Seekers Play Rough

Seekers Play Rough

If you want to I can be dirty too

I can spin you around pick you up and go down if you want to

I can be just like you and do the dirty things you do.

Chapter 11:

And Oh, the Angst!

With detached calm, Harry calculated how many hours of sleep he had missed in the past three days. He counted the most recent nine hours, which he had spent sitting alone at a large window in the Gryffindor common room. He had watched the wheel of stars turn overhead, he had watched the moon make her silent trek across the black velvet canopy. He had watched black fade to gray, he had watched stars die. He had watched the sun rise. He felt no need to move. The fevered thoughts that had kept him awake had long since faded. His mind was as blank as the featureless gray sky staring down at him. He felt cold. Detached. This wasn't his problem, no, it was happening to someone else. Someone very far away, someone who had nothing to do with him.

Just as a streak of subdued sunlight peeked over a snow-capped mountain, a door somewhere above him creaked. He did not move, did not flinch or look away from the silver dawn as someone crept on soft feet down the cold stone stairs to his left. He did not blink when they said his name in surprise, then added with relief:

"I'm glad you're here."

He continued to watch the weak October sunlight diffuse through the clouds overhead as the faceless presence moved closer to stand by his elbow. "Can you give me a hand with this?"

Harry watched the sky lighten, watched dim shadows trail through the grass. "What do you want?" he heard his voice, replying of its own accord.

"Here." Something heavy was thrust into his limp arms. Reflexively, he tightened his grip and glanced down.

An ottoman.

What...?

"I have to take two to the common room this morning, before the teachers get too active," the voice went on cheerfully. Harry finally looked up at the speaker. It was Dean Thomas. He was grinning at Harry.

Harry looked down at the footstool. It was an abused article of furniture, frayed and faded, scuffed and scarred. "What?" he asked dazedly.

"We're stocking the common room!" Dean chuckled. "Well, I am. And I just elected you to be my assistant."

The ottoman had a stain on it and its fringe was coming off. "Why? The Gryffindor common room has ones much better than this..."

Dean snorted. "Of course it does. That's why I had to settle for this one."

Harry shook his head in tired bafflement. It was too early to do this. He wanted to go back to looking out the window until he faded away, not help Dean move furniture for no apparent reason.

"Come on, Harry. I'll go get the second, then we'll head out. The last thing I want is to run into Filch and have to explain why we're transporting hassocks around the school at such an ungodly hour..." Dean's voice faded as he ran up the stone stairs. Feeling as though he was stuck in slow motion, Harry simply looked at the faded brown ottoman, trying to decipher what Dean was talking about. It was upholstered with an awful floral print. His mind couldn't process any information beyond that.

Moments later, Dean came trundling down the stairs, carrying a faded lavender footrest that seemed to have survived better than the dejected one Harry held. "Okay, let's go."

Automatically, Harry struggled to his feet, tightening his arms around his burden. "Where did this come from?"

Dean jumped down off the low rise they had been standing on. It was situated at the back of the common room, opposite the portrait hole, a small dais dominated by a large dormer window. It was the landing where the wide stone stairwells leading to the dormitories branched off to the left and right. "I found them both in old classes." He hefted the lavender footstool in his arms. "This one came from a storage room near Trelawney's old class." Harry stumbled down the pair of wide stone stairs that Dean had chosen to ignore. They crossed the sprawling common room quickly. Dean was weaving lightly through chairs and tables and around books left on the floor and Harry could only bumble along in his wake. They stepped out of the portrait hole and into the silent hall. Dean paused to cast a cautious glance around.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked tiredly.

Dean looked at him over his shoulder. "You really aren't awake yet, are you, Potter? Were going to the common room."

Harry looked over his own shoulder at the Pink Lady as she watched both of them in a suspicious fashion. "But...we just left the common room..."

Dean started down the deserted hall, leaving Harry to trail along behind him. "The Seventh-Year's common room, dear. Remember?"

Harry blinked, stumbled and held the footrest closer. "Um."

"God, boy. Wake up." Dean was grinning good-naturedly as they turned down another hall, exactly like the one they had just left.

"Seventh-year common room," Harry mumbled.

Dean was hardly listening to him as he made his was down the corridor. "Yeah. No one's really sure who started it, originally. Some say the Weasley twins, but seeing as they left early, it's rather unlikely. Seems to've been around for ages. The common room for Seventh- years only, where we can go to get away from the rest of this school."

Something was pulling at Harry's memory. "So that's why we hardly saw the Seniors."

Dean smiled. "Yup. Unfortunately, even though our predecessors tried to hide it, Filch found the common room and complained to Dumbledore. Ol' Dumbly turned a blind eye, though, bless him. He tends to do that a lot, for reasons unclear and unsought-after. But still, every summer, Filch cleans out the room and it's up to the next years Seniors to stock it again." Dean led them up a shifting staircase, waiting patiently as it rotated slowly, coming to a grinding stop at an apparently random landing. Unfazed, he stepped lightly off the stairs, Harry following mutely. "This year, we're trying to find a portrait willing to guard the room for us, like the Pink Lady. Though, that might make it impossible for Dumbly to ignore." Dean paced down a narrow, dark hall. Glancing around, Harry noted that he was quite lost. A few paces before him, Dean stopped before an old suit of armor standing in an alcove. He hesitated for a moment.

"Luckily, there are bewitched suits doing all sorts of peculiar things all over this castle. Apparently of their own volition." He flashed a conspiratorial grin at Harry, then approached the suit and said:

"Firewhiskey and butterbeer,

It's our last year."

With a rattle of armor, the knight bowed stiffly and stepped slightly to the side, exposing a small dark entryway set in the back of the alcove. Dean turned to Harry, who was staring at the enchanted suit of armor. "We're proud of him. Took us weeks to get him right!" With that he stepped through the dark arch, leaving Harry to flounder after him. The passage behind the knight was pitch black, narrow, low and uneven. Dean kept up a running commentary the entire way, but Harry didn't hear a word said. He floated along in daze, unable to think. Abruptly, Dean stopped short and muttered something. Light diffused softly around them, illuminating the close walls of the passage and a smooth wooden wall before Dean. Harry's first thought was that it was door, but there was no handle. It was a featureless plank of smooth, dark wood. Featureless? Wait, no, there was something carved in the wood, enchanted so it glowed a pale gold in the faint light.

"You're now entering the Seventh Year Common Room.

Leave all House Feuds outside.

Within this room, we are all members of the same House."

As Harry read the inscription, Dean placed his palms flat on the wood and pushed to the side. Gliding easily on hidden runners, the plank slid to the left, exposing another pitch dark room beyond. Instinctively, though he could barely see by the light of Dean's wand, Harry could tell it was small. Dean picked up his purple ottoman once more and stepped into the tiny dark room. Harry hesitated. This was the common room? He followed, stepping haltingly into the close atmosphere. Illuminated by the light of the wand Dean now held clenched in his teeth, Harry could see that the tiny room they were in was made entirely of the same dark wood that the plank had been made of. Above them ran a metal pole, going from one end to the other. It wasn't deep room, but it was wide enough that he and Dean could stand side by side within it easily. Suddenly, Dean kicked out at the wall they were facing. Twin doors flew open and light streamed into the tiny room, making Harry blink.

"Well, Harry," Dean said nonchalantly, stepping out of the wardrobe. "Welcome to the Seventh-Year's common room."

Stumbling out of the dark wardrobe, Harry looked over his shoulder, sluggish mind putting two and two together. He and Dean had just passed through a secret passage, through a sliding panel in the back of an old, giant wardrobe and through it into an equally old room.

As Dean wandered off to position his ottoman, Harry swung his head slowly from side to side, taking in the room he had stepped into. It was a round room with a low, slanting ceiling that suggested it was topmost in some tower. Which tower, Harry had no notion. Feeling dizzy and disoriented, he took a few steps forward and collapsed onto a musty old armchair. The expanse of the dim room was littered with such battered chairs, in varying states of disrepair. Stained, ripped, tattered and worn, they had been dragged there by countless Seventh- years, old rejects from common rooms that had been left to molder in storage rooms. There were a few threadbare rugs scattered over the cold stone floor and poorly-made tables that teetered on uneven legs. There was one large window, dingy with age, that offered the only light. Overall, it was a dark, cheerless room. Harry was not impressed.

"Here, Harry, you can just drop that wherever." Numbly, Harry realized he was still holding the brown ottoman. He let it tumble carelessly out of his hands. It fell to the ground and made contact with the threadbare carpet under his feet with a muffled thud.

Dean sighed and tucked his hands into the back pockets of his old jeans. "Doesn't look like much yet, does it?"

Harry shook his head. He could feel memories and emotions seeping back into him, creeping through him as the sun had crept over the mountains. And it worried him. He wanted nothing more than to block out his memories from Detention the night before.

Oblivious, Dean was rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet as he continued to chat. Back and forth, back and forth. "A few Ravenclaws are supposed to be cleaning the window this morning, and Hufflepuffs are inked in clean and organize sometime during lunch." Back and forth, back and forth. Dean smiled suddenly. "The Slytherin are even donating a sofa."

Harry smiled feebly. All around him, the stone walls were scattered with the signatures of long-gone Seventh-year students. There were even a few pictures. From dusty frames, unfamiliar faces smiled and waved wordlessly down at he and Dean, welcoming a new generation of students. Dean had ceased his idle--and ultimately one-sided--chatting and had bent to fastidiously arrange the footrest Harry had dropped. A Seventh-year girl had left her picture frame and had crept into a nearby one to whisper excitedly with the other girl residing there. Harry sighed heavily and pushed himself to his feet. "Come on, Dean. We brought the ottomans like we were supposed to."

Dean straightened, sneezed in a cloud of dust and began prattle about opening the window to air out the room. Harry walked steadily away from him, making his way to the wardrobe that stood in the curve of a wall, dark doors still ajar. He was vaguely aware of Dean behind him as he found the concealed panel and slid it aside. Wordlessly, Harry plunged down the dark passage, wormed his way around the suit of armor and breathed a deep breath of relief as he paused in the fire lit hall. Dean was still working his way past the motionless suit, but he had stopped his chatter sometime in the darkness of the tunnel.

"Alright, Harry." Dean smiled cheerily, obviously undaunted by his companion's silence. "Let's away before Filch comes along." Harry followed him silently down the hall. At the staircase, he paused to look back at the immobile suit and a thought came unbidden to his mind, one that hurt more than he felt it should, one he would've been quite happy without ever thinking, especially considering the tone it set for the rest of his day.

I wonder if Draco knows about it.

The dam broke. With reckless abandon, memories and emotions from his encounters in Potions class washed over Harry. It momentarily knocked the breath out of him and the world faded in the strength of the emotions. Fear, pain, lust and uncertainty had been lingering on the edge of his mind ever since he had seen Draco standing in the dark Potions class, awash in faint candle light. Ever since Draco had looked at him with those eyes, eyes that burned with something that scared Harry as much as it thrilled him. Something that made him quake, something that made his lungs stop working, his heart stop beating, his mind stop thinking.

The world returned forcibly as Harry stumbled and fell, rough stone of the floor scuffing the heels of his hands painfully. At the clatter and pained grunt behind him, Dean turned.

"Harry! What's wrong?" Harry stared down at the stone floor dumbly, seeing not the gray slabs inches from his face, but Draco's eyes, lit by candle light, boring into his. In those moments, Harry's world had narrowed to those eyes. They were all he saw. All that mattered.

Strong arms were gripping him--Draco's strong arms twining around him, the delicate fingers spidering along his skin--Dean grunted with a half- laugh as he pulled Harry to his feet. Harry stumbled again and blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the mist that lingered around him, making contact with the real world impossible as he drifted in memories. The events of that night were a smoky haze of lust, punctuated by crystallized images and sensations. Draco's lips branding his face, his neck. Draco's hands shamelessly exploring Harry's body as if he owned it, as if it belonged only to him, a plaything. He remembered with absurd clarity the way a jut of stone had dug uncomfortably into his shoulder blade, the light of the candle that perched on Snape's desk.

"Blimey, Harry," Deans voice cut through the haze, bringing harsh reality back. "If you were that tired, you could've said something."

Harry simply shook his head, as the memories from the past night fled from his clearing mind, slipping away from him like a handful of sand sifting through careless fingers. They were gone. The only remnants of the undeniable pleasure he had felt had fled. Just like Draco had. And he'd never get them back. Either of them.

In a business-like manner, Dean slung Harry's arm over his broad shoulders and began walking him patiently along the shifting stairs, as Harry stared wide-eyed around him, surprised at how drab and cold the world had suddenly become. He realized dimly that he wanted Draco. He wanted the warm body against his, he wanted to hear his gasps and groans. He wanted to hear Draco say his name. He wanted many, many things. All of them were wrong, all of them seemed unnatural, but they were all he wanted.

Dean had confidently led them back to the Gryffindor common room. By then most students were awake, lazing in their sitting room before going down to breakfast. With one hand on Harry's hip and his limp arm slung over his shoulders, Dean guided the staggering boy to an overstuffed armchair and let him collapse. Hermione, who had been curled in a corner chatting with Raelin, bounded to her feet with a small squeak of worry.

"Harry!" Harry looked up at her at the mention of his name like a trained animal. Hermione froze momentarily, surprised at how clouded and far-off the normally flashing green eyes were. "Harry, what's wrong?"

Dean shrugged. "He just collapsed in the hall. Must be tired."

Harry nodded, unable to muster the will to speak.

Hermione shook her head in reprimand. "Honestly, Harry, did you let Snape keep you up all night?"

It wasn't Snape that kept me up all night.

Harry shook his head and closed his eyes, willing them all to go away, to evaporate and leave him alone.

"Harry?" Hermione urged. She wasn't going away. "Do you want some breakfast?"

He was aware of more people clustering around him, he could feel them, but he refused to open his eyes. Instead, he simply shook his head again.

"Oh, leave him, 'Mione." It was Ron's voice now. "He's just tired because of all the work that slimy git made him do."

Harry nodded. No one seemed to notice.

"I dunno," Seamus' voice joined in. "He looks right pale."

"And he hasn't said much at all, even though I've been with him all morning." Dean was now contributing.

"Maybe he should go see Pomfrey?"

Harry groaned in annoyance. He'd be fine if they all just went away.

"Right, Harry. Let's get you to Pomfrey." Strong hands hoisted him out of the soft embrace of the chair and propelled him out of the common room. There were at least five Gryffindors helping him to the Hospital wing, all arguing about his symptoms and what could possibly be wrong with him.

"It's nothing!" he insisted feebly. Heedless, the hustled him to the wing, where Madam Pomfrey was immediately in her element, handling unruly students.

"You, Mr. Thomas! Out! Shoo! Mr. Longbottom, put that vial down, I--oh bugger, Longbottom!--Finnigan, those are not edible! All of you, out! You'll kill the patient before I get the chance to see him!"

With raucous yells and complaints, his worried housemates were herded out the door in a disorderly manner. In the deafening silence that followed their exit, Madam Pomfrey eyed Harry critically, hands sternly on her hips.

"So?" She demanded imperiously.

Harry swayed on his feet. He couldn't shake the impression that this was nothing but a bad dream. "It's--it's nothing. They just got worried. I'm just..." he trailed away.

Pomfrey scowled. Harry turned uneasily, not wishing to fall flat on his face again, and staggered drunkenly for the door, concentrating on stopping the unnatural swinging of the room around him.

"Potter!" Pomfrey's strident voice halted him in his tracks. "Now, not so fast."

Harry barely suppressed a groan of annoyance, but turned dutifully to look at the nurse, dressed in her perpetually white, crisp and perfect uniform. She was fairly gleaming in the early morning sunlight.

"You don't look entirely healthy, young man."

Harry sighed and scrubbed his cheek, rough with stubble. "Um. I, that is. I haven't been. Sleeping." He blinked in confusion and shook his head. What is he doing to me?

Without a reply, Pomfrey scuttled away. The world blurred briefly and Harry staggered in place as the room pitched restlessly beneath his feet. The memories, driven away by his housemates, were creeping back like dark shadows in his mind. Shadows. The stark planes of Malfoy's face, lit in light and shadow, sharp and clear as a knife edge.

A cold stone cup was thrust into his fumbling hands. "Now. Drink this, and be on your way."

Harry looked down dazedly at the cup.

"It'll make you right as rain again," Pomfrey assured him. A faintly violet liquid reflected his face back up at him. Gingerly, Harry lifted the cup to his lips and drained it of its contents as quickly as he could. It had a faintly peppery flavor and it chilled his throat as it slid into his stomach. Brusquely, Madam Pomfrey retrieved her cup, turned him in place and gave him a gentle but firm nudge towards the door.

"Off you go, Mr. Potter, or you will be late for classes."

Dutifully, Harry hauled himself off to Divinations, feeling no different.

~*~

Draco fairly danced his way to Potions. He was fully armed and ready, prepared to make Potter's day a living hell. After a peaceful night's rest, Draco had risen earlier than usual and had spent an exceptional amount of time smoothing his clothes, combing his hair and preparing for the battle ahead. As he floated down the crowded hall, Draco took stock of the weapons in his armory:

Eyes?

He passed a knot of first-year girls and favored them with his Smoldering Glance, timing it perfectly with his easy glide through a patch of light. All eyes turned to him, naturally. One squeaked, a second teetered dangerously on her feet, a third and forth blushed alarming shades of crimson, while the fifth looked as if she had lost the ability to draw breath.

Check.

Smile?

This time, a small, mousy, sixth- year with her nose stuck in a book was his unwitting guinea pig. When she glanced up to avoid walking into him, he flashed her a brief smirk. One that said "I could own you, you know, and you'd like it." She gasped and blushed, then glared at him in embarrassment as he chuckled and stepped around her.

Check.

Body?

Quite innocently, Draco stretched his arms, arching his back without breaking his smooth glide. He heard an audible gasp over his shoulder. He allowed himself a smile as he cocked his head to the side, stretching his neck and flexing his biceps. Not that these frumpy robes do my form any justice at all. He noticed a Seventh-year girl leering obviously at his crotch. Maybe I was wrong. He noticed that this Seventh-year was Pansy Parkinson.

He shuddered and hastened past her.

Minor setback. Body still gets a very firm 'check.'

Draco ran his hand through his hair, slicking it unconsciously back into place. Lately, he had been letting it grow longer that usual--when it wasn't slicked black it brushed his jaw and the nape of his neck easily--but being longer made it harder to control. It had taken recently to falling in strands to brush his cheeks and lay over his eyes and, though he was well aware of the sexual appeal, it tended to get irritating. Still, irritating or no, it made girls blush and Potter squirm.

Just you wait, little Boy. You know you're helpless where I'm concerned. I predict--

His roaming eyes fell on that familiar tousled black head as it bumbled its way through the crowd, flanked by a curly one and a most unattractive red one. Potter looked sleep-deprived and anxiety-ridden. Draco felt a ferocious glee building behind his cool, half-smirk. The hunt was on.

--you'll be mine by nightfall.

~*~

Harry slipped into his scuffed seat in Snape's class. All around him, chatting students settled into their benches, pulling out quills and cauldrons. Ron was taking his normal place to Harry's left, prattling away with Hermione. Harry sat in an island of silence with conversation washing over him and crashing against him. He knew with a sense of impending catastrophe that at any moment Malfoy would arrive, and he would immediately lose control. He didn't think he could stand those eyes on him, not after what had almost happened the night before.

But it was too late now. The blonde swept gracefully into the class, cutting through the other students as easily as one walking through fog. Like mist, the other students parted effortlessly before him, backing away and closing behind him as he slid through them, head high, eyes cold and indifferent. As he passed them, students either glared at him or sighed helplessly. Nobody in the room was indifferent to Malfoy, while he was indifferent to so many of them.

Indifferent to many, except, of course, for a tow-headed young Gryffindor who sat frozen in horror as the Slytherin waltzed in. Regally, Malfoy brushed past all of the others and settled into a seat in the row in front of Harry, just to the left, pointedly leaving several seats between himself and the nearest Gryffindor in that row.

See? Harry told himself desperately, he's still a git. And a ponce. And--and--

Harry could clearly see Malfoy's profile as he stared straight ahead, his lumbering bodyguards dropping into place to his right.

--And... he's beautiful.

Ron's sudden snort of contempt made Harry jump. "Hmph. I wonder why Mr. High And Mighty decided to sit up front." Harry turned to blink at Ron, stunned to think that, at that moment, anyone could find Malfoy anything less than shaggable.

"Now that our amorelation installment is complete, we will today begin work on the Sano Solution." Snape sounded just as bored as his students were invariably about to become. Harry furrowed his brow, intent on paying attention during this class. Malfoy would not distract him. Malfoy would not cause him another detention. Malfoy would not get the opportunity. Malfoy--

Malfoy was doing incredible things with a quill.

Harry had always liked Draco's quill. In a way, it was a testament to his wealth, that something so trivial as a quill, something so small, still had to be the very best money could buy. It was well over a foot long, wide and soft, a dark brown that faded to cream near the base feathers. It was streaked throughout with rich gold and chocolate highlights. The tip was a warm brown and it was freckled along its entire length with black. The nub itself was wound with gold thread and it seemed to be perpetually sharp and never blotted any page. Yes, Harry had always liked Draco's quill. But he never thought he'd see the day when he envied it.

Rather absently, Draco was running his fingers along the length of his quill, nub to tip, nub to tip, making the fibers part and bend as his fingers slid over them, only to spring back into place as they passed. As Harry watched, entranced, Draco leaned forward in his seat, placed his elbow on his desk and, with a sigh, began to run the tip of the long feather along the graceful arch of his neck. From jawline to collarbone, back and forth, up and down, so lightly that the tip barely bent in it its strokes. Draco, apparently unaware, was fixed on whatever Snape was saying. Harry couldn't care less about the professor's lecture. He couldn't take his eyes off the slow motion of the feather. He felt his hands clutch convulsively on the edge of the desk, felt his stomach lurch. Suddenly, Draco cocked his head to the side and smiled ever-so-slightly. So small was his smile that only someone who was looking intently at him would have noticed it. Harry was indeed looking intently at him. The quill continued its motions.

It took all the strength Harry could muster to look away. Never had it been so hard. But with a force of will and the use of several breathing exercises, Harry managed to avert his eyes from the tantalizing scene. He even managed to return his attention to Snape's droning voice.

...

Alright, maybe that was a tad optimistic. But he did manage to breathe again. And he did manage to stop devouring Malfoy with his eyes. Though, now his mind was busily replaying the scene in a continual loop. Belatedly, he realized his nails had made a few crescent scars in the varnish of his desk and that he had unconsciously curled his toes, balling them tensely in the depths of his shoes. Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to force himself to ignore what was going on a few seats to his left. Closing his eyes did not help. After a few moments, Harry decided that the real world was much less intriguing than the images displayed by his mind and forced his eyes open again. Of their own accord, they returned to Malfoy, who was still busily amusing himself with his quill. Harry whimpered slightly in torment and, as if he had heard it, Draco suddenly turned in his seat. A cold smirk flanked by appraising eyes, Malfoy pointedly looked Harry up and down, from the tips of his battered shoes to the incline of the highest bit of rebellious black hair. Wherever Malfoy's eyes traveled, goosebumps and chills followed. Harry stared back at him. Malfoy met his eyes, the deep silver sending shocks through Harry, as always. As he held Potter's stunned gaze, Draco very deliberately licked his lower lip, the tip of his pink tongue sliding slowly across the inviting skin before disappearing once more into the even more inviting mouth. It was subtle, it was quick, and it went unnoticed by everyone, save the flustered boy who dropped his gaze and suddenly couldn't stop staring at those lips, as if fascinated by the prospect of that tongue emerging again.

After a moment longer, Malfoy turned pointedly away, leaving Harry staring at his profile and trying to calm his breath. He knew, with morbid certainty, that if this continued, he wouldn't make it through Potions class. Already, he was glad of the loose-fitting nature of his dark robes, as Malfoy's actions were getting a reaction from his rebellious body.

"Ron," he muttered desperately, unable to remove his eyes from Draco's face, the slant of his high cheeks. "Ron!"

"What?" The redhead sounded annoyed.

"Hit me."

"What?" Now the redhead sounded surprised.

"Hit me!"

Dutifully, Ron gave Harry's arm light punch, jarring his shoulders. His eyes still refused to budge.

"Harder!" He kept his voice at a desperate hiss.

"Why?" Ron's voice, however, was getting louder.

"Just do it!" He was quickly losing the will to blink.

Again, Ron punched Harry, this time landing a firm knock to his arm that made Harry lurch and tore his eyes from the face. Immediately, he closed them and turned his face away.

"Okay. Thanks." He took a few deep breaths.

"Harry, what the hell?"

Harry opened his eyes, forcing them to look at a wilted herb on Ron's desk and nothing else, dammit. "I was starting to... fall asleep." He heard someone chuckle from Ron's other side. Harry stared firmly at the herb in a show of concentration that made Ron uneasy.

"Um. Harry?"

Harry grunted slightly, but never blinked. Herb. Not Malfoy. Wilting herb. Not Malfoy. Not Malfoy. Concentrate on the herb. Don't think of anything else, for the love of Merlin. Herb, herb, herb.

He had no notion of what type of plant it was. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it wasn't stimulating in the least.

"Harry, you can have it if you want it so much." Harry gaped. He could just have Malfoy. Isn't that what Ron just said? If he wanted to, if it was bothering him so much, he should just take Malfoy, fuck him, get it over with. Right?

"What?" Harry demanded, eyes wide at the thoughts that were suddenly entering his mind, wilted herb or no wilted herb.

A large hand entered his line of sight, nudging the green leafy thing closer. "You can have it," Ron whispered, obviously unsettled by his friend's fixation.

Have Malfoy. "Have what?" Harry demanded, eyes still staring at the pathetic thing on Ron's desk.

"The plant, for the love of all that's Bright and Holy! Just take the fucking plant and stop creeping me out."

As if it served as any sort of reasonable reply, Harry turned abruptly and lay his face on his desk. Ron sat in silence for a moment, looking down at the hunched form. Harry had gone perfectly motionless, but every one of his muscles appeared to be tensed. After a minute, Ron hazarded:

"You... don't want the plant?"

Harry groaned wordlessly.

"I'm not forcing you to take the plant."

"...God..." Harry's face was still buried in his desk.

"It's just that, you were staring at the plant, so I figured you wanted the plant."

"I don't want the plant." Harry's voice was perfectly calm.

"You don't want the plant?"

"Can we stop talking? Please?"

A moment of silence.

"But, why were you staring at the plant?"

"Stop saying 'plant', for the love of Merlin."

"Um."

Harry still hadn't moved. Ron cleared his throat uncomfortably, then surreptitiously reached over and moved the limp green herb onto Harry's desk. Just in case.

Harry meanwhile, was staring through the lenses of his glasses at the grain of the wood against his nose. Almost as distracting as a wilted herb.

Honestly. Who am I kidding?

He sat up so abruptly that Ron, who had been carefully arranging the herb to make it look like it had just ended up on Harry's desk by accident, jumped. Harry had risen straight up, like a stiff corpse rising abruptly from its coffin and now sat ramrod straight in his seat, staring at the back of Cullen's head. His eyes were wide, as if he was amazed by what he was seeing there, yet they were so unfocused that it was obvious he wasn't even seeing Cullen, let alone the back of his head. Ron reached over and jabbed his ribs cruelly. Harry winced, and looked at Ron... gratefully?

Ron was sorely confused. But at least Harry's eyes were back to looking into the present. They flashed, he smiled and his shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Ron."

Ron arched an inquisitive eyebrow, but bent over his desk, intent on 'copying notes' to avoid rousing Snape's suspicions.

"I'm giving very serious consideration to joining the honorable folks at St. Mugo's." Ron snickered. Harry sounded so calm, so serious. "They seem like a nice lot, don't they?"

Ron nodded sagely, dipping his quill in ink before returning to his meaningless scribbles of the roll of parchment before him. "Sure, Harry. Your type."

Harry leaned back, as if considering. "Yeah. Yeah." He tapped his chin pensively. His voice dropped suddenly. "At least there I'd have an excuse..."

"What was that, Harry?" Ron asked, without looking up. He began blowing on the ink before him, drying a doodle of Snape in a rather compromising position. "Didn't catch you."

"Nothing."

There was a lapse of silence as Ron passed the piece of art to Brianna, who shoved her entire fist into her mouth to muffle a peal of fiendish giggles. Ron looked suitably flattered.

Harry sighed. He could feel a headache blossoming just behind his left eye. He blinked, sighed again, and watched Snape swoop back and forth like a restless black leaf caught in a dust devil, swirling around, spiraling, pausing for moments at a time, only to set off seconds later. Nervously, Harry ran a hand through his hair and--Damn it!--looked over at Malfoy again. The young Slytherin was perched with comfortable ease on the bench, lounging against his desk as he copied down notes, apparently abruptly oblivious to everything--everyone around him. The only thing he seemed be aware of was a small strand of pale hair that kept falling into his face, brushing against his cheek like a lover seeking attention. He pushed it back every time it did, a swift gesture of ever-increasing exasperation. Harry smiled slightly at his expression. Preoccupied, but slightly troubled, like a child who wants to pout about something, but can't quite remember what the fuss is all about. He did rather look like a sulky child, Harry reflected, with his bottom lip protruding slightly in annoyance and a small dimple between his sharply arched eyebrows.

A wonderful, awful idea crossed Harry's mind. The entirely too appealing notion of kissing that dimple of trouble away, of kissing that bottom lip until it changed from a pout to a smile. Instead, he clutched the seat under him and bit down on his lip painfully.

Pull yourself together, Potter. Breathe, breathe.

Swiping the back of his hand across his temple, Draco brushed the rebellious lock of hair behind his ear again, shifting his weight in agitation. Harry wanted to brush the hair away for him, wanted to run his fingers through the fine hair, to push it back with his own palms and smooth it. He wanted to read over Draco's shoulder while he wrote, he wanted to lean against him while he thought. He wanted to be there, absently brushing Draco's hair back in repetitive, soothing strokes, combing it lightly with his fingers while they both looked down on what he was writing. He just wanted to be near him. Easy, comfortable, relaxed.

With a half-hiccup, half-sob, Harry looked away, painfully aware of his vexed state. There was no getting around it. He wanted Malfoy. He didn't care about consequences. He didn't care what anyone would think. He just wanted Draco's arms around him, he just wanted to be near him.

Harry stared at a scratch in the varnish before him, resting his cheek disconsolately in the palm of his hand. It would never happen, he knew. Even if they did have sex--the very thought of it made Harry get a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach, a light-headed giddiness--they could never be that comfortable. The helplessness of the situation sucked at Harry, making him sink lower in his seat and stare out over the other students morosely.