Draco shot a sidelong glance at Harry Potter, who had obviously decided that ignoring him was the best policy. Draco scowled. Ignore me, will he? We'll see about that. It was the stupid Gryffindor's fault they were in detention in the first place. Well. Somewhat his fault. Mostly Draco's fault, but a team of Thestrals could not have dragged that admission out of him.

They both were stood in the greenhouse, waiting for Professor Sprout to assign their detentions. Draco had arrived early, hoping to get his punishment before Potter arrived so he wouldn't have to see the bloody Gryffindor's perpetually scowling face any longer than necessary.

The same had obviously occurred to Potter, and now they were stood glaring at each other across a table full of assorted plants. Waiting.

"How did I end up required to waste an entire bloody week of evenings stuck in here with the Chosen Prat?" Draco complained.

Potter's scowl grew even more scowley and he gave up his policy of ignoring Draco to reply. "Well, to start with, you hexed the topiary elephant shortly after Professor Sprout planted it, and set it afire. And then you blamed it on me. After which I tried to turn you into a hairless warthog—by the look of you, that succeeded, at any rate—" Draco sneered absently at him and Potter continued, "And then you cast a Serpensortia at me, foolishly forgetting that I speak Parseltongue—" Draco had not forgotten, he had simply hoped the asp would bite Potter before he got a hiss in edgewise. "After which you punched me in the jaw—" Draco grinned. He'd learned that trick from Granger and it had been bloody satisfying, even though his knuckles had stung quite painfully afterwards. "Forcing me to leap on you and pound your head into the ground by your ears." Draco's grin vanished. That part had not been pleasant at all. The bloody bastard had nearly yanked Draco's ears off and it had been damned hard to breathe with a hundred-plus pounds of angry Gryffindor sitting on his chest. "After which fifty points was taken from each of us and we got a week of detention. Together."

Draco gifted Potter with his patented gaze of superiority that always seemed to enrage the Chosen One—there, a muscle twitched in Potter's jaw and Draco felt a flash of triumph.

"It was a rhetorical question," Draco drawled. Potter's fists clenched.

Professor Sprout bustled in and immediately moved them to opposite ends of the greenhouse. Potter looked far too pleased with the arrangement. Draco would have to do something about that. He could see Potter, but taunting him would be impossible unless he shouted.

Sprout set them to the cheerless task of transplanting dicentra raptura, which had to be done carefully or the bulbous plants would spew a cloud of gas that had a large list of side effects. Draco had heard only two of them as he'd listened in bored contemplation: suppurating boils and euphoria. He supposed if you were euphoric enough, you wouldn't mind the suppurating boils. He looked at Potter speculatively.

They worked in silence for thirty minutes, delicately transplanting the bulbous, somewhat ugly plants. Professor Sprout slipped out, apparently thinking them suitably occupied. Her disappearance seemed to be unnoticed by Potter, but Draco watched as she headed for the castle. At the pace she was moving, she wouldn't be back for an hour. Potter concentrated on his task, completely forgetting to keep his guard up whilst in the same room with Draco. It was pathetic, really. Voldemort would squash Potter like an insect if he continued to be so utterly oblivious.

Draco shot a Stinging Hex at the plant in Potter's hands. The plant fairly exploded and a cloud of pinkish gas enveloped Potter's face in a rush. His knees buckled immediately and he disappeared behind the table. Draco walked quickly around and approached Potter, who sprawled on the packed-dirt floor in a large rectangle of moonlight. He lay unmoving and for a moment Draco wondered if he'd killed the prat.

Then Potter's hand moved, reaching up to tear off his spectacles, which were coated in a pink film. He flung the glasses aside and reached a hand to his temple as if to ward off a sudden headache.

Draco stood over him and looked down curiously. Potter looked strange without his glasses. Draco wondered when he had grown cheekbones.

"Bloody fucking hell," Draco snapped. "Not one single boil? Not even a measly rash? What happened to suppurating boils?" Potter's luck was simply astounding at times.

Potter grinned broadly, which Draco found to be an odd response that became even odder when Potter giggled.

"Something funny, Potter?" he growled.

"You're very tall," Potter said. "You look like a giant. Fe fi fo fum." He laughed again and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Well, at least it seems to have caused brain damage. Let's hope it lasts awhile." He started to move away, but Potter reached out and snagged his trouser leg.

"C'mere, Malfoy," Potter said pleasantly. Draco shook his leg, trying to dislodge Potter's grip, but he only held tighter. Potter's voice changed to one of command. "Come here."

Draco's glare could have frozen vodka, but he crouched down so Potter would be sure to hear him properly. "Potter, if you don't fucking let go—"

Potter's other hand shot up and snagged Draco's tie. His face was dragged downwards until his nose nearly smacked into Potter's. His eyes widened in surprise and he flung his hands to either side of Potter's head to catch his balance.

"Wow," Potter said breathily and the not-unpleasant scent of butterbeer and spice wafted over Draco's face. "Your eyes are so pretty. Like… like the edge of a storm cloud when the sun hits it."

Draco gaped like a carp for a moment. To his astonishment, he found himself looking into Potter's eyes and had to admit they were stunning—like the emeralds in Draco's signet ring, and fringed with extremely long, soot-black lashes… Potter suddenly moved like a striking snake and Draco found himself flat on his back with Potter lying atop him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Draco snarled. Potter had the strangest expression. His green eyes slid over Draco's face as if he'd never seen it before—and he apparently liked what he saw.

"You're so lucky," Potter breathed. "Lucky, lucky, lucky Malfoy."

"What are you prattling on about?" Potter's fists were clenched tightly in Draco's robes and something hard pressed into Draco's flank—he hoped to hell it was Potter's wand.

"You have everything, Malfoy. You have two parents. You have a fabulous home. You're rich. You have stars named after you…"

The last thought was so bizarre Draco found his mind following the tangent. "Er… that's not quite how that works—"

"And you're perfect. You're good at everything. You're good at Quidditch. You're amazing with potions. You're fabulous with spells…"

Draco's lips twitched with amusement. Something had definitely come over Potter. Draco raised a brow sardonically and Potter's breath seemed to catch in his throat for a moment.

"And you're pretty. So very pretty, pretty, pretty."


Potter's lips crushed down on Draco's and sucked lightly. Draco gasped so sharply the movement of his chest nearly dislodged Potter, who made an irritated sound of protest and pressed himself up a bit. His tongue pushed past Draco's teeth, muffling his words of protest. Draco's hands moved to find purchase and throw Potter off, but both wrists were caught by Potter's fingers and slammed to the ground on either side of Draco's head.

Potter's tongue was doing astounding things to Draco's mouth and sending flickers of warmth zinging through Draco's body. Where the hell had he learned to do that, anyway? Certainly not from that cold fish, Cho Chang… All consideration of Potter's kissing prowess fled instantly when something moved against Draco's groin and fuck, no, that wasn't Potter's wand at all!

Draco tried to thrust upward with his legs and dislodge the Boy Who Kissed Like a French Whore, but he simply wrapped his legs around Draco's and made a moaning sound in his throat that turned Draco's bones to liquid. Potter was practically licking the back of Draco's throat and Draco's body suddenly took up the gauntlet with a rush of glee. Draco was certain he'd never become so hard so quickly in his life.

Oh, this is fucking, so fucking wrong, Draco thought even as he pressed his hips upward a bit because, oh my god, it felt good when Potter rocked his pelvis like that, and then Potter's hands left Draco's wrists. Draco would shove Potter away… in a moment… just as soon as he put his hands into Potter's hair, because he'd wanted to do that for quite some time now, he'd just never realized it…

Potter was tearing Draco's robes open and Draco's hands slid into Potter's thick mop of black hair. Bloody hell, it was soft. Potter had found yet another sensitive spot on Draco's tongue and stroked it methodically, causing another rush of heat to blast into his loins. He nearly cried out in disappointment when Potter's mouth left his, but Potter only muttered a spell. Draco was suddenly a bit cold.

"Potter, did you vanish my shirt?"

"Mmm hmmm," Potter murmured and kissed him again. Draco felt a moment of alarm—Potter was not the best student and Draco wondered how many rib bones he would find missing.

Potter broke the kiss once more and repeated the spell—Draco felt Potter's bare chest upon his and gasped when Potter's hands began to slide over his flesh. All concern over missing rib bones evaporated.

Potter kissed him with determination once more and Draco thought he should probably stop him from unfastening his trousers, but then Potter's hand dove beneath the waistband to grip Draco's throbbing cock and he wouldn't have stopped Potter doing that for all the gold in the family vault.

Potter stroked with one hand and dragged off his own jeans with the other, all without breaking the molten kiss. Draco had to give him credit for his astounding ability to multitask and, oh my god if he touched that spot again Draco was going to come like a Chinese firework… Potter let go. Draco made a petulant whine of protest that would have mortified him under normal circumstances.

"Want to fuck you, Malfoy," Potter muttered against Draco's lips.

The words nearly broke through Draco's stupor. "Oh, no. No, no, no."

"Oh yes. Yes, yes yes," Potter countered in a throaty growl that seemed to reverberate though Draco's veins.

Draco's's trousers were off before he could make more than a single peep of protest. He tried anyway, but Potter flung himself back on Draco's mouth again and his hand returned to that delightful stroking. Potter broke off for a moment to whisper another spell and Draco felt his boxers vanish, and that was too much to bear because he could possibly spare a couple of rib bones, but his other bodily parts were far more vital… He broke the kiss. His wand was on the floor, lying where it had fallen when Potter had pounced. Draco could have grabbed it and hexed Potter, but stopping him seemed far less important than letting him get on with whatever he planned to do next. Still, Draco was a Malfoy, and complaining was his nature.

"Potter, I think you're getting a bit carried away," Draco tried, but forgot what point he was trying to make when Potter latched onto his neck and began to imitate a lamprey. It felt fabulously good, but tickled. Draco tugged sharply on the black hair that his hands were still, surprisingly, tangled in, but Potter growled low in his throat and sucked harder.

An instant later, Draco lost all concern for what Potter was doing to his neck, because Potter's hands had been busy—one doing that astounding up and down motion that had Draco's breathing resembling a steam engine at full throttle, and the other cupping Draco's testicles. Potter gave those a squeeze and then moved down to attempt entry where Draco had no intention of allowing entry.

He had not counted on the grim determination of a euphoric Potter.

"Did the word 'no' fall out of the Gryffindor vocabulary?" Draco rasped, but then Potter released his neck and dropped downward with Seeker quickness. Before Draco knew what hit him, Potter's lips were wrapped around his cock and the tongue that had so skillfully sensitized Draco's mouth introduced new vistas of pleasure in that region, as well. Draco was utterly lost in sensation and absently heard Potter make a sound of protest when Draco's hands nearly tore a fistful of hair from Potter's head.

"Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry," Draco murmured and then sucked in an astonished breath because two—two!—of Potter's fingers were in a place that Potter's fingers simply did not belong—and how the hell had he gotten them there without Draco noticing? Potter moved them a bit at the same time his tongue slithered over that spot on Draco's cock and the Chinese firework scenario was closing in again…

Potter's mouth ceased his beautiful motion and Draco nearly howled in frustration. He pulled at Potter's hair again in vexation and Potter promptly slid up and bit him on the lip, rather harder than warranted, Draco thought petulantly, but Potter immediately apologized by soothing over it with his tongue.

Draco moaned involuntarily as Potter's fingers pulled out, allowing something much larger to attempt ingress. Draco moved his head slightly to avoid Harry's ruthless, questing mouth.

"Potter," he said, trying vainly to relax, as it was apparent that Potter had no intention of halting. "Have you ever done this before?"

Potter's inexorable pressure did not pause. Draco gasped and whimpered slightly as he was slowly impaled. He tried not to tear Potter's hair out by the roots, but it was difficult.

"No," Potter said breathily. His handsome face was taut with concentration.

"With a girl?" Draco continued and had to remind himself to inhale—breathing itself seemed to require conscious effort.

"No," Potter admitted.

Lovely, Draco thought. I'm being deflowered by a virgin. Rather than alarming him, the idea made him feel pleased and somehow… special. He released Potter's hair and allowed his hands to slide over the tense muscles of Potter's back; he inhaled shakily at Draco's touch.

"You're beautiful, so beautiful," Potter breathed in his ear and Draco thought it was quite a jot better than pretty. "So hot—I have to move."

Potter moved. Draco would have clawed his way out from under him, but Potter's hands were fixed to Draco's hips, pinning him in place.

"Am I hurting you, angel?" Potter asked softly, nearly unhinging Draco's brain. He wasn't sure what was worse—the hellish sensation driving shards of pain through his nether regions, or Harry Potter calling him "angel." He opened his mouth to demand Potter withdraw immediately, and then Potter shifted slightly as he thrust and Draco's world turned white. He made a guttural sound that had no relation to words, but Potter seemed to understand, anyway, and made the movement again—and again.

Draco thrashed mindlessly, lost in bliss, and tore his nails across Potter's back in an effort to make him move harder, faster. Potter paused, likely thinking he was hurting Draco.

"God, no, don't stop," Draco said—whined—and pressed upwards sharply with his hips, earning a gasp from Potter and sending another shockwave of delight through his body. Draco did it again. Potter got back into rhythm and met Draco thrust for thrust. He began to pant in Draco's ear and the hot breath contained a single word—Draco, repeated like an incantation.

Potter grabbed Draco's cock as if suddenly remembering it. He slid his thumb over that spot again and holy Salazar on a broomstick! Draco came with such force he thought something might have snapped inside. Only extreme self control prevented him from screaming Potter's name aloud—that and the teeth he sank deep into Potter's shoulder to stifle the cry.

He felt Potter stiffen and shudder while gasping Draco's name one final time. Potter's fingers clenched so tightly on Draco's hips he knew he would have bruises there later. Potter sagged against him as if he could no longer support his own weight. Draco's arms encircled Potter's back as Potter's hot hands released their punishing grip on his hips and slid up over Draco's ribs.

"So perfect," Potter mumbled. He sounded drowsy and contented.

"You're not planning to go to sleep, are you?" Draco asked sharply.

"Great idea."

"Potter, we're on the bloody floor of the greenhouse and Sprout will return at any moment."

"Don't care." Potter pressed a kiss to Draco's throat. "Want to stay here forever."

Draco ignored the warm rush that accompanied his words. "You're crushing me," he lied instead, hoping the Gryffindor guilt factor would kick in if nothing else did. It worked. Potter slid backwards and knelt over him with a sigh. Potter lifted his wand absently and murmured a spell that made Draco instantly alarmed. Normally, a Scourgify cast on human skin was similar to rubbing steel wool over the flesh, but Potter's spell skimmed over Draco's skin with barely a whisper of sensation. Maybe Potter wasn't as inept as he appeared.

"Can you bring our clothes back?" Draco asked, figuring they had better get dressed and start transplanting in the next five minutes or Sprout would have a seizure when she returned.

"Erm… no. Good at Vanishing; not so good at bringing back."

Draco revised his estimation of Potter's ineptitude. He dragged his trousers on; wincing when every small movement caused unpleasant twinges of pain in places he hadn't known existed.

"Bloody hell, next time, I'm on top," Draco snapped, and then blanched, realizing what he'd said.

"Okay," Potter said with a grin.

"Not that there will be a next time," Draco added lamely.

"How about after detention, angel?" Potter asked and the sultry look in his green eyes caused Draco's heart to skip a beat. Draco decided he would have to do something about Potter's sudden overuse of endearments. He watched as Potter tugged on his jeans and wondered if he would even remember the incident tomorrow.

Hell, if not, Draco would simply acquire a supply of dicentra raptura.

"After detention, Potter," he promised.