Author: Jadea

Disclaimer: Nicht mein.

Dedication: To the crew of two ships, considering this fic has two pairings: The Prince and Pauper and the Best Mate. Ahh, the best of both worlds

Notes: Decided to try Draco again. He's easier to write in confrontations then Harry.

Summary: Chapter five. More of the Potter/Malfoy fight. Revelations, sniping, previous oblique statments explained.

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Red-gold flames flickered, reflected on the lenses of Potter's glasses, concealing his eyes.

A harsh silence descended over the hall after Draco's last words echoed into oblivion; for a moment the only movement was the gentle sway of the ornaments, dangling from the branches of the evergreen Christmas tree.

"W--What do you mean, Malfoy?"

The confidence had bled out of that voice, finally. He may not be able to see Potter's famous eyes, but he could hear his voice just fine. . .stunned, as if Draco had just slapped him.

Actually, knowing Potter, the boy had been expecting a slap more then he had Draco's words.

Damn. He *still* couldn't see the other boys eyes. He hated not being able to read his opponents expression, to see their intentions in their eyes. Not that Potter ever gave away *too* much, but it disgruntled Draco. Of course, nothing ever went the way he wanted to against Potter. Not in quidditch, not in class, not in life. When Draco Malfoy dealt with Harry Potter, he always found the field tipped against him; the game was always rigged. And his--A *Malfoy's*--best effort was never good enough.

He had known, almost from the start of first year, that even if Potter had taken his hand on the train, they would never have been friends. He never could stand being second to anyone.

Which made this entire situation so fucking bitter. And only intensified his hatred for the black haired boy standing in front of him.

"Exactly what I said, "The Boy Who Needs A Hearing Aid."

There. It had worked. Potter had stepped foward, leaving the golden halo of light cast around the Gryffindor Christmas tree, the fiery reflections on his glasses sliding off. Now, Draco had a clear view of those eyes.

Ah. Of course.

Potter didn't believe him. Disbelief. Doubt fairly exuded from the other boy, emblazoned on his forehead like that fucking scar. But that wasn't the only emotion there. Something else was kindling a fire in those green eyes.

The hate was back. Hate and anger and fury; it was obvious the boy was barely restraining himself from leaping foward and throttling Draco, even though that really would have been more Weasley's style.

"I don't like being lied to, Malfoy."

God, he hated Potter. His hands, calloused from quidditch, clenched into fists.

"I'm. Not. Lying. Asshole."

Another step and the grinding sound of shattered glass filled the silence as Harry's boot came down on the remains of the angel oranment Draco had thrown at his feet only moments before.

The space between them narrowed, Potter was less then a foot away, now. That small, bruised mouth that had kissed Ron countless times opened and words of contempt rang in Draco's ears:

"Again, Malfoy. Why would you tell the truth? Why would you give a fuck if Ron lived or died? Why would you try and save him, especially since you know our secret? And when in the *hell* did you ever save Ron's life? What sick little fantasy of yours is this?"

Never before in his entire life had he wanted to perform an Unforgiveable on someone so badly. Not during the Second Task, not even last Christmas. Fury made his head ring, and he wondered if his face was flushed. He had been trained, as far back as he could remember, that feeling anger, hatred, fury was not wrong. It was *revealing* them that made you weak, that allowed others to judge your movements. But, by Merlin, his control was slipping, eroding with every syllable that came out of Potter's smirking mouth. He wanted him dead.

He'd wanted him dead . .for years.

Potter, dead. . .the cause of, and solution to, all his problems.

For the first time at Hogwarts, for the first time he could remember, Draco realized he was dangerously close to losing all restraint, to allowing his fury and his hatred to control him. And, for the first time in his life, Draco allowed his emotions to rule him.

The words spilled forth in a torrent. He couldn't stop them now if he tried.

"Does last Christmas ring a bell, Potter? Deatheaters in Hogwarts, for the sole purpose of kidnapping Ron? Who actually *got* him, because you were off moping somewhere? Deatheaters under the direct order of Voldemort that took Ron right out of the library, and almost completely out of Hogwarts before they set off the wards? Did you ever care to hear about *how* they set off the wards? *Why* the password wouldn't work for them? Or were you two busy feeling guilty because it was your fault that they went after Ron in the first place?"

His last words struck hard, Potter winced sharply, a lock of glistening black hair falling down, half covering the lightening bolt scar.

"I saw you, Potter. I saw both of you, when you *finally* arrived in the hospital wing. After Dumbeldore and Snape arrived and the Death Eaters were defeated, that's when the Boy Who Lived showed up."

Just the memory made his fists clench, his lip curl. He had seen the entire thing, the joyous reunion of The Boy Who Lived and his best friend, standing in the corner, hidden under the invisibility cloak he had been wearing for hours. . .

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He wasn't running. He was *flying*

Harry Potter sprinted faster then anyone he'd seen in his entire life, stopping only when he skidded through the door of the Hosptial Wing. Harsh, gasping breaths echoed through the room; those famous green eyes darted everywhere at once, stopping only when they settled upon the red headed figure lying on the bed three cots away.

Madame Pomfrey had left a few minutes ago, reporting Weasley's status to Dumbeldore and to check on the captured Death Eaters. As far as Potter knew, there were only two people in the ward, and the boy made no attempt to hide the expression of anguish, so obvious, that settled on his features.

Softly, tentatively, moving in a way Draco had never seen Potter walk before, the boy tiptoed toward the figure in the bed, breath echoing through the room. A soft, choked whisper:

"R-Ron?"

Weasley had been asleep for about twenty minutes but at Potter's voice he stirred, muttering something about chocolate before opening one bleary, confused blue eye and fixing it on Potter.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

And Draco Malfoy saw the most incredible thing.

Potter. . .crumpled. The savior of the wizarding world, the teenage wonderboy, the TriWiazrd Tournament Champion and great enemy of Lord Voldemort himself went down without a punch, practically collapsing on the bed at Weasley's side.

It was really no more then what he'd suspected. . .but it stung, still, to see Potter's hands slide into that red-gold hair, to witness the most breathtaking kiss he'd ever seen. And the fervent exclamations that spilled from Potter's normally taciturn lips, words of guilt, and anguish, and fear. All words that were met with reassurances from Weasley, and smiles, and hot, furious kisses that soon had both boys panting.

Silently, Invisible in the shadows, in his cloak, Draco Malfoy turned away and left the hospital wing.

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With a slight shake of his head, he expelled the memory. Nothing was going to stop him. The poisen had been building up in him for years now. If he didn't release it, it would kill him.

"You didn't want to think about it, did you, Potter? The fact that it was *your* fault they went after Ron in the first place. You just ignored it, and shagged him. Such a sweet reunion, really."

If Draco had lost control, Potter was nearing the end of his restraint as well. All confidence had been wiped off of that face, only hatred remained. A fine flush had begun to creep into the dark-haired boys cheeks and he was shaking, ever so slightly.

"You really are pathetic. You know that, Malfoy? Congratualtions. You used Polyjuice Potion to turn into me so that you could shag Ron and now you're trying to tell me you saved Ron's life. How? By *fucking* him? You are so full of it. . ."

"You still don't get it, do you, Potter? I asked you, just now. 'Did you even care to hear about how or why they set off the wards?' Why the ancient password Voldemort had given them didn't work?"

Those green eyes blinked: once, twice.

"Did you ask Dumbeldore? Did he tell you anything? He didn't, did he? Ever wonder why? Because he couldn't tell you why the DeathEaters set off the wards. He wouldn't be able to tell you why the password didn't work. Because only one person in the whole fucking castle knows that, and it isn't Weasley."

Hard. Hard jade green eyes, suddenly assessing him carefully, re-evaluating him. Still filled with hate, those eyes. But watching him warily.

"Why?"

Eyes cold, he stared back.

"Do you know what Voldemort does to his captives, Potter? He kills mudbloods. . .just snuffs them."

Ah. The words had an affect; a quick wince, a flash of pain passed over Potter's face.

"But those he regards as traitors, Potter. . .Purebloods who deny their true place. . .he doesn't kill them rightaway. He tortures them. Magically, non-magically. He doesn't just hurt them. He *breaks* them. Then he lends them out to the rest of his death eaters, to do whatever they want."

Cold. The candles in the Great Hall cast even less warmth then they did light. Potter shivered, Draco felt gooseflesh breaking out across his arms.

"It was my fathers plan. Enter Hogwarts, seize Ronald Weasley, best friend of Harry Potter. If you can't take Harry Potter out of Hogwarts because of Dumbeldore's special charms. . .why, you just have to get him to leave of his own free will. And what better bait then his best mate?"

The other boy was breathing heavily, now, echoing through the room, gusts of breath causing the candles on the table to flicker. Eyes closed, fists clenched. This was ripping him up.

Good.

He hoped it hurt like hell.

"Voldemort agreed. A secret plan, known only to his closest, most loyal death-eaters."

He spat the words out, unwilling to mask the disgust in his own voice. He remembered his fathers sick glee when Voldemort had approved the plan. . .

"But the plan failed. The ancient password Voldemort gave them would not work, not when they tried to get out. Instead, it tripped the wards. Caught, all three of them."

Potter had opened his eyes again but the expression in them was shrouded, unreadable.

"One of the death eaters did get away. The first to trip the wards; he fled before the others could follow, barely escaped Snape. I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to try and break into Hogwarts, but, then again, my father always hated the Weasley's with a passion."

"I watched him. It was quite funny, actually. . .my father fled like a frightened rabbit immediately after the wards went off. He didn't have time to take Ron with him, and he knew it. So he just ran."

Voldemort had not been pleased. Lucius Malfoy had paid an extremely high price for his actions--more for leaving the hostage then abandoning the other death eaters to Snape and Dumbeldore. His fathers rank had descended abruptly with the failure of his plan. . .but Draco, who had argued against the capture, had seen his own star rise rapidly.

Still, those green eyes stared at him. Stray strands of jet-black hair fell over the famous forehead, but the other boy's face was implacable, carved of stone. No matter how much Draco loathed the boy--and he hated Harry Potter more then anything else in the world--he had to admit that the boy was almost as adept at controlling his emotions as he himself was. A harsh skill to learn, perhaps, but a necassary one.

Reluctantly, invisible weights dragging his feet, Potter stepped foward, glass grinding to a powder beneath the soles of his boots. One step foward, two and suddenly they were less then a foot apart again, standing in the golden light of the Gryffindor Christmas tree.

Inches apart with no shadows between them, he could see every expression the other boy allowed to show on his face.

Incredulity. Shock.

A whisper of a question, so soft Draco had to strain to hear it, fell from the other boys lips.

"Why?"

A shudder was twisting its way up his spine, he clenched his teeth together, tightly. That was one question he would never answer--not if he had a cauldron full of veritaserum running through his veins.

"Why, Draco?"

Those green eyes swept over his face; he could practically feel their weight as the searched him, looking for his weakness, trying to divine his thoughts. Unable to stop himself, Draco let out a small snort. If Lord Voldemort himself couldn't see his mind, there was no way that Harry fucking Potter was going to.

"Do you lo--"

"Because I hate you."

It was almost comical, really. The way the other boy froze, the four letter word suspended permenantly on the tip of his tounge. A hot spike of anger ran lanced through Draco's head. How dare he. How *dare* he. That four eyed freak, standing there with that expression in his eyes. . .

"I hate you, Potter. I fucking hate you. I always will. Nothing, nothing in the world would make me happier then the knowledge that you are dead, and that your corpse is rotting away in a field some where, your head Lord Voldemort's table centerpiece. I would give everything I own to see you suffer and die."

In a voice he barely recognized as his own, he struggled, choking the words out, desperate to expel them before they ripped him apart.

"I hate you. So. Much."

"But. . .I. Don't. Hate. Ron."

He could feel the shiver working its way deeper into his body now. The way his throat constricted, practically strangling his own words. And the sick flush of shame. For allowing his feelings to show. For telling *Potter* of all people.

God. The Hall was so cold.

He closed his eyes, a memory washing over him like a breath of fresh air. Yesterday, the Gryffindor 7th year boys room had been icy cold, but it had been so warm, so *hot* in Neville Longbottom's bed. . .

"Do you fuck *everyone* you don't hate, Malfoy?"

His head jerked up, the wam memory slapped away. Potter's green eyes were sparkling dangerously, a shade darker then their usual emerald color. His own hatred, never subdued for long, rose to meet it.

"Is that what this is all about to you, Potter? Me shagging Weasley? Me taking what was yours? Are you *deaf*, or have you just been hanging around with Longbottom too much?"

"If it was sex, I could have had him years ago, willing or not. This isn't about sex, Potter. This isn't even really about me. It's about you and Weasley."

Hard green eyes narrowed, fists clenching tighter. Those pretty lips began to curl into a familiar sneer.

"If you think you're going to blackmail me into leaving Ron--"

"You are so stupid."

He hissed the words, his own eyes narrowing, glaring at the other boy. The idiot still didn't understand. After everything--after the Second task, after last Christmas, after yesterday.

"You knew what would happen. You *knew* Voldemort would be after Weasley the instant he found out you were fucking. But you didn't care. Because you're Harry Potter, the hero. The Boy Who Lived, the All Powerful. You thought that because you were *you*, it would be Ok. Others could die, but not you, and not your best mate. Because you love him."

For the longest time, his words met with no reaction; Potter was as silent and still as the stones underneath their feet.

"I hate you, Malfoy. I always have--I always will. Now more then ever."

The other boy wasn't looking at him; the other seeker's fingers played idly with another ornament, a gold lion winking in the candlelight.

"Do you know why I hate you so much? Even before you tricked your way into my lovers bed?"

A small smirk tugged at Draco's lips; he tucked a slender strand of white-gold hair behind his right ear.

"Every hero needs an arch-villian to keep them on their toes, Potter."

Hero-boy ignored his words, eyes and hand continuing their examination of the golden Gryffindor lion.

"There is nothing. . .*nothing* good in you. Nothing noble, nothing innocent. And because of that, you see nothing but the most despicable sick, twisted motivations for everything."

Finally, some emotion had begun to creep back into those words. Anger and disbelief colouring them.

"Do you honestly belief that I would risk Ron's life just so I could fuck him? I. . .love him. He's the best thing in my life. And you tell your Master, that if he ever takes him from me, it will be the last thing he ever does."

"I will kill him."

The calloused hand released the ornament, which swayed softly on the branch. Eyes the shade of the evergreen tree fixed on his own, resolve fathoms deep in their gaze.

"I will kill him. But first, Malfoy. . .I will kill you. I will not lose Ron, not to either of you."

"Do you know what it's like to know there is *only* one good thing, one warm spot, in your entire life, and that you could lose it any minute? Do you, Malfoy?"

A sour taste washed through his mouth but he answered the furious question as cooly as only a Malfoy could.

"No, Potter. I don't. I wish I knew."

A strangled expression tumbled from the other boys mouth; for a minute his jaw hung open, eyes gaping at Draco, he looked uncannily like his best friend.

"You really are Satan, aren't you, Malfoy? If you enjoy my pain so much. . .why haven't you told? Why haven't you watched your delightful little saga play out to the end?"

The words spilled out of his mouth, sounding on the air before he could call them back.

"You just. Dont. Get. It. Do you, Potter?"

//I wish I knew how it felt. . .to have *one* good thing in my life.//

Once again, The Boy Who Lived feigned casualness, eyes sweeping the hall, looking everywhere except where Draco stood. "Maybe not. Maybe I don't get it, Malfoy."

A cruel, baiting tone was in that voice, seeking blood. It was not a tone he was used to hearing in that voice, and it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The smugness of a cat toying with a mouse. . .

"Tell me, Malfoy. . . what part of yesterday did you enjoy the most? Was it when you kissed him, and he dragged his fingers through your--oh, excuse me--*my* hair? Maybe when you bit him on the neck and his entire body arched up, pressing against yours--no, mine? Or. . .was it when you were actually fucking? Was that the best part for you? I bet it was. When you were both naked and you were thrusting into him and he kept moaning your name, over and over and over again..."

A smile, small and bitter but genuine, lit up those emerald eyes.

"But. . .it wasn't *your* name he kept crying, was it? It wasn't "Draco!" was it? Did you try to stop him? Try to shut him up, when he kept calling my name? I bet you did."

Pain was shooting through his jaw, he only just realized he was clenching his mouth so tightly shut his teeth were grinding against each other. Condescension fairly dripped from the other boys tongue; he fought the urge to draw his wand and simply end it, here.

It was too much. Too much to take, too much to lose. After everything. . .Potter was too blinded by his hate to see, to acknowledge that Draco was right.

"I will never give him up, Malfoy. You understand? You may have fucked him once, but you'll never get him. Not as long as I live."

Unbidden, a short chuckle forced its way out of Draco's mouth. "That may not be a very long time, Potter."

A short, cold stare was his only response. "Probably not, Malfoy. But if you tell anyone what you know about Ron and me, I'll make sure Voldemort knows you betrayed him, that you've known for months about Ron and I and didn't say a thing."

His own feet swept him foward until they were inches apart, noses almost touching. Close enough to reach out and strangle the taunting words that were issuing from the mouth Ron loved...

"Do you really think it would matter, Potter?" His own words came out in a hiss, the contempt in them obvious. "Do you really think he'd care? If I brought him Weasley today, or better yet, the famous Harry Potter, do you really think he'd care that I took my time? Why would he believe you, anyway?"

A swift shadow of doubt passed over the eyes that were less then inches from his own.

"Face it, Potter. I may have fucked Weasley. . .but you're the one who's been screwed. You can't tell anyone about me. If you do, you run the risk of betraying your secret little romance. And then, Weasley's life won't be worth two sickles."

He could feel it; the slow return of the confidence, the control that he had lost earlier that evening. He welcomed its strength, even as it chilled him.

Ron loved chess, Draco knew. For some reason, the knowledge made him smile, even as he kept his eyes on the unblinking boy standing inches from him.

This was an Impasse, and they both knew it. Neither side, white nor black, could move without the risk of losing everything. But neither was willing to back down. Dimly, Draco realized his ears were ringing, that he was holding his breath. Perhaps it would end here. All or nothing, once and for all...

The loud sound of heavy footfalls reached their ears scarcely seconds before the doors to the Great Hall swung wide and another figure entered, words spilling from his mouth even as he walked through the door:

"Harry! Guess what? McGonnagal actually let me off early! Only 'cause its Christmas Eve, but still! She never lets any--"

The words couldn't have stopped more suddenly if someone had chopped them off with a knife.

"Malfoy! What are you doing here?!"

Whatever had been building between him and Potter broke, shattering at their feet.

But not over, no.

Slowly, Draco turned and looked at Weasley, surveying him cooly. Ignoring the small spike of pleasure that went through him at the sight of the redhead, at the knowledge that Ron had acknowledged his presence before Harrys. He continued to stare at the red head, not speaking, enjoying the flush of color in those freckled cheeks as Weasley noticed his unabashed stare.

With an easy grace Potter turned away and strode past Draco, deliberately bumping the blond boys' shoulder as he walked down the dais, stopping when he reached the tall red head.

"Don't worry about it, Ron. It's nothing."

Evidently Weasley thought it was something to worry about; blue eyes narrowed, watching Potter closely before flickering up to catch Draco. The boy obviously remembered him as the cause of Potter's discomfort earlier that evening, and the ever present fire in them flared up.

It was obvious the red head was struggling hard not to argue with his boyfriend, he shook his fiery head disbelievingly, biting down on his lower lip.

"Come on, Ron. Let's go back to the Common Room. We have some presents to open, remember?"

Not even another suspicious glance at Draco could quell the rising excitement in Weasley's eyes. Draco clenched his fists, feeling the smooth wood of his wand press into his palm. He knew that look, had seen it in those blue eyes only yesterday.

Evidently Potter and Weasley were going to do more then open presents tonight.

He didn't move, watching as Potter tugged Weasley on the arm, pulling him to the door of the Great hall, hand remaining on Ron's wrist until the taller boy had stepped through the door, Draco's catching one last glimpse of his red-gold hair shining in the dim candlelight.

Finally, dark green eyes swept the length of the candlelit hall, stopping only when they settled on Draco, standing alone in the light of the Gryffindor Christmas tree.

Soft words, spoken just before he exited the hall, taunting Draco's ears, just like the thin smile on Potter's face.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself yesterday, Malfoy. Because you're never going to get it again."

"Merry Christmas."

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Hoooray! Midterms are over! My hands arent cramping anymore! No more essay tests for a while. But this fic is finished; I have thought of a pseudo-sequal. But I needed to wrap this fic up and work on my "A Deal With The Devil" universe. And I didn't want Draco to be 100% evil in this fic, even with what he did. . .Draco's purely evil in my "ADWD" stories, and I just wanted to get rid of any sympathy I had for him before I torture the poor boy for my next couple fics.

Coming soon, to a fic near you: Draco's view on "ADWD"