Damn, it feels good to post something – it sure has been a while. Work swallowed me up, and I've been woefully late at finishing this birthday fic for my dearest venis-envy. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Goes from the start of the Sectumsempra scene (ch. 24, HBP) and deviates from there.

Huge thanks to the newlywed bsmog who still found time to beta for me.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property ofJ.K. Rowling. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. *sigh* Why don't I own Harry and Draco? Anyone?

*** For my venis-envy – a wonderful writer, a good friend to me and all round fucktacularly fantastic person. I love her from the bottom of my filthy, twisted little heart. ***

"No one can help me," said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. "I can't do it...I can't...It won't work...and unless I do it soon...he says he'll kill me..."

Harry is frozen to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from the sight before him. Draco Malfoy's hands are at either side of the filthy basin, and he's shaking and crying in a manner most unlike him. He wonders what Voldemort is making Malfoy do, and surmises it must be more terrible than he had previously assumed. He's tempted to slip out quietly and just save this moment – not even divulge it to Ron and Hermione, but save it for the opportune time. For any time when Harry might need leverage over Malfoy. Unfortunately, he's spent too long thinking and time is not on his side. Seconds later, Malfoy looks up and catches sight of Harry in the cracked, dusty mirror above the sink.

Draco is instantly hit by a wave of shame, followed by a torrent of violent rage that creeps up his whole body and engulfs warning, he draws his wand, not even knowing what he's planning to do, but doing it anyway. He's trembling with fear and revulsion and a deep shame that of all people who might have come into this horrible old bathroom, that it would be Potter. But then, it's always Potter who never seems to leave him alone these days. Wherever Draco goes, he has the feeling that he's being surveyed, watched. Perhaps it's just that he's becoming increasingly paranoid these days about being caught when he's up to no good. Potter always seems to know where he is, though. Draco wonders if it has something to do with that stupid map that Snape has deplored so many times. But right now he doesn't care about any of that. Right now he's so angry he could hex Potter into oblivion.

He senses a non-verbal jinx and flicks his wand deftly, blocking the spell even as Potter aims it at him. Sighing, Draco makes no move to counter it, deciding he's tired of this. It would be a lot more fun to question Potter. The boy had always been enthusiastic, and - Draco suspects - impetuous and over-emotional at times. Harry Potter was always easy to wind up, and today would be no exception.

"What the fuck do you want, Potter?" he hisses.

"Ooooh! You're arguing," Moaning Myrtle observes gleefully.

"Get out of here, Myrtle," Draco says lazily, never taking his eyes off Potter. "Potter and I are going to have a little talk, and I'd rather you weren't listening."

"Well fancy that, how rude!" Moaning Myrtle replied indignantly, her voice becoming increasingly high-pitched. "And there was me thinking you weren't like other boys!" With an ear-splitting wail, she vanished down the nearest toilet with a splash.

The silence that follows her departure is deafening. Harry hears nothing but the sound of his heartbeat roaring in his ears, and the occasional drip from a broken tap.

"Apologies for stumbling in on your little heart-to-heart with Myrtle," Harry tells Malfoy, and his barely-concealed hatred is evident in every word.

"Don't make assumptions about things you don't understand," is Malfoy's brusque reply, and though his wand is still aimed at him, Harry watches his shoulders sag. There's an unexpected vulnerability to Malfoy in this moment that's simultaneously shocking and intriguing. Harry wonders if Malfoy ever allows anybody to see him like this. It gives Harry an odd sense of power and privilege. And at the same time, he's wondering why neither of them has hexed the other into oblivion yet.

Draco watches, strangely transfixed as Potter clears his throat, still blinking rapidly and takes a step forward. He draws himself up to his full height, wand still held aloft, and Draco is suddenly struck by the fact that Potter looks...powerful, and strangely enough, more than a bit attractive. He's reminded of the fact that he's always seen him as a worthy adversary, even though he'd rather die than admit that to anyone. Especially to the man in question. Irritating, do-gooder Potter who always involves himself in things he shouldn't.

Despite what Draco told Moaning Myrtle just a moment ago, he isn't really sure why he's keeping Harry here. Adrenaline is coursing through him, magnified by his unadulterated hatred for this boy in front of him –the boy who always seems to get in the way of things.

Briefly considering what his next step will be, Harry decides to make a bold move.

"I'm just wondering who's going to kill you," he blurts out, immediately wishing that he were a more subtle person. Naturally, he knows who it is, but the aim is to rattle Malfoy and it seems to be working.

The already pallid face drains of colour even further, and pink spots appear on Malfoy's cheeks.

"That would be none of your business, Potter," Malfoy replies in a soft, dangerous voice that makes Harry straighten his wand arm, keeping his wand firmly pointed at Malfoy's chest. "Run back to one of those little admirers of yours. I hear Romilda Vane's quite the hellcat."

Now it's Harry's turn to blush. He isn't quite sure why, but there's something about the fact that it's Malfoy needling him about girls.

"Although I suppose the weasel girl's more your type."

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy," Harry mutters, losing patience. "I could easily run off right now and tell the whole school that you were bent over the sink crying like a little girl."

"But you won't," Draco replies confidently, and Harry doesn't miss that he takes a step closer, and that the hand Malfoy's wand is clutched in is clearly shaking.

In spite of everything he knows, Harry is filled with a sudden pity for Malfoy. What is it that Voldemort is making him do? In some ways, they are one and the same. Overburdened, the weight of the world on their shoulders and little guidance on the long, hard roads that they must take. Malfoy chose a different path to him – one of darkness and destruction. But then, Harry wonders, would he be any different had he been raised in a family of Death Eaters?

Of course he's still an utter git, Harry hastily qualifies in his head. There's no use getting ahead of himself and imagining that somewhere under all that evil and deceit, Draco Malfoy could possibly be a decent human being. No use at all, really.

"Won't I?" Harry says carefully, looking up into sharp grey eyes and a face that, besides its angry expression, is drawn with pain. It's the hollow look of a boy who's trapped, constrained by circumstances beyond his control and a birthright of great and terrible power that he probably never really wanted. "Give me one good reason."

He has half a mind to just come out with it and ask Malfoy what the fuck he's up to in the Room of Requirement, but then, that's unlikely to work. Harry is often reminded (usually by Hermione) that subtlety is not one of his strong points, and that's more relevant here than ever.

He's wrong-footed when Draco doesn't reply, but simply steps forward so his face is inches from Harry's. He smells clean and masculine and just a little bit like desperation. The room's light is dim, and those silver-grey eyes are piercing as they focus on Harry. Harry realises that at some point in the past minute or two he's lowered his wand, but he doesn't even care. He can feel Malfoy's slow, shallow breaths blown from between his lips, and he's close enough to aim a jinx at. Close enough to touch. Close enough to...kiss?

Long, thin fingers wrap themselves around the back of Harry's neck without warning, and he shudders. Not from revulsion, though, but from wanting something to happen. Quite what that is, Harry isn't sure, but he's almost certain that he wants this something more than he's ever wanted anything before. His heart's hammering like a bass drum, embarrassingly loud, and he wonders whether Malfoy can hear it. It turns out that he needn't have worried about that, of course, when next second Malfoy's lips press to his with the lightest touch.

Harry knows that he shouldn't be doing this. Firstly, he's never even thought about Malfoy in this way – in fact, he's never been attracted to any other boys. Aside from that even, he's kissing someone who's attempted to murder others, whether inadvertently or not. Everything about it is so deliciously wrong, right down to the way that they're tugging at each other's robes and hair. It suddenly hits Harry that he's kissing Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

That revelation doesn't bother him like it should – in fact, he pours even more enthusiasm and intensity into the kiss, spurred on by Draco's soft moans into his mouth, his lips that are gentle yet rough all at once. His mouth, so hot and wet, the silky hair Harry's fisting his hands in that smells like oranges, lemons and – strawberries? He almost snorts at the idea that Malfoy uses some ridiculous fruit salad shampoo, but there's little space in his brain for anything else than this kiss right now. Harry's roughly pushed up against the sink before he can even protest, and he responds by yanking at Draco's hair hard enough to hurt, dragging him closer. In seconds, Draco's lips are on his once more and their tongues push against one another, hot and insistent.

Draco moves his other hand to Harry's hair, running it through the messy, sticking-up strands. It's all askew, as Potter's hair always is, and Draco wonders – not for the first time – why it just won't stay down. It's always irritated him, and it's continuing to do so right now when it's getting in the way of him kissing Potter. There's nothing dignified or careful about what they're in engaging in right now, but perhaps what makes it so absorbing for them is the forbidden nature of the activity.

Draco ignores the little voice in his head that's telling him he shouldn't be doing any of this as his fists grab at handful's of Potter's robes. There's nothing but their heated breaths, the wet sounds of the kiss and the squeak of shoe soles on the waterlogged floor.

Harry realises his socks and shoes are soaked through and is faintly disgusted, but he forgets as Draco shifts in further and and grips the edges of the sink, ignoring the icy sensation of the broken tap that's dripping onto his wrists. Draco's hands close round his wrists, pinning them to the sink, and a twisted grin appears on his flushed face. For one terrible moment, Harry thinks that this has all been a sick joke and Malfoy's going to pull the same trick on him as he did on the Hogwarts Express at the start of the year. Or perhaps he's going to make up a story all about Potter being gay and trying to come on to him. Harry inwardly cringes. The Cedric Diggory Potter-you-rotter stuff back in fourth year had been bad enough. He's fairly sure nobody would believe this story, but he has enough on his plate without Slytherin taunts, especially with the match coming up in a few days.

What would Ron or Hermione think? And Ginny? Guilt burns hot in Harry's chest as he remembers the different way he's been thinking about Ginny lately. He reasons to himself that this is nothing to do with her, though – just venting anger and frustration at the one person who could probably understand it.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he mutters, frustrated and nervous all at the same time, but Malfoy only laughs.

"Maybe I just like the control," Draco replies glibly, leaning forward to lick a stripe down Harry's neck in a way that makes him shudder in both pleasure and fear.

Draco has no idea why he's suddenly pinning Potter to the sink, but he enjoys the power he's exercising right now. It's a heady mix, all the hurt and uncertainty around them and their utter hatred of each other combining to make some fucked-up attraction to one another. The knot of shame twists in Draco's stomach yet again and he's filled with the desire to do something that will make Potter forget all about that pathetic display of emotion he saw earlier.

Draco is struck by the intimacy of the moment, and he doesn't like it one bit. Potter's - okay, Harry's - green eyes are locked on his, and he actually looks really fucking hot. Fuckably hot, even, Draco thinks to himself, if he were the type of person to think such things. Messy hair even more askew than normal, a surprisingly hard, toned body that's pressed into his and lustful green eyes. With a cool confidence that surprises neither of them, Draco reaches up purposefully and yanks Harry's glasses off his head, deftly putting them in his pocket.

"I'm blind as a bat now, you git," Harry protests, twisting his hands so now he's the one holding Draco's wrists, keeping him here.

"Shut up," Draco mutters, and kisses him roughly again. The sleeve of his robe has ridden up above his left wrist, but he doesn't notice until it's almost too late.

Harry unfortunately does notice, and lets his fingers carefully clasp the edge of the sleeve. He slowly and stealthily pushes at the fabric, afraid to see what he knows might be there.

"No," Draco hisses, forcefully tugging the sleeve back down. It's a move which only fuels Harry's speculation that beneath the swathes of fabric, a dark, evil brand is set into milk-white flesh. He knows he could easily push the sleeve up by force and expose Malfoy for everything he is, but something stops him. It could be the scent of his hair, or the taste of those lips that makes him feel near-intoxicated. Harry wonders briefly whether Draco has any Veela ancestry, and whether that could explain his bizarre attraction, but then decides against it. There are more important things.

Harry's grip on the white hands loosens, but neither of them moves. There's no need for either to keep the other there by force anymore. Pulling back for a moment, Harry appraises Draco and rather likes what he sees. Silver-blond hair uncharacteristically mussed beneath eager fingers, lips pink from his kisses, and even a tinge of blush on those ghost-pale cheeks.

The kiss is deep and wet and so absorbing that McGonagall and Snape and Dumbledore could be watching and neither of them would even can't even be ashamed that he's kissing his worst enemy, and worse – enjoying it. There's a quiet groan that could have been either of them, and Harry becomes aware that their hips are shifting together. In that same moment, he also becomes aware that he's achingly hard in a way that he's never been when thinking about anyone else. Not even Ginny.

Harry resolves to forget everything else, concentrating only on the warm movement of Draco's tongue with his and the firm, confident hands in his hair. Harry trails his own fingers over Draco's back, digging his nails in to pull him ever-closer. He feels Draco's cock press against his, slowly and deliberately, and all the breath is knocked from his body. In that instant, he loses all willpower to prevent...whatever's going to happen, and decides he doesn't even care. He doesn't care what Malfoy thinks, because it's blindingly obvious that he wants this as badly as he does.

"You want me," Harry remarks, nipping at the outer curve of Draco's ear which causes him to shudder pleasantly. Unfortunately, he tenses after Harry's statement.

"No," he spits, and his voice is pure Malfoy ice. "I just needed...something. You were there."

Not a bad answer, really, Harry decides, considering that's the way he's rationalised this to himself. He isn't in the slightest bit offended, and when he leans into Malfoy's lips again, there's no protest. Hips push and slide as their fabric-covered cocks press together, no amount of closeness ever feeling like it's enough. Hands roam over taut shoulders, backs and move to stroke wrists. The tension in Harry builds slowly and deliciously as they kiss and touch and grind against one another. Draco's cock gives one more firm thrust against his, and then Harry's body shudders with a climax that sweeps away loathing and fear and hurt, leaving waves of hedonism and pleasure he so rarely lets himself experience. A deep groan in his ear lets him know that Draco's followed him right after, and they continue to move against each other slowly until their combined release has ended.

Harry feels a warm stickiness spreading across the front of his jeans, and for a moment, he allows himself to feel ashamed. Quickly, he wraps his robes around himself so as to conceal it, and as he looks over at Draco, catches him doing the same.

Correction: Malfoy, says the petulant voice inside Harry's head. Yes. Malfoy. First-name terms were only appropriate during that encounter, something Harry feels they'll both probably regret later. Except he can't feel anything besides a peace he hasn't experienced in forever. The irony that he should feel peaceful with Malfoy isn't lost on Harry, but he still takes the opportunity to bask in it.

Malfoy's leaning on the edge of the sink beside him, his breaths coming quick and fast. There's a satisfied, lazy smile on his face, but it quickly fades when Harry meets his eyes. The pointed face frowns, smoothing back into its usual tension.

"Don't even think about telling anyone about this, Potter. It changes nothing."

Harry laughs, but it comes out more like a bark. "Please. Do you think I'd tell anyone that you and I...?"

"Rita Skeeter would have a field day," Draco observes dryly, and Harry bites the inside of his cheek in an effort not to laugh. Under no circumstances must he let Malfoy know that he ever finds him amusing.

"I wish you weren't doing this," Harry blurts out, and Malfoy turns, his eyes narrowing.

"I don't think you'll ever understand what family honour means, Potter," Malfoy spits, and the hatred he'd cast aside for that short while is back. "You've never had the burden of it." His hands are trembling, and it's obvious that he's barely holding himself together. With that, Malfoy bangs out of the bathroom, robes billowing behind him.

Anger burns hot on Harry's cheeks, and all at once he remembers everything he hates about this cowardly, snivelling boy. His wand twitches, but then he reminds himself that Malfoy's not worth detention, especially not when it could jeopardise Harry's chance to play in the upcoming match. A sense of utter failure washes over him. He's failed to find out what Malfoy is up to, and he didn't even manage to get in a hex for good measure.

There's a splashing sound, and a disembodied voice that sounds as if it's coming from the depths of a toilet u-bend speaks. "Well, I really don't know what to make of all those odd noises I heard just a minute ago. Perhaps I was dreaming."

"Ever wanted to die twice, Myrtle?" Harry replies, and a ghostly wail answers him, followed by another large splash as Myrtle disappears from the bathroom once again. He's sure she got the message.

Wiping the fogged mirror with his sleeve, Harry puts his glasses back on and takes in the sorry sight of himself. His hair's all standing on end as if someone had been pulling at it, his cheeks are flushed and there's a rapidly-blossoming bite on the side of his lip. Harry knows he blatantly looks like sex, and if he comes back to the dormitory looking like that Ron is bound to ask questions. Gingerly pointing his wand at the injury, he mutters "Episkey" and winces as the only visible trace of what just happened vanishes from his face.

As Harry leaves the bathroom and makes his way along the corridors, he ignores the stares at his soaked robes and shoes. Suddenly, he recalls the spell that had been on the tip of his tongue at the start of the confrontation.


He still doesn't know what it was, and he'd been so blinded by rage when Malfoy confronted him that he wouldn't have even cared what the hell it did to him. All the same, a sense of growing foreboding flickers within him as he realises the enormity of what he and Malfoy have just done. Harry whispers the incantation to himself on his return to Gryffindor Tower, caressing every syllable with his tongue until it becomes a familiar comfort.

So there you have it. I hope you had fun with my amateur attempt at some Potter/Malfoy porn. A silly, improbable scene re-work that creates about a thousand plot holes...although it sure was fun to write. Reviews are (nearly) as good as watching Harry and Draco in a bathroom. Thanks for reading! xxx