A/N: I realize I haven't updated this in nearly a year, but I figured you wonderful folks deserve something for being so patient! Most of this has been written for quite a while, and I finally filled in the bits that I'd left disjointed before; I apologize if you can tell where they are!

Also, a warning - the M rating is seriously warranted for this chapter, people! I think my writing has devolved to the point where I can't write anything un-sex related!

Chapter Three: Attempting Discretion

Things progressed from there, becoming more comfortable with each encounter. Harry still had occasional moments of questioning his sanity in conducting clandestine hook-ups with a Slytherin, but for the most part Flint was keeping him far too entertained to worry about it.

Case in point:

"Where are we going?" Harry asked, glancing around at the myriad of food-themed paintings that lined the corridor. They'd been walking for a good ten minutes now, and he had no clue as to their destination.

"Kitchens. I'm bloody starving."

They followed the corridor a ways. After a few turns and a trip through a secret passage behind a tapestry decorated with galloping centaurs, Flint held up an arm to stop him. Harry stumbled to a halt and shot him an irritated look. A warning might've been nice.

Still scowling, he turned his attention to their surroundings - namely, the painting on the wall before them. A gigantic bowl of fruit was depicted there, jewel-bright paint forming the shapes of bananas and grapes and apples and pears. It was one of the last which Flint reached out to, and Harry watched, bewildered, as he tickled it. His expression grew even more confused as the pear giggled, of all things, and morphed into a door handle.

Flint grasped the handle and pulled. The painting swung outward to reveal the room beyond.

It was roughly the size of the Great Hall - which, if Harry's memory of the route they'd taken was accurate, also happened to be directly above - and just as crowded. Great huge stoves and counters and more cooking utensils than he'd seen in his life were ranged around the room. House elves swarmed like bees in a hive, going about their tasks with unparalleled enthusiasm. He scrunched up his nose. After cooking for the Dursleys (and, therefor, catering to Dudley's insatiable appetite), he couldn't imagine why anyone would enjoy doing so on such a massive scale. Seemed like a giant headache . . . then again, he wasn't a house elf. Maybe they had special cooking magic? He pondered this as he watched a tray of scones float by at eye-level.

Catching sight of Harry's expression, Flint rolled his eyes. There were still moments when Harry's Muggle upbringing shone through, and this was one of them. "Don't look so shocked, Potter. It's just a kitchen." When Harry shot him an incredulous look, he amended, "Okay, a really, really big kitchen. Still."

Before he could reply, a small, floppy-eared elf popped up. Its tea-towel toga bore the Hogwarts crest. "Would Sirs like anything to eat?" it asked, peering up at them with hopeful green eyes.

"Umm . . ." Harry began, glancing over at Flint. He, of course, was too busy eyeing a platter of passing muffins to register the elf's presence.

"Scones? Crumpets? Treacle tarts? Biscuits?" The elf snapped its fingers with each word, causing trays full of neatly stacked baked goods to materialize in mid-air.

"Erm . . . I'll have a treacle tart, I think." The elf looked ready to start listing available flavors, so he rushed out a quick, "Blueberry, please." He elbowed Flint in the side. "What d'you want?"

"What?" Flint turned to find Harry and the excited house elf (who was practically bouncing on the balls of its long, knobbly feet) watching him expectantly. "Oh, finally. Grab me some scones, would you?"

Five minutes later found the two of them out in the corridor again. Now, however, they were both loaded down with enough pastries to feed an army. (Or at least the Weasleys . . .) Flint had somehow managed to get ahold of the entire scone tray, and he was now eyeing them critically. He maneuvered one out from the bottom of the stack - what, was he really that picky? - and took a bite.

"Mmm. Cranberry," he announced, open-mouthed and spraying crumbs everywhere.

Harry just 'mmmed' in reply.

Glancing down at the half-eaten scone in his hand, Flint said, "Y'know, I didn't ask you down here for a trip to the kitchens. I only did that 'cause I was hungry."

"Oh yeah? What did you ask me here for, then?" Harry raised an eyebrow. He'd know all along Flint was working up to something else, but what?

"Well, at first I was hoping for a bit of this-" grinning wickedly, Flint shoved the last bite of scone into his mouth, shifted the tray to his left arm, and reached down to palm Harry's crotch "-but then I realized that, as fun as spontaneous sex in random places is, we might want somewhere of our own." He pressed down a bit more with the heel of his hand. "Did a bit of looking, and I think I found a likely spot."

Harry glanced down at the bulge forming beneath Flint's hand, feeling the blood pooling in his nether regions, and groaned. "Lead the way."

Four stairways, nine corridors, and two "shortcuts" (which in actuality probably lost them more time than they gained) later, they arrived at a nondescript wooden door. Wedged between a threadbare tapestry and a cobwebbed suit of armor, it was adorned with a heavy, old-fashioned handle whose tarnished silver only half-shone under the torchlight.

Flint swung the door open with a bit more flair than necessary. "Have a look, eh?"

Harry rolled his eyes at the theatrics but peered inside obediently.

It was a spacious room, although dusty and no doubt infested with something creepy, disgusting, and/or poisonous. Twenty or so desks - he didn't care enough to take an exact count - crammed the walls. They'd been moved recently, judging from long streaks where the thick layer of dust coating the floor had been disturbed.

He hiked an eyebrow, turning to Flint.

"Nice," he said, and it wasn't entirely sarcastic. Flint had done pretty well, considering some of the other spots he could've chosen. It was basilisk-free, nothing strange appeared to be growing on the walls, and the location was out-of-the-way. It was also a fair distance from the Slytherin Common Room, which meant he wouldn't be accosted in the corridors for "lurking" if he were spotted going to or fro.

Flint directed a self-satisfied smirk at him. "I thought so."

"Needs a bit of dusting. And some furniture, of course."

"Like a bed?" A lecherous grin stretched across Flint's face.

"Yeah, like a bed." He walked further into the room, ignoring the quiet click as Flint closed the door behind them. "Maybe a trunk or a table, too."

"Naturally. We need somewhere to store alcohol." Harry rolled his eyes at that, but Flint just shot him an innocent look. Well, he tried to, anyway. Innocence was tough to fake, and he just didn't have the face for it. Being cute and boyish might've helped, but Flint was eighteen and could no longer pull off cute and boyish (if he'd ever looked it in the first place, which Harry doubted).

Shoving all such thoughts to a deserted corner of his mind - his use of the words "Flint" and "cute" in the same sentence necessitated it - he perched on the edge of the nearest desk. "Worry about the alcohol later," he instructed, putting on his best suggestive face.

Flint advanced 'til he stood between Harry's parted thighs. Curving his hands around Harry's hips, he cocked an eyebrow and said, "I like the way you think, Potter."

Their mouths met, an action fast becoming familiar, and all thoughts of alcohol and interior decorating vanished like wisps of Patronus smoke.

December arrived amidst a flurry of activity. Between Quidditch practices, Christmas shopping, and stealthy hook-ups in what seemed like every nook and cranny of the castle, Harry was constantly on the go.

On the evening of the seventh, however, he made time for a celebration. Flint's nineteenth birthday had crept up with surprising swiftness, and after years' worth of unnoticed birthdays and other personal milestones (the Dursleys really had done a bang-up job of destroying his childhood), Harry wasn't about to let Flint's go unacknowledged.

He sent Hedwig off with a note - Meet me in our room. Ten-thirty. Yours, H - and sifted through his trunk for a decent outfit. Flint wouldn't care what he wore and Harry knew it, but all the same he had a strange compulsion to look nice. The trousers were easy enough: dark denim, moderately slouchy. The shirt, though, he agonized over for a good fifteen minutes. Blue? One of the red ones? But then, he'd always been told he looked fantastic in green . . . .

Finally, he cupped a hand over his eyes and grabbed at random.

He showered and dressed - red shirt, in accordance with the laws of probability - before wandering down to the classroom they'd appropriated for evening meet-ups.

His first action upon arriving was to conjure a mattress atop the chilly stone. Upon more critical thinking they'd decided against permanent furniture in the room - didn't want it to look too lived in if anybody stumbled across it - so conjuring was really their best bet. He'd required instruction from Flint before successfully performing the charm, but within a couple weeks he'd mastered it and was now putting it to good use. No way would he be bruising his knees on the floor; considering how generous Marcus's endowments were, he was counting on there being more than enough pain alreadyfor his tastes.

Bed successfully arranged, he added some fluffy blankets and pillows to maximize the comfort factor, then settled down to wait.

Flint strolled in ten nerve-wracking minutes later. He smiled upon catching sight of Harry and leaned down for a hey-you sort of kiss, surprisingly chaste, like it had been automatic.

"Where's my present, Potter? Don't tell me you're a cheapskate," he joked.

Harry offered up a half-nervous, half-amused smile in response. "It's right here," he said, glancing downward significantly.

Flint's eyes widened momentarily, a slight falter in his usual mask of cool indifference. "You mean-?"

"Yeah." Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair, accidentally making it even more unruly.

Flint shifted back into his personal space in response. "Thank you," he murmured, following the words up with a kiss. His palms stroked Harry's sides, then eventually settled at the small of his back, fingers curled through his belt loops. "I totally take back the cheapskate comment, for the record."

Harry huffed a laugh and then inhaled, drawing Flint's scent - smoke and unidentifiable, spicy cologne - into his lungs. He slid his hands beneath the hem of Flint's shirt - something soft and many-times-washed, if one were to judge by its faded quality - and inched it up over his belly, then his ribcage. He encountered a temporary roadblock once he reached armpit height, but Flint took pity on him and lifted his arms, leaning down and allowing the shorter boy to tug the fabric free.

Once his arms were free, Flint returned the favor. The red shirt was discarded without so much as a glance at it; apparently he hadn't needed to stress over his outfit so much.

Flint circled his arms full around Harry's hips and picked him up with no visible effort, eliciting a surprised grunt. His grin was sharkish as he guided Harry down to the waiting mattress, and it became positively predatory when Harry stretched out on his back and shimmied out of his pants and boxers, tossing them aside.

Flint launched himself after the other boy and straddled him without even pausing to tug his own jeans off.

Harry arched up against the solid warmth of Flint's strong thighs, against the stiff line of his cock straining against denim, and groaned at the sensation of being pinned down by so much hard muscle. "I think you're a bit overdressed," he remarked, prodding at Flint's trouser-clad thigh.

"Not for long, I'm not." Flint's hands dropped to his belt. He stripped, tossing his clothes with little concern for where they ended up, and then resumed his position on top of Harry.

Flint paused then, fully naked with his palms flat against the curve of Harry's spine. "Are you sure?" His voice was strained, as if asking a question because he should, not because he wanted to. The prospect of being rejected didn't sit well, that was plain enough, but the fact that he asked again at all truly decided the matter for Harry.

"Yeah." Harry swallowed back the apprehension lodged in his throat and nodded against the mattress. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He nudged at Flint's thigh with a clenched hand, and the Slytherin was quick to sit up and squirm onto the mattress beside him. Harry rolled onto his stomach and canted his hips up, then dragged a pillow into the circle of his arms, fingers clutching the downy object.

There was a moment of silence, hesitance, where it seemed as if both of them were locked in place. Then, Flint shifted restlessly and spoke again. "No, turn back over."

"What?" Harry faltered, thrown for a loop by the unanticipated request.

"I wanna see your face." Flint's confession was reluctant but genuine.

Large hands migrated down to curl around Harry's hips, urging him onto his side. He went along with it, shifting onto his back and splaying his legs.

Flint knelt between his thighs, rubbing circles along the smooth skin with his thumbs. Callused hands trailed over pale skin and soft hair, and Harry shivered at the light touch.

Flint leaned away briefly to grab his wand from the pocket of his jeans, then murmured a spell, wand tip aimed at his palm. He tossed it aside and crawled back between Harry's parted thighs, still in the act of warming the freshly-conjured lube by rubbing his fingers together.

He reached down and circled Harry's entrance with a careful, well-lubed finger before easing it in up to the first knuckle. Harry sucked in a breath like he'd been punched, but more from the eeriness of the sensation than any sort of discomfort.

Bolstered by the lack of negative response, Flint worked the finger in further. He turned and crooked it several times before adding a second digit.

Harry tilted his head back and moaned as Flint scissored his fingers and pressed deeper. He rocked himself down against the two steadily moving fingers, breath hitching at the burn and stretch. The pads of Flint's fingers brushed against something that sparked inside him, drawing an involuntary groan.

It served to encourage the older boy, who leaned down and mouthed at the patch of skin below his ear as he continued to twist and stretch and press, opening Harry up with slow movements and the patience (but certainly not motives) of a saint.

"More," Harry gritted out after a few minutes more.

Flint responded with a third finger and the sudden wet heat of a tongue swiping over his nipple. Harry just barely turned the high-pitched moan that wanted out into a hiss.

Finally, Flint removed his fingers with a wet squelch, stroked them over his cock a couple times, and de-lubed them on the blanket. He snatched up his wand and uttered a protective spell, his voice so full of gravelly want that it set Harry ashiver.

"Oh, Gods," Flint groaned as he grasped Harry's sides and rocked his own hips forward. The blunt head of his cock inched past the tight ring of muscle, and he forced himself to pause there, to let Harry adjust.

As soon as he got the go ahead, though, he was pressing forward, sliding until he was buried to the hilt. His movements started out slow and careful, ginger almost, but then increased in pace with each thrust until he was all but slamming home each time, drawing gasps and moans and grunted encouragement from Harry each time he hit the right spot deep inside.

It wasn't long at all before his hips lost their rhythm, jerking erratically; Harry followed suit a moment later, spurred on by Flint's climax.

He pulled out and collapsed in a sweaty heap beside Harry's sprawled form, who then squirmed around 'til he was face-first against Flint's chest, an arm draped possessively across the Slytherin's taut stomach.

"Merlin, you're attractive," Harry murmured, somewhat muffled; his face was currently mashed against the older boy's pec, making speech difficult.

"Wait - you think I'm attractive?" Flint arched an incredulous eyebrow. He grabbed hold of the blanket, grimacing as his hand touched a smear of lube on the fabric, and dragged it over top of them both. "Have you been drinking, or did the sex break your brain?"

"Is it really that hard to believe?" Harry shot him a vaguely affronted glare, but it looked more petulant than anything what with his hair an even bigger mess than usual and his eyes sleepy-lidded and almost catlike.


Harry sighed, warm breath puffing over Flint's skin. "Someday I'll make you believe it."

Flint hmmed in response. "We'll see."

After that, their encounters grew more frequent.

They had their classroom and used it frequently, in fact, but there was something to be said for sex in unusual places. One of the greenhouses, the Owlery (in the dead of night, of course), and several bathrooms were all christened in the first two weeks, and that wasn't even taking their dorms into account.

They favored Harry's room since his roommates were more likely to be procrastinating in the common room than doing anything, innocent or not, up in the dorm. Besides that, Flint's roommates were a bit whorish. Not surprising, considering they were all red-blooded males, not particularly ugly, and possessed rudimentary, if unrefined, social skills. "Performing" grew difficult when random moaning - sometimes masculine, sometimes not - could be heard from the next bed over, though.

It was for these reasons - well, and the fact that a real bed in a warm environment was infinitely more comfortable than a bathroom stall or their mattress in a cold, dusty classroom - that they found themselves on the four-poster in Harry's dorm.

Harry was lying on his back, hands fisted tightly in the bed sheets while Flint, stretched out on top of him, teased him mercilessly. Flint's mouth was hot and spit-slick against his hip bone, using heat and suction and just a hint of teeth to drive Harry completely, absolutely insane. All he wanted to do was grab Flint by the back of the neck and shove his head a couple inches further south, make him put that devious and talented mouth to good use.

Even as he gave in to his desires and lifted a hand to rest it on Flint's head, though, a sharp pounding - fist against ancient, heavy wood - rattled the door.

"Hey, mate, let me in! I need my chess set!"

He opened his mouth to yell something back (what, he hadn't decided yet) but all that came out was a rather embarrassing moan.

"Harry! C'mon!"

Suppressing another moan and hoping to Merlin something equally mortifying - a declaration of love, maybe - wouldn't come spilling out, he yelled, "Just a minute!"

The redhead huffed impatiently, but Harry's attention was already being diverted back to the matter at hand - the spit-slick swirl of Flint's tongue along the "v" of his lowered zipper. He groaned, reaching down with the hand that wasn't fisted in the sheets to grab hold of Flint's hair.

Ron pounded on the door again. "I'm serious, mate! Open up or I'm coming in!" There was a pause, and then, "You'd better be decent. Alohamora!"

The lock clicked open, and with a muted but heartfelt, "Fuck!" Flint threw himself off the mattress and rolled under the bed.

Just in time, too; Ron came tromping in and froze at the sight of an even-more-disheveled-than-usual Harry sprawled out on his bed, shirtless, trousers unbuttoned.

"Merlin, Harry. Warn a bloke next time, huh?" Ron exclaimed, shaking his head. He fetched the box housing his Wizard's Chess set from the floor, collected the errant chess pieces on his nightstand - "Oh, I say! How rude!" one of the knights yelped as he was swept into the box - and trooped out of the room again with a quick wave.

The door swung shut behind him and locked with a click.

Harry and Flint both lay still for a moment, frozen in place as they strained to hear Ron's retreating footsteps. Finally, once Ron's departure had faded into silence, Flint peered out from under the bed.

"All clear?" he confirmed, glancing around as if to make sure none of Harry's other roommates were lurking in the corners.

"Yeah, we're good," Harry sighed. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Mmm. You can make it up to me," Flint said, leering at him. "I've got somethin' in mind." He squirmed out into open space, then paused a moment to dust himself off. This dusting, oddly enough, included pressing a palm against the pronounced bulge in his trousers. After a moment, he re-situated himself on top of Harry's spread thighs and leaned in for a kiss.

Harry tried to follow him up when he pulled away, but Flint hopped to his feet without allowing it.

"Later, Potter," he said, and was out the window, hunched low over his Nimbus 2000 and battling the window on his way groundward, before Harry could drag him back and make him reconsider leaving.

Later that night, sprawled out on the mattress-bed with pillows and blankets and each others' sticky-sweaty-spent bodies, Flint pitched his oh-so-brilliant Idea. (Yes, with a capital 'I'.)

"We should do it in the shower."

Harry squirmed out from under the forearm draped across his stomach, elbowing Flint in the ribs in his hurry to sit up. "What? No. Uh uh. No bloody way."

Flint blinked, taken aback by the vehemence with which he spoke. "So, that's a 'yes', right?"

"No, it's a 'no'. As in 'no bloody way, you barmy lunatic'. Have you gone completely 'round the bend?"

Flint shifted position, a serpentine contortion taking place as his torso twisted sideways, but his hips remained flush against the mattress. He propped himself up on one elbow, threading his fingers through sweaty, sex-tousled hair, and when he met Harry's eyes, his gaze was steady. Aggressive, even, in its intensity. "Come on, Potter. You're not scared, are you? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to have balls."

"Fuck you," Harry said, but the anger in his voice was mostly feigned. A single, unimaginative jab at his Gryffindor pride wasn't enough to ignite his temper. Not coming from Flint, anyway, whose poking and prodding of his House affiliations had been thorough and no longer phased him.

"Well, you could, I guess," Flint drawled. "Right now, though, I'm more interested in buggering you up against a wall. Soaking wet. With the spray pounding down on our shoulders." It was a tempting image, Harry had to admit, and obviously one Flint had been fantasizing over for quite some time. Still . . . no.

Flint shifted his weight onto the hip furthest from Harry and planted his other foot on the mattress, spreading his thighs suggestively. Further incentive, as it were. Harry's eyes were drawn to the spectacle. He licked his lips, a purely subconscious gesture, before replying, "As wonderful as that sounds, my answer's still no."

"Remember when your redheaded friend - Rod or something, wasn't it? - barged in on us? And I said you could make it up to me?" Flint slid a hand under Harry's chin and steered his gaze upward, forcing the younger boy to meet his eyes. "This is what I want."

"Convincing argument," Harry murmured, leaning closer. Their breath mingled, mouths scarcely an inch apart, as he rested his forehead against Flint's. He retreated after a moment, though, and added, eyes dancing, "But you'll have to do better than that."

"Tease." Flint's tone was fond, if a bit accusatory.

"Nah," Harry said. "This is being a tease." He darted in and grazed his teeth over Flint's kiss-swollen lower lip. His tongue soon followed, soothing the aggravated flesh.

Flint growled at him playfully. It reverberated low in his throat, like a rumble of thunder. "At least consider it," he said, refusing to be distracted.


"But-" Flint protested. Or tried to, anyway. Harry cut him off almost before the first word left his mouth.

"No. And if you keep harping on about it, you won't be getting anything, let alone in the shower!"

Flint snapped his mouth shut at that, and though his expression was far from pleasant, he didn't dare continue. Y'know, just in case Harry wasn't bluffing. He did have a sex drive, after all, and he wasn't about to put it in a position of not being attended to.

When Flint set his mind to something, he usually got it.

This was achieved through a variety of methods, most of them devious in ways only a Slytherin could (or would) consider. Sometimes he would ask, sometimes he would demand, sometimes he'd even beg. The last happened rarely, though. Flint was brash and proud, not the submissive type, and never, ever, not-in-a-thousand-years would he venture so far from his comfort zone.

When asking or demanding failed, he resorted to Plan C. (Begging was Plan D, only to be used after all other options were exhausted.) Plan C often consisted of strategically placed hints (in blatant fashion, since Harry was a bit unobservant and tended to miss anything subtle).

One such hint now lay on Harry's bed, having been unearthed from its hiding place inside his pillowcase. Flint had chosen the perfect spot - out of sight, but still somewhere Harry couldn't possibly miss it. When he'd settled down to sleep, he'd noticed it right away. He'd removed the offending object and fumbled his wand off his nightstand to cast a quick Lumos. Then he'd laid there for the next ten minutes, staring, mesmerized, at the "hint".

It was a picture.

More specifically, it was a picture of the Slytherin boys' communal shower room.

Dark green curtains had been arranged around the shower heads that dotted the walls, forming separate stalls. The floor sloped, angling down towards the drain in the center of the room. One curtain, the nearest one, had been graffitied extensively. It depicted a large figure pinning a smaller one to the wall, big hands boxing in narrow hips. It was obvious who was meant to be who. The smaller figure bore a scribble of dark ink to signify unruly hair, and a lightning bolt had been sketched on its forehead.

The level of detail was remarkable. Flint had pulled out all the stops, even going so far as to animate the drawing. The two ink figures rocked together, moving in a jerky rhythm that left no doubt as to their activities.

Despite himself, Harry was impressed with Flint's drawing skills. Everything was in proportion, and all the body parts looked like body parts. What Flint lacked in intellect, he seemed to make up for in artistic talent.

Flint could be as artistic as he wanted, he supposed, so long as he'd gotten rid of that damned drawing once he'd taken the picture.

This wasn't the first shower-related "hint" he'd received. A couple days after Harry's nixing of the shower-sex idea, he'd come back from dinner to find a neatly folded bath towel waiting at the foot of his bed. Two days later, there'd been a Quidditch Quarterly clipping tucked into his Transfiguration book - the new Puddlemere United shower facilities, according to the text underneath. Unfortunately, there hadn't been any Quidditch players in sight, let alone any naked ones.

Now, two days after the last attempt, Flint had stuffed a picture in his pillowcase. How the hell was he doing it? Flying up and climbing through the window during class hours?

Each attempt had been more graphic than its predecessor, proof enough that Flint was growing impatient. Or getting desperate - there wasn't a whole lot of difference, not when it came to him.

Well, there was nothing to do but sleep on it. (The idea, not the picture. That would be a bit uncomfortable.) After stashing the picture in the DADA book on his nightstand and extinguishing his wand, Harry squirmed back under the covers and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.

The next morning, Flint caught him halfway between Charms and Potions. Tugging him into an empty alcove so they wouldn't be seen together - Merlin forbid anyone discover they were on speaking terms, let alone screwing on a regular basis - Flint looked at him, expression blank as stone. His eyes, on the other hand, sparked with eagerness. "So?"

"So what?"

"You know what."

"Not really, no."

Flint shot him an irritated look. "Don't bullshit me, Potter. Did you even consider it?"

"Of course I did," Harry said, and it wasn't a lie. He tilted his head back to meet Flint's eyes. "It's too risky."

"In what way, exactly?"

"Oh, I dunno," Harry snapped. "Maybe someone fancies a wash and walks in on us buggering? Or you slip and break your neck? Hell, maybe I slip and break my neck?"

Flint groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. He took a deep breath to rein his temper in before speaking. "Those thrice-damned Muggles ruined you, Potter. See, there's this little thing called 'magic', which you obviously aren't taking into account. Ever heard of Silencing Charms? How about No-Slip Spells?"

Harry raised his chin stubbornly. "How are those gonna help if someone walks in, though? I don't suppose my Cloak is waterproof."

"Curtains. There are curtains, Potter. Nobody will see. Nobody will hear. Nobody will be any the wiser. When we're done, you toss that nifty Cloak of yours on and follow me out the door. Simple as that."

Harry blinked in bewilderment, mostly because Flint had just used the word 'nifty', but also partly because, when phrased like that, Flint's idea didn't sound like total lunacy. It had the potential to turn into a huge, horrendous, traumatizing disaster, but there was also a slim possibility that it might work. (And, y'know, not horribly humiliate any involved parties.)

Flint took his silence as permission to gloat. "Doesn't sound so barmy now, does it? If you'd just let me explain when I asked the first time, we wouldn't have wasted all this-"

Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He liked Flint, he really did, but sometimes he had a tough time recalling why.

"-could've been fucking in the shower instead of bickering like an old married couple!" Flint shut his mouth with a snap. "Oh, gods. 'Old married couple'?" He shuddered, then asked, "So. Is that a yes?"

Silence. If he opened his mouth, Harry had a distinct feeling he would regret it.

"Please?" Flint put his best kicked-puppy face to use - if you could call his squinty-eyed, slightly crooked pout an expression a puppy would make, that is. Maybe a pitbull puppy, or a rottweiler. Something mean-looking with big teeth.

It was rather pathetic, but Harry caved nonetheless. Heaving a sigh, he said, "Fine."

Flint's struggle to look impassive was obvious even to Harry, and after a beat of strained silence, he gave up. "Yes! Finally!I thought you'd never give in!" Flint leaned in to kiss him, swift and hard with plenty of tongue. Pulling back after a moment, he said, "Go on, then, or Snape'll skin you alive. I'll see you tonight. Our spot at eleven?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, sure." Then he was off, sprinting so he wouldn't be late for Potions. Professor Snape despised tardiness, and he despised Harry even more-so. Combining the two might just cause him to snap.

He never looked back, and therefore missed Flint's brief victory dance - more of a quick jig, really - before he sauntered off in the opposite direction.