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Nothing. They’d heard nothing of Voldemort since the death of Sirius, the imprisonment of Lucius Malfoy, and the return of the students to school in the autumn. People were tense; their moods mercurial. They knew it was only a matter of time before the battle was brought to them.

They were starting to take chances. Odds that would normally have been considered overwhelming were being ignored in a desperate attempt to find success in any endeavour, no matter what the nature. No one knew how much time they had left for the business of growing up as traditional Hogwarts students, and few were willing to wait around to find out. It made for interesting viewing in the corridors and for distracting gossip in the Great Hall.

Both arriving late to class after a heated round of insults following lunch, Harry had been forced to sit with Malfoy in their next class. Harry was pleased to get a seat at the back — it was a good place to doze in History of Magic — but with Malfoy sitting right next to him, he knew he’d never be allowed to, not with the other boy’s feet and elbows close enough to kick and poke him awake whenever he might drift off. And he was sure that Malfoy would not hesitate to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

Seeing as how Harry wasn’t going to be able to get any sleep, he resorted to glowering and doodling on the sheet of parchment in front of him. He carried on with this, trying his hardest to ignore Malfoy’s presence beside him for the first twenty minutes of class.

Just as Harry thought it might be safe to shut his eyes for a few moments, the parchment was yanked away. Malfoy wrote something on it and thrust it back toward Harry.

Stop that. It’s distracting.

Harry read the message and looked over at Malfoy, whose attention was still fixed on the front of the class. Git, Harry thought. He dipped his pen into his inkwell.

I don’t give a toss.

He pushed the parchment across to the other side of the desk. Malfoy took it, glanced down and wrote again.

God, I want to kill you.

The parchment was passed over and back several times between the two boys:

Tell me something I don’t know.

Screw you.

You want to screw me?! That IS something I didn’t know. Before or after you kill me?

Before, of course.

Really? I figured you’d be the type that would go for corpses.

Disgusting.

Exactly my point.

Malfoy took some time to consider his next comment, so long that Harry thought the conversation was over. He was just folding his arms on the table with the intention of laying his head on them when Malfoy passed the parchment back.

If you were dead, and I was screwing you, you wouldn’t be able to put your hands all over me.

Harry’s eyes went very wide and he couldn’t stop himself from looking over at Malfoy. The other boy steadfastly refused to meet his gaze, his expression unreadable. Harry took quill in hand and hurriedly wrote out a response.

You want me to put my hands all over you??? He passed the parchment back.

Malfoy took it, still not looking at him and immediately wrote back. You want me to screw you???

Harry read the new comment. Unbelieving, he folded the parchment, put it on the desk and laid his hand over it. It was unlikely Professor Binns had been aware of the note-passing and the ghost had never confiscated anything from a pupil before, but Harry wasn’t going to risk it.

And just as that thought crossed his mind, Malfoy slowly reached over and slid the parchment out from under Harry’s hand. Harry watched him carefully. Malfoy appeared to re-read the note. Further down the parchment, he wrote one word and left the note in front of him, almost as if he didn’t want Harry to see it but had been clarifying something for his own benefit.

Nonetheless, Harry reached out and took the sheet.

Yes.

Harry scribbled quickly. Yes, what?

Yes to what I wrote before.

You wrote you wanted to kill me. Could Malfoy possibly be referring to... the other thing he wrote?

Yes, that’s what I meant.

Try it.

Malfoy put down his quill and attempted to surreptitiously smash his fist into Harry’s leg. The table got in the way, but he managed to get some force behind the blow. Harry grimaced and grabbed Malfoy’s fist and held on to it under the table. The two boys sat like this for a few seconds.

Slowly, Malfoy stretched out his fingers along Harry’s palm and left them there. Hardly thinking about what he was doing, Harry threaded his fingers between Malfoy’s, their hands resting gently on Harry’s thigh. Neither boy looked at the other.

Harry felt slightly hysterical. This was certainly a bizarre tableau, one he didn’t know quite how to interpret. There was no doubt that the written banter had taken a decidedly sexual turn. It was obvious, too, that Malfoy wanted something besides the normal verbal sparring and fisticuffs which had so far defined their relationship. But, was this just another attempt at humiliation, this time using sexual taunts as the weapon? Or was Malfoy serious about his admission on the parchment?

Presently, Malfoy leaned over and whispered into Harry’s ear, interrupting his inner musings. “I’m right-handed, Potter. I won’t be able to take notes now.”

Harry remained motionless for a moment and then whispered back. “You don’t need to, you prat. Binns isn't saying anything important. If he does, I’ll write it down.” He sat up straight and fingered his quill with his unoccupied hand.

Malfoy leaned over once more. “I’ll never be able to read your writing; it’s rubbish.”

Harry squeezed Malfoy’s hand hard but Malfoy didn’t let go. Indeed, when Harry stopped squeezing, Malfoy began stroking Harry’s leg with the tips of his fingers.

“This is crazy,” Harry muttered. His hand hurt where Malfoy’s ring had pressed into his flesh but what Malfoy was doing now helped detract from the pain.

Malfoy was thoughtful for a moment. “But it feels good,” he murmured very quietly, almost as if to himself.

He was right, which, in itself was a novelty. It did feel good. Not just the physical contact, which Harry had been craving as only a sixteen-year-old boy can, but it also provided a much-needed release of tension. Of course, holding hands with Draco Malfoy under a table during History of Magic provided its own special tension, but at least neither boy was thinking about Voldemort.

“So what do we do now?” Harry whispered hesitantly, still not taking his eyes off Professor Binns. Both the boys’ hands were becoming damp with perspiration and Harry wondered if Malfoy felt as nervous as he did.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to the library,” Malfoy whispered flippantly.

“No,” Harry said, completely missing Malfoy’s sarcastic tone. “I mean about ‘this’?” He squeezed Malfoy’s hand again, this time more gently, and then began tentatively rubbing it with his thumb. Malfoy’s fingers pressed a little harder into Harry’s thigh. It was then Harry realised Malfoy’s reply had been nervous — just something to say in an attempt to keep the conversation firmly away from the path down which Harry had tried to take it.

Both boys began breathing just a little faster.

Ron chose that moment to glance back at his friend. Harry thought he probably looked flushed and agitated, which was exactly what Ron would expect, seeing as Harry had had to spend the last forty minutes sitting next to Malfoy.

Harry shrugged at Ron and shook his head slightly, hopefully giving the impression that he was less than happy about the seating arrangements, but would stalwartly tolerate them until the end of class. Ron turned his attention to Malfoy, who glared at him until Ron shifted his eyes back to the front of the classroom.

Ron and Hermione were sitting very close together at their shared table, Harry noticed. He wondered if they were holding hands underneath it. Then he began to wonder how many other people were doing this — had been doing this — maybe for ages, and he’d never been aware until now.

When Harry looked over at Malfoy, he found him looking back. Harry’s thumb was still stroking Malfoy’s hand while the other boy's fingers continued stroking Harry’s thigh. At this rate, Harry thought, a little panicked, he would have trouble making a dignified exit. Fortunately, Professor Binns was winding up his lecture about the disastrous results of attempts at substituting Veela feathers for phoenix feathers in early wands.

Harry let go of Malfoy and wiped the sweat off his hand on his robes. He picked up the sheet of parchment and the quill again. Hastily scoring out all of the lines of text with bold strokes, he obscured the earlier conversation but added a new line:

Here. Tonight. After Prefect rounds. To discuss the thing that wasn’t about killing me.

The class ended just as Harry finished writing the note. He passed it to the other side of the desk and Malfoy picked it up, folded it and stuck it into a pocket in his robes. If he’d read it, he made no indication, only brushed past and out of the classroom without any acknowledgement of the previous hour’s activities, indeed without looking back.

“Mate, aren’t you going to eat that?” Ron motioned to Harry’s plate on which sat an untouched piece of treacle tart.

“Huh?” Harry said, glancing over at his friend.

“Are you okay, Harry?” Hermione leaned across the table, speaking quietly. “It’s not your scar bothering you, is it? Do you need to talk to Dumbledore?” Harry had spent most of the meal pushing his food around his plate and stealing glances at the blond figure at the table across from him. He’d wanted to sit looking at Malfoy, to see if he could glean whether or not the day’s activities had affected him. Harry wondered if Malfoy would ignore the suggestion to meet, or worse — tell someone about it.

“Harry? Hello?”

“What? No! No, I’m fine!” Harry replied a bit too adamantly. “Look, I’ve got a lot of homework to do; I’ll see you guys in the common room. He pushed back from the table, all the time watching as Malfoy studiously ignored him.

“That’s not good,” Hermione said as Harry strode through the doors to the Great Hall with a few other students.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Ron said, snagging the tart off Harry’s abandoned plate. “You know he’d tell us anything that had to do with You-Know-Who. Maybe he really does want to study.” Ron dug into the dessert.

Hermione didn’t look convinced.

Studying was a useless pursuit. Harry slouched in a chair in the Gryffindor common room and tried three or four times to start his Herbology reading, but he’d get only two paragraphs into The Healing Herbs Handbook before his mind began to wander. What was I thinking? he chided himself. What in the hell am I going to do with Malfoy? He knew what he’d like to be doing. But could he go through with it? And why did he want to with Malfoy, of all people? Don’t I have plenty of other possibilities whose families and friends aren’t trying to kill me? Why couldn’t I fancy one of them? What made Malfoy so special? More to the point, what made him so special to Malfoy?

No doubt Malfoy wouldn’t show up. Or he’d show up with a group of Slytherins, all harsh laughter and cruel taunts. And that would finish him here at Hogwarts, he thought sickly. He would just have to transfer to St. Brutus’ Home for Criminally Incurable Boys, the school his Aunt Marge already presumed he was attending.

But what if…? What if Malfoy did come to the room on his own, keen to continue what he’d started in class? After all, it had been Malfoy who instigated the touching, Harry reminded himself. And Malfoy had told him — maybe — that he wanted Harry to put his hands all over him. Could I have misinterpreted that? He shook his head. No. I didn’t misread Malfoy’s actions.

Unless it meant that Malfoy wanted to beat him up. Maybe? Harry shook his head. No, if he wanted to beat me up, he wouldn’t have sat through the entire second half of that class holding my bloody hand under the desk! And how could “if I was screwing you...” mean something other than what it said? Malfoy had never said anything to Harry in the past that hadn’t been brutally blunt. Harry wasn’t sure Malfoy was even capable of subtlety where the two of them were concerned.

So let’s assume he meant what he said and he shows up expecting…something. What am I going to do? Harry’s mind’s eye exploded with images of any number of things he and Malfoy could do. He pictured his hands on that pale skin, his fingers trailing up and down Malfoy’s arms, his shoulders, pushing Malfoy’s shirt up, exposing his chest, his belly, whilst Malfoy was screwing —

Harry was instantly hard. The Healing Herbs Handbook was forgotten as he made a dash to the dorm.

Harry entered the classroom at five to eleven that night. He left the door partially open as an invitation, hoping that Malfoy would get there before Filch noticed. He could barely see anything; the room was dark, the long velvet drapes covering the windows and the sconces no longer ablaze. Harry walked to the tall window, pushed aside the curtain and looked out into the night. From up here he could see the entire lake in the moonlight. Watching the glassy surface of the water, Harry saw something large and sinuous drifting slowly beneath it, enjoying the quiet of the night. So enrapt was Harry with watching the giant squid, that he didn’t hear the door open further and a figure walk into the room. It was only when Harry heard the door click shut that he turned, startled.

Malfoy ignored him and walked casually to the far wall behind the desks, where he pretended to study the large mouldering tapestry that hung there.

Harry moved slowly from the window to the back of the classroom, as if worried he might frighten Malfoy and cause him to leave. The closer he got the slower he walked, hesitantly taking small steps until he stood just behind the Slytherin. Although Malfoy did not turn, he must have been aware of Harry’s presence; surely he could hear Harry's breathing.

They stood absolutely still for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a thirty seconds. Who can really stand that still after all? Particularly in the state Harry was quickly working himself up into.

He felt, rather than saw, Malfoy move, and when the other boy’s left hand slowly swung back toward Harry’s thigh, Harry caught it and laced their fingers together. He took a step closer… and pressed his face against Malfoy’s shoulder blade.

It was exhilarating but awkward to stand with so little to steady him. If he leaned too far forward, Harry would push Malfoy into the tapestry. If he leaned back, he’d lose the lovely just-established contact.

There was nothing for it. Holding his breath, Harry reached around Malfoy with his right arm, holding him and steadying himself against the other boy. And was delighted as Malfoy placed his arm over his, hands twining together.

But Harry's satisfaction turned almost instantly into panic. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Now what? I don’t have the first fucking clue what to do. Think, Harry... I can’t fucking think like this! What did Malfoy say on the note? He wants to fuck me. Holy shit, I’m getting so hard. What else did he say? He wants me to put my hands on him. And fucking hell — I do want to put my hands on him. This feels so good, and I’m just standing here holding his fucking hand! But shit! We’re not fighting, not arguing and it’s so damned uncomfortable but feels so damn good. What should I say? No, don’t talk, just do. What would I want? What do I want? I want him to touch my cock, that’s what I want. I’m as hard as a rock and if one of us doesn’t touch it soon I’m going to pass out. And how the hell did I manage to get so hard holding fucking hands with Malfoy, for fuck’s sake? Gods, I’m a... Fuck... I wonder if he’s as hard as I am. Screw it, he wants my hands on him. Fine, Malfoy, fine, whatever you want...

Harry took a deep breath and ran their entwined right hands down the front of Malfoy’s robes. His hand encountered exactly what was pressing uncomfortably against the front of his own robes. Malfoy hissed through his teeth, his hand pushing against Harry’s, increasing the pressure against his trousers.

Harry pressed himself even closer to Malfoy’s back; there was no way the other boy couldn’t feel his erection against it. Harry wanted nothing more than to stand there rubbing himself against Malfoy’s body, and it seemed pretty obvious that Malfoy wanted the same. Harry began stroking the bulge in Malfoy’s trousers. The Slytherin groaned, leaned forward let go of Harry’s left hand to brace himself against the tapestry. Now that they had established some support, Harry could push forward as much as he wanted, and he wanted... He really wanted. With his left hand, Harry reached around Malfoy and grasped gently between his legs, hands fisting in the expensive robe.

Something in the charged air snapped.

“Not... enough— ” Malfoy abruptly turned around in Harry’s embrace. Harry’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor as Malfoy wrapped his arms tightly around Harry’s waist and pulled him as close as he could. Harry had no choice but to follow suit.

Their bodies were now pressed together from chin to knee, Malfoy’s hands blindly scrabbling at Harry’s back while Harry reached up and pulled at the other boy’s hair, their faced pressed into each other’s shoulders. Harry spared a vague thought to the silky feel of Malfoy’s hair, but the delicious friction of cock against cock quickly drew all his focus. Harry doubted Malfoy even noticed when Harry’s mouth moved to his neck and panted against it, not tasting, not sucking, just attempting to get even closer.

Eventually, Harry realised they’d been travelling across the floor when the backs of his thighs connected with a desk. Unthinking, he hitched himself up to sit on it, wrapping a leg around Malfoy’s thigh. Forward and backward motion stopped, the boys were now free to press the most sensitive parts of the bodies together as closely as they possibly could.

Even through robes, trousers and pants Harry could feel everything.

“Oh g-g—o—d,” Harry stammered, his body now completely lost to any kind of control. Malfoy pushed further into him and the boys toppled full-length onto the desk.

Harry yanked Malfoy even closer, his legs now firmly wrapped around the other boy’s hips, with Harry’s back pressed against the hard wooden table. The Slytherin’s weight on top of him felt incredibly good, and the added pressure of gravity between their bodies increased their need for more stimulation. Harry’s hands left Malfoy’s waist and found their way into his robes.

Malfoy inhaled sharply as Harry’s hands pulled his shirt from his trousers and found smooth bare skin. Harry wound his arms around Malfoy’s waist underneath his shirt and ran his nails up and down his back. The action seemed to set fire to Malfoy’s nervous system and he lurched forward against Harry.

This time it was Harry’s turn to gasp. “More,” Harry pleaded and then sloppily applied his mouth to Malfoy’s neck. That was all the incentive the other boy needed — he pushed against Harry again and again, grunting with each thrust. It took only moments before this became more than either boy could take.

“H-oly ssshit, Malfoy…” Harry hissed into Malfoy’s ear and then went completely rigid.

Malfoy grunted through clenched teeth mere seconds later and collapsed on top of Harry.

Harry's body slowly wound down but his brain was just winding up. Not how he'd imagined having his first orgasm at the hands of someone else. It hadn't even been at the hands of someone else, now that he thought about it.

Suddenly, Malfoy pushed himself upright, stood a little shakily and retrieved his wand from his robe. He muttered a cleaning spell before Harry had a chance to panic, thinking he was about to be hexed. Malfoy stowed his wand away and began to tuck his shirt back into his trousers.

“Er, where’s my wand gone?” Harry asked, sitting up on the desk and looking around but seeing nothing in the darkness.

“Honestly, Potter,” Malfoy sighed, retrieved his own wand, and muttered the same cleaning spell at Harry followed by “Lumos.” He reached down beside the table leg and picked up Harry’s wand, then backed slowly toward the door.

Harry looked at Malfoy and laughed.

“What?” Malfoy said, scowling.

“You should see yourself,” Harry said, absently running a hand through his hair. “Your face is flushed and your clothes are all over the place.”

“And you look like the back end of a blast-ended skrewt, thank you very much, Potter.” Malfoy said, starting to turn toward the door.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Harry called, jumping off the desk and moving toward Malfoy. “Give it to me.”

Malfoy turned back and gave Harry a smirk.

Harry, recognizing his unintentional double entendre, made a rude face. “Ha, ha. My wand, Malfoy?” He stalked toward the other boy and pushed Malfoy up against the locked door with one hand, while with the other he snatched his wand back.

Still pressing Malfoy into the door, Harry pointed his wand at the handle and ended the locking charm. “Definitely better than being killed,” Harry whispered into Malfoy’s ear and released his hold on the other boy.

Malfoy opened the door and made a quick exit. Harry stared after him.

Oh my god, what have I done? I had a... I had a... A what? Tryst? With Draco Malfoy last night! I had a fucking orgasm with Draco Malfoy last night! What the fuck was I thinking?! What have I done? Harry’s thoughts galloped in mad circles from the minute he opened his eyes the next morning until he descended the steps and walked along the corridor leading to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Harry had resolved to sit with his back to the Slytherin table at breakfast; he was quite sure he didn’t want to look at Malfoy. Avoiding him completely seemed the best way to quash any fantasies he entertained that Malfoy had felt more than just simple sexual release. Harry wasn’t sure what he himself felt beyond that; and until he’d settled his own mind, he didn’t want to explore what might be going through Malfoy’s.

His stomach rumbling, both from hunger and anticipation, Harry arrived at the Great Hall noting that the Slytherin sixth years had yet to make an appearance. He sat as planned, his back to their table, and Ron sat down next to him, already reaching across Harry’s plate for the pitcher of pumpkin juice.

Harry stared down at the table for a moment and collected his thoughts. The experience, as first times go, had been pretty amazing. The physical gratification part was, of course. But Harry also sensed that this (whatever this was), like Quidditch, was an area in which Malfoy didn’t feel as secure about his prowess as he might pretend. After all, though Malfoy had technically made the first move with the note and the hand-holding, when it came down to taking the next step beyond flirting, he had relied on Harry to take real action. Harry suspected that if Malfoy had thought properly about what was happening — as it was happening — he might not have let himself respond the way he had.

And it was that thought, posed as a challenge in Harry’s sleepy mind, which caused him to break his morning’s vow and turn to glance quickly at the Slytherin table.

Malfoy was there, sitting with his back to Harry.

Harry smiled.

Of course it was impossible for them to avoid one another all day, and eventually they ended up facing each other in the greenhouse. Each pretended to be interested in Professor Sprout’s lecture about the soothing properties of certain herbs, and they managed not to make eye contact for almost ten whole minutes.

Harry looked across and affected an air of boredom with the whole process. Malfoy glanced over and before Harry could even blink, had turned his attention back to the lecture.

And so it went for half the lesson. Harry was almost grateful when he and Neville began the practical assignment – the splicing together of lavender and camomile plants to create a magical hybrid – so that he could turn his full attention to the task at hand.

But Harry found this to be less than easy to do with Malfoy not five feet away. A benefit to being paired with Neville, Harry thought, was that he could rely on Neville’s doing the assignment in the correct manner without relying on his own input. Harry was sure that after a restless night and an even more restless recent twenty minutes, he was very little help.

Harry was expecting History of Magic to be as dull and uninspiring as it ever was, with the exception of the last class. He hadn’t looked at Malfoy as he entered the room and took his regular seat next to Seamus two rows from the front. Harry assumed the Slytherin was where he normally sat, next to Crabbe in the second-to-last row on the opposite side of the central aisle.

As Harry watched Seamus put the finishing touches on a very detailed drawing of the Space Shuttle on the inside cover of one of his textbooks, Harry felt his quill wobble in his hands. He dropped it on the parchment he had taken out of his bag with the intention of producing a doodle of his own, and watched as it slid into his lap.

Harry glanced at Seamus, but the Irish boy now had a magical stick figure beginning an EVA from the shuttle toward the book’s spine, and was not paying any attention to the goings-on next to him.

As Harry looked back to the parchment, it too, slid into his lap. He resisted the urge to twist around to peek in Malfoy’s direction and was just about to replace his quill and parchment on the desk, when one of the myriad scratches of graffiti embedded into the wood in front of him began to glow.

Tonight, it read and then faded as quickly as it had burned to life.

It wasn’t a suggestion, it wasn’t a request; it was a statement. More importantly, it was a message. And Harry had received it, loud and clear.

“What’s this?” Malfoy frowned as he walked into the classroom. The room was aglow with several large candles placed randomly on desks. He motioned to the large old-fashioned red leather sofa which occupied the space “their” desk formerly had.

“Er... I didn’t want to... er... do anything on a desk again; that kinda hurt afterwards,” Harry admitted, rubbing his back for effect. Was it too much? he wondered. Too... girly? Nervous now, he stood and shifted his weight from foot to foot as Malfoy studied the sofa. “I can make it green if that would be better.”

Malfoy snorted. “I don’t care what colour the bloody sofa is, Potter,” he said sardonically. “I just wondered why we’re back in here?”

“I thought—” Harry hesitated. “I thought, um, you wanted to, you know, maybe do some more of — well — that stuff we did in here last time.”

“I do,” said Malfoy slowly. “What I meant was if you weren’t keen on hurting your back, couldn't you have found a more appropriate place?”

Harry felt a surge of relief. For a moment he’d thought – well, he didn’t know exactly. He lifted his wand and shot a locking spell at the door now that he was sure Malfoy wasn't going to bolt out of the room. “I can’t think of anyplace else," he said. "The Astronomy Tower is full of fourth years, the Prefect’s bathroom is haunted by a... very annoying ghost, and the Room of Requirement has a—" he stopped, unsure of how to describe it.

“A what?” asked Malfoy, perching himself carefully on the edge of the sofa.

Harry sighed. “A rota system; you have to sign up to use it.”

“Really?” Malfoy was amused. He smiled evilly, obviously thinking of the names that sign-up sheet might contain.

“And as you can imagine, I was not keen to sign up. So, it’s either here or the dorm, because it’s too bloody cold outside to run down to the Quidditch shed.”

Malfoy considered as he looked around. “I suppose it could be worse…”

“Yeah. It could be Snape’s classroom.” Harry walked back over to the sofa. He had originally considered transfiguring the desk into a bed, but then changed his mind. Even if, as seemed likely, one of them ended up on his back again (Harry’s cock had become, if not hard, then certainly firmer just thinking about it), a bed just seemed too... suggestive. And he wasn’t sure he could manage that transfiguration. Transfiguring a worn, comfortable sofa from a desk had seemed a nice compromise and was something he’d managed in the past.

Of course, he’d forgotten what a snob Malfoy was. It belatedly occurred to him that Malfoy’s initial look of distaste was more likely due to the appearance of the sofa itself rather than the concept of it.

“Maybe we should try to go slower this time,” Harry suggested as he sat down. Malfoy unconsciously scooted away. “Where are you going?” Harry smiled.

Malfoy stifled a snort. “Huh. Force of habit.” He carefully scooted back toward Harry and took a deep breath.

Harry didn’t lean in to kiss him, or touch his hand, or do any of the number of things he could have. He remained motionless for so long, he wondered if Malfoy would get up and leave.

The last time they'd met here together, they'd been in near-darkness and it had been easier to be brave. Now, Harry found himself struggling to overcome the awkward feelings accompanying this new aspect of their still somewhat hostile relationship and find the courage to move it forward. Which he did, finally.

He slowly reached out and began to tentatively pull open Malfoy’s robe. The other boy sat perfectly still as Harry peeled the black garment from him.

When it became obvious that Malfoy would have to move in order for the robe to be removed completely, he shrugged it down his arms and sat forward so Harry could pull it away altogether. His eyes never left Harry, but Harry didn’t look at Malfoy’s face once; instead he concentrated solely on removing this barrier between himself and his objective.

The robe was tossed aside (Malfoy must have been too distracted to complain about the mistreatment of the expensive garment). Underneath, he wore his school shirt and trousers, but had dispensed with the tie and jumper. Harry reached out to the shirt’s buttons, but Malfoy held up a hand. “Wait,” he said.

Now Harry did look up, frowning and wondering if he was about to do something wrong.

“My turn,” said Malfoy.

Harry’s anxiousness vanished in a rush of anticipation. He pulled off his glasses, carelessly abandoning them on the floor under the sofa. He looked back at Malfoy with a little self-conscious smile. Malfoy reached out and tugged at the hem of the hooded sweatshirt Harry was wearing, then scooted closer and raised himself up on a knee to pull the top over Harry’s head.

The action left Harry’s hair even more dishevelled than usual and Malfoy smiled. Harry’s insides turned to mush. That smile, a true smile, so rarely seen, was doing wonders for his health.

Looking dismayed by his spontaneous show of warmth, Malfoy quickly returned to his standard look of disdain and threw the sweatshirt over the back of the sofa. “Potter, how can you stand to wear this ugly Muggle clothing?”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry said and set to work on Malfoy’s shirt buttons. His hands were a little shaky and the task took longer than it should have. When he finished, Harry pushed the shirt off Malfoy’s shoulders it fell to the floor.

Harry wondered if his own breathing sounded as laboured as Malfoy’s, as the Slytherin pulled Harry’s t-shirt off. Malfoy’s willingness to participate in this mutual undressing as well as his earlier display of affection were... unexpected. Harry had thought that Malfoy, like nearly every other student his age, just wanted to get off with someone. No doubt Malfoy had his reasons for choosing him as a partner over anyone else, but Harry had to admit he was completely baffled by what those reasons might be.

Up till now that night, neither boy had touched the other, short of the brief contact involved in taking off each other’s shirts. Harry knew that once they started laying their hands on one another, there might be no stopping. He wanted this encounter to go more slowly than the previous one, so their restraint was probably a good thing.

After their closeness in class and the previous time they'd met in this room, Harry wondered why Malfoy seemed to find it difficult to touch him again. Sure, he might not have the courage of a Gryffindor to throw himself headlong into the moment, but surely he did have the lust-fuelled desire to be physically closer to someone.

As if reading Harry’s mind, Malfoy leaned over and placed a cautious kiss on Harry’s mouth. It was questioning and shy — more than just a touch of lips to lips but with little pressure behind it.

Harry’s bare skin immediately blossomed into goose flesh which had little to do with the cold. As with his kiss with Cho the year before, he felt as if a hundred butterflies had just lifted themselves from inside his belly and were now fluttering around in his chest and down along his limbs. But this was different, too. Unlike that kiss, Harry didn’t feel that this was a delicate moment — one which he could easily ruin with the wrong word or expression. This was freer and all about sensation, rather than communion. He allowed himself to feel this kiss. And he kept his eyes open; he’d never believe it was happening if he didn’t watch.

Slowly Malfoy pulled away. Sounding uncharacteristically unsure of himself, he asked, “All right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, smiling. He peered up at the other boy, whose pale pointed features were impossible to read. “That was great.”

Malfoy had been holding his breath. Now he exhaled across Harry’s face.

Harry almost melted. “Can we do it some more?”

This time there was no hesitancy. Malfoy’s kiss was vigorous and sloppy and Harry loved it. “Potter,” Malfoy muttered, lips still against Harry’s. “Open your mouth.”

Harry complied and in the next instant found his mouth full of Malfoy’s tongue. If Harry had had butterflies fluttering around his insides before, now he had dragons. Nothing he’d imagined came close to this feeling. It was the most intimate experience he’d ever had and his mouth wasn’t the only part of his body reacting to it.

As he kissed back, Harry grabbed at Malfoy’s shoulders, squeezing them. In response, Malfoy groaned into Harry’s mouth, which caused Harry to squeeze harder.

When the need for air became too great, they broke apart.

“Shit, Malfoy, where did you learn to do that?” Harry gasped against Malfoy’s smooth cheek.

“Around,” Malfoy panted. Harry, through force of habit, assumed Malfoy was lying, but there was no denying he'd kissed someone before. Harry wondered who it was, and how many times. Oddly, as their kisses continued, slowly, languorously, Harry wondered why Malfoy wasn't still kissing whoever it was. Why was Malfoy kissing him, of all people? And would he find Harry's technique as poor as Harry found Malfoy’s good?

Kissing had been part of Harry’s go-slow plan for tonight, but he was unprepared for the reaction he’d have. He forced himself to sit back and look at Malfoy - lips swollen and bare to the waist.

And then all intention of patience fled in an instant.

Harry lunged, forcing Malfoy backwards, pressing him into the sofa and stretching out on top of him. His hands roamed over as much of the pale skin as they could and tangled themselves into the nearly white hair, while at the same time, Harry aggressively kissed him.

“Very smooth, Potter,” Malfoy observed when Harry had finished exploring his mouth.

Harry rested his chin on Malfoy’s chest, staring up at him. “Like you hate it, Malfoy” he said, with a sly smile. He turned his head downwards and slowly – very slowly – licked a path from one collarbone to the other.

Malfoy arched up with a hiss.

Harry jerked up and with his hands on Malfoy’s shoulders and guided the other boy back down into the cushions. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“No, no,” said Malfoy breathlessly. “It’s good.” He tangled his fingers in Harry’s messy hair.

Hands still on the other boy’s shoulders, Harry laid his head down on Malfoy’s smooth chest and closed his eyes. Malfoy’s fingers in his hair felt amazing. He'd never had anyone do that to him; he’d had no idea his scalp could be so sensitive.

From where he lay, Harry could feel the quick rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest and hear the strong rapid heartbeat. Harry wondered what secrets this heart held, realising he really knew so little about him. At the moment, however, secrets weren’t nearly as interesting as what they were openly sharing.

Harry inhaled. Malfoy’s skin smelled of soap and sweat. Harry exhaled across his belly. It must have tickled, because Malfoy laughed lightly.

Opening his eyes, Harry saw, at close range and in startling detail, Malfoy’s erection pushing against the fabric of his trousers. He reached out a hesitant hand and carefully placed his palm over the bulge. The Slytherin sucked air through his teeth again and arched his back off the sofa once more. Harry rubbed his palm over the fabric several times, and listened to the resultant sounds of choked arousal from the boy beneath him.

Gingerly, Harry slid his hand under the waistband of Malfoy’s pants and began to explore. His fingertips brushed against coarse hair, and then felt damp, velvety hardness. He trailed his fingers along Malfoy’s cock, marvelling at the differences between this and the only other cock he’d ever touched: his own. Harry went to push his hand further under the material but a sudden movement from above stopped him. Malfoy reached down and quickly undid the button and zip of his trousers. Then he pushed them and his pants down his hips.

Pleasantly unencumbered by clothing now, Harry wrapped his hand around Malfoy’s cock and began slowly stroking it. “Is this all right?” he whispered, lifting his head to look at the other boy.

Malfoy’s head lay back on the sofa’s armrest. His eyes were closed. “Yes... Yes... Yes,” he panted in time with the movement of Harry's hand.

Harry’s mouth went dry and Malfoy wrapped a hand around Harry’s, urging him to stroke faster. Despite all of the activity centred around that delicious-looking part of the Slytherin, Harry found he couldn’t take his eyes off Malfoy’s face. For long moments, Malfoy worried his bottom lip with his teeth as his other hand began to painfully clench Harry’s hair.

A haze of pure lust descended on Harry and he leaned up for a kiss. It was messy and rough, Malfoy cutting it short to gasp for air. “I... I... close,” he panted into Harry’s mouth. Harry draped himself over Malfoy as their hands, one atop the other, pumped up and down quickly on rigid flesh.

A few moments later, Malfoy’s clenched fingers left Harry’s hair and he wrapped his arms tightly around Harry's body. Harry tried to kiss him again but Malfoy arched his back and groaned. Harry’s mouth found Malfoy’s pointy chin instead, his teeth scraping against it. The other boy pressed himself into Harry with a surprising, almost desperate strength, oblivious to Harry's actions.

Harry slowly became aware of a warm wetness seeping through his fingers and he looked down to see semen ooze between their hands which were still wrapped around Malfoy’s penis. Several seconds later Harry noticed the same warmth spreading through his own trousers from within. As he was still lying across Malfoy, the other boy had probably noticed too.

He'd had been so enrapt with bringing Malfoy off, thinking of the kiss he'd wanted to give him at just that right moment, he'd not even noticed how close he himself had been.

Embarrassed, Harry looked back up at the Slytherin. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, it’s okay,” Malfoy said, idly stroking Harry’s back. Then he seemed to notice what he was doing and stopped.

Harry propped himself up awkwardly to allow Malfoy to mutter a cleaning spell.

“Why me?” Harry asked and he watched Malfoy’s face change at the question, transformed from a blank expression to a sneer.

“Why not you, Potter?” Malfoy said, as if it should have been obvious. He pulled up and buttoned his trousers, not meeting Harry’s eyes. When Harry didn't respond, Malfoy sighed. “You’re the only one at this school who has no reason to court my favour. Part of the attraction.”

“You’re attracted to me?”

“I thought I just said that.” Malfoy adjusted his belt.

“Don’t you like girls?”

The Slytherin didn’t reply and struggled to sit up. Harry didn't move.

“But you like me,” Harry ploughed on.

“I didn’t say that.” Malfoy said, sneering again and pushing Harry awkwardly until he had no choice than to sit up, allowing Malfoy to do the same.

“Okay, you’re attracted to me.”

“God, Potter, no wonder you’re rubbish at all of your classes." He ran a hand through his hair. "Yes, you’re a powerful wizard, much as it pains me to say it. And yes, I find that attractive. Any Slytherin would.”

“But you and everyone you associate with still wants to kill me.” Harry couldn’t reconcile Malfoy’s desire for sexual experimentation with the desire to fight. Although now that Harry thought about it, he could name many couples who possessed the same dynamic.

“What about you? Don’t you like girls? There must be dozens of them ready to throw themselves at you. The Boy Who Lived. The Hero. The Chosen One,” he recited in a mocking tone.

This time Harry didn’t respond. He pulled on a loose thread on his jumper. The boys sat side by side in silence, not looking at each other. From their body language, no one would suspect what had gone on in this room less than three minutes ago. Aside from the room smelling distinctly of teenage hormones run amok.

Finally Malfoy spoke. “So, you hate me and everything I stand for and you still want to shag.”

“Shag?” Harry nearly choked on the word.

“I did say ‘screw you’ on that note,” Malfoy reminded him.

“I didn’t know you meant it literally.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said flatly.

“I mean — I didn’t know it at the time. I do now.”

“Now you know I’m being literal, or now you do want to shag?” Malfoy asked.

“Uh...er...yes. To both questions, I guess. I dunno. Do you?”

Malfoy said nothing.

“I don’t want to shag right now,” Harry added hastily, when he realised he wasn’t going to get a reply. “I don’t want my first—” He stopped, embarrassed.

“Your first...? You’ve never had sex before?”

“Er, no. Have you?”

Once again, Malfoy said nothing.

Harry felt the need to explain. “I just don’t want my first time to be in a classroom. Even if it is on a sofa."

“Does that mean you don’t mind if it’s me?” Malfoy asked quietly.

Silence.

“Potter?”

“No. I don’t mind if it’s you,” Harry whispered.

If he were honest with himself, Harry couldn’t imagine anyone else he would rather lose his virginity to. Anyone he knew well would probably make all kinds of assumptions about love and commitment, and with anyone he didn’t know very well he’d worry about saying something (not least of all to the Prophet) about the experience of deflowering The Boy Who Lived.

Harry didn’t want to entertain either scenario. He didn’t think it was anyone’s business, and he’d like to have at least this one aspect of his life remain out of the public domain.

“Why?” Malfoy asked.

Harry thought about his answer and finally turned and looked at the other boy, who was staring resolutely at his shoes. “Because you don’t care.”

“That’s right,” Malfoy said with no emotion. They sat in silence for another long moment.

“So what now?” Harry asked, all innocence and Malfoy flushed. Even in the dim light Harry could see his face go slightly pink.

“Well...” Malfoy began, then stopped. “Well, if you don’t want to...do it in a classroom, where do you want to do it?” The sentence was said with an undertone of bitterness. It sounded almost like a challenge.

“My bed,” Harry said.

“Are you crazy?” Malfoy stared at him. “How in Hades are we going to manage that? There is no way I’m stepping foot in that place for a start, and even if I were, how would I get in there without being seen? Keep dreaming, Potter. I don’t want to fuck you that badly.”

Harry’s emotional state went through several changes in the course of Malfoy’s brief rant. Disappointment that Malfoy would berate him for wanting his first time to be somewhere he felt comfortable and safe gave way to vexation that Malfoy would have so little faith in his ability to bring about such a plan. But Malfoy’s last words, Harry had to admit, turned him on – both the obscenity and its implications.

Harry couldn’t resist. He placed a hand high on Malfoy’s trouser-clad thigh — two could play at this game. “Would you change your mind if I told you that I could get you into the Gryffindor dorm with no one knowing you were there? And I’ll prove it, tomorrow ‘cause I...plan to give you a blowjob there.” What the hell made me say that? he thought, frozen in shock. What if he thinks it’s disgusting? What am I getting myself into??

Malfoy’s face went several shades redder but his voice stayed cool. “Sure, Potter, whatever you say,” he said facetiously.

Harry stroked Malfoy’s thigh. “I mean it. Meet me here tomorrow after Prefect rounds again.” He stood up. “And wear something...easier to get into.”

Harry pointed his wand at the door, whispered Alohamora, and walked out without a backward glance.

             

2 

“I’ve left something in the library, hopefully I can still get in,” Harry called in answer to a question from Ron as he hurried out through the portrait. He’d hidden his invisibility cloak under his robe and had moved fast enough through the common room that he reckoned his friends hadn’t noticed anything.

When he got to the appointed rendezvous he found Malfoy pacing the corridor, looking wary. He was dressed in his robes and school shoes.

“What have you got on under that?” Harry asked as he withdrew the cloak from his own robes.

“Keen, are we Potter?” Malfoy drawled.

Harry was familiar enough with his tone to suspect that Malfoy was covering his nervousness with sarcasm. Choosing not to reply and perhaps unnerve Malfoy further, Harry just smiled.

“My pyjamas, if you must know,” Malfoy said, almost defiantly. He evidently wanted Harry to feel bad for thinking that he wouldn’t have been prepared as requested.

“Here, then.” Harry tossed the cloak to Malfoy, who reflexively reached out and caught the garment.

“Potter, where...? Do you know how valuable these things are?” Malfoy held the cloak between his hands and stared at it. Then he frowned. “Ah. Of course you have one of these. That’s how you got around Hogsmead in third year. I should have known Dumbledore would have made sure his precious hero wouldn’t get caught—”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry said brusquely, turning and walking in the direction of the Tower. “It belonged to my father. I’m sure you know why he doesn’t need it anymore.”

Malfoy stayed silent for the remainder of the walk through the corridors. When they reached the foot of the stairs which would lead them irrevocably into Gryffindor territory, Malfoy pulled his wand from his sleeve and donned the cloak. “Don’t dawdle, Potter,” he hissed at Harry’s back as they started up the stairs.

Harry looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Now who’s keen, Malfoy?”

“She didn’t let you in then, eh?” Ron asked as Harry came through the portrait hole empty-handed. He and Neville were in the middle of a game of chess.

Harry held back, making sure he felt Malfoy’s presence behind him before walking forward into the common room. “Um...huh?”

“Madam Pince. Didn’t let you in,” Ron repeated.

“Oh,” Harry said quickly. “Yeah. Bad luck. I’ll have to go back to the library early to get that book before breakfast. Don’t let me forget,” he added, knowing Ron wouldn’t remember, as he usually woke later than any of them. A sharp poke in the spine spurred Harry on. “I’ll, er, see you guys in the morning.” He walked to the stairs. Once through the door and sure they had the dorm to themselves, he turned and growled. “Getting a little cocky, aren’t you? That hurt.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that comment with a response,” Malfoy’s disembodied voice said. “Can we get on with this?”

“Malfoy, this is for your benefit, too. If you’re going to be more of a prat than usual, feel free to leave the cloak with me and go back to Slytherin,” Harry said to the space in front of him he thought Malfoy was occupying.

“I don’t think so, Potter.” The voice came from near the window. Malfoy was obviously looking out at the view, something the Slytherin dorms, buried in the dungeons, entirely lacked.

Harry started toward the window but stopped at his bed and sat. “C’mere,” he said to the empty room. “Before someone else decides to come in.”

The mattress sagged beside him as Malfoy sat down. Harry pulled the curtains closed and then tugged the cloak away from the other boy. Malfoy’s hair was tousled and he sat very straight, looking more than a little apprehensive, if not of the surroundings, perhaps of the promise of the night’s activities.

“I’m not spending the night with you, Potter,” Malfoy spat. “I don’t like you, you know. I don’t want cuddling or pillow talk or any of that nonsense.”

“Sure, Malfoy,” Harry said, taking off his shoes and throwing them to the floor. “Whatever you say.” He wasn’t convinced.

“I’m serious,” Malfoy insisted. “This is purely sexual gratification. And maybe something to brag about should we both come through...” he left the thought unfinished, but Harry didn’t need to hear the rest to know what he was talking about.

Harry sighed, trying to tune out the usual Malfoy rubbish and concentrate on the next orgasm. As any sixteen-year-old should. He scooted up to the head of the bed. “Are you going to join me or are you just going to sit there?”

“I’m actually thinking about leaving. I don’t think this was a very good idea.”

“Feel free to go,” Harry said, snatching the invisibility cloak and stuffing it behind his back between himself and the headboard just as Malfoy reached for it. Malfoy’s Seeker reflexes were good, but he succeeded only in lunging across Harry’s reclining body. Which was just where Harry wanted him. “That’s better,” Harry whispered into Malfoy’s hair and pulled him up into kissing range.

Several minutes later, Malfoy clearly was no longer thinking about leaving. Harry gently rolled him onto his back and his hands slowly worked their way down the front of his robes. “Are you cold, Malfoy, or is there another reason you’re not taking this thing off?” He scooted down the length of Malfoy’s body and reached for the bottom hem.

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy replied, but Harry could tell he was smiling by the way he said it.

“No problem,” Harry said and disappeared under the other boy’s robes.

“What the hell—?” Malfoy propped himself up on his elbows, only to fall back again with a sigh of pleasure as Harry’s hands worked their way under his pyjamas. As Malfoy couldn’t see him, Harry decided to be as crafty as possible. He carefully avoided touching any part of him that he knew the other boy was desperate for him to touch. Instead, he tickled Malfoy’s ribs, pinched his nipples, stroked his thighs and then ran his tongue all over his abdomen.

By the time Malfoy finally hauled his robes over his head, Harry could see he was a quivering mass of excitement.

Harry carefully pulled Malfoy’s soft green pyjama bottoms down his hips and lowered his head, but before he could touch his tongue to his body, the sound of voices stopped him. Both boys stilled, holding their breath as Harry heard his dorm mates’ laughter coming from the common room. He quickly groped for his wand which he’d abandoned on the bed — he found it underneath Malfoy — and muttered a hasty Silencio. Then he pounced on Malfoy’s cock before the other boy could change his mind about doing this in the dorm.

However strange fondling Malfoy’s penis had been the night before, this was tenfold as strange. Harry had never even thought about fellatio until last week, when the world of sexuality became much more real to him. And although he’d always had a healthy fantasy life, he could honestly say he’d never imagined himself on the giving end of a blowjob. Of course, afterwards, Malfoy might just feel like reciprocating...

Malfoy tasted like he smelled, musky and warm, undercut with the sharp tang of soap, all of which assailed Harry’s senses as Harry wrapped his mouth around his cock. It was a mouthful, and Harry tried not to drool, inexpertly pulling and pushing his lips up and down the shaft. He made a conscious effort to keep his teeth covered (that much he’d figured out on his own), but what would Malfoy like? Or would he not care about technique and just be grateful to have Harry’s mouth anywhere on him? Harry used his hand to secure the foreskin of Malfoy’s penis off the head, and concentrated on that, swirling his tongue around, imagining how that would feel on himself.

Perhaps that wasn’t the most prudent thought; he was already very hard, and at this rate, he was in danger of coming even before Malfoy did.

“Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy moaned from above him, “faster.” Malfoy’s voice was accompanied by a hand which found its way into Harry’s hair and pushed Harry’s head firmly down. Harry had no trouble interpreting the gesture. He opened his mouth wider and attempted to get as much of Malfoy into his mouth as possible. A bad idea, it turned out, as it made him gag, but he quickly recovered and using his hand, his mouth, and liberal applications of his tongue, managed to cover most of Malfoy’s cock with some part of his body.

Now Harry remembered Malfoy’s comments about screwing him, which made him envision Malfoy inside him and then maybe himself inside Malfoy, and he lost all control. Harry felt himself coming in his clothes and clenched his fist around Malfoy’s cock as waves of pleasure washed through him. Absorbed with this, Harry missed the warning Malfoy was kindly giving him by pulling on his hair so forcefully it would have hurt, had Harry not been having a truly stupendous orgasm at the time.

Just as Harry was recovered enough to give his full attention back to Malfoy’s cock, the other boy came, flooding Harry’s mouth with warm semen. This shocked Harry; he’d known from personal experience that semen was warm, yet was still surprised when it began pulsing into his throat. He spluttered and gagged, trying not to cough all over Malfoy. Harry quickly wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his long-sleeved t-shirt and looked up.

“I did try to warn you,” Malfoy said almost crossly and he yanked his pyjamas up his legs before Harry could touch him again.

Yeah, I guess I’d feel disoriented too, if I had an orgasm whilst the person giving it to me sounded like he was choking to death, Harry thought, a little discomfited yet powerfully excited at the same time. “I know,” he said. “I didn’t notice until it was too late. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Wonderful,” said Malfoy without any emotion. He tried to sit up, but Harry held him down.

“How was it, anyway?” Harry asked, moving to lie atop Malfoy with his full body weight.

“What do you think, Potter?” Malfoy said sarcastically, trying to shove Harry off. “Get off, you’re heavy. And why are you all wet—? Ah. I guess I don’t need to ask you if you enjoyed it, then.” Harry flushed and lifted up, but Malfoy reached for his wand. “No, hold still a minute.” He cast a cleaning spell at Harry’s midsection.

“Thanks,” Harry said, embarrassed. He realized he’d now managed to come three times without Malfoy even laying a hand on him.

“It’s okay, Potty,” Malfoy teased. “Now, I mean it, get off of me.”

Harry rolled off and flopped down beside the other boy. He expected Malfoy to get up and demand the cloak so he could leave, but oddly, Malfoy remained where he was, breathing deeply and looking very sated.

Harry leaned in to kiss him, but Malfoy shifted away from him quickly. “Don’t even think about coming near me with that mouth after having my cock in it. Harry lay back again, frustrated. “Fine, Malfoy, whatever.”

Malfoy rolled toward Harry and raised himself up on an elbow. “Potter, you amaze me. Don’t you even know a simple teeth cleaning spell?” Malfoy said. “What do you use to clean up after...you know?” he made a gesture with his hand that Harry couldn’t possibly misunderstand.

“I just use my shirt or whatever’s handy, usually,” Harry yawned.

“If ever I needed reminding you’re a half-blood,” Malfoy sneered.

Harry jerked his head up angrily. “What’s that, Malfoy? I’m not wizard enough for you? I bet you didn’t think that five minutes ago!” He collapsed back on the bed, feeling cross.

“Merlin, Potter, will you shut up?” Malfoy hissed.

“I said a Silencing charm, for god’s sake,” Harry reminded him, and closed his eyes. He’d never felt so lethargic in his life.

“One can only hope it worked,” Malfoy said crossly. Harry felt him slump back onto the mattress. I guess he is staying, Harry thought, his mood improving slightly.

Harry opened tired eyes when he felt fingers poking him in the ribs. He didn’t bother to reach for his glasses, but he was instantly awake. Oh god, I’ve woken up with him!“What time is it?” he asked in a raspy voice. He cleared his throat.

Malfoy cast a Tempus charm. “Half-two,” he whispered.

“How long was I asleep?” Harry whispered back, a little embarrassed. He hoped he hadn’t been drooling.

“How should I know?” Malfoy said, covering a yawn with his hand. “I heard your noisy neighbours tromping in about midnight, I guess, but—”

“You fell asleep, too,” Harry teased, lifting his head up and smiling. Malfoy scowled. He seemed ill-at-ease and Harry wondered why he hadn’t left yet.

“So, I guess it doesn’t take much to get you off, does it, Potter?” Malfoy asked rather unkindly.

Harry surprised himself by keeping calm – after all, he could hardly deny it. “I guess not.” He couldn’t explain it; there was just something so arousing in seeing someone else as turned on as he was, knowing he had made it so. He considered a moment. “You haven’t touched me much,” he continued. “Maybe you’re the same.”

“Is that a hint, Potty?” Malfoy said, eyes running over Harry’s still-clothed body.

“Er,” Harry blushed and felt his cock twitch. “I guess it is.” He reached out to touch Malfoy’s hair, but Malfoy grabbed his wrist.

He pushed Harry’s arm back against the bed and crawled on top of him. Harry sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. Holy shit, he thought. His over-sensitive prick started to fill with blood as Malfoy bent his head and began kissing his neck.

Harry’s breath came faster as Malfoy reached for the hem of his jumper and pushed it up to Harry’s collar. Malfoy began licking Harry’s chest, moving slowly from one side to the other and back again. Harry thought Malfoy’s mouth was much better at this than at speaking. Now’s probably not the best time to mention that, though, Harry considered through a warm haze of lust.

He could feel Malfoy’s erection pushing into his knee as the other boy slowly slid lower, his tongue moving down to Harry’s abdomen.

Harry’s muzzy mind was functioning enough to twig that perhaps Malfoy hadn’t yet left because he hadn’t done this to Harry. Was Malfoy feeling obliged to return the favour? Or did he, just maybe, actually want to?

As Malfoy’s fingers found their way to the buttons of Harry’s jeans, he decided he didn’t much care what Malfoy’s motivation was.

Amazing, thought Harry. Utterly fucking fantastic! He loved the feel of Malfoy’s smooth fingers around his shaft and pulling gently at his foreskin. It was wonderful not knowing what he would feel next...so different from – and miles better than – any wank he’d ever had.

“God...”

Ron thought the nightmares might have started again. Harry’s moaning had woken him up last night. Ron was worried for his friend’s well-being; Harry had said that in his dreams he could see through Voldemort's eyes and vice versa. If the nightmares were coming back, well, somebody ought to do something. Right?

“You okay, mate?” Ron asked at breakfast, spearing sausages like there was no tomorrow.

Harry looked tired, his brow furrowed slightly, but he managed a small smile. “Yeah. Why?” He reached for the marmalade.

Ron looked down into his tea. “Heard you moaning in your sleep. Thought you’d had a nightmare last night,” he mumbled. It wasn’t something they discussed often. Ron sounded embarrassed for him.

Holy shit, Harry thought, his mind racing. I know I cast a Silencing spell last night! He clearly remembered grabbing his wand from underneath Malfoy’s bare bum. Malfoy. Bare. God... Underneath his robe, Harry’s sixteen-year-old body responded to his memories.

What had he said? His heart sank. Oh, bloody hell, I said Silencio, not Muffliato. I made it impossible for us to hear anyone else in the room!. But there hadn’t been anyone else in the room at the time. And Malfoy had said he’d heard Ron, Seamus, Neville, and Dean come back in, so the Silencio hadn’t even worked! God, I’m such shit at simple spell-work! I can not tell Malfoy about this. Wait, didn’t he notice I used the wrong spell? Harry’s erection forcibly reminded him of what they’d been doing at the time. Perhaps not, thought Harry. He was lucky he could remember his own name as Malfoy had taken him in his mouth.

Harry's glanced quickly over Ron's shoulder at Malfoy, but the Slytherin was busy talking to Zabini and didn't notice Harry looking at him. "Sorry, mate, I didn't mean to scare you. Wasn't one of those dreams."

Harry realised a second too late that he'd set himself up. "Must have been one of those other kinds, then, huh?" Ron asked, grinning around a mouthful of sausage. Harry's face went very hot and he knew he must have turned red.

"No!" he said too quickly, which just seemed to reinforce Ron's opinion. "Oh god, Ron, just shut up," Harry moaned and covered his face with his hands.

Ron chuckled knowingly. When Harry felt it was safe to look up, he saw Malfoy peering at him from the Slytherin table, his eyes harsh, but his lips forming a small smirk.

Harry was going to have to remember to do a proper Silencing spell next time. And practice, so it would work.

Next time, he thought, now painfully hard.

The next time turned out to be the next night.

“It’s all coming off then. And you’re staying.” Harry clarified his conditions if Malfoy really was going to shag him.

“I am not staying. I refuse to wake up in the Gryffindor dorm,” Malfoy whined.

“You already have,” Harry reminded him.

“Not on purpose, and I wasn’t there all night. And besides, that was your fault; I was too tired after...” his voice trailing off, Malfoy turned his head away, seemingly at a loss to explain further.

“What the hell, Malfoy? How the fuck was it my fault?” Harry was used to this dynamic, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“I don’t know; your mouth just sucked the life out of me or something.”

Harry barked out a laugh. By this time, though, he had said the correct Silencing spell and double-checked that it was working. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

Malfoy said nothing.

“Get. Them. Off.”

Frowning, Malfoy complied, slowly removing every scrap of clothing, as Harry did the same.

Even if he wasn’t having nightmares, Ron could usually hear Harry’s soft snoring in the middle of the night. The complete absence of sound indicated that some type of Silencing spell had been placed around the bed, but the curtains were not quite closed, there was a small opening where the curtains came together. Maybe Harry was being considerate of his dorm-mates, Ron thought. After his nightmare earlier in the week, perhaps Harry was making sure they wouldn’t be disturbed again if he were to battle through another bad night, but acknowledging their concern by leaving the little gap so they could keep a wary eye on him.

Through this triangular opening in the curtains, Ron could see hands clutching the sheets — fingers of one hand entwined with those of the other. Weird. It looked as though Harry was shifting around and clenching his hands together whilst in the throes of a bad dream. The curtains twitched rhythmically.

Ron wondered if he should wake Harry. Sometimes it was dangerous to do so; Harry would lash out, sitting up sharply, wand aimed at Ron’s head, eyes wide and desperate, seeing some horrific event rather than the concerned face of a trusted friend.

Ron watched as Harry’s hands slowly unclenched. He hoped Harry was returning to normal sleep. The hands came apart, one slowly rubbing against the other.

It was then Ron noticed two things. In the moonlight Harry’s hands appeared to be two different shades, one considerably lighter than the other. Although that could be explained by the shadows cast against Harry’s skin by the curtains, the other thing Ron noticed couldn’t be dismissed as readily: both hands were right hands.

Someone was holding Harry’s hand. Someone had been grasping Harry’s hand only moments ago and was now gently caressing his fingers and wrist.

In short, Harry was not alone in his bed. Ron could barely believe it. When had Harry started seeing someone? And who? And why, for the love of Merlin, hadn’t Harry told him about it? Harry had told Hermione and him everything about Cho, and Harry had only kissed her! And now it looked as though he was doing a lot more than kissing someone. Obviously Harry hadn’t wanted to discuss this relationship with anyone or he’d have told Ron. Wouldn’t he? Ron was Harry’s best friend! They didn’t have any secrets.

Ron pondered this for a moment. That wasn’t entirely true; Ron hadn’t told Harry about all of the stuff he and Hermione had got up to. Though he and Hermione hadn’t done much more than a bit of kissing and minor groping, and Ron had considered himself lucky to get that far. And if he and Hermione had been doing something that involved a bed, Ron doubted very much that he would be very forthcoming to Harry with that information either.

In the semi-darkness, Ron noticed movement again. Both of the hands were withdrawn from view, and a rearrangement of bodies exposed what looked like part of someone’s naked back in the open space between the curtains. A hand drifted in and out of view, gently stroking the expanse of pale skin.

Ron was torn between coughing discreetly, which most likely wouldn’t be heard through the silencing spell, or rolling over and going to sleep. Of course there was a third alternative: adjusting his position so as to get a better view through the small opening in the curtains of Harry’s bed.

Ron decided on that option. He slowly pulled himself forward, trying to see further into the recesses under Harry’s canopy.

Ronald Weasley, what do you think you’re doing? the voices of his mother and Hermione said in his head at the same time.

Ron scrunched back down under the covers. He thought about what he’d seen, trying to glean some idea of who it could be that had won the heart (or at least the body) of the Boy Who Lived. Ron could still see pale skin. That was about three-quarters of the girls at Hogwarts, so no help there. He’d seen long agile-looking fingers. Ron contemplated the girls who were musicians or artists. Again, a good proportion of the female student body fell into this category; a lot of them were into that creative stuff. He’d also seen a glint of silver — a ring. Again, that didn’t really narrow the field. Many of the girls at school wore jewellery.

Ron was intrigued. He’d have to keep a careful eye out to see if he could recognise this girl from just her hands, as it was unlikely that he’d see any of the girls’ naked backs. He hadn’t even seen his own girl’s naked back.

Ron’s thoughts turned to recent conversations he’d had with Harry. Okay, Ron admitted to himself, there hadn’t been many. He hadn’t spent much time with Harry lately, since he and Hermione were still in the “honeymoon phase” of their relationship, but they did speak in class sometimes. And certainly at the Gryffindor table during meals…

Ron’s mouth fell open. What had he said to Harry just that morning at breakfast? That he had heard him moaning and was worried that his nightmares had returned. Bloody hell! That wasn’t Harry having a nightmare — that was Harry having it off with someone! Determined now to solve the puzzle, Ron finally drifted off to sleep.

The following afternoon Harry sat in the Gryffindor section of the Quidditch stands. There hadn’t been a match that day, and he had thought to go flying on his own. Walking down to the pitch, he’d changed his mind about flying; he was not so sore that he couldn’t sit on a broom —maybe — but he didn’t want the added distraction of the extra sensations.

He could have been alone in the dorm room, of course, but aside from the fact that his dorm-mates would no doubt find him and ask them to join him in whatever activities they had planned, his bed...his bed smelled of Malfoy. Up until that morning’s shower, Harry’s skin and his hair had smelled of Malfoy too.

Harry wanted a place he could think objectively. He couldn’t do that surrounded by people. So, here he sat, cold, but keen to be alone with his thoughts and not distracted by sensual memories.

So, I’ve finally had sex, he thought to himself. Kind of...well, I’m definitely not a virgin anymore, that much is true.

It’d been...weird...it’d been messy...it’d hurt. ..

It’d been brilliant.

Harry had had no chance to learn about proper sexual etiquette of any kind before it had become a reality for him. He knew that with a woman you needed Contraception spells, he even remembered Dean explaining some of them to him. But as it had taken Harry six years to learn Oculus Reparo, and he used that frequently, there was no way he’d remember anything to do with the bedroom.

Harry had heard from Seamus who had heard from Anthony who had heard from a seventh year Ravenclaw that there were Lubrication spells you could use with boys. Again, he’d been told it once, but had never had a reason to remember it.

Luckily, Malfoy remembered it. Almost. He’d said it incorrectly the first time and nothing had happened; he’d needed to change the stress on the word before his hand was covered in the warm gel-like substance.

Harry closed his eyes, remembering the feel of tentative slick fingers sliding uncomfortably then deliciously inside him. Malfoy had knelt behind him, Harry on his knees and resting his weight on his elbows. He had felt self-conscious and exposed, but also very aroused, had desperately wanted to touch himself, but also didn’t want anything to detract from the sensation of the other boy’s touch.

Malfoy had been nearly silent throughout the act. There had been a curt “Ready, Potter?” and then a moan of...what? Satisfaction? Harry thought. Whatever it was, Malfoy had made the most wonderful-sounding noise as he pushed himself inside, even as Harry felt like he was being torn apart. He had gasped and sworn, but Malfoy, who he was convinced would have spared little thought to the boy beneath him, placed a hand in the centre of Harry’s back. He may have just been steadying himself, but to Harry, it had been soothing, and he felt himself relax around Malfoy to the point where he no longer felt the pain as acutely.

There had been no warning before Malfoy moved, but part of Harry was desperate for him to do so. Instead, Harry had kept still, getting used to the unfamiliar sensations. Within moments, it went from painful to not-so-bad and finally to wow, as Malfoy moved within him. Harry had had little time to enjoy the new feelings before Malfoy made a surprised-sounding gasp and collapsed onto Harry’s back.

“Merlin,” the Slytherin sighed into Harry’s hair. Harry lowered himself down against the bed, his erection pressed painfully against the bedclothes. All he wanted to do was rub against the sheets until he came, but Malfoy’s weight made that impossible.

“Malfoy, are you okay?” Harry asked weakly.

“Gods, yes,” Malfoy replied quickly. Harry smiled, despite his discomfort. He knew Malfoy would never have been so impulsively honest had he had time to collect his thoughts and analyse the experience. Harry reached out awkwardly and stroked Malfoy’s hair as the Slytherin’s head drooped beside his on the pillow. Malfoy didn’t move away.

“Was that your first time?” Harry asked quietly, hand still stroking.

Malfoy said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Neville and Ginny were exchanging furtive kisses behind the suit of armour just outside the History of Magic classroom. They enjoyed taking a few minutes in the afternoon for a quick snog, a promise of things to come later in the evening.

Of course, it was a busy time in the castle and private places were hard to come by, and today was no exception. Neville heard a voice down the corridor, getting louder, which meant someone, or several someones, were headed in their direction. Ginny was never self-conscious about public displays of affection, but Neville was still rather shy — a hangover from his stern upbringing. He pulled Ginny further behind the armour and kept a wary eye out, hoping that whoever it was would pass them without stopping. No such luck. Footsteps came up to the door of the classroom opposite and paused there.

A whisper floated across the hall. “Hurry up, we’ve only got ten minutes till tea.” The voice sounded like Harry’s, but Neville didn’t want to distract Ginny from her interest in his neck by poking his head out to see. From across the hall came a squeaking sound like a door handle being turned, followed by a sharp bang and then a rough scraping noise. “Wait, the door – ow, my foot!” complained a different voice. It, too, was male, and one Neville couldn’t place straightaway. “Potter, my foot —”

Now Neville did recognise the voice from the way it had said Harry’s surname. He’d heard that voice say “Potter” since first year: Malfoy. Neville wondered if they were having a fight — he heard scuffling sounds and the squeak of hinges again. But then he began to hear soft wet sounds which he also recognised — they were the sort of noises made by doing exactly what Ginny was currently doing to him.

Ginny seemed oblivious to the activities directly across from them, and if she heard anything, she made no comment. Neville absently stroked her back whilst craning his neck to see beyond the suit of armour to the classroom door.

What he saw made him stiffen so abruptly that Ginny thought she had found a new erogenous zone and quickly set to work sucking on his adam’s apple. Neville could hardly process what his eyes were reporting: Harry and Draco Malfoy attached at the mouth, Malfoy’s hands tight on Harry’s hips whilst Harry’s fingers gripped Malfoy by the shoulders. As Neville stared in disbelief, Harry walked Malfoy backwards into the classroom. The two boys disappeared inside and the door slammed closed.

“What was that?” Ginny said, surfacing at the sound of the slamming door, as Neville almost collapsed in shock.

“Huh?” Neville mumbled incoherently, trying to focus on his girlfriend and process the vision in his mind’s eye of the Boy Who Lived and the Prince of Slytherin with their tongues in each others’ mouths. “Uh, I d-didn’t hear anything. Er, we better get to tea, c’mon.” He grabbed Ginny by the wrist and literally dragged her out from behind the armour and down the corridor to the Great Hall.

Throughout the next two days, Ron surreptitiously but carefully inspected the right hand of every girl he could. So far, no one fit the bill in Transfigurations, Muggle Studies, History of Magic and Defence Against the Dark Arts. Ron was almost out of classes. Of course, he wasn’t in all of Harry’s classes – for example where Ron had Advanced Divination, Harry had Arithmancy. He’d have to ask Hermione which girls were in the class and then track them down.

Ron had also tried to stay awake each night since he’d seen someone in Harry’s bed. If Harry was going to try to sneak her into the dorm again, Ron wanted to be awake to see it. But as far as he could tell, since the night of his discovery, Harry had slept alone. He’d heard Harry through the curtains, softly snoring or occasionally coughing, which meant no silencing spell had been cast, and he rather doubted that Harry would have just slept the whole night if there’d been someone in bed with him. Ron certainly wouldn’t have if he had someone in his bed.

Ron didn’t want to ask Harry anything about a girl when they were in public, and they never seemed to get a chance to be alone now that he and Hermione spent so much time together. And this was definitely something Ron didn’t want her to find out about. Harry would probably kill him for saying something to Hermione. But Ron was desperate to talk to someone. Maybe a mutual male friend could shed some light…

Ron cornered Neville just before Potions and asked him if he knew if Harry were seeing anyone. Despite going very red, Neville said he didn’t know, though it was obvious that he knew something. Neville had lost a lot of his nervousness last year while pursuing Ron’s sister, and now that he and Ginny were an item, Ron didn’t think Neville would have been loathe to discuss a fellow friend’s love life, even in the most general of terms. But, it seemed Neville wouldn’t. Ron wasn’t sure what to read into that.

Disappointed, Ron persevered with Plan A: the hands.

He’d quickly crossed all the Gryffindor girls off his list — they were all either too young (Ron had arbitrarily made the cut-off age 15 for no particular reason other than that he couldn’t imagine Harry robbing the Gryffindor cradle, as it were), or they were already involved, or Ron would have seen them talking to Harry in the common room. Perhaps this girl wasn’t in any of their classes? But then where would Harry have met her? He spent all his waking time either in class, playing Quidditch (Ron had already considered and ruled out the female Quidditch players), in the Gryffindor Tower or in the library. Obviously Harry could have met a girl in the library, but then when would he ever talk to her? It’s not like he could have had a proper conversation in the library — at least not one long enough that he could go from introductions to an invitation to bed. Maybe Harry had talked to her in the library on several occasions, over several weeks? No, that didn’t seem right, either, because Ron was sure Hermione would have seen Harry with this girl if things had been going on for that long.

Of course Harry had his father’s invisibility cloak. Maybe he was stepping out under that in the middle of the night to meet someone. Although that seemed unnecessary, seeing as Harry had in fact had someone stepping in to their dorm. Still, Ron surmised, that was how he must have got her in to the room without anyone noticing.

Now in Potions, Ron cautiously surveyed the girls’ hands. In order to see them all, he had to make several unnecessary trips around the classroom and Snape was not the professor to let that pass, abusing him for leaving his work unattended. After that, Ron had to satisfy himself with watching the girls as they moved around him.

In between looking at the girls (something that wasn’t going unnoticed by Hermione), Ron kept his eye on Harry. It didn’t appear that he spent any great amount of time looking at or talking to anyone new. That puzzled Ron greatly. Surely if Harry were sleeping with someone, he would at least acknowledge her outside of the bedroom. Wouldn’t he?

Ron’s naiveté almost didn’t allow this train of thought to proceed to its logical destination. But at last it did.

Barely.

Maybe Harry was sleeping with a girl he didn’t want anyone to know about! That was why Neville had been so cagey; he must know, or at least suspect. If Harry were sleeping with someone…inappropriate…he would never forgive Neville for saying anything to Ron. Especially to Ron.

But who would Harry be too ashamed to admit to as a girlfriend? Ron felt an icy sinking sensation in his stomach as an unworthy thought crossed his mind. Was it…? No, Harry together with Hermione was too ridiculous to contemplate. Plus, Ron was sure neither of his friends would have side-stepped the issue for so long; as much as it would have hurt him, he knew at least one of them would have said something about their feelings long before it got to the bedroom stage.

Ron looked around the room with new eyes. So who would Harry not want to be caught with?

This year the Gryffindors had Potions with the Slytherins. Certainly, if Harry were seeing a Slytherin girl, he might not want it known. Voldemort might have gone to ground in the last year, but there were constant rumours of his return and everyone at Hogwarts knew which House he’d call on when marshalling his followers. Ron carefully scanned the Slytherin girls’ faces and then peeked at their hands. No one, not one girl in the class fit the bill.

Ron glanced sideways at Harry who was standing next to Dean on the opposite side of the table. He spent a good long time studying Harry, but couldn’t see that Harry was secretly looking at anyone. Mostly Harry kept his eyes on his cauldron.

On his way back to his table from the supply shelves, Draco Malfoy intentionally bumped into Harry, causing him to lose count of the number of elderberries he was adding to his potion and drop the rest. Harry shoved Malfoy back and gave him a narrow-eyed look.

“Piss off back to your own table, Ferret,” Ron said.

Malfoy shrugged. “Not my fault the floor is uneven.” He smirked and walked away as Harry stooped to retrieve his fallen ingredients.

Other than that small collision, so far as Ron observed, Harry had no contact with anyone in the class, let alone a girl.

That night, Harry didn’t come back to the dorm. Ron hadn’t seen him since tea-time, after which Harry had said he was going flying. Ron went to bed early but stayed awake until two in the morning waiting for Harry to return. Harry didn’t, and Ron finally gave up waiting and went to sleep.

Ron awoke late the following day, Saturday, to find Harry back in the dorm. He’d obviously come in whilst Ron was asleep, so tired that he hadn’t even pulled the curtains around the bed. On closer inspection, Ron noticed Harry was still wearing his clothes; he’d not even changed into pyjamas when he’d returned.

Harry slept until noon on Saturday. The match against Ravenclaw started promptly at two and ended promptly at two-ten when Harry, who hadn’t said much to anyone until then (Ron figured he was hung-over), triumphantly caught the Snitch, the Ravenclaw Seeker having never laid eyes on it.

Harry was ecstatic. He laughed and joked with his housemates for the rest of the day, happily drank the Firewhisky that Cormac had smuggled into the common room — thus putting paid to Ron’s idea that he was nursing a bad hangover — and even let Colin take his picture as many times as he wanted. Harry went to bed when Ron did, after the impromptu dorm party ended around one in the morning.

On Sunday, Harry spent the whole day with Ron and Hermione. They lazed about in the common room, dawdled over their meals, studied in the library and went to visit Hagrid just before tea-time.

Harry never mentioned another person, let alone spoke to one, but he did seem to be smiling and staring off into space a lot more than usual. Ron began to think he'd dreamed it all and hadn't really seen someone in Harry's bed; maybe it had been a strange waking hallucination from having eaten that fourth pork-chop at tea last week.

But why hadn't Harry come back to the room on Friday? Where had he spent the night?

Ron finally worked up the nerve to ask Harry about it once they were both in the dorm that night and the others were asleep. (Hermione didn't need to know about this just yet, it being a guy thing, and all, and he could always tell her about it later.)

"Harry, you know Friday, yeah?" Ron whispered, careful not to wake their sleeping roommates.

"What about it?"

"Well, you know how you weren't here…”

"I was here," Harry said matter-of-factly.

"You weren't here when I fell asleep," Ron clarified. He didn't admit to staying awake until two in the morning waiting for Harry to return; that might sound too…weird.

"Oh, yeah, that's right. I was up late talking to Neville after I got back from flying. I zonked out in the common room." Harry turned over, his back to Ron. "See you in the morning." The comment and his body language made it clear the conversation was over.

Ron ruminated on Harry's explanation. He was sure he had seen Neville come to bed — later than usual, it was true — but definitely before Ron fell asleep. Why wouldn't Harry have come up to bed with him?

He’s lying. To me! His best mate! And Ron was none the wiser for asking him about it. If anything, now Harry knew Ron was on to him. And he'd just passed it off as though nothing odd was going on. Ron frowned. There went any chance of a heart-to-heart between two comrades, Ron thought sourly. He'd just have to keep up the surveillance and detective work.

The next day Ron sat in Transfigurations, more curious than ever and just as frustrated. He wanted to concentrate on the lecture, but Harry's sex-life seemed far more interesting a topic than whatever McGonagall was lecturing them on.

“Now we will practice something I guarantee you will see on your Transfiguration NEWTS,” Professor McGonagall said. Everyone sat up a little straighter. “You learned the theory for this last year for your OWLS, but this year, we will be taking this technique to a more advanced level. I am talking about the transfiguration of strikingly different-sized objects. For instance, transfiguring a thimble into an elephant and back again.”

As she spoke, she pointed her wand at a small silver object on the floor. The students watched, impressed, as it grew and morphed into a very large, very confused-looking Indian elephant. The elephant flapped its ears, causing a gentle breeze, and looked around at them amiably.

"This is not the same as an animagus transforming into his or her animal form," she clarified as Hermione's hand shot up. "That is dependent only upon your inherent magic." Hermione put her hand down. Professor McGonagall continued, "This type of transfiguration, like all transfiguration, requires that the original object is held in its new form by the witch or wizard. With objects that are close in size, this requires very little effort and the person transfiguring the object can concentrate on other things. For objects as disparate in size as this," she motioned towards the elephant, who eyed her suspiciously, “it requires a good deal more concentration.”

“Now, I would like several of you to try this,” McGonagall continued. "It does not have to be an elephant. Just use your imagination. But remember: the grip of the wand is different than in like-to-like size transfigurations. There is no spell, the change is based solely on the grip and the action of the wand.” She demonstrated again by transfiguring the elephant back into a thimble. “Now, Miss Granger, would you care to go first?"

Hermione rose and stood in front of the class, regarding the thimble where it sat on the floor. Concentrating fiercely, she turned her wrist and hand in an identical fashion to that displayed by Professor McGonagall, flicked her wand carefully, and the thimble was transfigured into a grand piano.

“Well done, Miss Granger.”

Hermione changed the piano back into a thimble, smiled in a self-satisfied way, and took her seat.

"Mr Finch-Fletchley?" Justin stood and approached the front of the class. After a long moment and a couple of false starts, he transfigured the thimble into a large mantelpiece carriage clock. He looked at McGonagall. "Almost, Mr Finch-Fletchley, but think bigger. Adjust your grip thusly." She transfigured the thimble back again, rearranged his hold on the wand, and stood back from the line of fire.

Justin tried again. This time the thimble transfigured into what looked like the actual life-sized face of Big Ben. The front and ceiling of the classroom magically pushed itself outward to accommodate it. "Ah! Very good, Mr Finch-Fletchley!" Professor McGonagall said approvingly. Justin transfigured the clock-face back into a thimble and sat down to a smattering of applause.

McGonagall beckoned towards the back of the room. "Mr Malfoy next.”

Malfoy walked to the front of the class. He carefully considered the thimble, carefully aligned his fingers on his wand, and composed himself. “Good, Mr Malfoy. Everyone, please observe that this is the correct grip with which to hold your wand.”

Malfoy raised his hand to perform the spell.

“BLOODY HELL!” Ron exclaimed.

“Mr Weasley, do you have something to contribute to the lesson?” Professor McGonagall inquired. The entire class turned to look at Ron but Ron was staring wide-eyed at Malfoy.

Malfoy lowered his wand and narrowed his eyes at Ron. “Finished making a fool of yourself, Weasel?”

Ron gaped at him, speechless. He turned his head and stared at Harry. “I don’t believe it!”

Harry’s expression made it clear he was wondering why Ron was gazing so intently at him. Everyone else in the class seemed to be wondering the same thing.

Professor McGonagall raised her voice. “Mr Weasley, if you’re quite finished, I would like to get on with the class.”

Ron snapped his head back to the front. He looked past Professor McGonagall without seeing her, his attention fixed on Malfoy’s wand and the hand that held it. “Yeah, yeah, okay…” he muttered, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Hermione glared at him but he ignored her.

Ron suddenly remembered something. He turned around again and caught Neville’s eye. “You knew, didn’t you?” Ron hissed at him.

Neville studiously ignored him, but his face went red.

Professor McGonagall rapped sharply on her desk. “Mr Weasley! Do I need to take points away from my own House? I expect better from you.”

Hermione elbowed Ron hard in the ribs. “Be quiet, Ron,” she whispered.

By this time, Malfoy had transfigured the thimble back to its original state and returned to his seat. Ron didn't even see what he'd changed it into, his attention had been too focused on Harry and Neville.

“I expect you all to be practicing this skill for the next class, as I will call on you for demonstrations and will award points for the most creative use of the spell.” With that, she dismissed the class.

Ron shot out of his chair, so rattled he left behind his books and his wand. Hermione sighed and gathered them up, watching as Ron rushed to Harry’s seat, pulled him from his chair and yanked him towards the door of the classroom, pushing aside anyone in his path. Hermione gathered up Harry’s things as well, shaking her head at their odd behaviour.

Ron frogmarched Harry down the corridor and around the nearest corner before finally letting go of his arm. Ron’s face was bright red and his chest was heaving.

“Ron, what the hell —?” Harry said, but got no further.

“Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing, please. 'Cause if you are, I’m going to throw up and then I’m going to have to kill you!” Ron’s voice rose in tenor and volume as he spoke.

Harry’s stomach threatened to drop to the floor. How did he find out? I made sure I did the spell right!! Merlin, this is bad…He tried to play dumb, on the outside chance Ron was talking about something else. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“I…you and…you two are…oh, Merlin, I can’t even say it!” Ron motioned wildly in the direction of the Transfiguration classroom, sputtering incoherently. “You…the ferret…you’re…”

“What makes you think that we’re doing anything?” Harry asked, stalling, trying to look Ron in the eye and failing.

“Because I saw you. Or him. Or both of you. Last week.”

“You saw us?” Harry's face flushed. Oh, this is bad, all right… “Where?”

“In your bed!” Ron shouted. “The curtains weren’t closed properly and I saw your hands. His hands. Your hand and his…ohmygodthisistoodisgustingforwords.”

Harry decided to go on the offensive. “Why were you looking into my bed?”

“Because I thought you were having a nightmare! All I could see were your fists clenched in your sheets and I thought you were in pain or something. I was bloody well trying to HELP you!!” He stood there panting for a moment, then his eyes widened as he had a further revelation. “Oh, shit! The moaning I heard the night before that! Ohmygod! That was the two of you!”

Harry could almost see the wheels turning in Ron’s head. Or perhaps “locking up” would be the more appropriate phrase. “Er…”

“Bloody hell! I thought I knew you! I — I thought —” He couldn’t finish and turned away.

Harry reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “You do know, me, Ron.”

“Let me go,” Ron said angrily.

Harry let go of his robes and Ron began walking away.

“Ron—” Harry began, but it was too late.

"Granger knows," Malfoy said as they sat outside in the courtyard after dinner under Harry's invisibility cloak, watching a few other students taking advantage of the chilly but mellow early evening light.

They had done this a couple times before. Malfoy had suggested it a few weeks ago and Harry had to admit that it gave him a secret thrill. They'd tell their respective friends that they had to miss dinner to study or practice Quidditch, and then come out here while everyone was inside eating. They would sit, invisible, sometimes with a hand on each other's knee, pretending it meant nothing, surrounded by their classmates, who had no idea the two boys were in their midst.

"What?" Harry wasn’t listening. He was looking at Seamus watching-but-trying-not-to-look-like-he-was-watching Blaise Zabini, as the Slytherin flirted with Pansy. "Who knows?"

"Granger," Malfoy said, following Harry's gaze. "Blaise won't get anywhere. Pansy thinks I'm going to marry her."

"What?" Harry said again and turned to stare at Malfoy.

"Pansy. She thinks I'm going to marry her." Pansy let out a high-pitched giggle and patted Zabini on the arm.

"No, no, no. I mean the bit about Hermione knowing about us." Harry realised he was speaking a little too loudly and toned it down. "Has she said something to you?"

"Actually, I told her. I wanted to make sure Weasley wouldn't kill me." Malfoy snorted as Zabini leaned in and whispered something in Pansy's ear.

"Oh?" Harry said. “How did you manage that, then?”

“I explained to her I didn’t want that boyfriend of hers to hex me into oblivion, because you know he’ll think this was all my idea and that I was forcing you to have sex with me or something—”

“I’m sure he doesn’t think that,” Harry assured him. I think he pretty much blames me, Harry finished in his head.

“Whatever, Potter. I didn’t tell her outright, but I might as well have as it took her ages to put two and two together. She asked if I were doing something to you and I said I was — in a manner of speaking. But nothing you weren’t doing to me.”

Harry laughed and the cloak shook around them. He straightened it, making sure no part of them was visible.

“She finally worked it out when I gave her so many hints she couldn’t possibly not understand. And I thought she was bright! Anyway, she couldn’t believe it; she thought we were arguing over Quidditch but couldn’t understand Ron’s reaction.”

“Yes, that was some outburst,” Harry said in agreement. “What happened when you told her?”

“She turned into a complete girl. She plastered a stupid smile on her face and said that we made an adorable couple. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“At least she didn’t punch you in the face,” Harry said, and kissed him on the cheek.

Malfoy moved his head back and wiped his cheek with his sleeve. “Ugh, Potter, please.” But he smirked as he said it.

“Is she going to talk to Ron?” Harry asked, ignoring Malfoy’s false disgust.

“I think I’ve convinced her to try and calm the Weasel down, but how she’s going to do that is beyond me.” Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it's not my problem. He's your friend."

Harry blinked a few times, digesting the new information. It had all seemed so simple. Now, suddenly, it had become very, very complicated. "I don't know how I'm going to face him."

"Do you think he's told anyone?"

Malfoy suddenly sounded worried. But over what? Yes, having their relationship exposed would be completely unthinkable. They hadn't really considered it possible until now. Oh, they'd taken the odd step or two so as not be obvious, but they hadn't been as careful as maybe they should have been. Often they didn't wait until a door was shut firmly behind them, or forgot to utter a silencing spell as accurately as they should have. Harry realised they’d been living on borrowed time, fooling themselves into thinking it could go on indefinitely.

And he also realised he didn't have nearly as much to lose if their…relationship were to be discovered. Malfoy, on the other hand... Then again, half the time Harry never knew what Malfoy was thinking. Often he'd thought that he'd learned to read the Slytherin only to find himself completely wrong in his assumptions.

"Potter?" Malfoy’s voice and a well-placed elbow brought Harry back to the question at hand.

"I've no idea. I guess I'll find out later." He put his hand over Malfoy’s. Malfoy didn't respond, but he didn’t move his hand out from under Harry's. "I suppose we're safe. I don't think anyone else knows, and I can't see Ron convincing anyone of what he knows, can you?"

"I guess it is a little bit…" Malfoy said quietly and then trailed off.

"Far-fetched?" Harry suggested, smiling a little. "C'mon, Malfoy, would you believe this — " he held up their hands "— if you weren't in the middle of it?"

"I guess not; I'd be sitting over there flirting with Pansy, instead." As he spoke he saw Zabini scoot away from Pansy and look up past Harry and Malfoy who were still hidden under the cloak. The two boys looked over their shoulders to see Professor Dumbledore strolling into the courtyard, stopping to idly chat with the students scattered around the place.

Harry squeezed Malfoy’s hand and whispered, "I don’t think Ron will say anything to anyone but me; he'd be too embarrassed. And we can trust Hermione to keep our secret. As long as we remember the Silencing and Privacy charms, I’m sure we're safe enough from anyone else finding out."

They watched Dumbledore's robes flutter as he passed them. "Good evening, gentlemen," said the old wizard — to nothing at all.

             

3 

“That just happened, didn’t it?” Malfoy asked in whisper as he watched Dumbledore stop to chat with Blaise and Pansy.

“Yeah...” Harry said. “Why am I not surprised?” With the revelation that the Headmaster was now also in on their secret, Harry decided he’d had enough confrontation for one day; he’d deal with Ron tomorrow. “Come on...” He tugged at Malfoy’s hand. “Let’s go while everyone is still up here.” He turned to look at Malfoy who was smirking at him.

“And where do you suggest we go, Potter?”

“Yours,” Harry said and sighed. He hoped any thought Malfoy may have had about teasing him or refusing might be pushed aside. Even with Hermione’s assurances to Malfoy about Ron’s potential behaviour, Harry was still stung from the earlier encounter with his best friend. Harry fully understood that he had far less to lose than Malfoy, that his friends would come around eventually, but that didn’t make facing them any easier. At least not right now.

“I thought you were going to go back to your dorm to see if the Weasel had come to his senses.”

“I don’t think I want to, now. I think I want Hermione to talk to him first. After all, you said she thought it wasn’t such a bad idea.”

“I didn’t say that, Potter. I said she thought we made an adorable couple.”

“Well, that’s almost the same thing.”

“Potter, Millicent Bulstrode thinks she and Professor Snape would make an adorable couple. Girls have no sense when it comes to these things.”

“Right, Malfoy. And we make perfect sense together.”

“Hmmm. You may have a point there, Potty.”

“Come on, then,” Malfoy said as he slid under the duvet. Draco had changed into his pyjamas, Harry had stripped to his t-shirt and pants. He climbed into bed beside Malfoy and they lay with their sides pressed together in the narrow space.

Almost as an afterthought, Harry took off his glasses and stuffed them under the pillow. The last time he’d been here, that bizarre but amazing time when he’d been completely focussed on how it would feel to be inside someone for the first time, he’d discarded the glasses over the side of the bed. They could easily have been seen peeking out from underneath the heavily warded bed curtains. When he’d snuck out of the dorm at dawn, Harry had nearly trodden on them, and marvelled at how lucky he’d been that they hadn't been discovered by Malfoy’s house-mates.

Now they both leaned back on the pillow and Harry stared up at the canopy, once again aroused by his proximity to Malfoy. But seeping around the edges of this desire he felt bitterness at Ron’s discovery and reaction. Tonight, when he didn’t return to the Tower, Ron would know exactly where he was; he wouldn’t be able to pass off his absence as before. Not that Ron had believed him when Harry claimed he’d been up chatting with Neville.

Neville...

“Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, even though they were in no danger of being overheard.

Malfoy had closed his eyes. “What?”

“What do you think Ron meant when he said you knew to Neville in class today.”

Malfoy was quiet for so long that Harry thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, the other boy said, “I expect he was accusing Neville of knowing about us.”

“Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Perhaps we should take out an advert in the Prophet,” Draco quipped.

Harry turned his head to peer at Malfoy’s profile. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Malfoy opened his eyes, turned and smirked, then frowned, a crease forming between his brows. “Yes, maybe it isn’t that funny. Do you want to stop? It’s not like they can prove anything.”

Harry thought for a long moment, looking at Malfoy but seeing instead several recent visions in his minds’ eye. Ron pointing at him in the classroom. The twinkle behind Dumbledore’s half-moon spectacles. Malfoys lashes brushing against his cheeks whenever he blinked.

Malfoy had a very faint dusting of pale freckles across his nose and over his cheeks. How come Harry had never noticed them before? “No,” he stated. How could he give this up? It felt too good and besides, there was still so much to discover. “Do you?”

Malfoy turned, rested his head on his arm, and stared into Harry’s face. He said nothing, but Harry felt a pyjama-clad leg slip between his. The response in the subsequent kiss was unmistakable.

Too hot, Harry thought, kicking the duvet off. His body felt cramped from sleeping in an unfamiliar position, and in this semi-awake state, he strove to rearrange his limbs in the position in which he most often slept.

“Gerroff,” Malfoy mumbled at him and Harry woke fully, realising he was again sharing Malfoy’s bed. He turned on his side, facing Malfoy, which made more space for both of them. Malfoy instinctively moved into the empty space and attempted to stretch out on his belly. Harry had discovered Malfoy liked to sleep like a starfish; undoubtedly he slept in a larger bed when not at school.

Reaching for his wand where it lay underneath the bed, Harry cast a Tempus Charm. Three AM. Mutual hand jobs early in the evening had given way to five pleasant hours of sleep during which Harry had been able to forget Ron and Neville and Hermione and Dumbledore. Now they attempted to force themselves back into his psyche and Harry wasn’t having any of it. Cooled down, he pulled Malfoy’s arm over himself like an extra duvet.

“Uncomfortable, Potter,” Malfoy complained into Harry’s hair.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” Harry said smiling into the darkness. Malfoy yanked Harry underneath him, spreading out across his body.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he snarled, half-asleep and wholly aroused.

They had class tomorrow, but Harry could return for his books in the morning when he knew Ron would be in the Hall. Harry smiled thinking of his friend’s appetite: Voldemort could materialise in the middle of the Gryffindor common room and Ron Weasley would still sidestep him on his way down to breakfast. Finding out your best mate — was he still Ron’s best mate? — was shagging his arch-nemesis would hardly put a dent in Ron’s determination to bring his mouth closer to a platter of bacon.

Draco gave off rubbing his torso against Harry’s once-again overheated skin when he saw Harry’s smile. “Want to let me in on the joke, Potter, or should I just send you back to the tower?”

“You wouldn’t think it was very funny.” Harry reached up and gripped Draco’s bum, pulling the other boy against him.

“Try me,” Malfoy said.

A little clumsily, but very determinedly, Harry rolled Draco over and reversed their positions. He wedged his knees between Draco’s but not without a fight. “If you insist,” Harry said through a smirk.


Harry managed to last a little longer this time. He tried not to let Malfoy’s lovely features, the sweet way he pretended he wasn’t in pain at the start, and the incredible sensation of his legs draped over Harry’s arms deter him from at least four or five good hard thrusts, before he found himself coming with a satisfied groan. He gave Malfoy a few long strokes and then both were ready for more sleep.

Harry arrived in the Great Hall, his eyes first flicking to the Slytherin table, where he could see a head of white-blond hair among the other colours.

Eyes shifting, he walked to his table, found his chair next to Ron and sat down as nonchalantly as he could. He looked up at Hermione, who smiled at him before she glanced at the table behind him, undoubtedly looking at Malfoy.

“Good morning, Harry,” she said and passed him a jug of pumpkin juice.

“Hi, Hermione. Thanks.” Harry poured himself a glass, spilling some and then held the jug toward Ron in what he hoped was a friendly manner. Ron ignored him.

“Oh, here we go again,” Seamus said from next to Hermione. “It’s like fourth year all over.” He shook his head, obviously thinking of the short but annoying time the Golden Trio had been rent asunder. “Really, you two have been friends for six years. I think I can speak on behalf of the entire table when I say we really don’t want to be relaying messages between the pair of you again, so why not do us all a favour, and kiss and make up.”

From further down the table, someone coughed loudly and painfully. All heads turned to see Ginny slapping Neville on the back. He briefly struggled to breathe and wiped spilt pumpkin juice from the front of his jumper.

Harry didn’t want the entire house mad at him, and he hoped that Ron would eventually see reason. The fact that Ron hadn’t shoved his chair back from the table and left the Hall when Harry had sat down probably said more for Hermione’s influence than it did for Ron actually coming to terms with anything, but whatever the reason for Ron’s continued presence, Harry was grateful.

After all, it wasn’t as though Ron could argue that Malfoy was taking Harry away from his friends. Harry didn’t spend every waking moment with Malfoy, nor would he want to. He had, from the beginning, spent no less time than he would have with the Gryffindors, as most of the time he and Malfoy were together would have been when Harry was studying or asleep. If anything, Ron and Hermione spent more time away from him! But in his heart, Harry knew this wasn’t what Ron was so upset about. Whereas Harry had six years of bad blood to overcome with Malfoy, the Weasleys had been snubbed and condescended to by most pure-blood families for decades. It must be hard for Ron to come to terms with Harry’s choice of partner based on that alone.

Beyond that, he had no idea how Ron felt about him having chosen another bloke. If he were to guess, Harry didn’t think it mattered that much. There were several same-sex couples at Hogwarts. Harry had found it odd that they were so easily accepted when he first became aware of them, but then grateful for it later when he began to consider that maybe limiting himself to one gender was risky; after all, he’d had a pretty bad track record with girls. Certainly Malfoy had no issue with his or Harry’s sexuality. The fact that Malfoy hadn’t said anything about that aspect of Harry’s life being newsworthy over and above anything else he did, led Harry to believe that the Wizarding world wouldn’t much care.

That’s something, Harry thought. Now, all he had to do was convince Ron that this relationship wasn’t going to threaten their friendship. Whether or not it threatened their lives and that of a large proportion of the rest of Wizardkind was something else…