Harry often wonders what it feels like to kiss Draco.

There is not a more perfect place to find out. The broom shed is dark, and the door is slightly ajar because the hinge is broken and it can’t shut properly. Through the crack a sliver of late afternoon sunlight slants in, illuminating the place with a dusty glow.

And Draco is there. He stands in front of Harry, his arms folded across his chest. Defiance makes his silver eyes flare in the half-light, bringing out the darkness in shades of grey.

"What is it, Potter?" Draco’s upper lip curls in a sneer.

Harry doesn’t move, just stands with his Firebolt clutched tightly in his right hand. He watches Draco steadily, and a thousand thoughts race through his mind as he contemplates his next move.

He knows what will happen when he kisses Draco Malfoy.



His broom will hit the floor with a loud thwap, and the varnished edges of the broomstick will get scratched. He will not notice it yet, because he will be kissing Draco, and everything else will just have to wait.

Draco’s lips will taste cool under his, and Harry’s hands will slide up to hold Draco’s face so he can’t turn away. Draco will be too stunned to react, because Slytherins obviously underestimate the legendary Gryffindor courage. And Harry will take advantage of this to draw Draco’s lower lip into his mouth with a nimble flick of his tongue, nibbling with a firm but not bruising pressure.

This will jolt Draco to life again — and Draco will fight back, of course. He will shove Harry away, and his face will be flushed with shock and anger, and something more.

"What the fuck do you think you’re doing?" Draco will yell.

"Shut up and let me show you," Harry will snap.

At this point, Draco can say no. He can take a few more steps backwards, towards the door that isn’t closed.

"You’re so fucked up, Potter," he can hiss, five years of animosity distilled into a low, dangerous tone of pure hatred. "Just when I think you can’t make me feel sicker, you prove me wrong."

Harry can take that, because he can sense that the fury choking Draco’s voice isn’t entirely directed at him; there are two people in the shed. Harry can even find the resolve to take one step forward, and another, bringing him closer to Draco again.

"For a moment there," he can answer, softly, "you forgot to hate me."

Draco can move away, back out through the door and sprint away from the plain truth that they both know.

He can, but he won’t.

Then Draco may look away, at the circles of dust on the floor.

He may mumble something that sounds like I never hated you. Harry may take another step forward, bringing them only inches apart from each other. The darkness may give them a sense of solace, two people who grew up alone in the world and can’t remember why they’ve always hated the dark, until now.

Draco’s tongue may dart out to lick his own lips, tentatively. He may finally meet Harry’s gaze, and his voice may be quiet as he says, "You wanted to show me something?"

And Harry will not hesitate.

Neither will Draco.

They will abruptly move closer and their lips will meet in a dizzying rush, like accidental perfection. Draco’s hands will be on Harry’s shoulders, holding him there, and Harry’s hands will palm the back of Draco’s head, locking them into the feverish kiss they will scorch on each other’s lips, like a dream that will never be. Harry’s tongue will meet Draco’s the way their duels have always been — fierce, urgent, and equal.

Then they will both break away from the kiss with the sudden force of something natural that can never be altered, like the repelling poles of two magnets. They will stumble back, both breathless from the kiss that will begin and end before they can grasp the moment, the chance of what they may someday be, together.

"Draco," Harry will say in a low voice, even though he will already know what Draco will do.

He knows that Draco will look at him, with those eyes that will be glazed with the mist of a troubled storm, and there will be no way to deny the forces of nature. He knows Draco will say nothing, because there will be nothing left to say, but the silence will hurt more than anything else.

And he knows Draco will walk away, out through that door that will never close, and nothing will have changed between them.



Standing where he is now, Harry knows exactly what will happen when he kisses Draco.

He does so anyway.

Everything happens exactly as Harry expects.

The only difference is that Draco says "You wanted to show me something?" in a softer voice than he imagines, and Harry doesn’t anticipate the part when Draco licks a trail from his neck to his ear, and then whispers the words that Harry will never forget for the rest of his life.

Harry finally pulls back, breathless. Reality crashes in around them, and the walls of the shed fade back like solid darkness; he feels Draco’s hands slip away from his shoulders, and Draco takes a step back. Harry bites his lower lip and waits for the inevitable.

"Draco," he says softly.

Draco looks at him, and time doesn’t seem to run the way it used to any more.

Harry swallows hard. Forces himself not to speak, not to think, not to hurt. Only succeeds on the first one.

Draco gives him another measured look, and doesn’t say anything as he turns away. He bends down and picks up Harry’s broomstick. Harry can see that the varnish on the edge of the handle has been scratched. Draco examines it carefully.

"It’s chipped," Draco says, as a matter of fact. He doesn’t look up at Harry, just keeps stroking his fingers over the damaged corner of wood, like soothing a bruise.

"That’s all right," Harry answers tightly.

Draco raises an eyebrow at him. "You don’t mind that it’s chipped?"

Harry shakes his head stiffly.

"Couldn’t be helped." He smiles bitterly. "Many things can’t."

Draco’s eyes flicker up sharply, and he tilts his head to look at Harry.

"You think I’m going to leave?" he asks.

"I don’t think you are," Harry says, hating the knowledge all the same. "I know."

Draco shrugs. "Okay."

He raises his hand and casually drops the broom, letting it clatter noisily to the floor, bumping and skittering before coming to a halt near Harry’s feet.

Harry blinks and stares at his broom, startled, before he looks up at Draco in disbelief.

"Couldn’t be helped," Draco says nonchalantly.

Then he pulls Harry closer, and proves him so very wrong.

 End