A/N: Originally this was supposed to be a oneshot, but then it kinda got long so I split it in half. =D R&R

Draco drowned another gulp of firewhisky, careful to remain on the fringe of the raging party – what would his housemates think of the illustrious Malfoy reduced to sipping plebeian alcohol? It simply wasn't done, giving Draco a twinge of guilt and self-pity he managed to shake off. Malfoys also did not indulge in personal shame.

He glanced up at the stars, which seemed molten in the wavering lines of smoke, and supposed that the bloody oaf Hagrid would eventually notice the brouhaha occurring underneath his nose in the Forbidden Forest. Then again the dirty mixed breed was not the brightest wand of the bunch. He proved it countless times, especially with those filthy hippogriffs. Draco rubbed his arm unconsciously in recollection, sneering in direction of the oaf's hut; the smoke of his fireplace was visible above the treetops, tarnishing the woodland revelry. Draco didn't think he could willingly enjoy himself with knowing the half-giant was not too far away, sawing at his monstrous corns. That's if, of course, the young Malfoy found a way to enjoy himself under the starry night.

Deciding that he spent enough time sulking, the Slytherin pushed himself off the tree stump he was perched upon, Vanishing the bottle of whisky in one deft bout of nonverbal magic. With a confidence that seemed haughty to the wrong, unpracticed eyes, Draco skulked around the trashing teens in search of a partner to dance, and ultimately bring back to his private rooms. Not because he was lonely on Valentine's Day, no, or that it was easier to escape the nightmares when he was sleeping besides a warm body. It was "simply" a sport of male bravado, to prove his Malfoy superiority and masculinity. One that Draco won, time and time again. Well, he once did.

He circled the Slytherins who were all in some way dishonoring their ancestors – robes were tossed, trees were used as leverage, females were happily snogging females, while peering over erotic boys grinding with reckless abandon. In so many ways the festivities were wrong, yet that made it all the more deliciously right.

A gentle pressure on Draco's hips forced him to halt his gait. From the audacious touch alone, Draco deduced his offender to be Blaise Zabini, a fellow Slytherin and notorious flirt. The last Draco saw of him, the Italian was grinding ever so indecently against Theodore Nott.

"You look absolutely fuckable in the candlelight, Malfoy," Zabini purred. His fingers slipped underneath Draco's jumper to curl around the blond's hips more securely, guiding him to dance.

"If that is meant to entice me, you are sadly mistaken," Draco sneered while swaying his hips to the thrumming bass in contradiction. Zabini caught the opportunity instantaneously, pressing Draco's bottom against his groin. His fingers splayed lower along the blond's pelvis, rocking him in a desperate sensuality.

"Yet you don't push me away," Zabini murmured thickly. He nipped at Draco's ear, slicking his tongue along the line of his neck. "It's been much, much too long."

"Mm," Draco murmured, compartmentalizing several responses. From those, he determined two. The first was to push the git away; Malfoys were never picked second, much less after a halfwit like Nott. The other was to take Blaise's obvious invitation for sex at face value – it wouldn't hurt their nonexistent relationship for another, rather satisfactory one-off. Neither choice was preferable, yet respect could be salved in the former, even if the Malfoy's chambers would be rather empty.

"It will remain that way, Zabini," Draco breathed decisively when Blaise spun him face-to-face. The Italian's expression clouded with disappointment and mild shock, but then he smirked haughtily.

"That'll be your first regret in the morning when you wake dissatisfied from a cheap fuck." Blaise's obsidian eyes glittered vengefully. "You'll remember that you could have had me."

Draco gave his patented sneer. "The second regret will be that I ever mounted your sorry ass in the first place."

"Who else can you get to fill my side of your bed, Malfoy? Crabbe? Goyle?"

Draco sighed, wrenching his hips away. It was rather ridiculous of him not to count on Blaise's infamous temper: the flirt took rejection far too close to heart and became outrageously brazen within the drop of a wand. However, it was more ridiculous that Draco took the git's lure from the beginning out of mere want.

"Or would you rather Potter?" Blaise hissed at Draco's retreating back. Several faces swiveled to watch Draco's humiliation through their lusty haze, eyes widening. The name was practically Tabooed.

"Salazar only knows how obsessed you've become with the prat since the war ended," Blaise continued, but then flapped a hand superciliously, a grin lifting his lips. "Too bad the Wizarding-World's Saviour wouldn't resort to such rubbish."

Draco's silent-spell shot the Italian prat a sufficient few meters into a tree, and the following hex left Blaise's boiled tongue tied in several lovely knots. The display of nonverbal and wandless magic swayed the crowd's favor towards Malfoy – the blond didn't need a few sharp words to balance the scale. That and the rest of the Slytherin community knew of Blaise's whorry mannerisms and lack of self control.

With emotionless finesse, Draco sauntered away from the scene, waving nonchalantly over his shoulder in a recently rare allowance of supremacy. His mind had already clicked away from Blaise's foolishness to consider his words: Draco was definitely not obsessed with Potter. Inquisitive perhaps, but then what model of a human would he be without curiosity? That, and it was interesting nice to watch someone else's life shatter as brilliantly and quickly as Draco's own.

Following the war, Potter's popularity grew to a fever-pitch, sparking public rows among his minions. Draco thought it was only a matter of time before the Mudblood – no, Granger (as if there was a real distinction) and her fuckwit husband-to-be would grow envious of Potter's fame and fortune. Between the two of them they barely had a Knut to rub together, much less the inherited Black and Potter galleons resting uselessly in the Saviour's vault.

Draco cleared his thoughts and returned to stalking the party with gusto, as if he wasn't interrupted merely minutes before. He noticed some familiar faces in the throng of bodies, but disregarded them. If Blaise was any example, Draco needed new flesh rather than the same haunts, regardless of the ease. However, glancing at the tipsy party-goers, none seemed appropriate; they were far too easy.

Potter would be a challenge, Malfoy thought absently about the secluded Gryffindor before disbanding a foolish, and repulsive and impossible musing.


"C'mon you drunken cow." Draco arm around Pansy's waist tightened as he guided her clumsy feet up the stairs to the girls' dormitory.

"Oh Dray, Salazar knows I'm sorry," she hiccupped, blowing her foul breath unfortunately in Draco's face. "You know I didn't mean it!"

He sighed. "I know Pansy, and it is fine. He didn't seem worth the effort really anyway." That was a lie. François Landry was rather delightful, with a smooth French accent and delicious pair of tawny-olive eyes. He was on point with his banter and was delightfully fit, a consequence of dragon wrangling and auror preparatory classes. His pert ass was a bonus. Nevertheless, the spark of interest died when Pansy unceremoniously vomited on his robes. She never could hold her liquor worth a damn.

"Dray, look at you all sullen, with pretty hair…pretty, pretty hair. You'll find another fuck-buddy, though that Frenchie sure looked like Potter, eh? If his hair wasn't so mousy…." Pansy babbled some more, finding interest in caressing Draco's blond hair repeatedly as he unrobed her. "And those glasses, he didn't have those lousy glasses."

Although he would not admit it to Pansy, regardless of how drunk, François certainly was reminiscent of Potter, though definitely not in personality. The boy was an open book, perfectly aware of his power and attractiveness. It was what was lacking – the modesty that Potter wielded in his stupid Gryffindor arsenal.

"Hush up, Parkinson," Draco hissed when a Slytherin girl two beds away propped up her head in curiosity. "You need to sleep."

"Malfoys never sleep," she said thickly in a terrible impersonation of Draco's drawl. "I know, I know. I can handle myself by the way, you git. Go on and enjoy a good fuck, why don't you?" After that, she snored into a swath of dark hair.

Draco sighed, folding her socks and pleated skirt. When all she slept in was her white button down and a pair of silky knickers, he decided that his occupation as best friend was finalized. He slipped out of the dormitory, stalking over to the opposite side, undressing with a banished modesty. The empty beds were not going to ogle uncomfortably at the blond's alabaster skin. The wing was empty, Draco noted resentfully as he padded off to the showers. Each missing Slytherin were probably at different locals, yet in the same state of undress, either with a male or female (or one lucky bastard with both) thrusting sloppily (or in some cases being thrust into).

Draco tried to remember the last good one-off he had and came to puzzlement: it seemed like it was thousands of years ago, before the bloody war that robbed him of his prestige. Then, he could get a witty Ravenclaw, or an obnoxious Hufflepuff, if lucky a scraggily Gryffindor with obstinate determination. Now the Malfoy name was a dirty insult whispered among the houses, as Tabooed as Potter, but for different, darker reasons.

The sluice of water overhead eased Draco's tension and injured pride. What would Father say? he asked himself smartly. His son not only desiring temptations of male flesh, but wounded he could not find a suitable fuck, on Valentine's Day no less? He might consider an Unforgivable.

Not that his father would get the chance – the blond patriarch was locked up snuggly in Azkaban for his loyalties to Voldermort during that fucking failure of a war. Narcissa had warned her husband that his ambitions were going to wrench their family apart, but, like his son, Lucius was too self-absorbed.

At least I'm not his jailmate, Draco mused. Thank Salazar for Potter.

An image of the Wizarding Word's Messiah at the trail floated wantonly into Draco's mind. Even then Potter's popularity had worn on him: his skin was bleached as if he barely saw the sun, his eyes circled with black. When he spoke to the Wizengamot, his words far more eloquent yet slow and careful, there was a fierce conviction. Perhaps the Gryffindor's appearance was merely appealing because he testified the Slytherin's innocence. Or perhaps it was after, when Draco was in ecstasies for being acquitted, Potter returned his wand with a genuine smile.

A twist in Draco's stomach made him turn off the onslaught of hot water overhead. That smile was not by any means appealing. For Merlin's sake, the brunet looked as if Dementors took turns tasting his soul. His eyes screamed discomfort for even being close to his scholarly nemesis. Yet he stood there, in all of his Potter bravado, and said he was glad that Draco was free.

The blond quelled the emotions rising within him, padding back into his dormitory, which was thankfully empty. He dressed in the dark, pulling on a green jumper (which was not similar to Potter's eyes) and slacks. The dormitory was stifling, and an urge for air overwhelmed him.

The Hogwarts' halls were empty at such an hour (one in the morning). Even the professors must have given up their mandatory strolls in favor of cushy beds. Or perhaps, in favor of personal Valentine's festivities, Draco considered. The thought of Flitwick and McGonagall playing more than a polite game of wizard's chess made his stomach roll and fresh air more coveted.

The ascension to the Astronomy Tower kept Draco on edge – despite the reassurance that the professors retired to their rooms, a curious student might be lurking in the halls or Slytherins in the dark niches of the walls, ready to deride he unwanted blond. Draco's suspicion was confirmed when he quietly stepped into the circle of the tower, however he was surprised.

Harry Potter himself was leaning against the railing, his back sinewy in the darkness. His inky head was dropped in a hopeless way, gazing down at the scene below, supported by his palms. Draco leaned in the doorway, watching the Gryffindor in amazement: how the hell was he supposed to approach this? He considered turning tail and leaving, but the resigned Potter beckoned to him: he was an challenge, one that could raise Draco's repulsively low self-esteem.

Vengeful, Draco strolled into the Astronomy Tower.


The air of the Astronomy rolled through Harry's hair, whipping it against his glasses. It had grown out again, curling around his shirt collar because of negligence. Hermione had offered several times, as well as Mrs. Weasley, but Harry had refused adamantly – why should he waste his, and their time on something so sickly trivial? That's when Ron tossed his fork on the table and stalked out, pulling at his own red hair.

They had little patience with him these days, Ron and Hermione…the Weasleys in general to be honest. It wasn't Harry's choice to return to Hogwarts for the remedial 7th year, but rather Ron and 'Mione pressured him into it.

What exactly am I going to do with my life? he asked, looking up at the nation of stars. They wavered from the fire in the Forbidden Forest. The Slytherins already chose their path, Harry though. Like usual, they were indulging themselves without consideration for the consequences. Harry watched a couple stagger up the castle steps, hands searching each other as if to document the differences in their physics.

Perhaps that's why they're mad at me. They thought I'd go off and marry Ginny. That was a disappointment. They lasted only a month after the war before Harry couldn't look into the girl's face without wincing. She was a mistake, not exactly because she was a terrible girl, but because she was the expectation. And it was not attractive: he couldn't love her knowing that their love was based upon other's desire, not their own. Everyone thought it would be Auror Harry and housewife Ginny and a house full of ginger children, reminiscent of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

But Harry didn't want Ginny, or want to be an auror at any rate. He was done fighting evil villains. Quidditch lost its appeal; he did not want to live like Oliver Wood and duck from paparazzi at every corner. Harry was happy living at Grimmauld Place off his parents' bank account in his self-imposed grief. Kreacher at least was supportive of Harry's decision. The poor house elf was starved of company.

"Perhaps I should just leave," Harry mused aloud, raking through his hair. Then he smirked in a helpless, sad way: Ron and 'Mione would never let him quit Hogwarts, or their foolish plans to make the Gryffindor inherit ambition.

"It is perplexing why you returned for the remedial year; the ministry would welcome you with open arms, regardless of how many NEWTs you have notched on your belt."

The sneering voice straightened Harry's back, and he turned to view the culprit. Malfoy sauntered to the railing of the tower, silver eyes luminous in the faint light. Despite Harry's instinctive reaction to draw his wand, he gave the blond the benefit of the doubt. Since returning to Hogwarts, the Slytherin was quiet in a passively friendly way, perhaps a consequence of Harry testifying for him before the Wizengamot, rather than against.

"I'm not interesting in becoming an auror, Malfoy," Harry responded smoothly, resting his elbows once again on the rail. He then realized that Malfoy didn't even mention the aurors, and prickled – already the blond managed to sneak information out of him. Annoyed, Harry asked, "What has kept you in this early? I thought you'd be enjoying the revelry in the Forbidden Forest."

Malfoy pretended to choke, a gleam in his gray eyes. "Harry Potter, not an auror? If the wizarding world only knew, they might just single handedly commit suicide. About the festivities," Malfoy began with a sigh, "I find them dull and shallow. They certainly have become a sad silhouette of what pureblood parties once were."

"I wouldn't know." Harry's tone was slightly bitter, but not biting. He glanced over to see Malfoy's profile calculative.

"And you, Potter?" His voice was smooth, like Fortescue's ice cream. "What has kept our Saviour up past his bedtime?"

Harry glanced again, irked by the pretentiousness of the blond's voice. He shook it off. "I couldn't sleep."


The question surprised Harry, not for the word, but for the tone. Malfoy had tried to sound haughty and derisive, but underneath the façade Harry detected a familiar fear. Perhaps the blond suffered from nightmares himself.

"No, not nightmares; I mastered them a long time ago." The thought made Harry shiver, as he remembered darkly of a time when Voldemort would seize his dreams. "I've just a lot on my mind."

"I'm sure of it. It seems quite hard to be beloved by all, Potter. I have seen the way you slink around Hogwarts, your eyes downcast as if ashamed." Malfoy paused, as if waiting for a rebuttal. "It may be a testament of the Weasels and Granger harping upon you, wondering what adventure you have yet to undertake, trying to steal your spotlight. Or perhaps it is that you are a bit lost, without the Dark Lord looming over you."

"Or perhaps I'm sick of people, like you, who assume to know me and how I feel," Harry retorted sharply, pushing himself off of the railing. He paced, suddenly riled by Malfoy's words. "None of you could tell me apart from Adam, yet somehow you can explain my life more eloquently than me. Ron and Hermione aren't trying to 'steal my spotlight,' Malfoy. If they were, I'd let them have it, for Merlin's sake."

"So it is the latter," Malfoy said speculatively. "I do not know who Adam is, but he obviously has not garnered as much popularity as you, Potter. Thus the reference is rubbish."

Harry could not fight a tiny smile forcing his lips; if only Malfoy knew how silly he sounded, ignorant to a universal myth. His pride might combust.

"I do not pretend to know you, Potter, I find solace in you contrastingly." The Slytherin paused and then sighed. "It is quite sadistic of me to find a bit of pleasure in knowing your life is not the well-planned perfection the Wizarding World expects. Makes me feel as if we are in the same cauldron, understand?"

Harry glanced at the blond warily, now standing stalk still. "Did someone smack your head against a wall? Slip something in your morning pumpkin juice?"

Malfoy turned on the railing, leaning his back against it now. His molten eyes were piercing, curious, pretty. The adjective slipped across Harry's mind like a whisper of silk, leaving his spine rigid once more. He did not think the Slytherin git was attractive. Pretty, maybe.

"Why do you think so? Do I seem poisoned?"

"The Malfoy I know, or knew, would happily slit his wrists before admitting we're equal."

The blond smiled, genuinely. Harry racked his memories, trying to remember if he ever saw the git smile. Sneer, definitely. Smirk, perhaps. Grin? Only wolfishly. But smile? Never, which was sad. Malfoy had a nice smile.

"'Knew' is correct, Potter. I am not the same naïve child I was years ago; after this war, I became introspective. I do not pride myself on the boy I once was, nor do I excuse it." Malfoy licked his lips before continuing, a meticulous motion that Harry doubted he was conscious of. "I owe a lot to you, however reluctant I am to admit it."

"It's fine. I don't hold debts."

Malfoy frowned, twitching as if he meant to step towards Harry. He licked his lips again and said, softly, "Perhaps I do not mind being indebted to you, Potter. What if I rather like it?"

Harry was mystified by Malfoy's meaning, if there was one.

"Again, you're assuming to know me Malfoy. I'm not the one to hold debts or grudges or whatever."

The pale brows rose. "If anything, you are parallel to me in holding grudges. Shall I not remind you of the past six years? No – on second thought, I will not. We are cultivating comradery, and I would rather not ruin it. However, the Weaslette…she seems to be the object of an infamous Potter grudge as of late, if I am not mistaken."

"You mean Ginny?" Harry scowled. "We had a falling out, if you must know, but I'm not holding a grudge, Malfoy."

He smirked. "You just avoid her like the plague by chance?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're watching me."

"How can I not?" Malfoy purred, flashing a grin. Fluidly, the blond stepped away from the railing. "You are an interesting character Potter."

"I think I'll take that for a compliment Malfoy. Are you sure no one drugged you?"

Malfoy frowned again, clasping his hands behind his back. He shook his head, cocking it to the side in a way that Harry was sure he knew was flattering. His hair caressed the length of his neck in a silvery waterfall. The sheen of it caught the light of the moon and glittered.

Harry knew if he attempted to console himself by believing the blond was completely unappealing, he would be a bloody liar. It didn't matter if Harry fancied girls or blokes or whichever – the fact of the matter was that Malfoy was pretty and he knew it and was ready to use it to exploitive whatever wicked means he cooked up.

"How did you spend your Valentine's Day, Potter?" Malfoy asked suddenly, probingly.

"I think that's none of your business."

Malfoy smirked languidly. "I suppose it was spent alone, despite the number of willing women you could easily seduce."

"Again with the assuming, Malfoy." At least that, Harry could respond to.

"You did. How misfortunate." Malfoy licked his lips and Harry resisted the urge to throttle him for the action. "On the most romantic day of the year you managed to remain alone, without a decent fuck."

"Maybe that's the problem. I'm not into just decent fucks, as you put it."


Draco hoped to asphyxiate. This was beyond desperation. This was beyond reasonable.

"Is that why you're here, talking to me Malfoy? Are you looking for a festive shag? Thought I was just that easy?" Potter's eyes grew slatted. "You come out here, all contrite and alluring, licking your lips, shifting towards me…. I'm not stupid and I don't appreciate your means of seduc-"

Draco had rushed upon him, forcing the Gryffindor into one of the brick columns. One hand held Potter's collar, the other pinned his waist. The brunet trashed, trying to push Draco away, but the Slytherin had the better leverage. He ground his pelvis into the Potter's, finally stopping his squirming.

"I do not think you are merely easy, Potter. However intricate my thoughts are, however confusing they are, I know for sure you are not easy." Draco's voice was breathless, something he cursed himself internally for. He wanted to sound smooth, planned, as if he was removed from the situation, as if Potter wasn't affecting him with his eyes the size of Galleons. But it wasn't true.

"I've watched you from the beginning, the very beginning of this bloody adventure we have succumbed to in the past. I was the one to test you, to force you. I made you hesitant, Potter, always looking over your shoulder and wondering when the next hex would come. I was your master, goading you into being the powerful wizard you are now. The Dark Lord had no hold over you – he gave you little less than incentive. He was the looming threat at the end of your tunnel, while I was the prat tripping you along the way out of envy and desire."

Potter's opened his mouth to retort before smacking his pouting lips closed. His green eyes remained narrow, gazing warily. On closer inspection, Draco decided that his jade jumper wasn't akin to Potter's eyes – the Gryffindor's eyes were more viridian, like the deepest of forests, where the feet of men never trudged through.

"I've seen you at your height, Potter – beautiful, tantalizing, and powerful…oh so powerful. And now I observe as you walk in shadow, head hung shamefully. At the beginning of this night, up till moments ago, I thought I found pleasure in knowing that your life, like mine, has collapsed, leaving us both vulnerable and raw. I have learned better however. I think that it is no coincidence that you haunted me today, your name brought up several times. Nor do I think it's a convenience that you stand before me, as usual at my mercy.

"I learned Potter…," Draco paused to swallow. "I learned that I want to rebuild you. It's only my right, is it not? I laid claim on you first, before you met Weasel or Granger or even Dumbledore. And unconsciously, I don't want anyone else besides you. Perhaps you corrupted my wand and by proxy it corrupted me. I don't know when these thoughts altered me – it seems as if in the last few moments, but I've known them forever."

Potter frowned, but his eyes were contradictory. Draco tried to decrypt them. They were allusive.

"Are you finally going to allow me to speak?"

Now Draco frowned. "If you so wish it."

"Well, first of all, I didn't think you used contractions, yuhnoe, it's instead of it is-"

Of all the most trivial things to note, this had to be the most. Again Draco cut off Potter, but this time with a forceful kiss. The scent of Potter was heady, musky, like cypress. In contrast, his taste was a sweet and exhilarating peppermint. Draco couldn't stop himself, as he sucked and licked desperately at Potter's lips like a needy whore.

The Gryffindor remained passive against Draco's onslaught of tongue and lips. His hands had somehow managed to slick up to Draco's shoulders where his fingers clenched and relaxed. The pulse of Potter's neck speed rocketed, which was conveniently by Draco's own hand – it reassured him that the brunet felt something. However regretfully, the blond pulled away. He felt more dejected than he had before walking out onto the Astronomy Tower.

Stepping away from the Gryffindor, Draco smirked. The Gryffindor was beautifully debauched, his glasses askew, cheeks pink, lips wet and glistening. His robes were crumpled, outlining a fit form. He looked far more naked clothed than others had in only their flesh.

"Let me finish," Potter said quickly, as if he expected the Slytherin to stop him once more, or better yet, leave (which was what Draco really considered).

"As you wish it," Draco rasped slightly.

Potter kneaded his forehead, where his infamous scar was hidden behind a dark fringe. Malfoy watched with rapt attention. "I don't know if I agree on some of what you said. You don't own me Malfoy. I don't know what you want from me either. But I know what I want… and right now I wouldn't mind your company. But I'm not going to be just a Valentine's one-off, no matter how fancy your words are."

Draco twitched visibly. He should not have been so surprised by Harry's words, yet they were biting. He scowled at himself. What am I becoming? Someone so sensitive I feel squeamish at words I already know?

"You doubt the authenticity of my actions."

"If you want to put it that way." Harry shrugged.

"I want you," Draco said quietly, leaning towards the brunet. The wind picked up and he could smell Potter's cypress scent, making his mouth temporarily water. He was careful not to pounce the Gryffindor as he had afore. "The owning is debatable, but I know I want you, whichever way I can get you. And I can assure you that you won't be 'just a Valentine's one-off.' Holiday be damned, all I want is you."

Potter's eyes grew unfocused at the last statement, his lips thinning. "I'm afraid I can only offer you friendship, Malfoy. If that's what you want."

"That's all you can offer me?" Draco scowled. He would not have minded if he knew it was untrue. "What would you gain from my friendship, honestly Potter? You have Granger and the Weasel. You have your hordes of fans. What are you missing? A lovely blond on your arm who can challenge you in and out of the bedroom."

"You sell yourself short," Potter said with a hollow laugh. "If you think all you can offer me is a nice night, then I don't think we're on the same page."

Draco licked his lips. "So you want more from me? Interesting Potter. If you heeded attention to me, you might have realized that I am not merely offering sex (though I am not adverse to such methods). A relationship… perhaps, in due time. For the moment, I want you to be my lover."

"Then I'm not interested."

The flat out denial wasn't good enough for Draco. No – he needed to be thoroughly rejected. He needed to know if Potter was completely averse to being Malfoy's lover. He reached out and touched Potter's cheek, which felt satiny to his fingertips, and did not meet resistance. In fact, the Gryffindor was surprised.

Draco dragged the pads of his fingers slowly down from the apples of Potter's cheek. Slowly, hesitantly, he dragged his thumb over the corner Potter's lips, which parted under his touch. His respiratory rate heightened. Interesting, the Slytherin thought. For someone not interested, his body is responsive. Maybe if I appeal to a primitive need then he will realize his emotional need.

The questing fingers skirted down to Potter's throat, searching for a pulse. It thrummed violently, as if his heart was trying to escape into Draco's palm.

"Your body says otherwise, Potter," Draco said clinically, as if stating the weather. "You are interested, far more than you are willing to admit."


The touch of Malfoy's hand on his throat was enough to cause a stirring in Harry's groin. He was never touched so intimately – Malfoy probably didn't even know how intimately. The fascination in Malfoy's eyes was enough to cause the warmth running through Harry's blood, but paired with the gentle touch and the Gryffindor feared he was admitting everything.

"Just because I'm responsive to your advances doesn't mean I welcome them," Harry said lamely.

Malfoy smirked, for once without his haughty air. He looked beautiful. "Which is why I meet little opposition?"

Bloody nutter, Harry growled internally. How the hell could he tell this blond no, especially Malfoy of all people? The blond oozed sexuality, sensuality, passion…. He was determined, far more than Godric's famed resolve. And Potter was desirous of romantic company. Ron and Hermione were suffocating with their overzealous relationship, making Harry feel lonely.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" Malfoy asked, cocking his head again in that way that made him seem angelic. "Afraid that in the morning I'll disappear and write a lovely expose for the Daily Prophet? That I'll mock you? You're afraid."

"You wish, Malfoy."

The blond grinned. "Then let me see some of that Gryffindor courageousness." Then his lips were overpowering Harry's again.

Harry tried to remain passive under Malfoy's touch, but it was impossible. His lips were soft, malleable and wet from constant licking. With each movement, a swath of blond hair caressed Harry's cheeks.

A soft moan purred from the back of Malfoy's throat as he pulled away to nibble on Harry's lips. "If I hexed you, you'd hex me back, wouldn't you Potter? Then why is it that you will not kiss me back? Afraid you'll like it? Afraid it'll lead to something more?"

Harry knew that Malfoy was baiting him, but it was working. The hands lying limp at his sides came up to encircle Malfoys neck, one fisting in the git's hair. The blond's eyebrows arched delicately.

"Is this what you really want?" Harry pressed his lips against Malfoy, wanting to bruise. The Slytherin trilled his pleasure in a groan, absolutely fine with the sadistic force. Malfoy probably didn't mind a little pain with his pleasure – he'd probably like to be chained up, bitten…. Harry's thoughts produced an answering whine of desire.

Malfoy pulled Harry closer, and Harry jolted at the feel of the blond's erection stabbing his hip. Stray thoughts flitted through his mind, as he wondered what another man's cock would feel or look like or more outrageously taste like.

This isn't the way I meant to refuse him, Harry shouted internally, trying to find the willpower to push away. I'm not supposed to be doing this. But it was all self-sabotage. He was in too deep now, beyond the point of no return. He couldn't give up the blond no matter how hard he tried.

One of Malfoy's hands travelled down Harry's frame, outlining each curve. He pulled at the Gryffindors robes until they pooled on the floor, leaving Harry in nothing more than his pajamas. As if lured by magnetic force, the blond's lips drew lower with his fingers, now finding refuge in the skin of Harry's neck.

"I really need to stop," Harry panted. The blond chuckled in his neck, nibbling down to the ridges of his collarbone. A hand skirted down Harry's figure and found the erection Harry was trying desperately to hide. Malfoy griped it and chuckled again when Harry gasped, tossing his head back against the column. He temporarily saw stars from the impact.

"We really need to stop."

"Then stop me," Malfoy responded, collapsing to his knees.