Catch 22

Thanks again to Rosie for betaing this ASAP--all my love, as always <3

Catch 22

Chapter Two

Correspondent Catastrophe

~~~~~~~~~

Okay, I take it back, you're already obsessive. And of course I've thought about it. I just haven't spent enough of my free time looking up skirts (or shirts) to write a bloody book on it.

Have you considered just telling someone what you want? I mean, what's the point of indulging in any of it if you're not getting what you want from it? And how can you know what you like just from thinking about it, without having tried it? It might not be all your imagination jacks it up to be.

I'm beginning to think sex in general is overrated.

* * *

Pot calling the cauldron black? I ask you to tell me what you like and get told off for demanding details, and then you're telling me that's what I need to be doing. How can you think sex is overrated? You're still a virgin, for fuck's sakes. What kind of poor masturbation are you subjecting yourself to? Nevermind, don't answer that. And I'll have you know my creativity on the matter is quite well developed. How can I know? I know, and I can prove it. In fact, I plan to, because damned if I'm going to be responsible for your continued sexual retardation.

And on that note, a word of caution: don't open my next letter until you're alone.

* * *

His next letter arrives barely an hour after the first. Harry considers opening it during History of Magic, his last class before dinner, but Ron is trying to play hangman while Professor Binns drones away, and Harry decides it is probably for the best if he waits until after supper.

Later, after abandoning the common room for an early night, Harry is very happy he follows his correspondent's advice. The letter is much longer than any he has received so far--probably longer than all of the previous ones put together. He closes his bed hangings securely before lying on his back on top of the duvet, head propped up on a few pillows and holding his wand alight so he can read the narrow script that has become so familiar over the past several weeks.

Just for the record, I haven't had sex with anyone yet. In fact, I haven't done any of this with anyone. I mean, I'd like to, but as you so eloquently put it, it's not something you tend to divulge in polite conversation. So what's a guy to do? Write to random prats about it, I suppose. And I do hope you're reading this alone like I advised, otherwise there are bound to be a lot of awkward questions. I have no idea why I'm telling you any of these details. Maybe my father's right and it's just that I really don't have any shame. I don't see that as a bad quality, either way.

You want to know how I know what I like without having done it? I have done it, that's how. I do everything I can to myself and use my imagination to fill in the blanks. Works like a charm. You seem to be lacking the ability to conjure up your own details, so I'm going to give you a little help with that. I want you to read this and think about it being done to you. I want you to do it to yourself. Do it, and I promise you I'll not just have proven my point, but probably given your sorry arse the best wank you've ever had.

Harry stares at the letter. Is he kidding? He has to be kidding, right?

I like things to mount up, and for that, you have to start out simple, like by taking off your shirt--but not in a rush. I like concentrating on how my fingertips feel through the fabric as they work down my chest, dislodging button after button, occasionally brushing bare skin. I like the feeling of the fabric being pulled away, and letting my fingers ghost over my chest.

Oh, my God, he isn't kidding. Harry is well aware of the blush rushing up his neck and cheeks and he manages to re-read the paragraph, his curiosity hidden under the guise of disbelief.

I'm bloody ticklish, I'll have you know. Even the lightest touch makes me twitch. It drives me up the fucking wall.

Harry has no idea why, but this tiny detail alone serves to turn him on tremendously.

And really, what can it hurt? It's not like this guy knows who he is, and Harry certainly doesn't need to feel reserved about it, not here in the privacy of his dorm, alone and blissfully unaware of the writer's identity. He can pretend it is anyone he wants...

Oh, hell, why is he even considering this? He has to be mad. Absolutely mad.

I like to lay my hand over my chest, palm down, slowly and firmly working my way down, running my fingers along my abdomen. When I found out you flew, I assumed you played for one of the House teams. I'll let you in on another thing about me: so do I. And because of that, I know you're not some limp blob or weedy stick of a bloke. I know how good it feels to run your fingers along your chest and that hard stomach, following the lines along your hips towards your groin. Letting your fingers dip below the belt, brushing and teasing along the skin there. Nobody touches you there, not even in innocent passing--that skin is always covered, always hidden, and touching it is like someone setting your blood on fire, making you feel that ache. I know I bloody well am.

Fuck, do you have any idea how hard it is to do this one-handed while the other hand is giving a commentary on it? I deserve a fucking award for showing such monumental skill in multi-tasking.

Whoever he is, he is definitely right about one thing; Quidditch has made a substantial change in Harry's body from the skinny boy living in a cupboard seven years past, though Harry has hardly given it notice before now. He re-reads the paragraph several times and mimics the movements described--slow, deliberate movements, feather-light touches, running his hands down the length of his frame... he isn't ticklish, but the touches still feel so... so incredibly, incredibly good. Why in the hell has he never bothered to do this before?

And had this bloke really written this out while he was.... doing it to himself? Harry bites his bottom lip, willing himself to take it slow, and continues reading.

I'm guessing you're lying down. Word of advice: try this standing up. Find yourself a good, sturdy wall and go prop yourself against it. I'm completely serious. Go, right now, and get your arse against the first wall you come to. Don't you dare keep reading until you do. You'll thank me later.

Harry, at this point, is well over what he is allowing himself to get into. But still, a wall? Outside of the privacy of his bed? What if someone walks in? As if expecting such trepidation, the letter is a step ahead of him:

Don't worry about someone finding you. Trust me, if anyone finds you mid-apex like this, you'll definitely be thanking me later.

There really is no excuse for the lack of concern Harry feels at pulling himself out of bed, and propping himself up against the stone wall beside the window. In plain view of the dormitory door, no less. I cannot believe I'm doing this...

Now plant your feet apart, and keep your shoulders flat against the wall... because your knees will not keep you up by themselves, trust me. Keep using your hands to run along your sides and up your chest, palms and fingers ghosting over every angle... run your fingertips along your collarbone, along the top of your shoulders... run your hand up the side of your neck, into your hair; tangle your fingers in there, pulling just hard enough to tilt your head back... letting your mouth fall open so that gasp can get out... this is the part where you fill in the audio, by the way. And don't even try to play that reserved shit again, either, or you may as well quit now. If it makes you feel any better, my Housemates can probably hear me from the common room. I fucking hope they can, for the amount of effort I'm putting into this.

It is almost disquieting, how accurate the descriptions are, like how the bastard knows pulling his hair causes him to gasp... Harry grins despite himself, wondering how many times this bloke has done this to have it this well memorised.

Keep that hand in your hair, tilting your head back, like if I was holding you there. Holding you there up against the wall, breathing up and down your neck, while I slide my hand back down your chest again, fingers slipping under the pant line, tracing the skin just below the belt. I'm feathering kisses up and down your throat as I unbuckle your trousers, pushing the zipper aside.

Do you feel that? The flat of my palm resting against you? I can't even imagine how fucking hard you probably are at this point. Don't rush this--the best part of a good wank is taking all the time you want, sod the rest of the world. All I want you to concentrate on is your body; how your hand is sliding you out of your clothes, lingering everywhere it tingles, exposing you for the whole fucking dorm to see if they had enough luck to walk in right now.

I want you to think about when you kiss someone, when their tongue is sliding across yours, how hot and wet and fucking good it feels, how it leaves you dizzy and tanked and practically in orbit. Now I want you to think about it where your hand is, moving up and down your length like it's a fucking lollipop, because you can be damned sure if I had any idea where you were, I'd be on my knees like a randy harlot and begging for more.

Harry lets out a quiet, compulsory moan as the effects of the letter, imagination and his ministrations converge, tightening the knots that have formed in his abdomen, screaming for release. Oh, hell, it has been far too long since he last indulged himself in this, and he can't remember it ever being quite so intense.

Wanks are always restricted to private showers or, if you're lucky, a quick one behind the bed curtains when everyone else is out. Standing up is out of the question (unless you're in the shower), and moaning like a whore is certainly not an option, but bloody fucking hell, he can't help himself. The more he reads, the harder it is to keep it quiet, and sod it all--it feels so amazingly good that at the moment, he doesn't give a damn who hears him. Let them all walk in, right now, and they would get one hell of a show, because damned if he wouldn't carry on.

The only thing that could make this better is if I was there to hear you when you came. I'm so tempted to tell you my name just so I know you'll be crying it out, wherever the hell you are.

Do you believe me now?

* * *

Harry wakes up late the next morning and dresses quickly, grabbing his bag before heading down to breakfast. As he approaches the Gryffindor table, he suddenly wishes he had decided to skip the meal; the curious looks and smirks from his fellow dorm mates are highly suggestive.

'Morning, Harry,' Ron says cheerily. He scoots over to make room between him and Hermione--who is flipping through the Daily Prophet--for Harry to sit.

'Er,' Harry says, and takes the seat with a wary look. 'Morning.'

'Long night?' Hermione asks mildly, eyes cast innocently on her paper.

Seamus, Dean, and Ron all erupt in a mass amount of sniggering; the milk Seamus is drinking comes out his nose. Ron grins broadly and immerses himself in his porridge. Neville turns slightly pink, looks away and pokes his toast.

'I'm sorry,' Harry says, a touch of impatience in his tone, 'did I miss something?'

'No, but we apparently did,' Seamus says, still snorting.

'Didn't know you had it in you, Harry,' Dean says with a large grin, and then reaches behind Ron and gives Harry a hard pat on the back.

'So, Harry, who's the bird?' Ron asks.

'What? Who?' Harry asks. Bird? Oh, God, no... they didn't... they couldn't have...

'Oh, honestly, Harry,' Hermione says, finally growing impatient and putting her Prophet down. 'It's no use playing coy. The entire common room could hear you last night.'

'She had to send the first- and second-years to bed early,' Dean informs him cheerfully.

Oh, my God. Harry suddenly feels the urge to drown himself in Ron's porridge.

'You might want to get that looked at, mate,' Seamus says, indicating Harry's severe blush.

'Oh, come on, leave the bloke alone,' Ron reprimands before turning to Harry. 'So, who is it?' he asks, nudging Harry in the ribs. 'Is she hot?'

'Is she in our year?' asks Dean.

'Is it Ginny?' asks Seamus.

Ron and Dean both look positively alarmed at this suggestion, the idea that it could have been their little sister/ex-girlfriend participating in last night's fiasco obviously disconcerting.

Harry shakes his head fervently. 'No! No, no, it's not Ginny--it's not!' he protests at the suggestive eyebrow Ron is raising. 'Ask her--I mean no, don't,' Harry adds, horrified that he had proposed such a thing.

'You're all being horrible,' Hermione informs them. 'Harry gets little enough privacy as it is without you lot sticking your noses in.'

'Privacy?' asks Seamus. 'Even the bloody Fat Lady could hear him!'

'Sticking our noses in?' Ron demands. 'If Harry wants privacy with this sort of thing he shouldn't be broadcasting it to the rest of the Tower!'

'Still,' Hermione says firmly, dismissing them. 'If Harry wants to keep who she is to himself, he's perfectly entitled to.'

Harry feels a huge surge of appreciation for Hermione that he can hardly begin to express in words. He eats quickly, using the excuse of needing to finish a paper ('Yeah, right, you were too busy last night,' Ron sniggers) to dash off to the library and quickly write a letter to drop off at McGonagall's office on the way to Charms.

You perverted sonofabitch. I hope that letter earned you a spot in the deepest circle of Hell.

Yes, I believe you. Point proven. I believe you. I believe you. I believe you. And now my entire House thinks there was an orgy in my dormitory last night.

Don't you ever do that to me again, you complete bastard.

* * *

Ha ha. Told you I know what I want. And what you want, it would seem. And if that's all it takes to get a spot in Hell, they're probably overbooked. I wonder how many other secret correspondents are using this system as an outlet for pent-up sexual frustration. What do you think? We can't be the only ones, or else I've been badly misinformed.

Are you sure you don't want me to do that again? Ever?

* * *

I don't know. I don't know what I want. I want to feel good, I suppose, and that felt fucking good. If we're the only ones doing this, I'm a lot sadder than I thought.

Yes, I'm sure I never want you to do it again. Ever. And no, I'm not being honest with you. Does that answer your question?

* * *

December, 1998

Are you always this coherent after getting off?

Two weeks 'til holidays.

* * *

Do you want to do it again?

About bloody time, too. I swear NEWTs are going to be the end of all of my sanity. I'm staying here this year to catch up on schoolwork. Are you going home?

* * *

Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to? I figured you'd be over your reservations by now.

I'm supposed to. Mother will have kittens if I don't. Father probably won't care. But I don't really have any reason to stay. NEWTs aren't that bad. Trick is to remember that the better you do on your exams, the easier it'll be when you're out of here. Do you know what you're doing after Hogwarts?

Don't your parents want to see you?

* * *

I guess I don't want to form any expectations about someone I can't even put a name to, is all.

My family, if you can call them that, would all have aneurysms if I showed my face six months earlier than they were expecting. In fact, considering I'm of age now, I'll be damned if I ever set foot on their doorstep again. So no, I'm staying. I'd tell you to say hello to your mum for me, but then she'd probably want some sort of explanation, which brings us back to that anonymity issue again. No, I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I'm rather dreading it, come to think about it.

* * *

Oh, is that all I need, a name? You can put a name to me if that'll help. Call me--Socrates.

Funny how our identity problems keep rearing their ugly heads, isn't it? I'd rather not mention you anyway; I think my mother always wanted more children, or something, because she takes it upon herself to spoil all of my friends rotten. If she knew you existed she'd be buying you sweets and things and probably insisting that I bring you around for Christmas. No offence, but if I brought home a boyfriend my father would kill us both.

You seem to have some serious domestic issues. I don't think I've ever run into anyone as eager to get away from his folks as you. What's the deal? Are they Muggles?

* * *

When did we become friends? I mean, I don't mind. It's just, I didn't think you could apply that to someone you've never even met. Can you?

Does it matter? I don't want to talk about my family. I don't even consider them family. Never have, really.

Your mum sounds nice. Socrates, huh? I don't think so. You're definitely more of a Steve, or something.

* * *

Well, what else am I going to call you? My mail-order rent boy? That would go down spectacularly with my father. Honestly. I'm rolling my eyes, can you tell? I don't see why we wouldn't be, you probably know more about me than any of my friends do. Well, sexually speaking, anyway. Not sure if that counts, but whatever. I think it counts.

She is nice. Makes some damn good ambrosia too. I'd owl you some if I didn't know I'm too selfish not to eat it all. Father's a bit of an arse, but I think he means well. He probably wouldn't kill us if I took you home. Maybe just me.

STEVE? What in the name of Merlin have I done to you to deserve such an ugly, plebeian name as Steve? Steve. I don't think I've ever been so insulted in my life. If I knew who you were, I would hunt you down and kill you until you were sorry. Steve. Fuck you, you bastard. Don't think I don't know you're laughing.

To answer your earlier question: yes, I want to do it again. In fact, I already have, I just hadn't told you about it. I want to tell you about it. And then I want you to tell me about what it does to you. Because you never did, you know, and I think that's a bit unfair. I don't like one-sided relationships, even anonymous ones.

Do you know what you want yet?

* * *

I'm guessing you've gone home. They told me I can still send these things to you, though I'm not sure how long it'll take before you get it.

Okay, I lied. You're definitely not a Steve. Not a Socrates either, though, as much as I hate to pop your bubble. So, what does that make us, exactly? Friends with benefits? I think I can live with that.

I thought about it. I don't know what to make of any of it, but I do know I want to feel that again. I can't give you a better answer than that. And I suppose it isn't fair, but I never asked for it, if you remember. I don't remember a lot of detail. I know I kept wondering what it would have been like to have someone actually doing it to me, rather than just thinking about it. I remember that it felt fucking incredible, and all I could think about for days afterwards was you. I don't even know what you look like and I still dream about you.

How did you put it? It drove me up the fucking wall. Quite literally. I had the bruises to show for it.

Is it possible to miss someone that's never been there in the first place? I mean, all it's been is letters back and forth, but I think there was some little comfort in knowing you were at least in the same place as me. Now I have no idea where you are, and I think I miss you. Maybe it's just the quiet getting to me; Hogwarts is so sober over the holidays.

Merry Christmas.

* * *

Merry Christmas. Good haul this year? I think my father's under the delusion that the older I get, the less I like being doted upon. Suppose that's why we've got mums, though.

You're so bloody sincere it's almost enough to make me sick. That's a good quality, by the way. I just don't handle that sort of thing well. A normal person would probably just say 'Thank you, I miss you too', but I guess that's my reservation.

Then you know what I wonder about all the time. I thought talking it off with you would alleviate it somewhat; I thought wrong. Now I'm thinking about it even more. All of the time. And I'm thinking about you. It's driving me insane.

Holidays are half over, don't fret. It's unbecoming. I'm only about 600 miles or so south of you, anyway. A good owl can do that in a few hours.

I'm looking forward to causing you some more bruises. I should probably feel sorry for the wall.

* * *

Fretting is unbecoming, but getting off to anonymous blokes isn't? Your logic seems a bit flawed. And I'm looking forward to abusing the wall.

You know, since holidays are over, our anonymity issues aren't beyond our control anymore. I mean, I dunno if we should, or even if I want to, but the option's there. Have you thought about it?

* * *

January, 1998

Yes. I've been thinking about it since October, actually.

Still thinking. Every time I get convinced that I could live with myself, though, some other doubt appears. Do you really want to know who I am? Put a face and a name to all of this? I might disgust you. I could be someone you loathe. Think about every person in school that you couldn't stand me turning out to be, and imagine it; what would you do?

Have you ever ridden the Hogwarts Express during the holidays? Considering your remarks about home I'll assume not. You're missing out. It's way more beautiful when it's not full of screaming first-years and there's snow all over everything. Good letter-writing atmosphere for sure.

My logic isn't flawed, it's just biased. Was thinking about the wall today. Don't want to get boring, now, do we? Might try something different. How's a desk sound to you?

* * *

October? Your obsession is unhealthy, I hope you know that.

I have thought about that. But the way I figure it, after all of this, there's no way you could disgust me. I couldn't loathe you if I wanted to. Anyway, I don't think you'll turn out to be anything like that. You don't sound like someone I'd dislike.

No, I've never ridden the Express except at the start and end of the year. Sounds beautiful, though. I wish I could be there with you.

Desk might prove a little tricky--wait, desk as in the dorms or desk as in a classroom?

* * *

You are the obsession, you dork. You'd probably only be unhealthy in really large doses.

I hate to break it to you, Holmes, but what I sound like on paper and what I sound like in person are two completely different things. I can express myself better on paper. When I talk I tend to just say whatever comes to mind, and most people seem to find it offensive. Maybe I'm just talking to the wrong people.

I wish you were here, too. I think I'd have less reservations about meeting you if we did it somewhere like this. Nowhere for me to run on the train, at least. That last owl of yours got here quick, so we must nearly be there by now. I should probably go change.

Well, that depends; how much of an exhibitionist are you? And do you really want your entire House to think you've got another orgy going?

* * *

I think you're talking to the wrong people. Because the way you describe yourself in person is how I'd describe you on paper. You sound like you write whatever comes to mind, and there's been plenty of times it's been offensive. I mean, you mentioned a wank in your third letter, for crying out loud. You then proceeded to send me a book's-worth of parchment that could be considered intellectual pornography. Most people would call that pretty offensive.

But I'm still writing to you, aren't I?

I'm not an exhibitionist and have no intention of treating my Housemates to any more fantastical orgies. They think I've got some mystery girl I keep sneaking into the dorms whenever I'm thinking about you. And I think about you a lot.

I've made up my mind, you know. About seeing you. So I guess now it's just up to you. What are you worried about?

* * *

Yes, you are, and I have to say it's been a bloody mystery to me this entire time why you have. Intellectual pornography, huh? Didn't know there was such a thing. I'll take that as a compliment.

Ooh, is that so? I think I could turn you into an exhibitionist with very little effort. Do you want me to prove that, too? You know I'll do it.

So, it's all up to me? No pressure, then. What am I worried about? I'm worried that for the past five months I've been pouring my heart out not to a total stranger, but to someone I know. A total stranger I could come face to face with. But there's still two or three blokes that you could very well turn out to be that I wouldn't be able to cope with. And it's all up to me, so it'd be my own bloody fault if that happened, right?

You know, what's retarded is I think now that I'm back, I miss you more than I did over the holidays. I take back what I said before: you are unhealthy, even in small doses.

If it makes you feel any better, though, I really hope you don't have a cure.

'BWAH!'

Draco is given very little warning as a large, dark something erupts from the shadows of the room and leaps on top of him. The bedsprings of his four-poster creak in complaint, and Draco drops the letter he has just finished on the floor in surprise. Someone is sitting on his back, knees under his armpits, effectively pinning him down on his stomach. The someone then snickers and tousles Draco's carefully brushed hair, turning it into a tangle of white-blonde locks.

'Jesus Christ! Fuck, Zabini, get a hobby!'

'Nice to see you back in such a friendly mood.' Blaise leans down, his head beside Draco's ear, and says in his sultry voice, 'And what better hobby than molesting you, mio Dragone?'

Over the past six and a half years, Blaise slipping into the room unnoticed like a predatory cat with intent to pounce is something the occupants of the dormitory have come to expect. Today, it is Blaise's way of saying 'Hey, I missed you', and Draco appreciates it. However, Draco must maintain to his overly rambunctious mate that ruffling of The Hair is simply Not On.

'You touch my hair again, Zabini, and I will castrate you with a broken Butterbeer bottle and feed it to you.'

'I love it when you talk dirty to me, baby.'

'You're in one of your moods, aren't you?' Draco murmurs, and attempts to heave himself up. Blaise shifts his weight to keep Draco pinned.

'I am always in the mood,' Blaise says, feigning offence. 'What kind of a teenager do you take me for?'

'A bastard?' Draco offers. 'Will you get off? I can't feel my legs.'

'I'm quite comfortable, actually,' Blaise purrs.

'You're something, all right, but "comfortable" isn't the word I'd use.' Draco pushes himself up again and manages to turn on his side, then tries to shrug Blaise onto the floor.

Blaise, being the evil, conniving, Slytherin bastard he is, takes advantage of Draco's exposed ribs and tickles him.

'Fuck! Bloody--bugger--off!'

Small chaos ensues and Draco ends up, once again, squashed beneath his attacker. Blaise smirks triumphantly and ruffles his hair again, and Draco glowers at him from under his bangs. 'I am going to kill you in your sleep,' Draco says, although this threat would hold more merit if Blaise weren't so stalwart.

'You know, considering your namesake, you're awfully easy to subdue,' Blaise says, lewd intentions lacing his words; he winks suggestively.

Draco raises an eyebrow. 'I'll scream rape.'

Blaise makes a pffft noise. 'You'll be screaming something, signore, but it sure as hell won't be ra--'

Draco uses this momentary distraction to jam his elbow hard into Blaise's groin area. Blaise yelps and rolls off him and the bed, and collapses on the floor in a disorganised heap of robes and long limbs. Slytherins are dirty, dirty fighters. Draco, muttering to himself, tries to comb his hair with his fingers, and doesn't notice Blaise's head tilt to the side to read something on the floor until it is too late.

Blaise sits up and raises an eyebrow. 'Oh, you have been keeping secrets.'

Snarling, Draco snatches the letter and shoves it under his pillow. 'Piss off,' he snaps.

'You're not getting rid of me that easily,' Blaise purrs. He sits up straighter, on his knees, and drapes himself across the depression of Draco's lower back, resting his head on folded arms and closing his eyes. It is a familiar position, for Blaise is one of only a few that seem to have figured out that Draco finds it easier to talk when he doesn't have to look someone in the eye. 'So, who's the bloke?'

Draco mumbles a long string of obscenities in which Blaise manages to pick up a few keywords: letters, Dumbledore, disaster.

'Ah,' says Blaise, understanding. 'Correspondent catastrophe?'

Bleakly, Draco nods.

'Who are you worried about?'

'What?' Draco almost looks back; halfway, he changes his mind and buries his face back into his pillow.

'You wrote that there's two or three you couldn't cope with. Who?'

Draco thinks about this. His muffled voice says through the pillow, 'Isn't it obvious?'

Blaise takes a moment to consider everyone in their year that Draco dislikes. This turns out to be a very, very long list, so it takes several more moments for him to narrow it down. 'Weasley?' he offers. 'Longbottom?'

'Both.'

There is a long, uncomfortable pause. Blaise doesn't have to ask who the third is, he already knows the answer; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-Around-Draco.

'Do you really think it's him?' he asks instead.

'No,' Draco says truthfully, and removes his head from the pillow. 'Hell, I'm sure it isn't. He's not this kind of person. No, it's somebody else.'

'So then why are you worried about it?'

Draco shrugs and stuffs his head back into the pillow again. In a small voice struggling through the cotton, Blaise hears him say, 'Because what if it was?'

'You paranoid idiot,' Blaise says, sitting up and thumping the back of the white-blonde head with a spare pillow. 'Anyway, I think you should--you know, meet him, whoever he is. I'm glad I met mine.'

Draco rolls over so he can see Blaise. 'Who was it?'

Blaise grins at him. 'I think I'll spare you another aneurysm.'

'How considerate of you.'

Slowly, Blaise's smirk softens into a thoughtful sort of look, which he directs at Draco, who raises an eyebrow. 'Did you really mean all of that?' Blaise asks.

Draco sighs and rolls back over. 'Don't you have someone else to go molest?'

'Ooh, Malfoy,' Blaise coos, and he stands and drops the spare pillow on Draco's head. 'You've got it bad.'

* * *