Some Perfect World

It started with the moment they sighted the Snitch.

It started when the two Seekers tensed as one being, and dived as one body.

It started in the moment that Harry felt Draco press against his side, and started to course with the first pricklings of desire. This time, their connected shoulders rolled back to bring their chests into contact. Their touching arms wound each around the other's body, and each boy moved his free arm across to grasp his opponent's broomstick, close up between a toned pair of inner thighs.

Harry's breath came in ragged gasps to feel Draco's thumb caressing so lightly, achingly close to where he desperately needed it to touch him. Taking the cue, he responded in kind, and was rewarded with hot breath in his ear.

"Yes, Potter, yes -" and Harry felt the blond wizard's warm, wet mouth against his neck, tracing gentle bites down his throat to his chest. The two Seekers wheeled and circled in tight, steeply diving spirals. Some detached part of his mind barely had time to wonder how this was even possible on broomsticks when the velvet voice moaned,"Oh, HARRY!"

His arms began to tingle, his robes becoming both firmer and softer, until he realized that feathers had covered his body. Draco's shout of ecstasy modulated to a shrill rasp of raptor joy. The airborne lovers were transformed into a pair of red-tailed hawks coupling on the wing, grappling and clutching each other and tumbling curve-winged through the air in hundred-foot death dives before they uncoupled and sailed outward, narrowly avoiding being bashed to death in senseless passion.

A choked cry from his own throat wrenched Harry out of his dream. Soaked in sweat, he fell back to his pillow, gulping for air. He felt briefly relieved at his foresight, which had caused him to cast a Silencing Charm inside his bed curtains before falling asleep; he also thanked Merlin for his aptitude at Cleansing Charms. Certainly it was normal for adolescent boys to have dreams that resulted in this sort of ... situation ... but that didn't make it any less embarrassing.

The condition of his sheets, however, was nowhere near as humiliating as its cause.

A week had passed since the Seeker Rematch, and Harry had not slept a single night without reliving the moment in increasingly erotic and bizarre detail. Not that it wasn't bizarre enough that the subject of his dreams was Draco Malfoy.

Harry once again clamped down on his mind before it could stray into exploring the reasons for this recurring fantasy.

After performing a quick Scourgify, Harry still felt the need for a bath. Fortunately, Ron had told him the password for the prefects' bathroom, and no one would be using it at this hour. Harry gathered a change of pyjamas and his Invisibility Cloak, and snuck out of the Tower.

Luck was on the sleepless boy's side, and he reached the statue of Boris the Bewildered without having encountered Peeves, Mrs. Norris, or any other of the myriad hazards awaiting students who ventured out of bed after hours. Leaning close to the correct door, he muttered, "Chudley Cannons." Clearly, it had been Ron's turn to set the password this week.

The relieved young wizard slipped through the door, sliding the bolt home and removing his Cloak in a single motion. He pulled off his pyjama top and turned toward the white marble, swimming-pool-sized tub as he started to untie the drawstring of his pants.

Simultaneous yelps of horror ripped from the two boys who found themselves facing each other: one in a thoroughly indecent state under clouds of foam, the other bare-chested and staring transfixed from the edge of the water.

"Right. Sorry. I'll just be going, then..." stammered Harry, blushing ferociously to an extent that he'd only seen a Weasley do previously.

"Wait! That is, I'm finished here. Be out of your way in a moment," responded an equally flustered Slytherin prefect.

Harry, too mortified to argue further, turned to face the wall. He willed his mind to explore any topic - any at all - other than the sight he was missing as a quiet splashing reported the exit of so much exposed creamy white skin from the bath.

Any topic other than that, or the role the owner of that skin had just played in his dream.

What is he doing, taking a bath at this hour?

"I didn't think anyone else would be awake," Harry babbled to cover the intriguing lapping of the water, "and Ron had given me the password and I couldn't sleep -"

His speech was cut off by the sound of the door clicking shut. He turned to find he was not, however, alone.

"Ooo!" cooed a delighted Moaning Myrtle. "Looks like your bath had better be a cold one!"

***

Breakfast the following morning was a torturous affair.

Harry stared resolutely at his plate to prevent his eyes from wandering across the hall to a silver-blond head. Curiously enough, only the top of the head was visible as its owner also kept his gaze fixed downward. The Gryffindor had noticed this because his resolve slipped periodically, his vision wandering on its own to return to the other participant in that horrible midnight encounter.

Why hadn't he simply sat on the other side of the table, facing away from the Slytherin students?

Harry told himself that he hadn't thought about it, and had sat in his usual seat out of habit. He then told himself to shut it before he explored his motivations any more thoroughly.

"...and then Parkinson mispronounced the Cheering Charm and gave herself yawping hiccups that lasted 'til after dinner!!" Seamus finished a story amid the guffaws of Dean, Ron and Neville.

"Serves that cow right, doesn't it Harry?" chuckled Ron.

Harry's intended grin came out as more of a sickly grimace, his laughter hollow and unconvincing.

Several pairs of Gryffindor eyes bored into the distracted seventh-year. "What's with you?" inquired his best mate.

Harry understood in that moment how an ant must feel under a magnifying glass. "Just feeling a bit off. It's nothing." He grasped for a plausible excuse. "I didn't sleep much last night, is all." That had the advantage of being true, if incomplete.

Ron gave him a long look, while Harry silently willed him to go back to his stories. They could talk later, they could talk never but please oh please they didn't need to talk about it now!

Whether or not he had received the unspoken communication, Ron apparently decided to leave Harry be. Harry didn't care what sort of enquiry might await him later, although he hoped his best friend would forget about the matter entirely. All Harry knew was that he was grateful to his friend for choosing not to discuss his current mood over breakfast.

While his dormmates returned to their tales of in-class mishaps, Harry caught himself staring across the Hall again. He tried to remind himself that this was the same prat who had made his first five years at Hogwarts so thoroughly less enjoyable than they could have been otherwise. He tried to remember every moment that Malfoy had insulted Ron's family, which was as good as being Harry's own. He tried to remember every time Malfoy had called Hermione, and even Harry's own mother, by that despicable slur he used for Muggle-borns.

All that came to Harry's mind, however, was the smile he'd seen across the Quidditch pitch a week earlier. And the hot, breathy voice in his dreams. And the steam of the bath as the lithe Seeker's body had slipped out of it and away...

Harry shook himself and focused his eyes on the first thing in front of him, which happened to be a face at the far side of the Hall. A pair of shining mercury pools reflected back at him, the Gryffindor falling into their molten silver depths before he could stop himself. Harry forgot everything, basking in the glow for the gloriously brief eternity until their owner noticed his attention and glared down at the Slytherin table.

Malfoy’s alabaster cheeks were not actually blushing a violent crimson. Harry knew they couldn’t be. It must be a trick of the light.

A shadow in Harry’s peripheral vision alerted him that another Gryffindor was observing his expression.

"Seriously, Harry," Hermione spoke quietly enough that no one else could hear, "are you all right?"

"Fine," chirped Harry, succeeding only in sounding strangled.

He wondered how it might feel to be the kind of person who could hide his emotions. Even all his studies in Occlumency, which he did eventually master during Sixth Year, couldn't keep his cleverest friend from seeing right through him.

"Harry James Potter, I hope you don't think I am as gullible as all that!" she hissed.

Hermione's words shocked Harry into giving her his full attention. She didn't quite look furious, but her expression portrayed something very close.

"Sorry, Hermione," replied Harry, thoroughly abashed, and thoroughly panicked. How could he explain what was going on in his head? "I - I don't know whether I can tell you."

Her face turned sorrowful, and he hated to see it. "Harry, you can tell me anything." The gorgeous brown eyes engulfed him in concern.

Harry returned his dear friend’s gaze, feeling the guilt dig at the insides of his ribs. If only she knew.

"I can't tell you this."

Hermione's face fell. She looked away from him, and Harry couldn't discern whether she were working out her next argument or holding back tears. The heart-shaped face turned back toward him, and Harry realised with shock that it was the latter.

"Alright, Harry," she murmured softly. "I suppose you must have your reasons." She moved as if to get up and leave.

"Wait, Hermione." Harry swallowed a painful lump, along with his pride. "I don't think I'm ready to talk about this, but when I am, I promise I'll talk to you."

She regarded him steadily, and spoke almost inaudibly. "Then let's not talk about this. But will you meet me this afternoon? I feel like we haven't talked about anything in a long time."

Harry drew a deep breath. Hermione was the steadiest friend he had. She had risked losing his friendship in order to ensure his safety when Sirius had sent him the Firebolt. She had risked her very life to stand by him in the Department of Mysteries. If she wanted to talk, he owed her that much, even if he hadn't the slightest idea what he would say.

"It has been a long time since we got to talk, just the two of us," Harry conceded. He was cheered slightly to see Hermione's gentle smile return. "I'll look for you in the library before dinner?"

"You know I'll be there." The Head Girl's smile widened, so that her friend couldn't help but respond in kind.

"Just, Hermione?" Harry ventured, glancing around cautiously. "Don't tell anyone else about this, please. Not even Ron."

"Harry, I don't even know what 'this' is!"

"Just promise, Hermione."

She eyed him seriously, obviously believing the urgency in his voice. "I promise. I won't say anything, not until you're ready. But you shouldn't keep secrets from your other friends for long, either."

"I know. It's just... well, you'll understand. And thanks." He offered her a bigger smile this time, and impulsively pecked a light kiss on her temple. He really was lucky to have Hermione for a friend, and needed to remember that. "See you then."

Harry gathered his books and left the Hall, feeling so close to relieved that he almost avoided sending one more searching glance toward the wizard of his dreams. Malfoy had gotten caught up in a joke that Crabbe was telling, and the mean-spirited sneer was back.

Harry relaxed a bit. What was he thinking? A few dreams didn't change who this Slytherin brat really was. And it didn't change how Harry felt about the brat, either.

***

"... to half an ounce of dragon's blood? Anyone? How about Mr. Potter?"

Harry snapped to attention, suddenly aware that his field of view was engulfed by drapes of black robes. Angry black eyes shined above Harry's desk, framed by strings of greasy, black hair. The trapped Gryffindor racked his brain for any trace of the words that had come out of the Potions professor's mouth in the past five minutes, but it was completely blank.

"No? How surprising." Even Snape's voice smirked at him. "I suppose that will be ten points from Gryffindor, then.

The black robes swished away from Harry. From across the room, he heard Crabbe's distant voice give an answer that resulted in points being awarded to Slytherin.

Bloody Snape. Even after what Harry had done to help save his life, the Potions Master still detested the son of his former tormentor. Despite having turned against the Dark Lord, Snape had been unable to rid himself of the Dark Mark for years. As the conflict drew to a head, Voldemort had used Snape's Dark Mark to torture him so frequently that the professor had had trouble continuing to teach. Dumbledore had found a way to disable the Mark, but the spell required the participation of Voldemort's mortal enemy. If Harry had not assisted, Snape would have met the same fate as the elder Malfoys.

Now, Harry knew, being indebted to two Potters was almost as torturous to Snape as whatever the Dark Lord had been able to inflict. Harry was tempted to believe that he'd been allowed to study Potions at the N.E.W.T. level only so that Snape could alleviate his own torment by abusing the Gryffindor in front of the rest of the class.

Then again, he had managed an ‘E’ on his Potions O.W.L., thanks to being able to sit the exam without the slimy git breathing down his neck. And Professor McGonagall, true to her word, had helped convince Snape to allow Harry and a few other ‘E’ students into the class.

In fact, the N.E.W.T.-level Potions class was unusually large that year. Harry suspected that an increasing number of students were interested in entering Auror training, wanting to make sure that no new Dark wizards rose to fill the void left by Voldemort's death. He, Ron, and Hermione were all there for that reason, as were Dean Thomas, Ernie MacMillan, and he suspected, Zacharias Smith. Parvati Patil and her sister, Padma, were both in the class because they planned to study to be Healers.

Harry didn't know, and didn't care why the majority of the Slytherins from his year - all but Pansy Parkinson - had enrolled in Advanced Potions. Probably they liked learning from their Head of House. Snape certainly still favoured his own House far above any of the other students in the class.

And naturally, Snape still enjoyed his sadistic little stunts. Like placing all of the students in inter-House pairings for the rest of the term. And whom did Snape always choose to pair with his least-favorite Gryffindor? It had been one thing at the Dueling Club during Second Year, when Harry was only expected to beat the spoiled brat into a pulp and walk away. Now he was expected to work with him, civilly, for nearly six weeks!

How was Harry supposed to work with Malfoy, and concentrate on his studies, when he couldn't stop thinking about the night before?

Harry slumped lower in his seat, a miserable flush rising to his cheeks. He had been trying very hard to ignore the student sitting a breath away at the same desk, but even the slightest glimpse of white-gold hair in his peripheral vision sent his mind reeling. Each flick of the slender fingers as they moved the quill across a page of notes reminded Harry of how those fingers had felt against his thigh in his dream; the dusky light of the torches in the dungeon brought to mind the tantalising way the moonlight had played over the slick, foam-coated skin in the prefects' bathroom.

Harry's attempts to conjure up images of the Slytherin's worst moments were even less successful now than they had been over breakfast. Why couldn't he remember exactly how angry he'd felt when Malfoy had taunted him on the train at the end of Fourth Year? Where was his righteous indignation at every word that had ever exited Malfoy's lips?

Oops, shouldn't have thought about Malfoy's lips.

Ignore him, just focus, Harry told himself. And the more Harry told himself, Ignore him, just focus, ignore him, just focus, the farther he got from focusing on anything else at all.

The Gryffindor became dimly aware of the other students moving around the dungeon classroom, indicating that the practical segment of the class had begun. "Um, I'll get the ingredients, then," he muttered, spotting Hermione over by the supplies cupboard with half the rest of the class.

Malfoy, who had been unusually taciturn throughout the class, didn't respond, nor did Harry wait for him to do so. He ran to Hermione's side and caught her elbow. "Help!" he hissed. "I don't know what's wrong with me, but I couldn't follow anything Snape was saying! What are we supposed to be doing now?"

"We're brewing Dreaming Draughts, Harry," responded Hermione. Her concern had clearly overruled her tendency to scold, because she instructed him, "Follow me, and I'll help you gather everything you need." She led her friend through selecting the right roots, extracts, and powders, whispering instructions for each all the while. By the time he had gathered his ingredients, Harry felt reasonably confident that he could now complete the task, as long as Malfoy did his share.

Malfoy. The very thought of the Slytherin's name caused sickening little flip-flops in Harry's gut. Sickening, but thrilling. How in the world was he going to manage this Potions assignment, when he couldn't even look at his partner, nor force his voice to make any intelligible sounds in the other boy's direction?

Harry settled for carrying his collection of ingredients back to the shared desk, and stood mutely, waiting for Malfoy to be ready to begin.

The normally-caustic Slytherin neither said a word to Harry, nor looked at him. Malfoy simply stood, clearing a space on the desk for Harry to lay down his armload. As the Gryffindor placed each item on the tabletop, the Slytherin organised the various herbs and powders according to the order in which they would be needed. For a while, the two students worked in uncomfortable, but peaceful, silence.

Until the moment when it came time to add the powdered squid ink.

Harry realized seconds too late that this ingredient had ended up too far out of Malfoy's reach, on his own end of the desk, where the other boy had to lean across Harry to retrieve it. Instead of managing to hand the powder casually to his partner, the startled Gryffindor grabbed frantically for the packet, nearly clasping hands with his former enemy for the second time in a week. Their fumbling resulted in Harry pressing his abdomen against the entire length of the Slytherin's robed arm.

Harry jumped back violently, but not before the contact had caught the attention of certain excitable parts of his anatomy. No. Not here. Not now. No! He leaned forward slightly so his robes would be sure to obscure his state of ... mind ... only succeeding in brushing his shoulder against the other boy's.

Now thoroughly flustered, the Gryffindor instinctively glanced at his partner to gauge the reaction his bizarre conduct was receiving. He was bewildered to discover that the hot flush in his own cheeks was mirrored in the other student's, as two pairs of stunned eyes stared into each other. Heart racing, Harry wrenched his eyes away and dragged his mind back to the task at hand.

Snape's voice rang out through the classroom, breaking the tension between the partners. "When you have finished, pour a sample of your potion into each of the three vials I have provided you. Label all three with both of your names, and hand them in. After I have tested your potions to assure that you brewed them properly, you will have the option of retrieving a vial to use as part of an enrichment assignment. Only those who have produced a proper Dreaming Draught will be eligible."

The Potions professor grimaced as Hermione's hand flew into the air. He ignored the girl, continuing, "As you know, for those who were paying attention," - here he shot a nasty glare at Harry - "a Dreaming Draught will neither cause nor alter your dreams. Rather, it will aid you in discovering the proper interpretation of any recurring dream you may be experiencing.

"The assignment will be to take the potion one night just before going to sleep, and to write an essay of thirty inches in length on what you learned from your dream." Harry could almost feel himself turning ashen at the prospect of writing an essay for Snape about his recent dreams. But the teacher went on, "As dreams are a topic of a very personal nature, I cannot in good conscience require you all to perform this task. If you do choose to write the essay, however, rest assured that no eyes will see it other than mine."

Harry exhaled shakily, very relieved. No way would he drink this potion or write this essay. And he didn't have to do it. So it was alright.

Movement to his left brought Harry's attention back to the desk. Malfoy spoke his first words of the class, without looking at his partner. "I think our Draught is ready. Pass me the vials, please."

'Please'?! Okay, who are you and what happened to Draco Malfoy, Git Extraordinaire? But this was Double Potions, and Malfoy had been sitting next to Harry for the past hour and a half. Polyjuice Potion didn't last this long, the Gryffindor knew from personal experience.

Harry continued to stare for a few moments before he realized he hadn't reacted, flushed briefly, and picked up the vials. As he passed them to Malfoy, their eyes met, just as their hands were coming into contact. Harry felt an electric jolt pass through his body, and for a moment, saw the same charge light up the liquid silver of Malfoy's eyes.

Hang on.

Harry's mind replayed images from the past twenty-four hours at lightning speed. He had been too flustered all day to think about anything other than how to handle his own behaviour, but now it was the Slytherin's reactions that interested him.

The Gryffindor's appearance in the prefect's bathroom had provided his rival with a perfect opportunity to make some snarky remark and to send him away, humiliated, but instead Malfoy had beat a hasty retreat without so much as drying his hair.

Harry had been unable to control his gaze during breakfast, again serving himself up to Malfoy for ridicule, but the other boy had barely looked up from the table all of breakfast. And when he finally did look up, and locked eyes with Harry, the flush in his cheeks... had it been real?

During Potions class, at least, Harry should have had to endure endless scathing comments from his partner, but the boy had remained silent all through this class period. As for his reaction when they had collided just now over the squid ink, and the "please"...

A disturbing pattern was forming in Harry's mind. Because, come to think of it, Malfoy had been even more silent and withdrawn since the rematch than he was beforehand.

Oh. Wow.

If Malfoy had been acting much the same way as Harry had been for the past week, did that mean he'd been thinking the same way? Feeling the same way? A lead weight dropped into Harry's midsection, giving him sort of the opposite sensation than if he'd just touched a Portkey. He'd been concentrating so hard on trying to stop these unwelcome fantasies that it hadn't occurred to him to wonder whether Malfoy were having them as well.

A long-held, well-trained reflex kicked in: Ugh. Malfoy having fantasies about Harry? Well, that was almost worse than Harry having fantasies about Malfoy! And as for both boys experiencing the same madness at the same time... Double ugh.

Through all of these thoughts, Harry continued to stare at his partner in wonder. Although still nearly unflappable, Malfoy began to squirm imperceptibly under the Gryffindor’s gaze.

"Finally gone completely stupid, have you, Potter?" drawled the hated voice, but the disdain in Malfoy's eyes was tempered something unfamiliar to Harry. His best guess of a name for that 'something' would be nervousness, or perhaps curiosity...

Harry overcame his moment of distraction, now conveniently reminded of what a prat his partner was. "I should think you could spot stupidity more accurately than that," he retorted, "living as you do with two living, breathing embodiments of the condition."

The unfamiliar glint morphed immediately into the more recognizeable one of malice. "Not quite true, Potter. I don't live with you and Weasley. We only have three classes together."

Harry glared at Malfoy, wishing not for the first time that he had the Weasley twins' gift of wit. Or Hermione's. Or anyone's that had been honed by sparring with someone a little quicker than Dudley Dursley.

"Just fill these vials, Malfoy, so we can clean up and get out of here," Harry growled. "Class is almost over." And he began the chore of gathering the unused portions of their ingredients, turning his back on the source of so many of his problems.

***

Harry grumbled as he finished cleaning his desk, angry at himself for having given Malfoy a little too much credit. Make that a lot too much. True, the Slytherin had become significantly less of a prat than he had been for their first five years at Hogwarts, but Harry had forgotten a very important fact: 'significantly less of a prat' was, for Malfoy, still rather unbearable.

The reminder Harry had needed had come as the class was beginning to clean up. After filling the vials, Malfoy had shown a surprising flicker of willingness to help with this menial chore, but only a flicker. Malfoy worked deliberately slowly, putting away only one or two leftover ingredients in the time it took both Crabbe and Goyle to finish up, then disappeared between the two thugs as soon as they were ready to go.

Ron had gotten caught up in retelling some great Cannons Quidditch moment to Dean and Dean's partner, Zacharias Smith, and had left the room without noticing that Harry had remained behind. Hermione stopped to offer help, but Harry sent her on, promising again to meet her in the library that afternoon. He was happy to gain a few moments of solitude to consider the events of the day, even if these moments were taking place in Snape's territory.

A sneaky part of Harry even wished he might catch Malfoy alone after class, but he knew that was impossible once the blond had left with his goons. The Gryffindor mentally kicked himself for even entertaining such thoughts. What would he even say if Malfoy agreed to talk to him? Perhaps: 'Say, Malfoy, have you been having strange dreams lately? The kind where you and I are having it off on broomsticks and then suddenly turn into mating birds of prey? Just wondering...'

Or perhaps not.

Finally leaving the classroom, Harry shook his head at his own stupidity. Overactive curiosity was one thing, but whatever bizarre misfires his brain was producing on the subject of one Draco Malfoy were best left...

Harry barely suppressed a shriek of alarm as an unseen hand closed around his bicep, dragging him into the shadows of a dungeon alcove.

"Malfoy!" for it was a pale, aristocratic face that greeted Harry's in the darkness. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

An amused regard raked across Harry's flustered appearance. "Hmm," responded the Slytherin.

Harry felt the other boy's eyes running over his body like a rough caress. In the cramped space, Malfoy's warm breath feathered onto Harry's face, bringing with it vivid images from the recurring dream.

Harry licked his lips, wondering for a few wild seconds whether Malfoy's mouth would feel as good on his neck in reality as it had in his subconscious. In the stillness of the moment, nothing moved except his rapidly pounding heart. Well, almost nothing, but Harry was trying not to think about that.

The Gryffindor knew his rival could read every emotion and impulse, knew they must be written across his face as if in the broad strokes the other boy had used to cross the names off his referee list. The familiar smirk returned, only suddenly Harry's urge to hex it away was superseded by another desire...

Harry grasped frantically for the last straws of his composure. This was Draco Malfoy, which meant this was probably a trick. Even if part of him were starting to hope otherwise.

"What are you playing at?" barked Harry in a whisper. "Leaving me to do all the washing up, then accosting me in a darkened corridor?"

Malfoy breathed out his next words in a low purr. "Would you have preferred that I wait with you after class? Just let every last Slytherin and Gryffindor see us together?" Mercury eyes glinted tauntingly from the shadows. "Perhaps your friends are too thick to notice something like that, but mine might think it a bit odd."

Malfoy's words were more than the Slytherin had said to Harry in the past week combined. The green-eyed boy paused to take it all in for a minute, collecting himself before he could respond. Harry hoped he hadn't imagined the husky tone of want in the other boy's voice. Or maybe he hoped he had imagined it. His head was spinning, and he wanted to lean against the wall for support, but refused to show any more weakness than he already had.

"But why wait for me at all? Shouldn't you be running along to the comfort of your stark, cold common room right now?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed a bit, prompting Harry to remember that he wasn't supposed to know anything about the appearance of the Slytherin Common Room. The blond appeared to shrug it off, though, and replied, "Let's just say I thought you and I might have some things to discuss."

Harry's lungs froze for a moment, finding no air whatsoever in the rapidly-warming space. All too aware of the dearth of blood in his brain, Harry took refuge in an inane comment: "But won't Crabbe and Goyle notice you gone, now? They seem -"

"Yes, they finally grew brains," Malfoy murmured dismissively, never breaking eye-contact. "It's rather impressive how crafty they are these days. But," he continued, now more intent, "they still won't question where I am, as long as they know I was last in their company. As long as they don't think I'm with you."

"And why would they think you were with me?"

"They wouldn't," responded the blond, but his eyes skittered away from Harry's.

The Gryffindor's breath caught, again, in his chest. Was he right, then? Had Malfoy been thinking about him, this past week, as well? Had he talked about him to his friends?

"They wouldn't," repeated Harry distantly, the echo turning into a question.

"Unless we gave them reason to think so, of course," replied the Slytherin, still failing to look into Harry's eyes.

Harry took courage from the other boy's evaporating composure. "And what would give them a reason to think so?" he inquired.

"Being seen together, of course," stammered Malfoy evasively. Harry stared into the silvery eyes until they were drawn into his. He waited for the other boy to lose enough cool that he would tip his hand a bit more.

He did. "Or if I were to talk in my sleep," the Slytherin rambled on, "but I don't." Malfoy finished in a boastful expression, before appearing to realize what he had just revealed. Harry could actually see the words replaying in the other boy's head, as he turned a pale grayish shade of green.

It was too much for Harry: the close quarters, the jolt he'd felt at touching Malfoy in Potions class, this near-admission of something like what Harry was experiencing.

He felt heat rushing to his face and his breath growing quick and shallow. Inches away, the other boy's chest began to heave slightly, almost bringing it into contact with Harry's own. In the shadows, the energy built between the rivals as surely as it had done in Harry's dreams.

Looking back, Harry was sure he'd meant to leave at that instant. The whole situation between himself and Malfoy had become intolerable, and he needed to spend a great deal of time alone to think about it. He could see himself striding out to the Quidditch pitch, Summoning his Firebolt on the way.

But his feet wouldn't move. No part of him would move. His entire world had been reduced to half a square meter of space in a nearly-pitch-black, dank stone dungeon alcove. His entire world had been reduced to one pair of shining Sickle irises, one pair of flushed porcelain cheeks, one pair of moistened pink lips...

Time did that elastic thing where it stretched into eternity, then snapped in an instant. Harry felt he had stared at the rising flush on the Slytherin's face for hours or days, only to blink and find Malfoy's soft, moist lips gently massaging his own.

Harry closed his eyes and relaxed into Malfoy's mouth. The alabaster skin felt as cool and as hot as it had ever appeared, and more. Malfoy's lips rubbed lightly and forcefully across Harry's mouth, alternately gripping and releasing his lips in a rhythm that Harry could not discern or match, so that he was quickly led to the brink of madness, and back, and there again, until bright explosions of want seared across his brain.

The pleasure was so great, so unexpected, that a small noise forced its way out of his throat. The other boy took advantage of Harry's parted lips to introduce his tongue lightly into the mix. Despite being a couple of inches shorter, the Slytherin had established complete control, and Harry was all too happy to concede it. Malfoy's tongue tasted of mint and honey and peaches and a thousand other unspeakable delicacies as it probed the depths of Harry's mouth, danced over his teeth, and drew echo after echo of the first groan of pleasure until the Gryffindor believed it was the only sound he might ever have made.

Harry placed a hand on Malfoy's jaw and pulled him gently upward, deepening their connection. Tentatively, for he was really quite new to the world of kissing, he allowed his own tongue to follow Malfoy's lead. The two powerful muscles grazed over each other, touching and reaching and exploring and battling. Malfoy's tongue flicked behind Harry's teeth, and Harry tried to mimic the action. He felt the Slytherin's lips curl into a smile in response, and Harry imitated that, as well.

Breathing, swallowing, thinking were all functions beyond Harry's ability to control. Malfoy felt so amazing against his body, between his lips, under his fingertips. Their ribcages bumped together, fusing the way their sides had during the rematch, only now the boys' common hunt was for a much more ephemeral and precious quarry. Harry realized that Malfoy must know exactly how he was affecting him - not even his robes could hide his reaction now - but didn't care as long as this brilliant, electric heat would never leave him.

Harry had never, in his entire life, experienced any sensation that even began to compare to this. What is this? This can't be real. I can't be doing this.

As suddenly as the bliss had arrived, it was torn away. Draco's sleepy smile had been wiped away by a stricken expression, eyes wide in disbelief. "Oh no, Potter, I didn't - I wouldn't -" The Slytherin turned and fled down the corridor.

Too late, Harry realized he had spoken his thoughts aloud.