Queen of Hearts

Game Two: Wild Card

*~*

Stuffing a piece of toast wholesale into his mouth, Harry hitched his Firebolt tighter under his armpit and sprinted for the Quidditch pitch. He had half-an-hour before class began, but his books were all still in the dormitory and he had yet to change out of Dudley's cast-offs into his robes.

Pausing at the entrance to the pitch to swallow and breathe, Harry hooked a leg over his broom and let his hands rest lightly on the handle. A thrill went through him as he fixed his grip and nosed the broom upwards, kicking off with his foot and immediately catching an air vent that sent him shooting twenty feet in the air. He let out a whoop of pure delight.

Of course, he was late to his first class.

There was no time to brush his hair, or shower, or sort out his books, which leaving him carrying enough textbooks for five classes. He suspected his robes were done up incorrectly. No time to even check what class he had. Working on a vague memory of reading the listed classroom, Harry opened the door to NEWT-level History of Magic and immediately shut it again.

Feverishly, he yanked his timetable out of his bag and scanned it. He was sure he had never signed up for History of Magic. He ran his finger down the columns. There it was. History of Magic/study period. Well, that had to be him, he supposed.

Harry tried the door once more, got his head through and saw Malfoy. He had to retreat again after that traumatic sight.

He took a deep breath and flattened his hair. His hand came away slightly sticky, which wasn't surprising, considering the high-altitude wind in which it had been buffeted. Opening the door again to a sea of faces that looked pathetically grateful at the third interruption, he slipped inside, wondering where he was supposed to sit.

'Ah, Mr Parker,' intoned Binns. 'History of Magic or study class?'

'Oh, study class, of course,' Harry said, before realising his eager tone could be construed as offensive to, for example, someone teaching History of Magic.

'Very well. As you and Mr Murphy are the only students studying, you can sit together,' Binns instructed, and Harry bobbed his head like a pigeon, wondering who the hell Mr Murphy was. 'Well? Get on with you, boy! I have a class to bore.'

Harry gaped at him, wondering if he'd heard correctly, but Binns had turned back to the blackboard. It was covered in extensive notes executed in a miniscule, cramped hand. The class sighed collectively.

It was quite a large class, too, Harry discovered. He supposed it was easy -- no practicals or anything -- if amazingly stultifying. He glanced around, trying to spot someone with, for example, a Transfiguration textbook instead of a History one, and who could conceivably be called Murphy.

However, as he made his way to the back of the classroom, no one fit the criteria. Harry, with a sinking feeling, spotted Malfoy, sitting alone and with a Defence textbook open in front of him.

'Oh, you have got to be kidding me,' he groaned.

'Please take your seat, Mr Parker, and cease disturbing my class!' Binns chirped from the front of the room.

'Oh, fuck no,' Malfoy breathed, eyeing Harry with equal horror. Seeing no alternative, Harry slammed his bag on to the desk beside Malfoy and threw himself into the chair next to Malfoy's.

'Ew, Potter, get your elbow out of my space,' Malfoy sniffed.

'Shut your gob, or I'll put more than my elbow into your space,' Harry warned him.

'Oh, yeah? I'd like to see you try.' Malfoy smirked. 'After all, you're the one around here who had his eye blacked.'

'You think I couldn't have stopped you if I wanted to?'

'Come off it, Potter. You so did not just let me hit you.'

'Oh, really? Maybe I get off on pain. Now shut up, Malfoy, your voice makes me want to vomit.'

'Fuck you.' Malfoy's eyes were blazing with suppressed rage.

'Don't even offer,' snapped Harry.

'I wouldn't touch you if you were the last person on earth,' Malfoy snarled.

'Makes you wonder why you punched me, then,' said Harry. He raked his fingers through his hair and glanced in Malfoy's direction. Two spots of brilliant colour glowed in the centre of his cheeks, like an old woman's rouge. It made quite a startling contrast to the anaemic paleness of the rest of his complexion.

'By the way,' Harry added, 'for the record, what you said about my mother -- watch your stupid skinny back, because I'm going to get you for it.'

'Ooh, I'm scared,' Malfoy snapped.

'Good,' said Harry. 'It's something wimps are.'

'I'm not a wimp!' retorted Malfoy.

'Tell that to someone who cares.' Harry yawned. 'Actually, I might not kill you, just wipe your arse on the Quidditch pitch.'

'You wish, Potter.'

'Ever heard that history repeats itself? Pretty true, I reckon, in that you keep losing to me. Long may it continue.'

'I hate you,' Malfoy hissed.

'Wow, I'd never have guessed,' said Harry, pretending to look hurt.

Malfoy turned back to his book, feigning deafness, but Harry heard him whisper, 'Wanker.'

'That's true,' Harry agreed. Telling the truth was enormous fun -- at least when it was too shocking to be believed. 'Do you want to know what I think about, Malfoy?' He tilted his chair closer to Malfoy's, so that their shoulders were touching and Harry's hand was clenching on top of Malfoy's spare quill. Malfoy shuddered away. 'Do you?'

'Fuck off, Potter!' Malfoy said, again, his voice sounding distinctly shrill. He looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

Leaving his desk-mate shivering in anger and disgust, Harry turned his attention to his homework. Snape had set them a long essay on Conflagration Draughts, which, if he was lucky and wasn't distracted by, say, killing Malfoy, Harry should be able to get a good start on.

Once shocked into silence, Malfoy was tolerable to sit beside. His breathing made Harry want to kick him in the throat, but it was nothing Harry couldn't handle. Once Malfoy had got his second wind, now, that would undoubtedly be nasty.

Binns' droning voice hurt Harry's head after a while and, once he had five inches written, he took a break. Malfoy was staring at his Defence book, looking confused. A tiny crease had appeared between his eyebrows and he was twirling his quill in his long, skinny fingers.

Great. Harry groaned mentally. Quills were now added to the list of inexplicable things that gave Harry an erection.

To distract himself, Harry glanced at Malfoy's parchment. He raised his eyebrows.

'You've got that wrong,' he said. 'Time-Loop charms are classified as debilitating, not life-threatening and you need to be three feet away, not two, for that question.'

'Did I ask you?' Malfoy demanded.

'Why are you even in that class?' said Harry, feeling himself begin to sneer. 'The whole point of it is defending yourself against the Dark Arts -- and dark wizards. I would have thought that you'd be on the offensive, not the defensive.'

'Harry Potter, thinking? How singularly extraordinary,' retorted Malfoy. 'I don't need your help, thank you not at all.'

'Why, what is it that you do need -- aside from a good thrashing?' Harry asked. He let his lips curl in a shark-like grin.

'Potter, lay off or I'll --'

'What? Set your minions on me? As you so aptly put it, 'ooh, I'm scared'.' Harry tilted back his chair and stared out the window at the slate-grey sky, on which large storm clouds were gathering. They looked like Malfoy's eyes.

Harry winced. He seriously could not believe he was now getting turned on by clouds. Pretty soon, he was going to have to go to the bathroom and deal with certain situations that were liable to arise.

He managed to last until the end of class, though. As he stuffed his numerous books and ten inches of Potions essay into his bag, he noticed that Malfoy's parchment had two crossed-out, corrected answers.

Harry rolled his eyes.

*~*

Something was digging into Harry's side. He shifted in his chair by the common room fire, feeling annoyed. All the effort of sneaking down after hours to finish his homework, so as to avoid those he was trying to protect, was rendered useless if he was going to be so distracted. Harry fished down the side of the chair and withdrew a thin black tube. Curiously, he uncapped it, and snorted. It was a pencil that someone had abandoned. An odd pencil, too, with crumbly lead -- and since when did pencils come with lids?

He rotated the tube in his fingers and discovered the answer to the mystery in the gold gilt lettering along the side. It read Mrs Skower's Best of Black Waterproof Eyeliner. Harry knew what eyeliner was; he'd often heard Hermione denigrate the amount Parvati Patil and Pansy Parkinson wore. Or perhaps that was the other thing -- mascara? Harry poked himself by accident and gained a black line on his hand for his troubles.

An idea grew in his mind as he looked at the dark streak. He slipped in to the deserted bathroom and took off his glasses. He laid them on the sink and leaned closer to the mirror to find his reflection again. Almost without thinking about it, he pulled down the eyelid of his eye and ran the pencil over it. It went on smoothly, which Harry hadn't expected. As he came to the corner of his eye, his hand slipped and the tip of the pencil went into his eyeball. Harry promptly dropped it and managed not to yowl in pain.

When his eye stopped watering, he returned to his reflection. He now had one normal eye and one red-veined one. He put his glasses back on, and studied the effect more closely.

For some reason, his left eye looked ... bigger. The uneven black line along the bottom of it seemed to give greater separation between his eye and his eyelashes, and his eyes looked very green as a result.

Harry decided he rather liked it.

*~*

Pansy grinned, a cigarette lolling out of her open mouth. She bent down low over Draco's chair so her cleavage brushed his back, and wrapped her pale arms around his neck possessively. They looked like the pale, quivering tendrils of a jellyfish, Draco reflected. One he didn't fancy getting stung by.

'I want to be on Draco's team.'

Heinrich grunted in barely concealed irritation, nursing his pint. Draco disentangled himself from Pansy with reluctance. All the Slytherin girls were watching them from the sofa in the corner of the old basement room, nudging each other and whispering in hushed voices. They looked as if they might be discussing baby names or something equally disturbing. Draco looked hopefully at the only female not discussing his and Pansy's relationship. Millicent stared back with a face as set as concrete.

'Poker isn't a team game, Pansy.'

'I know that.' Pansy pouted, brushing her long hair behind her ears and draping her arms around Draco again. It was like trying to grapple with an extremely persistent octopus. 'I just meant we'll share whatever you win. We will, won't we?'

'I might not win anything,' Draco murmured. Pansy laughed and blinked her stubby eyelashes at him in what she clearly hoped was an alluring manner. Draco resisted the urge to ask her if she had cataracts.

'Of course you will, silly,' Pansy purred.

Either Crabbe or Goyle opened the door again and it swung open, the doorknob hitting the stone wall with a clang. There was the ominous sound of hob-nailed boots marching briskly down the stairs and then Mark Smythe and Bernard Something-or-other appeared; two seventh-year Ravenclaws wearing matching ankle-length dragon-hide coats and smug expressions.

'Ugh,' one of them said loudly, surveying the surroundings with distaste. It was Smythe. He looked hard at everyone in the room who looked as if they possessed an ounce of testosterone and therefore might be a potential threat. Some of the more surly Slytherin boys tried to outstare him, but failed. Millicent, however, returned his gaze unblinkingly with a stony stare of her own.

With the quiet arrogance of someone who clearly considered himself better than everyone in the room, Smythe motioned to Blaise to get him a chair. Blaise, to Draco's astonishment, sullenly stood up and proffered his stool to Smythe. Smythe hesitated for a second, then, in a manner that suggested he was doing everyone present a huge favour, took the stool and sat down on it. Something-or-other pulled a large package out of his coat pocket and gave it to Heinrich to add to the pot.

'Hey, gorgeous,' Smythe leered, staring at Draco. Draco felt something contract in the pit of his stomach. Smythe was good-looking in a dangerous sort of way; he had a shadow of rough stubble all over his jaw and his eyes glinted evilly. Draco hadn't thought Smythe was the type to be a poofter, but he'd just called Draco gorgeous in front of all these people. Draco licked his lips nervously, unsure of how to react.

'Hey yourself,' Pansy replied coyly, her chin still resting on Draco's shoulder. Draco felt his skin flush scarlet. He told himself he ought to be relieved, but he just felt embarrassed and highly idiotic.

'Your boyfriend drag you down here for the game, did he?' Smythe asked. 'Hey - why's he gone all red?'

'We're not boyfriend and girlfriend,' Pansy answered, standing up and preening. Draco turned his head to look at her in astonishment. 'Well, we're not!' Pansy hissed self-consciously. A titter went up from where the gaggle of girls were sitting cross-legged on the couch.

'Are we ever going to start?' Draco snarled at Heinrich. Smythe glanced at the door, distracted.

'Yeah, Heinrich old boy, as attractive as the company is ...' He looked pointedly at Pansy, who let out a high-pitched giggle. 'My associate and I can't tarry forever.'

'We need at least five,' Heinrich answered Draco, gripping his tankard. 'Jenkins isn't playing, he's just here with Smythe. Entwhistle from our year said he might turn up for a bit.'

'I'm not waiting here for little kids who might or might not turn up,' Smythe announced. 'Look now, it's you,' he indicated Blaise with a gruff nod of the head, 'yes, you there and Malfoy, Heinrich and me ... can either of the two outside play poker?' Smythe asked, referring to Crabbe and Goyle stationed at the door.

'They can barely read, let alone play cards,' Draco snapped. He was beginning to get a headache from the incessant talk going on behind him.

'Figures,' Smythe huffed. 'None of you lot have got a single spark of intelligence, otherwise you'd have sorted this out properly ... bloody sixth-years ...'

'I'll play!' Pansy trilled eagerly, desperate for any attention. Smythe glared at her, running a hand through his dark brown curls.

'You -- have you ever played poker before?'

'No, but I'm sure I'll pick it up as I go along --'

'Shut the fuck up,' Smythe interrupted, shaking his head emphatically. Pansy looked scandalised. 'Sit down before you hurt yourself. And please don't go anywhere remotely near the cards.'

Pansy slunk into a corner with two of the most loyal members of her clique, looking daggers at Smythe and whispering furiously. If he noticed the sudden animosity, he didn't seem to care. Everyone fell quiet for a while, during which Pansy made hurt noises and Smythe glared at Heinrich, Blaise and Draco as if it was their fault that Entwhistle hadn't turned up yet. Bernard shuffled over to the table to pour himself a drink.

Suddenly there was the muffled noise of an angry conversation going on outside the door. It sounded like someone was trying to get in, but Crabbe and Goyle were having none of it. They'd been inordinately excited about having the power to turn people away, but so far, everyone who'd wanted to get in had been given instant permission.

'Come on boys, I'm sure there's better things you could be doing with your time,' a soothing female voice crooned.

'No other houses allowed,' Crabbe boomed. 'That's the rule.'

'Well, there should be a rule against having a mug as ugly as yours, but you don't see me enforcing it, do you?' This voice was male and cocky, nothing like Entwhistle's whiny drawl.

There was a pause, and then the company heard Crabbe speak again, sounding more than a little bemused.

'No Gryffs or Puffs, they said. It's against the rules.'

'We've got stuff for the pot, would you just --'

'No Gryffs or Puffs. Against the rules.'

'Fucking Merlin,' Smythe muttered resentfully. 'If he's got shit to put in the pot ...'

'Just let him in,' Draco ordered Heinrich imperiously. 'Entwhistle's too late. Just let whoever it is in.'

Heinrich scowled, but quickly drained the last of his Firewhisky and yelled up the stairs.

'Oi! Vincent! Let them in!' There was a pause, and a muttered conversation could be heard from above them. Eventually, Goyle shouted something back down.

'Are you sure?'

Heinrich rolled his eyes and the rest of the Slytherins snickered.

'Yes, I'm sure! Let him and the girl in, all right!'

'But he's --'

'I don't care if he's the fucking Minister for Magic!' Heinrich bellowed, standing up. The chattering students quieted, impressed. 'Just let him the fuck in and then lock the door, so we can FUCKING START!'

There was the sound of the door being unlocked and then the footsteps of two people coming down the stairs slowly, trying to see their way in the dim light. Smythe gave Draco a wolfish grin.

'What've you got for us?' Smythe called up to the newcomers.

'Some pot,' someone shouted back down. The loud sound echoed off the walls of the basement, distorting the voice. Draco thought it sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. Smythe grinned.

'Some pot for the pot,' he muttered. 'Anything else?'

'Just a pocketful of gold,' the new boy said, ducking to avoid the overhang in the low ceiling. He grinned at them all, a paper bag clutched in one hand, his wand in the other. His eyes were ringed with black and his dark hair was as crazy as ever, making him look like a wide-eyed sprite in dusty robes. The fat girl from Hufflepuff stood behind him like a watchful bodyguard, arms crossed over her mammoth chest. She glared defensively at Heinrich, who cringed. The room was deathly silent. You could have heard a pin drop. You could have heard several pins drop.

'Come on guys,' said Harry Potter. 'Let's play.'

*~*

Harry surveyed his surroundings with undisguised interest, running his tongue along his lower lip. Entwhistle had been happy enough to give directions to the secret den, one that Harry recognised from the Marauder's Map as being a disused laundry room. The walls were still lined with long, deep shelves, but instead of towels they housed flickering oil lamps and several items of negligible legality; for instance, at least three of the objects were hookahs, and well-used ones at that.

The room's occupants were all staring at him and he could tell that Susan, for all her placid confidence in her bull-like stature, was nervous of intruding on the snake's territory.

He broke the silence. 'Come on, guys. Let's play.' He let a suitable interval pass, and added archly, 'Or are you afraid?'

'Why on earth would we be afraid of you?' one of the boys at the table demanded. Harry didn't recognise him; he was wearing a long coat instead of robes and three weeks' worth of stubble.

'I'd ask Malfoy that,' said Harry, dropping on to a stool and throwing a glance to his arch-nemesis, who was looking red in the face. Harry stared at him, thinking that, with his pale face and flushed cheeks, he resembled nothing so much as a constipated china doll. Harry wondered if he'd get a chance to slip in that particular analogy at some point in the game. 'He's the best qualified, after all.'

'Potter,' Malfoy ground out at last. 'What in seven hells are you doing here?'

Harry ignored him, speaking instead to the coated boy. 'Hey, what's your name?'

'Smythe,' the gorgeous one said, sounding affronted.

'Oh.' Harry pondered this, waving Susan to a seat beside him, next to Heinrich. 'Anything to Zacharias?'

'In Hufflepuff? I should bloody well think not,' Smythe retorted, his be-ringed hands clenching into fists. 'I spell mine with a y. And an e.'

Harry rolled his eyes, opened the bag and withdrew Entwhistle's package, which he tossed into an ornate silver bowl -- inscribed with snakes and rude Latin passages -- sitting in the centre of the table. A couple of packets of cigarettes -- Marlboros -- were laying about and Harry drew out one and lit it with Dudley's lighter. Smythe was gaping at him.

'They're mine!' he managed.

'Fine,' Harry said, in a bored tone. He flipped the boy a Galleon, which he caught instantly. Harry pursed his lips in approval. Quick reflexes, that one had. 'Is a hundred okay for starters? I don't have any more on me.'

'A hundred what?' Zabini wanted to know.

'Galleons,' said Harry impatiently. 'For the betting. Entwhistle said you use gold, yes?'

'Yes,' said Zabini, his eyes shifting between Harry and Malfoy. Harry followed his gaze; Malfoy was looking utterly murderous, but as that was, for him, a common expression in Harry's presence, Harry couldn't see that it was anything unusual.

'How much'd you bring?' Heinrich asked Malfoy, sounding amused.

'Fifty,' muttered Malfoy. 'I -- fifty.' He stared at Harry in pure loathing. It made Harry feel alive.

*~*

'I'll deal,' Heinrich growled. He picked up the cards, cut them, and then went into a whole elaborate routine of spinning and flicking and tossing the cards up into the air. Draco stared at Heinrich's blurring fingers in amazement. Even though he'd been playing poker since his first-year, he still only knew one way to shuffle a pack: pick up a thick wodge of cards. Shove it between another wodge of cards, so that the cards in the first wodge are evenly dispersed. Repeat.

'You're doing that wrong,' the Hufflepuff girl told Heinrich suddenly, pointing. Heinrich ignored her and continued to twist his wrist in a jerky fashion, so that the cards from one of two piles jumped over on to the other stack, executing the kind of back flips a gold-medallist gymnast would have been envious of. Suddenly, a card whizzed vertically in the air and then flopped unimpressively into Draco's drained glass. The edges curled and turned brown in the damp puddle of Firewhisky and the Hufflepuff girl grinned, pleased. 'Told you so.'

'Look, what the hell do you know about cards?' queried Heinrich, stung. He glanced at Blaise, who was trying to fish the soggy card out of the cracked glass with his still-lit cigarette. The alcohol in the glass ignited and an orange flame shot between his knuckles. Blaise squealed and threw the smouldering card on to the wooden table, nursing his scalded fingers. The girl picked it up gingerly between her forefinger and thumb and examined it.

'I know enough not to shuffle the Inventory card along with the rest of the pack,' she announced primly, displaying the sooty rectangle to the rest of the company. Draco craned his neck to take a look at it. Sure enough, it read: Serpentine Playing Cards®. This limited-edition pack contains...

'For fuck's sake,' Smythe complained, glancing meaningfully at Bernard, who was still standing silently in the corner. 'Don't tell me you haven't even taken out the Jokers. This is ridiculous.'

'Of course I took out the bloody Jokers!' Heinrich hissed, turning pink. He glared out at them all from behind his straw-coloured fringe, but avoided making eye contact with the Puff, who was looking decidedly smug.

'Either way, I think you've done enough shuffling,' the girl said, masterfully taking the cards from Heinrich and palming them. Heinrich's blush rapidly darkened from Humiliation-Pink to Indignity-Violet and the Slytherin girls tittered meanly. Draco glanced at the girls and saw Pansy fuming because another female had taken centre stage.

'Maybe Susan should deal,' suggested Potter, looking Draco straight in the eyes. Draco made a hideous face and scowled.

'Maybe you should shut your mouth, Potty.' He glanced at 'Susan', who was watching him placidly with soft, cow like eyes. 'Who said the Puff was playing, anyway?'

'Course she's playing,' Harry said sharply, sitting up straighter. 'She's sitting at the table, isn't she?'

'Yeah, she's sitting at the table, all right,' sneered Draco. 'She's so big, she could almost be the table.'

Pansy let out a hooting, derisive laugh and Harry's face went hard.

'I'd be a bit more careful about criticising other people's physical characteristics if I were you, Malfoy,' he murmured dangerously. 'Especially when you're so lacking in certain areas.' He stared pointedly through the table at Draco's crotch.

'Lacking my arse,' Draco exploded, rising from his seat. 'I bet you've never even seen one as --'

'Small? Green? Deformed?' Potter offered helpfully, standing up as well. 'I'm sure I have, I watch the Discovery Channel, you see. It's where I learnt about in-breeding. Dogs which breed your way often have bad temperaments, are pathetically weak and have absolutely tiny --'

'Look, boys,' announced Smythe, placing a warm hand on each of their forearms, 'I'm sure they're both huge. Enormous, even. You're walking tripods, both of you. But Susan's just dealt, and I'd really appreciate it if you ... yes, that's it. Sit down. Good. Good boy.'

He ruffled Potter's mop of black hair affectionately and made as if to pat Draco on the shoulder, but thought better of it.

'I'm going to win, Potter.' Draco gritted out, not knowing what a 'Discovery Channel' was and not really caring. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to reach out across the table and strangle Potter to death while at the same time kicking him systematically in the groin. 'I'm going to make you and your stupid Puff girlfriend sorry you ever tried messing with us.'

The Slytherins muttered their approval. Potter gazed apprehensively at the sea of unfriendly faces surrounding him and Draco grinned. Potter was just beginning to realise how utterly unwelcome he was. A Slytherin carrying a quill was more likely to want to stab him to death with it than ask for an autograph.

Smythe rolled his eyes, grabbed the overly shuffled pack of cards and began to deal. Nobody ventured to gainsay his right to. As he did so, he demanded, 'So who's the banker in this poxy game?'

'I am,' said Draco immediately. There was no point in giving someone else the chance to usurp his clique by showing even a second's uncertainty.

'Well, you planning to get out the chips at all tonight?' Smythe finished dealing. Blaise ended up with the jack, and inexpertly began to shuffle and deal a card to each player.

Draco scowled and fished in his pocket, retrieving the velvet bag of magical chips. He poured them into the pot, and after an interval of clattering, they flew out to each player. Draco was mightily annoyed to see that Potter had the most blue chips of anyone, followed by Susan. They must have some good quality stuff in there.

'Pansy,' ordered Draco, 'come over here and mind the stuff.'

'Okay, darling.' Pansy simpered at him and shot daggers at Smythe. It was obvious that she was punishing Smythe for his impudence. Draco found himself wearied by her games.

'What are the limits?' Potter asked, his kohled eyes narrowed to slits. Draco shifted uncomfortably under his smouldering gaze.

'Answer him, Heinrich,' Draco instructed, curling his lip at Potter. What was with his eyes, anyway?

'Minimum bet, ten whites, maximum bet ...' Heinrich paused, shooting the Puff a challenging look. 'Whatever you dare.'

'We playing tigers and dogs?' Smythe drawled, blowing his cigarette smoke in Draco's face. Draco was hard pressed not to wince.

'Why not?' Draco agreed. 'Unless our ... visitors ... can't handle it.'

Potter was still staring at him, Draco realised, as he turned back to him to smile spitefully. Potter just laughed, which Draco took for a denial of his claim.

'Opening with a twenty red bet,' Heinrich grunted, eyeing his hand. He nudged Susan in the ribs and she started in shock. Draco was surprised she could feel the poke through the blubber. 'Your turn now.'

'Harry is not,' Susan retorted, placing her cards face down on the table. 'My boyfriend,' she clarified, looking at Heinrich's confused expression.

Draco's heart gave an inexplicable leap of triumph and he quickly assumed an expression of extreme nonchalance. Couldn't care less, he sing-songed silently. Susan narrowed her big brown eyes at him. 'I call the bet. Twenty reds.'

'Thirty reds,' Potter stated. His gaze hadn't moved from Draco's face.

'Thirty,' Blaise mumbled, looking miserable. Smythe glanced at Bernard, who gave a slight nod of his head.

'Thirty.'

'Thirty,' Draco managed numbly, after checking his hand.

'Thirty,' Blaise mumbled, looking miserable. Smythe glanced imperceptibly at Bernard, who gave a slight nod of his head.

Draco tried to stay cool and relaxed, tried not to tense any of his muscles, tried not to jump up and down and grind the cards into Potter's ugly mug. It took a mammoth effort.

It's hard not to crack a smile when you know you have to win.

*~*

'One pair,' Blaise mumbled. He looked thoroughly miserable. Draco rolled his grey eyes in exasperation. It wasn't as if Zabini was remotely bloody likely to win anyway, he was simply there to make up the numbers. Despite the irresistible urge to really give Blaise something to sulk about, Draco didn't voice this opinion out loud. Better not to make a scene.

'One pair,' said Draco with a sigh, avoiding Potter's mocking gaze.

Smythe put his cards down too, an equally sour expression on his face, which was otherwise half shrouded in darkness.

'Three of a kind,' he stated icily.

Heinrich snorted loudly and unnecessarily and threw his cards on to the table. Another three of a kind. Draco felt an uneasy twinge in the pit of his stomach. Potter was grinning lopsidedly, in a way that suggested he'd been spending the last couple of minutes maintaining a carefully neutral expression. This wasn't what Draco had hoped for, when it had become apparent that Potter and the Puff weren't leaving any time soon. He'd hoped that Potter would lose round after round after round, preferably to him, so he could smirk and deliver a few scathing put-downs and then at the end of the night they'd slink back to their common rooms, tails between their legs.

'Well, gentlemen,' Potter drawled, emphasising the first syllable of the word as if it were some kind of hilarious pun, 'it appears I have a Full House. That beats what Malfoy had, which was - let's see now - nothing, it beats a pair - come on, don't look so glum, there's always Exploding Snap - and it definitely beats a Three of a Kind, so ...'

'Four,' the Susan girl interrupted. Potter paused and shot her a look. 'Four,' she said again, placing her cards down on the table calmly. Four nines and the six of spades. 'Of a kind, you dolts. So I win, yes?'

The chips lying in the centre of the table levitated and flew straight into her outstretched arms. Smythe looked faintly impressed, Blaise furrowed his brows until he was more wrinkle than boy and Heinrich gaped in unflattering shock. Potter swallowed hard, having been dealt a blow by the loss of his prize.

'Right, anyway, well done,' he sighed magnanimously. 'You can sell that and buy yourself something pretty from Madam Malkins.' Draco blanched - he didn't find he thought of seeing those thighs squeezed into pink frilly dress robes a particularly attractive prospect. Judging from the Susan girl's expression, she didn't either. 'Or you could always, you know, get high,' Potter finished lamely.

'Betting interval?' Smythe grunted. 'I'm not taking anything off, little girl, as much as you may want me to. It's fucking freezing.'

'Fine then, underwear,' the Susan girl replied briskly. She looked at Heinrich coldly. 'What are you wearing?'

'What? You can't --'

'Oh come on, this isn't even hard,' the Susan girl tutted. Heinrich turned purple, and made a face that suggested he was sucking on an unripe lemon.

'Boxers,' he managed eventually.

'What colour?'

'I don't know!'

Susan gave a long-suffering sigh. 'Check, then!'

Heinrich checked.

'Green, ones from Gladrags,' he growled, once he was composed enough to talk.

'Not that hard, really, is it?' The Hufflepuff turned her steely gaze on Draco. 'And you?'

'Boxers.' When she didn't reply, Draco elaborated. 'Silk ones. Look, I'm not going to provide you with more fodder for your twisted fantasies, you sick pervert.'

Potter bristled at this, but the Puff merely shrugged and turned to Smythe, who smiled coldly at her.

'They're ... black.' Half the room -- including Pansy, although she tried to pretend she wasn't listening -- leaned forwards, waiting in anticipation for him to expand on this. But before he had a chance, Blaise interrupted with his own banal revelation.

'Mine are boxers too.'

'Lilac ones, with his name embroidered on the back!' A mean voice called out from the crowd. Millicent wolf-whistled. Everyone sniggered cruelly and Blaise turned first green and then scarlet, muttering foul curses that would probably have injured a lot of people had a wand been in his hand.

'Harry?' the Susan girl asked loudly, above the jeers and catcalls. The room fell silent instantly. Potter grinned, revelling in the attention from his audience.

'Not wearing any.'

'Fuck off,' Draco retorted in disbelief. Potter's black-rimmed eyes widened considerably.

'Would you like me to prove it, Malfoy?

'Yeah, right -- no,' Draco sneered, unable to think of a suitably cutting comeback.

The girl called Susan shook her head in a tired manner and began to deal the cards again, leaning low over the table to pick them all up. 'Harry, we all believe you, now get your hands away from your buttons.'

Potter complied, raising his eyebrows challengingly at Draco, who made a disgusted face. Smythe looked ever so slightly put out.

'What about you, then?' Pansy screeched in a scandalised tone, exhibiting all the natural decorum of a warthog. 'You can't leave yourself out! What the hell are you wearing under that circus tent?'

Pansy's posse stared at Susan maliciously. The boys at the table looked at her. Even Jenkins, immobile in the corner, turned his head ever so slightly to peek. Draco looked out of curiosity, though he doubted Pansy's sudden interest in the girl's underwear had anything to do with fairness of game rules or equality of the sexes.

'Not that it's any of your business, but red flowery lace with lots of peepholes,' Susan answered. 'Can we get on? Thirty blues, I think.'

'Thirty,' said Heinrich, after a beat. His face was a uniform pink.

Pansy was looking more like a pug than ever. One that was in dire need of a muzzle.

'Thirty,' said Smythe.

Blaise muttered angrily, 'I fold.'

'You haven't got enough chips, you mean,' Smythe corrected him, fingering Blaise's meagre heap of red and blue discs with distaste. 'What the hell d'you think you're doing here when you didn't even bring --'

'Thirty,' Potter said, looking as if he wanted to bet his entire pile. Draco glared at him.

'Oi, Malfoy. Wake up,' Smythe said rudely, startling Draco out of his reverie.

'Thirty blues,' he blurted out, without even looking at his cards. Cursing inwardly, he picked them up and checked them. He surveyed the table, trying to look normal, or even vaguely upset. The fat Hufflepuff girl sighed deeply as she laid out her cards.

'One pair,' she exhaled.

'Nothing,' Heinrich admitted grudgingly. He crooked his finger on the inside rim of his left ear and flicked out a piece of wax. Smythe looked suitably revolted before talking.

'Full House.'

Potter laughed out loud, for some mysterious reason, and looked directly at Draco, placing his hand on the table. 'Say hello to a straight flush.'

'Hello,' Draco replied coolly, not dropping his gaze. 'Now, you say hi to my straight flush. King, Queen, Jack, Ten of Hearts, Nine of Hearts.'

'No way,' objected Potter. He threw a creased card in Draco's face. It bounced off his nose. 'That's the Nine of Hearts. My flush: Nine of Hearts, Eight of Hearts, seven, six, five.'

Draco looked down at the cards in front of him. There were, indeed, two identical Nine of Hearts. He turned them over. Both had the pack's green serpentine design printed on the back. He looked at Potter, who was seething with fury, again and shrugged.

'So? My flush beats yours anyway, Potty.'

'What the fuck?' Smythe shouted very loudly. 'If there are duplicate cards, then someone's been fucking cheating. And if someone's fucking cheating, I want my fucking chips back right now.'

'Look, mate --' Heinrich began, in a reasonable voice.

'Right fucking now,' repeated Smythe. There was an ominous popping noise from the shadows in the corner. Draco was slightly disturbed, until he realised that it was the other Ravenclaw, Jenkins, cracking his knuckles. By the time the full implications of this had registered, he was significantly more disturbed.

'Malfoy's been cheating, the slimy git,' Potter accused him, standing up. Smythe stood up too, knocking a shot glass on to the floor. Clear liquid pooled around the base of the chair.

'Bugger off, Potter,' retorted Draco, rising. Pansy broke through her group of friends and stood behind him supportively, holding a stubby cigarette and stroking his head with her free hand. Draco appreciated the sentiment, he really did, but he didn't fancy being fondled like a newborn hamster. Shaking himself free, he glared at Potter. 'If anyone's cheating, it's you and your stupid fat girlfriend.'

'I want my fucking chips back,' Smythe growled, addressing Draco.

Heinrich, who had been busy observing the fascinating things that were going on in his lap, tried again. 'Look, mate --'

'Heinrich, I'm not your fucking mate.'

'You slimy cheater,' Potter hissed, his fists clenching.

Draco's pale cheeks burned. He was gaining a particular sensitivity towards the word 'slimy'.

'You're just a poor loser,' he sneered. 'There aren't any brooms in poker; you can't win all the time.'

'At least I don't buy myself into every game,' Potter spat, his eyes blazing with green fire. 'Spending all of darling Daddy's money - Voldemort give him a good salary, does he?'

There was a sharp intake from breath from the crowd at the mention of the name. Draco almost felt the cool air whooshing past, being sucked in by numerous pairs of lungs. Tracey Davis swooned dramatically and fainted into Blaise's arms. Draco shook in anger.

'Your fucking mother,' he said slowly and deliberately, 'sucks cock in hell.'

Oddly enough, Potter didn't jump on him immediately. He stood perfectly still for a few seconds, whilst the whole room watched in terrified anticipation. Jenkins started backing towards the wall and making emphatic gestures to Smythe behind his back. The Hufflepuff girl clutched at her robes. Potter's eyes bore into Draco's skull; Draco stared back in defiance, matching the chilly stare with one of his own. It only lasted about three seconds, but it seemed to take an eternity.

Potter let out an inhuman roar, overturned the table -- scattering cards, chips, drinks and an extremely heavy metal ashtray in all directions -- and leapt on Draco, knocking him to the floor.

*~*

It was a whirlwind mesh of noise and heat and fists. Pansy, who had fled to the safety of the stairs, was currently screaming blue murder, as were the rest of the Slytherin girls --those who weren't in floods of tears or unconscious. Blaise throwing alcohol on them in a futile attempt to get them to break apart, Heinrich was yelling 'Calm down' in an increasingly desperate voice as the other boys placed bets on who was most likely to win, and someone -- Smythe, surprisingly -- was having an exceedingly hard time trying to prise Potter off him. Draco wasn't so much fighting with Potter as grappling with about twenty-six flailing limbs all at once and trying to minimise the amount of grievous bodily harm the boy was obviously intent on causing him.

Potter was staring wildly into his face, his eyeliner smudged slightly because of the tankard of Firewhisky Blaise had chucked on them. This made his eyes look even more terrifyingly intense and slightly insane. Potter was spouting innumerable incoherencies through gritted teeth, none of which Draco could understand - if he didn't know any better, he'd have thought he was slagging him off in Parseltongue.

'Calm down,' Draco said helplessly, echoing Heinrich. This was Potter angrier than he'd ever seen him. 'For Christ's sake, calm down.'

*~*

'Let go of me!' Harry shouted at whoever was trying to hold him back.

Whoever it was refused to listen and Harry was twisting out of their grip at the same time as his flailing fists screwed themselves into Malfoy's hair to repeatedly wallop his head against the floor. Harry's knee jerked up between Malfoy's legs right into his crown jewels. On the other, sane-by-comparison side of the red-hot haze of rage, Harry noted in satisfaction the anguished wince on Malfoy's face as that particular hit registered.

Malfoy's hands were scratching his face but he didn't seem to be trying to actually fight Harry so much as get away from him. The person behind Harry had a strong hold on his upper arms, so they were getting dragged along as Harry pounded Malfoy's head into the floor. Harry wasn't stupid enough to try and punch Malfoy's face; he'd probably break his own hand and his only objective was to cause Malfoy much excruciating pain, not himself.

Malfoy was mouthing something; Harry, thinking it was more slander against his mother, evaded the grip on his arms to throw himself flat on top of Malfoy, his knee slamming painfully against the floor but succeeding in scoring another strike against Malfoy's weakest area.

Harry's hands were still tangled in Malfoy's hair; he gave them a vindictive tug as he leaned in to whisper, 'What did you say, you bastard?'

Malfoy didn't even seem to be hearing him. This close -- with Harry's own mouth practically squashed against Malfoy's ear -- Harry perceived that he was whimpering, 'Calm down, calm down, calm down.'

Harry made a face and pounded Malfoy's head against the flagstones again. Malfoy'd started this -- he'd started it long, long ago -- what call did he have to be begging quarter now?

Stopping to think was his undoing. Someone -- the same or a different person who'd had a grip on Harry before, Harry was in no position to judge -- wrenched his arms behind his back. Taken unawares, Harry left it too late to resist; instead he let loose a howl of pain. The person yanked him to his feet, still holding his arms in a death-lock behind him, so that his back was arched almost to right angles. He kicked out at Malfoy, huddled in a moaning ball on the floor, as he was dragged away.

'Potter, what the fuck?' a low, smoky voice, incandescent with anger, hissed in his ear. Trembling with rage and adrenaline rush, Harry nonetheless felt a new shiver begin, this one deeper and starting from the pit of his spine.

Harry became absolutely still and turned his head to take in the person who'd intervened. It was none other than Smythe, who was holding Harry's hands against his own stomach in one hand and had his other arm crossed tightly against Harry's body. Harry could feel Smythe's stubble rasp against his cheek as he fought to catch his breath.

'I said, what the hell did you think you were playing at?' said Smythe. Harry shrugged.

'He insulted my mother,' Harry pointed out.

'And we're on his turf! We're surrounded by Slytherins!' Smythe shook his head. 'Fucking Gryffindors. Not a teaspoon of logic between them. If I let you go, will you promise to let Malfoy be?'

'I will -- for now,' Harry said grudgingly.

'Good,' said Smythe, and dropped his hands. Harry felt suddenly cold and he rubbed at the goose pimples that had sprung up along his arms. Smythe regarded him from under his eyebrows.

'I'd go now,' he added, 'before the snakes realise what exactly you've done and gang up on you.'

'Where's Susan?' Harry asked, turning his gaze back on Malfoy. Pansy had descended upon him, squawking, as soon as Harry had been pulled away, but Malfoy had pushed her to the side. He was now on his hands and knees, coughing up blood.

'Just go!' Smythe instructed. 'I'll cover you.'

Harry made a confused face at him. He didn't know why Smythe was moved all of a sudden to watch Harry's back; he couldn't say with certainty that he'd even seen the boy before in his life.

Something sparked in the depths of Smythe's eyes and Harry felt his stomach drop away. Smythe raised a hand and ruffled Harry's hair again, and smiled when Harry jerked back from him.

Susan was waiting behind a statue in the corridor; she grabbed his hand and pulled him all the way to an empty classroom at a sprint. Harry, who'd been freezing and was now puffed, sank on to a chair and massaged a stitch in his side. He raised his eyebrows at Susan, who was looking uncommonly pink.

'Sorry, Harry,' she said, her eyes sparkling, 'you provided the best distraction ever, but they were bound to notice as soon as you stopped grappling with Malfoy.'

Harry meant to say, 'Notice what?', but somewhere on the route to his mouth the words got changed to, 'What do you mean, grappling? I was fighting him!'

Susan made a face at him. 'He wasn't exactly rolling with the punches, was he? At one stage you looked like you were going to kiss him.'

'Kiss him?' Harry jumped to his feet, a dramatic move somewhat marred by the fact that his sore knee gave way and turned it into a sad little lurch. 'I wasn't kissing him! Are you insane?'

'I don't know. You tell me,' Susan said, holding up a packet of something suspiciously familiar and waving it in Harry's face. In his utter shock, Harry forgot all her earlier, completely incorrect assertions.

'You stole the pot?' he gasped.

'You better believe it,' said Susan, looking smug. 'And --' she delved into her pockets and dropped a handful of gold on to Harry's lap '-- I don't know how much that is, but it's all I could grab. I would've got more, but Heinrich was watching.'

'Is he the one who threw a drink at me?' asked Harry.

'No, I think that was Zabini,' said Susan.

'Oh,' said Harry, sinking back against the chair. 'Are all poker games this eventful?' he added as an afterthought.

'No,' said Susan. 'Usually when someone cheats they just get kicked out of the game, and have to put their knickers on their head or something. But you and Malfoy together confound expectation.'

'That wasn't a compliment, was it?'

'Merely an observation,' Susan said. She bit her lip. 'And Smythe?'

Harry's body gave an involuntary, pleasant shudder at the name. He closed his eyes, trying to recall the feel of his body against Harry's.

'What about him?' he remembered to ask, at length.

'Oh, nothing,' Susan said, hiding a smile. 'Nothing at all.'

*~*

Harry checked his watch. Five-thirty-three. No one in Gryffindor should be up at this unholy hour.

He slipped into the bathroom and closed the door firmly behind him before stripping off his robes, which were stained with dirt, Firewhiskey and something that could have been blood. In which case it was Malfoy's blood and thus the robes were forever contaminated and would require defumigation, if not exorcism, before they could be worn again.

It was the most amazing feeling of relief to finally shower. The little hot darts relaxed muscles that Harry had never realised he was tensing. Inspecting his battle wounds, he discovered that had bruises on his arms from Smythe's hands and grazes all over his neck from Malfoy's nails. Some of them were quite deep and stung when the water hit them.

As he massaged shampoo into his hair, which had almost solidified, Harry wondered what Smythe's motivations had been in breaking up the fight. These thoughts so distracted him that a soapy stream of water got into his eye without his noticing.

Harry rubbed the shampoo out of his eye and his hand came away black. He scowled at it. This makeup thing was a lot more effort than the air headedness of its principal female devotees would suggest.

With a sigh, Harry went to fetch a towel and his glasses before he broke the cardinal rule of the boys' dorms and just made it to his bed.

It was too stupid that shampoo had to be added to the list.

*~*

'Harry! Harry, you awake?'

'Mmhp,' replied Harry, opening his sleepy eyes into a faceful of coconut-smelling hair.

The curtains were wrenched open, flooding his vision with bright light. He moaned.

'Harry,' Ron said, then his eyes widened. 'Harry, what did you do to yourself?'

'What?' Harry said, putting a hand to his face. However, Ron's gaze was directed downwards.

'Did you get into some kind of a brawl -- with a cat?' Ron wanted to know.

'Er, not as such,' said Harry. It was too early and he was too tired and mentally weak to come up with something suitably cutting to drive Ron away. He pushed past him and pulled a jumper and socks out of his trunk.

'You didn't forget, did you?' Ron asked.

'Forget what?' said Harry, through the jumper, which he was preoccupied with pulling over his head.

'Quidditch tryouts!' Ron said. 'The notice was posted last week. Seamus is going for Beater ...'

His voice trailed off. Harry pulled the jumper down, leaving his hair haloed with static. 'That's good,' he said. 'Ginny going for Chaser?'

Ron nodded. 'So - I'll see you on the pitch?'

'Of course,' said Harry. Feeling this was far too friendly for his plans, he ignored Ron's tentative smile. Ron made a vague gesture, before nodding and heading down the stairs.

Harry waited a suitable interval before taking the stairs down two at a time, bounding across the common room and scanning the notice board. It said 'Quidditch tryouts: 12 midday'. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he glanced at his watch and bit back a scream. 'Damn!' he whispered.

It read 11:45.

*~*

There was no time for Quidditch robes, no time for forward planning, no time for breakfast. Harry tore down to the pitch, almost tripping over his jeans three times, and made it to the broom sheds just as the team was gathering.

'He'll be here any minute,' Ron was promising. 'He was just going over some strategies in the dorms.'

Harry's heart swelled with some inexplicable feeling that made him feel achey and full. Choosing not to analyse it, he yanked his hair somewhat flat and pulled up his jeans.

'And -- there he is,' Ron said, his face lighting up with relief.

'Right,' said Harry, pretending a brisk efficiency he was far from feeling. 'So we're trying out for a two new Chasers and some reserves, right?'

'And a Beater,' said Ron in an undertone. 'Jack Sloper quit.'

'What a shame,' said Harry, not quite softly enough. The other Beater shot him a nasty look.

'Why aren't you in robes?' Ginny inquired. She looked very businesslike, with her hair pulled back tightly and her broom held on its end.

'I'm not going to be flying,' improvised Harry. 'I -- er -- want you to split into two teams and play each other. I'll be analysing you from the stands.'

'How will we hear you?' Andrew Kirke asked, sounding sceptical.

'With the Sonorus Charm, of course,' Ron said impatiently, as if it were obvious. Harry avoided meeting Ron's eye, finding he needed to swallow several times to get rid of something sticking in his throat.

Harry had a feeling that it was his conscience.

'Right,' Harry said, looking around. 'You, Ginny, Kirke, you, Seamus and you; and you, you, you, Ron and Katie, make two teams. Ron and Katie, sort out those going for Chaser and those for Beater. I'll be up there. Okay?'

'Got it, Harry,' Katie said, smiling rather too knowingly at his rumpled appearance. Harry blushed; she probably thought -- it was better, he decided not to speculate what she thought.

'Hang on a sec, Katie,' said Harry, remembering a long-ago first Quidditch game and a roaring lion. 'Could you Charm some sparkling numbers on to their backs so I can tell them apart?'

'Sure,' Katie said, drawing her wand out of the inside of her robes.

'Cheers,' said Harry, before loping up the stands to the highest seat.

While those on the pitch were sorting out their teams, Harry, struck by inspiration, used a Summoning Charm to fetch his Omnioculars from the dorms. They nearly brained him when they arrived, soaring through the air at a rate of knots; Harry grabbed them before they made impact.

'Sonorus,' he said, pointing his wand at his throat and jamming the Omnioculars against his glasses.

The two teams rose into the air, the numbers flashing and sparkling in the cold winter sun. Harry soon lived to regret venturing outside in nothing but jeans, a too-small jumper and trainers, but he had no time to dwell on his impending frostbite. He was on his feet within minutes, yelling at random people much as he remembered Wood and Angelina doing; even though it was a trial the flyers were playing as hard as if they were in a match.

'No, number four!' Harry hollered. 'Defend, defend! Just because you're not a Keeper doesn't mean you can let the Quaffle past you while you sit back and watch! Defend!'

'Pushing them a bit hard, aren't you, Potter?' an amused voice observed. Harry started in shock and dropped his Omnioculars. When he leaned down to pick them up and press his throbbing foot, his jumper slipped off his shoulder, blasting his chest with frigid air.

It was Smythe, leaning against the backboard with an insouciant expression and his arms folded. A half-smile was playing about his mouth.

'W-- what do you mean?' Harry asked, still half-distracted by pain. He lowered his voice carefully so as not to deafen Smythe.

'Only that I've been watching for over an hour and you were already started when I arrived. You don't think it's time to give them a break, perhaps?'

Harry, flustered, checked his watch and realised he'd never noticed the time passing. Clearing his throat, he yelled, 'Okay, that's enough! Back to the pitch, I'll meet you there!'

Now that he inspected faces and not form, Harry could see that they did in fact seem a small bit tired; even the team members looked like they'd been put through the wringer. Harry felt a little guilty, but at least he was sure of their abilities and nearly certain of who had made the cut.

'Quietus,' said Harry, poking himself in the throat with his wand. He turned clumsily to face Smythe again and nearly tripped over the bench.

'You came to watch?' he asked.

'Me and the rest of the world,' Smythe said, pointing. Harry glanced around the stands; at the bottom of the one he was in, Susan sat with a couple of other Hufflepuffs. Zacharias had a notebook into which he was scribbling, the plume of his quill wobbling like mad. Harry could see Justin's mouth moving and fancied he could almost make out the shapes of the words 'you know.'

Susan grinned at him and waved before running her finger across her throat and pretending to die. Harry raised his arm to her, stifling a snigger.

'Malfoy's not here, is he?' Harry asked Smythe anxiously. He didn't think he could bear it if Malfoy was going to come swaggering up to him critiquing his prowess as captain, or worse, if he came to steal his techniques like Smith.

'No; none of the Slytherins turned up -- except for him,' said Smythe, waving his hand at a lone figure in the stands opposite. Harry squinted through his Omnioculars; it turned out to be Heinrich, who was watching the proceedings with a thoughtful scowl.

'Are you on the Ravenclaw team?' Harry asked, thinking he'd finally divined the reason for Smythe's presence -- that he was there to scope out the opposition.

'Sport? Moi? Je ne pense pas, mon petit mignon,' Smythe said, his mouth widening into an almost impertinently sensuous smile.

'So you don't, then?' Harry attempted to clarify.

'No, Potter, I don't,' Smythe said, stepping away from him in a whirl of robes. 'And I rather think your team is waiting for you.'

'Oh, yeah,' Harry said, feeling absurdly disappointed. He watched Smythe take the spectator's route out of the stands until he was out of sight before heading down to the pitch.

*~*

Ron caught Harry in the Great Hall, where he was tucking into a belated breakfast of shepherd's pie. Trapped betwixt a mouthful of pumpkin juice and a fork piled with mashed potato, Harry had no choice but to wait and masticate as Ron slid into the seat opposite him.

Ron began without preamble. 'If you're avoiding us because you're gay, you don't have to.'

Harry choked for a good five minutes. When he recovered enough to speak, it was with streaming eyes and an uncomfortably flushed face. 'What gave you that bloody idea?'

Ron shrugged, his ears slowly turning red. 'Always suspected,' he mumbled. 'And Hermione said ...'

'Ron, I'm the only one of the two of us to have had a girlfriend and you're accusing me of being gay?' Harry abandoned his fork; his appetite had gone the same way as the dinosaurs.

Ron made a face. 'So you aren't, then?'

'Um,' Harry said. 'Um?' There didn't seem to be room in his brain for an emphatic denial, he found. Or for any surprise at that fact.

Ron's face cleared. 'You don't need to avoid us because of that!'

'I'm not avoiding you because of my preferences -- which are my own business, anyway,' said Harry, with what he thought was laudable patience. 'I have other reasons.'

'And they are?' Ron demanded.

'I can't tell you!'

'Oh, jeez,' Ron groaned, covering his face with his hand. 'This is the snake thing all over again, isn't it?'

Harry started, thinking for a moment he was talking about Malfoy and the other Slytherins, before recalling Nagini. A cold wave of sweat broke over his skin at that and he rubbed his arms through his jumper.

'Sort of,' he said, reluctant to encourage Ron in his new acuity.

'Harry,' Ron said, sounding pained, 'after all this time, and everything we've been through, you still can't trust us?'

'I do trust you!' Harry cried. 'It's exactly because of that that I have to --' He stopped speaking, fearing to give away too much.

Ron eyed him, wearing a speculative expression. 'Are you angry with us?'

Harry shook his head mutely, wrapping his arms around his body.

'Do you not want to be friends with us anymore?'

Harry nodded.

'Why, Harry? Did we do something?'

Harry shook his head.

Ron sat back with a heavy sigh. 'So you're not worried that we'll hate you because you like boys, you're not angry with us and we didn't do anything to upset you -- so you don't want to be friends why, precisely?'

'Trust me -- if there was any other way, I'd take it.' Harry's voice shook with sincerity. Ron peered into his face.

'I believe you,' Ron said. 'Hermione's all for tying you up and forcing you to tell us, like last time, but seeing as she thinks it's -- ehm -- sexual --' his face went an interesting shade of puce '-- she doesn't want to push too soon either. Is it going to take long, this thing you're working through?'

Harry thought about how soon Voldemort was likely to make his next move. It wasn't likely to be a protracted plan. 'No,' he replied in a tone that he valiantly attempted to prevent from sounding ghastly.

'And you'll come back when you're done, won't you?' Ron asked. 'Because we miss you.'

'I would like nothing better,' Harry said, with absolute honesty. 'But until then --'

'-- you want to back off.' Ron clucked his tongue. 'I can't even begin to understand, Harry mate, but if that's what you want ...' He hesitated, before reaching over and quickly patting Harry's hand. 'I'll do it.'

'Ron,' Harry said, but he couldn't get past that word. He was terrified that his eyes were getting wet.

'Yeah, well,' Ron said, attempting a grin. 'You're a huge prat, but we like you anyway.' He paused. 'Before I go -- the rumours about Susan --?'

'Not true!' Harry exclaimed. 'She's a --' dealer '-- someone I know, that's all.'

'Well, I didn't really think so,' Ron said. 'After all, don't you like black hair on gi-- bo-- people?'

'Blondes,' Harry said without thinking. Ron frowned.

'Well -- whatever. At least I know now, for all the people who keep asking me.'

'Before you go -- you and Hermione?' Harry asked swiftly.

Ron blushed. 'Er. No. No, not -- yet.'

Harry smiled. For a moment it felt like everything was back to normal -- but Harry knew that normal was only a byword for putting Ron and everyone else in danger, so he let it fade back into a scowl. Ron pressed his lips together, but he no longer looked so confused or angry.

'Good luck,' he said softly, walking away.

*~*

Harry set down his quill with a sigh and just prevented himself from rubbing his scratchy eyes. It took too long to get the eyeliner straight to think of carelessly rubbing it off just because it felt like microscopic hedgehogs were holding a disco on his eyeballs. He decided that if he did any more studying for the Defence test his brain would explode with sheer overloading. At this stage, he felt if there was anything he didn't know about Time-Loop and all other clock-related curses, then it wasn't worth knowing -- or at least, it just wouldn't fit into his brain.

It was half-past eight and he supposed he should leave the library before he got caught for breaking curfew. He would have come back with his Invisibility Cloak were it not for the fact that the words on the page were starting to dance tangos in front of his eyes and he really didn't think he should be encouraging them in that sort of deviant behaviour.

Gathering up the books he'd taken from the shelves and stuffing them into his bag, Harry yawned and stood up to leave. He was half-way to the door when he realised he's left his quill sitting on the desk he'd been using. With a groan, he turned to retrieve it.

And walked straight into something warm and tall that smelled unfairly good.

Harry stumbled backwards, catching his hip on a shelf and looked up into Smythe's face, on which raised eyebrows featured predominately.

'I never realised you were so clumsy, Potter,' said Smythe. 'You don't demonstrate this level of unco-ordination in the air.'

'Huh -- what?' said Harry, his brain feeling fuzzy and slightly behind current events. Smythe narrowed his eyes.

'Have you been indulging in some of the Puffs' stock?' he asked. 'Not a good idea during the week, I find.'

'What? No, I was studying.' Harry swung his bag upwards, narrowly avoiding whacking Smythe in the groin with it. 'Studying,' Harry repeated, feeling a need to justify his castrating dance.

'I believe you,' Smythe assured him. 'What for?'

'Defence Against the Dark Arts. Test. We have a test. Tomorrow.' Harry, looking up into Smythe's eyes -- which were blue but slightly bloodshot -- found he couldn't articulate sentences longer than four words. No wonder Smythe had thought he was high. Now all Harry needed to do was figure out why he was acting like this -- he was tired, but not that bloody tired.

'You got an Outstanding in your OWL.' It wasn't a question; Smythe spoke in the tones of one who knew.

'Yeah. I did. How'd you know?' Harry cleared his throat, wondering if that would help with the verbal constipation. It didn't, but he sounded like an old man with bronchitis, which was of course the exact image Harry hoped to present to cool, attractive seventh-years.

Smythe shrugged, managing to look enigmatic with no apparent effort. 'Well done,' he said. 'Outstandings are rare, even for Ravenclaws.'

'Did you get one?' asked Harry, wondering if the conversation had any point at all, other than to make Harry sound like an idiot.

'Yes,' Smythe said. 'I'm not taking it for NEWTs, though.' His cool blue gaze raked over Harry, slowly and with excruciating indolence. Harry felt himself growing hot underneath Smythe's speculative expression and felt an immense urge to wriggle. Away, preferably.

'You aren't?' Harry remembered to say, ten years later. 'I -- you never came to -- no.' He stopped, aware that the DA had been a secret organisation and Smythe, never having been there, would not know about it.

'Your little vigilante group?' Smythe sounded amused. 'No, open rebellion is not my style.'

'How did you know about the DA?'

'Malfoy, of course,' Smythe said, inspecting his nails. 'He boasted about having sprung you -- and the rest of the outlaws, although I doubt they were of much interest to him -- at the next poker game.'

Harry remembered how Malfoy had tripped him up that day, and the light of manic revenge in his eyes. 'I'm not surprised,' he said bitterly.

Smythe raised his eyebrows. 'You shouldn't be. No one else there was.'

Harry frowned. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Only what it means,' Smythe said. 'Are you going back to Gryffindor Tower? I'll walk with you.'

'Oh -- okay,' Harry said, hugging his bag of books to himself. Smythe's eyes were like lasers, dispassionately stripping away everything in their path. He made Harry feel naked. It wasn't that Harry didn't like it, although he probably shouldn't, it was just that he'd never felt more at a loss of how to react, even when faced with a ten-foot long snake or the Dark Lord. Or Cho.

Smythe walked a little ahead of Harry, his robes billowing about him in a manner not unlike Snape's, although Smythe was taller than Snape, his shoulders were broader and his ankles were absolutely amazing. All details Harry noticed in the name of comparison, of course.

'Do you find Malfoy attractive?' asked Smythe. Harry felt like he had three feet all of a sudden and almost tripped.

'What?' he spluttered. 'Are we talking about the same Malfoy here? He's a raging git! I hate him!'

Smythe stopped so abruptly that Harry walked into his back. He was getting far too acquainted with being squashed up against this boy.

'You didn't answer the question,' Smythe said, turning so that Harry was effectively pinioned between him and the wall, his bag the only barrier between them. Smythe's face was so close to Harry's he would only have to turn his head up to meet his mouth, and Harry did not just think that --

'What was the question again?' Harry said, swallowing.

Smythe didn't answer. His hand crept up between them to push Harry's bag away. His face was really very close; Harry could feel his skin tightening as Smythe's warm breath touched it. He seemed to have a crazy effect on Harry's lungs as well, because they had suddenly become so small that Harry could only breathe in short pants.

'You shouldn't get mixed up with that kid,' whispered Smythe. His hand had advanced as far as Harry's chest now and was creeping inexorably downwards, where other things were reaching up towards it. 'He's crazy.'

'I know,' said Harry, 'he's always been crazy.' He followed Smythe's hand with his eyes, wishing his breath wasn't coming quite so fast. He thought he might pass out. Of all things, hyperventilation was not the sort of reaction he hoped for when he was -- what? Being seduced? Groped? Smythe's face was so close now Harry had to half-close his eyes so they wouldn't cross in the effort of focusing.

'But then again,' Smythe said, his lips forming the words directly in front of Harry's mouth, so that his mouth just grazed Harry's as he spoke them, 'so are you.'

At that point, Harry handed over control of his body to his back brain. Making a terrible sort of desperate sound in the back of his throat, he arched his neck, so that Smythe's mouth and his came into sudden and total conjunction.

And Smythe was still talking, his mouth retreating the merest of distances to press the words on to Harry's lips. Harry thought he might be saying, 'Fucking crazy,' but it was hard to tell, especially when Smythe's tongue joined in the conversation, swiping across Harry's lower lip at the exact moment his thigh slid between Harry's legs. Harry's hips jerked into Smythe's at the contact and, to his shame, he whimpered.

Smythe broke away and Harry let his head fall against the cool stone wall, wincing.

'As an experiment, that worked quite well,' Smythe remarked. Harry noted that Smythe's leg was still between his, and that Smythe's body was pressed close to Harry's, and that Harry was not the only one who had --

'Experiment?' Harry said sharply, as the words registered.

'Yeah,' said Smythe, swooping in suddenly to kiss a place just where Harry's jaw met his ear. It made him gasp in surprise, at the roughness of Smythe's stubble and the softness of his lips on a part of Harry that he'd hitherto considered unkissable. Smythe spoke against his neck; he seemed quite fond of holding conversations with parts of Harry's face. 'You're just a pretty little boy-kisser, aren't you, Potter?'

'Uhn,' was all Harry felt capable of producing. This was fair, in his opinion, considering Smythe's teeth were scraping slowly over his skin, followed by his tongue.

'Good to know,' Smythe continued, removing his mouth from Harry's neck. Harry shivered as cold air moved against the damp patches on his neck. 'Well, this is me.'

'What?' said Harry, his mouth dropping open as Smythe withdrew and brushed off his robes with an air of decided concentration.

'The statue,' said Smythe, indicating a graceful likeness of Rowena Ravenclaw in a rather racy toga with his thumb. 'Ravenclaw Tower.'

'You're going?' said Harry, and cursed himself three ways from Tuesday for being such a needy loser.

'See you around, Potter,' said Smythe. He was definitely smirking. The dusky light and Harry's fog of arousal weren't quite enough to camouflage that dirty little fact.

At that moment Pansy Parkinson appeared around the corner, fingering her Prefect badge and generally looking like she deserved a baton and an SS patch. Smythe took one look at her and disappeared behind the statue; craning his neck, Harry saw an opening appear before him. He silently bid farewell to Smythe's ankles.

'Potter!' barked Pansy. 'What are you doing out? It's almost nine o'clock.'

'Um,' Harry said, rather distracted by the events that were very nearly happening beneath his robes. 'Co -- Going now.'

'Was that Mark Smythe?' she demanded. She looked rather put out, Harry noticed, although with his state of mind he was in no way to judge whether it was resentment or religious fervour he glimpsed on her face.

'His name is Mark?' Odd how it wasn't at all important, when compared to how amazing his mouth had felt on Harry's --

Harry realised he's just kissed a boy.

A boy.

A member of the male species.

'What did I do?' Harry half-screamed, stuffing his fist into his mouth.

'I don't know,' said Pansy, 'although I could venture several disgusting possibilities, but if you don't get to your filthy little commoner's dormitory in five seconds you will be doing detention tomorrow.'

Harry grabbed his books and ran.

A boy.

Oh dear.

Smythe wasn't anywhere near blonde.

*~*

Draco was highly annoyed. He lay back on his bed, rubbing the new silk pyjama bottoms his mum had sent him through one of the family owls. They itched terribly. Draco glared angrily at the jade green hangings of his four-poster, rolled on to his bare stomach and tried to think. Right.

Potter.

Potter had turned up at the poker game uninvited. Uninvited and wearing eyeliner, a small voice at the back of Draco's head reminded him imperiously. Eyeliner.

If Draco was completely honest with himself, he'd half-hoped Potter would put in an appearance, to liven things up a bit. It wasn't as if gatecrashing was totally out of the question in the first place - Potter clearly had this thing about open defiance and their paths had seemed to be running alongside each other of late. Draco wondered vaguely if this was because he was pursuing Potter, or vice-versa. Draco hoped it was vice-versa. Not because he wanted that idiot within ten feet of him, but because he didn't want to be the one who was ... oh, fuck.

Everyone was either dismissing the eyeliner as something to do with Potter's hormones or embracing the fact that The Boy Who Lived managed to make every school year a national event, with or without any threats to his life. Potter had been making some new changes, that was for certain. Potter was rude and surly to teachers, he ignored his old mates, and he committed social suicide by hanging out with a Puff girl - although since he had few friends left to lose, this hardly mattered.

According to the many rumours floating around the school, You-Know-Who was controlling Potter through the Imperius Curse. Also, the reason the Mudblood and the Weasel weren't speaking to him anymore was because of some dramatic unrequited love triangle between the three. Potter was a drug addict because he was trying to cope with the severe emotional stress he'd undergone in the past five years. Susan Bones was feeding Potter drugs in return for protection from You-Know-Who. Susan Bones was feeding Potter drugs in return for sexual favours. Potter was gay.

Draco was no stranger to the last rumour; he'd tried to spread it himself, in fourth year, but the timing had been wrong - everyone was talking about the damn Triwizard Tournament and the champions and the tasks. Draco personally couldn't see why an oversize lizard that breathed fire was more attention-grabbing than someone's alleged homosexuality, but that was Hogwarts for you: unpredictable. Around Christmas he'd tried to re-spread more malicious hearsay, mentioning his 'suspicions' to Pansy one night in the common room - without the ferocious female enthusiasm for gossip, all rumours are stillborn - but the only thing that Parkinson and her clique were interested in discussing was the theory that Granger had gone to the Yule Ball in a wig.

'Draco,' grunted Crabbe from the dormitory, outside the green veil. Draco scowled, and ground his head into his pillow in irritation.

'What?'

There was a pause.

'Where's Goyle?'

Draco couldn't believe it. He scratched his itchy leg. 'How the buggering hell should I know?'

'You said you were going upstairs ... you said. I thought he might've come with you.'

'I said I was going upstairs to take a shower,' Draco hissed, shaking his head in disbelief. Tiny droplets from his hair flew every which way, leaving damp spots on the duvet.

'I know. I still thought he might've come.'

'I haven't seen him.'

'Oh.' There were no sounds of movement from behind the curtain. Draco sighed.

'You can leave now, Crabbe.'

Draco heard the shuffling of feet go past his bed, then the door slam. He sank down on to his pillows again, and thought about what Crabbe had just said. Surely he didn't think ...

Ew. No way. Especially not with Goyle. Not only would it be a bitterly cold day in hell when that happened, but pigs would have mastered aeroplane travel, and Hagrid would complete a sentence without dropping a single 'h'.

Draco definitely wasn't gay. He and Pansy had ... they'd ... they'd done some things and that proved without a shadow of a doubt that Draco wasn't gay, because he'd liked it. Enjoyed it, even. He'd have enjoyed it a lot more if Pansy hadn't kept stopping to preen and if she hadn't reapplied her make-up immediately afterwards, but that couldn't be helped. His relationship with Potter was purely ... everything a relationship wasn't. The only reason he got on Potter's case was because he hated him. Malfoys manipulated people, that was what they did.

Except Draco thought that, maybe, manipulative people didn't usually obsess over the people they tormented. The people he picked on were supposed to be inconsequential, not the main focus of his life. You might bully them because you were bored, but not because when you didn't life seemed unbearably dull and pointless. Draco knew that manipulative people were supposed to always be in control. Being attacked in the middle of a poker game and having your head bashed against the floor by a raving lunatic did not really square with anyone's definition of the words 'in control'. And having thoughts about the aforementioned attacker certainly didn't reflect 'control' in any sense. It bordered on the realm of lunacy, in fact.

Draco touched a purpling bruise on his shoulder gingerly. Ok, so Potter had been trying to cause him irreparable damage when he'd done that, but what Draco remembered was Potter's hands on him, and his warm body over his, and the nervous thrill of excitement he got when he saw Harry's angry face just above his own ...

Draco shivered. If he was thinking things like this, then by all rights he should be locked up in a ward in St. Mungo's. Maybe the Healers should feed the key to a Skrewt, just to be on the safe side.

The funny thing - no actually, it wasn't funny, it was perverse - was that Draco still loathed Potter's guts. Nothing was really any different, except for the fact that Draco had to shove his hands inside his robes and head along to the nearest toilet cubicle whenever he was forced to spend a prolonged amount of time in close proximity to Potter and that happened at least twice daily. Twenty-three times a week, but who was counting?

Draco wasn't. It didn't bear thinking about, let alone counting. Only, he did think about Potter. Incessantly.

Even though the lout had somehow managed to get him aroused, he never came hinking about Potter. He'd tried originally to make Potter turn him off instead of on, but that hadn't worked. Draco had made himself remember all the extremely unattractive things about Potter: his hair, his hexes, how he beat Draco at everything, the way he threw around words like the Dark Lord's name and 'Death Eater' as if they didn't mean anything ... but it always came back to Potter's face, the gaze that cut through you like a knife and made you feel utterly naked, even underneath heavy robes ...

So Draco thought of Belinda instead. Belinda was soft and curvy and pretty. She wasn't angular and lean like Potter and she didn't have the beginnings of stubble on her cheeks. Belinda wore pastel frills and jewellery that clanged and clattered wherever she went. She didn't skulk around and glare out at the world from behind messy black hair and she didn't turn up standing too close behind him when he least expected it, her breath hot on his neck. Belinda smelt of perfume and aromatherapy oils, not stale cigarette smoke and musty robes. Also, Belinda was a girl, which was why she always won. Because Draco wasn't gay, it was just a phase, an infatuation, something that he'd look back on and laugh -- or, alternatively, shudder -- at.

Draco pummelled a pillow, in the hopes that it'd make him feel better. It didn't. He considered projecting Potter's face on to it, but then he threw it through the curtain in exasperation. That would just be the same as imagining Potter in bed with him.

It was about then that he noticed that all the hangings in the room were the exact same shade of green as Potter's irises. As was nearly every item of clothing he owned, because he was a Slytherin.

Potter was fucking everywhere.

*~*

'Right, so I can imagine you're wondering why I asked you two to stay after class,' Belinda began, scratching her bare arms absent-mindedly. Draco shrugged in response.

'Are we in trouble for something?' Potter asked, in a voice that managed to imply that if they were, it was certainly all Draco's fault.

'No, you're not, Harry,' Belinda reassured him. 'It's just ... I'm, like, concerned. The thing is, Draco, you got full marks in the last homework assignment.'

Potter muttered just how unimpressed he was under his breath, perfectly audible from the distance of two seats in front, which was where Draco was sitting, but oddly enough inaudible from the desk three seats away, where Belinda was perched. Draco wished that he could turn around and jinx Potter. He would have, too, except Belinda was staring at him with the reproachful look one usually reserved for children who tied tin cans to puppies' tails.

'Why am I in trouble for getting full marks?' Draco asked.

'Do you remember what topic the essay was set on?' Belinda enquired, with an 'If-You-Confess-Now-I-Won't-Feed-You-To-The-Skrewts' expression on her face.

'The jinxes that Dark Spirits and Creatures are impervious to,' Draco answered, beginning to feel ill at ease. That essay had been courtesy of Matthew Bloomsbury, first-year, Ravenclaw House. Matthew had been set a concise essay on jinxes, to sum up the first-years' rudimentary knowledge on the subject and the little swot had scribbled five paragraphs on an Advanced-Level topic. Draco had made Matthew cut it out of the final draft -- six rolls of parchment was quite enough -- but not before copying it down himself. Still, since Matthew hadn't actually handed that section in, there was no way Belinda could've found duplicates of his homework, was there?

'That topic also made up a quarter of the mid-term test,' Belinda informed Draco briskly, her eyes narrowed. 'You failed that test, largely due to your complete ignorance of that particular topic.' Belinda paused and licked her lips unhappily. 'Can you explain this to me, Draco?'

'I can explain,' Harry interrupted from the back of the room, sounding immensely bored. 'Malfoy's a stupid git and he cheated on the test. What does any of this have to do with me?'

'I'm coming to that bit,' Belinda replied. She looked Draco in the eyes. 'Draco, did you copy the work from in another student in the class?'

'No,' Draco replied, grateful to be able to tell the truth. Matthew wasn't in the class, he wasn't even in their general age group. Harry snorted in disbelief and Draco cringed inwardly.

'I see,' Belinda replied. The disappointment was written all over her face. She'd obviously wanted Draco to burst into tears and reveal the whole truth, so that she could pat him on the back, dry his tears, and lead him into the way of truth and light. Whilst Draco wasn't averse to patting or petting, he didn't fancy the idea of being made to understand the error of his ways and coming out the other side a 'reformed character'. Malfoy Manor was the largest private estate for several counties. Whoever made up the expression 'Cheaters never prosper' was clearly talking out of their arse.

'I see,' Belinda repeated, meaning 'I see that you're not the boy I thought you were and therefore you will never make anything of yourself in this life or the next'. Draco wondered if Belinda believed in a 'next' life. Probably. It was practically a given, when you counted up the number of bangles she wore. 'Nevertheless, your work is not as consistent as I would, like, hope for it to be, so I'm supplying you with a tutor to get it up to scratch. That's why Harry's here. He will --'

'Professor,' Harry interrupted, standing up noisily. 'I don't think that's a very good idea.' Belinda's face hardened slightly, and she stopped smiling. Draco swivelled round in his seat to look at Potter, but he ignored him.

'Why is that, Harry?'

'Because.' Potter gestured in Draco's vague direction and made a disgusted face. 'I hate him.'

'I hate him too,' Draco mumbled, flushing pink. Potter looked unperturbed; he merely tugged irritably at the collar of his robes and nodded at Belinda.

'See?'

Belinda frowned. Her expression was more reminiscent of a disapproving McGonagall than the happy-go-lucky grin her class were accustomed to.

'You are acting,' she said slowly, 'like petulant children. Harry, your dislike for Draco, however strong it may be, is of very little concern to me. What I am concerned about is that all my pupils have a thorough understanding of the subject. Harry, this is as much for your good as it is Draco's. You're seriously lacking in extra-curriculars, you're not really giving anything back to the school community --'

'I'm Quidditch Captain!' Potter objected indignantly.

'-- apart from Quidditch,' Belinda finished. 'Anyhow, I know all about your little brawl with Draco in Potions and I personally think that this will be good for both of you, emotionally, so that you can, like, mature. You need to learn that not every little spat is solved with one's fists.'

'Yeah, sometimes a quick hex to the back of the head can be helpful too,' Draco muttered under his breath.

'Shut your face, Malfoy,' Potter scowled, shoving his books into his bag.

'You two are really unbelievable,' Belinda commented with wry amusement. 'You're worse than the girls in my third-year class.'

'Yeah, well. So?' Draco replied rudely, then wished he hadn't, as it sounded too stupid for words. He caught sight of Potter standing directly behind him and jumped about a foot into the air, banging his knee painfully against the wood of the desk.

'You can have the tutoring sessions in your study period, which I believe you share,' Belinda murmured, strolling over to the teacher's desk and stuffing some crumpled sheets of paper into her brown satchel. It looked as if she had sewn it herself -- blindfolded. 'Or you can like, have them at the end of the day, in the evenings, though that may interfere with your --'

'Quidditch.' Potter answered. His fists were clenched, and Draco moved sideways slightly. Surely Potter wouldn't punch him, not here, right in front of Belinda.

'There's always weekends,' Belinda said breezily, her hand on the doorknob. 'By next lesson, I want you to have decided on the sessions and scheduled them into your timetables. Ideally there should be about two hours a week, but if you're too busy --'

'Which I will be,' Potter scowled.

'-- then occasionally one hour per week will have to suffice. Draco, I expect you to show significant improvement and Harry, I expect you to help him to the best of your ability. All right, boys?'

Belinda waltzed out of the room, leaving behind a musky scent of aromatherapy oils. Potter glared at Draco, who looked at his feet in consternation. There was a tense silence for a few seconds.

'Study sessions, then?' Draco asked coolly. Potter ran his fingers through his tangled hair in frustrated annoyance.

'No can do, you tosser. I need them to do Potions in.' He made an impatient noise deep in his throat and stared at the wall. 'It's not as if I want to spend more time with you than I absolutely have to, but Snape always gives us so much bloody homework -- greasy git --'

The door burst open suddenly. It was Smythe, the one who had pulled Potter off Draco at the poker game. It didn't look as if he'd shaved since that night, but even the coarse brown stubble didn't make him look wholly undesirable. Unattractive. Something.

'Potter, what the fuck?' Smythe complained. 'I've been waiting ...' His eyes drifted over to Draco, and his eyebrows shot up in recognition. 'Christ. You're not going to jump on him again, are you?'

'Not this time.' Potter grinned, his eyes lighting up at Smythe's sudden appearance. Draco glanced at both of them curiously. What the hell was going on? 'Look, give us a minute,' Potter continued, scratching the back of his neck with his dirty, bitten fingernails. 'I'll be out in just a sec.'

Smythe grinned amiably at Draco, who felt a cold shiver run down his spine. His lips tensed in response.

'Sure thing, I'll leave you two alone.' The door banged shut again. Draco looked at Potter suspiciously, who had a small half-smile playing about his mouth.

'So ... are you and Smythe mates now, or what?' Draco asked.

Potter paused, and dragged his teeth across his upper lip. 'In -- in manner of speaking. Yeah.'

'Oh,' Draco managed, through gritted teeth. He was starting to get quite hot underneath all his robes. 'Anyway ...'

'I'm sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?' Potter asked innocently. Draco stared at him. Potter looked back, his face blank. Fuck, it really was hot in that classroom.

'No - bloody hell - it's just --' Draco either needed to get to the privacy and blessed quiet of a toilet cubicle, fast, or sit down so that Potter wouldn't see --

'Because I really shouldn't make you uncomfortable,' Potter continued relentlessly, his eyes boring into Draco's head. 'I mean, the thought of him and me as -- mates -- shouldn't bother you at all, Malfoy.'

Draco looked at the door in desperation, and then remembered that Smythe was on the other side - that wasn't an extremely profitable escape route. He shot a brief look at the treacherous bit of his anatomy and, to his horror, Potter did too. His eyes widened until they didn't so much resemble saucers as honking great dinner plates.

Potter's eyes travelled up and down Draco's body, stopping at his face. He gave Draco a Look, a Look Draco knew only too well because it was one he gave people regularly. It was the barely-restrained glee of someone who has just found out something that will work very well towards their advantage and plans to exploit the information as soon as humanly possible. Draco sank down into a chair, ignoring the ache between his legs. Potter sneered.

'Fine, then,' he said. 'I think we should continue are discussion at a time that's more convenient for you, Malfoy. You've clearly got things to attend to, so I won't take up more of your time than I already have.' Potter walked out of the room, smirking. Before the door swung shut, Draco heard a snippet of Smythe and Potter's conversation.

'Took your bloody time,' Smythe said hoarsely. 'What were you talking to Malfoy about, anyway?'

Potter laughed.

'What do you think we were talking about?'

'Sex,' Smythe replied briskly. 'Have you had anything to eat yet?'

The door closed. Draco sank down into his empty chair and gazed around the empty classroom. It didn't really matter whether they'd been talking about sex or not. Whichever way you looked at it, he was well and truly screwed.

*~*

Kissing Smythe, Harry reflected, was a bit like shoving your lips against a ticking hand grenade. There was just no telling when he would go off.

Harry enjoyed it, almost too much. There was just something not quite right about all of it. He didn't even consider wanting to be courted, but at the same time he occasionally thought that Smythe and he should, he didn't know, talk or something. Or at least, talk about something that wasn't one-sided, half-garbled articulations of desire, as Smythe's hands struck Harry quite dumb.

Smythe was a very tactile person. Of course, kisses were pretty tactile things, but with Cho, it had just been mouth on mouth action. Not that Harry hadn't enjoyed that, although the novelty factor had naturally played a starring role in the proceedings. But Smythe, now, he was a different country. Cho had been Scotland, basically being pretty sodden; or Ireland, at that. Smythe was more like America -- he got Harry in the right position and threw everything he had at him.

After class that Tuesday, for example. Harry had, as usual, waited for everyone else to leave the classroom before making his own way out, so as to avoid bumping into people and having to make conversation. Preoccupied with shoving his quills into his bag, he didn't register Smythe's presence until his fingers slid around Harry's wrist and shoved him around.

Harry got as far as the 'Wh' in 'What the hell?' before Smythe's mouth shamelessly stole the rest of the sentence, not to mention any lingering shards of sense in Harry's head.

It was quite a lingering kiss. That is, when it ended Harry discovered it had engaged the best part of an hour. Harry's bag had been abandoned early on and he could feel quills and book-edges crumpling under his feet as Smythe's moans thrummed in Harry's mouth and Smythe's hips canted his own into the wall. Smythe's hands -- his hands were everywhere, gripping Harry's jaw as his tongue mercilessly ransacked Harry's mouth, sliding down the ultra-sensitive skin of his neck into the hollow of his throat, mapping the length of Harry's torso, tangling in his hair. His legs curled around Harry's, so that Harry would almost certainly have tripped if he had tried to push Smythe away.

The only place his hands didn't venture was where their bodies pressed together most urgently. Harry presumed that this was because the movement of his hips was doing the job of increasing the heat there to scalding point quite efficiently.

Just when Harry kept having to break away to gasp, breathing Smythe's air having become too laborious, Smythe stepped away from him. Harry's jelly-legs wobbled and he sank against the wall for support.

'Nice one,' Smythe said, in a tone of approval, and walked off.

Harry stared after him, his lip curling incredulously. He'd -- and he was -- and Harry was, god damn it! And Smythe had just left!

It seemed to be a pattern. Which would have been fine by Harry, even if he was harbouring practically permanent bruises on his collarbones and he got stubble rash something awful and he was wanking so hard every night and at choice times during the day too that it was starting to hurt. Only, every time, Smythe upped the ante.

Every time he pulled Harry into a broom cupboard to snog in a darkness punctuated only by breathless moans, he would push him on to boxes, buckets and once what felt like a stack of cauldrons. Harry would be thrust betwixt the wall and said seating fixture, Smythe using his full weight to keep Harry where he wanted him and Smythe's hands, when not teasing the rest of Harry's anatomy, would slide under the collar of his robes and down to his nipples.

At first it was just the most fleeting of caresses before his hands returned to holding Harry's jerking hips in position. Then it was a touch, twist and pinch. Pretty soon Harry found his robes unceremoniously parting company with his shoulders as soon as Smythe kicked the door closed. Smythe liked to kiss Harry's nipples nearly as much as he liked kissing Harry's neck and even as much as his mouth. Harry's nipples were permanently swollen nowadays.

Every time Smythe shoved Harry up against a handy wall, door, alcove or pillar, his hands would head south. Initially they lingered around his waist as Harry arched his neck up and kissed and was kissed until his jaw ached and almost locked. Then it was his hips. Then it was his arse. And there they stayed ... caressing. It was the only word for it.

At first Harry had squirmed away and Smythe let him. However, as soon as he settled, his hands would sneak back. Seeing as the sensations engendered were pleasurable, Harry let him. He still felt uncomfortable, though. Not to mention that every, single, bloody time, Smythe left him hanging, literally. Mostly, it was all Harry could do to make it to a nearby toilet, and sometimes not even that.

Out of the blue, Smythe asked him, 'Want to come to this place I know?'

Harry, who thought the question had been supposed to stop about four words earlier, choked, which Smythe seemed to take as acquiescence. He smoothly did up Harry's robes again -- it was a broom cupboard afternoon -- and tugged him upright.

'But I --' Harry gestured helplessly downwards. Even in the gloom, he could see the gleam of Smythe's teeth as he grinned. He slithered his arm around Harry's waist, pulling him close.

'Yeah, I know,' he said into Harry's ear, lips kissing the vowels into his skin. 'It's hot.'

Harry would have to agree there, but it didn't absolve the fact that it was also bloody frustrating, too. His mind distracted with what was going on under his robes, he let Smythe lead him down corridors and up a spiral stairs to a large statue. Smythe opened the door beside it, revealing a tiny room with a dusty sofa sitting beneath a gummed-up window.

'Sit down,' Smythe tossed carelessly over his shoulder. With extreme care, keeping his legs tightly pressed together, Harry gingerly seated himself.

Smythe sat down beside Harry. Well, it was almost on Harry, but Harry wasn't a Ravenclaw, to quibble over the terminology. Smythe's lips started investigating the very interesting patch of skin under Harry's earlobe, while his hand wove around Harry's, stroking the skin of his palms.

'Um,' Harry said, feeling his brain turn to mush as Smythe pressed his long, lean body up against Harry's side.

'Are you hard, Harry?' Smythe's voice was almost mocking, but his knee was now wedged under one of Harry's own and it was severely impeding the operation of Harry's rational brain. Always assuming he had one.

'Yeah,' moaned Harry, wanting to add something like: 'Isn't it bloody obvious?', but not caring to stop Smythe dragging his teeth just under his jaw line.

'Do you want me to touch you, Harry?'

'Y..ung.'

Smythe's flat hand was delineating circles on Harry's arched belly and his mouth had descended to Harry's collarbones -- boy, but was he obsessed with those. Any minute, his teeth were going to force his robes open. Harry had no doubt that this would be the case. He'd done it before.

'Harry ...' The word was drawled. All contact was suddenly removed, except for one of Smythe's hands, which had insinuated itself between his legs. Harry jerked upwards, almost biting clean through his lower lip.

'Think about Malfoy.'

Harry screamed and came.

He wanted to demand what the hell that had been in aid of. He wanted to shake Smythe and yell that he'd had quite enough of coming to Malfoy's name, thank you very much.

He wanted to know how he knew.

Smythe was rubbing himself against Harry now, purring in the back of his throat and forcing Harry's hand down between Harry's hip and Smythe's. Almost unwillingly, Harry let him. It was worth it, perhaps, as Smythe sighed, his lips wet and parted as the heat spread under Harry's hand. It just didn't feel right.

*~*

Smythe was a prick-teaser, Harry decided angrily, as his hand strayed under the table again and stroked Harry's inner thigh, just below the rapidly-becoming-more-pointed crucial point. All the while affecting utter disregard of Harry's flushed cheeks and sudden loss of appetite.

The Ravenclaws hadn't paid much attention to the new addition to their table. Harry could barely follow their conversations. The number of syllables they used in single words would have done him for two or three sentences. He was exceedingly bored and he had an erection, which was not a good combination.

He glanced around him, feeling tired. A glimpse of bangles at the Head Table sent an unpleasant jolt through his stomach. Malfoy. Tutoring. Huge big pain in the arse, and still not organised.

'Gotta go,' muttered Harry in Smythe's general direction. Smythe was engaged in a heated debate on chaos theory with the boy Harry recognised from the poker night and didn't acknowledge Harry's departure. At least, not verbally. Harry made sure to detach Smythe's hand before he stood up.

Harry yawned, rubbing his mouth on his hand as he wandered over to the Slytherin table. He was vaguely aware of their hostile glares, but he had more pressing matters on his mind, and one of them was actually Malfoy.

'Oi, you,' Harry said, poking him in the back. After extricating himself from his bread-and-butter pudding, into which he'd very nearly fallen headfirst, Malfoy glared up at Harry, nostrils flaring.

'What the hell do you want?' he demanded, and Harry must have been really tired, because looking at the spot on Malfoy's cheek -- almost dead centre in the pulsing red blush of anger -- was far more interesting than coming up with a nasty reply.

'Tutoring,' he said wearily. 'We have to organise times and stuff. When's your stupid Quidditch practice?'

'Tuesdays and Thursdays,' said Malfoy, after a pause in which he seemed to be waiting for Harry to add something more.

'Well, mine are Mondays and Fridays,' said Harry, 'which leaves Wednesday. Or the weekend. And I'm so not --'

'Wasting my weekend with you,' Malfoy sneered, at almost the exact same time as Harry. They stared at each other in mutual consternation for a moment.

'Wednesdays it is,' said Harry, shrugging. 'Six o'clock? In the Defence classroom?'

'Are we allowed in there?' asked Malfoy. His tone could almost have been mistaken for cordial had it not been for the sadistic manner in which he was gripping his spoon.

'Oh, I forgot, you pretend to follow rules,' said Harry, rolling his eyes. 'I'm sure Lovebright will allow us. And if not, we can refuse to do it. Now, isn't that a happy thought?'

'No,' said Malfoy, pondering. 'That would be the memory of your funeral.'

Harry grit his teeth and leaned in closer. There was just something about Malfoy that sent him over the edge. Where angels dared not tread and all that. Smythe didn't. Quite obviously. Because he didn't hate Smythe's guts and didn't want to beat him three ways from next Tuesday to shut him up once and for all, did he?

'Really?' he hissed. 'You think I'll let you live after me?'

'I think --'

But Harry didn't wait for him to finish. 'Six o'clock!' he sang, without looking back.

'You're fucking hot when you're angry,' Smythe's voice breathed as his hand brushed against Harry's lower back. Harry just didn't feel like kissing now. He wanted to hit something and get rid of this ridiculous hard-on, which had only got worse during his conversation with Malfoy but had nothing, nothing at all, to do with Malfoy himself.

'Leave me alone,' he muttered, hunching his shoulders, and strode away.

He'd abandoned his friends. His boyfriend, or whatever Smythe was, never addressed two words to him that didn't have anything to do with sex. It was horrible to think that his only real conversational exchange of late had been with a boy he despised.

*~*

Harry didn't expect Malfoy to be on time. He was the sort who liked making an entrance, first of all, and second of all he'd do anything to piss Harry off, because that was the status quo, wasn't it?

So Harry was quite surprised when, only a few minutes after he'd sat down at his usual desk and got his books out, the door opened again to admit one Draco Malfoy.

For a second there was a tense silence. Harry's gaze locked into Malfoy's.

Malfoy was nervous.

Funny thing being, Harry was too. The closest he could remember was the feeling he'd had when he was in fifth year on seeing Cho -- and kissing her, too-- which was odd, because really, the emotion was nothing like it. Harry hated Malfoy, after all.

Harry cleared his throat. 'Sit down, then,' he said, and blushed when he remembered Smythe saying the same thing to him. It was a massively bad thought to have at that particular point in time.

Malfoy tossed his hair back and strolled to the desk beside Harry, slamming his books down. 'I just want to say,' he announced, 'that I could think of at least ten things I'd rather do with my time right now, and at least one involves electric eels.'

Despite himself, Harry snorted.

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, his face utterly blank, before it fell into a scowl. Harry reflected that Malfoy always did that. His reactions were always a split-second too late, as if he had to take time out to judge the situation before deciding on which response he'd take to it. It was odd, mainly because his responses were generally those calculated to cause the most insult, aggravation or blanket annoyance on the other person's part. However, it seemed as if such behaviour did not come naturally to him -- that it was, in fact, all an act.

'Well?' Malfoy asked rudely. 'Are you going to stop staring and start teaching some time this decade?' He sat down beside Harry, heaving a lugubrious sigh and starting to flip his books open.

'We have to draw up a timetable first,' Harry pointed out, retrieving a stray scrap of parchment as it flew past his nose. 'So I need to know what I'll be tutoring you in.'

'Defence, nimrod,' Malfoy said, gesturing extravagantly at the cover of his textbook.

Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, Harry managed not to bludgeon Malfoy to death with a blunt instrument and counted it a notable success. Instead, he opened the book to the chapter page, sticking his finger at the titles as if they were Malfoy's eyes. 'Jinxes. Counter Jinxes. Curses. Practical Defence. Dark Creatures. Defensive Theory. Offensive versus Defensive --'

'All right, all right,' Malfoy interrupted. He stared at the page, a crease appearing between his brows. 'I remember doing dark creatures with the werewolf -- haha, irony --'

'His name is Professor Lupin,' Harry said through gritted teeth.

'-- and theory with Umbridge,' Malfoy continued blithely.

Harry waited a few minutes. 'Is that all?' he asked, when Malfoy remained certifiably silent.

'Well, I probably remember some of the jinxes. And curses, of course,' Malfoy offered.

Harry stared at him incredulously. 'You mean you need to be tutored in practically the whole course?'

'Does this present a problem to you, Potty?' Malfoy suggested, smirking. 'Beyond your puny talents, is it?' He sounded altogether too hopeful.

For once Harry let the insult slide in favour of looking through Malfoy's notes, which sported expensive-looking silk covers. They were also extremely scanty. On looking closer, Harry found that quite a lot of them consisted of tabulated conversations between Malfoy and Crabbe, who was generally reputed to be somewhat more intelligent than Goyle, although the difference was as between amoebas and bacteria. Harry's eyes widened. Slowly, he began to read one aloud.

Potter has such a fat head.

he not here

What's that got to do with his head?

you cant see it

It's called using your imagination, Goyle.

don't have one

Don't I know it.

do you?

Do I what?

Know it

Goyle, shut up.

i not talking !

Potter isn't here. But he HAS a FAT HEAD.

no, is same size as you

SHUT UP, GOYLE!!!

Harry paused. 'Ah. Things become clear.' He pursed his lips. 'I have to disagree with Goyle, though, I reckon your head's a good five times as big as mine.'

'I -- didn't think you'd look through them.'

'Why bring them, then?'

Malfoy shrugged. Harry blinked, because the way his robes moved over his shoulders just then had been --

'They were in with my books.'

'Right.' Harry pulled at his lower lip with a hand. 'This is a bit of a bind, isn't it? You don't seem to have paid attention in this class for oh, five years.'

Malfoy scowled. 'It's not like we had a high calibre of teaching staff. And now I have you, so they've officially reached rock bottom.'

Harry leaned forward. 'You think I want to be here, do you?' he asked conversationally, as Malfoy's eyes crossed in an effort not to meet Harry's, which were about an inch away. 'You think I relish the thought of spending time with you?'

He leaned in even closer, so that Malfoy's vision now incorporated Harry's nose as well as his own. 'Let me take this opportunity, then, to assure you that I do not. In case it escaped your notice, and I'll assume it did because you're basically a tit, this is all for your benefit. You seem pretty well on to failing this class and that would give me no end of pleasure. I am not going to go out of my way to help you, so you put in the spadework or I'll be out of that door before you can say 'Troll'.'

Harry paused. He could feel Malfoy's angered rasps of breath striking his chin. Harry wished everything he'd said had been true and not subjugated to the overwhelming urge to punch Malfoy as hard as he could and kiss him senseless straight after.

'Got it?' added Harry.

'Yeah,' Malfoy said, shoving him away, and it occurred to Harry to wonder why he hadn't done it before. 'I got a faceful of your bad breath. Clean your teeth, you disgusting animal.'

'I'm warning you --' Harry began.

'I know, I know,' Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. 'I'll keep a civil mouth if you do, agreed? And everything said here is fodder for later mocking to scorn.'

'Sounds like a plan to me,' Harry said. He rubbed his neck. Malfoy followed the movement and made a disgusted face.

'You have a love bite, Potter,' he pronounced in the same tones as someone else would say, 'You have a festering wound from a poisonous snake.'

'Is that what it is?' Harry said, rubbing his fingers over Smythe's distinctive way of marking his territory. He added, almost to himself, 'But he didn't bite me.'

'He?' Malfoy repeated, his voice rather high.

Harry shot him a sharp look. He remembered Malfoy's reaction to Smythe the day Belinda had kept them after class. Actually, he'd had a bloody hard time trying to forget it, as Malfoy's erection kept popping up in his mind at the most inopportune moments. He'd had his suspicions that day, when it was enough to gloat that Malfoy was getting aroused at the thought of two boys copping off, but now he was certain.

Malfoy fancied Smythe.

Harry had to hide a smile. It was so ... something. He didn't know what it was, really. It wasn't a happy thought -- in fact it made Harry feel a bit sick, but that was to be expected, of course. It was his sort-of boyfriend Malfoy was lusting for, after all.

The sickness had to come from the fact that Smythe obviously fancied Malfoy too, if his constant references were anything to go by. That was just great.

'What's great?' Malfoy asked suspiciously and Harry realised he must have said the last bit aloud. 'Love bites? Oh, can we stop discussing this?'

'You brought it up,' Harry reminded him, but he was too preoccupied to put any force into his words. 'So, Defence. How much do you know about --' he cast his eye over the chapters '-- jinxes?'

'How fast to run away from them?'

'Stop being smart. Seriously, how many can you do?'

Malfoy waved an irritable hand. 'A dozen or so. The ones on last year's syllabus.'

'There were fifty on the syllabus last year,' Harry was moved to remark.

'Only a dozen were tipped to come up in the exam.'

Harry tugged at his lip again. It was a far preferable alternative to looking at Malfoy, or thinking about how interesting he smelled or how his foot was right next to Harry's. Far from calming, as mercy would suggest, the butterflies in his belly had now commenced an energetic ballet routine. Harry felt hot, but it was a different sort of heat than the one he got when he was around Smythe, or when he saw ankles, or when he woke up. It was a heat that gripped his lungs and made every breath an effort, almost as if he were winded, a heat that ringed his cheeks with warmth and colour. He was torn between wanting to leave and staying to enjoy it.

He shoved his chair back and strode over to one of the cupboards. Malfoy regarded him in consternation. What Harry was looking for was behind the very first door.

'Pillows, Potter?' Malfoy said, his eyebrows forming an ambition to become his hairline. 'Is this going to be a class on defending yourself at a sleep-over?'

'Shut up, Malfoy,' Harry said tiredly. He dropped the pillows on the floor behind him. 'Stun me.'

'What?'

'Cast a Stunning Jinx. On me.'

'Uh ...' Malfoy drew his wand, but left it hanging by his side. '... the invocation ...' he mumbled. A tic went under his left eye.

A dozen -- a hundred -- things sprung to Harry's mind as he realised Malfoy didn't know it. He could cut Malfoy -- Malfoy with his good marks, his scholastic complacency - down to nothing. He could destroy him in the way that slighting his sexuality, personality or familial connections couldn't. He could make him grovel. And he knew that Malfoy knew it too.

Which was why he couldn't. That was the point, wasn't it? -- when you knew what you could do to hurt someone else, you couldn't do it and live. Something in you would have to die.

'It's "Stupefy",' Harry said.

Malfoy's face visored as he waited for Harry to say more. When he didn't, Malfoy gulped -- Harry could see the muscles moving in Malfoy's neck and fervently wished he hadn't.

'How do you know I won't --'

'Just do it, for crying out loud,' Harry said impatiently. 'You know you'll get caught if you do anything. It's up to you to judge the risk.'

Malfoy frowned, and raised his wand.

'Stupefy.'

Harry took an involuntary step backwards.

'Again.'

'Stupefy!'

This time Harry fell to his knees. 'Again!' he yelled, getting to his feet. 'This time like you mean it!'

Malfoy's face hardened. 'STUPEFY!'

The next thing Harry heard him say was, 'Don't you dare die, Potter. Don't you dare or I'll kill you, you bastard.'

His eyes closed, Harry internally smirked. He knew Malfoy wouldn't have the guts to do anything. Malfoy had had a chance to kill or at least severely maim him, and he hadn't.

It was a sort of good thought.

Suddenly Malfoy's hands were slapping at his cheeks. 'OW!' Harry roared. He sat up, knocking Malfoy backwards. He shook his head to clear it. 'Did your Stunner work, then?'

'Um.' Malfoy looked as if he desperately wanted to say yes. Harry wondered why there was a dilemma there. 'I don't think so. You tripped on a pillow and hit your head on the floor.'

'Oh,' Harry said, as his skull began to throb. 'I was just about to congratulate you on reviving me.'

'You what?'

Harry rubbed the back of his head, eyeballing his rival. Malfoy's face was devoid of sarcasm, although he appeared to be scowling. 'You're not kidding, are you?'

'No, I made it all up just to get quality time with you,' said Malfoy, rolling his eyes. 'Death threats, insults, incredibly mediocre conversational skills, probably a bad kisser if people prefer snogging your neck ... who wouldn't want that?'

'You, obviously,' Harry said with a scowl. He knuckled his eyes. They came away black.

'You appear to be haemorrhaging black blood,' Malfoy remarked, in a tone of detached amusement.

'No, just eyeliner,' Harry yawned. 'You know what it is.'

'Four-eyed freak.'

'In-bred sleaze-ball,' Harry countered.

'At least I haven't got dirty blood!'

'Sterilized yours, have you, Malfoy? 'Cause last I checked, yours is as bloody full of germs as mine.'

'Oh yeah? You can't prove that.'

'Watch me!' Fired up with righteous indignation, Harry shoved his hand into his pocket and came up trumps with Sirius' repaired pocket knife. Biting his lip, Harry sliced open the pad of his thumb with the sharpest blade. 'Hand!' he barked at Malfoy. Mesmerised by the welling drops of red, Malfoy obeyed and shrieked when Harry sunk the knife into his skin. Harry grabbed his wrist with his other hand, feeling the pulse jump under the skin, and squashed his thumb against Malfoy's for a few seconds.

Malfoy stared down at his bloody digit. Harry tucked the knife back into his robes still wet with Malfoy's blood.

'There,' Harry said in triumph. 'Can you tell mine from yours?' He got to his feet. 'Learn off the fifty jinxes for next week and you can try them out.'

'On who?' said Malfoy, glancing up. His eyes were still glazed.

'Me, of course,' said Harry.

*~*

Harry bit the end off his quill and resumed scribbling. Writing under bedclothes with only his wand for light was regrettably not something he was wholly unfamiliar with. This time it was a Potions essay due the next day. Snape was one of those delightful teachers who simply assumed that every student in his class took only one subject, and that it was Potions -- and then gave them more work than they could handle even if they were only doing Potions. Harry had discovered early on that Snape hated it more if you handed up nothing than if you handed up a poorly written essay -- not that Harry was ever going to get good marks out of the man. Even Malfoy seemed to be finding the going tough, although after two hours of throwing jinxes at Harry his Defence had improved. Harry still had some of the bruises.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice just outside his curtains went 'Psst!'. His first, terrified thought was that Smythe had somehow figured out the Gryffindor password and had come to ravish him in the night. This was put to the lie when the voice added, 'Hey, Harry!' in an unmistakeably Ronnish way.

Harry extricated himself from his blankets with difficulty and opened the curtains. 'What?'

'Can I come in?'

'Okay...' With reluctance, Harry sat back and allowed Ron to clamber on to the foot of the bed. 'Oi, watch the ink bottle!'

'This is what you do at night -- write essays?' asked Ron, sounding amused.

'Why, what do you do? Actually, don't answer that.' Harry coughed uncomfortably. He hadn't talked to Ron in weeks and was more affected than he'd thought he would be to find that it was a difficult task. 'What do you want?'

'A chat,' said Ron, crossing his legs.

'Oh?' said Harry, dropping his parchment and quill on the floor. 'What about?'

'A couple of things.' Ron paused. 'I wanted to commiserate you on having to tutor Malfoy, for one.'

'Oh, that.' Harry wrinkled his nose. 'Well, he's as poisonous as ever and really, really crap at Defence, but I haven't killed him yet, have I?'

'So Lovebright only picked you because you're a good tutor?' asked Ron.

'Yeah,' said Harry, surprised. 'Why else would she?'

In the gloom he saw Ron shrug. 'Why doesn't she tutor him herself?'

'I don't know, Ron, I didn't ask. Perhaps she doesn't have time.'

'Right, right.' Ron nodded. 'And -- that's all you do, tutor him?'

'No,' said Harry, remembering some of the nastier jinxes he'd been on the receiving end of with a wince. 'I let him try out the spells on me.'

'You what?' Ron exploded. 'Are you completely gone in the head?'

'Look, Ron, how else is he going to learn? Lovebright will only come down on us harder if I let him slack off. It's going on my record too, so if he fails again I'll get a bad mark against my name.'

'It's not that.' Ron sounded disgusted. 'How can you trust him? Don't you remember all the times he's ambushed you and tried to curse you until he turned blue? You don't think he'll try that again first chance he gets?'

'Well, he's had plenty of chances, but he hasn't done anything yet,' Harry pointed out. 'I know he's a noxious little bastard, Ron. I've told him so numerous times! But I don't curse him either and God knows I have reason enough to. We have to not do that. There has to be some amnesty, otherwise what's the point of anything?'

'I'm not convinced,' said Ron, 'I still reckon he's just biding his time.'

'I know he is!' Harry ran an impatient hand through his hair. 'I'm sure any day soon he'll just -- go for me. But it won't be while I'm tutoring him. I know.'

'Well, I hope you're right, for your sake,' said Ron. He paused. 'Hermione sends her love.'

'She knows about this?'

'I said I was going to try and talk to you about this Malfoy thing.' Ron hesitated. 'And ... also ... about the Mark thing.'

'Mark?' repeated Harry, drawing a blank. 'Oh, you mean Smythe!' Ron sent him an odd look and Harry, flustered, felt himself begin to blush. 'What about him?'

'Are you and he -- you know,' said Ron, waving his hands about and seeming to suggest that Harry and Smythe were participating in synchronised water aerobics.

'Um,' said Harry, licking his lips. 'I guess. He's never said. But we are --' he rubbed his nose. 'Messing about. Whatever.'

'Ah,' said Ron, sounding relieved but looking troubled. 'But he's got a reputation for doing drugs and stuff.'

Harry nodded. 'So do a lot of people in this school. Don't worry,' he added. 'I've only done it once or twice.'

Ron snorted nervously. 'Over the summer, actually, the twins and I tried it out ... I didn't like it much.'

'Nah,' said Harry. 'There's better things to be doing.'

'Like snogging?' Ron suggested archly. Harry shoved him in the shoulder. 'Go on,' Ron said, sounding intrigued. 'What's it like with another boy?'

'Pretty much the same,' said Hart, twisting his mouth. 'A bit rougher. And I get -- I mean, his stubble is a bit -- well, rough. But it's good.'

'That's -- good,' said Ron the glib. 'I wouldn't like to think he was forcing you or anything.'

Harry recalled Smythe's wandering hands, his determined teasing, and his whispered promises of what he was going to do to Harry, in great detail, very soon. Harry shivered. 'No, no,' he said, reassuring Ron as much as himself. 'It's nothing like that.'