How it happened was a mystery. One moment they were having their usual snarling fight, spewing personal slurs (pureblood wanker! stupid scarhead!) in a deserted stairwell after hours, and the next they were kissing (kissing!) and taking turns pushing each other against the rough stone wall, nearly falling down the stairs in their frenzy, touching and groping (fucking brilliant groping) and more kissing until they finally pulled away, shock and lust mirrored in each other's eyes.

And now Harry could hardly think of anything else. His mind seemed enmeshed in blond hair, soft skin, hot fingers and hotter lips, drowning in the remembered grey of Draco's eyes. It was Draco now, not Malfoy, because Draco was easier to say when gurgled against Draco's pale throat every time those long, lovely fingers slipped into his trousers to wrap around his cock.

"I think it's a brilliant idea, don't you, Harry?" Hermione asked, shattering his daydream, the one in which he cornered Draco against the cold glass wall in the greenhouse, snogging him until the glass fogged along with Harry's glasses, only it wasn't a daydream, it was a memory and although Harry had several similar memories now, he wanted more. He wanted a memory for every single cell in his brain.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Merlin, what is with you lately, Harry? You walk around in a bloody daze half the time." Hermione's voice was disapproving. Her next words would have something to do with homework, he wagered. "Your Transfigurations marks will suffer if you don't concentrate. Just because this is technically our eighth year of school doesn't mean we can shirk."

"Lay off, Hermione," Ron said in a bored tone. "Can't you tell he's in love?"

Harry and Hermione stared at him.

Ron grinned at them. "Caught you doodling hearts in History of Magic. Pretty obvious, mate. Haven't caught you mooning at any girls, but, yeah."

Hermione's stare would have made a professional interrogator envious. Harry squirmed. "I'd better go study for that Transfigurations exam," he said, shoving his books into his knapsack.

"Harry James Potter," she began.

Ron laughed. "Oh, let him be. He'll tell us when he's ready. You really think this stupid Muggle dance is a good idea?"

Harry paused with one book halfway in his bag. "What Muggle dance?"

Hermione sighed. "Well, being in love would certainly explain your inattention. The dance next month to promote Muggle relations. Everyone will dress up as a character from Muggle culture. There are reference books in the library."

A dance. Harry's mind tripped over itself, imagining himself taking Draco Malfoy. Merlin, they would be a laughingstock. People would faint. Hell, Ron would probably faint. Harry felt a bit faint, himself.

"And for pity's sake, don't forget to ask her this time," Hermione snapped. "Instead of waiting until someone else does."

"Hermione, will you come to the dance with me?" Ron blurted.

Surprisingly, the question made her blush and her eyes went suddenly soft and… well, Draco-like, for comparison, although Harry doubted any of them would appreciate the association. He smiled.

"Yes, Ronald, I will." She and Ron gazed into each other's eyes for a long moment before she shook it off and turned back to Harry. "See how easy that was? Now, go to it. And figure out what you plan to wear."

Harry finished packing up and rolled his eyes. Asking Draco Malfoy to a dance? Not bloody likely. And the Slytherin would probably rather die than dress up as a Muggle character.


Harry's resolve was put to the test at dinner that evening. Draco was eating his pudding, although eating was a relative term, considering the way the bastard fellated his spoon with every bite. His eyes were fixed on Harry as his tongue slid over the metal and his lips turned red from the berries.

Harry was intimately acquainted with that tongue and that tongue was intimately acquainted with Harry. Parts of Harry quivered at the mere memory of that tongue sliding over bits that were currently so hard that the slightest shift was torment.

"Harry, why are you staring at Malfoy? Did he do something? You look like you want to kill him." Luna's voice was mild, as it always was, and Harry forced himself to look away from the blond. Luna had taken to sitting with various friends during meals, instead of sticking with the Ravenclaws, a habit that had been mirrored by many others. Harry sometimes thought about sitting with the Slytherins...

"No, I don't want to kill him," Harry said. Kiss, yes. Kill, no. Not any longer. His eyes were invariably drawn back to Draco, who smirked and lifted the spoon again. It was possible, however, that Draco wanted to kill him with unrequited lust, the sexy bastard.

Harry pressed the heel of his palm to his erection, trying to ease the pressure, and thought about the stupidity of asking Draco Malfoy to a dance.


"We're dressing up as Muggle superheroes," Hermione informed him.

"Look, mate! Aren't they funny?" Ron held up several small plastic figurines. Harry recognized several of them from his childhood, although Dudley's toys usually had limbs missing, or heads melted. Dudley liked to maim his action figures.

"Spiderman!" Harry said as he picked up a red and blue one.

Ron recoiled. "I am never wearing anything associated with spiders," he said adamantly.

"Of course not, Ronald," Hermione said. "You are going as Green Arrow."

Ron perked up and looked at the photograph she handed him. "Oh, I like that! Do I get to use real arrows?"

She didn't bother to answer him as she gave Harry a second photo. "Harry, I think you should go as Batman. The mask will fit well with your need for anonymity."

Harry took the photo listlessly, unwilling to let her know that he didn't plan to attend. He supposed he should at least talk to Draco and find out if he was going at all. Harry brightened. Maybe he could talk Draco into skipping the event and going somewhere else. Like the Prefect's Bathroom…


"Draco," he said breathlessly, thinking he should probably speak while he still could, because soon he would be an incoherent mess.

"Harry. I want you naked this time. I want to see all of you."

Harry nearly forgot what he planned to talk about as Draco's hands tugged at his clothing. They hadn't gone all the way yet, even though every encounter drew them closer to it.

"I want to be inside you," Draco said against his lips as Harry's pants fell to the floor. A broom closet on the fifth floor wasn't the ideal location for the loss of his virginity, but Harry was long past seeking candles and romance. All he wanted was more of whatever Draco would give him.

"Willyoucometothedancewithme?" Harry blurted.

Malfoy's fingers, which had been easing into the crack of Harry's arse, froze. He drew back, eyes wide. "What did you say?"

"Um. You know. We'll be in costume. No one will know it's us."

"You want me to go to that ridiculous dance. With you?"

Harry realized he should have brought it up after they had finished their activities, because Draco seemed to have been derailed from his original purpose. Harry pushed his hand further into Draco's pants, hoping to remind him. "Mmhmm," he hummed. Draco's neck tasted lovely, as if he bought flavoured soap just for Harry.

"You're mental, Potter." Despite his words, he didn't pull away when Harry took hold and began to caress his hard shaft. God, he loved Draco's cock. He loved the length and breadth and feel of it. And the taste, which was even better than Draco's neck.

"I'll be wearing a skin-tight black outfit. With a cape. And a mask."

"Skin tight?" Draco repeated, thrusting into Harry's hand.

Harry nodded, unable to speak as Draco's fingers (finally) remembered their task and pushed in to caress Harry's waiting entrance.

"Turn around," Draco said and Harry obliged, pressing himself against the rough wood of the wall and opening himself wide for Draco, beyond caring how it would look to anyone beyond the triple-locked door. He only cared how it looked to Draco, and that was obvious by the kisses on the back of his neck, and the soft touches, and the unfamiliar but welcome burn as the last holdout to Harry's childhood was willingly given to his former enemy.

"I'll think about it," Draco whispered against his ear just before Harry came.


So it was that Harry stood inside the Great Hall, sweating and nervous beneath the black mask and anxiously twisting the end of the cape.

"He'll be here, Harry," Hermione said, although her voice sounded less than certain. Harry had, of course, revealed the entire story to her and Ron in a fit of near-hysteria the day before. Ron had not, surprisingly, fainted, although he had turned a shocking shade of pale that had made his freckles stand out like dots of blood.

Two hours later, he still hadn't been able to form a coherent sentence, but shortly before they had gone to sleep Ron had managed to choke out five words of reassurance. "Whatever makes you happy, mate." It had been enough for Harry.

But now he was dressed as a Muggle superhero, which didn't feel nearly as bad as it would have if everyone else in the room hadn't been similarly dressed. Hermione looked amazing in her Wonder Woman getup and Ron was happily threatening everyone who looked her way with an assortment of arrows that he had most likely acquired from George. They created flashy pyrotechnics when released from his bow, but dissipated harmlessly before striking their targets. Ron seemed particularly pleased with his tuft of beard and rubbed it frequently.

Seamus Finnigan was dressed as Napolean. Blaise Zabini wore Egyptian pharaoh garb and Pansy Parkinson portrayed Nefertiti, or possibly Cleopatra. Their snake-themed jewellery was fitting. Neville had come as William Shakespeare and seemed to be having a grand time spouting quotes, such as, "Friends, Romans, countrymen! Lend me your ears!" Harry suspected he had imbibed heavily of the Firewhiskey that had been making surreptitious appearances in the glasses of punch crowding the table near the front door.

The room was bedecked in every sort of odd Muggle artefact they could find, from old car parts to broken microwaves to an unlit neon sign that would have said "Sally's" if it had been plugged in. Empty bottles of all sorts hovered in midair just above their heads, advertising libations such as Coca Cola, Fentiman's Ginger Beer, Ribena, and Guinness, clinking together when stirred by a magical breeze. Harry thought the Great Hall resembled an exploded Muggle garbage dump.

"He's not coming," Harry said.

Just then, Draco entered the room, unmistakable even from where Harry lurked. Hermione smirked. "Told you," she said smugly.

"I thought he was planning to come as the Ghost of Christmas Past. From that Muggle book," Harry said.

"He changed his mind," Hermione said. "We've been working on his outfit all day. You should go say hello." Harry was still a bit amazed that not only had Hermione accepted his infatuation with Draco, but had actually sought out the Slytherin to extend an olive branch of friendship.

A single nudge against his ribs sent Harry moving forward, pushing through the crowd, passing Tarzan and Abraham Lincoln, Marie Antoinette, and Gandhi. Finally, he stood before Draco, whose lips twisted into an embarrassed smile.

"I feel like an idiot," Draco said.

"Join the club," Harry muttered. "You, um… look great."

Draco looked down at his outfit and preened. "Well, yes, the god of thunder. Granger insisted I go as the Muggle version, rather than the one from wizard lore. Although the hammer is the same, oddly enough." Draco lifted a heavy-looking mallet.

"I like your boots," Harry said with just a hint of leer.

Draco smirked. "I like your thighs." He flushed and corrected himself. "Tights, I mean. Your tights."

Harry took a step closer and leaned in to whisper in Draco's ear. "I like your thighs, too. Especially when they are in between mine."

Harry drew back and thought the god of thunder looked especially fetching when he was blushing. The winged helmet on his head made him look rather heroic.

"I'm not dancing with you," Draco blurted.

Harry burst out laughing. "We would make an odd sight, wouldn't we? Come on, I don't expect you to. Let's just get some punch."

Even though they didn't dance, or hold hands, or touch each other in any way, it still seemed like a date to Harry, because Draco stayed near him all evening. They had never spent any time talking, always being too busy consuming one another, it seemed, so Harry was surprised to find him a decent conversationalist, full of wry humour and logical insight as they discussed everything from Quidditch to the heinous fur adorning Dean Thomas's Attila the Hun outfit.

Near the end of the dance, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson stopped by. Zabini sneered. "I see your new boyfriend has been monopolizing you all night, Draco. Care to introduce us?"

"I'm Batman," Harry said, deadpan.

Zabini rolled his eyes. "Very funny."

Parkinson frowned. "He's not serious, is he, Draco? You're not really… into boys?"

Harry steeled himself, waiting for the inevitable denial, trying to convince himself it was for the best.

"No, Pansy," Draco replied. Harry winced, in spite of himself. It still hurt, even knowing it was coming. But Draco's next words were a surprise. "I'm into men."

With that, Draco leaned forward and pressed a smouldering kiss against Harry's lips. Pansy Parkinson's shocked gasp restarted Harry's heart and he suddenly felt like singing. When Draco pulled away, Harry couldn't help but grin like a fool. To his delight, he saw Draco mirroring his expression.

"All right, who is it?" Parkinson snarled. She took two steps forward and curled her fist around one of the bat-ears on Harry's hood before jerking it upward with a sharp yank, taking a bit of Harry's hair with it.

"Ouch," he said with a pout. Her eyes went wide.

"Potter?" Zabini asked in a shocked tone.

Harry looked at Draco. "I think now would be a good time to make our exit."

"I agree."

The two of them got to their feet, linked hands, and strode through the crowd. Whispers surrounded them, but Harry didn't care. For the first time in his life, he felt like a hero.


(This tiny fic was written as a pinch-hit for HD Smoochfest on Livejournal.)