Crash and Burn

Draco's first thoughts, after waking that morning, were of Harry Potter and the best way to seduce him.

Not because he had a "thing" for Harry Potter, no matter how many spiteful snubbed-by-Draco students hinted at that. Not because he was currently single and wanted to preserve his image as a playboy. Not even because he was desperately horny.

He just had nothing else to do.

Why not spend his free time baiting Potter, at least until something better came up?

Draco could see them, marching in his mind's eye : glossy technicolour photographs of Harry and he at various social events - dances, balls, birthday parties. He knew that he would get some sadistic pleasure out of making Potter fall off his do-gooder cloud and come crashing down at Draco's feet. It would be wonderful to feel so empowered - to know that all he had to do was delve deeply enough inside Potter's skin, get the boy to need Draco's omnipresence - get him, in short, addicted to Draco - and Draco could destroy him by just stepping away from him.

Potter, so innocent and green-eyed and good - so good that it made Draco want to hurl and rip the world to pieces. He would make an ideal victim. no, not victim, prey. It would be as easy as taking a candy from a baby. The fact that Draco wasn't certain of Potter's sexual orientation wasn't even a possible hindrance. He was certain, in that arrogant way of his that fascinated some people and disgusted others, that Potter wouldn't be able to resist him. Nobody could. You could defeat Voldemort five times in a row, but you couldn't say no when Draco Malfoy asked you out.

Once they got together, Draco would escape the multitude of rumours flying about. "He could have anybody in the whole bloody school," Millicent Bulstrode was said to have whispered to Pansy Parkinson, "no, in the whole wizarding world. So isn't it... weird.... that he's got no girlfriend or boyfriend?"

And Pansy, still bitter with Draco for having unceremoniously dumped her in fifth year, had replied, "He doesn't think anyone is good enough for him. That's his problem. That boy will die in some dirty Muggle alley from an overdose!"

Pansy was right about the first part; Draco did think himself better than everybody else. But the second statement was highly unlikely. There was no way in hell Draco would ever find himself in a dirty Muggle alley.

Once he had thought it out, and told himself that it would be a highly profitable venture, Draco showered quickly, found his wand, and performed various spells to soften his skin - though why he thought his skin needed it will forever remain a mystery. He decided agaist brushing his hair, and dressed himself all in black, and sashayed out the door after checking that he had his breath mints with him (one never knew when surprise snogging might occur, and it's always best to be prepared). Stopping to look at his reflection in a window, he thought, "Ready for the attack. Go me!"

* * *

Draco walked throughout the castle twice, found out that Potter was not on the Quidditch pitch, in the Great Hall, or in any of the broom closets. Searching those had been a painful experience, because a fourth-year Hufflepuff, very angry at being disturbed just when her boyfriend's hand had began wandering underneath her shirt, had punched Draco in the stomach not once but twice. After that Draco began to have second thoughts, and wondered whether any sort of relationship with Potter was worth having a fat girl attack him like that. He was ready to give up on the whole venture, when the Malfoy stubbornness kicked in, and he gritted his teeth and began to think.

After much cogitation, he came to the conclusion that the elusive Gryffindor had to be in the library. With Granger, doubtlessly, because he wasn't the type to go read books of his own accord. The buck-toothed egghead's presence would make things more difficult - Draco didn't want her to be privy to the conversation, and he knew that Potter wouldn't either; but he'd find a way to get rid of her.

Potter was indeed in the library, but alone, and with a book the size of a small calf on the table before him. Perhaps I underestimated him, thought Draco. Perhaps he does know how to read. The boy was obviously struggling not to fall asleep and didn't notice Draco sneaking up on him.

"Potter," Draco said quietly, letting his breath wash over the nape of Potter's neck. "Just the man I was looking for."

Harry jumped, and a blush spread like wildfire over his face when he saw who had spoken. "M-malfoy," he acknowledged weakly.

"Don't stutter," ordered Draco severely. Potter should be fall-on-your- knees grateful for this occasion to have a conversation with a Malfoy - especially since Draco wanted to proposition him - and should have enough respect for the occasion to stop himself from tripping over his syllables.

"S-sorry."

"What did I just say?"

"I... er. Bug off, Malfoy. I'm... busy." Harry motioned vaguely toward his book.

"Don't play with me, Potter. As if I'd be stupid enough to believe that you'd be here reading a book of that size - especially The Reproduction Cycle of Asian Nifflers.- of your own free will. What are you doing this Saturday?"

"Um. What?!" Harry looked dumbfounded, as though a zebra had just spoken, or Draco had sprouted a second head.

"Thick, aren't you?" said Draco with disgust. "I feel like I am talking to a backwards child. I said: what are you doing this Saturday?"

"Why on earth do you want to know?"

"Because, you fool, I am asking you out." Draco slapped the table for emphasis, and tried not to flinch at the pain.

If Harry had looked surprised before, it was nothing compared to the shocked look in his eyes now. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and made several broken sounds that did not make it past his lips. After some seconds had flown by he realized that Draco expected him to make some sort of reply, and croaked, "I have plans."

Draco's eyes widened, then narrowed. He glared at Harry, and clenched his fists, looking extraordinarily like a basilisk with bed-head. How dare Potter say he had plans? How dare he even think of refusing Draco Malfoy? This sort of thing had never happened before, as people tended to throw themselves at Draco's feet. It made Draco's blood boil to think that he had been rejected by a midget with bad hair. He was about to lunge at Potter, to slap him perhaps, or at least box his ears, but he stopped himself just in time. Must remain calm. Cool. Composed. Catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, and all that.

Instead of jumping on Potter and knocking his lights out, Draco leaned forward and whispered, "Nothing you're doing can possibly be so great that it would justify you passing up a date with me. You do know that?"

"Um. » Harry tried to keep his face blank, but he blushed again, confirming Draco's suspicious than Potter had a small crush on him. "Y-yes, Malfoy."

"Well, then?"

Harry sighed deeply, and rubbed his eyes, as though he thought doing so would make Draco and his awkward questions disappear. "Whyme, Malfoy?"

"Because, Potter, I thought about it long and hard, " Draco drawled, nearly chortling at the way Harry blushed at the words 'long and hard' - "and I decided you're the only one who's worthy of me. The Malfoy heir and the Boy Who Lived. You must admit that sounds nice."

"Um. Okay. What about, er, Pansy?"

"Please," said Draco simply. "Have you taken a good look at her lately? The girl looks like a constipated camel."

Harry nearly laughed. "Regardless. I, uh, told you. I have... plans."

"And those plans are?..."

"I'm... going to H-Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione."

"Potter, godammit, don't stutter!"

"I'll stutter if I want to, Malfoy."

"Hogsmeade can wait," Draco said. He trailed his finger up and down Harry's forearm. Victory was near. He could smell it. Potter was getting weak; it was obvious by the pallor of his skin, his glazed eyes. He wanted to accept Draco's offer, but he was fighting that desire - likely his macho Gryffindor side stereotyping 'evil' Slytherins. He's not bad-looking, Draco thought, but he does nothing to improve his looks. Doesn't he realize that he desperately needs a haircut? "Besides," he added, "Grange-girl and the Weasel will be delighted to go to Hogsmeade alone. Perhaps they'll have a little tonguing session in the Shrieking Shack. Did you ever think that those shrieks might be caused by intense physical pleasure?"

Harry's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He gave a little sigh. "If I go out with you, will you leave me alone?"

"No."

"But."

"Shut up, Potter."

"Why?"

"Because I'm trying to kiss you, you idiot," Draco snapped, losing all remaining shreds of his patience. As quickly and as fluidly as a striking panther, he moved his hand sneaked around Harry's neck and roughly pulled him closer; His lips sealed the unsuspecting mouth, cutting off Harry's air supply.

Harry's instinct was to pull away and swallow air, precious air. He looked like a fish thrown on land as he wheezed and gasped for breath.

"You idiot. You ruined it."

"You don't just... do that."

"Yes, I do. I'm a Malfoy."

And Harry had no reply for that, because if he'd learned a single thing after seven years at Hogwarts, it was that one did not tell a Malfoy what they could and could not do unless one was a Malfoy. It just wasn't done, and Harry had no intention of breaking another unwritten law of the wizarding world. Saying 'no' to Draco was playing with fire already; he didn't want to get burned.

"All right. You win."

A grin twisted Draco's lips. "I always do," he said imperiously. "It's about time you learned that, Potter."

* * *

Draco's idea of a date apparently consisted of locking Harry and himself inside his dormitory' snogging Harry until the boy was quite dizzy. His head was spinning and pounding, he felt as though he was on a particularly fast roller-coaster, he felt sick, he was going to vomit if this didn't stop, he needed air.

Of course he felt pleasure, but it weighed little in the balance of how woozy he felt, and how he could hear Hermione and Ron in his head, gasping at what he was doing. He broke away, gulping in mouthfuls of air.

"Damn, Potter." Draco spat, angry and frustrated - never a good combination, particularly in him.

"Well, excuse me," Harry shot back, "You have a mouth like a black hole - everything gets sucked in. It felt like you were trying to swallow my lungs. I couldn't breathe. What was I supposed to do?"

"Grin and bear it," snapped Draco. He narrowed his eyes, and his hands, which had dropped from Harry's neck to his sides, clenched into fists. "There must be something wrong with you, Potter. Nobody in the world got to make out with a Malfoy and didn't like it."

"There is something wrong with me!" Harry agreed sarcastically. "Some horrible mental disease that convinced me that I'm gay and made me agreed to spend quality time with you. This'll be all over Witch Weekly by tomorrow and I'll never be able to look anyone in the eye again."

"On the contrary," Draco said. "It'll add to your reputation, and damage mine. Everyone will be congratulating you on managing to score a date with me, but they'll say, 'I thought Draco Malfoy had standards. Where did they go?'"

"Call this a date?" said Harry. "We're locked in a filthy, empty dungeon."

"Which much resembles the interior of your brain."

Harry made an exasperated noise at the back of his throat. "I don't need this," he snapped. "Fuck you, Malfoy."

"Oh yes, I'm sure you want to do that, Potter. Regardless. You don't need this, but you want it, don't you," purred Draco. And soon you'll need it too, if things go according to plan, he added to himself.

Harry glared, at loss for a decent comeback. He made a mental note to ask Dean Thomas what he would say in such a situation - without revealing much about his situation. How could one have a decent conversation with a person who changed positions almost as often as he shifted above his pillows? Couple Draco's ten-speed emotions with the fact that his eyes screened what he was really thinking, and what did you get?

Someone who was impossible to talk to, that's what.

"That's why you agreed to cancel your plans and go out with me in the first place," continued Draco, unperturbed by Harry's dumbfounded look. "You secretly want me, badly. In fact, you're prolly been trying to get in my pants for years." He nodded knowingly, and smirked, and settled his chin above the tips of his steepled fingers.

"And you know this how, exactly?" Harry managed

"Oh, it happens to everyone. Haven't you ever noticed that nobody's indifferent to me? People either love me or they hate me - and in the latter case, they hate me because they want to be me."

And he was right, strangely enough - Harry couldn't count the number of times he'd longed to slip one of his hairs in a vial of Polyjuice Potion. He'd envied Draco because he had an impressive social status, and money, and a body to kill for - and parents. Harry envied everyone with parents. Even crazy, evil ones, as Lucius and Narcissa were rumoured to be, were better than dead ones.

"Oh, don't stare at me too long. You'll be babbling like an arse for days - very unattractive." Draco smiled cheerfully.

"Modest as always, Malfoy," Harry remarked tiredly, still following his own train of thoughts. Draco was right when he said that Harry wanted to be him - but did Harry really want him? Harry couldn't remember ever thinking of him that way before. actually, he could, but he had forgotten it until then: two years before, neither he nor Ron could sleep, and they stayed up and whispered about anything and everything, for hours. Ron had said, "Malfoy is a fecking prat," and Harry had pondered that, and added softly: "But he's beautiful."

Ron had not replied, and they had both buried the memory, exiling it from their heads.

Draco spoke again, and Harry disembarked from his train of thoughts.

"Malfoys don't need to be modest, Harry. The Malfoy family motto is, 'Roses are red, violets are blue, God made me pretty, but what the fuck happened to you?'. By the way, call me Draco."

"All right - Draco," said Harry.

"I was just joking," said Draco.

"Back to Malfoy, then?"

"No, I mean about the motto. It's actually something in Latin. but who cares?"

"My feelings exactly," snorted Harry.

* * *

Hermione knew something was up. So little got past the underestimated child prodigy. She had realized all was not well with Harry when he'd started returning to the common room hours after the end of classes, or of dinner. She knew he wasn't spending that time in the library, because his intelligence didn't seem to be muchly emproved. She was dying to know his secret.

And since she couldn't just ask him directly, she decided to question him a bit every day. Piece by piece, she'd put it together and solve the mystery.

"Harry!" she cried that night, when the Fat Lady finally swung open. "Harry, where were you? We were supposed to start working on our History of Magic Project together!"

That was a lie; there was no History of Magic project, but she didn't expect him to remember that.

"Uh." went Harry. ""Quidditch practice!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. The Gryffindor team didn't have Quidditch practice on Thursdays, proof being that if they did, Ron, team captain, wouldn't be standing in the warmest corner of the common room playing chess with Seamus Finnigan.

"Honestly, Harrry," snorted Dean from his chair.

"Come on. How stupid do you think I am, Harry?" said Hermione. She almost smiled at the look of shock and surprise on his face, and added, "I know the House Quidditch team's schedule by heart. You have two days off a week and today happens to be one of them."

The blood drained out of Harry's face. "I... Herm, I..."

"And what is Ron doing there -" she pointed at the redhead - "if you have Quidditch practice?"

"Ah... RON!" yelled Harry, "you missed Quidditch practice, idiot!"

Seamus turned around, mischievous, but mainly silly in his three-sizes- too- big Kiss me I'm Irish T-shirt. "Harry, you idiot," he said, "if you've been in a broom closet all this time, just come out and say it!"

"Yeah, come out... of the closet!" added Ron, nearly knocking over the chessboard as he laughed. Harry flushed and looked quite dazed, which made Seamus laugh too; and there was something about Seamus' laughter that made everyone else join in. Seconds later, the room was filled with shrill howls of mirth.

Hermione tsked and left the room.