Catch 22

Chapter Three

The Worst Idea In The Long, Sad History Of Bad Ideas

January, 1998 (one week after the holidays)

'He's a SLYTHERIN, Hermione!'

'He also happens to be a human being, Ron!'

'I don't care--he's just using you, can't you see that?'

'Using me? And for what, might I ask?'

'For--to--to get to Harry!'

'Oi,' Harry says firmly, opening his eyes. He hasn't said anything since the row between his best friends began, some twenty minutes ago. 'Don't drag me into this.'

'She's fraternising with a Slytherin!' Ron screams at him, freckles practically leaping off his face.

'He was my correspondent!' Hermione snaps defensively. 'That was the whole point of the project! To make us see past prejudices! What has he ever done to you? You don't even know him, Ron! You're being completely unreasonable!'

'I'm being unreasonable?! I'm not the one having "study sessions" with a snake in library!'

'It's not like that!'

'Yeah, is that what he's telling you?!'

'AUGH!' Hermione shrieks, and Harry winces. This row has gotten very out of hand, but there isn't much he can do without getting caught in the crossfire. Hermione looks about three seconds from throttling Ron, who seems to have noticed, because he backs up towards the door. 'If you are going to insist on being an irrational, jealous bastard you can just leave! Go on!' she snaps again, as he hesitates by the door. 'Get out!'

'I'm not--that's--jealousy's got nothing to--and this is my--'

'OUT!'

Harry winces again as the door slams closed, leaving him and Hermione alone in the boys' dormitories. They came in here two hours ago to finish their Potions essays, as it's Saturday afternoon and Neville, Dean and Seamus are elsewhere. Hermione got a letter mid-session and Ron demanded to know why she was still getting letters if she'd met her correspondent. Since the holidays are over, technically so is the project, but Harry and Hermione are not the only people still exchanging letters; the whole thing has been an enormous success according to Dumbledore, and Harry has to admit that he's noticed more inter-House friendships outside of classes since the holidays ended.

Of course, then Ron had demanded to know who it was--and the moment the word 'Zabini' was out of Hermione's mouth, he'd promptly hit the roof.

'God!' Hermione collapses on Harry's bed, which he is lying across on his stomach. 'Why does he always--as if it's--oh, sorry, Harry,' she says and lowers her voice as she notices Harry is still there. 'Thank you. I mean, for being mature about this.'

She told Harry about her correspondent's identity over the holidays, as they had both remained behind this year while Ron had gone home to The Burrow. Harry did not get to meet Blaise, and he isn't entirely sure he would want to, for despite a lack of open hostility from the Slytherin, he is still a Slytherin and therefore best avoided, in Harry's opinion.

He took the news very well in his opinion, especially considering that finding out Blaise is Hermione's correspondent has all but revealed who his own is. He hasn't mentioned it to Hermione, and is also putting off writing a reply to the last letter he received, several days ago. Knowing who it is makes it much harder to reply; what if they already know who he is, and are just trying to hoodwink him into spilling his guts, so they can use it to humiliate him later? It wouldn't be below him, Harry thinks, to set up that kind of a sham.

While Hermione begins organising her notes, Harry puts his essay aside and pulls out the letter, which is stuffed in the bottom of his bag.

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.

You're telling me, Harry thinks, sighing. He wants to believe the letter is sincere; a part of him does believe it, really, but every time he begins a reply, that shadow of a doubt returns, and he can't bring himself to finish it.

You know, what's retarded is I think now that I'm back, I miss you more than I did over the holidays.

It is silly to think Draco Malfoy is even capable of writing something like that, Harry thinks, much less meaning it. The most rational explanation is that Malfoy's having him on. Malfoy could easily know who he is--he always has a way of knowing things he shouldn't--and he would leap at the chance to hurt Harry in the worst possible way he could. No, these letters are all phooey... they have to be...

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

...don't they?

'Harry?' Harry looks up from his letter and sees Hermione watching him with raised eyebrows. 'You two are still writing, then?'

'Er,' Harry says, and folds the letter in half. 'Yeah, for now.'

'For now?' she asks. When Harry doesn't answer, she continues, 'Do you know who it is?'

Harry sighs and rubs his eyes behind his glasses. 'I dunno. I mean, I think I do. I'm pretty sure, actually. I just... it doesn't make any sense.'

Hermione puts her notes aside and stretches out beside him, and props her chin up on her hands with a look of mingled concern and curiosity. 'What doesn't?'

'It's just so weird, you know?' Harry rubs at his eye again, gives up, and just takes his glasses off. 'You think you know someone, for years, even... I just can't imagine them being the same person, if you get my meaning.'

'I think so.' Not for the first time, Harry feels fortunate to have a friend like Hermione; Ron may be his best mate in the world, but Ron also--as Hermione likes to put it--has the emotional range of a teaspoon, particularly when it comes to empathy. 'Who do you think...' Hermione trails off as Harry's face contracts, and makes a thoughtful hmm noise. 'That bad?' she asks.

Harry lets out a small groan and buries his face in the duvet.

'Oh, come on,' she prods. 'Out with it.'

Harry grunts into the sheets.

'Is it Malfoy?'

Harry's entire body stiffens. Not for the first time, he also feels annoyed to have a friend like Hermione; Ron may be less understanding about certain things, but sometimes that's a good attribute. Hermione is sometimes too clever for her own good. She makes the hmm noise again, only this one sounds very smug. 'Well,' she says conversationally, 'I must say, it's a bit of a dodgy coincidence, but probably for the better.'

'A bit dodgy?' Harry picks up his head and squints at her. 'A bit dodgy? What are the odds that out of--how many seventh-years?--I'd end up with Malfoy, of all people?'

'Harry, you can't possibly think Malfoy rigged the project--'

'Why can't I? This is like the perfect way for him to get to me, and to use whatever I say in those letters to cause trouble!'

'And you're telling me that he hasn't said anything in his letters that you could use against him?' Harry opens his mouth to retort, then gapes for a moment while he considers this, then shuts it. 'Exactly, Harry,' she continues. 'Besides, he couldn't have rigged the project, anyway. Dumbledore used a Fortuitus Charm when assigning students to their correspondent numbers.'

'Hermione, look, not all of us have Chuck Full of Charms memorised--'

'It's a very popular lottery charm, Harry. They use it on all sorts of official sweepstakes and contests to ensure no one can tamper with the results, which are randomly decided with magic.'

Harry gives her a look. 'I would have thought even you by now would agree that coincidence and magic tend to go hand-in-hand, Hermione. Are you telling me that someone could Confound the Goblet of Fire into thinking I was seventeen, but Malfoy couldn't somehow manage to get me as his correspondent?'

'I just think it's highly unlikely that Malfoy would go through the effort to pull something like that off,' she says, shrugging. 'Especially when there's no guarantee that you'd tell him anything useful, or even write at all....' She pauses, and looks at him sideways. 'Have you told him anything?'

'Nothing important,' Harry says defensively. 'It would kind of give away who I am if I had.'

'I suppose,' Hermione says. 'But then why are you so worried about it?'

'Because I...' think that I've sort of fallen for him? Who the hell is he kidding? Harry frowns. 'It's nothing, don't worry about it.'

Hermione takes the hint from his tone that he is not going to offer any more detail than that. 'Assuming he hasn't rigged the project,' she continues instead, 'do you think he knows it's you? Does he know you know who he is?'

'No,' Harry says truthfully. 'I haven't even let on that I've figured out what House he's in.'

'Then I think you should keep writing to him.' Hermione picks her notes back up and begins separating them into two piles, one for each of them. 'I mean, the worst that can happen is that he finds out who you are and stops writing, or we find out he rigged the project and he gets expelled. At least keep playing along, and you never know, you might be surprised what you learn about him. Like, did you know Blaise can speak fluent French, Italian, and Japanese? His mother's moved them all over the world since he was a child; they only finally settled in London so he could attend school. She spends each school year while he's here in some far-off country. This spring she's going to Tibet, and--'

Hermione continues to rattle on about Tibetan wizards that embrace monastic lifestyles and how they're some of the last sorcerers in the world that still study Old Magic, and Harry's mind begins to wander, pondering what to do about Malfoy. He doesn't really want to stop writing--he does look forward to every letter he gets--but the apprehension that accompanies the anticipation is reaching an uncomfortable level. He finally decides that if he is going to keep writing, he is going to keep writing what he really thinks and feels (it wouldn't sit well with him to do otherwise), but he's not going to let on that he knows it's Draco... not yet, anyway.

Maybe Hermione is right; maybe he just needs to give Malfoy a chance. The worst that could happen is that Draco could find out who he is and then... well, hopefully they could avoid any Apocalypses. Rolling off the bed, Harry props himself up against the wall on the floor and, after a lot of consideration, finally writes his reply.

It was a compliment. I look forward to your letters more than I look forward to Quidditch practice, and trust me when I say that's quite a feat.

I don't doubt that you could; please don't. I get enough funny looks as it is.

I guess I understand what you mean. What if you turned out to be someone I knew really well? Or at least, thought that I knew really well? That would be a bit strange. Who are you worried I'll be? I mean, I've already decided, so who you are isn't an issue. Tell me who you don't want to meet, and if I'm that person, we don't have to meet. Simple as that.

Harry pauses his quill over the parchment, hesitating. If I'm going to keep writing... it's going to be what I really think and feel... Taking a deep breath, Harry finishes with:

You know what's on my mind most of the time? That I want to kiss you. I've been meaning to tell you that for a while, but I could never find the right time. So, here it is. I really, really want to kiss you. I dream about kissing you every night. And I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me, however pathetic that may be. Thank you.

* * *

'Oi, Granger, I hear matted hair is in this year. Perhaps we could sell some of yours; how much d'you reckon that rat's nest is worth?'

Harry gives Hermione a look as they cross the courtyard. She shrugs and ignores the comment. At her side, Ron mutters something nasty under his breath, but Hermione links her arm with his by way of reassurance and keeps walking.

Draco is not deterred. Striding along behind them with his usual gang, he smirks at their backs. 'Maybe enough for a romantic dinner for you and your Weasel boyfriend, Merlin knows he can't afford a set of decent robes, much less a glass of water at any respectable restaurant.' Pansy lets out a shriek of laughter while Crabbe and Goyle guffaw behind them.

Hermione rolls her eyes and hooks Harry's elbow as well as he attempts to turn around. 'Leave it,' she warns, pulling them both along. Harry wonders briefly how someone as small as Hermione can haul both him and Ron away, Ron especially, for he is practically foaming at the mouth. 'Ignore them, Ron. They just want a reaction.'

'And I want to give it to them,' Ron snarls, 'and so does Harry. Come on, Hermione, there's only--' he looks back and counts, '--six of them. And if Harry can duel You-Know-Who, he can take the six of them, especially with my help!'

'Leave it,' Hermione repeats, still dragging him along.

''Course,' the sneering voice behind them continues, 'even if he could afford to, he probably wouldn't take a filthy Mudblood out in public anyway--'

At the use of the curse, Harry and Ron stop simultaneously this time; sensing defeat, Hermione drops both their arms, knowing that if they work together it will be impossible to hold onto them at this point. Harry whirls around half a second before Ron does, wand raised--and blinks. Malfoy is drawing his own wand when a snowball connects hard with the back of his neck, making him stumble forward. He lands on his palms and knees at Harry's feet, and about twenty feet back Harry can now see Blaise, a wicked-looking smirk on his face that vanishes just as the other Slytherins turn around to see who the perpetrator is.

'Zabini, you idiot!' Pansy screams at him, rushing to Draco's side and helping him to his feet. 'You can't aim for fucking shite!'

'Maybe if you'd get your fat arse out of the way, I'd get a better shot,' Blaise retorts.

Pansy snarls but turns away from him and begins brushing the snow off Draco, who is flushed and snarling and has snow sticking in his perfect hair, while Crabbe and Goyle belatedly take their wands out and train them on Harry and Ron. Blaise looks up at them, glances briefly at Hermione, and winks.

And then it hits Harry: Blaise doesn't have bad aim, because he didn't miss.

Smirking down at Malfoy, Harry tucks his wand back into his robes. 'Come on,' he says to Ron, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder for emphasis. 'Hermione's right. It's not worth it.'

By the time they've finished Herbology, eaten dinner and made their way back to the common room, Harry's reply is waiting for him. After losing yet another chess match to Ron, who moves on to play Dean, Harry finds a chair in a more deserted corner of the room and reads:

It's not that simple, though, don't you see? If I told you who I was afraid of meeting, and you turn out to be that person, then what? You say, 'Yeah, I'm one of those, so we won't meet.' Like after that we could just continue writing as if nothing had changed. I couldn't keep this up if I knew you were one of the people I couldn't come to grips with. I don't have enough willpower for something like that. I'm sorry if you can't understand that, but it's not going to happen.

You're welcome. I hope I get to kiss you. I'm quite good with my tongue, if I may say so myself. And I don't think it's pathetic. Present company excluded, I don't think I can recall anyone ever saying something flattering about me. Well, besides Mother, but that's another thing mums are there for, I guess.

Harry frowns at the letter. It has taken several days for Draco to reply to him, and now he knows why; Malfoy isn't as stupid as Harry and his friends like to pretend he is, and he's getting worried. Harry knows he's 'one of those people' that Draco wouldn't be able to come to grips with. He also knows now that Hermione is right; Draco can't have rigged the project, because there is no way in all seven hells that Draco would ever admit something like that to Harry. No matter what the circumstances.

He feels a sudden surge of indignation. After all, he's in the same hard spot Malfoy is. They're both worried that the person they've been sharing such intimate details with will end up being one another, but unlike Malfoy, Harry is willing to accept it. He dislikes Draco a lot from the way he's treated his friends, and the way his father is, and how he takes every opportunity he can to hurt someone else, but Harry can't deny that he likes him as well; likes him for the way he says what's on his mind, shameful or otherwise, and likes that he talks to Harry about normal things like sex and girls and Quidditch without worrying about the war or whether or not Hermione's still writing letters to Viktor Krum and Blaise Zabini. He really, really likes that Draco doesn't talk to him in these letters like he's some coddled, overindulged hero.

I wouldn't know. My mother hasn't been in my life since I can remember. There, you learned something else about me. Maybe I'm helping to confirm that I'm one of those horrible people you don't want me to be. I'm sorry if I do, but I'm tired of being careful of what I say to you. Making sure not to mention my friends, or what classes I'm taking, or where I sleep at night. I want to talk freely. I love talking to you, and I hate holding things back. I think it's stupid. I don't know your name or your voice, I don't even know what colour your eyes are.

This isn't all strictly true, of course; he does think this is stupid, he does love talking to him, he does want to talk freely; but he also knows his name. He knows that steely gaze so well he can spot it in a frenzied crowd. He knows his voice so familiarly that he can hear it whisper across a noisy feast in the Great Hall.

And he knows his favourite colour.

I finally realised why red being your favourite colour might come as a shock to someone who knew you. Too much time to myself over the holidays to think, I guess. And you know what? It just goes to show that this project was a good idea. Because I can tell you now, a week ago I wouldn't have thought it possible for someone like you to be sorted into Slytherin. It's a shame that every bloke on your House team is a seventh-year, otherwise this would have been too easy. But there's one I can safely rule out, which narrows you down to four.

Eenie, meenie, minie, moe.

* * *

It took you that long? Am I allowed to know who you ruled out? I'm pretty sure I can figure out which on my own, though. I would have been more than happy to tell you what colour eyes I have, but as your detective skills seem to be developing, that would probably be a bad idea. And did you really think anyone in Hufflepuff or Gryffindor would be perverted enough to send you intellectual porn in an anonymous letter? In fact, I have to say I'd be surprised if anyone in those Houses would even read it. No, I'm not saying I think you're in Ravenclaw, either, but I've been proved wrong before. To be honest, I don't think your vocabulary is good enough to qualify you as a Ravenclaw.

Gryffindor and Hufflepuff qualities are too similar for me to definitely pick a pool; I'd have sworn that no self-respecting Hufflepuff would ever have the ability to do something like wank off to another bloke's letter, but you didn't see what Hopkins was caught doing with Greengrass down here just before the holidays. Unless you were lying and you are Hopkins, which I think I could handle, even if he is a pompous little git.

What colour are your eyes?

* * *

Green.

That should narrow your pool of seventh-year blokes down quite a bit. Six down, four to go. So we're even.

Smith, Finnigan, Longbottom, and Potter. One Hufflepuff and three Gryffindors.

Are you still worried?

* * *

February, 1998

Considering two of my three have green eyes? Yes. I'm still bloody terrified. You've ruled out the worst, though, so I feel marginally better.

* * *

Of the four possibilities, I have to say they're all wonderful people. What could possibly be so terrible that you couldn't stand confronting them? None of them would make a mockery of something like this. So what is it? Because you're a Slytherin? Worried that I'm some righteous little Gryffindor and fraternising with me will bring on Armageddon?

Talk to me, dammit. Clamming up won't prevent the inevitable. At the very least you could try to enjoy the fact that we're still mostly anonymous. You still have a promise to keep concerning a desk.

* * *

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the desk.

You messed up, you know. Finnigan's always going on about his bloody mam at mealtimes. You grew up without a mother? That narrows it down to three. Leave it to my luck to have the only three green-eyed, motherless bastards left to choose from. And you all play fucking Quidditch, too. I still can't believe Longbottom was allowed on the team, even as a reserve.

With this much information I should have had you down, but no, fate loves to fuck with my head. Are you enjoying this? Do you think it's funny, imagining me beating my head against something because I'm getting more and more terrified that the next accidental fact I learn about you will make me regret every five minutes I spent on letters over the past five months?

* * *

You messed up, too. I didn't want to tell you, but since you insist on getting hysterical about it...

Zabini didn't go home for the holidays. I realise that you could have lied about leaving, but considering the reason he stayed was because he decided to meet his correspondent, I guess that rules him out for good. And you know what else? Nott's a motherless bastard, too. Do you know what that means?

You're one of my worst three. There's no way out of it, unless you're actually not in Slytherin. I was clinging to the hope you'd be Blaise for a while, he's never been that bad as far as your lot go, but so much for that. At least you've got a 1:3 chance of not getting one of your worst. No matter what I think or do, you're one of mine.

And do you know what else? I still stand by what I said before. I still want to meet you. I still want to talk to you. I still know there's no way I'd ever be able to hate you, no matter who you turned out to be. This isn't right and you know it. I don't like one-sided relationships either. Fucking grow a pair, will you?

* * *

1:2, actually. I went investigating today. What do you know? Longbottom's favourite colour is red.

Funny how all those little facts were harmless at the time, huh? Fuck you, you bastard. And I mean that this time. So I'm one of your worst three. Then why are we even playing this stupid game anymore? You want me to grow a pair? Yeah, okay. Seeing as this can only end in disaster, might as well go out with a bang. You win. I'll meet you. I still owe you something about a desk anyway, don't I?

Tomorrow night. Charms classroom, 9 o'clock.

Not for the first time, Harry wonders if what he is doing is wrong. Not for the first time, he thinks this is a stupid thing to wonder, because it so very clearly is.

He did, of course, ask Hermione for help with the potion. They've been brewing it for weeks, and he does not trust his own skills at potions to attempt it alone. She agreed, albeit grudgingly, after a considerable amount of begging and pleading on his part, and possibly even a little blackmail about when he distracted Ron to cover for her, when her little liaison with Terry Boot last year nearly wormed its way into the Gryffindor common room.

Getting the crucial ingredient was easy enough for Harry; the last Quidditch game was Gryffindor against Hufflepuff, and he was able to nick a few hairs from the locker room afterwards. Even the robes were not difficult to acquire; Harry had learnt once again how useful having a faithful house-elf on your side is, as Dobby had left them folded neatly on his bed that evening.

He knows what he's doing is wrong. Hermione has told him so. She is still telling him so.

'This isn't right, Harry,' she pleads for the umpteenth time. 'Isn't there another way you could--'

'We've been over this, Hermione. I want to talk to him, not end up exchanging hexes.'

'So talk to him,' she insists. 'I really think this is all a bit extreme. I'm sure he's at least mature enough to hear you out before cursing you.'

Harry goggles at her. 'I'm sorry, but are we talking about the same person?'

Hermione sighs, defeated. 'All right, all right, I see your point. I still think this is a bad idea, though.'

Harry agrees that this is a Bad Idea--even perhaps the Worst Idea In The Long, Sad History Of Bad Ideas. But it's the lesser of two Evils. Evil Number One being walking into the classroom as himself, as Harry Potter, and getting hexed six different ways from Sunday before he can get a word out. Evil Number Two being walking into the room as anyone but Harry Potter, and, according to Hermione, constituting a huge breach in the Proper Conduct Wizarding Laws, which can lead to prison if he's discovered, not to mention fines and court time and, oh, did she mention, getting expelled?

But Harry needs to have his say. Because at least with the lesser of two Evils, he can have a chance, a shot, at getting this sorted. He doesn't know why he wants to do this so badly, only that he does, because these letters have expanded to fill an empty spot in Harry's chest that he's had since that time in the graveyard, watching Cedric die, and it's that happiness that all teenagers should possess but which Harry has lost to wars and Dark Lords and torture and all sorts of terrible things he doesn't like to think about. The letters help him forget. The letters let him have fun again. He can talk in these letters like any other seventeen-year-old bloke and have a good time. He doesn't want that feeling to go away.

He keeps this in mind as he hovers outside the door to the Charms classroom. He knows his correspondent is already inside, because the door is unlocked. It's now five after nine. He has been here since ten till. Fifteen minutes of staring at a door. He took the potion at quarter past eight.

He is running out of time.

Ten minutes.

His wand is just inside his left sleeve. He is ready for an attack. He almost expects it. It's the same as wearing his Cloak, this potion; he's safe, people can't see him, but he knows that it's him and if they knew it was him, he'd be a dead man. Guilty conscience. Dammit. Why couldn't he have been one of those Slytherin bastards born without one?

With a surge of impulsive nerve, he opens the door. He miscalculates the door mass and the surge slams the door open wide, so that it hits the wall inside with a loud clunk. At first, he thinks the classroom is empty. He's almost relieved.

Then to his left, someone says, 'You're late.'

Harry does not have to look at him to know that he was right; he's known who his correspondent was for weeks--no, months, now--and if there was any doubt before, that casual, lofty drawl nullifies it.

Harry looks at him and says, 'Malfoy.'

Draco looks at him and cocks his head. 'Smith?'

He is sitting on top of a desk, dressed in black robes and laced in shadow, but his white-blonde hair gives his position away instantly. His legs dangle idly a few inches off the floor as he sits, hands on his thighs, head still cocked and looking Harry over with steely eyes.

Eight minutes.

Harry--Zacharias--says, 'I didn't think you'd be here.'

Clasping his hands in his lap, Draco says, 'I didn't think you'd show.' Then, as an afterthought, adds, 'Close the door.'

Harry closes the door. When he looks up, Draco is no longer on the desk, but standing beside him. He looks like--Harry blinks in surprise; he has never seen Draco Malfoy look anything other than nasty, arrogant, malicious, furious and on some occasions, downright cowardly. He has never seen Draco look like this. This, he decides, must be Draco when he looks chary.

Because even in the dim light of the room, Harry can tell that his face is growing hot. His pallid skin is terrible at disguising a blush, and no matter how In Control Draco claims to be in public, even before the letters Harry knew that he could get under his skin--that Draco is weaker than he lets on, just like Harry is braver than he lets on, and just like they are both more capable of civility than they would have ever let on in their wildest dreams if it hadn't been for those bloody letters....

Seven minutes.

Harry came here to talk. He hasn't planned his words, because he is absolutely horrible at planning speeches. He is even worse at articulating on the spot, but he has to try. Has to try and make Draco see that Harry knows he's only human, that he's not his father, that he's just a bloke who likes Quidditch and loves his mother and has a decent sense of humour and thinks up extravagant fantasises and has a fantastically nice arse from what Harry can remember in the showers. He has to make him see that the letters have made him as happy as he knows they've made Draco, and then maybe--maybe--they can come out of this with less hate and more happiness instead of the other way around.

This plan backfires badly when Harry looks up at Draco. His bright silver eyes, roseate lips, rouged cheeks, his surreal, sanguine complexion worthy of Vesta; seeing him this close, Harry remembers all the glorified emotions he felt re-reading every letter he'd received since the start of the year earlier that evening, and he grabs the stupid sod by the collar, jerks him close, and kisses him violently on the mouth.

Six minutes.

Draco stiffens at first but quickly relaxes. It's almost too natural, too perfect, the way his body falls into alignment with Harry's--Zacharias'--and melts against him, lips, tongue, chest, arms, hips, thighs and all. They end up against the door, Harry's back against it as Draco pushes into him. Zacharias is shorter than Harry, and much shorter than Draco, and Harry stumbles unexpectedly into the hard wood.

Five minutes.

Draco's lips are dry. His chest is a firm, solid barrier like the door, but softer, warmer, and through their robes Harry can feel the heat of Draco's body as it presses into his--Zacharias'--chest. It's a bizarre experience, Harry discovers, trying to make out using someone else's mouth. He does not know what's different, perhaps Zacharias' tongue is a different size or his teeth aren't as straight or maybe his nose is the wrong shape, but whatever it is makes the situation uncomfortable for Harry. It feels wrong, it seems wrong, hell, he knows it's wrong, but Draco is kissing him instead of hexing him and that's all he cares about right now.

Two minutes.

Harry forgets what time is; Draco opens his mouth now, and his tongue is teasing its way into Harry's, and Harry leans into it, drinking it in, hands running down Draco's shoulders and back and resting on his sides, just under his elbows. Draco has Harry by the biceps, holding him flush against the door, and gingerly licks Harry's bottom lip, the space between his teeth, the roof of his mouth... Harry arches his body into Draco's, groaning deep in his chest, catching Draco's tongue with his and drawing their mouths tight over one another while simultaneously pulling Draco's hips against his. Draco hisses pleasantly and one of his hands leaves Harry's arm to run along his collarbone, up the soft skin of his neck, up the side of his jaw, cheek, and up into his hair. Harry feels the long fingers tangle in his fringe, caressing, tugging, yanking hard when he sucks on Draco's bottom lip.

Draco's thumb is caressing his forehead, smoothing his eyebrow while his fingers smooth his bangs, which are growing longer, untidier... Draco leans against his body, which is growing taller, leaner... Draco's thumb rubs against that small but significant spot on his forehead that, up until now, has only ever prickled uncomfortably, never pleasantly, not like it is now, as Draco's thumb pauses to investigate this new development and runs over it again.

Harry realises too late what's happened. He's run out of time. He hasn't said anything--he's probably made things worse--and now he is out of time. He knew this was a bad idea. And now, Draco knows it, too.

Harry bites his tongue painfully hard as Draco pushes him suddenly into the door, shoving them apart. The shyness is gone, replaced by something more familiar--fury--and something else that Harry can't quite place, but he doesn't get much time to evaluate this new expression as Draco quickly looks around himself, sees that Harry is still against the only door out of the room, and glares at him.

'You two-faced sonofabitch,' Draco snarls at Harry, but he is looking at the floor. 'Get the fuck out of my way.'

Harry is still panting up against the door. He sighs quickly. 'Look, Draco--'

'Malfoy, Potter!' Draco practically explodes. It's as if he's clinging to his fury, almost overdoing it, trying to use it to disguise whatever the emotion that Harry can't define is. It's working. His voice is a low octave Harry has never heard before, and snarls in a way that makes Harry wince inwardly. 'Move.'

Standing up straight, Harry doesn't move aside yet. He is staring at Draco, willing him to look up at him, wanting to figure out what that other feeling is before Draco manages to escape. 'Wait,' Harry says firmly, 'just--wait, two minutes, Malfoy. We need to--'

'The only thing we need to do, Potter,' Draco snaps, and he is still not looking at Harry, 'is forget this ever fucking occurred. I am going to count to three in my head, and I swear to the Mother of Merlin if you are still between me and that door, I will kill you.'

Harry hesitates. He does not want to get into a duel with Draco. He knows that before any of this transpired, he would have been able to best Draco with his eyes closed. Now, he's not so certain, because now he isn't sure he would want to hurt Draco, even in self-defence.

He hesitates too long; Draco pulls out his wand. But Draco is also hesitating. Harry is still between him and the door, it's been about six seconds now, and Draco still hasn't hexed him. Draco is holding his wand up at Harry as if it has a ton of bricks tied to the tip.

Harry takes a step forward, and the ton of bricks vanishes as Draco finally looks up at him, with a look so full of hate that Harry takes a step back again.

'Get. Out. Of. My. Way,' Draco snarls through clenched teeth. 'I will not say it again.'

Harry folds his arms and holds Draco's gaze. 'Make me.'

Harry wonders if he's finally broken Draco down; the look Draco gives him certainly suggests as much, as something in that fury shatters, splits, and Draco's wand wavers slightly. Harry wonders why Draco's hesitating--he's never hesitated to attack Harry before, and here they are, alone in a classroom after curfew; nobody would be any the wiser. Draco could hex him sixteen different ways and walk away, blame-free. Harry is even provoking him. It's the perfect excuse, the perfect situation, and Draco Malfoy is hesitating.

Maybe, like Harry, Draco can't find the conviction to do it anymore.

Draco lowers his wand. Harry breathes again--he almost smiles, but before he can, Draco walks up to him, grabs the door handle behind him and yanks it open with such force that it slams into Harry's back and nearly knocks him off his feet. Harry growls and makes to pursue Draco out the door, but Draco has stopped in the doorway, and Harry blinks in surprise.

Draco looks over his shoulder. 'If you know what's good for you,' he says in a very quiet, dangerous voice, 'never fucking speak to me again.' And without giving Harry a chance to respond, he is down the corridor and gone.

* * *