Fahrenheit - Chapter 5 by HollyandHawthorn

DISCLAIMER: I am now the proud owner of some thrillingly red hair, and a bobble headed Harry potter figurine, and while I still dream of ownership of the enterprise, I have no such luck, nor will I ever.

A/N: So here is the way that it goes, I've had this picture in my head for a while now, of Harry being a grumpy bastard in the rain, because he hates rain. This is just kind of what that turned into, we make some progress on many fronts, including what somebody referred to so kindly as "Project Pansy."

I would also like to makemention that in this chapter, I want to rip Pansy's hair out just as much as Harry does.

Best is Good, Better is Best.

Psychopathy is a mental disorder characterised primarily by a lack of empathy and remorse, shallow emotions, egocentricity, and deceptiveness. Psychopaths are highly prone to antisocial behaviour and abusive treatment of others, and are very disproportionately responsible for violent crime. Though lacking empathy and emotional depth, they often manage to pass themselves off as normal people by feigning emotions and lying about their pasts.

Harry trudges across the quidditch pitch looking like a green clad drowned rat, his hair sticking to his face and his lips an odd shade of blue. He glares down at the muddy ground with anguish, in an attempt to burn his frustrations into the ground like some great ugly tattoo.

He's wet, and he's cold. Two things that he despises with his every fibre of being.

The sound of a whistle blast somewhere to his right makes him scowl, tightening his slippery grip on the Firebolt his godfather had given him as his turns to squint through the sheets of water hammering down on them.

He's pretty sure that he wants to wring the team captain's neck, and string him up from one of the goal hoops, just for making him step out into this horrible weather to train. It wasn't like they needed to, they didn't have a game for another month, and it was against Hufflepuff for fuck's sake.

He feels the gentle beating of wings in his palm, turning his burning gaze to the golden ball he had somehow managed to snatch from the air, despite the fact that he can't even see three feet in front of him. The whistle blasts again, and he groans inwardly, stomping off in the direction of the sound until the rest of the team comes into view.

He comes to a halt next to Blaise, whose uniform clings to his arms, rivers of water running off of his dark fingertips.

This is definitely the last place he wants to be right now, considering he has far more important things he could be dealing with, like the Charms homework sitting on his bed, or the blonde boy invading his daydreams for no fathomable reason whatsoever. He's certain that he's been letting his guard fall too low of late with Draco, even going so far as to argue over homework in the common room of an evening on the occasion, and it's making him uneasy on his feet.

He doesn't forget too quickly, especially when it comes to such things as Draco's somewhat dissolved reputation of being top dog in Slytherin house. Harry had ripped that post out of his grasp a long time ago, though he was sure that, should Draco have the opportunity to do so, he would take it from him just as viciously.

So why the hell was he being so weak?

Blaise elbows him sharply in the ribs, snapping his attention back to the fact that he's freezing his arse off and that he can't see a damn thing.

Pucey stares pointedly at him, and it's obvious that he's missed something that's supposed to be important, a question, perhaps some new tactic he's got to practice next training session. Not likely.

He glares back at the captain, raising an eyebrow in askance, daring the seventh year to chastise him.

As it turns out, Pucey is either brave - or stupid enough to take the silent challenge.

"Didn't you hear a word I said, Potter?" he screeches. "Are you really that ignorant?"

It's an odd feeling, Harry thinks, when your blood is boiling under your skin, even though your limbs have already gone numb.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry drops his broom down into the mud, grinding his teeth together, "Did you really expect me to listen to you give us a chirpy little pep talk, in the fucking rain, when you could've given me the same information in the damn change rooms, you twat?" He inhales deeply, rain dripping from the tip of his nose as he waits for Pucey to catch up.

When no reply comes, he nods simply, picks his broom up out of the mud with an elegant wrinkling of his nose, and walks away from the group in a direction he isn't quite sure of.

He's never been the most cooperative of team members, everybody in Slytherin house is well aware of that fact, but they're also aware that he's the best seeker the school has had in a long time. He's never lost a game for Slytherin, and he's quite certain that that fact gives him every right to grumble about training in the rain.

Because he fucking hates the rain.

Every time he steps into the Great Hall to glare at the ceiling of a morning, he prays that the sky is a disgusting shade of periwinkle as opposed to the roiling grey that surrounds him now. He doesn't even know why he's out here, there's water in his shoes and the pads of his fingers look like an old mans.

The water runs off of his chin as he grumbles under his breath, his robes flapping heavily around his ankles and the mud under his feet splattering with every step, covering the emerald coloured robes with ugly brown specks. It's all extremely disgusting. He can promise a very unfortunate wake up call for the team captain tomorrow morning, once Harry's bones have thawed and all the heat is swirling around his body again.

His fingers tighten around the captured snitch in his hand angrily. Why must there be half an hour longer of this damn training session?

In, and out.

It takes him two minutes of aimless walking to find the edge of the pitch, the great wooden skeleton of the stands rising high above him as he squints up at them, stripped of the house colours that usually adorn it's exterior on match days and looking particularly meek in the misery of a down pour.

There's nowhere dry for him to sit, and the change rooms had been locked behind him. Damn it.

Feeling particularly mutinous now, he walks right up to the edge of the stands, tossing his broom over the barrier before grabbing hold of the wooden edging and dragging himself up and over the high wall, a task that proves to be extremely tedious with the added weight of wearing his full quidditch uniform, and being soaked to the bone.

When he finally heaves himself over the wall, he falls with a dull thud onto the wooden slats of the front row, scrubs numb fingers through wet hair and picks himself up grumpily, snatching his broom from it's spot on the benches next to him and stepping up several levels before sitting heavily in the centre of the stand.

He doesn't move from that spot for the next twenty five minutes of training, broom handle wedged between his elbows and his thighs as he glares silent daggers at the open air, hoping that Pucey can feel the jab of his stare through the dull hum of fucking freezing rain.

What a useless idea, training in a downpour, you can't see a fucking thing.

While he glares and grows increasingly numb, Harry lets his mind wander.

There have been a lot of things clogging up his thought processes of late, and he's beginning to get aggravated by the lack of attention being given to the more important things, like his damn breathing. Is it really too much to ask? To have a clear enough mind to be able to focus on things that define the line between living somewhat peacefully, and tearing everything down to the ground, setting it alight and laughing hysterically at the screams emanating from the ruin.

That line, it's so fragile, thin like paper and the fine layers of the skin on the backs of his hand. Too much pressure, and it tears, and then everything is destroyed.

Skin is so beautiful when it's whole, unscathed and free of the criss crossed scars that tell the tale of throwing cats in lakes and singeing himself in flames bursting from the air around him.

He blames Draco.

Draco will be the reason that he falls apart, loses control. He doesn't know why he knows this fact, he just does.

Draco, with his pale skin and glittering eyes that were once so terrified to look into his own for fear of the consequence. Harry still isn't certain what it is that is holding him back, especially when the stakes are so high in a place with so many people, he can't put a finger on what it is that stops him from throwing the blonde boy down on the ground, pressing a heel to his throat and issuing the same warning he has done so many times over the last three years.

He's invading Harry's dreams too, now, prizing his way into his subconscious and making a mess of the labyrinth of carefully organised shelves that Harry has hidden away in his mind. He makes his breathing stutter and hitch in his sleep, makes his fingers curl into the white sheets covering his body and a cold sweat break across his brow.

Harry can never remember the dreams, only the closeness of grey eyes to his own, lust blown pupils and the tiny fleck of blue hidden away in the sea of grey in his right eye.

He's woken to a hammering headache a painful hard on every morning for the past three weeks, ever since the removal of the Princess problem. Every morning he drags himself into the bathroom, seeking release to the image of those damn eyes. He presses his head back against cold stone and whines quietly in the emptiness, drags himself out of the bath and spends far longer than usual trying to balance himself.

Every morning, Draco walks in minutes later looking so sleepily happy that Harry wants to punch him in the mouth until he bleeds.

In, and out.

He snaps back to reality when his body gives a particularly violent shudder, his teeth chattering and his eyes stinging against the cold. He scowls and the grey surrounding him, wiping pointlessly at the water droplets on his glasses as he attempts to read the time.

His fingers toy with the defeated snitch experimentally, in an attempt to regain some kind of feeling in his fingers with no such luck. He sighs, picks himself up from the waterlogged bench seat with his broom back in hand, climbing down the bleachers and jumping clumsily back over the barrier with a particularly unpleasant splat.

He prays the bastard has unlocked the change rooms as he makes his way around the edge of the pitch, fat raindrops assaulting his face as he goes, making him growl in exasperation, attempting stupidly to swat the droplets away.

The sight of the open change room door makes Harry sigh in both relief and frustration, the call of a hot shower and a dry towel however, are enough to make him push down his unhappiness in favour of not getting himself into an argument. He just wants a damn shower. Before his fingers fall off.

The cement floor is covered in muddy tracks, brooms leaning next to the door drip copious volumes of water onto the ground, as do the wet, dirty robes slung over hooks on the walls. His team mates don't even look up as he walks in, an action they had learned to repress in his second year.

The little room is filled with steam, though the air is just as cold as it is outside, making Harry shiver even more violently.

He drops his broom alongside the others, before moving off to stand next to a disgruntled looking Blaise, who turns annoyed black eyes on him and gives Harry the worst news that he's heard all day.

"Goyle used all the hot water," he rolls his eyes, "Greedy bastard."


"Don't make me say it again, it's too depressing."

Harry cracks his knuckles. Breathe.

It's not like Crabbe and Goyle don't already have a hefty lists of unfavourable traits, Harry's got a nice neat one written up in his head, for every time one of them stole his pudding, or sat on his bed and crumpled the sheets, or used his fucking shampoo. They'd always deny the last one, of course. But Harry could smell it on the idiots.

He clinches his jaw, water still running down his face from his hair, but suddenly the cold doesn't matter. Some bastard used all the hot water. He doesn't get far though, maybe one or two steps in the direction of the showers before a strong hand grabs hold of his wrist and he twists around, shooting a venomous glare at Blaise.

"Leave it, Harry. Not here." Blaise's voice is resigned, and his grip on Harry remains tight as they stare at each other, Harry's eyes a blazing, fiery green, Blaise's a dead, cold black. Harry doesn't even know why he listens to Blaise, maybe it's the firm logic he seems portray through his voice, or the lack of annoying traits that everyone else around him seems to have an abundance of.

"Fine." he mutters, ripping his wrist away from Blaise, "might as well walk back to the castle then, not like I can get any bloody colder."

He doesn't bother with removing his robes, shoving the snitch he's still holding into his pocket before heading resignedly towards the door leading to the castle.

"I'll come," Blaise calls, following after him in his Quidditch robes as well. They step back out into the rain with a mutual groan, beginning the long, muddy walk back up towards the warmth of the castle.

They walk in near silence for the first minute or two, the sound of the rain beating down against them and the slipping of their feet on the slick ground blocking out the great majority of Harry's mutinous muttering above exactly how passionate his hate for rain is.

Because he hates it. Hates rain, and water and the Black Lake and feeling as though somebody is dropping a bucket of iced water over his head over and over and over again.

At least once he gets back he doesn't have to put up with Pansy pining after him. He isn't certain however, as to whether his warning a few weeks ago had chased her off, or simply put her back into one of her temporary 'Harry's only having a bad day, he still loves me' phases, where she chooses instead to admire from a distance.

A small part of him wants her to come crawling back. To go back to running her hands all over him, wearing his patience thin until his composure falls apart. God, he loves that feeling.

He loves when his hands start to shake and his skin heats, his head tilts ever so slightly back and his breathing becomes rough, uneven, like a monster being awoken in his chest, clawing it's way up his throat and thrashing about inside him. It a manipulative beast, tempting him with violence, the tiny voice behind his eyes, caressing his mind until the answer becomes so clear he doesn't know why it never occurred to him before.

Like starting a fire, or wrapping your fingers into short black hair and ripping it away by the roots.

He gives a violent sneeze, and goes back to his grumbling about this fucking rain.

"Who's brilliant idea was it to train in the fucking rain anyway," he mutters, "Lucky I didn't take a bludger to the head, considering how hopeless those lumps for beaters are. Use all my hot water, stupid beaters."

"Stop whining, Potter," Blaise elbows him sharply in the ribs, "You're starting to sound like Theo."

"I'm not whining," he snaps, elbowing Blaise back, "I'm scheming how best to traumatise Crabbe and Goyle in their sleep."

"Sure you are."

Harry scowls, gives Blaise a particularly hard shove, and falls on his arse in the mud.

Draco isn't really sure what he's supposed to do when he's been put in a situation like this.

Pansy's face is so close to his now that he can the odd yellow flecks amongst the mud of her irises, smell the sickening sweetness of her perfume and feel her sharp fingernails sinking into his thighs.

He's stunned into submission, backed into the arm of one of the leather lounges in the common room with a rather predatory girl pressing down on him like he should be wanting this. It's strange that he should think of his father at a time like this, thrusting pure blooded girls onto him whenever opportunity permitted, and writing long winded letters about how important it is that he find himself a suitor.

Draco's pretty sure that his idea of a 'suitor' strays impossibly far from his father's though, and definitely doesn't have any of the qualities of one Pansy Parkinson.

"You look flustered, Draco. Is something wrong?" She bats her eyelashes at him, and the taste of bile coats his throat.

He wants to tell her that, yes, in fact, something is very wrong. Everything is wrong, because her dark hair is neat and sleek, her eyelashes long and her hands small and weak. He wants to tell her to get off him, to go back to pining after Harry like she does so often, but at the same time, he doesn't want her pining after him.

He stays silent too long, and before he even knows what's going on, a pair of glossy lips are being pressed hard against his own.

Oh, God.

His brain starts screaming at him immediately Get it off get it off! This is disgusting! Get it off!

His hands scrabble weakly at her back, too dazed and confused to get a grip on her sweater. Panic swells in his stomach, her hair falling into his eyes as she runs her hands further up his thighs, pressing down onto him as her tongue flicks across his lower lip.

He wants to vomit.

He barely hears the common room door slam open over the hot exhale of breath that spreads across his face, Pansy's tongue still lapping at his lips and his body frozen beneath her, hands held suspended in the air and back pressed painfully into the chairs arm.

And then she's gone. The cold air hits him hard and his eyes blink away the sting of her hair, searching blearily for where the girl has gone to. What greets him is even more shocking than having Pansy attacking your face.

Harry's grip in her hair is tight and unyielding, dragging her across the stone floor with eyes shining such a fiery green that all the blood in Draco's body seems to drain to the base of his spine. He watches, eyes wide, as Harry slams her back hard into the wall, hand still tight in her hair as he brings his face in close to her, muttering under his breathe so that Draco can't hear.

The sight is actually quite thrilling, though he isn't sure whether it's having Pansy dragged off of him by an obviously fuming Harry Potter or the fact that Harry actually gave a damn that Pansy seemed to have shifted off to a new target.

It's in that moment that Draco finally takes notice of the fact that Harry, mouth still pressed to Pansy's ear, is absolutely soaking wet, his wild hair sticking to his face and his emerald robes dripping in earnest onto the floor. He shouldn't be thinking about it, Harry would kill him if he knew Draco was looking at him like that right now, would drop Pansy onto the ground and march right over here, wrap icy fingers around his neck and kill him.

So why on Earth did it make him feel so painfully turned on?

Suddenly, Blaise clears his throat next to him,and Draco feels his face heat, shifting in his seat though never taking his eyes away from the Potter-Parkinson face off in front of him.

"Think he's pissed?" Blaise asks in his low voice.

"Just a bit," Draco mumbles, swallowing hard as Harry's eyes slide suddenly to his, lock for barely a moment, that fire still burning brightly inside him, before turning back to the side of Pansy's head. "She just -"

"- Attacked you? Yeah, I figured. She's a bit like that, I think Harry's just a little too rough to really get close to."

"You seem to do an alright job," Draco points out.

Blaise snorts loudly, patting Draco hard on the shoulder, "That's because I'm not stupid enough to try and molest him."

Draco's lips twitch at that, watching as Harry finally drops Pansy onto the ground, and admires the sizeable chunk of hair in his hand. He's probably the most unpredictable, violent people in this school, but there's something about him that Draco just can't get his head around. There's something hidden behind that dark expression and his obsessive need to calm himself over and over again.

He noticed that particular trait in his second year, when Harry had him pinned against that very same wall, eyes closed, counting silently to himself as his breathing slowed. It's probably one of the scariest things Draco had ever seen.

As Pansy scrambles up off of the ground, hand clutched to the back of her head, Harry turns back to him, hair still in hand and a very annoyed expression on his face.

"Oh dear, Draco, you have absolutely no fucking taste," Harry wrinkles his nose as he scowls after a retreating Pansy. "Surely you can do better than filth like her?"

Draco doesn't reply, eyes wide as Harry walks over to him slowly, deposits the clump of hair into his lap and brings a finger to Draco's lips, swiping slowly across them before bringing his hand up to his face, inspecting the feral cherry flavoured gloss Draco could still taste in his mouth.

Harry's eyes seem to dull slightly, losing the brilliant shimmer Draco loves. He turns away smearing the gloss onto hiswet robes and striding in the direction of the dormitory. "That bath is calling!" he yells enthusiastically, eliciting another snort from Blaise, following closely behind him.

Draco isn't going to sleep tonight.

In, and out.

I love Blaise, he makes me happy. In case you can't tell.