Harry woke from the most amazing dream he'd ever had. He tried to hold onto it, and retrieved only scattered images: pale limbs and paler hair, fiery kisses on his lips and skin, dappled moonlight, and overwhelming desire…

He blinked as he took in his surroundings, wondering why everything was so hazy. He was in his own bed, at least, and not in a moonlit garden. Why did he feel so strange? His head felt muzzy and he had a raging hard-on left over from his erotic dream. Harry could do something about that, at least. His hand slipped beneath his waistband to glide over his erection—and froze.

As if triggered by the touch, his memories returned. He felt like he'd wrenched open a door to let in a whirlwind. Oh. My. God.

Harry's erection deflated with incredible swiftness as sheer horror overwhelmed him. Malfoy. Goddamn Malfoy and that fucking plant! Harry sat up, shaking as memory after memory assaulted him. Harry calling Malfoy "pretty", Harry vanishing their clothes, Harry forcing himself on Malfoy, and… holy hell… memories of him fucking Malfoy…

Harry whimpered as the blood flooded back into his cock again. Oh god, he recalled the feeling of Malfoy's skin, the taste of his lips, the smell of his hair. Harry collapsed back on the bed, breathing raggedly. He nearly moaned aloud.

Why hadn't Malfoy fought him? His wand had been in hand nearly the entire time. Blackmail? Harry threw an arm over his eyes, wishing he could block the images overwhelming his brain. He'd been worse than drunk. He'd been… all over Malfoy like Goyle on a plate of sweets. And Malfoy had been (hot, gorgeous, talented, amazing, brilliant) well, he'd been… nice. What had brought that on? Guilt?

Harry snorted. Malfoys were devoid of that particular emotion. No, blackmail or sheer humiliation seemed the only answer. He had probably rushed back to the Slytherin common room with his cocky swagger, and had a huge laugh with his Slytherin cronies over his hilarious joke. Either that or he was saving it up to make Harry pay, and pay, and pay.

He heard Ron stretch and crawl out of the bed nearest Harry's. Ron fumbled for his clothes. Harry kept a hand pressed to his erection, pushing it down so it wouldn't tent the blankets. Despite his horror, part of his mind kept replaying scenes of the previous night—Malfoy moaning beneath him, Malfoy kissing him, Malfoy murmuring unbelievable phrases like, "I won't hurt you" and Malfoy shuddering and panting into Harry's mouth as he came deep inside… Fuck!

"You okay, mate?" Ron asked suddenly, probably noticing Harry's choking sounds as he willed himself to spontaneously combust.

"No," Harry admitted hoarsely. "Don't feel too well. Just go on without me."

There was no way in hell Harry planned to walk into the Great Hall and face such large-scale mass humiliation. In fact, he might just stay in bed for the rest of the year. Hermione could bring him homework. And food.

Ron and the others left him alone to seek their breakfasts, after endless questioning to make sure Harry was not sick enough to need medical attention. Harry's relief at being alone was short-lived. His mind kept tracking over every memory of the night before. It seemed grossly unfair that he remembered every single detail. He fingered his wand and wondered if it were possible to Obliviate oneself.

He threw himself out of bed with a curse. For one thing, he was ravenous, probably due to the extraordinary amount of energy he had expended attacking Malfoy like a love-starved trollop. Harry fought past the blush. For another, he was a Gryffindor, damn it. He had faced down Voldemort, dementors, and Ministry officials, for fuck's sake. He could handle this.

Harry dressed quickly, although his fingers shook when he remembered Malfoy undressing in the garden. The image brought such a renewed surge of lust he had to sit on the bed and wank to get it out of his system. He doubted it helped, although he felt slightly more relaxed as he cast a Cleaning Charm and finished dressing.

Harry walked into the Great Hall with more trepidation than he had ever felt. He fully expected every eye in the hall to swing to him. It wouldn't be the first time. At the very least, he expected the attention of the entire Slytherin contingent.

To his utter amazement, no one at all seemed to notice him. Well, almost no one. One pair of eyes fixed on him quite firmly. The grey eyes caught his with such intensity that they might have been the only two people in the room. Harry expected Malfoy to gloat, or sneer, or at the very least burst into taunting laughter, but his haughty features were still and Malfoy's expression appeared no more than curious.

The most insane thought hammered through Harry's temples as he looked at the blond Slytherin. Still beautiful. Oh god. Harry flushed scarlet and backed away. He couldn't face this, after all. Malfoy had not told, and was possibly waiting to make a public announcement, but that was nothing—nothing!—next to the horrifying fact that Harry still wanted him. He wanted to walk across the room and drag Malfoy from his seat. He wanted to plant possessive kisses on those lips—

Harry turned and bolted.

ooOooOoo

Draco was disappointed when Granger, Weasley, and the rest of the Gryffindor clan entered the Great Hall without Potter. He felt a moment of concern, quickly hammered into oblivion. He tried for his customary sneer. Most likely Potter was hiding in his room sobbing like a girl over what he'd done.

Draco felt a pang. Truthfully, he would prefer to see the Gryffindor in a fiery rage, ready to claw at Draco's throat, screaming invectives. At least then Draco would know where he stood. Things would be back to normal. Or as normal as they could get after spending an evening locked in carnal bliss with your worst enemy. Draco tried—oh how he tried—not to think about the previous night. He had already wanked to the damned memory—twice!—and had no desire to become rock-hard at the breakfast table. He kept a close eye on the door, however, and his breath caught in his throat every time he caught sight of black hair.

Draco had nearly finished eating and began to think Potter wasn't coming down at all when the Chosen One finally made his appearance. Potter marched into the Great Hall, jaw set and eyes flashing. He was clearly terrified, but clinging to every bit of Gryffindor courage he possessed.

Potter's eyes darted about, as if he expected attack from every quarter. His brows drew up in surprise, and he paused before his puzzled gaze shot straight to Draco. Their eyes met, and Draco watched every emotion flit across Potter's expressive face. Mortification, anger, mistrust… and something else. Something suspiciously reminiscent of Potter's expression when he'd hovered over Draco in the greenhouse, moments before snogging him senseless. Something that hit Draco like a punch in the stomach.

Potter's eyes widened and his cheeks burned with color. Then the Savior of the Wizarding World took two steps backwards and fled.

Draco muttered a terse command to Crabbe and Goyle—"Stay"—and followed. Draco scanned the Entrance Hall and spotted Potter ducking through the main doors. Draco went after him and caught sight of him fleeing towards the Quidditch Pitch like the demons of hell pursued him. Draco followed at a more leisurely pace, knowing Potter wasn't going anywhere.

He paused under the shadow of an oak and watched Potter wrench at the door to the broom shed. Draco smiled, knowing the doors were spelled not to open until 9 am. No Alohomora would open them—Dumbledore himself had enchanted the doors that were meant to stay locked at Hogwarts. Even school brooms were too valuable to be left unattended at night. Potter sagged slightly and leaned his forehead against the door. He looked like the picture of defeat.

Draco walked forward silently, avoiding the noisy path by walking on the grass. He had nearly closed the distance when Potter's head jerked up. In an instant, Potter had whirled and trained his wand on Draco. The strange, bewildered look that had adorned Potter's face in the Great Hall was gone, replaced with an icy rage Draco was all too familiar with.

"Come to gloat, Malfoy?" Potter snarled.

Draco did not stop walking until the tip of Potter's wand touched his chest. "No," he said simply. His eyes scanned Potter, wondering why he had never really noticed how gorgeous Potter was. His body was lean perfection, with slender, muscular legs and washboard abs honed by hours of riding a broom. He had long, delicate fingers, rougher than Draco's, which felt oh-so-good on his skin, and his face was chiseled glory. His mouth, even set in a hard, angry line like it was now, begged to be kissed, and could those damned eyes get any greener?

"What then?" Potter asked angrily, and his eyes narrowed as he caught Draco's perusal. He tipped his head back slightly against the wall of the shed and the sight of his slender neck beneath the messy black hair that Potter had obviously not even attempted to comb after Draco's hands had been in it last night—Draco thrust himself forward and attached his mouth to Potter's like a starving man finding sustenance.

Potter stiffened and wrenched his mouth away. Draco's lips slid over his smooth jaw and down to Potter's neck. Potter gasped and the wand slid out from between them, only to be pressed sharply into Draco's ribs.

"What are you doing?" Potter cried as Draco nipped at his throat. Draco was drowning in sensation as the smell and taste of Potter overwhelmed him.

"I don't know and I don't care," Draco replied, half-expecting Potter to hex him in a dozen different ways. He moved his head slightly and took those kissable lips in his again while pressing himself roughly against Potter's body, driving him into the wall. Draco's hands tore at the white t-shirt Potter wore, dragging it from the waistband of his jeans. Potter was stiff and frozen. His mouth was unresponsive under Draco's, but Potter's skin was hot under Draco's hands as he pushed them under Potter's shirt.

Draco trembled with need and the blood exploded into his loins as Potter moaned slightly and relaxed almost imperceptibly. It was probably a trick, and Potter would turn him into a Christmas pudding or a Blast-ended Skrewt at any moment, but Draco was possessed, and he meant to enjoy every particle of Potter, even if it were only given through faked submission.

But Potter didn't seem to be faking. The wand stopped digging painfully into Draco's side, and then Draco felt a faltering hand slip into his hair. Potter's tongue met his tentatively, and Draco moaned in sheer delight, surprised and relieved. He deepened the kiss, feeling the need to retrace every action from the night before, as though it hadn't been branded on him like a Dark Mark.

Potter was shaking like a giant had tossed him into a dice cup. Draco ran his hands soothingly over Potter's waist and then gripped his hips to press Potter's growing erection against his own. Potter tore his mouth away and gasped raggedly.

"Not… not here," Potter said in a voice so hoarse it was barely audible.

"Yes, here. Here, there, and everywhere," Draco replied. He was mindless. He lapped at Potter's throat and then bit down gently, feeling a flare of satisfaction when Potter shuddered. He ground his pelvis against Potter's, feeling delicious friction and knowing it wasn't enough. He wanted to take Potter here and now, and didn't give a flying fuck who saw them. He discovered he was shaking worse than Potter.

"Draco, stop," Potter said, panting, but Draco couldn't stop. With a sudden movement, Potter shoved him away. Draco stumbled back and nearly fell. Potter's wand was back up again, held threateningly, even though it trembled like a leaf in a windstorm. Potter looked utterly fuckable; his shirt was untucked and rumpled, and his lips were red and swollen. There was a mark on his throat—Draco's claim. He groaned at the sight.

"Why?" Potter ground out, and the sound contained a myriad of emotions: hurt, suspicion, and was that wishful thinking—longing?

"You said something to me last night," Draco said, clenching his fists with the effort of remaining where he was, and not charging past the threatening wand to take what was his.

"I said a lot of crazy things last night," Potter snapped as he passed the back of a shaking hand across his mouth.

"Maybe you didn't mean it, then," Draco said hollowly. His nails dug into his palms and he swayed slightly, trying to get a handle on his raging libido. He was suddenly, painfully aware that he was acting like an idiot. He had known Potter would be back to normal today, back to hating him. Why was he trying to hold onto the insanity of last night? The giddy Potter who'd referred to him as angel was gone forever… he had never been real at all.

Draco needed to get away. He turned and started to walk back towards the school, but paused when Potter spoke.

"Which thing?" Potter called.

Draco considered saying nothing. He needed to put the whole damned disaster behind him. He remembered the words in question with something akin to pain, recalling that they had struck him with astounding force the night before. He looked over his shoulder at Potter and tried to dredge up his trademark smirk. It felt false on his lips, but hopefully Potter wouldn't notice.

"You said you didn't want anyone else," Draco replied and walked away.

ooOooOoo

Harry winced, remembering. Was that regret he heard in Malfoy's voice? Malfoy had followed him out here, not to gloat, apparently, but to continue… oh god, to continue the insanity of last night. Harry watched Malfoy stride away and actually took two steps after him before stopping himself with a muttered oath. What the fuck was he doing? Running after Draco Malfoy like a lovesick girl?

Harry sagged for a moment, fighting an overwhelming despair as Malfoy disappeared. Just for a second, Harry thought about racing after him, reaching out to grab his shoulder, spinning him around, and fastening his lips to that smirking, sneering, beautiful, wonderful mouth, to feel the incredible cascade of desire explode through him again. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Harry smacked his wand into his thigh, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes from the pain. What the hell was he thinking? What then? Would he let Malfoy fuck him again, right on the grounds of Hogwarts in broad daylight? Harry trembled at the heady rush of delight that spiraled through him at the mere thought of it, and moaned in horrified terror. Oh god, it had to be a spell. Some sort of spell. Residue from that goddamn plant, that dicentra raptura.

Harry bit back a sob and made himself walk with a slow, casual demeanor back to the school, taking care not to overtake Malfoy, but he had disappeared completely. Harry was both relieved and disappointed. He needed to talk to Hermione.

Hermione was puzzled. "What are the effects of dicentra raptura? Only what we learned in class. Apparently, the effects of the gaseous discharge vary depending on the physiology of the wizard, but they generally include boils, nausea, and headaches. Why do you ask?"

"No… amorous effects? Like a love potion? Long lasting?" Harry prodded.

"Well, euphoria was listed, but nothing as strong as a love potion, surely. I know some parts of the plant are used for potion ingredients, but you would have to ask Professor Snape which potions, exactly. Why are you asking about this?"

Harry was silent for a moment too long as he fumbled for a logical reason while his brain gleefully supplied the real answer. Because I spent a very interesting evening getting to know Draco Malfoy inside and out, and now I can't seem to overcome the insatiable urge to press him up against the nearest wall and snog the life out of him, right before I shag him into oblivion…

"I… I transplanted them during detention last night," he said hoarsely, and realized his voice sounded uneven and completely lame. "Curious plants. Wondered what they were for."

Hermione's sharp gaze skewered him, but Harry caught sight of Neville Longbottom at that moment, struggling under the weight of several heavy textbooks.

"Let me help you with those, Neville!" Harry cried and leaped up to take some of the books from Neville.

"Thanks, Harry," he said gratefully. Harry and Neville disappeared up the stairs into the boys' dorm. Harry knew he'd only been granted a momentary reprieve from Hermione's talon-sharp questions, and he had better come up with some satisfying excuses by the time he returned.

"Neville, what can you tell me about dicentra raptura?"

In the end, Harry sat staring morosely into the fire of the Gryffindor common room. Neville had found plenty of information about the stupid plant. It seemed the bloody gas that Malfoy had caused to explode all over Harry was not particularly magical at all. No love potion. No, indeed. It merely caused euphoria and a possible "dropping of inhibitions" as well as a tendency to "act upon latent desires." Harry snorted. Act upon latent desires. Such as Harry's unacknowledged (hell, unknown!) latent desire for Draco Malfoy, apparently. Nothing magical; just my secret desire to fuck Malfoy into the floor. Or the bench, or the bed, or anything handy.

Irritatingly, the mere thought of it sent gooseflesh crawling over Harry's skin and he found it hard to breathe. For the six thousandth time that day, he wondered where Malfoy was, and barely restrained himself from running to his room for the Marauder's Map, knowing damn well Malfoy was in one of three places: the Slytherin common room, the Quidditch Pitch, or wandering the grounds in the company of his bodyguard cronies, none of which were conducive to an amorous rendezvous.

I am not planning an amorous rendezvous with Draco Malfoy! he snarled to himself, and then pinched his arm sharply to underscore the statement.

Ron watched him curiously. "Why are we sitting here on a perfectly nice day, again?" he asked.

Harry sighed explosively, but knew his excuse of wanting to stay inside and study had already unraveled with his inability to concentrate for more than five minutes on his Transfiguration homework. He smiled at Ron lamely, glad that Hermione had already departed to pester Professor Flitwick about her last Charms grade. Harry had pretended no recollection of asking her about the dicentra raptura, which had set her shaking her head with exasperation. She had, thankfully, dropped the subject.

"You're right, let's go outside," Harry said.

"Great! I want to see Susan Bones. She told Hermione about this joke spell she saw in France. I thought about getting something like that for Fred and George…" Ron chattered on, but Harry had already stopped listening. His mind was already tracking backward, sliding over pale skin and hearing the caress of a soft voice. He followed Ron out the portrait hole in a licentious daze.

Harry trailed Ron to a lesser-used courtyard generally frequented by Hufflepuffs. It was interesting how the four Houses tended to separate, even during leisure activities. The Gryffindors preferred to be outside near the lake. Ravenclaws generally stayed indoors, clinging to their common room, the library, or classrooms. The Hufflepuffs chose a sheltered courtyard that was half indoors and half out, with several convenient escape routes. Slytherins roamed in feral packs, never sticking to a single area, but instead choosing to assert ownership of whatever piece of property they happened to walk.

A long, shadowed corridor opened into the Hufflepuffs' courtyard, with huge arched openings giving clear views—and access if one chose to climb over the low wall—to the tree-bedecked sward.

Longs legs jutted from one archway, calves and feet in sunlight while the rest stayed hidden in shadow. Harry paused at the sight and then froze, spotting a head lying just above the knees, and a pale hand touching the dark locks. Pansy Parkinson's head—which could only mean—

"Oi, Susan!" Ron yelled, spying his target. He broke into a run, leaving Harry alone as the shout brought a sharp gaze swiveling from the shadows. Harry could make out no details, but his heart began a painful staccato when he felt Malfoy's eyes touch him. The pale hand caressed Pansy's head slowly, causing an unusual sensation to uncoil in the pit of Harry's stomach, something unpleasant and simmering with rage. He wanted to walk over and shove Pansy away from Malfoy with a snarled, Mine!

His hands clenched into fists and it wasn't until then that Harry noticed his wand was in his hand. He fingered it thoughtfully, wondering how Parkinson would look with a set of warthog tusks. Malfoy bent down and spoke to her. Her head rose—finally!—and she looked a bit resentful, but she obediently trotted across the courtyard to hover by Blaise Zabini, who seemed to be tormenting a group of younger Hufflepuffs.

The air was suddenly thick with tension. Malfoy neither moved nor spoke. Harry threw a quick glance at Ron, visible where the corridor spilled into the courtyard, talking animatedly to Susan Bones.

Harry made a quick decision—or gave in to his impulse—and took several quick steps until he stood at Malfoy's side. The silver blond head was tipped back against the rough stone of the alcove, and the grey eyes watched him enigmatically. Merely standing this close to him made Harry's pulse race nearly out of control, and his thoughts were a confused jumble, tangled in nonsense and need.

He swallowed and struggled to find his much touted Gryffindor courage. Summoning all of his strength, Harry reached out and rested his hand, ever so lightly, on Malfoy's abdomen. He leaned forwards until his lips nearly brushed Malfoy's ear.

"I meant it," he murmured. He allowed his hand to slide upward, moving over the corded muscles to Malfoy's chest, where his questing fingers brushed a nipple and felt it harden beneath the soft cloth.

Malfoy's head turned and Harry made a sound that was half gasp and half sob, as a rough hand reached up and cupped his arse to draw him closer. His lips met Malfoy's and Harry's world spun as their tongues battled for dominance. He was partially aware that he was kissing Draco Malfoy in public, in clear view of any student that might pause and peer into the shadows, a scant few meters from Ron Weasley, who would faint dead away at the sight.

Harry didn't care, and he was shocked to the core by just how much he didn't care. He lost himself in the sweet bliss of Malfoy's kiss until the need for air forced him to pull away. He panted against Malfoy's wet lips, wanting only to take Malfoy away somewhere private for hours on end.

He felt Malfoy's fingers against his hip, still bruised and tender from those same hands holding him the night before, lifting and guiding—Harry shuddered. He noticed his own hands were twisted in Malfoy's clothing. Harry pressed his cheek against Malfoy's, and noted his breathing was just as uneven as Harry's as it huffed gently upon his face.

"I need to see you tonight," Harry said, hating himself for the truth of it.

"Where?" The response was harsh.

"Anywhere," Harry said desperately, knowing the clock was ticking. Ron or Pansy would return any moment, or a random student would walk too close. "You choose. Just be there at midnight. I'll find you."

He pressed his lips into Malfoy's smooth flesh and gripped his lean body once more, seeking to imprint his presence on Malfoy's psyche and eradicate that of Pansy Parkinson, as well as anyone else that had ever been there.

Harry stepped away, nearly aching with despair at the loss of contact, and still felt the warmth of Malfoy's hand against his hip. He licked his lower lip and tasted him there. Malfoy's expression was unreadable in the shadows.

Ron startled Harry half out of his skin, appearing behind him and clapping him on the shoulder.

Ron's gaze fell on Malfoy. "You're not fighting with Malfoy again, are you, mate?"

Harry laughed, surprised at the husky timbre of it. "Not this time," he said.

ooOooOoo

Draco sat on his bed and waited. Time seemed to be dragging with eternal slowness. He mulled over Potter's words, still amazed that the Gryffindor had sought him out. Draco remembered their encounter by the broom shed. "Not here," Potter had said, which had not been a no, it had been a yes, with conditions. Draco could live with conditions. He just needed to know what they were.

And then Potter in the corridor… God. He had half-expected Potter to hex Pansy, by the look on his face. And then Potter had kissed him, within spitting distance of Ron Weasley! Draco's jaw clenched and he cursed himself for the hundredth time. He shot to his feet, realizing he was twisting his wand in his hands, and that it was slick with sweat.

What the fuck was he doing? He should be laughing about his victory over Potter. He should be publicizing the fact that he'd had the Chosen One writhing beneath him. Damn it, the very memory of it made his stomach tighten almost painfully.

Draco drew in a shuddering breath when he recalled Potter's admission. "I meant it." Goddamn it! How could the Gryffindor Golden Boy possibly admit that in his right mind? It had to be some sort of trick. Potter was setting Draco up to look like an idiot. Planning a meeting to which he would never appear. But the kiss… fucking hell, the kiss had nearly caused Draco to shag him right there in the Hufflepuff courtyard.

Draco shook off his bewilderment angrily. He needed to get back his Slytherin self-control. Potter was nothing. Potter was the enemy of his father, and therefore the enemy of Draco. He sighed heavily and made a sudden, brilliant decision. He wondered exactly how Potter planned to find him, because Draco had no intention of making it easy on him. Potter could probably follow with his invisibility cloak, but that would mean hovering outside the Slytherin common room until Draco left… and if Draco left three hours early… well that would be Potter's problem. Perhaps he should have been a bit more precise instead of making stupid pronouncements such as, "I'll find you."

"Going out," Draco said, drawing attention from no one but Blaise, who smirked at him. Those words always preceded an amorous assignation in Slytherin.

Draco knew the perfect place. He'd discovered it during his second year. Truthfully, he'd become lost evading Filch one night after curfew and had ended up wandering an unused portion of the castle in a near panic. Discovery of the room had calmed him enough to get his bearings and return to the Slytherin common room. Draco had been back several times since then, but he had never mentioned it to anyone. It was his secret.

Draco made several tricky maneuvers, and paused after slipping through doors just to make sure sneaky Gryffindors in invisibility cloaks were not following him. Satisfied, he entered the long-unused section of the fifth floor and unlocked the door with a spell. The room looked exactly as he'd left it months ago.

The room had once been Rowena Ravenclaw's quarters, a relic from the days when the Founders had resided at Hogwarts. Salazar Slytherin's rooms in the dungeons had been stripped and left barren. Helga Hufflepuff's first floor quarters had been turned into classrooms. Godric Gryffindor's became the Gryffindor common room. Draco knew because he had researched them all after his find.

But Rowena… for some reason her rooms were untouched, possibly because they were located in the least-used portion of the castle. The bedchamber was huge, with three sets of French doors leading to the large balcony. Draco opened them all. The room was clean, of course; the house elves would never allow dust to settle at Hogwarts, but the stuffiness of disuse was heavy in the air.

Draco stood on the balcony for a while, drinking in the cool breeze and the moonlight. He returned to the bedchamber and his eyes went directly to the bed. He groaned at the thought of Potter sprawled there for his pleasure. Fuck. Draco shook off the image and looked at it more critically. The bed was completely shadowed where it rested against one wall. That would never do. Draco Levitated the bed, which was tougher than expected; it was heavy. He moved it across the room until it stood directly before the central balcony doors. Now the moonlight fell directly across the bed. Much better.

Draco returned to the balcony to wait, lounging in a chair with his feet up on the railing. He wished heartily for a glass of wine, but the stupid house-elves were forbidden to give alcohol to the students.

He checked the time. Only 10:30, a long time to wait, and probably even longer, since Potter had no chance at all of finding him. The thought nearly drove him to his feet, wanting to seek out Potter, but his pride kept him firmly planted in the chair. Anywhere, Potter had said. So anywhere it was.

Draco dozed off, lulled by the warm night and his lack of proper sleep the night before. He awoke with a start, and wondered how long he'd slept. Draco gasped when he caught the unexpected sight of Potter leaning against the railing, smirking down at him. Draco quelled the rush of warmth that drowned his surprise.

"You're awfully pretty when you sleep," Potter said huskily, and Draco felt himself flush.

"Gryffindor idiot," he said. "I am not pretty."

Potter stepped forward and leaned close to him, causing Draco's heart to give a happy leap.

"Gorgeous, then. Beautiful. Perfect," Potter corrected and Draco shut him up with a kiss.

"How did you find me?" Draco asked when Potter broke the molten kiss.

"Map," Potter said and leaned in for another, but Draco pushed him away and stood up.

"Very funny. Look, Potter, I don't want you to get the wrong idea here," he said brusquely. "You wanted me to meet you, and here I am, but on my terms."

Potter said nothing; he merely cocked a dark brow and waited.

Draco nodded, satisfied. "First of all, you should know that Malfoys bow to no one."

"Except Voldemort," Potter replied dryly.

A rush of anger crackled through Draco like lightning igniting dry brush. "Not even him!" he snarled. How dared Potter bring up outside? What was between them had nothing to do with Voldemort, or Lucius Malfoy, or Death Eaters and Muggles and politics. Nothing. This was between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. Draco slowly unclenched his fists. He wanted to punish Potter, but there were better ways than leaping on him and pummeling him with his fists.

"Get over there and take your clothes off," Draco ordered. He had meant it to sound imperious and commanding, but it came out with a husky timbre that surprised him. Potter shrugged and walked to the bed. He tugged his shirt off over his head. The cloak Potter had worn was already a dark slash across one of the chairs, and his shoes were nearby. Draco wondered how long Potter had stood watching him sleep, but the thought dissipated and Draco's mouth went suddenly dry. Potter's bare skin gleamed in the moonlight, just as delectable as Draco remembered.

Potter's eyes remained fixed on Draco's as he unbuttoned, and then stepped out of, his jeans. Potter waited the space of a few heartbeats, and then his pants joined the rest, leaving him naked for Draco's perusal—for Draco's pleasure.

Draco drank in the sight, feeling strangely humbled. Thankfully, Potter was obviously as aroused as Draco, who nearly couldn't speak. He had to try more than once.

"Get on the bed," he said finally.

Potter walked obediently to the bed and sat down before moving to the centre and lying down. He looked both self-conscious and seductive, something that should have been a contradiction.

Draco tore his own clothing off, striving for nonchalance, aware of Potter's eyes on him. When he was in the same state as Potter, nude and painfully aroused, he approached the bed.

"Turn over," Draco ordered. Potter needed to have no doubt about who was in control. Draco was going to own Potter before the night was out.

Uncertainty crossed Potter's features for a moment, but then he rolled over, exposing his smooth back and gorgeous arse to Draco's appreciative eyes. Draco moved forward and climbed onto the bed.

"Kneel," Draco said hoarsely, "And put your hands on the bars."

Potter pushed himself upwards until he rested on his knees with both hands clenched on the bars of the wrought iron headboard. Draco moved forwards until he knelt between Potter's spread legs. Draco nudged them roughly. "Wider," he said. Potter drew a harsh breath, but complied, giving Draco full access to the perfect rosebud visible between his pale arse cheeks. Draco nearly reached out and touched Potter, wanting to caress his beautiful flesh with both hands and mouth, but he caught himself in time. He was here to subjugate Potter and have a quick fuck. Nothing more.

Draco cast a lubricant spell that made Potter gasp from the sudden coldness. Draco cast another and smeared his own throbbing cock before moving forward to press inexorably into the hot tightness. His fingers clenched against Potter's hipbones, and he ignored the slight sounds of protest Potter made.

"Hold tight," Draco said roughly, and watched as Potter's fists tightened against the bars. There was tension in every line of Potter's body, and his dark head was bowed so low his forehead touched the mattress.

Draco drove forward mercilessly and Potter cried out. Draco nearly did, as well, at the feel of being fully sheathed in Potter, fuck, in hot, tight, gorgeous Potter. Draco pulled out slightly and thrust back home, groaning in delight until he heard a sound that was not at all reminiscent of the sounds Potter had made the previous night. Draco froze, wondering if he had hurt Potter. His right hand released Potter's hip and reached upward, sliding beneath Potter's abdomen to grip his cock. It was only partially erect. He heard Potter's ragged breathing. Potter's knuckles were bone white. Draco swallowed; this was not at all how it was supposed to be.

Draco felt a chill as he realized he didn't want an unwilling, robotic Potter. He did not simply want a warm body to thrust into until he came. He wanted the vibrant, amazing Potter who had clung to Draco's neck and pressed kisses into every part of Draco's body he could reach. He wanted the Potter who dragged him into secluded gardens and called him angel.

Draco tilted forwards, leaning his front side gently against Potter's back, feeling the chill of the bare skin against his. Draco's hands moved upward, slipping along Potter's sides to his shoulders, and then down the slender arms to Potter's clenched hands. Draco's fingers curled around Potter's and his lips pressed into the back of Potter's neck. Draco kissed him gently once, twice, and again.

I'm sorry, he thought, although he couldn't say the words aloud. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Draco pulled out carefully, and then tugged Potter's hands away from the bars, linking their fingers when Potter released the metal. Draco turned, pulling until Potter twisted completely and lay back on the mattress, facing him. Leaving their fingers linked, though their hands were crossed over Potter's head, Draco kissed him.

Potter was stiff at first, as if tense with hurt and distrust, but he slowly warmed to Draco's assault. Draco felt a thrill of victory when Potter distinctly sighed, and then began to kiss Draco in earnest. Yes, the Boy Who Kissed Like a French Whore was back again. I've missed him. Potter's lips, tongue, and teeth worked mercilessly to devour Draco.

It wasn't long before their naked bodies began to writhe against each other and their hands were clenched painfully together, wet with sweat. Potter began to make gasping, panting noises against Draco's lips. Yes, those were the sounds he needed to hear. Each one was like a caress over Draco's nerve endings.

Potter's hands twisted in Draco's. "Malfoy," he gasped, tearing his mouth away. "I need… oh please…"

It was a thousand, no, a billion times better than a mindless fuck. It was a gift that Draco could not possibly deserve, could not possibly ever deserve. It was better than every Christmas gift he would ever receive, especially when Potter continued, "I need you, Draco."

Draco could not leave Potter's gorgeous lips alone, and he had to still the words spilling out, before Draco said something stupid in return. Something stupid and sappy and completely un-Slytherin, un-Malfoy.

He released Potter's hands and moved his fingers back down Potter's arms, teasing slowly, brushing the fine hair on the backs of Potter's forearms, swirling over the sensitive skin where Potter's arms bent, and down over shoulders and chest, to pinch lightly at his stiff nipples. He grinned when Potter nearly arched off the bed at the touch.

"Do you like that?" Draco asked, and moved down to fasten his mouth over one. He sucked at it lightly and Potter moaned aloud. Potter's hips arched, grinding Potter's cock into Draco's abdomen. Draco moved his hand over to stroke the velvet shaft, squeezing lightly as his fingers caressed the tip and came away wet. No fear of Potter losing his erection, now. Draco thought he might come at any moment. In fact…

Draco moved down even farther with a wicked sense of glee. Potter froze at the movement, and then he yelped loudly—a mixture of astonishment and tortured delight. Draco heard Potter's head slam backward into the pillow an instant after Draco's mouth slid over the head of Potter's erect cock. Salazar, I can't believe I have Harry Potter's cock in my mouth, thought Draco, but then he opened his eyes and saw Potter's beautifully arched body, shivering at the feel of Draco's mouth, and it was with crystal clarity that Draco knew he'd been right. He owned Potter. And Potter seemed perfectly happy with that arrangement, judging from the whimpering noises he made.

Potter's hands moved down and dropped into Draco's hair. Draco's tongue teased Potter's cock while his hands roamed over Potter's flanks, and dropped down to fondle his testicles, earning yet another tortured groan from the Gryffindor.

Draco took his mouth away from its languid tease. He blew lightly and chuckled at Potter's response.

"Don't want you to come too soon," Draco whispered and cast a spell. Draco pushed a slick finger into the orifice he'd so recently abused, and felt Potter clench tightly with a hiss. "Shhhh," Draco said soothingly. "Relax, I won't hurt you." He punctuated his words with a slow lick up the length of Potter's cock, not wanting him to lose that beautiful hardness.

Potter relaxed with a suddenness that was startling. Almost, Draco wanted to do something evil to punish him for being too trusting, but then Potter's fingertips skated over his hair and brushed gently over his scalp. Draco felt a rush of nameless emotion, and added a second finger. Potter did not tense at all that time, although the pressure from his fingertips increased fractionally against Draco's head.

Draco moved his fingers experimentally before slipping a third inside, and then a fourth. He moved his hand and reached, trying to find the spot he knew was there, and sucked lightly on the head of Potter's cock, grimacing slightly at the taste of precome.

"Oh, oh, oh oh," Potter said, obviously struggling for coherence and failing.

Draco couldn't wait any longer. His own cock was hard to the point of pain. He pulled his fingers out and levered himself upward before guiding his cock into the depths of Potter, who was willing and waiting this time.

He took Potter's sweet mouth in a kiss as he sheathed himself. Salazar, it was so much better this way, lying atop the length of Potter while he sucked eagerly at Draco's tongue and let his hands caress Draco's head and the back of his neck…

Potter's hands pulled away suddenly, and Draco's head rose at the movement. Potter's hands once more wrapped around the bars, and then he pushed against Draco, who found himself buried deeper that he could have imagined.

"Potter," Draco murmured in wonder, and saw Potter smile at his voice. Draco groaned and wrapped his arms around Potter's body. He began to move in earnest then, finding a rhythm that caused the blood to surge and tingle through his veins with every stroke. Potter panted Draco's name, and the sound made him clench his jaws to keep from answering.

Potter's hot mouth murmured against Draco's neck, and he pressed his lips to Potter's throat, sucking gently and fighting not to bite as the sensation built to the point of explosion. He needed Potter to come, and he needed it now.

"Need—you—" he gasped, and the words seemed to trigger Potter's release. Draco lost control the instant Potter convulsed beneath him, clenching tightly—fuck, it was incredible! Their cries mingled and echoed in the large room. Draco hoped to hell he hadn't shouted anything stupid as he collapsed on Potter's limp form, feeling more sated than he ever had before. He felt Potter's arms wrap around him, holding him tightly. Draco thought he might stay where he was for a few millennia, lying on his sweat-slick, come-smeared Gryffindor, with his face buried in Potter's damp hair.

After long minutes, he felt Potter shift beneath him and decided his cushion might not be quite as comfortable as Draco was. He pulled out and sprawled next to Potter on the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling for a moment.

"Hey, Potter, could you cast one of your…?"

Potter Summoned his wand from wherever it had fallen, and cast his fabulous Cleaning Charm. A long silence fell and stretched into the realm of discomfort. Potter sat up. Draco thought he might speak, but Potter moved as if to rise. Draco snared his wrist.

Potter looked at him quizzically, but Draco said nothing, he just tugged Potter towards him until he could taste Potter's lips. He kissed Potter gently—a necessity as his lips were bruised from the force of their earlier snogging.

"Lie down," Draco said. "I'll wake you before dawn, in time for you to get back to your common room."

Potter's eyes searched his, and then he nodded. They dragged the blankets down enough to climb beneath them. Draco pulled Potter close and tucked his back against Draco's chest as he pressed his face into the heady softness of Potter's hair. He felt a hand slide into one of his, and allowed their fingers to link. He felt stupidly happy.

Potter chuckled; Draco felt more than heard the quiet sound.

"What?" he asked.

"Goodnight, angel," Potter murmured.

"Shut up." Draco squeezed him hard in punishment. "Idiot." He was glad the darkness hid the smile buried in the black hair. He waited until the Chosen One's breathing was deep and even before he murmured, "Goodnight, Harry."