Hostilities

---Harry

Long and slim like the rest of him, deft and graceful like he was. Those hands of his were beautiful without relying on a trick of the eye. Just like the long tapered fingers of a concert pianist, his fingers could encourage sounds from me with such terrifying ease I couldn't tell how he did it. Those practised hands with neatly-trimmed nails and a thin white scar along the centre of his palm from his wrist to the base of his middle finger. I felt that scar when he put his hand to my face the second time, when I'd gone to him; I felt it when he'd stroke me, providing a thrill that scared me and made me beg him for more over and over again. His look had been dark, his eyes clouded with lust and deepened with a desire I knew was mirrored in my own. He fought for possession; I could feel it the moment it began, alone in the dungeon when Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore had had enough of the ferocity of our arguments and locked us in the dark to fight it out. In the interest of unity in the face of evil, they said, but Dumbledore's look was as wise as ever. He knew.

We had fought as they knew we would. Screaming and swearing and ranting until the violence spilled out into the gulf between us and I punched him so hard my knuckles bruised and bled. The anger in me, building from the day my parents were murdered and magnified by everything else between their death and that hot dark day in the dungeon, grew so great I lost myself in the flood of rage. He rocked at the impact but didn't fall; his reaction decided everything.

I remember it like this; I stood alone in the dark, my hand throbbing as a trail of blood snaked down my fingers, my heart thudding in my chest so loudly it pulsed through my entire body, the adrenaline in me a rushing torrent of anger and anticipation as the darkness pressed against my eyes, nose and mouth. For a few short moments I was smothered, dying without contact.

Eyes the colour of mercury met my own and they shone like twin moons. The gaze was fierce and unrelenting. His anger and the danger were so great and overwhelming I felt like I was being swept away - and then his hands, stronger than they seemed, soft and uncalloused and harsh and bruising - seized my shoulders and shoved me back against the wall. Out of the shadows, like a rusalka searing up through the depths of ocean murk, his face was a blur of white gold, scything the shadows apart as if Death was coming for me.

The kiss was fiery. It exploded in my mind; it was hard and violent and I could taste his fury in my mouth and it matched mine. His fingers were digging into my upper arms, bruising my skin as he bruised my mouth with his incandescent rage as our teeth clashed and his tongue snaked into my mouth, and then I was doomed. Or saved. It depends how you see it.

When I opened my mouth to fight back I thought it was just to fight. It wasn't. It welled up inside and I clung to him as he smiled against my mouth and kissed me harder, my hands fisted in his robes and desperate even though he was my enemy and I was his but it was all somewhere else where the light was. This was dark. This was what we shouldn't have had, but we had it anyway, in the dark.

---Draco

Hatred's a funny thing when you get lost in it. It's hot and clingy, sticking to the inside of your head and never giving you peace, sending a spike of heat through you when you remember it, twisting your insides into something knotted and gnarled and frustrating. Or is that lust? I get confused. He confused me, the bastard. I can't tell them apart now. Hatred. Lust. Lov--no, it isn't, it can't be, I won't let it, no. No.

He has beautiful eyes.

That was all I saw, the first time, reeling from his blows as the shadowed world of the dungeon spun and cartwheeled around my head in a whirling blur of chaos. Stars exploded in my head the colour of blood and bruises, and for a moment, I wasn't there, I wasn't me; the next moment I was standing steady, glaring at him, seeing only the glimmer of his eyes in the watery light that leaked in around the edge of the door. Those eyes. He looked so angry, flushed by the argument and the violence and his eyes were so beautiful, deeper than emeralds, the colour of the grass in the walled garden I used to play in when I was a child. So dark. I hated him more then, feeling my heart drumming in my chest and my throat and my cheek where he'd thrown his fist at me and rocked the very foundations of the world. I hated him so much my blood was boiling, my vision blurring, and those eyes. Those horribly beautiful eyes. Why did he hide them all the time with those stupid glasses?

Well, goddamnit, I could stop those eyes looking at me and stop the hatred that simmered in me and stop the noise in the back of my mind. He was only Harry Potter. He was...

... kissing me back.

I gripped his arms harder, grinning despite myself, feeling him tug me closer to him so we were in contact along the whole length of our bodies and I felt him tremble. Fuck. He was more beautiful than he had any right to be, the bastard, all warmth and smooth skin and pretty little whimpers in the back of his throat. His cheeks were flushed, sweat beading on his forehead, and the feel of his mouth under mine was horribly luxurious and exciting. My head swam and it made me cling tighter to him. Harry, you fucker, you're pulling the thoughts right out of my head...

I only properly realised how aroused we both were when he shifted against me and the mood changed. Through the haze of pleasure I saw his eyes widen as if in horror, but oh no, it wasn't horror. He shifted again. Definitely wasn't horror. Couldn't be. Not with those soft grunts and the way he shifted again and again, getting faster and faster, the urgency rising in both of us as our grips tightened and all constraints disappeared somewhere to be thought of later when we weren't grinding against each other with the fury of a thousand frustrated sleepless nights. We wouldn't have noticed if the moon exploded, not then, not when we could feel each other's heartbeat and I could taste the flickering of his pulse in his throat where I bit him and he somehow managed to slide his hand between our stomachs and down into my trousers and then the world shattered into a million billion flickering shards of emerald-green light.

His eyes overwhelmed me completely. It was like drowning, only it was sweeter. Much sweeter.

---Minerva

Albus steepled his fingers and watched Severus over his half-moon glasses as if he were watching a wild animal that might turn on us at any moment. Severus strode up and down the room in a furious flurry of robes, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed so we couldn't see the expression on his face. I thought I knew what he was thinking; it was a cruel experiment, locking those two boys in the lowest, remotest dungeon of the school. He disapproved of it. Severus disapproved of a lot of things.

The moon was rising when I followed Albus down to the dungeons, Severus trailing some way behind like some dark cloud threatening thunder. He and I had had words earlier when Albus was out of the room. He cannot forgive or forget, so he believes no one else can either. It is something he must learn, I suppose. He is always suspicious - sometimes rightly, sometimes wrongly, and I wonder if he knows how right he was when he accused me earlier when the sun was setting and I had to face him knowing that what he thought he knew could ruin Albus and the school.

Even Severus Snape has a heart. I will remember that. It's hard to see through the smoke and mirrors, but he does care, and he does think before he acts. After all, if he did not care, then he would not harbour such lingering hatred and hurt.

"I hope you are prepared for the ramifications," Severus said flatly as we arrived at the dungeon. "I would hate for this to have been an exercise in futility."

"Indeed," the headmaster said, putting his wand to the lock. "As would I."

The lock clicked open and the door creaked an inch or two ajar; there was some shuffling and rustling and a slim, pale hand pulled the door open enough for its owner - Draco Malfoy - to slip out. His left cheek was bruised. Harry slunk out behind him, glasses folded in his right hand. His knuckles were glistening red.

"Ahh," Albus said cheerfully and fished out a pack of sweets from his robes. "Still alive, I see?"

Neither boy said anything. They exchanged a glance and then looked up at us again.

"Something like that," Harry yawned, stretching suddenly, as if shrugging off heavy old clothing.

"Face hurts like hell," Draco said, touching his own face lightly with the tips of his fingers. "I'm sure he punched me at some point."

"Shouldn't have been such a huge dick then, should you?" Harry muttered sullenly, looking daggers at him.

Draco smirked oddly, as if the bruise made it harder. He looked ludicrously, impossibly proud right then, and for the first time in quite a while, I felt rather afraid of him.

Albus held the pack of sweets to them, half-smiling himself as if he understood a conversation only he could overhear. "I trust we can put these hostilities aside for now, boys?"

Their eyes were far too large as they looked up at him, too innocent, too guilty. Each could trick and lie in his own way as they so often had. I wasn't in the least bit surprised that they had something to conceal now. A part of me wanted to know what, exactly, had gone on inside that infernal dungeon; but then, knowing these two as I did, maybe it was better I didn't.

Although Albus, like his namesake, had probably seen everything.

"Of course," the boys chorused harmoniously, blithe and honest like no one ever is.