Seekers Play Rough

SEEKERS PLAY ROUGH

All the stars may shine bright
All the clouds may be white
But when you smile
Ohh how I feel so good
That I can hardly wait

To hold you
Enfold you
Never enough
Render your heart to me

All mine
You have to be

From that cloud, number nine
Danger starts the sharp incline
And such sad regrets
Ohh as those starry skies
As they swiftly fall

Make no mistake
You shan't escape
Tethered and tied
There's nowhere to hide from me

All mine
You have to be

Don't resist
We shall exist
Until the day I die
Until the day I die

All mine
You have to be

Chapter 5:

The Hunter and the Hunted

"Morning came a little early today, eh, Harry?" Brianna called as Harry stumbled down the stairs into the common room. He felt horrendous, and he knew he looked just as bad. He hadn't slept a wink since his encounter with Malfoy.

"It came in through my window when I wasn't ready," he replied with a small smile and clutched a hand to his head, which throbbed from his lack of sleep and all the stress that he was under.

It was early yet, and tired Gryffindors sat sprawled in chairs, still semi- conscious as they waited to go down for breakfast. Brianna, Parvati, and Ginny sat perched on a single, large, over- stuffed armchair, chatting cheerfully. Nearby, Cullen and Ron were having an animated conversation about baseball, as Cullen did his best to explain the Muggle sport to his companion. In a quiet corner, Raelin and Hermione were having a civilized conversation over a game of Wizarding Chess. Neville sat nearby with a dazed expression that suggested he wasn't entirely awake. On a couch by the huge central fireplace, Dean lay face-down, one arm hanging limply over the side as Lavender perched casually on his legs, brushing out her hair and humming. Harry stood blinking tiredly at the foot of stairs, trying to process the completely and utterly normal morning scene. How could everything be so normal, how could people act so perfectly as if nothing had happened? The world had changed last night, forever and always. Draco Malfoy said he was in love with Harry Potter.

Well, he said he's in love with me, but doesn't love me. As if there's a difference. Harry sighed and plopped down on a footrest by Cullen and Ron.

"So, when a--a pitcher hits the ball, everyone tries to catch it and hit him with it?" Ron was trying very hard to understand.

Cullen laughed merrily. "No, no. The pitcher throws the ball; the batter tries to hit it. Everyone on the opposite team--they're in the field, see--tries to catch the ball, then throw it to other players that are standing on the bases. If the ball gets to a base before the runner, he's out."

Ron blinked. "Where'd this 'runner' come from?"

"The runner is the batter."

"...Oh."

Cullen sighed.

Ron looked at Harry. "And they say Quidditch is confusing! These Muggles come up with some wild games."

"Quidditch is confusing!" Hermione called from her seat in the corner.

"The rules to Quidditch are simple: Don't die, and try to get the ball through a hole." Dean's tired voice was considerably muffled by the pillow his face was buried in.

Any large discussion that may have erupted among the tired and not entirely coherent students ended as Fiona burst into the room through the portrait hole, dressed in red and gold Quidditch sweats, apparently returning from an early morning jog around the lawns. "Why aren't you all at breakfast?" she called cheerfully.

Harry blinked sleepily at her. Food certainly didn't appeal to him at the moment. His stomach was in knots. Plus, Malfoy would be there at the Slytherin table as always, and Harry didn't really cherish the thought of seeing him any time soon.

"That's a good question!" Parvati called boisterously as she leapt to her feet. "I think the Great Hall is ready for some early- morning Gryff noise!"

Those who shared her sentiment and early- morning energy called out happily, while those still sluggish groaned.

"You're much too happy this early," Dean muttered, burying his face deeper into the throw pillow.

"Oh, no, Thomas, you're just too lazy!" Hermione called as she slipped the set of Wizards Chess away. "But, as always, you're stomach will win out and you'll come down with the rest of us."

Ferguson beside her, beamed and said, "Come on, Hermione, let's go down."

Ron shot them both a dark look as they walked out together.

"I say! It's rather time to strap on the ol' nosebag, eh, Ronald, old chum? Wot, wot?" Cullen winked leeringly and elbowed Ron playfully. Ron sighed in suffering, but allowed Cullen to haul him to his feet. They followed Ginny, Parvati and Neville out.

In moments, Harry, who had made no move to get up during any of this, was alone in the common room. This suited him perfectly. Tired and irritable, he was in no mood to be surrounded by the shrieking masses of energy that made up the Gryffindor house. He sat in utter silence for some time, hands clasped between his knees as his mind mulled over what had happened the night before. He had been doing so since long before the rising sun had touched the snow-capped mountains. He remembered everything clearly, since he had been turning it over in his mind ever since it happened. He could still clearly see Draco's face, illuminated by the warm candlelight, those few brief seconds when his mask had cracked, when he had appeared vulnerable, human, for a change. Then, despite Harry's efforts, the mask had returned. Imperfect, perhaps, but there, separating Draco from all around him.

Harry sighed a sigh of fatigue and frustration. Draco Malfoy was supposed to be his nemesis, his arch-rival, and yet, here he was, cornering Harry in dark rooms and saying he loved him.

The thing that disturbed him the most was not the fact that Draco loved him, but the way it made Harry feel when he thought about it. He didn't feel the anger he had always thought he should. Not the disgust, not the disdain, but a certainty that it was right. And a profound feeling of relief, coupled with a very real desire to prove to Draco that he felt the same way.

What? No I don't!

...Do I?

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out everything, but succeeding in only making Draco's image appear before him. Wearing nothing but smirk.

Oh my.

Harry cast around wildly for something else to concentrate on.

You hate Draco Malfoy. You hate Draco Malfoy. You hate Draco Malfoy.

Right, that's why you've been fantasizing about him all night.

Listlessly, Harry let himself tumble backwards off the footrest he was sitting on. As he lay limply on the floor, arms and legs sprawled, he stared up at the ceiling and forced himself to think things through rationally.

Ever since he had returned to Hogwarts at the beginning of September, things had been different. Not just between he and Malfoy, but the very air of the place seemed different. He had originally dismissing it as general excitement because it was his last year, but it had been growing in the back of his mind: a build- up of all his discomfort and uncertainty, and it all seemed to be because he didn't really feel at home at Hogwarts anymore. He felt as if he didn't belong. And thus, his apparent loss of roots, of the only place that had ever really felt like home since he was eleven, was making his entire life seem topsy- turvy, sending him careening end-over-end with nothing to hold onto. And this whole thing with Malfoy was just causing him to spin faster and farther away from everything he knew, everything he thought he knew.

After this thought, a dangerous one followed on its heels, whispering in his ear seductively.

Maybe that's what you want...

What?

Something new. Something exciting. Something wild and crazy and wrong. Something that will make them question if they truly know Harry Potter.

He remained frozen, terrified by how much this dark voice appealed to him.

You could do it, you know. You could fly off the handle, jar them all. Do something that makes them gasp and gossip. None of them really know who Harry Potter is.

The dark voice was confronted with another voice, a bland and tired one.

Harry Potter doesn't even know who Harry Potter is.

Harry stared up at the ceiling.

I thought I did.

But the Harry Potter I used to know wouldn't stay awake all night, thinking about Draco Malfoy. The Harry Potter I used to know wouldn't be lying on his back in the common room, picturing Malfoy everywhere he looked. The Harry Potter I used to know wouldn't be replaying Malfoy's words over and over in his mind. The Harry Potter I used to know wouldn't be loving every minute of it.

And, God help him, he did.

For all the pain, the uncertainty, the fear, the angst, the lust and the hatred, Harry loved it. He loved the excitement. He loved the adrenaline rush. He loved the way Draco's eyes locked with his. He loved the way Draco strutted around as if everything was just another object he could conquer. He loved Draco.

Harry's eyes widened in horror as he pushed the final thought out of his mind.

I do not love Draco Malfoy!

I can't! I won't!

...Why not? The dark voice hissed in his ear like a deceiving lover.

Because... because this is Draco Malfoy! A Malfoy! Son of the man who is the chief supporter of the one that killed my parents! The swaggering brat that calls Hermione a Mudblood and Ron a weasel! I hate him!

Do you?

I do!

Really, now?

Yes!

Uh-huh. And that's why you got a hard- on last night, thinking about him.

Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, so furious that some reserved, reclusive part of him was shocked, and a little frightened. He could hear Draco's soft voice, the day that he had swallowed the amorelation elixir and woken up with Harry on top of him.

"Your mind can be your best friend, Potter. It can also be your worst enemy."

You bastard, Harry thought resentfully. You started all this. This is all your fault.

Biting his lip, Harry got slowly to his feet, feeling fatigue set in, along with a strong urge to simply give in, to stop fighting. He was tired physically and mentally. But he was also stubborn.

It's only a love potion, he reminded himself firmly. Somehow, that thought had been lost in all his fretting. I only have to put up with this until Friday. Today is Thursday. I can do this. He doesn't really love me, and he knows it. Come Friday, he'll get the antidote, and he'll be back to normal. We'll be back to normal.

Somehow, this wasn't reassuring in the least.

**

You're a Malfoy! He thought fiercely at his reflection. The face that stared back at him from the glass was drawn, wan and tired, with sunken eyes that burned with resentment and determination. Silver-blonde head bent close to the pane, Draco was steeling himself for what promised to by a trying day. You're a Malfoy, he repeated, eyes traveling unconsciously to the words carved in the wooden arch at the top of his mirror: Dulce et decorum est pro familia mori. The Malfoy family creed.

It is sweet and fitting to die for one's family.

You're a Malfoy.

You're a Malfoy.

You're a Malfoy.

...Though sometimes you wish you weren't.

Immediately, Draco raised his hand and slapped himself sharply across the face, just as he knew his father would, if he had known his son was thinking such a thing. Yes, Lucius would have hit him, harder than Draco himself had, no doubt, and not given it a second thought. Draco glared at his reflection, arrogantly eyeing the red mark on his cheek.

You're a Malfoy. He could practically hear his father's voice hissing in his ear. Wear it proudly.

Draco pushed himself roughly from the dresser and ran a hand through his fine hair. He stepped out of his room and slipped down the spiraling wrought- iron stairs leading to the Slytherin common room, relieved that everyone was down in the Great Hall for breakfast. He wandered idly through the cold room, picking up random trinkets to examine them closely, only to set them down moments later and move on restlessly. The Slytherin common room dripped in cold weather, and the dark tapestries and furniture did nothing to improve the ambiance.

Draco tossed his head irritably, setting down a jade carving of a snake coiling around a silver sword. His stomach was throttling his spine, his muscles were screaming out in pain at his every movement, and his headache hadn't been at all improved by the sleepless night he had endured. All night long, he, a mass of knotted muscles and internal agony, had been sitting alone in the darkness. He could no longer rationalize why he had told Potter, why he had done anything. He berated himself savagely for not keeping silent, for not sitting back and simply waiting for Friday's class when he could have accepted the antidote with grace and poise, while others murmured about how they never guessed it could have been Malfoy! He had been so calm the entire time!

But no.

Now Potter knew, and was no doubt having an apoplectic fit over it, as well.

Not only did Potter know, but Potter had also seen Draco lose control. Draco had raised his voice, had shown that he was torn up inside for one brief moment. He had dropped his mask, fumbled, and Potter had seen how pained he was behind it.

For an instant, Draco felt his anger and resentment bubble like boiling water. He had shown weakness. He was a Malfoy. He wasn't meant to feel shame.

Almost immediately, the anger died, as though finally giving in to the stronger emotion it could accept, even if Draco couldn't. It hadn't been so bad. For that brief moment, it had felt right. He had wanted to drop his walls, wanted to let Potter in, to confide in him.

Draco threw himself into a black velvet upholstered armchair and slouched there petulantly, toying with a frayed silver fringe on the armrest. He didn't feel like facing Potter today. Why, in the name of every god above, below and in between had he said anything to Potter? Why hadn't he just kept his big mouth shut and avoided him until Friday?

Because I love him.

He drummed his fingers of the velvet. You're a Malfoy, he reminded himself. Whatever happens will happen, and you'll deal with it. With poise and grace, as well, because--

--I know, I know.

I'm a fucking Malfoy.

So what if you had a little slip- up in front of Potter? You haven't been yourself this week, all because of that elixir. It's amazing you haven't done worse.

'Little slip-ups' are unacceptable. Lucius' voice was poison in Draco's ear. They're a cowards excuse.

Draco closed his eyes slowly and let fatigue wash over him in dark waves as he resisted the urge to break something, for the sheer fierce pleasure of doing something that defined him as Draco again. Slowly, a form resolved itself in Draco's mind, projected against his closed eyelids. It was Potter. Potter smiling at him, Potter whispering his name. Resolutely, Draco forced his leaden eyelids open, forced his leaden body out of the warm embrace of the chair, forced his leaden feet to carry him somewhere, anywhere, away from where he was.

Time to face the world, Malfoy, a darkly amused voice whispered in his ear.

**

When Harry finally stumbled down the stairs to the Great Hall, he found Hermione waiting for him outside the large doors.

"Ah, there you are!" she called cheerfully, pushing away from the wall where she had been leaning moments before, studying her shoes.

In his ill temper, Harry simply eyed her through a screen of dark hair. "Where's Ron?"

She winced. Just slightly. All because Harry had mentioned his name. "Oh," she said flippantly, tossing her hair and falling into step beside him, "at our table, I imagine."

Avoiding Ron now, eh? Shame, shame, Hermione. I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Did he scare you last night? Did he tell you he was in love with you? Did he say things that shattered your unspoken agreement, turned your world entirely ass-over-teeth? Wordlessly, Harry stalked into the noise of breakfast at Hogwarts. Deal with it. You're not the only one.

As they walked past the Slytherin table, Harry tried his best. He really did. But he couldn't help it. Of their own accord, his green eyes slid along the faces until they came to rest on that oh-so-familiar blonde head. At the sight of Draco, something burned through Harry, running along his veins, muddling his thoughts. It was like fire his blood, this all-too-familiar mixture of lust, fear, want, hate. It was like a drug. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was tearing him apart. He knew it would all blow up in his face. Yet, he knew he was addicted.

Look what you're doing to me, he snarled inwardly as he glared at Malfoy, who had his head ducked; shoulders slumped in such an entirely un-Draco posture that would have shocked Harry under normal circumstances. Regretting what you said last night, Malfoy? Torn up inside? Worried? Tired? He heard himself snort derisively as he glared at the bowed head. Well, too bad. You said what you said, and I'm going to make you just as miserable as I am.

"Bastard," he finished his inward litany, simply because it was supremely satisfying to spit the word at Draco again and really mean it. Surprised, Hermione looked up at him.

"Goodness, Harry! You're a fright!" she followed his gaze to the blonde head. Though they had long ago come abreast with Draco's seat and passed it, Harry was still glaring at the Slytherin, even though he had his neck turned at a peculiar angle to do so. A few students had noticed, and were staring at Potter, or muttering to each other, all wondering what the newest escapade among their favorite rivals was.

Would you believe he cornered me and said he loved me?

Of course you wouldn't.

Resentfully, Harry shot a poisoned glare around the Great Hall, as Draco, apparently coming to himself and sensing the sudden tension in the air, looked up. For a brief moment, Draco cast his eyes around the room, but it didn't take long for them to settle on Potter's hunched and malignant form.

It never does.

Any other rancorous thoughts were wiped cleanly from his mind as the silver eyes locked on his. The fire burned through his veins again and he felt his stomach clench. Malfoy's eyes were hard and cold as steel, glittering in the morning sunlight that fell in cascades through the open windows and spilled over the tables. Draco sat just left of a large sprawl of light, the contrast of the brightness beside him made the shadow he sat in seem darker than any others. Maddeningly, Draco ran his eyes over Harry's form with a look of cool appraisal, taking in his battered sneakers peeking out from the rumpled robes, the loosened tie hanging from the untidy collar of a dingy white shirt. Harry was painfully aware that he had neither shaved, nor brushed his hair this morning, and he felt his jaw clench as Draco's mercury eyes slid over his face.

Oh, go fuck yourself, Malfoy.

Resolutely pushing away any thoughts that could spring into his mind after such a colorful sentence, Harry whipped his head away, refusing to lock eyes with Malfoy, and threw himself into an empty seat beside Parvati.

"Finally decided to join us, O ray of sunshine?" Brianna called as she mopped up the last of her syrup with a bit of sausage. "We are graced by your presence." With a hearty wink and utter ignorance for Harry's angry snarl, the fifth-year pushed herself from the table. All around him, students were finishing their breakfasts and drifting away to attend to things before their morning classes. Ron, who had finished his requisite bowl of cereal, slipped into the seat beside Harry as Parvati got up.

"Blimey Harry," he began, looking at his friend with wide eyes. "You look horrible."

"Thanks, Ron," Harry snarled through clenched teeth, hunching over the table.

Surprised, Ron looked over Harry's bent back at Hermione, who just shrugged helplessly. I dunno what's wrong, she mouthed.

"Here, Harry," Ron said, trying again. "Have some breakfast."

"Not hungry," was the short reply.

"Well, bugger, Harry!" Ron sighed, "what do you want?"

I want to pin Draco Malfoy against some hard surface and hear him scream my name. I want to fuck him up. I want to make him moan. I want to make him sob. I want him. I want him in my hands; I want him underneath me, on top of me, in me. I want--

"I want..."

I want something to make sense.

"I don't know what I want," he sighed.

Hermione smiled slightly at this. "We're teenagers, Harry," her eyes slid over to meet Ron's desperate ones, as she finished in a quieter voice, "none of us know what we want."

There was a moment of silence between the three of them, now alone at the Gryffindor table. Morning noises filtered in around them, along with the morning sunlight. At the Hufflepuff table, someone was giggling. Thundering footsteps echoed in the hall beyond, as a group of students rushed past on some unknown mission, laughing and yelling. An owl glided by on silent wings, as chatting Ravenclaws slipped through the open doors. A morning like any other.

And yet, as he raised his eyes and looked about the silent scene, Harry couldn't shake the prevailing feeling that everything had changed. As far as he was concerned, nothing could ever be the same again, after last night. Throughout his sleepless night, Harry had done his best to deny the feelings rising up within him, but now, as the sun fell in warm cascades around him and his two best friends sat in uncomfortable silence, he simply felt resigned. He couldn't undo what had happened last night, and, in his mind, the best thing he could do to get back at Malfoy for turning his world upside down was to make Draco feel every ounce of the potion in him, to toy with him, to make him want Harry more than anything, but make him keenly aware there was no way he'd ever have him. And then, he assured himself, come Friday, he could go back to hating Draco, he could go back the world he knew and understood, instead of this hazy domain of uncertainty and turmoil. The world he had been stuck in since the very first day at school. He focused all his attention on the end of the week, the day when he was certain everything would make sense again. The day when, lo and behold, everything would be miraculously back to normal, not only with Draco, but Hogwarts would be the same again, feel the same again. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. His sanity depended on that class. His sanity depended on Draco being normal again. His sanity depended on Hogwarts feeling like home again.

Now, he thought decisively. Time to make Malfoy ache.

Harry got slowly to his feet, suddenly and strangely entranced by the way the light fell through the huge windows, the way tiny flashing dust motes swam through the liquid light. He could feel his hands trembling. He was certain he had a fever.

"Harry?" Hermione's soft voice was beside him, penetrating the silence. "Where are you going?" She was speaking softly, as though frightened of what his response might be, of the way he was acting.

So am I.

Blinking slowly, he turned his head to look at her. She stood beside him in a beam of light, hair shining, making a halo of light surround the worried expression on her face. She looked like an angel. He blinked again. Her brown eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his own.

"Anywhere but here," he heard his voice, cutting through the soft morning hush. It sounded rough. Dark. Jagged. Entirely out of place in the bright morning. Like sandpaper on silk. He blinked again.

"Harry." Ron's voice was coming from a dark patch near the table. He was still sitting, Harry imagined. Dreamily, he watched a dust mote float in and out of the light, shining like gold for a moment, then gone. "Harry. What's come over you?"

How absurd. Harry felt his lips curl in a smile. What an utterly foolish question to ask. He turned--without responding to Ron's question, he would later realize--and walked out into the corridor.

Suddenly, he was in the Gryffindor common room. Blinking, Harry realized he had no recollection of walking through the halls, of even passing through the portrait hole. And yet, there he was, standing alone and stock-still in the middle of the deserted room.

Making a sudden and entirely internal decision, Harry loped up the sprawling stairs to his room, slid inside, and began rummaging through his chest. He felt a fierce feeling of anticipation growing within him, felt a cruel smile stretch across his cheeks. He was going to make Malfoy suffer. Later, upon reflection, he'd realize that he wanted desperately to not only make Malfoy suffer, but he also wanted to be desired by him. He needed to be wanted by the boy. And, he'd also conclude, it had nothing to do with the potion.

After pulling on his favorite pair of jeans and a tight turtleneck that he knew accentuated his muscles, Harry draped the Hogwarts robes over himself, then stood before a mirror, putting more effort into his appearance than he could ever recall doing. Ruffling his hair, knowing it was a futile battle to make it appear neat, Harry went for the utter opposite look. He made it look disheveled, artfully messy, falling into his eyes as he shaved the last of his stubble of his cheeks. He practiced a brief, come-hither glance at his reflection and was pleased with the result. His reflection grinned a fierce grin that wasn't entirely sane as he ran his fingers through his hair one final time and dashed back out of the room. Harry vowed to make Malfoy do a hell of a lot more than blush.

Harry fazed in and out of consciousness during his first class. Ron and Hermione eventually gave up on trying to start a conversation with him as he tuned out both their voices and Professor Flitwick's with practiced ease. He didn't share this class with Slytherin, thus he felt not in the least bit inclined to pay any attention. Classes were not what mattered today. It was Malfoy. Getting under his skin again, just like the old days. It would be delicious. Harry sat with a small, superior smirk on his face, arms crossed as he practiced looking up through a screen of dark hair at younger girls, judging their reactions; counting the number of blushes when he smiled thus against the number of blushes when he let his hair fall so. Finally, the bell rang and he slipped out of class, not bothering to wait for Ron or Hermione.

As he wove through the crowd, he felt his smile spread. Potions class was coming up. The class where Malfoy sat behind and just to the left of him. The perfect vantage point to watch as Harry stretched luxuriously, as Harry toyed with his hair, as Harry bit his lip, innocently unaware of the effect he was having on a certain Slytherin. He was going to make Malfoy squirm.

It was payback time.

For all the confusion, Draco was going to pay. For all the fear, the lust, the hate, Draco was going to pay. He was going to get a taste of his own medicine. Harry was going to make him just as miserable as he could. He slowed his pace in the hall, determined to be the last into class, to sweep in when Malfoy was already there and claim the attention of the only person of any importance that day. He paused for an unnecessarily long chat with Colin Creevey, not registering a single word said, fascinated by a cobweb just over the young boy's shoulder. He stopped to wish a good morning to a group of girls, turning with a bloodthirsty smile as he heard them squeal and whisper behind him. He cracked his knuckles, feeling like a fighter preparing for battle. The bells had rung long ago for the beginning of class, and yet, for once, Harry didn't care that Gryffindor would lose points for his tardiness, that Snape would snap and growl like an angry dog, that Ron and Hermione would glower at him. All that mattered was that Draco would see him, see what he couldn't have, what he could never have.

After pausing for a steadying breath and a final flick of his dark hair outside of the class, Harry narrowed his eyes, threw open the heavy door and strode in confidently.