerment at holding another man's in the palm of his hand, and a growing sense of satisfaction at seeing just how turned on Malfoy really was.

It was awkward. The angle was all wrong, and Harry's strokes were jerky rather than the smooth ones that Malfoy had employed.

"You haven't done this before, have you?" gasped Malfoy, gazing at Harry through heavy-lidded eyes.

The question was like a bucket of ice water being thrown over his head. "Why?" Harry winced mentally at how small his voice sounded. "Am I doing something wrong?"

Malfoy arched off the wall and thrust suggestively into Harry's hands. "No," he groaned. "I just like knowing I'm the first person to conquer the Boy Who Lived."

Harry gave Malfoy's cock a warning squeeze, and when all this did was produce a throaty chuckle, Harry leant in and sealed his lips over Malfoy's, which parted eagerly in welcome.

Harry was surprised to feel how easily Malfoy melted into the kiss--almost ceding control to him. Never one to turn from a challenge, Harry took the opportunity to plunder every inch of Malfoy's mouth with his tongue, all the while maintaining a steady, if somewhat clumsy stroke on his erection.

Malfoy tensed up and let out a series of short groans. Harry gave one last firm tug on his cock, and was rewarded by the new sensation of another man's come coating his own hand. For a moment he stared at it dazedly, almost as if not sure what had happened. Then, just as with the last time, Harry found himself overwhelmed with a sense of horror and shame at what he'd just done.

Harry looked at Malfoy to see how he was taking this newest development, and was greeted by the laziest, most sated smile he'd ever seen.

"Well, Potter," Draco said slowly. "You might not have done this before, but I'd say you're a natural."

Harry stumbled backwards, his mouth gaping as he searched for something to say.

"Oh, come on. Don't start acting the blushing maiden now. You can't deny that you enjoyed that."

And that was the trouble. Harry could still feel parts of his body tingling from where Malfoy had touched him. And worse than that, he'd touched Malfoy back--and enjoyed it!

Frantically wiping his hand clean on his shirt, Harry tugged his fly up and then fled from the room without another word.

"Draco, you're staring."

Draco dragged his eyes away from where they had been fixed on Potter. "Huh?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Potter," she clarified. "You're staring at him. People are starting to notice."

Draco quickly scanned the assembled group of prefects; the only person who appeared to be paying him any heed was Granger, and she usually kept a watchful eye on him during these meetings, almost as if she expected him to dissent at any moment.

"It's only Granger," he muttered. "She's hardly people."

"No, she's just Potter's best friend. Really, Draco, I thought you were over this obsession of yours."

Draco merely smiled at her knowingly and then resumed his watch of the Head Boy.

Potter shuffled the papers in his hand and gave an awkward sounding cough. He looked around the room, meeting the gaze of everyone present--except for Draco's. And strangely enough Draco considered this a personal triumph, because if Potter really didn't care, wasn't bothered about what had happened between them, he would have no qualms about meeting Draco's gaze.

"Right," Granger said finally, when it became clear Potter wasn't about to start. "Before we get on with the usual business, Headmaster Dumbledore has asked that we collate a list of any prefects who are remaining at school over the Christmas holidays."

Draco slid down in his seat slightly; he'd known this moment was coming soon, but he certainly wasn't relishing the revelation. Granger went around the room, asking each of the prefects in turn--it was just as Draco expected; he was the only one remaining.

There was an audible snort from the Weasel's direction. "Spending Christmas at school," he scoffed. "What was it you once said about that? Oh yes, only orphans or the unwanted don't go home for the holidays."

"Ron." Potter's voice was low and, to Draco's ears at least, held a warning note. Obviously, the Weasel didn't hear it, as he carried on.

"So which category does that put you in, eh, Malfoy? I mean, after all, your parents aren't dead, are they?"

Draco tensed. He really didn't want to become embroiled in an argument with the stupid prat, not when there were so many witnesses, and certainly not now that Potter was finally looking at him.

"I guess that makes you unwanted then." There was an almost malicious glee to the Weasel's voice as he twisted the knife further. "Your parents were probably relieved to be exiled--gave them an excuse to get away from you."

Draco sat forward in his seat, a familiar ice-cold expression on his face. "Perhaps you should do your parents a favour and stay behind too, Weasley. I'm sure they'd be grateful for one less mouth to feed in that hovel you call home."

Draco then sat back in his seat and watched smugly as Potter had to practically pin his friend to his seat.

There was absolute silence from everyone else in the room. Their gazes flitted from one boy to the other, clearly wondering where the next verbal blow would come from. In the end, it was Granger.

"If you two have quite finished behaving like infants…”

Draco let the insult wash over him, while the Weasel spluttered in outrage. He really didn't care what Granger thought of his behaviour, and from the way she was glaring at her boyfriend, Weasley was in for an extra tongue-lashing of his own later.

The remainder of the meeting passed without incident, with no one willing to provoke the Head Girl's ire further by speaking out of turn. Draco felt the weight of Potter's stare on him throughout, and could practically feel the curiosity coming off Pansy in waves.

As they got up to leave the room, Potter finally made the move that Draco had begun to despair of him ever doing.

"Malfoy," he said calmly. "Could you hang on a minute? I'd like a word."

Draco simply arched one brow in question and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He waited patiently by the door for the rest of the group to leave, and finally it was just him, Potter, and his two hangers on.

"Harry, what are you doing?" The concern was evident in Granger's tone.

"Yeah, mate," the Weasel chipped in. "Leave it. Git's not worth it." He shot a glare at Draco, who merely smirked in return.

"It's fine, Hermione." Potter ran a hand through his hair, and Draco was surprised that his best friends didn't recognise the expression of irritation on his face.

"You've already had detention once this week, Harry. If you get caught fighting again--"

"I'm not planning to fight, okay? I'm just going to talk to him."

"What for?" The Weasel just gaped and Draco struggled to suppress a snort.

"Look, I won't be long," Potter said calmly. "Can you just give us a minute, please?"

Finally, Granger seemed to notice her friend's annoyance, and with only a warning glare at Draco, she ushered her boyfriend from the room.

As the door shut behind them, Draco fixed a cool gaze on Potter. "Finally decided to stop ignoring me then, have you?"

"I'm not...I haven't been ignoring you."

Draco gave a derisive snort. "Of course you haven't. Been confined to your bed for the last three days then, have you?"

Potter walked closer, and Draco belatedly realised he was already backed against the wall. "You've got my attention now. There was no need for you to have a go at Ron."

Draco scowled slightly. "He started it," he muttered sulkily.

"And now I'm going to finish it," Potter replied calmly.

When he saw Potter move his arms, Draco instinctively closed his eyes and braced himself for the expected blow. He was completely unprepared for the feel of Potter's lips against his own, gently, but insistently kissing him.

When Draco's mouth formed an 'oh' of surprise, Potter sneakily took advantage and used the opportunity to slide his tongue between Draco's lips.

For a moment, Draco thought about protesting. He was the one who was supposed to be in control of these encounters; after all, he clearly had more experience than Potter. But then Potter's thigh nudged his legs apart and insinuated itself between them, and, frankly, Draco could barely remember his own name, never mind how to speak.

Hermione was worried. Under protest she had left Harry alone with Malfoy, but with every step towards Gryffindor tower, her concern grew.

Since defeating Voldemort, Harry seemed to have matured beyond measure--to such an extent that he had been made Head Boy for their final year. But just recently, Malfoy seemed able to get under his skin more than ever. She knew Harry didn't mean to lash out, but there was just something about Malfoy that brought that out in a person. Hermione still remembered fondly the sound of her own hand impacting against the arrogant prat's face.

The last thing Harry needed was to be caught fighting again, and Hermione had no doubt that this had been his intention when keeping Malfoy behind.

A harmless white lie ensured that Ron continued on his way back to the tower: Hermione wasn't sure what she'd find on her return to the Prefects' room, but she knew that her boyfriend's volatile temper would only make matters worse.

She came to a halt outside the closed door, taking a moment to recover from her breathless state. Hermione was surprised to hear none of the expected shouts and curses sounding from within. Struck by the sudden thought of an unconscious Harry, she reached for the handle. It turned freely, but the door refused to budge. Just as Hermione was running through her repertoire of Unlocking Spells, the sound of muffled voices distracted her from the task.

Silently thanking the Hufflepuff third year from whom she had confiscated them, Hermione quickly fished the Extendable Ears out of her bag and put them to use.

Initially the sounds were indistinct, muffled thuds and grunts that at least reassured her Harry was alive, if engaged in a rather vigorous-sounding fight.

Moments later her mouth gaped, cheeks flushed, and Hermione scrabbled not to drop the Ears. There had been no mistaking Harry's groan that time, and the name he gasped shortly after vanished any further doubt from Hermione's mind.

Forgetting every scruple she possessed, Hermione dropped to her knees and desperately squinted through a small crack in the door's wooden surface.

Yes, it was Harry, who was like a brother to her, and Malfoy, who was, well, a horrible git. But she was only human, Hermione rationalised, and there wasn't a girl in the school who wouldn't have done the same thing.

She convinced her brain to forget just who it was watching, and just enjoyed the sight of two partially clad, lithe bodies, writhing together in a clearly suggestive manner.

Eventually Hermione reluctantly got to her feet. As much as she longed to watch the scene play itself out, her own body was now insistently demanding it's own release--and the third floor corridor was hardly the place.

So she hurried back to Gryffindor tower, to a dazed Ron Weasley, who would hopefully never find out just how much he owed the sudden improvement in his own sex life to Draco Malfoy's talented mouth.
  

2

 Pansy was a people watcher. She enjoyed noting the small details in life that most people usually missed. But just recently, she had taken to watching Draco with a much greater degree of intensity than usual.

Something was going on with her best friend, and she did not intend to rest until she was in full possession of the facts. There were unexplained absences, out of character shifts in mood, and a sudden propensity to daydream, and she meant to get to the bottom of the cause.

When Blaise, who Pansy loved dearly but would never call observant, began noticing these changes, she knew something important had happened.

"Did you see that?"

Pansy, whose head was currently nestled in Blaise's lap, looked up in response to her boyfriend’s query. "See what?" she asked; the soporific effect of Blaise's petting had dulled her usual observational skills.

"Draco," Blaise replied, still staring in surprise across the common room.

Pansy poked a finger into his belly. "What about Draco?" she demanded.

"Ow!" Blaise rubbed his stomach and pouted down at his girlfriend.

"Blaise." Pansy's tone was impatient and her glare baleful.

"Fine," he huffed. "Draco was smiling. And not just that quirk of the lips thing he usually does--it was a full on grin."

"Where?" Pansy demanded, propping herself up and scanning the room.

Blaise nodded to where Draco was now standing, willingly conversing with a small first year--another rare sight.

Pansy watched, her expression thoughtful.

"You know something," Blaise accused.

"I'm starting to think that I do," Pansy agreed, noting the flush on Draco's usually pale skin.

"We shouldn't keep secrets from each other, Pans," Blaise wheedled.

Pansy chuckled softly. "You're such a gossip," she teased. "I'll tell you, but you can't say anything to Draco. At least, not until I'm sure."

Blaise nodded, his eyes flickering back to watch his friend. "Okay."

"I think he's seeing someone. Look at him. Doesn't he seem a little more...dishevelled than usual?"

"Now that you mention it..." Blaise turned his attention firmly to Pansy. "You know who it is," he stated.

Pansy couldn't help but grin with anticipation of the shock she was about to cause her boyfriend. "Potter," she said simply.

"Potter!" Blaise had never been one for discretion, and now the better part of Slytherin house was staring at him--Draco included.

"Shhh," Pansy hissed, digging her elbow firmly into his ribs.

Blaise yelped, but the warning came too late.

"What's that about Potter?" Draco's eyes were narrowed with suspicion.

"Huh?" Blaise toyed with the idea of playing dumb, but the look on his friend's face warned him against it. "Oh, well, Pansy was just saying she thought he was fit."

"Fit?" Draco repeated sceptically. "Potter?"

Pansy grinned. "Well, he has grown up rather nicely this last year, don't you think?"

Blaise tried, and almost succeeded in smothering a laugh. "I'm not really the man to ask, Pans. Draco here has more of an eye for the male form than me."

"Don't be an arse, Blaise," Draco snapped, and then spun on his heel and stalked away.

Blaise allowed the laugh to escape this time and received a dead leg for his troubles.

"Stop winding him up," Pansy chastised.

Blaise massaged his abused limb, amusement still dancing in his eyes. "This is too good an opportunity to miss," he retorted. "You're not the one who has to hear him groaning Potter's name when the Silencing Charm fails."

Pansy sat bolt upright, eyes wide. "What?" she demanded. "You've never said."

Blaise shrugged. "There's a lot goes on in a boys' dormitory that never leaves it."

Pansy paused for a moment, considering the goldmine of gossip that her boyfriend had withheld from her. Then she remembered that Crabbe and Goyle were also occupants of said dormitory, and decided not to press the issue further.

"But why were you surprised then?" she wondered.

"I knew Draco was hot for Potter. I just never dreamt he stood a chance. I mean, Potter hates him."

"Apparently not," Pansy mused.

"How come you're not spending Christmas with your parents?"

Draco let out an irritated huff and removed his lips from their favourite spot on Potter's neck. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

Potter gave a sheepish grin, and Draco reluctantly found his irritation fading. Leaning his head back against the rough, stone wall, he sighed. "It's not my decision. I don't have a choice."

"You mean...your parents?"

"No!" Draco glared fiercely at Potter. "It's not their doing either. It's all part of the Ministry's warped sense of justice."

"But..." Potter frowned. "They can't stop you visiting your parents," he said stubbornly.

"No," Draco agreed. "But they can, and have, refused to licence me an international Portkey for the journey."

"That doesn't make any sense."

Draco ran one hand through his hair; this conversation was veering dangerously close to topics they had long avoided. "It doesn't have to make sense," he replied, trying hard to keep the irritation out of his tone. After all, it wasn't Potter's fault. "It doesn't matter that I fought on your side, or that my parents are already being punished for my father's crimes. All that matters to the Ministry is having their last bit of petty revenge."

Confusion was still written all over Potter's face, and Draco realised he would have to spell it out--clearly he was too much of a Gryffindor to understand the less than honourable motivations of others.

"With my parents exiled, Fudge thought he'd get his hands on my father's estate. Reparations, he said. But Father had already transferred the bulk of it abroad, so all the Ministry got in the end was a few thousand Galleons."

Draco's fingers began absently toying with Potter's tie as he remembered the expression on the Minister's face when the goblins had opened the Malfoy vault. "So then he went after the Manor."

"But that's your home," Potter spluttered, and Draco felt a foreign rush of affection at the outrage in his tone.

"Hmm, well, I rather think Fudge fancied having it as the Minister's official residence."

"He didn't get it though."

"No. The Manor is firmly entailed on the oldest Malfoy heir. Undoing that would have taken a change in the current inheritance laws--and there's no way the Wizengamot would pass that sort of legislation. Not even to spite a Malfoy."

Hoping to bring the uncomfortable topic to an end, Draco leant forward and reattached his lips to Potter's throat.

"So because he couldn't steal your money, he just stops you from seeing your parents?"

"Mmhmm." Draco trailed his tongue along Potter's lightly stubbled jaw line.

"But that's not right! You should talk to Dumbledore."

Draco slid one hand down between their bodies and cupped the bulge in Potter's trousers. "Are you sure you want to be thinking about the old man at a time like this?"

"I'm trying to be serious," Potter protested, but Draco felt him grind against the pressure all the same.

Draco sighed. "Look, he might be a big shot to most people, but Dumbledore holds about as much sway with Fudge as I do."

"So you're just giving up?"

Draco bristled at the accusation. "I prefer to think of it as choosing my battles wisely. Now, if you're quite finished with this conversation, I have other plans for your mouth this evening."

"What d'you mean you're not coming?" Ron's outraged tones drew the attention of half the nearby students.

"I just don't feel much like celebrating this year," Harry replied softly, his eyes firmly fixed on his breakfast.

His reply stopped Ron's tirade for a moment, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt for lying to his best friend. It was true that he didn't feel like celebrating, but that wasn't the reason he had made his decision.

Despite himself, Harry couldn't help but transfer his gaze over to the Slytherin table. He watched Malfoy consume a sausage in what could only be described as a sinful manner, then found himself marvelling at the shift in feelings he had experienced towards his one-time rival.

Without meaning to, Harry caught Pansy Parkinson's eye. Surprisingly, instead of the scowl he had expected, she gave a slow and very deliberate wink in his direction. Fighting the flush that threatened, Harry abruptly turned his attention back to his friends, only to find Hermione watching him almost speculatively.

"Mum'll go mad when she finds out," Ron was saying, his words slightly muffled by the mouthful of toast he was chewing.

"I've already owled her to explain."

"You've already...How long ago did you decide this exactly?"

Harry watched his friend warily. The tell tale flush of temper was steadily making it's way up Ron's neck. "A couple of days ago," he admitted reluctantly.

"Well, that's bloody marvellous. Did you know about this?" Ron glared at his girlfriend accusingly.

Hermione calmly finished her slice of toast, refusing to acknowledge her boyfriend until she was done. "I didn't," she said finally. "But it's Harry's decision, and if that's what he wants..." She finished up with a small shrug, and Harry shot her a grateful smile.

Ron spluttered indignantly; clearly, he had expected his girlfriend's unequivocal support. "You're sounding as barmy as he is," Ron nodded in Harry's direction. "You're supposed to be on my side."

Hermione stared at him incredulously, and Harry wisely edged away from the pair carefully.

"Firstly, Ronald Weasley, if you think that being your girlfriend means I'm going to smile and agree with everything you say, then maybe you should think about asking Lavender out again."

"Hermione," Ron began, but the glare he received for his troubles caused the next words to dry up on his tongue.

"Secondly," and here, Hermione began to sound so similar to Mrs Weasley that Harry actually felt a little sorry for Ron, "what side exactly? There aren't any sides in this conversation. Harry is our friend; this is what he wants to do. You should try being a little less selfish and show him some support."

Along with sounding just like her, Hermione had clearly perfected Mrs Weasley's knack of cowing her youngest son. Looking sufficiently shame-faced, Ron turned to Harry. "Sorry, mate," he muttered. "I don't get it, but if it's what you want..." he finished up with a shrug.

Harry, who had been a little surprised at Hermione's spirited defence of him, felt more than a little uncomfortable. He could only imagine his best friends' reactions if they ever found out his true motivation.

"'S'okay," he muttered in return.

Hermione sat back in her seat, rolled her eyes, and sighed, "Boys."

"You're still here."

Harry looked up from his breakfast to meet Malfoy's suspicious gaze. "It would seem so," he replied casually, before taking another bite of toast.

Irritation crossed Malfoy's face as he swiftly occupied the seat opposite Harry. "You were supposed to be spending Christmas at the Weasel's."

Harry continued chewing silently, watching Malfoy's increasing annoyance with relish. Finally, he swallowed. "Change of plans," he replied, giving a small shrug.

"A change of plans," Malfoy repeated slowly, scepticism fairly dripping from every word. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Believe what you want, Malfoy," Harry replied, sounding a lot calmer than he felt.

"Potter, if this is some misguided attempt at pity on your part—”

"It's not," Harry interrupted hurriedly. He'd known there was a danger Malfoy would see it that way - after all, there was a certain amount of truth to the accusation--but there was more to it than that, there were reasons that Harry didn't fully understand, wasn't able to articulate.

Malfoy simply stared at him, one pale eyebrow arched in question.

"It just gets so crowded at the Burrow," Harry explained, making a silent plea for forgiveness from his best friend. "I love the Weasleys, but sometimes it's just overwhelming. Plus, Mrs Weasley hasn't quite got her head around the fact that I'm not going to marry Ginny."

Malfoy snorted softly at this. "She's in for quite a shock, I'd say, considering neither you nor the Weaselette bat for the right team."

Harry grinned, relieved to have distracted Malfoy from his suspicions. Taking a quick look around them, to make sure he wouldn't be overheard, Harry leant forward, closing the distance between the two of them. "Of course," he murmured, "this would also be a perfect opportunity for us to have that shag you keep talking about."

Malfoy gazed at him for the longest time, almost expressionless, and Harry felt a twinge of concern that he'd gone too far, said too much. Then, to his relief, Malfoy shook his head and let out a throaty chuckle. "A perfect opportunity, indeed," he agreed. "Also," Malfoy continued, getting to his feet, "it means you can take on your share of Prefect duties--starting with helping me supervise this afternoon's ice-skating."

"Ice-skating?" Harry repeated.

Malfoy nodded. "Dumbledore," he said, as if this explained everything, and really, Harry thought, it did.

"Who knew ice-skating could be so much fun."

"Don't pretend you don't love it, Potter. Everyone can see you're dying to join in."

Harry looked from the excited figures dotted over the lake's frozen surface, to the warmly-wrapped boy at his side. Initially he had mocked Malfoy for the numerous layers of clothing he had opted to wear, but just a few moments outdoors was all it took to remind Harry exactly how cold a Highland winter could get.

With a hat pulled low on his forehead and a thick Slytherin scarf firmly wrapped around the lower part of his face, very little of Malfoy was actually exposed to the elements. But Harry couldn't help but notice the pink tinge to his cheeks and nose - it made Malfoy look younger, more innocent somehow, and Harry was horrified to find the word adorable on the tip of his tongue.

Desperately wanting to quash anything that remotely resembled romantic feeling--feelings Harry knew Malfoy would mock and scoff at--Harry grabbed hold of Malfoy's sleeve and tugged him just inside the tree line at the lake's edge.

"Potter, what the--”

Malfoy's words were cut off when Harry backed him firmly up against a tree and began kissing him--hard.

"Bloody hell," Malfoy panted, when Harry finally released him. "What's got into you?"

Harry leant his forehead against Malfoy's and smiled faintly. "I've been thinking about that shag," he murmured, praying he sounded more confident than he felt.

"Oh really?" Harry could hear the amusement in Malfoy's tone, but pressed on regardless.

"Really," he replied. "I noticed you're the only Slytherin who's stayed behind for the holidays, which means you've got the whole of the dungeons to yourself."

"Apart from Snape."

"Urrrrghh!" Harry mock shuddered. "Could you please not refer to Snape during a conversation about sex. You could scar me for life."

Malfoy chucked, a sound that caused a frisson of excitement to run through Harry's body. "And we wouldn't want anything to affect your performance, would we."

Harry let out a soft moan as Malfoy's hand cupped his achingly hard crotch and began rubbing slowly. "Please," he whispered.

Quick as a flash, Malfoy reversed their positions and Harry could feel the rough bark digging into his back.

"Is this what you had in mind?" Malfoy's leather-gloved hand worked its way inside Harry's cloak and swiftly unzipped his jeans.

Harry gasped as he felt the biting cold against his heated flesh. The gasp swiftly turned into a groan as Malfoy began leisurely stroking his cock, the soft leather of his gloves only heightening the sensations.

"Fuck..." Harry's back arched away from the tree, thrusting himself further into Malfoy's grasp.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Potter?" Malfoy pressed his own erection firmly against Harry's hip and began rocking insistently. "You'd like me to take you right here, against this tree, your legs around my waist, my cock buried in your arse."

A flush of embarrassment and arousal spread over Harry's face, but the only sound he could get out was a needy whimper. The words alone were almost enough to make him come, never mind the now hastening stroke of leather against his skin.

The truly alarming thing for him was that he knew, if Malfoy were serious, if he pressed the issue, then Harry would be easily persuaded to do it. He'd actually let Malfoy screw him against a tree on the edges of the Forbidden Forest, while tens of their schoolmates frolicked nearby. And from the look in his eyes, Harry knew that Malfoy knew this as well.

"Tonight," Malfoy practically grunted, as he rutted frantically against Harry's pliant body. "I plan to fuck you into the mattress."

That was more than Harry could take. Letting out a cry, barely muffled by one mittened hand, he came hard, painting the dark hide of Malfoy's gloves with his seed.

"That's it, Potter," Malfoy almost crooned, his stroke slowing down as he smeared Harry's come along his softening shaft.

Before either boy had time to move or speak further, a loud crack echoed around them, and several piercing screams rent the air.

"What the fuck?" Harry instantly woke from his sated daze and began hurriedly tucking himself away. "Come on," he urged, tugging at Malfoy's arm."

"Chance would be a fine thing."

Harry paused in confusion, but then, as he noticed the bulge clearly straining Malfoy's trousers, a small smile crept over his face.

"I'll make it up to you later," he promised, before hurrying off in the direction of the noise.

"You'd better," Malfoy muttered, allowing himself to be pulled along.

Draco glanced at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time--it was almost five hours since Potter had taken that clumsy Hufflepuff to the hospital wing, and still there was no sign.

Draco shook his head, grateful that his housemates weren't there to witness his pitiful behaviour--especially Pansy. She would have had a field day. It was ridiculous. Had he really become that desperate for a shag that he was prepared to sit around and wait, for Potter of all people?

Deep down Draco knew the truth, he wasn't desperate for a shag, he was just desperate to shag Potter. What had started out as a bit of fun, a way to freak out Potter and get off in the process, was rapidly becoming something to which Draco did not dare put a name.

His eyes flicked to the clock--it was nearly 8 o'clock--and scowled to himself. Clearly Potter wasn't coming, and Draco would be damned if he'd sit around waiting for the arrogant git any longer.

He unfolded his long legs from the chair and stretched, almost feline-like, before getting to his feet. He crossed the room, coming to a halt in front of the fireplace. He stood gazing into the flames, hands clasped behind his back, but felt none of the heat coming from the blaze.

"Malfoy."

"You're late." Draco turned around and found himself staring into empty space - but he was not fooled.

Moments later, there was a shimmer of silky fabric, and Potter appeared. He ran one hand through his already-dishevelled hair and gave a sheepish grin. "Yeah, sorry about that. Madam Pomfrey made me stay behind to help her calm down that girl's friends - they were practically hysterical."

"Hufflepuffs," Draco sneered, his irritation momentarily forgotten.

"You didn't think I'd changed my mind, did you?" Potter stepped closer, tossing his cloak onto a nearby chair.

"I would never presume to fathom the workings of your tiny mind, Potter," Draco retorted, and was further annoyed to notice the grin that spread over Potter's face.

"I wouldn't miss this for the world." Potter stepped closer still, reaching out tentatively and placing one hand on Draco's waist. "I've thought about nothing else all afternoon."

"One-track mind," Draco snapped.

"I'm a teenage boy, Malfoy," Potter retorted. "And you're offering to have sex. What did you expect?"

Draco refused to acknowledge the tiny part of his subconscious that registered disappointment at Potter's reply. Of course the other boy was only in it for the sex. After all, Draco had set the tone for their encounters from the very start - it was a bit late to wish for change now.

"Nothing." Draco pulled back from Potter's touch and stepped away from the fireplace. He'd made it only several feet across the room when a loud hissing, followed by a strangled yelp reached his ears.

Draco spun round to see Potter frantically shaking his hand, whilst glaring fiercely at the fireplace.

"Potter, what are you doing?"

"Me?" Potter's tone was incredulous. "Your bloody fireplace just bit me!"

Draco paused for a moment and then chuckled, much to Potter's obvious annoyance.

"I'm glad you find it funny, Malfoy." Potter sucked his maligned finger furiously, causing an instant hardening of Draco's cock.

He stepped closer and reached out to take Potter's hand. Inspecting it closely, he noticed a faint reddened patch. "You'll live," he pronounced. "Caerus isn't poisonous."

"Caerus?" Potter repeated, making no effort to remove his hand from Draco's grasp.

Draco nodded in the direction of the mantlepiece, where a carved snake coiled its way amongst the ornate decorations. "He was Salazar's snake," Draco explained, reaching out his free hand and trailing one finger along the creature's smooth body. "They used to use him as part of an old Slytherin initiation. He only bites those of un-pure blood."

"That's just--"

"Ancient history," Draco interrupted swiftly--he could see the outraged gleam in Potter's eyes, and wanted to head him off. "It hasn't been done in hundreds of years."

"I still can't believe Dumbledore left it in here," Potter muttered, fixing a dark glare on the unmoving creature. "It wants a sledgehammer taking to it."

Draco wasn't entirely sure what a sledgehammer was, but judging from the outraged hissing coming from the fireplace, Caerus understood only too well.

Then the hissing was coming from Potter. Draco had no idea what was being said, but the combination of the heat in Potter's eyes, and the low sibilant sounds dripping from his tongue, caused a stifled whimper to escape his lips.

Harry stopped in his tracks, his attention instantly switched from the fireplace, to Malfoy.

"Did you just whimper?" he asked in wonder.

Malfoy flushed. "No."

"You did," Harry persisted. "I heard you."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Malfoy fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt and affected nonchalance.

"Oh, I think you do." Harry slipped into Parseltongue with ease, keenly watching Malfoy's reaction.

Despite his obvious efforts to hide it, Harry didn't miss the widening of Malfoy's eyes, or the tip of his pink tongue flicking out to moisten dry lips.

Harry stepped closer and placed his hands on Malfoy's arms, slowly smoothing them over the soft fabric of his shirt. "I want you," he hissed softly, and even though he knew Malfoy couldn't understand, Harry felt the exact moment that he yielded to his touch.

"You're bloody gorgeous, you know that?" Harry's fingers made short work of Malfoy's shirt buttons, before caressing every inch of the pale skin underneath. "An arrogant shit at times, but...fuck!

Then Malfoy's hand was on the back of Harry's neck, dragging him in for a frantic and needy kiss. Teeth clashed, lips bruised, and Harry couldn't remember anything having ever felt so right.

"Want you," Malfoy gasped when they finally broke apart. "Now."

Harry nodded fervently. "Bedroom," he mumbled around the skin of Malfoy's throat.

"Can't wait," Malfoy panted in return, already unzipping Harry's trousers and desperately tugging them down.

Harry really wanted to argue, wanted to point out that there was a perfectly good bed only yards away, but as Malfoy dropped to the floor and wrapped fleshy lips around his cock, all thoughts of objecting vanished from Harry's mind.

"Potter! Wake up!!"

"G'way," Harry muttered sleepily, nestling further into the warmth of the body behind him. A slow smile curved his lips as he felt the definite press of something hard against his buttocks.

"Morning," Malfoy murmured, pressing his lips to the nape of Harry's neck.

"Hi," Harry replied, wriggling in a manner designed to tease.

No sooner had Malfoy snaked an arm around Harry's waist and pressed closer, than an outraged sound erupted from the fireplace.

Harry's eyes opened instantly, a cold, sick feeling settling in his stomach as he recognised the voice. There, floating in the fireplace, was Professor Snape's head, one hand clamped firmly over his eyes, and a greenish cast to his skin that Harry doubted was solely due to the flames.

"Morning, Professor."

Harry turned, wild-eyed, and stared at Malfoy in shock. "Morning?" he repeated. "That's all you've got to say?"

"Your presence is required in the Great Hall." Snape's strained voice cut across their conversation. "Christmas Lunch is about to be served, and the Headmaster was most insistent that you not miss it."

"We'll be along shortly, sir." Again Malfoy's tone was perfectly calm, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't the first time he'd been caught like this.

"See that you are, Mr Malfoy." Snape moved to pull out of the flames, but then paused. "Oh, and Mr Potter?"

"Yes, Professor?" Harry's voice was barely a whisper.

"That will be one hundred points from Gryffindor for despoiling a Slytherin."

Before Harry could protest at the unfairness of this, Snape was gone, and Malfoy was pulling him back under the blanket, cool hands sliding over his flesh.

"Uh, what about lunch?" Harry asked, his voice rising a notch as he felt Malfoy's erection slide against the cleft of his arse.

"We're already late," Malfoy replied, reaching around to take hold of Harry's erection. "I'm sure another fifteen minutes won't make a difference."

And despite the lingering soreness from the night before, Harry was inclined to agree.

"Don't forget it's my turn tonight," Harry commented, passing the bottle of Firewhisky to his companion.

Malfoy took a deep pull on the bottle. "Turn? For what?"

Harry gave a sharp dig with his elbow, causing a trickle of the golden liquid to spill from Malfoy's lips and trail down his neck. "You know. Don't pretend you don't," he muttered, fighting the urge to run his tongue up Malfoy's throat.

Malfoy turned slowly to face him, one eyebrow arched. "I have a headache," he replied loftily.

Something resembling a growl escaped Harry's throat. "Oh no you don't. You're not weaseling out of this; you promised."

Malfoy wrinkled his nose, and Harry struggled to deny the warm emotions that this action set running through him. "Less of the Weasel talk, if you don't mind. It was quite a pleasant evening until you brought up that redheaded monstrosity."

"Malfoy!" Harry's tone was low and held a warning note, and Malfoy wisely heeded it.

"Sorry, force of habit."

"S'okay," Harry relented, reaching for the Firewhisky again. "Now, about tonight."

Malfoy sniffed delicately. "I'm afraid I have no idea to what you're referring, Potter."

Harry let out a short bark of a laugh. "Oh, Malfoy, sometimes you're such a pompous arse. And tonight it's my arse. Don't you dare back out on me now."

"Barbarian," Malfoy huffed, and then let out a squeak as Harry reached down and squeezed his buttocks. "Potter!"

"Don't go getting all coy on me," Harry teased, smoothing his fingers over the curve of Malfoy's arse. "You know you want it."

"Be that as it may, Potter, I am not used to being manhandled."

Harry chuckled throatily and took another swig of his drink. "You will be by the time I'm done with you."

"Such a smooth talker." Malfoy's tone was dripping with sarcasm, yet Harry chose to laugh.

He got to his feet and gazed down at the ground from their high perch on the Quidditch stands. Turning to face his companion, Harry leant forward and held out his hand. "C'mon."

Malfoy reached out his hand and took hold of Harry's wrist, turning it to afford him a view of his watch. "It's only," he squinted in the light of a soft Lumos, "eleven o'clock."

Harry wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's wrist and tugged him encouragingly. Malfoy reluctantly got to his feet, his free hand clutching tightly at the Firewhisky. "I don't see what the hurry is. I thought we were stopping here until midnight at least."

"Change of plan," Harry replied, sliding one arm around Malfoy's waist and squeezing lightly. "I plan to see in the New Year with my cock up your arse."

"Could you be any more crass if you tried?" Draco's tone was disdainful but Harry noticed that he made no effort to pull away.

Harry grinned. "Only one way to find out."

Malfoy shook his head, but nonetheless allowed himself to be led down from the Quidditch stands, and back up towards the school. Harry didn't relinquish his hold until they neared the main doors

Once in the Entrance Hall, Malfoy turned to take his usual path down to the dungeons, but Harry reached out and snagged his hand.

"Not tonight," he muttered, and nodded in the direction of the staircase.

Malfoy frowned thoughtfully, and then gave a shrug. "Fine," he replied, "but if we get caught shagging by McGonagall, don't blame me!"

Harry let out a relieved laugh--he'd expected Malfoy to put up much more of a protest than that. It wasn't that he minded using the Slytherin dorms--they were empty, after all--but for tonight, when he was planning to claim Malfoy as his own, he wanted to be in his own bed.

Never before had the steps up to Gryffindor tower seemed so endless, even taking them two at a time, as he was, they seemed to stretch out endlessly in front. Harry could hear Malfoy panting slightly behind him--obviously a lifetime spent in the dungeons had not prepared him for such exertion.

When finally the Fat Lady loomed in front of him, Harry came to a halt. He turned around just in time for Malfoy to run straight into him. Placing steadying hands on his hips, Harry smiled gently. "Eager, are we?" he teased.

Malfoy glared in return, and opened his mouth to retort. But Harry, unwilling to have the moment ruined by some snide remark of Malfoy's, leant in and promptly sealed their lips together. Keeping his eyes open, he watched as Malfoy's eyes fluttered closed, and a tiny crease appeared between his brows.

Their tongues met and wrapped around each other, tasting, teasing, plundering. Harry's hands buried in the silken strands of Malfoy's hair, whilst relishing the sensation of his partner's hands slithering under his jumper, cold against his warm skin.

A pointed cough brought them to their senses, and Harry pulled away to find a very censorious Fat Lady glaring down at them.

Harry blushed furiously and muttered the password. He paused in front of the portrait hole and reached out for Malfoy's hand, almost shyly. Now that the moment was so close at hand, he was suddenly feeling less confident.

However, when Malfoy took hold of his hand and gave it a squeeze, Harry felt a burst of warmth in his chest. Smiling gently, he turned and pressed one hand against the door. He pushed it open and began clambering inside."

"Harry! There you are."

"Mate, where've you been? We've been looking all over for you."

Harry stilled, halfway through the entrance, the smile frozen on his face as his two best friends greeted him enthusiastically. Panicking, he shook his hand free of Malfoy's, stepped into the room, and quickly shut the door behind him.

"W-what are you doing here?" he asked weakly, allowing Hermione to hug him.

"We couldn't stand the thought of you spending New Year's alone, not as well as Christmas."

"Yeah," Ron chipped in. "And I know you didn't feel comfortable coming to the Burrow, so we thought we'd come here to you."

"I was worried we wouldn't find you before midnight," Hermione commented. "Even Dumbledore didn't seem to know where you were."

"I was just out walking," Harry lied, the words almost sticking in his throat. He felt slightly sick at what he'd done, how he'd treated Malfoy, but he just couldn't let Ron and Hermione find out, not like that.

"Has he said anything to you?"

Blaise looked up from his cauldron, a frown marring his attractive face. "Huh?"

Pansy paused in the act of viciously chopping daisy roots and glared at her boyfriend through narrowed eyes. "Have you listened to a word I've just said?"

Blaise poked apprehensively at his potion. "I'm trying to concentrate on this," he muttered, keeping a wary eye on Professor Snape.

Pansy reached over and snatched the glass rod out of his hands. "Never mind the bloody potion," she snapped. "This is important."

Blaise might not have been the brightest of students, but sharing a common room with Pansy for seven years had taught him when not to test her patience further.

"What?" he asked softly.

Pansy huffed, clearly irritated by his inattention. "Draco," she replied shortly. "Something's wrong with him. Has he said anything to you?"

Blaise looked over to where his best friend sat. Ever the star pupil in that particular class, Draco had already finished their assigned task for the day--his potion already decanted into a glass vial, and labelled ready for testing. Clearly there was something going on with him--Merlin, even Vince had commented on it, but the more he was pressed on it, the tighter Draco's lips became.

"No. He won't say a word to anyone."

"Have you tried asking him about it?" Pansy pressed.

Blaise looked at his girlfriend with a slightly incredulous expression. "Do you want to be dating a dead man? Draco doesn't want to talk about whatever the hell is bothering him, and I don't have enough of a death wish to press the issue."

"Men," Pansy snorted derisively. "Honestly. It's obviously something to do with Potter."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "What gave that away? The fact that Draco won't speak to him, won't look at him, and has taken to hexing people just for saying his name?"

"Don't try to be clever, Blaise. It doesn't suit you." Pansy scraped the butchered daisy roots into the cauldron and stirred viciously.

"You weren't supposed—”

"I know, but we're out of time," Pansy snapped, watching in distaste as the potion turned lumpy and green, instead of the glossy purple hue it should have been.

"Evanesco." Blaise slipped his wand back in his pocket. "I figured I'd save Snape the trouble," he explained.

Pansy nodded in reply, but then frowned as she noticed Potter stopping by Draco's desk. They were too far away, and the conversation too quiet for her to overhear what was said, but it didn't take a lip reader to work out things were not going well. In fact, Pansy reflected, a lip reader wouldn't have been much use, considering that Draco was resolutely ignoring Potter.

"Ridiculous," she muttered, gathering her things together. Without waiting for Blaise to catch up, she strode over to door.

"Granger," she said, loudly enough that half of the corridor came to a halt.

"What d'you want, Parkinson." Weasley hovered around his girlfriend protectively.

Pansy opted to ignore him. "I'd like a word, Granger. If you've got a minute?"

Surprisingly Granger simply nodded. "I'm heading to the library now, if you want to walk with me?"

Draco walked out of the classroom at that moment, a dark scowl on his face. Pansy noticed Granger watching him with interest. She shoved her school bag at Blaise. "Take this for me, would you?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to face the Head Girl, a bright (and possibly forced) smile on her face.

"Lead the way," she said.

Harry was at a loss. He'd tried everything he could think of to get Malfoy to talk to him, but his efforts were rebuffed each time. Things were worse than ever between them. At least before...whatever this was had started, there had been glares, arguments, tussles even; Malfoy had acknowledged his existence.

But now, it was as if Harry had ceased to be--for Malfoy, at least. And it was attracting attention--people were starting to question what had happened. And even more worryingly, for Harry, Hermione had not made one single comment. Which could mean only one thing--she already knew. Ron's general obliviousness could easily explain his lack of interest, but Hermione...Harry felt faintly sick at the prospect.

Slipping away from lunch early, Harry headed towards the Potions classroom, hoping for a chance to speak to Malfoy before lessons began.

As he rounded the final corner into the dungeons, Harry came to a dead halt. His eyes narrowed and jaw clenched as he took in the sight of Malfoy standing far closer than was necessary to a sixth year Ravenclaw boy.

Harry didn't even attempt to check the monster as it roared and clawed and generally made its displeasure known.

"Don't you have a lesson you should be getting to, Harper?" Harry's gaze was cool, with a tone to match.

"..." Harper gaped, clearly thrown by the almost tangible tension radiating of Harry.

"Well, I suggest you get a move on." Harry's face morphed into an almost malicious smile. “I'll be checking up, and if I hear you were late, it'll be detention with Filch for you."

Harry was deprived of the satisfaction of watching his victim flee, as Malfoy forcibly dragged him into the nearest empty classroom.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at?"

Harry's anger faded slightly in the face of Malfoy's rage. "Me?" he demanded incredulously. "I'm not the one throwing myself at the first available body."

Some of the heat left Malfoy's expression at this, but Harry still winced at the frostiness of his voice.

"Not that it's any of your business, but we were just talking. I realise it may be a foreign concept to you--Merlin knows we never did much of it. But people do, from time to time."

In amongst the anger, Harry could hear the edge of bitterness to Malfoy's tone, and it stopped him in his tracks. Right from the start, he'd always assumed that Malfoy was just in it for the sex. After all, Slytherins were notoriously cold and unfeeling, right?! But his insides squirmed uncomfortably as his memory produced a number of small gestures that Malfoy had made, glances, touches, little things that, added together, were clearly about more than sex.

"Draco," Harry said softly, closing the distance between them.

Malfoy backed off instantly. "We're not friends," he hissed.

Harry stopped midway across the room "Well, what are we then?" he demanded.

Draco let out a bitter laugh. "After New Year's Eve's performance, we're not anything."

"I've tried to apologise for that, but-"

"I don't want apologies," Malfoy snapped. "It's too late. I'm tired of sharing furtive wanks in dirty classrooms, just so you can carry on lying to yourself, and your friends."

A mulish expression crossed Harry's face. "I'm not lying."

Malfoy laughed again. "Well, you certainly aren't being honest. You haven't even told them you're gay, never mind about...this." He gestured between them with a negligent wave of his hand.

That accusation hit home. "It's not that simple," Harry protested weakly.

"It really is," Malfoy replied, stepping closer. His lips were now so close that Harry could feel his breath ghosting over his skin. "You just say it."

Harry brutally stabbed at his steak and kidney pie, completely oblivious to the wary looks being sent his way by his fellow Gryffindors. His whole attention was focussed on one subject--and, as per usual, that subject was Malfoy. Or rather, Malfoy and Zabini, who was, in Harry's opinion, being unnecessarily touchy-feely with his best friend.

At the start of dinner, Harry had simply dismissed it as a product of his irrational jealousy--something he had been reluctantly forced to acknowledge following his last encounter with Malfoy. But as the meal wore on, it became increasingly difficult to ignore. Light touches, coy smiles, and a flirtatious giggle--from Malfoy of all people--were driving Harry crazy. And even though he was certain that the malicious bastard was doing it all simply to wind him up, this knowledge did nothing to soothe the raging beast within his chest.

"I thought Blaise was going out with Pansy," Hermione commented as they waited for dinner to be cleared.

"Dunno," Ron mumbled, around a mouthful of potato. "Looks to me like he bats for the other team. He's all over Malfoy like a Devil's Snare."

Harry scowled, fixing a baleful glare on the Slytherin table. It was a pointless exercise, as the recipients were studiously ignoring him--seemingly too wrapped up in each other to notice.

"Hmmm," Hermione replied thoughtfully. "Ginny did say they looked awfully close in the library earlier. I thought she was imagining things, but...I mean, I'd never have put Malfoy down as the hand-holding type."

Ron snorted in amusement, but the sound was drowned out as Harry's seat scraped loudly on the floor.

"You alright, mate?" Ron asked, watching as Harry got to his feet.

"Fine," Harry replied through gritted teeth. "Just...there's something I need to do."

At first, Draco had found Blaise's behaviour startling. He'd tried to shrug it off and focus on his dinner, but then he'd felt the heated glare fixed on him from the other side of the Great Hall, and things fell into place.

Torn between the desire to smack his best friend for interfering, or to hug him for such a display of unqualified support, Draco opted to do neither. He simply relished, played along with, and even mildly encouraged Blaise's antics.

It was clear the whole endeavour had Pansy's tacit approval--the absence of claw marks on his face was proof enough of that. In fact, considering how relaxed she appeared in the face of her boyfriend's undeniable flirting, Draco was left in no doubt that the entire charade was at her instigation.

The smouldering looks shot his way throughout dinner sent tiny thrills of electricity through Draco's body. He was determined not to forgive Potter; a Malfoy was no one's dirty secret, but enjoying the rather blatant display of jealousy was harmless enough.

But at the sight of Potter stalking across the Great Hall--and Draco was forced to admit he looked magnificent in all his fury--it suddenly didn't seem so harmless after all.

Instinctively, Draco shifted away from Blaise. He was momentarily distracted by a commotion at the Gryffindor table, as Granger struggled to keep the Weasel in his seat. And then Potter was there, looming over him, jaw set, fists clenched, and eyes flashing in a manner that caused Draco to harden almost instantly.

"Potter," Draco ventured, then mentally kicked himself for sound so unsure.

But Potter didn't notice, in fact, he wasn't even looking at Draco. He was eyeballing Blaise in a fashion that had Draco scooting even further away from his best friend.

A smothered cry from Pansy sounded as Potter's fist impacted with Blaise's face. But Draco didn't even notice the sickening crunch it made. Before his brain had time to process what was happening, Potter had hold of his robes, fists clenched tightly in the silken fabric, and Draco found himself unceremoniously dragged to his feet.

An array of insults, hexes, and even the odd innuendo flitted through Draco's mind, but he barely had time to open his mouth before Potter was on him--literally.

Quidditch calloused hands buried roughly in his hair, and Draco would have protested the less-than-gentle handling, had it not been for Potter's mouth sealed firmly over his own.

Distantly Draco heard a squeal, and made a mental note to talk to Pansy about her un-Slytherin-like behaviour. But it would have to be later, much later, because Potter's tongue was insistently plundering his mouth, and Draco was forced to concentrate on keeping himself upright.

Almost as if he had read Draco's mind, Potter slid one strong arm around his waist, pulling Draco in close, so close that neither of them was in any doubt of the other's arousal. Then Potter was pulling away, leaving him dazed and breathless, and Draco was so caught up in the moment that he made no effort to disguise his whimper of protest.

"Is that honest enough for you?" Potter demanded huskily, and Draco was relieved to see he wasn't the only one affected.

Just as Draco was about to show his unqualified approval of Potter's newfound honesty, a rather pointed-sounding cough interrupted him.

"You two owe me big time for this, I hope you realise." Blaise was still on the floor of the Great Hall, blood oozing from his abused nose.

"Poor darling," Pansy cooed, helping him to his feet.

Draco was further stunned by the sight of Granger applying the necessary Healing Charm. Not as stunned, though, as the Weasel, who stared open-mouthed at the lot of them.

"Y-y-you..." he tailed off, shaking his head. "Actually, I don't want to know."

Both Pansy and Granger burst into merry laughter at the Weasel's obvious confusion, and even Draco felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips.

Potter, however, clearly had only one thing on his mind, as he pulled Draco close again.