Collection of Harry/Draco flash fics that are mostly preslash, though there are some slashy ones among them. This page only really exists because a lovely lady named Laura translated these into Italian. If she hadn't, I would have hidden these far from where people can see them, for they are embarrassing in their general fluffiness.
Author: furiosityDog Got Your Tongue
When Malfoy said the line about Harry having fleas after having lain down with dogs, Hermione's heart stopped for a second. First, she was extremely angry with Malfoy for saying such things about Sirius, a person whom he didn't even know. Second, she was terrified of what Harry would do.
The loss of Sirius had made him even more moody and unpredictable, and the time Ron, Harry, and Hermione spent at the Burrow together hadn't seemed to help. Harry had laughed and joked along with them, but at the end of each day, he'd retreat into a brooding silence and refused to speak to anyone.
Hermione didn't understand what was happening. She had been sure that Harry would react violently, whip out his wand and hex the blond boy, or worse, attack him physically. Harry didn't do either of those things. He simply stood there, as he'd been standing before Malfoy and his cronies caught up to them. He was looking straight at Malfoy, but he wasn't glaring. He was just looking, as though Malfoy was a boring exhibit at the British National Museum.
After about a minute of stony silence, Malfoy tried again: "What's the matter, Scarhead, dog got your tongue?" Harry didn't flinch. He just looked at Malfoy for another moment, then said, "Your words mean nothing, Malfoy." Harry's voice was low, but the words seemed to carry all through the Great Hall, as a hush settled over the students. Everyone's shock was complete.
Malfoy, Hermione, and Ron all gaped at Harry, who turned away and headed towards his seat at the Gryffindor table, shuffling slightly, shoulders hunched as usual. A moment later, Ron followed his best friend. Hermione shot Malfoy a look of triumph and followed. Malfoy was left standing there, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, knowing he had lost, not understanding how it happened.
Fireflash
Fireflash.
Draco did a double take as he looked at the broomstick, which occupied most of the display for Diagon Alley's Quality Quidditch Supplies. It was one of only fifty broomsticks of its kind, and Draco was damned if he wasn't going to have it. A Fireflash meant taste, it was the epitome of quality -- he had to claim it, he wouldn't be a Malfoy if he didn't. He stared down at the children who were gawking at the broomstick, chattering excitedly, and felt a twinge of anticipation -- he could almost picture their faces when he walked out of the store carrying the broomstick. Draco allowed himself a slight smile at this thought: some things never changed.
Draco pushed open the shop door, causing a melodious trill to echo through the musty interior. It was the exact same sound the shop's door made last time he was here, eight years ago, not long before he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express for the last time. A thin, mousy-haired, bespectacled witch in her fifties looked up at him from behind a desk, putting down a quill she'd been using to work on a crossword puzzle in the Daily Prophet.
"Good afternoon, Sir," she said in a dry tone, looking him up and down. "How may I help you?"
Draco got straight to the point. "I'm interested in purchasing the Fireflash you have on display."
"Ah, I see. If you will wait one moment, I will fetch the store owner," she said, walking towards a door in the back of the shop. Draco waited -- he'd figured as much, a Fireflash was not sold like a mere trifle.
The saleswitch walked through the door at the back, leaving it open behind her. Draco strained to listen, but heard only muffled voices. A moment later, the witch was coming back out, followed by (Draco presumed) the owner, whose head was bowed slightly as he adjusted the front of his robes. Draco thought the owner looked a bit ratty -- his hair was sticking up all over the place.
The owner looked up at Draco and froze. Draco's stomach gave an unsettling flop as he stared into the eyes of Harry Potter. Draco had thought about running into Harry in Diagon Alley before. In fact, part of the reason he insisted on doing his weekly shopping himself was the irrational hope that he'd run into Harry one day. He just wasn't prepared for seeing him right then, and he suddenly felt as though not a day had passed since their last meeting. Draco was tongue-tied and flustered, and he felt a blush creeping up on him, like he was still a gawky teenager with a hopeless crush.
Draco watched in puzzlement as Harry's expression changed from slack-jawed surprise to an easy grin that made his eyes twinkle not unlike Dumbledore's used to.
"I knew that broomstick would smoke you out of whatever hole you've been hiding in, Malfoy."
Without You
Harry stared glumly as the flames consumed the parchment. It had taken all his courage and strength to write what he'd just written. Then his courage failed him and he cast the finished but unsigned letter into the flames, despite knowing that he would never be able to write it the same way again -- perhaps he'd never be able to write it at all. He hadn't realised that giving his thoughts tangible shape on paper would be so excruciatingly difficult, yet it had been. The thoughts themselves had been painful and difficult enough, granted.
Harry watched the flickering tongues of flame as the fire crackled merrily. He squatted closer to the fireplace, staring at the last bit of parchment that he could see. It was almost translucent because of the low light in the room and the bright light of the fire, but he could still make out the words -- just barely. In Harry's customarily untidy chicken scrawl, surrounded by the first signs of burning -- those thin, spidery brown lines -- there stood the words "without you". Harry sighed. That sentence had given him particular trouble, he reflected, and it was really quite a shame that it was disappearing so swiftly.
Harry got up and paced the Gryffindor common room nervously. No one was around, it was past two o'clock in the morning, after all. Ron had offered to keep him company, but Harry had declined -- he'd come down here on the pretense of doing homework for Snape. Instead, he'd written this letter -- of course, that had been his intention all along, except he imagined what Ron would have said, had he known.
Harry looked over at the fireplace and saw that there wasn't even a bit of the parchment left. He sighed wearily, reflecting on a mixture of relief and sadness. He felt relieved because right now there was no way anyone could possibly know what he'd written. He felt sad because he really wanted someone to know -- or, rather, he wanted a certain someone to know. He pressed his index fingers to his temples and sank down into his favourite armchair. Grabbing another roll of parchment and his quill, he bent down in concentration. The sentence he'd struggled with earlier seemed to be burned into his mind now, and Harry wrote:
Draco,
When I woke up this morning, I found that I cannot see a world without you.
Night Noises
Harry sat up in bed, blinking as he fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. He rubbed his eyes and put them on, looking around. It was still dark in the room and he could hear quiet breathing from the others, who were still asleep. Harry stretched. He didn't remember his dream, but he assumed that had startled him awake. His scar felt fine, so it wasn't likely that it was some awful dream about Voldemort again.
Sighing, Harry moved to take his glasses off, determined to get more sleep. The previous night's Quidditch exercise had been grueling, and he touched his cheeks with apprehension to see if they still felt frostbitten. Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the window, startling Harry. His glasses were still on, but he had to squint to make out an owl perched outside the window. Harry remembered when Percy Weasley's owl had come to the Gryffindor common room in the evening once in their fifth year, and got out of bed, shivering slightly.
He grabbed his blanket to wrap it around his shoulders and padded over to the window, fumbling with the latch for several minutes before he got it to open. The owl walked onto the room's windowsill and stuck out its leg. Harry realised the letter was for him and untied it the string that bound it, but the bird didn't fly away. It must have been told to bring a resonse, Harry realised, and unwound the parchment, holding it near the window so the moon would illuminate it.
Potter,
I need to ask you some things about my father. I hope you can spare a moment of your precious time to speak with me tomorrow. I'll be waiting at the statue of Mabon the Mighty at the start of the lunch hour tomorrow. Don't be late.
D. Malfoy
Harry stared at the letter and re-read it several times. Draco Malfoy wanted to talk to him about Lucius Malfoy? He didn't understand it. Malfoy's owl pecked his arm sharply. Harry stared at it. There had been nothing in the letter about a reply. Of course. This was just like Malfoy. He'd never ask for a reply, especially not from Harry. He did instruct his owl not to return without one, though. Harry sighed and walked over to get his quill.
Not Afraid to Hope
Harry shoved Malfoy against the wall, as he'd been wont to do so often these days, and this time he kissed Malfoy -- tentatively, carefully. Malfoy leant back easily and returned the kiss, but it wasn't like Harry imagined.
Harry thought that Malfoy would moan, embrace him, say something. Well, that was how Harry's dreams had always gone. When Harry had finally worked up the courage to approach Malfoy in this way, he found that he couldn't, not straight away, so he ended up assaulting him instead of kissing him, getting detention for it, then doing it again.
Malfoy had seemed to take it in stride -- last week, he even whispered as Harry was being hauled off him: "Don't be afraid to admit it, Potter. I know you want me." That had sent Harry's mind careening through images entirely inappropriate and untimely for someone who was cleaning out a greenhouse.
It had given him hope. As they kissed, concealed behind a suit of armour, Harry's hope was waning with each sigh -- this wasn't what he thought it would be like. Malfoy didn't feel anything for him, obviously. He'd simply been interested in sex, if his hand on Harry's arse was any indication. That had been rather fast, Harry thought.
Malfoy wasn't even breaking a sweat, though, while Harry was sweating profusely and had to stifle the urge to moan against Malfoy, though that was beginning to be very difficult. Harry broke away and ran off blindly, feeling heartsick and altogether lonely. Everyone wanted a piece of Harry's arse, even his so-called arch-enemy, but Harry wanted someone to feel for him. He ran up to the Owlery and sat on the windowsill, staring moodily into the distance.
Draco had wondered when Potter would finally work up the courage to do it. He had noticed the other boy staring at him pensively at meals, in Potions, in Care of Magical Creatures. Thanks to Blaise's very public tantrum two months ago, the whole school knew Draco was gay, but Potter's staring couldn't be explained by mere curiosity.
Eventually, Draco had grown used to it -- he understood what was happening, and he had grown to tolerate it, then expect it, then crave it. Potter's obvious admiration from afar had softened him, and Draco found himself wondering what it would be like if the two of them could be together, impossible though it was. Then Potter started physically attacking Draco every chance he got, and Draco had understood that, too. It was vexing, but to be expected, and Draco had been patient. Draco's little push had obviously worked, however.
Draco hadn't wanted to let Potter know just how much he'd been looking forward to their kiss, so he forced himself to relax, resisting the urge to paw at Potter blindly and greedily. Potter was inexperienced but enthusiastic, and Draco's heart sang as he imagined impossible things -- holding hands, sharing meals, making love... then Potter had run away, but Draco was triumphant.
Draco was standing outside the Gryffindor common room, fuming. What was taking Potter so long? Wherever he'd run off to, he was taking his sweet time coming back. Draco was running out of excuses to loiter near the Gryffindor common room, and he hoped fervently that Granger or Weasley wouldn't be making an appearance, because those two wouldn't buy any excuse of his.
He glimpsed movement down the corridor, and there was Potter, looking deliciously brooding. Draco's heart gave a little leap. He watched as the other boy approached, staring at his feet, not looking where he was going. "Potter," Draco said, causing Harry to stop abruptly and look up at him.
"What are you doing here?" Potter asked, looking dazed.
"Waiting for you, of course," Draco replied, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It was, after all, the most natural thing in the world. He was waiting for a boy he fancied. Why did Potter even wonder? Had he no self-confidence?
"Um," Potter said.
"Do you always kiss and run, Potter?" Draco inquired with a raised eyebrow.
"Er," Potter managed.
"Honestly, Potter, are you able to construct a polysyllabic sentence aside from 'What are you doing here?'" Draco mocked.
This seemed to upset Potter, and his eyes blazed. "What are you doing here, Malfoy? I'd have thought you would have been all over the school by now, spreading the news."
"There's news?" Draco asked, interested. "What news? I must have missed it while I was standing here, waiting for you," he added mildly.
"You were what?" Why did Potter's eyes have to be so pretty?
"I was standing here, waiting for you," Draco repeated patiently. "Because I really think we should talk."
"Talk?"
"Yes, it's an activity which wizards frequently use to communicate with one another," Draco replied, feeling slightly irritated.
Potter walked a little closer to him. If Draco reached out, he could touch him, but he didn't.
"What do you want to talk about?" Potter asked, blinking.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Potter. You know, what happened in the Charms corridor not an hour ago?"
"Er," Potter offered, blushing crimson.
Draco sighed. This was going nowhere. He reached out and grabbed Potter's robes, pulling the other boy towards him forcibly. "Well, if you don't want to talk," he said, and kissed him hungrily, his other arm circling Potter's waist. The other boy melted into his arms instantly, and Draco thought this was much better than talking, anyway.
Secret
The words caused Harry's blood to freeze in his veins, or at least it felt like it.
"What did you just say?"
"I know your secret," Malfoy drawled, smirking.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry muttered, and turned to leave.
"Running away again, Potter? I'm not surprised you've lasted this long against everything that's been thrown your way then. Running away sure does solve a lot of problems, doesn't it?" Malfoy said mockingly.
"What do you know about... about anything, Malfoy?" Harry rounded on him, fuming. "What do you know about anything that's been thrown my way?"
"Oh, I know lots. Let's see, there was the Dark Lord in first year, Professor Quirrell wore him as a hat." Malfoy held up one finger. "Then there was the Dark Lord's younger self in second year, and his serpent pet." He held up two fingers. "Third year, you discovered you still had a godfather, who was an escaped convict and you thought he was going to kill you." Three fingers. "Fourth year, you participated most intimately in the return of the Dark Lord." Four fingers. "Fifth year, you and your addle-brained friends went up against any number of Death Eaters and you managed to escape the Dark Lord yet again." Malfoy held his palm in front of Harry's face, his fingers splayed.
Harry stared at him. What was Malfoy playing at?
"I listen, Potter. I watch. I notice."
"Whatever," Harry said, walking away.
"Go on and run away, Potter," Malfoy called after him. "Just make sure you have someone to run to."
This was a strange thing for Malfoy to say and Harry couldn't help but turn around. "What?"
Malfoy smirked. "You heard me."
"What do you mean, someone to run to?" Harry demanded, getting angrier. "What are you playing at?"
"Would you like to know," Malfoy said with an unpleasant smile. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Harry staring after him. Harry shook his head and resumed walking towards the Quidditch pitch. Ron was already there, and he was standing in the centre of the pitch, broomstick on his shoulder.
"All right, mate?" Ron asked. His ears were red for some reason.
"Yeah, fine. Listen, Malfoy just told me something strange, he said he knew my secret. D'you know what he's talking about?"
"Er," said Ron, not looking at him.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"I was talking to Hermione in the library and we, um, talked about you being gay and Malfoy heard us," he said in one breath, looking miserable.
Harry's stomach did several back-flips. "What...?"
"Sorry, Harry. We didn't realise he was there, honestly," Ron said, eyes downcast. "And we weren't even talking about you, it was just something I mentioned in passing," he added hastily.
Harry dropped his Firebolt to the ground and sank down beside it, burying his face in his hands.
Why You
Harry stared at the handprint on the window and watched the rain claim it, droplets trailing over the smooth surface. Who had been standing outside the Gryffindor changing room in the rain, palm pressed against the window? Why were they there? Harry shifted uncomfortably as he remembered looking up and seeing the hand on the window. The changing room was lit, and outside it was dark, so he couldn't make out who it was. The stranger had removed their hand and disappeared. Harry walked over to the window and looked at the handprint, still stark against the glass, though it was becoming to get washed out by the raindrops. A medium-sized hand, not a dainty female one. A boy, looking into the changing rooms after Gryffindor Quidditch practise? Why?
Ron straightened up, signaling that he was ready, and Harry hoisted his broomstick on his shoulder and hurried out. In the distance, he could make out a lone hooded figure making its way towards the castle.
"Who do you think that is?" he asked Ron, pulling his own hood up over his head.
"Who do I think who is?" Ron asked, fastening his cloak and shivering. "Blimey, but it's cold."
"Over there, almost by the castle. See them?" Harry gestured in the direction of the figure.
Ron squinted. "No idea. Why?"
"No reason," Harry said, not sure why he didn't want to tell Ron about the handprint on the window. They quickened their pace -- it was raining hard, and Harry could already feel his cloak soaking through.
The next morning, Harry was reading the Sunday Prophet and picking at his omelette half-heartedly when he heard a voice from behind him.
"I'm just going to take some breakfast to Draco, then I'll come back to have my own," Pansy Parkinson was saying. "He was out in the rain yesterday evening and he woke up feeling really ill today, Blaise told me. We told him to go to Madam Pomfrey, but he refused."
Harry dropped his fork.
Shook
"It's never going to work," Harry said quietly, looking down at his feet.
"I know. I just wish that it wasn't this painful," came the reply. Harry's head snapped up to look at Malfoy.
"What? What do you mean, painful?" Harry's eyes widened.
"You heard me, Potter. Take it as you will," Malfoy said, his grey eyes inscrutable. He turned around and left, closing the door quietly behind himself.
Harry hopped off the desk he'd been sitting on and kicked its leg in frustration. Sod Malfoy and his uncanny ability to make Harry's resolve waver! He was ready to race for the door and try to catch Malfoy before he reached the Slytherin common room. He hadn't thought that Malfoy felt anything for him other than physical attraction.
He hadn't considered the possibility -- honestly, Malfoy, feel something? Yet he just said that Harry's decision to stop seeing him was painful for him. Or did he mean something else? Was it painful because it meant Harry had bested him again, beat him to saying "It's over" just like he beat him to the Snitch every time? Why had he left? Was he just playing a game?
Harry let out a long sigh. Sod Malfoy for making things complicated. He would go back to Gryffindor tower and try to sleep. He'd make up his mind when he woke up.
That night, Harry dreamt that he and Malfoy were playing Quidditch against each other, only Malfoy was wearing Ravenclaw colours.
He beat Harry to the Snitch.
Wishes in the Moonlight
Harry walked over to the playground near the Dursleys' house and sat on the swing, curling his arm around one of the chains. He stared at his feet morosely. Another birthday, another pack of owls bearing chocolates and greeting cards and presents that he could look at only to put in his trunk. He hadn't gotten what he'd really wanted, though. He looked up at the full moon wistfully. His seventh and final year at Hogwarts was fast approaching, and he dreaded the day he would leave the castle for the last time. Not only because it would mean entering a whole new phase in his life that was terrifying and exciting at the same time, no. Harry had fallen in love with the unlikeliest person -- Draco Malfoy, of all people.
He sighed deeply, looking back down at his feet. It was a fool's wish, and a fool's hope, he knew -- they were enemies, have been ever since they both were small, and there was just no way Draco would ever feel the same for him. Harry didn't fully understand why he'd fallen for Draco. One day in Potions class, Harry looked over at the Slytherin boy and his breath caught in his throat -- Draco was smiling at his partner, Blaise Zabini, and that smile made him beautiful. His eyes seemed to glow with a soft light and Harry saw a glimpse of a different Draco Malfoy, someone Harry never got a chance to know. Harry had watched him unhappily for the rest of the year, reacting to his taunts just to make him happy, dying inside a little every time Draco smiled -- at someone else.
Harry pushed off the ground with his feet, causing the chains holding the swing to creak loudly, then stopped abruptly as he heard a cough. He jumped up quickly and turned around in the direction the sound was coming from. Draco Malfoy stood behind him, leaning against a lightpost, his entire figure awash with moonlight -- the pale light made him look almost ethereal. Harry stared at the apparition, unable to move or speak, and the other boy began walking towards him, his gaze inscrutable. Harry blinked several times, sure that he was dreaming -- or worse, hallucinating. Draco walked right up to him and held his gaze, just the bare hint of a smug smirk forming on his lips. He reached out with his hand and brushed Harry's fringe out of his eyes.
Draco's hand cupped Harry's cheek and tilted his head slightly upwards. The blond boy bent down slightly and pressed his lips firmly to Harry's, curling his other arm around his waist and pulling him close. Draco broke the kiss and smiled at him -- the glowing, happy smile Harry had only ever seen him give to others.
"Happy birthday, Harry," Draco said softly. He ran his hand through Harry's hair and kissed him again, more forcefully this time, tightening the embrace. Harry closed his eyes and gave in to the kiss. All he wanted for his birthday was that Draco Malfoy smile for him, and Draco did. For the moment, nothing else mattered.
Perhaps
I watch from the stands as you zoom around, chasing your own shadow or perhaps shadows of your past.
I watch across the Great Hall as you hold court at the Slytherin table, your smile never quite reaching your eyes. Perhaps that's only because you know I'm watching.
I watch outside Potions as you put your arm around Pansy Parkinson and whisper something in her ear, causing her to blush. Perhaps the rumours aren't true, after all.
I watch in Care of Magical Creatures as you sit back on the grass, stretching your legs out and giving every appearance of not listening. Perhaps you really are, though, you just don't want to show it.
I watch from the Astronomy Tower as you make your way to the Quidditch pitch again, robes billowing around your lithe form. Perhaps you imitate Snape consciously.
I watch at breakfast as you open the packages your mother has sent you, offering the box to Blaise Zabini. Perhaps those sly grins you exchange are only in my imagination.
I watch while I stand in the courtyard during break as you tilt your head skyward. Perhaps those are tears on your face, or perhaps it's only the rain.
I watch in the library as you crack open an ancient dusty tome and mutter something that causes Crabbe and Goyle to double over laughing. Perhaps it's something actually funny, not just something so crude only those two would laugh at it.
I watch from the bushes outside the Slytherin changing rooms after the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match on Saturday as you emerge, eyes downcast, muttering to yourself as you pass. Perhaps if you turned around and noticed me, you might learn something to your advantage.
I watch from a safe distance as you walk determinedly along the path to Hogsmeade, clutching a piece of parchment in your hand. Perhaps you are going to buy a gift for Parkinson -- or is it Zabini?
I watch dejectedly later at dinner as you pass one package to Zabini and another to Parkinson. She squeals with delight and he winks at you. Perhaps there is much more to you than I give you credit for?
I watch you as I sleep, your image flitting across the insides of my eyelids. I relive all the things I've seen and I wish for one thing only -- you giving me just a little bit of your attention, just a minuscule fraction of your favour. Perhaps I have finally gone insane.
I watch you in shock as you approach me before you leave for winter break. You give me the tiniest of grins and mutter "Happy Christmas" under your breath. Perhaps you are the insane one, after all.
Remembrance
There was a single table set for eight in the middle of the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was December 31st, 1997. The group sitting around the table were of different ages -- Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnigan, Poppy Pomfrey, and Filius Flitwick. Ron, Neville, Hermione, and Seamus had come to visit their teachers of old, small though their number was.
The school was empty but for the Great Hall -- everyone had gone home to celebrate with their loved ones, everyone left alive after the events of the previous summer. Ghosts floated through the hallways, causing the torches set in the walls to flicker eerily. A bitter wind howled outside and the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was pitch-black -- roiling snow-clouds gathered outside, waiting to burst.
Six months ago, Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord in his second incarnation. The final battle was short, but bitter -- many lives had been lost. During the months before the war, lines were drawn in wizarding Britain, lines that separated brother and sister, wife and husband, father and son -- even friendships were not safe. Some stayed to fight on the Dark Lord's side, some stayed to fight on Dumbledore's side. Some refused to fight and fled -- to America, Australia, Africa, Asia. When the Dark Lord was defeated once more, for good this time, there was much rejoicing and celebration. Much wine was drunk, many toasts were said, praising the hero.
The hero, Harry James Potter, was courageous and noble. He couldn't live as a murderer, he discovered, and while the celebrations were going on, he took his own life -- he'd travelled to Paris and flew up to the top of the Eiffel Tower on his Firebolt, then leapt off the building. He hadn't told anyone where he was going, there was no one there to stop him -- not that he wanted anyone to stop him. When his remains were found by Muggles, the wizarding world was in shock, and mourning replaced celebration. Tongues wagged at the Ministry, laying blame, pointing fingers, telling lies.
The people gathered in the Great Hall did not speak -- there was no need. They ate through their meal in silence, not even bothering to pretend that there was anything normal about this occasion, that there was anything to celebrate. They hadn't gathered there to celebrate, they gathered to remember and to say goodbye. Perhaps they'd gathered there to begin something new. As they looked at each other over their goblets and forks, a quiet kind of understanding passed between them all -- yes, they would begin something new. They would leave the past behind, but they would never forget.
They would never forget Arthur and Molly Weasley, who died in their home while trying to protect their daughter Ginny. They would never forget Fred and George Weasley, who had come to the battle never to return from it. They would never forget Severus Snape, who was executed on Voldemort's orders for being a spy. They would never forget Dean Thomas, who died as a curse meant for Parvati Patil hit him square in the chest as he dove in front of her. They would never forget Rubeus Hagrid, who had fallen to a curse sent by Bellatrix Lestrange. They would never forget Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was murdered in his home as he tried to get his twin daughters to safety. Nevertheless, the war was over, even the mourning was largely over.
As a great clock struck midnight, they all rose and clinked their goblets silently, greeting the coming of 1998 -- a year without war, without horror, a year without senseless death. Just then, the doors to the Great Hall burst open and a thin, pale young man stumbled in, his face grim, his robes and cloak splattered with mud. He strode over to the table and picked up an empty goblet, poured himself some champagne from a nearby bottle. All present gazed at him silently -- Ron, Hermione, Seamus, and Neville with unabashed horror, Minerva McGonagall with marked contempt, Poppy Pomfrey with motherly concern, Filius Flitwick with barely masked disgust, Albus Dumbledore with quiet understanding.
"I'd like to make a toast," the young man slurred, tears staining his pale, gaunt face. He raised his goblet high into the air, tottering a little.
"To Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The boy I loved," he said, the last words barely a whisper to the wind.
Outside, the clouds burst, and snow began to fall, covering the dirty, barren grounds around Hogwarts Castle with a white blanket, hiding the mars and shadows of the past.
Inside the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy, one of those who had run, drained his goblet dry and it fell from his grasp with a loud clang.
Picture of You
Of course it was not like Malfoy to let sleeping dogs lie; Malfoy had to go and make things complicated. Harry supposed he should have been used to it by now, but somehow Malfoy always seemed to get the best of Harry when Harry wasn't looking. It wasn't even as though Malfoy was especially sneaky or creative. He just had a knack for turning up in the worst places at the worst possible times.
This was one of those times. Harry was busy staring at a picture of Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy he'd nicked from Lavender's Witch Weekly. There was no harm in looking, really. It wasn't as though he was looking because he fancied Malfoy or anything, it was just interesting to see Malfoy smiling up at his father in a way that Harry never saw him smile before. Malfoy had an interesting smile when it reached his eyes -- there were slight dimples in his cheeks and his face looked almost pleasant.
Of course, Malfoy had to pick this time to rudely interrupt Harry and snatch the picture out of his hand. He stared from the picture to Harry then back to the picture, his mouth hanging slightly open. Harry supposed that was a rather interesting facial expression for Malfoy and he stared at Malfoy's face, having given up hope of getting his picture back. Malfoy with his mouth hanging open was an odd sight, though not unfamiliar -- he'd worn the same kind of expression back in first year, when Harry had got his first broomstick.
However, Malfoy thrust the picture back into Harry's hands and hurried down the Charms corridor as though his life depended on it. Harry shrugged and stuffed the picture back into his schoolbag, hauling it up from the floor and heading to the Great Hall. He supposed Malfoy had run off to tell all the other Slytherins what he'd just caught Harry doing. He was a little apprehensive but he figured that if he could endure Rita Skeeter's smear campaign, he could endure anything.
Strangely enough, there was no explosion of laughter at the Slytherin table at dinner. There were no whispers or stares or rumours the next morning at breakfast. It seemed as though Malfoy had decided to ignore their little meeting and Harry breathed a sign of relief as he headed down to the Potions classroom. Of course, Harry couldn't have been that lucky -- in retrospect, he realised that.
He received the first note from Malfoy later on in Potions class. Malfoy sat at the back and Harry could only guess how he'd managed to pass the note unnoticed by Snape. Harry wasn't going to take any chances, however -- he pocketed the note and went on stirring his potion. He'd actually forgotten all about Malfoy's note for the rest of the day. When he was getting changed before going to bed that evening, the note fell out of his pocket and Harry smoothed it out on his pillow.
I want a picture of you, too, Potter.
Harry sighed and crumpled up the note in his fist, tossing it into a nearby rubbish bin.
Why did Malfoy have to make things so complicated?
Squiggles
Harry pushed his glasses further up his nose and stared at the parchment in front of him, scratching his head. It was all meaningless squiggles, as far as he could tell, but how to know for sure? He put the parchment down and leant back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the office door open and opened his eyes, ready to tell whoever it was that he was busy.
Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and smirking. Harry groaned inwardly.
"What is it now, Malfoy?"
"My, aren't we hostile, Potter?"
"What do you want?"
"Granger told me you were having trouble with a letter we found in the Lestrange basement. She thought I could help."
Harry stared at him with incredulity. "Since when do you do what Hermione says?"
"She didn't tell me to do anything. I volunteered."
Harry let out a long sigh and ran his hand through his hair. "Well, take a look then."
Malfoy walked over to Harry's desk and bent over his shoulder. Harry bristled. He didn't need to stand quite this close. He lifted the letter so the other man could see better. Malfoy stared at the letter for a few seconds. Harry was determined not to look at his pale, pointed face as it hovered near Harry's. He wished Malfoy would take the letter and step away, anything to stop the uncomfortable, tight feeling in Harry's chest that appeared whenever Malfoy was anywhere nearer than an arm's length. They've worked together for two years at the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement -- ever since Malfoy had gone over to Dumbledore's side. Lucius Malfoy was murdered by Voldemort for disloyalty -- he'd been trying to keep his son from being taken into service as a Death Eater. Draco had vowed revenge.
Three years since they finished school, Malfoy was every bit the nasty, disagreeable character he'd been when they were Hogwarts students. He still wore Slytherin colours whenever he could get away with it, and he brooked no cheek from anyone. He hadn't mellowed out, or relaxed -- only instead of making Harry's life as difficult as he could, he was working on defeating Voldemort and his Death Eaters with the same kind of single-minded determination.
"It's ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, Potter, though I wouldn't have expected you to know them from squiggles. I'll have the translation for you by Monday," Malfoy said, startling Harry out of his reverie. His warm breath hit Harry's cheek and Harry shuddered. How could Malfoy's presence be so undesirable and intoxicating at the same time? He nodded wordlessly and watched Malfoy leave the office. Poncy git.
Diricawls
"Yeh see, the Muggles used ter know abou' Diricawls, called 'em dodo birds, they did. Seein' as the Diricawls can disappear, the Muggles stopped noticin' 'em, said they were extinct--"
"And what does that mean?" Malfoy interrupted, sneering. Hagrid frowned down at him.
"I was jus' abou' ter 'splain that, now. Extinct means totally disappeared -- like, there are no more of 'em left at all," he continued.
Harry shot Malfoy a disgusted look. Why did he always have to try and make fun of Hagrid's speech? Hagrid didn't even say the word wrong -- Harry had understood him, at any rate. Malfoy stared back at him, but a smile was playing on his lips. Harry started. Why was Malfoy--
What Malfoy did then caused Harry to forget all about Diricawls, Hagrid, and the extinction of various small animals. Malfoy pursed his lips and made a show of sending Harry an air-kiss. Harry's heartbeat quickened and he felt heat rise in his face. Did Malfoy know...? Did he somehow find out that Harry was...?
The thought of it was too much to bear. It was one thing having Malfoy taunt him about his scar and his dead parents. It would be quite another thing if Malfoy decided to use Harry's conflicted feelings on sexuality against him.
Harry looked down at his feet then back up at Malfoy, who was grinning triumphantly. Hagrid's voice boomed in the air around Harry, but he didn't hear him. Harry narrowed his eyes. There was no way Malfoy would get the best of him.
Bounce
"It can't be true. I refuse to-- I refuse--"
"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said in a weak voice. "We didn't realise it would mean so much to you."
Harry turned on his heel and left the common room, ignoring the odd looks. Mean so much. Of course they didn't realise. They had no idea. He ran up to the Owlery and sat on the windowsill, ignoring the indignant hooting: students didn't often come up here at this time of the evening. He stared out beyond the boundary of Hogwarts grounds and the sprawling forest beyond.
Everything seemed pointless, from the first trip into the forbidden forest to the last, from his first day at Hogwarts to this day. He didn't know what he would tell his friends. His friends. What did they know about dark hallways, muffled whispers, stolen kisses? What did they know about flashes of desire, mocking laughter, and white-knuckled rage? What did they know about hopes of redemption, mumbled promises, and glimmers of trust? They were in their their own coccoons that were happy and normal and safe, they didn't know about these things. They probably wouldn't care if they knew, because they would not understand.
Would they even care if they knew what this death meant to Harry? Or would they just think he lamented the loss of a fellow schoolmate? Would they congratulate him on the greatness of his heart, willing to forgive even his bitter enemies? Harry stuffed his fist into his mouth and bit down, drawing blood. The pain and the subsequent trickle of warmth calmed him and jolted him back into the present.
Harry stared out into the shadowy murk of the September evening.
If he didn't know for certain that he would simply bounce, he would have jumped.
Enemy Mine
When Draco Malfoy came out into the courtyard during the Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff game, he certainly hadn't expected to see Harry Potter. Even if he had been expecting to see the great prat, he certainly wouldn't have expected to find him sitting on the cold stones that covered the yard. He wouldn't have expected to see Potter's hands cover his face, head bent forward, shoulders shaking slightly. Potter looked like he was crying. His glasses lay on the ground beside him.
Draco pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. He could simply leave. He could pretend he had not seen this. He could make a loud noise to alert Potter to his presence. None of these things held any appeal, however. The reason for Potter's current state was none of Draco's concern, really. The fact that he had witnessed it put Draco in the perfect position to strike -- there were no witnesses about. Everyone had gone to watch the game, and the only reason Draco hadn't done the same was that he didn't much fancy the idea of watching Zacharias Smith on a broomstick. He didn't want to give him any ideas, not after their ignominious but very secret breakup the previous week.
Somehow it seemed like a bad idea to simply hit Potter with a curse -- if word got out, Draco's actions would have been cast in an entirely unappealing light, and it wouldn't be a fair fight. Draco didn't believe in playing fair, but he did care about what people thought and what others would say. He had the recognition of his peers in Slytherin, what he really wanted now was recognition from the other houses, inferior though they were. Beating Potter in a fair fight held much more appeal in that light than any other possibilities.
"Crying for Mummy, Potter?" he said, a slight sneer coming unbidden onto his face.
Potter looked up, blinking frantically, attempting to recover his glasses and retrieve his wand at the same time. The result was quite pathetic -- he wasn't succeeding with either. Finally, he managed to get his glasses onto his nose. The Gryffindor then sprang to his feet, but didn't draw his wand. He walked straight up to Draco, who was so astonished he didn't even attempt to do anything.
"Yeah, I was crying for my dead mum. What's it to you?" Potter said in a sullen tone.
Draco took a step back. This wasn't going right.
"Um, nothing," he said lamely, and then Potter stalked off.
Draco stared after him. That had made no sense at all.
Bound
"So what's this box, then?"
"It's a television set."
"What does it do?"
"It, erm, shows moving pictures."
"Photographs?"
"Well, no. They're, um, different. Here, let me show you."
Harry walked over to the television and switched it on, feeling slightly queasy. When the doorbell had rung about fifteen minutes earlier, the last person he'd expected to see had been Draco Malfoy. The Dursleys were gone to visit Aunt Marge for the weekend, and it was only after a Howler from Mad-Eye Moody that they agreed to leave Harry behind. It was the summer before Harry's seventh year at Hogwarts, and he would not be allowed to leave the Dursleys' house for another week.
The television flickered to life -- it was time for the noontime newscast and the banner on the screen proclaimed that Bill Cuthbert was announcing. Malfoy stared at the screen for a moment, fascinated.
"How's this possible then?"
"What is?"
"Well, he's talking, and I can hear him. Will he just keep talking until I tell him to stop?"
"You can't tell him to stop. He's sitting somewhere else right now, in a place called a studio. There's a device just films him and there's another device that broadcasts the picture and, um, the sound. The telly just picks it up."
Malfoy was shaking his head. "Muggles. It would have been much simpler to Apparate to wherever he is and listen to him there."
Harry sighed. "Whatever you say, Malfoy. Er, what are you doing here?"
Malfoy ignored the question and flopped down on the sofa in front of the television. When Harry had opened the door, he'd simply strode in, kicking off his boots as he went. Harry could only stare after him, then follow helplessly. What was Malfoy on about? Now, Harry stood near the television and stared at Malfoy as he sprawled out on the sofa. Malfoy raised one eyebrow.
"What?"
"Er, I asked you what you were doing here."
"Can this thing show something other than the Muggle?" Malfoy asked, once again ignoring the question.
Harry was beginning to feel decidedly surreal. He picked up the remote control and switched to a film channel. Dudley had bullied his parents into paying for access to it so that he could watch the newer films without having to rent them at the video shop. The film showing was Bound -- some sort of thriller that had been a runaway hit in cinemas that winter. Harry wasn't much interested in films but he'd heard Dudley carry on about the "action" to his friend Piers Polkiss.
The picture happened to be just at the point where two women were kissing passionately and Harry blushed a deep crimson. Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him.
"Well, well, well. What's this then?"
Harry turned away from the screen, desperately willing the heat he felt in his face to abate. "A film."
"How's that different from that bloke that was talking about penguins?"
"Um, these people are actors. They, um, make believe for the - uh - camera, and it's like a story in moving pictures."
When had Malfoy left the couch and ended up standing behind Harry?
"Wow, they must be really good actors then, because they sure look like they're enjoying themselves," Malfoy breathed behind him.
Harry shuddered a little as the hot breath hit the back of his neck. He winced. When Malfoy had caught him kissing Zacharias Smith in an empty compartment aboard the Hogwarts Express on their way home after sixth year, Harry had been sure he'd announce it to everyone immediately, but Malfoy hadn't.
Instead, he'd shown up on Harry's doorstep three weeks later. Now he was standing behind Harry and - oh, crud - he was grabbing Harry's shoulders and spinning him round. A moment later, they were facing each other. Malfoy lowered his mouth to Harry's ear and whispered something Harry would never repeat in polite company.
Harry drew in a sharp breath and opened his mouth to protest, but he didn't get a chance to say anything because the next moment, Draco Malfoy was kissing him, and Harry found that he was rather inclined to kiss him back.
Harry's eyes flew open. He squinted against the sunlight that filtered into the room from the open window. What a bizarre dream. He knew he shouldn't have let Ron rent Bound. Whenever they'd all watch movies together, Harry always ended up having stupid dreams. He shut his eyes tightly and listened for the sounds coming from downstairs -- Ron and Hermione were bickering about something, as married couples were wont to do.
Harry sighed. If there was no hope of falling back asleep -- and there really wasn't, not with the bickering and the noise the birds were making outside the window -- he would not be miserable alone. He turned towards the quietly snoring form beside him and pulled the sheets towards himself.
"Mmmprh," came the indignant reply. "Early."
"It's Sunday," Harry said as though that explained everything.
"Wha-"
"I had a weird dream. Couldn't sleep."
"So?"
"So wake up, I'm bored."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
One clear grey eye opened and surveyed him haughtily. "You so owe me breakfast, Potter."
Switch/blade
Sometimes I dream about walking into the Great Hall, and finding it completely empty, with you sitting in your usual spot at the Gryffindor table, reading, eating, drinking, staring. I don't join you, I walk over to my seat at the Slytherin table and butter a piece of toast. Why does it always have to be toast, anyway? Then the toast becomes your hand as you stand behind me and the knife in my hand slices into it, but it never draws blood, it passes right through, like you are made of nothing, or maybe I am made of nothing. The knife does not affect you but you scream anyway and when I wake up I hear the screaming in my ears as though you were here with me, but you are never here, you never will be.
Sometimes in Potions I think about touching your hand just to see if it is you or I who's made of nothing, but nothing ever comes of it because the minute I get close to you, you stiffen, and if I had my butter knife I could cut the tension between us with it. Would it feel like slicing into your hand in my dreams? I pass by you and the moment lengthens, until I am out of your reach. I slice and dice ingredients for the potion du jour under the approving gaze of Snape. When he turns to you, his eyes become razors but it doesn't faze you and I'm jealous, resentful, angry because somewhere deep inside I want to be that brave.
I tell Goyle to bump into you as you take your potion to the front, you drop it and glare at me because you know Goyle wouldn't do that himself. I smirk, sneer, triumph as you fill another bottle. I think about sending Crabbe but I don't want to see you glare again. Are your eyes that empty when you glare at others? I cut into my roast beef at dinner and wonder if I used this knife, would it hurt you, cut you, make you bleed? Are you really made of nothing, or am I really that ineffectual? I stare at you from across the Great Hall but you don't turn around to see because you know I am watching. I think you have always known, you've just never bothered to do anything about it. I'm nothing to you, and I hate you.
I see you out after hours in the hallway when I do the prefect rounds. The switchblade in my pocket feels heavy and bulging. You turn to stare at me and I think you know. I reach into my pocket for the blade, and you have drawn your wand. You look bewildered when I don't draw out my own wand. A swipe and there is a beautiful perfect real gash on your cheek, blood streaming down in a single maroon rivulet. I lean down to lick it and you smile at me.
Love Thine Enemy
It's the end of your seventh year at Hogwarts.
You walk down an empty corridor the day after you sit your last NEWT. You drag your fingers along the wall as you walk, as if wanting to leave some sort of invisible mark on this castle. Seven years from now, will anyone remember you? You know that the first-year Slytherins will remember you, perhaps not very fondly, but you had to make tough decisions. It's a part of your job as seventh-year prefect. So they weren't allowed to attend the giant party the Hufflepuffs threw last week. It was for their own good. They don't know what it's like to be outsiders. They will learn, of course, but that will come later.
They still feel like they're better than everyone else, their minds full of the rubbish you and the other prefects feed them year after year. Slytherins are special, superior, spectacular. The best house at that school: combining calculated courage, shrewd reasoning, unfailing loyalty to one's own with cunning and ambition. Slytherin represents all four houses; Salazar Slytherin wasn't a stupid man. He destined his house for greatness. It's true that there wasn't a wizard who went Dark who wasn't in Slytherin. It's also true that every significant achievement in the history books either belongs to a Slytherin or has been orchestrated by a Slytherin.
You pause in front of a closed classroom door and shut your eyes for a second, unable to bear these thoughts any longer. You're sick of the relentless rat race for green gems in an hourglass. You're sick of being labelled. You're sick of Slytherin. Because you know that you are not destined for greatness, you feel like an outsider in your own house. You're glad that your time here is almost up, because at least you can get away from not belonging. The truth is that your father is dead and your mother is a shadow of her former self. By yourself, you are nothing. Your surname carries weight no longer. You have nothing to show for yourself except a Hippogriff's scar on your right arm and a track record of mutual hatred between you and him.
Him.
It's the beginning of the third year of his war.
It's his war because if it hadn't been for him, the first war would have ended differently. The catchphrase "Harry Potter's War" is insulting to him, which is why you use it at every possible opportunity. You want to make sure that at least you go down in history as the one who made his life difficult. You don't mind being the villain. Sometimes you think you love him, for giving you this opportunity.
The door in front of you opens and you almost gasp -- it's him.
You can see Weasley's sister standing in the classroom, her face tearful.
"Don't forget about me," she calls.
He walks away without looking back at either of you.
You know exactly how she feels.
Love him? Yes.
Love Like No One's Watching
Ron lowered the Omnioculars and waved frantically. On the ship's deck above, Harry started waving back. Ron put the Omnioculars back to his eyes and saw that he was grinning. A door opened behind him and out stepped Malfoy, looking smug. Ron scowled. Malfoy walked up behind Harry and said something. Harry smiled in the way he only ever smiled for Malfoy. Ron felt a twinge of something indescribable in the pit of his stomach. The poncy git didn't know how good he had it, really.
Malfoy said something again and Ron wished the Omnioculars came with play-by-play commentary outside of Quidditch games, too. Harry laughed and threw an arm around Malfoy's shoulders. Malfoy ducked under Harry's arm and stepped in front of him, turning his back to Ron. Harry bit his lip and put his hands on the railing, pinning Malfoy to it. Malfoy tilted his head up to kiss Harry. Ron lowered the Omnioculars again. Maybe it was better without the play-by-play.
Harry and Malfoy were still kissing when the siren signaling the ship's departure went, rumbling deep in Ron's chest. He lifted the Omnioculars again to get a last look at Harry -- kissing or not, they weren't going to see each other for six months. Ron still suspected this cruise had been Malfoy's idea, so he could get Harry away from his friends and corrupt him, or something. Ron adjusted the zoom on his Omnioculars.
Harry and Malfoy weren't kissing anymore, thankfully. Malfoy seemed to be saying something and Harry was looking at him with that look he got whenever Malfoy was anywhere within a mile's radius; his eyes bright and almost painfully happy, like a child's. Ron shook his head sceptically. Harry and Malfoy had apparently settled their differences somehow during the last three months of the war, but Ron still thought Malfoy must have resorted to a dirty trick of some sort to get Harry to look at him like that.
Ron thought he distinctly saw Harry's mouth form the words "I love you too", though Ron was rubbish at lip-reading. Those lessons during Auror training didn't matter one bit, really. Harry may have said "I laugh at your Floo", after all. The ship began to pull out of the dock and Ron started waving again, hoping that Harry would at least spare him a glance. Harry grinned again and started waving back. Malfoy cast a glance around his shoulder and stuck his tongue out at Ron. Insufferable prat.
"Love like you've never been hurt, dance like no one is watching," came Luna's soft voice from Ron's right. He put the Omnioculars down and looked at her. "I think they'll do a lot of dancing, don't you? I'd like to go dancing, too," Luna continued.
"If we can pretend no one's watching," said Ron with a rueful grin.
They walked up the pier in silence. Ron decided it would be bad luck to look back, so he didn't.
Fall Hard
You see him sitting under the tree, staring at the lake as it ripples and shifts beneath the orange evening. He's been doing this for weeks now, always alone, sitting there, dark and still like a tombstone. When you first sit down next to him, a box of biscuits open on your lap, he tenses and you can feel the question before it hangs between you. He asks you what you're doing there, his voice like salt in your wounds, harsh and twisting with suspicion and just a dash of guilt.
"Have a biscuit, Potter," you say in a dull, dead voice that is not your own and it seems like you picked the right thing to say.
You don't know why he smiles that bitter smile. You've long given up trying to figure out the why of him. It doesn't matter. He reaches for the box but his hand stops in mid-air. You can feel the question forming and you take a biscuit and bite into it before he accuses you of trying to feed him poison. Chalk another one up to being the son of Lucius Malfoy -- Father taught you to study other people and try to guess what they'll do or say next. That way you are always one step ahead of them, like now.
You say nothing to him that first evening, but by the time you leave, the biscuits are gone and you weren't the only one eating.
When you pass his desk in Potions the next day, he does not look at you. You study the back of his head for the rest of the lesson and you can feel it -- he wants to know if you'll be there tonight. It's there in the curve of his back, like he's straining not to turn around and just ask. When the bell goes and you pass by his desk, you pause and lean down briefly.
"Of course I'll be there," you breathe.
His eyes are impossibly round and wide, a colour not yet in your personal kaleidoscope. That will soon change.
On the fifth evening, he doesn't stop you when you kiss him. You can still taste the biscuit on his tongue and you're a bit dizzy after a few moments because he's warm and his fingers are brushing against yours on the damp grass. A tinny voice at the back of your mind starts singing a song your mother taught you when you were small. He pushes you away and the serious adult sensible look in his eyes betrays the next question.
"Why are you doing this?"
Your eyes are closed. "Because I can."
You make your way back to the dungeons, smiling to yourself because you know something he doesn't.
"My plan is working," you tell Pansy when she asks you where you've been. No unspoken questions needed in this room.
You will make him fall, and he will fall hard. Then you'll stand there and laugh at his pain.
Fuck You
Harry hears their jeering, vicious laughter and he keeps walking. After six years, he's used to ignoring Malfoy with his cronies. Their guffaws echo in the hollow dungeon, dancing along the walls, chasing him. He will not give in. They don't matter. Harry makes his way to Gryffindor Tower, vaguely aware of friendlier voices calling his name, but he doesn't pay attention to them. He's dirty and sweaty from flying; he wants to take a shower and clear his head. When he reaches the dormitory, Harry strips off his robe, throws it onto the bed and freezes. There are large red concentric circles all over the back. Harry lifts the robe and holds it up -- it's a bull's eye. He drags his finger along the edge of a circle; it's a magical mark, not paint.
Harry stalks into the bathroom and slams the shower stall door so strongly that there is still ringing in his ears when he emerges ten minutes later, still furious. He should have known better than to turn his back to a Malfoy. Enough is enough. Harry grabs another set of school robes from his wardrobe, gets dressed and walks downstairs, not bothering to dry his hair. Malfoy and his sycophants are still there, near the dungeon staircase. Their harsh conversation is replaced by an uneasy silence broken by the occasional nervous titter as Harry approaches. He grabs Malfoy by the front of his robes and slams him against the wall. Crabbe and Goyle can only gape. Harry shoves his thigh between Malfoy's legs and leans down to whisper in his ear, his still-wet hair sticking to Malfoy's face where it touches.
"Think that was funny, did you?" hisses Harry. Malfoy makes no reply, but Harry can feel it -- Malfoy's hard against Harry's thigh. "I dare you to move," he whispers. "I dare you, right here in front of your mates. Let them know how fucking hot you are right now. You know that if you move now, you're not going to stop. You want nothing better than to bring yourself off, rutting against my leg like a fucking animal."
Malfoy's breaths are quick, short gasps; Harry can feel Malfoy's heart thundering against his chest. "F-f-fuck you, Potter," Malfoy manages.
"Yeah, I thought that was our agreement. I fuck you, you leave me the fuck alone." Harry can hear the others tightening the circle behind them. "Well?" he whispers, leaning even closer and rubbing his thigh very slightly against Malfoy's crotch.
"Let me go," gasps Malfoy. "Or you'll be sorry."
Harry leans back and looks at his face. It's slightly flushed and those cold eyes are dark and glinting in the scant torchlight. "No, I think you're the one who's going to be sorry," Harry says slowly. He thinks he can hear Malfoy suppress a whimper when he lets him go. "I'll be watching my back from now on," Harry adds before walking off.
It wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway.
Close Quarters
The sound of a key turning in the lock was unmistakable.
Harry leant back against the wall and tried not to breathe. Breathing the same air as Draco Malfoy would surely have detrimental effects on either Harry's sanity or his self-control. The prat had kept up an unending stream of taunts and jeers since sixth year had begun. It wasn't as though Harry wasn't used to it by then, but some of the things Malfoy would say hit a little close to home sometimes. So Harry preferred to simply avoid Malfoy and he'd mostly been succeeding. Until today, that was.
"I've had it, Draco," Pansy had said moments ago. Crabbe and Goyle had been holding Harry still while Pansy lectured Malfoy. "It's Potter this and Potter that. I'm sick and fucking tired of hearing about Potter in the common room, do you understand? Here, have your Potter. I'm going to lock you both in that cupboard so you can do whatever you want. Argue, scream, attempt to kill each other - I don't care. May the better man win. But I don't want to hear another word about Potter again. Ever."
With that, Pansy had jerked her head in the direction of the open cupboard door. Goyle had grabbed Harry round the midsection and thrown him in. Before Harry could even think about attempting to escape, Malfoy had stumbled in after him and the door had slammed shut. Then the key turned and now Harry was locked in a cupboard with Malfoy. Harry pushed his glasses up, then realised that the reason he couldn't see was that it was dark. Their wands were useless -- Crabbe had confiscated and thrown them to the hallway floor outside.
Harry sighed and sat down on the floor, attempting to make himself as comfortable as he could in the cramped, closed space. Surely Ron and Hermione would start looking for him soon. He didn't want to imagine what Ron and Hermione would think about Harry being in a cupboard with Malfoy, but at this point he just wanted to get out of here. The air smelled of Filch and Mrs Skower's All-Puprose Magical Mess Remover. Malfoy was silent. Harry smirked to himself: the pointy git wasn't so likely to mouth off without his goons to back him up.
It seemed like an hour passed before Harry heard voices beyond the door. He leant in eagerly to listen, keeping an eye on where he thought Malfoy was.
"Look, Ron, Harry's wand!"
"I told you, the map says he's in that cupboard. Alohomora!"
The door flew open and light streamed in from the hallway. Harry saw Malfoy, sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the cupboard with his head in his hands, white-blond hair sticking out from between his fingers like straw.
"Hey, Malfoy?"
Malfoy looked up at him with a guarded expression.
"We can go now," said Harry, indicating the door.
"Sod off, Potter," said Malfoy, and turned away.
Harry shrugged and left.
The Dangers of Quidditch Injuries
"You're getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry, I mean, thinking about missing a match just to follow him..."
"I want to catch him at it!" said Harry in frustration. "I mean, where's he going when he disappears off the map?"
"I dunno ... Hogsmeade?" suggested Ron, yawning.
"I've never seen him going along any of the secret passageways on the map. I thought they were being watched now, anyway?"
"Well, then, I dunno," said Ron.
Silence fell between them. Harry stared up at the circle of lamplight above him, thinking...
Where had Malfoy been taking those girls when Harry saw him before the match? Harry hadn't even wondered about it, originally -- those girls, they were so small! But maybe Ron was right. Maybe it was nothing and Harry was just becoming obsessed for no good reason. Maybe Malfoy had a thing for small girls? Harry closed his eyes and tried to fight off images of Malfoy, leaning back against a soft, cushy sofa in the Room of Requirement...
...Malfoy is half-lying against the dark green cushions, his naked legs spread far apart, feet planted firmly against the thick rug. He's watching those two little girls, who sit on a sofa opposite. Malfoy's hand is wrapped around his cock, his chest is flushed pink and his lips are parted slightly as he pumps his fist up and down in a steady rhythm. It's half-dark in the room, the only light coming from a couple of torches set in wall-sconces decorated with dragons. Shadows dance across the corners of the room, their bizarre shapes sliding against the walls, shifting, never constant. The air is thick with Malfoy's heavy breathing and a warm, cloying perfume that causes Harry's eyelids to grow heavy.
It's sick and wrong, but it's fantasy -- at least Harry vaguely recognises it as such. He watches green and gold flickers of light dance across Malfoy's smooth, pale abdomen. Malfoy's movements are quick and steady, and he begins to arch up a little with each thrust. Harry feels a lump forming in his throat and he swallows against it, noticing against his will how lithe Malfoy's body is, his muscles rippling just beneath his skin. Malfoy hisses something -- an oath -- and the serpentine sound causes an unexpected twisting in Harry's guts; a pleasant tug that really shouldn't feel this good.
The two girls on the other sofa don't even notice Malfoy; they sit there, crouched over a large book, giggling into their hands as they look at the pictures. Harry watches as Malfoy's chest rises and falls, rhythmically erratic and somehow hypnotising, silver eyes glinting from beneath long, pale eyelashes. Malfoy throws his head back and moans softly, the fist around his cock quickening its pace. The flush in his chest is even more noticeable now, seeping into the pale, almost translucent skin at his collarbones.
Harry wants to look away but he can't; the idea of Malfoy tossing off to a couple of little girls is strangely compelling in its sickness. It's exactly the sort of thing Harry would expect from someone like Malfoy. And yet, Harry realises that he's not particularly focussed on the little girls or the horrific implications that this fantasy may have. He's too busy studying Malfoy's writhing body on the sofa, committing it to memory against his will.
"Potter," groans fantasy-Malfoy so that only Harry can hear him...
Harry sat up in the hospital bed, wide-eyed and panting. Ron must have fallen asleep in the meantime; his breaths were echoing loudly in the harsh silence of the room. Harry stared around himself, feeling vaguely disoriented.
That was not supposed to happen. The tight, uncomfortable feeling in his pants was not supposed to be happening. What was wrong with him? He'd just had an elaborate fantasy of Draco Malfoy moaning Harry's name while bringing himself off on some anonymous sofa. He must have bumped his head harder than he'd realised, Harry thought distractedly. He pressed a palm against the front of his pyjama trousers in an effort to quell his arousal. This had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with whatever Malfoy was up to, he told himself firmly.
If only he had Rufus Scrimgeour's power...
Just Dinner
"Gluttony is a desire to consume more than one requires," Hermione lectured, fixing Ron with a beady stare.
Ron reached for the pot of chicken soup and ladled a generous helping into his bowl. Grabbing a piece of bread from a nearby basket, he proceeded to tear off large chunks off it and plop them into his soup. "Whatever you say, Hermione. I'm a growing boy, I need nourishment."
"Ugh, I don't understand how you can eat so much every night, Ron," Hermione said, exasperated. She stabbed at a piece of meat on her plate with her fork and put it in her mouth, chewing daintily.
Ron was tucking into his soup happily, slurping loudly and licking his spoon lovingly with each mouthful. "Like I said," he managed between swallows. "Growing boy." He poured more soup and shredded another piece of bread into it without missing a beat.
"Harry is a growing boy, too, but he doesn't overindulge!" Hermione said, pushing away her plate and looking at Harry, who was sitting beside Ron, fork in hand, staring in the direction of the Slytherin table.
Ron finished his soup and frowned, taking the soup bowl off his dinner plate and placing it on an empty spot near the bread basket. Ron grabbed a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. "Eenk 'Arry siwove," he said quietly, turning to Hermione.
She made a disgusted face and rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Ron. Finish chewing before you speak, you're revolting."
Ron blushed, swallowed the bread and reached for the mashed potatoes. "Would you pass the Yorkshire pudding, please?" he said in a mockingly polite tone. "What I'm saying is," he lowered his voice again, "I think Harry's in love."
Hermione stared at him as she passed him the Yorkshire pudding. "You mean you just noticed?" she asked in a very quiet tone.
Ron rolled his eyes at her, scooping the pudding onto his plate beside the mashed potatoes and reaching for the roast beef plate. "You're insufferable. You mean you've noticed before and you haven't told me?" He was whispering now.
"Well, maybe we should ask Harry, Ron," Hermione said, looking slightly disconcerted.
Ron shrugged and started shovelling his food into his mouth. He was so hungry! He couldn't get enough food, it seemed. Hermione looked pensive and stared at Harry uncertainly. Their friend had pushed away his dinner plate and was poking at a treacle tart. This was odd, because treacle tart had always been Harry's favourite pudding, yet he didn't seem to be very interested in it tonight. Ron cleared off his plate rapidly and piled second helpings of everything onto his plate, to the sound of loud sniffs from Hermione's direction.
He turned to her sharply. "Honestly, Hermione! I don't take the mickey out of your obsession with books, would you please let me have dinner in peace?" he snapped. Hermione blinked.
"I wasn't saying anything, Ron. I think we ought to ask Harry what's bothering him, that's all," she said haughtily.
Ron snorted loudly, causing Harry and several others to look up at him sharply. Ron gave a feeble grin and dug into his Yorkshire pudding with renewed fervour, his ears turning crimson.
"Whuh?" Harry said. "Did you say my name, Hermione?"
He'd given up on his treacle tart and was pouring himself more pumpkin juice. Ron thought this a grand idea and took a large swallow from his own goblet. He put the goblet back too quickly and some of the juice spilled out, staining his mashed potatoes orange. Ron shrugged and resumed eating.
"Ron thinks you're in love, Harry," Hermione said, lowering her voice again.
Harry choked on his pumpkin juice. Ron looked up from his food and gave his friend a hard smack on the back. Harry rolled his eyes at him, wincing as he coughed. Ron cleaned off his plate and pushed it away, helping himself to an entire custard pie from the tray. He peeled back the thin metallic foil around the pie and dug in with his fork.
"What makes you say that, Hermione?" Harry asked in a raspy voice.
"Well, you're not eating," Hermione said lamely.
"I'm just not very hungry. I had a big lunch. Uh, I gotta go... do stuff... for my... Potions homework. I'll see you later," Harry said hastily and climbed over the bench, dragging his schoolbag up from the floor. He scampered off towards the doors of the Great Hall.
Hermione stared after him curiously. "He's hiding something," she said.
Ron swallowed the final forkful of his pie, reaching for a large biscuit. "Brilliant observation, Hermione. However do you come up with them?" he quipped, taking a large bite. The biscuit had a coconut flavour and Ron privately thought it put him that much closer to heaven.
Pansy Parkinson and her gang were walking by their table just then. Hermione wrinkled her nose and turned away demonstratively.
"I'm really worried about Draco, he's not eating!" Parkinson was complaining shrilly.
Ron choked on his biscuit.
Tears Can Wait
Pansy's step falters just a little when she sees Granger on the arm of Viktor Krum.
Her dress robes are periwinkle blue to Pansy's pink, as though she'd known what Pansy would wear and bought those robes just to mock her. Granger's self-satisfied smirk seems to say, "See? I'm different. I'm the one with the famous Quidditch star, and look at you. You've got Malfoy." Her sidelong look at Draco proves it. She thinks she's got the better of Pansy -- with her fancy hairdo, her periwinkle blue robes, her famous dance partner.
Pansy smirks. At the end of the day, Granger's still the Mudblood.
"Close your mouth," snaps Pansy at Draco, who's gaping at Granger. "She's a Mudblood, remember?"
Draco draws himself up to his full height and nods.
"Let's find a table," he says in an important sort of tone.
Pansy giggles. Draco looks so ridiculous when he tries to act like his father. She tells him so. He flushes slightly and shoots her a warning look. Pansy rolls her eyes. She thinks Draco is much more interesting than his father. She tells him that, too, and he seems very pleased, at least until Potter and Parvati dance past them. Pansy looks at Draco's narrowed eyes and wonders if there's any truth to the rumour that Draco fancies boys. Vincent swore he'd heard Draco moan Blaise's name in his sleep a few nights ago.
That won't do. Pansy tugs on Draco's sleeve and lets her fingers linger on the velvet: it's warm and a little ticklish. Draco looks at her and Pansy can see that he's really looking at her, not through her. Maybe there isn't anything to those rumours, after all. Pansy loves Draco, though, and she recognises that perhaps she may be seeing things that aren't there.
After the Yule Ball is over, Pansy's a bit dejected -- Draco never once offered to take her for a walk around the fairy-lit garden. Everyone knows that's where all the real couples went. Pansy lets go of Draco's arm as they file down the steps.
"Pansy?" says Draco in a hesitant tone. Pansy turns around and gives him her best coy look. It doesn't seem to work as Draco looks even more nervous. "I have to talk to you. Gregory, Vincent, leave us."
They lumber through the entrance to the common room, leaving Pansy and Draco alone.
"So, Pansy," says Draco, blinking rapidly. "You've probably heard the rumours by now."
Pansy looks away and nods. "Are they true, then?" She didn't really want to ask, she realises, because she knows Draco loves her and he'll be honest with her.
"I think so," he says seriously. "My parents can't find out," he adds, looking away.
"What are you going to do?" asks Pansy. The tears can wait.
"Well, I was going to ask you to be my girl. You know, pretend. Are you gonna be my girl, Pansy?"
Pansy loves Draco. Of course she will be his girl.
Let Go
In retrospect, Harry really ought to have known that things were going to go pear-shaped.
He stumbled out of the fireplace into The Burrow's cosy kitchen, cursing the utter bastard who invented Floo travel. He nodded to Ginny, who was in the middle of pouring Malfoy some tea, and went to find Ron.
Er.
That couldn't have been Malfoy sitting at the kitchen table, gazing at Ginny. Harry turned around, slowly. That was definitely Malfoy sitting at the kitchen table, gazing at Ginny. Harry blinked rapidly several times and rubbed his eyes.
"Malfoy, what the hell are you doing here?" he asked, as there really wasn't anything else he could have asked, under the circumstances.
Malfoy tore his gaze away from Ginny's shiny red hair, looking like this was costing him immense effort, and turned to face Harry. "Jealous, Potter?"
"You wish," said Harry.
Malfoy sneered.
Things hadn't really changed a lot in the past five years, had they?
"What's Malfoy doing in your kitchen?" demanded Harry as he paced up and down Ron's room.
Ron gave a phlegmatic shrug. "He's seeing Ginny, isn't he?"
"WHAT?"
Ron pursed his lips and fixed Harry with a beady glare. "Well, you ditched her, didn't you? Did you think she wasn't going to move on?"
Harry dug his fingers into his hair. Today was turning out to be an exercise in exasperation. "I don't mind that Ginny's moved on, but it's Malfoy, Ron. MALFOY."
Ron made a sceptical noise and went back to looking at the chessboard. He nudged his queen two squares forward and leant back in the chair. "Checkmate."
Harry wanted to go over there and shake him. Instead, he stopped pacing and glared. "Don't you care that your sister is dating the worst human being in the history of forever?"
Ron shrugged again. "Not particularly. Can't do any worse than you, can she?"
Harry watched as Ginny fed Malfoy fresh strawberries out in the garden and wondered where the monster in his chest had got to. It seemed as though there was no monster anymore -- he wasn't jealous. He didn't feel anything for Ginny.
So why couldn't he look away from how Malfoy's cheeks hollowed out around each berry? Malfoy would close his eyes and chew slowly, while Ginny's fingers twined with his on the freshly cut grass.
The evening sun's rays filtered through the tree under which Malfoy and Ginny were sitting, drawing golden patterns onto Malfoy's white-blond hair. Harry watched, mesmerised, as Ginny ran her fingers through Malfoy's hair. When they kissed, Harry was finally able to look away, on account of banging his head against the wall.
"All right, Harry?" asked Ginny, a look of concern upon her familiar features. She was holding an empty bowl in her hands.
"Yeah, thanks, Ginny," said Harry, giving her his best fake grin. "Nice day, isn't it?"
Ginny beamed. "Yes, it certainly is. Well, I have to go wash this. See you, Harry."
"Bye," muttered Harry, and turned to walk out into the garden. Suddenly he found himself face to face with Malfoy, who was holding a strawberry in his mouth, his fingers still on the stem.
One side of Malfoy's mouth curled up, exposing sharp white teeth around the strawberry, stained just a little bit pink at the edges by the juice. "Want to try?" asked Malfoy, and brought the strawberry to Harry's lips.
Harry stared at the strawberry in front of his face and attempted to disbelieve that this was actually happening. Here was Malfoy, his mouth still stained red by strawberries, his breath smelling like strawberries, offering Harry a taste.
"Don't mind if I do," said Harry, knocked Malfoy's hand away and kissed him on the mouth.
And
then
something
happened.
The monster in Harry's chest roared to life -- snarling, vicious, and utterly triumphant.
Dizziness flooded Harry's entire being as he pushed Malfoy against the door frame, sucking on his tongue and letting his hands drop to Malfoy's arse. He shoved his thigh between Malfoy's legs, and Malfoy moaned into his mouth, then began to rub against Harry's leg, arching forward, catlike and beautiful.
Some time later, in the Weasleys' kitchen...
"Thanks, Ginny," said Draco. Ginny just smirked. Draco turned to Ron. "And you, Weasley..."
Ron scowled and folded his arms across his chest with a huff, then rolled his eyes.
Draco beamed. "I believe you owe me fifty Galleons."
And they lived happily ever after.
[end]