A/N: Never thought I'd dare to write a Harry Potter fic, but if I was going to write one, it could only be for Robyn. You are one of the kindest and most giving people I've met, and your support and love have been a huge boost when I've been down. I hope you enjoy this. I was a bit of a wreck writing it. I also hope you have a beautiful day; you deserve it.

Huge thanks to Brie and Mar for their beta eyes and brains, and for holding my hand. And a special thanks to scribeninja, for letting me desecrate her childhood.

This story contains some mild violence, and sex of the m/m variety. If you don't like slash, don't read it, okay?

Oh yeah. JKR owns these guys, I'm just getting them really, really dirty.

The war is over and most of their class has returned for what is jokingly being called their "Eighth Year." The majority of them get along swimmingly, now that old allegiances no longer matter. House rivalry still exists and always will, however, with the exception of a few notable parties, friendships have blossomed. Slytherins, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs all spend time together. In fact, there are more inter-house couples than not, a fact which Hermione loves to pin on the Muggle saying: opposites attract.

Harry looks around the Great Hall, watching as his friends laugh and pair off. As a result of the war, more students than ever before will be staying at Hogwarts for Christmas; they have nowhere else to go. Yet despite this, the mood is ebullient, joyful. Harry's gaze slides to the far side of the Slytherin table, his eyes settling on the shock of platinum blond hair that haunts his days and nights.

"Opposites attract, Harry."

"Shut it, Hermione."

"I see the way you look at him. You're falling for him—"

Harry snorts, his pumpkin juice spraying. "Are you kidding me? We hardly tolerate each other!"

"And I think he feels the same way."

"Merlin, 'Mione, give it a rest would you?" Ron interjects. "Just because you and the ferret are friends now, doesn't mean the rest of us can't still hate the git."

"He's not a git," Hermione chides softly. "You know why he did the things he did."

Ron grimaces as he chews his bacon. "What V- V- what he did while he was in their house . . . I know Malfoy couldn't have refused." He adds quietly, "And I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

Hermione nods.

"But he's still a git."

Hermione throws her hands up in exasperation.

"Harry. Help me, please."

"Don't look at me, Hermione. Malfoy and I fight all the time. Always have. You've seen how we get along."

"Yes, and I see the way you look at each other."

Ron makes a gagging noise, until Hermione's hand swats him on the back of his head.

"I . . ." Harry begins. "I tried, Hermione. At the trials. I tried. He spat at me when I tried to shake his hand. No. It's no use. We can't stand each other and we fight all the time."

Hermione huffs. "Foreplay."

Ron exclaims vociferously.

Harry is strangely silent.

It's been two hours since he's seen Ron and Hermione off. The Weasleys were insistent that he stay with them for holidays, but Harry found himself needing the familiar halls and stone steps of Hogwarts. If he's honest with himself, he'll also admit that he's uncomfortable around Ginny. He knows everyone expects them to get back together now that the war is over, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't think Ginny does either.

If he ever did get together with a Weasley, Harry is pretty sure that it wouldn't be Ginevra.

He thinks about this last summer, after the trials, when everyone was trying to reestablish a normal life. Harry spent his time between Grimmauld Place and the Burrow, not feeling quite at home at either. All of the surviving Weasleys, and Bill's wife Fleur, were at the Burrow, and it was boisterous and crowded.

Harry thinks back about long, lazy days playing Quidditch in the fields by the house, followed by hours sprawled in the sun and swimming in the pond. He thinks about slow, wet kisses and stolen moments, about the slick feel of a mouth on him and the hot slide of a cock in his. He remembers the heart stopping feel of tight heat around him and blue eyes gazing back at him.

Rubbing his hand over his chest, he remembers the sense of loss when Charlie returned to Romania. Soon, Bill and Fleur returned to Shell Cottage, and Harry began to spend more time at Grimmauld Place, immersed in memories and missing the adults in his life that he hardly even knew. He thinks of the nights spent lying on the drawing room floor, staring at the tapestry that showed him the names of people who possibly were his family by blood, and who should have been more to him than enemies.

He continues to walk the halls, past portraits that nod at him and staircases that change directions. A suit of armor turns toward him as he walks past and Nearly Headless Nick greets him warmly. His steps falter as he passes a portrait of Salazar Slytherin. Several of the portraits were moved about during the rebuilding of Hogwarts, and this one brings Harry up short.

Not for the first time, Harry wonders how different his life would be if he'd taken Malfoy's hand that first day on the Hogwarts Express. Would they have become friends? Would he have been sorted into Slytherin, instead of begging the Sorting Hat not to be? Would he have prevented Malfoy from taking the Dark Mark, or would he too have been forced into service to Voldemort?

These are all thoughts that plagued him over the summer while he stared at the Black Family Tree. He traced the lines, his fingers running along the branches and leaves, pausing at the name of the woman who may have been his grandmother, and then running along those of her siblings until they reached Pollux Black, Malfoy's great-grandfather.

Harry clenches his fists as he remembers the nights alone at Grimmauld when blond hair replaced red in his fantasies, and he came cursing and moaning, crying and laughing, one gasp short of hysteria, a hand splayed over his face even while the other continued to stroke and stroke and stroke.

His thoughts are a tangle as he forces his feet to move forward. Moving, moving, always moving. It's what got him through the last seven years, but now time is still. There is no war, no battle, nothing to prepare for except N.E.W.T.S, and those don't frighten him. He wishes they did, because as much as he loves being back at Hogwarts, and as much as he loves seeing everyone safe and happy, he is lost, without a tether. He has spent his entire life fighting—Dudley, Malfoy, the Death Eaters, Voldemort.

It's all he knows.

But now Dudley is a distant memory, the Death Eaters are either dead or in Azkaban, Voldemort's remains smolder, and after all those who survived the war have similarly begun to fertilize this earth, Voldemort's name will be lost and his memory only conjured in whispered ghost stories. Parents will scare their children with folk tales: "Behave, or You Know Who will get you."

Harry startles as he sees a too familiar fair head turn the corner. His feet speed up. So does his heart. He turns the corner, and nearly slams into Malfoy.

"Potter," Malfoy hisses. "Following me? You bored without your Weaslette?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

"Oh, how witty and erudite. What's next? A few more choice phrases?"

"Why are you here, Malfoy? Your parents ban you from the Manor?"

Harry notes the flush in Malfoy's cheek and wants to run his fingers over it, feel the heat of it against his skin, but instead he presses forward. "Or, have they left England, tails tucked firmly between their legs like the cowards they are?"

The words strike home. Harry sees the widening of Malfoy's eyes, just before they narrow. He sees the rise and fall of the Slytherin's chest, as his breathing increases. He tracks a single drop of sweat, as it trails down his neck.

He doesn't, however, see the well aimed punch Malfoy throws at him.

Harry's head snaps back, and for a moment he hears nothing but the ringing in his ears, but then Harry reacts, his instincts honed by years of abuse and trauma. His fists fly, landing with a sickening smack, but moments later he's sucking air as a foot catches him in his stomach. He drops his shoulder and rushes, catching Malfoy in the chest and sending them crashing through a door that had been hidden by a tapestry.

Malfoy's backward momentum is stopped by a high backed chair, and he takes advantage of the distraction to throw an elbow in Harry's direction, catching him across his mouth. Undeterred, Harry grabs Malfoy by his robes and knees him in the stomach, before dragging him across the apparently unused sitting room and shoving him against the wall.

"You bloody fuck," Malfoy pants.

"Shut up! Just shut up, shut up, shut up!" Harry shouts at him, tightening his grip in the lapels of Malfoy's robes.

The Slytherin's eyes go round and large, the quicksilver grey nearly obscured by his pupils, blown wide from adrenalin. Harry watches as Malfoy licks his lips and winces when his tongue touches a fresh cut. Harry's gut churns, and his knuckles turn white from the strength of his grip. Images flicker through his mind, images burned onto the back of his lids, visions of fair skin under his fingers and an arrogant mouth crushed to his.

Then he is doing just that, pressing his lips against that oh-so-arrogant mouth with punishing force, and Malfoy, he resists, until he doesn't, and with a groan his lips part and his fingers fist Harry's hair painfully. Harry can taste the metallic tang of blood, but he doesn't know whose it is, and he doesn't really care.

There is only the exquisite feel of that mouth on his, the tongue sliding against Harry's own, and the rasping of those lips against Harry's jaw. His hands let go of the fabric and move across the Slytherin's body, touching, stroking, finding the hard planes and ridges of his fantasies. Harry presses his knee forward, between Malfoy's legs, and feels the blond's cock, hard and hot against his own thigh, and hears a groan, guttural and needy.

Hands tear at fabric, and Harry's mouth blazes a trail across the pale skin of Malfoy's chest, pausing to slide gently over the faint scars he'd marked him with. He shouldn't enjoy the sight of them, but some primal and possessive place deep in his soul thrills at it. A small voice whispering, mine.

Long fingers deftly unbuckle his trousers and reach into Harry's pants, and as those fingers tighten around his cock, he hisses in pleasure and bucks against Malfoy, grinding against the blond and causing him to whimper with need. The fingers move up and down his shaft, and his mouth is hot on Malfoy's throat, biting when a particularly thorough tug on his prick nearly makes him come.

Harry pulls Malfoy's hands away from him and pins them to the wall, pressing his entire body against the blond, he whispers in his ear, "I'm going to fuck you now."

"Yes," Malfoy hisses in reply.

They make quick work of his shoes, trousers and pants, Harry practically tearing them from Malfoy's body. He casts a lubrication charm, and as he returns his wand to his pocket, he chuckles.

"What?" Malfoy questions, suspicious.

Harry takes his mouth in a bruising kiss, lifting the blond and pressing him against the wall. When he breaks away he says, "That was the first time either of us drew a wand."

Malfoy stares at him and begins to laugh, until Harry begins to press into him and his laugh cuts off short. "Oh fuck," he groans.

"That's the point," Harry retorts.

"Shut up and fuck me."

"Oh, I will." Harry says, but then he stops moving, wanting to savor every second. After a moment he pushes into Malfoy with excruciating and deliberate slowness. He enjoys the feel of velvety heat embracing him inch by agonizing inch, looking down and watching as Malfoy's body accepts him. He's halfway in before he realizes he's stopped breathing.

He pauses.

"You bastard," Malfoy chokes out.

Harry raises his eyes and looks at the Slytherin, at the pink flush on his neck, and the bruise that is rising on his cheek. He sees the bloodied lip and flashing, gray eyes that are burning with a desire all the years of cold arrogance had belied.

Harry grabs Malfoy's hips and thrusts hard, burying himself inside the blond. They both cry out at the sensation, and Malfoy's hands claw at Harry's back, his hips canting to take him deeper. Harry pulls back and slams forward again and again, setting a brutal pace.

Legs burning, he knows that Malfoy's back is going to be a shambles as he slams him against the wall over and over and over. He looks down and sees the blond's cock trapped between them, thick and hard, nearly purple it is so engorged, and it's shiny and slick with pre-come.

"Touch yourself," he commands him. "I want to see you touch yourself."

Malfoy groans as he drops a hand from Harry's shoulder to grasp his prick. He fists himself, hard and fast.

"Fuck," Harry grunts. "Fuck, that's bloody beautiful."

He watches as Malfoy begins to come, coating them both with his release. And Malfoy, Malfoy is stunning as he comes, he is someone else entirely—wanton, feral, and frenzied. His eyes are closed and his head thrashes, his blond hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat and his cheek with blood and his mouth is open, a keening sound streaming forth.


Then his eyes snap open and pin Harry with a look so desperate, that it tears him apart. He kisses Malfoy again, trying to convey the same desperation and desire. His arms wrap around the slighter man, and he lowers himself to his knees and leans back on his heels. Malfoy straddles him and Harry continues to rock up into him.

The Slytherin buries his head in Harry's neck, but Harry tangles his hand in the soft, blond hair and pulls him to his mouth for another kiss, breaking away only to whisper, "Mine," before covering Malfoy's lips with his own once more.

Malfoy's answer is lost, swallowed by Harry's kiss and his own cries as he begins to come, his cock pulsing deep inside the other man. Harry wraps one arm tight around Malfoy's waist, the other around his back, holding him close, pressing their chests together as they catch their breath. His hand rubbing reassuring circles on Malfoy's back.

The blond's head is tucked into Harry's neck, and he can feel warm breaths pant against his skin. He feels, more than hears, Malfoy's whimper when his softening cock slips out. Harry brushes the sweaty hair away from the Slytherin's face, and uses his thumb to tilt the man's jaw up.

Grey eyes stare into his, wary. Harry's fingers wend into the fair hair once more and then fist, holding him tightly in place. "You okay?" he asks.

He can see those calculating eyes trying to regain their normal distance, see the cold mask begin to settle.

"Don't," Harry says, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the corner of the other man's mouth. "Don't run," he tells him, brushing his lips softly over the other's.

He can still feel the tension in Malfoy's frame, the veritable fear coming off of him.

Harry pleads, "You can't . . . I won't let you." Kiss. "Not anymore." Kiss. "You're mine, Draco."

As soon as the last words leave his lips, Harry feels Draco's tension evaporate.

"Yes," the blond replies. Kiss. "Yours." Kiss. "It can only have been you. It's always been you."

Draco laves kisses along Harry's jaw and down his neck, but soon realizes that Harry's shivers are from the cold floor and not him.

"C'mon," he says as he stands, and once again offers his hand to Harry.

Harry looks up at him and with a small smile grasps Draco's hand in his, allowing him to pull him to his feet.

"Let's go find a bed. We've got a lot of making up to do."

"So, we're having make-up sex?" Harry asks with a laugh.

Draco shrugs. "We've spent the last seven years fighting. I think we're entitled, don't you?"

"I think we are at that," Harry agrees.

As they gather their clothes and redress, Harry begins to chuckle.

"What?" Draco asks.

"It's just, Hermione was right."

"She usually is," Draco drawls. "But about what this time?"

"She told me that all of our fighting was, well, foreplay," he answers, blushing slightly.

Draco erupts into a full and deep laugh. "She really is the brightest witch of our age, isn't she?"

Harry pulls Draco close and kisses him soundly again, and when he stops, his voice is low and rough as he says, "Bed. Now."

Draco's only response is to grab Harry's hand and pull him from the room.

a/n: the conversation between Harry and Hermione over breakfast is inspired by/paraphrased from the film "The Cutting Edge." Toe pick anyone?