Catch 22

Summary: The boys do detention, Draco wants to die, Harry wants to have Draco for dinner, Blaise thinks this is getting disgusting, and Lucius is not pleased.

Chapter Five

Except, apparently, when they do.

8:05pm (that evening)

'Have you heard from your father yet?'

Draco tenses. 'No,' he says curtly, smoothing out a roll of parchment on the desk before him. 'Is this all, Professor?' he asks, indicating the third-years' homework Snape has given him to grade.

Snape taps the box on the desk with his wand and it springs open. 'Fifth-year proposal potion drafts for O.W.L.s.. That should keep you occupied long enough. And see that you double check the ingredients with particular care. When you undoubtedly do hear from him,' Snape continues, 'be sure to inform me immediately.'

Draco hesitates, waiting until Snape has moved away from the desk before saying, 'May I ask why, Professor?'

Snape stops, and turns halfway back around to look at him. 'Do you really wish to speak with him alone?'

Draco is barely given time to consider an answer before there is a sharp, impatient knock on the door. Snape rolls his eyes and mutters, 'As usual.'

Snape swings the door open with a flourish and moves to obscure the doorway, glaring down at the intruder.

'I believe the note said eight o'clock, Potter,' Snape sneers down at him--there is, admittedly, considerably less of a height difference now than there was a couple of years ago, but Snape somehow manages to lift that monument of a nose in such a way as to still cast a shadow over him. 'Not six minutes after eight, but eight o'clock sharp.'

'Sorry, sir,' Harry mutters, matching the look of disdain Snape directs at him. 'I was held up.'

'I did not ask for excuses.' Snape closes the door behind him, sealing the Potions classroom that he has just left. 'Follow me.'

Harry blinks. He has seen, over Snape's shoulder, that Draco is in the Potions classroom--from the looks of it, grading papers on Snape's desk as way of detention--and wonders why Snape is taking him elsewhere. 'But sir, why aren't I--'

'I did not ask for questions, either,' Snape snaps. He starts down the hall towards his office. 'Be quiet, and come with me.' Harry seethes, but quietly, and follows Snape into his office. It's as tiny and dark and damp as always, and Snape directs him to the uncomfortable, spindly chair in front of the desk. 'Sit.'

Harry sits and folds his arms, glaring, as Snape walks around behind the desk, taking a seat in the large leather chair there. He watches Harry for a few minutes, as if tempting him to speak, to lash out, to scream at him and demand what the hell he wants, but Harry clamps down on his tongue and simply continues to glare, refusing to give in. No, he's not giving Snape any excuse for further punishments, Harry thinks. He'll sit here all evening in this bloody splintery, thorny chair and glare, unblinkingly, if he has to.

After another two minutes, Harry's eyes begin to water; he blinks. Snape smirks and folds his hands on the desk, leaning forward. 'I would assume that you know why you are here,' he begins, 'but after more than six years of dealing with increasing incompetence, I fear that doing so would be setting myself up for disappointment.'

Harry refrains, with much difficulty, from rolling his eyes. 'It wouldn't have anything to do with this morning, would it?' he asks curtly. Then, with just enough of a delay to demonstrate the utter disrespect he has for his professor, adds, 'Sir?'

'Your antics in the Great Hall notwithstanding,' Snape says dismissively, 'I am referring more specifically to the underlying implications and any resulting events.'

Harry blinks again. Snape is not speaking to him in the normal You Are Nothing But An Arrogant Little Twit tone. There is something more urgent about Snape's voice now, though his expression has lost none of its overt disfavour. 'What are you saying, Professor?'

'What I am trying to get through that thick skull of yours, Potter, is that you have, predictably, not considered the consequences of your actions for yourself or those involved.' Snape sits back in his chair and folds his arms. 'It is, regrettably, not within my power to forbid you and Mr Malfoy from consorting with one another. However--' Snape lowers his voice, '--speaking in the best interests of the both of you, I would highly recommend that you muster enough self-control to refrain from doing so.'

Narrowing his eyes, Harry says, 'Pardon me, sir, but since when is it any of your concern who I associate with?'

'Since you chose to associate with my most virtuoso pupil,' Snape snaps, adopting the much more familiar Arrogant Little Twit tone. 'As self-absorbed as you may be, Potter, there are things to consider here other than your own welfare.'

'Do you mean Draco's welfare, sir,' Harry says icily, 'or your own?'

Snape's lips form a thin line and he narrows his gaze, apparently discomfited by hearing Harry use Draco's given name, but continues nonetheless. 'As I said before, it is not within my jurisdiction to prevent the two of you from commingling. However--' Snape lowers his voice again and leans forward, '--if I find you are pursuing Mr Malfoy despite his efforts to avoid your company, the term immediate does not begin to describe how quickly I will see you expelled from this institution.' He pauses, then adds, 'Do I make myself clear, Potter?'

Through gritted teeth, Harry says, 'Yes, Professor.'

Snape nods, satisfied, and then stands and flicks his wand; his desk clears itself, and two large cauldrons appear, both filled to the brim with a multitude of small miscellaneous items. Snape indicates several empty glass jars that are also sat on the desk. 'For your detention, you will sort and separate these ingredients. When you are finished,' he continued with a smirk, 'tap the cauldrons with your wand and they will refill themselves, and you will do it again.'

Harry stares at him. 'And how long am I supposed to do this for?' Then, delayed, 'Sir?'

Snape's smirk becomes more pronounced. 'Until I say so, Mr Potter.'

* * *

The next day, Draco hopes his lack of sleep isn't obvious. It very clearly is, unfortunately, for at breakfast Blaise sits across from him and raises an eyebrow. 'You look like right shit, mate.'

'Cheers,' Draco says dryly and prods his eggs with the end of his knife.

Perhaps it's wishful thinking to imagine that his day will improve. After all, Draco is not spending every waking moment reliving the tantalising three minutes (or was it hours?) he spent under the beech tree with Potter the previous evening, because that would be completely counterproductive to Draco's plan to pretend said three minutes (or hours) never happened. He is not thinking about Harry's lips against his, or Harry pulling on his hair, or how good it felt to pin Harry to the tree and snog him to within an inch of his life. Draco is not thinking about how hot and slick Harry's mouth was, how Harry's hips probably bear bruises from their little liaison, or how utterly and irresistibly willing Harry had been against him...

I am Doomed, Draco thinks woefully after snapping back to the present for the fifth time in Ancient Runes, a lesson in which he has never had trouble concentrating before. I am a hopeless case beyond saving. If anyone in this cruel, cruel world were kind, they would kill me now.

'Murder me, Zabini,' he pleads quietly. 'Please? I'll pay you. Very well. I have lots and lots of money. I could buy you your own country. Possibly your own moon. Who wouldn't want their own moon?'

'Tempting,' Blaise says without looking up. 'Toss in a blowjob and you might have a deal.'

Draco furrows his brow. 'I'm not that desperate.'

'Yet,' Blaise corrects him cheerfully, still shuffling through his bag for a quill. 'We shall see. I am a very patient man.'

'You're a terrible friend,' Draco tells him, and buries his head in his hands.

Blaise smirks, twirling his newly discovered quill between his fingers. Vince and Greg could not have survived in Ancient Runes if their lives depended on it, and are instead suffering through Divination, which requires no brains at all, just enough stamina to withstand the fumes. Blaise, however, for all his insouciance, is surprisingly erudite, and is a good study partner and an even better friend, for he has not mentioned anything to do with Harry Potter or Gryffindors in general since breakfast; in fact, after three failed attempts at conversation concerning Quidditch, he has left Draco to his own devices, a silent but perfectly adequate figure of Moral Support.

'Can anyone translate the ancient curse inscribed in the Björketorp runestone?' Professor Radford is asking the class at large. Surprise, surprise, Draco thinks, rolling his eyes, as Granger's hand is first in the air. 'Yes, Miss Granger?'

"Here, I have hidden the secret of powerful runes, strong runes. The one who breaks this memorial will be eternally tormented by anger," Granger recites verbatim from the text. "Treacherous death will hit him. I foresee perdition."

'Very good, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor. Now, can anyone tell me...'

"I foresee perdition," Draco mocks under his breath. He is eager to take his frustration out on something, something other than Harry Potter, because that, while preferable, would be at the worst blasphemous and at the least most definitely counterproductive. Harry's bushy little female accomplice, however, supplies Draco with an ideal scapegoat. 'Perdition's been on our doorstep ever since that idiot Dumbledore let Mudbloods into this place.'

Blaise shifts slightly but does not respond. Draco is curious, because Blaise is always quick to jump on the Gryffindor slander bandwagon.

'...which was also used on the Stentoften runestone,' Granger concludes yet another answer, earning another ten points for Gryffindor.

'Yes, let's reward word-for-word citation of the text that requires no creative evaluation at all,' Draco continues in a sour undertone. He balances his chin on his hands as he glares at the bushy head in the front row. 'Wouldn't want to try and progress our minds or anything, it's only a place of learning, after all.'

Blaise snaps his book closed with unnecessary force. 'You know the course content as well as any,' he says coldly, 'so instead of griping about Granger, why don't you save your breath to answer the questions and earn us some points for a change?'

Draco is sure he would be gaping in shock, had Blaise's words not caught him so completely off-guard that he can't even manage to look at his friend, and instead keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead. Not a full moment later there is a great scraping of chairs as Professor Radford dismisses the class, and Draco hears Blaise stand up quickly and sling his bag over his shoulder. Without a word, Blaise departs, leaving Draco in his seat, staring at the blackboard.

What the bloody hell was that about?

Blaise never snaps--certainly not at Draco, anyway. They get along ridiculously well, because Blaise is always friendly and in a good mood and cheers Draco up when Draco's having a bad day, going out of his way to make sure Draco doesn't kill anyone or do something else rash to get himself expelled. Blaise does these things for every Slytherin because Blaise is a good friend, and good friends do not suddenly change their habits and shut out friends in need, especially when they are having such an exceptionally bad day as Draco.

Except, apparently, when they do.

Draco narrows his eyes. He is obviously missing something. But whatever it is, he doesn't see how it's more important than him. Still, the day is almost over; classes are done and people are heading to dinner as Draco steps out of the classroom and into a sea of cloaks accented with multicoloured scarves. Draco and Harry haven't had any classes together today, and Harry wasn't at breakfast, so Draco has avoided him successfully so far.

Obviously, such good luck cannot last.

This is all Blaise's fault, Draco decides. If Blaise were here, he would steer Draco away from the Certain Doom that approaches behind round spectacles, glass shields that stand guard over bright green eyes--green eyes with Mysterious Powers that can lasso Draco with a glance and extinguish any coherent thought like a lit match dropped in a frigid lake. Without his figure of Moral Support, Draco is helpless against these Mysterious Powers and he is going to kill Blaise next time he sees him because this is surely going to end in tears.

Again.

Harry stops when he sees Draco. There is a brief pause that lasts forever as they look at one another, and other students continue to file past. Weasley stops beside Harry until Granger wordlessly hooks him by the elbow and forcefully drags him away; the crowd in the hallway thins and as the last students skirt by them (not without throwing them a considerable number of curious looks), Harry finally looks away and moves to sidestep Draco, but Draco's arm stops him by the middle and shoves him up against the nearest wall.

The force of the push leaves Harry winded, and by the time he has enough breath to speak, Draco has covered Harry's mouth with his own. Harry makes a pleased noise and effectively melts between Draco and the wall. Draco's fingers fumble with Harry's tie and collar while Harry offhandedly pushes Draco's bag off his shoulder and onto the floor. Harry's body is pliable and solid all at once against him and Draco is frighteningly aware of their elbows and knees and chests bumping into each other, how Harry is wearing winter robes made of thick, insulating fabric and that the deserted corridor is very cold and he can feel the heat of Harry's body radiating through the clothing and into his own, and Draco shivers against him.

Finally Draco pulls back, breathing hard, and is immediately fixated by the image Harry presents; lips swollen and moist, the intense red colour of his mouth and tongue visible through his parted lips, cheeks faintly flushed under the rims of his glasses, behind which his eyes are heavy-lidded emeralds, unnervingly clear and sparkling with great fervour. Harry's breath is coming in shallow gasps and his eyelashes flutter as his lids drop lower and he licks his lips. Draco sucks in a deep breath, storing away all of these vital details for later, and descends on Harry's mouth once more.

The kiss is rushed and sloppy and there is a lot of biting and clashing of teeth and saliva all over but it feels just as good as the kiss under the beech tree, and Harry's breath still hitches in the same way and his hand tangles familiarly in Draco's hair. Draco growls into the kiss and runs his hands down Harry's sides to grasp his hips as he did the day before, pinning him flush up against the wall, and nips the corner of Harry's mouth, the sharp edge of his jaw and the soft skin of his throat.

Harry makes a wheezing noise and grips Draco's forearms. Draco's teeth travel down Harry's throat to his collarbone, free from his shirt now that Draco has undone his tie and left it draped over his shoulders. Harry gasps hotly and his hold on Draco's forearms tightens with such intensity that it borders on painful, and Draco bites him hard in retaliation.

'Fuck,' Harry hisses, but he arches into the rough treatment nonetheless. 'I thought--I thought you couldn't--this--you said you can't--' Draco bites him again, even harder, and Harry hisses, a bright red mark appearing just under his collar.

'I did say.' Draco tilts his head up. 'And I can't,' he murmurs against Harry's throat.

Harry swallows, his throat working against Draco's mouth. 'Then why--' Draco latches onto the side of his neck again, but there is more sucking than biting this time and it feels sinfully good, and Harry thinks he will look like he's been mauled by a Horntail by the time Draco is through with him. '--why--'

'Shut up.' Draco trails his mouth up to Harry's jaw, kissing and nibbling over to his ear and nipping his earlobe sharply. 'You never know when to shut up. Just shut up.'

Harry wants to point out that he isn't talking anymore, that Draco is the one who is talking, but that would be contradicting the order to shut up, which, when he thinks about it, would probably be a very good idea right now, because Draco has pulled off his glasses again and is worrying Harry's bottom lip with his teeth. Harry groans and sags against the wall, and kisses Draco, or tries to, but Draco pulls away--just slightly, hairbreadths from Harry's mouth--and Harry exhales heavily and licks his lips. He tries again, reaching forward, neck at a painful angle, but Draco grins teasingly and hovers just out of reach.

Harry, impatient, tries to pull Draco's head forward with the hand that is once again tangled in his hair, but Draco braces one hand against the wall over Harry's shoulder and holds firm, eyes flashing mischievously. Then he moves, quickly, kissing Harry lightly, pulling away as Harry reaches forward; Harry's head falls back and Draco moves again, licking the line between Harry's lips, and pulls away as Harry opens his mouth in response--Draco is teasing him, Harry realises, the sadistic bastard is teasing him and holding him there and making him want it like nothing he's ever wanted before and for fucks sakes, it is working.

'Hm,' Draco whispers against Harry's lips, 'you like that?'

'I hate you,' Harry replies throatily, and tries to bite, but Draco pulls out of range.

'You want me.' Draco breathes the correction against Harry's chin, both looking and sounding extremely smug. Taking his hand off Harry's shoulder, he runs his palm, firm and slow, down Harry's chest, holding him there, and sucks thoughtfully on Harry's bottom lip before pulling away again. 'Admit it.'

Harry growls. 'Fuck you.'

Draco leers at him and murmurs against his lips, 'Promise?'

Harry is pretty sure he is nodding but he's having a hard time keeping track of anything because Draco is kissing him again, long, hard and slow. Harry does not need to say anything because his body is admitting it for him in waves as Draco presses against him, his tongue rough but smooth against Harry's own, and he would be quite happy to stay pinned to this wall and have Draco for dinner, but it is a known fact that Bad Luck loves Harry Potter and suddenly a loud, conspicuous thud interrupts the crisp silence in the corridor.

Draco just barely pulls away to search for the source of the noise with slightly glazed eyes; when he finds it, his gaze clears and he steps fully away from Harry, who finds himself holding his glasses and hastily crams them on as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Vision restored, Harry blinks dizzily at the form of Ginny Weasley, standing a few metres away with several textbooks lying forgotten at her feet.

She glares for what seems like an eternity. Harry stares, unsure of how to react, while Draco straightens his robes and brushes his hair back into place with his fingers. Finally, Ginny snaps, 'I can't even find the words, Harry.'

Harry swallows. He's still leaning against the wall, using it to support himself. His eyes dart to Draco, who meets his gaze and shrugs. 'I guess I'll take a rain check,' Draco says quietly and the side of his mouth twitches as he turns away and heads down the corridor towards the Great Hall, where most of the school is still at dinner.

Ginny recovers and begins to gather up the books. Harry moves forward to help, but she slaps his hands away. 'Don't,' she says curtly without looking up at him. 'I don't want your help. I don't want anything from you.'

'Ginny,' he says patiently, withdrawing his hands but remaining squatting beside her. 'Listen, there's a lot you--you don't know--'

'Just stop it, Harry!' she snaps. She grabs the last book and stands, recoiling from Harry as he follows suit. 'I don't care what your reasons are. I don't want to hear excuses. There are none,' she says forcefully as Harry tries to interrupt. 'I've been trying--really trying--to understand since the other day at breakfast, but this....' She looks at him, disgusted, angry, and disappointed all at once. 'There are no excuses for it, Harry. Not for him.'

Harry winces as he sees that her eyes are beginning to water, though she stoutly refrains from breaking into tears. She glares at him and attempts to sidestep him to get to dinner, and Harry stops her gently by the elbow. Looking over her shoulder at the floor, he says, 'For what it's worth, I'm sorry.'

Through the small connection of his fingers with her elbow, Harry can feel her shudder and knows her resolve has finally broken; should he look, he would see tears falling down her cheeks, but he keeps his gaze fixed over her shoulder. She wrenches away from him. 'Nothing you say is worth anything to me anymore,' she spits at him, and stalks away, leaving him alone in the deserted corridor.

Well, that could have gone better, Harry thinks crossly. He runs his hand through his hair and starts when he realises his tie is still undone and the first two buttons of his shirt collar are open and he probably has an alarming collection of bruises on his neck, and he tries without success to prevent a grin from spreading across his face as he remembers how he got them. But then, it certainly could have gone a lot worse.

* * *

To say the least, last night had been host to a particularly thrilling wank, mostly thanks to thoughts of that evening's previous endeavours along with the necessary imagination. Draco wakes in such a jovial mood that even Blaise seems to forgive him for whatever had pissed him off the previous day and, after the compulsory pillow thumping, accompanies Draco to breakfast, prodding him for details of his not-so-discrete-as-hoped liaison with Harry in the not-so-deserted-as-hoped corridor.

'Stop looking at me like that,' Draco snaps, his attempt at sounding irate somewhat unsuccessful, though Blaise's ogling is beginning to get unnerving.

'Sorry,' Blaise says, shaking his head. 'S'rather hard not to. I mean, you're practically glowing, Malfoy.'

'Sod off. I am not.'

'You so are,' Blaise insists, sniggering. 'Even Pans noticed, and she's nearly as thick as your dim-witted duo.'

'Is that why she hissed at me?' Draco wonders aloud, glancing down the table to where Pansy is decidedly not looking at him. He looks back up at Blaise, who is still grinning at him like a madman. 'Nose down, Zabini. Nothing happened, all right?'

Blaise peers over his head in the direction of the Gryffindor table, where Harry is sitting between Weasley and Granger, trying without success to disguise a grin and incontestable evidence of the fling in the corridor; there is a bright red mark just above his collar, visible even from across the Great Hall, and he keeps shooting furtive glances at the back of Draco's head.

'If by "nothing" you mean your teeth left imprints in his neck, sure,' Blaise says. 'That or he was recently attacked by a very enthusiastic vampire. Good lord, you bloody mauled him, didn't you? He's not that fetching, is...' Blaise trails off. Draco is staring at the tabletop, bottom lip trapped between his teeth; his eyes flicker up to Blaise, who raises his eyebrows. '...is he?'

Draco sags, giving into his euphoria and letting his head drop into his arms, which are folded on the table, and lets out a groan. 'You have no idea.'

Snorting, Blaise shakes his head. 'Who would've guessed? Harry Potter's a winsome little tart.' Draco raises his head and gives him a look, but he's grinning something ridiculous. Blaise grimaces. 'Hell, you're smitten. It's starting to get disgusting.' Draco's grin grows involuntarily. 'Stop that,' Blaise orders. 'Or I shall be forced to do something you'll regret.'

Draco snorts and steals a piece of Blaise's toast (he has his own, but Blaise's is already buttered, so why make the effort?). He distractedly opens the morning post; a letter from home, by the looks of it, delivered by a handsome eagle owl, the roll of parchment sealed with the Malfoy family crest.

I will be calling upon you at Hogwarts in two days' time. I daresay I needn't explain why.

I suggest you use the time until my arrival to prepare an acceptable explanation for your behaviour.

Give Severus my regards,

L. M.

Draco stares at it bleakly, his blissful high evaporating as he finishes reading, and the half-chewed toast in his mouth suddenly tastes like ash.

Blaise blinks at the abrupt change in his demeanour. 'Oi,' he says, 'who died?'

Draco hands him the letter and lets his head drop back into his arms, this time in dread. 'I did.'

* * *

Draco is avoiding him.

Harry knows because Draco leaves breakfast early, does not show up for Care of Magical Creatures, and then is not at dinner. Draco isn't at breakfast the next day either, and Harry is beginning to get impatient. After all, you can't have passionate snogs with someone one day and go cold turkey the next. It is a cruel and unusual punishment, and Harry bears this justification in mind as he lies in wait in the dungeons. He knows that Snape is going to have him expelled if he catches him but it's the only chance Harry has at seeing Draco alone because Draco never misses Potions, not even to avoid Harry.

Sure enough, scarcely a minute before class begins, Draco rounds the corner with his usual crew. Crabbe and Goyle lead the way like a two-human plow, shoving Gryffindors and lesser Slytherins out of the way as Draco follows behind, with Pansy and Blaise flanking him like bodyguards. Harry leans against the wall, purposely obstructing the corridor, and ignores the threatening scowl from Goyle as he halts.

'Move,' he says.

'Piss off,' Harry says smoothly. 'You don't own this corridor.'

'Greg, it's fine,' Draco says swiftly before Goyle finishes raising his fist; he lowers it obediently, though he looks forlorn as he does so.

Harry hasn't moved, is still propped against the wall with folded arms, looking grossly unconcerned that he's a lonely Gryffindor against five armed and dangerous Slytherins. Blaise eyes Harry impassively and Pansy is practically hissing, but Harry ignores them. 'I need to talk to you,' he says to Draco.

'Later,' Draco says.

'Now,' Harry tells him, 'if you don't mind.'

'He minds,' Pansy snaps, stepping forward.

'"He" is quite able to make up his own mind, thanks,' Draco snaps irritably, brushing past her. Blaise raises his eyebrows but Draco shakes his head. 'It's fine. Go. I won't be long.'

There is a small pause in which the group of Slytherins hover around Draco uncertainly before departing, Blaise moving last and giving Harry a long, hard look as he walks away. As soon as they round the corner, Harry opens the door behind him; it leads to an empty classroom, and Draco steps inside without a word, Harry following.

Once inside, Draco does not turn around, preferring instead to stare at the floor as he listens to Harry close the door behind them. He hears footsteps as Harry approaches and touches his shoulder, slowly turning Draco to face him. Harry does not hesitate or ask or give Draco any chance to pull away as he leans in and kisses him, softly, tenderly, a lingering but chaste press of lips on lips, before pulling away from Draco's mouth and pressing their foreheads together instead.

Unprepared for the assault, Draco leans into the touch, wanting it and terrified of it at the same time, the twisting of his stomach due to both a deep, intimate pleasure and a sense of dread. His eyes are closed and he can feel Harry's breath against his lips and as their noses touch, Draco moves without really thinking about it, nuzzling against Harry before he realises what he is doing--and even when he does, he knows it feels good and right on so many different levels that he can't seem to force himself to pull away.

'Why are you doing this,' Harry says quietly. 'This is bloody torture.'

Draco opens his eyes. Harry is looking at him, those sparkling green orbs far closer than is fair. 'It is,' he agrees breathlessly.

'Then why,' Harry says again. He closes his eyes and nudges Draco's nose back with his own. 'Give me one good reason why we can't--'

'No.' The word is sharp and Draco pulls away, pushing Harry from him, backing towards the door. 'I mean it this time. I can't do this. I won't.'

Harry opens his eyes and glares at Draco indignantly. 'Why the hell not?'

'Because I don't have to, all right? I just fucking can't,' Draco says simply, coldly, in a tone completely removed from what he is feeling at the moment. He turns and opens the door, pausing on the threshold. 'I really am sorry,' he says from the doorway, and leaves Harry in the empty classroom, debating what will be worse--enduring two hours stuck in a classroom with Draco after this, or Snape's reaction to him being quarter of an hour late.

* * *

Draco awakes well before sunrise on Saturday morning, as abruptly as if someone had set an active Sneakoscope next to his head. He groans and rolls over and tries to go back to sleep, but one line persistently reverberates in his head, over and over, demanding his conscious attention:

I will be calling upon you at Hogwarts in two days' time.

Grimacing, Draco rolls out of bed.

According to the old grandfather clock in the corner, it's nearly four in the morning. Lovely start to the day, he thinks. Knowing his father's scheduling habits, he has about five hours to shower, dress, have breakfast, and say his prayers to whatever personifications of Fate and deities have the mercy to listen.

He is pacing. Theodore is the first to notice the noise, around four-thirty, and in a low groan, he informs Draco that he hopes his father castrates him, then stuffs a pillow over his head in an attempt to go back to sleep. It's this that wakes Blaise, who, after rubbing the sleep from his eyes, catches Draco by the elbow on one of his rounds and drags him into his bed.

Draco automatically tries to resist, but to no avail, as always; Blaise is too bloody strong for his own good sometimes. He would feel uncomfortable if it were anyone else dragging him into bed like this, even Harry, pulling him in and closing the drapes to bathe him in total darkness, and tucking his back up against their chest as if it's a perfectly acceptable thing for two guys that are just friends to do.

Right now, Draco doesn't care what's acceptable and what isn't. Blaise is a big, warm comfort and he sags against him, burying his head in the pillow. Blaise shifts, still mostly asleep, and manages to throw the covers over him. It's not as if this is the first time this has happened; Draco tends to be restless and unable to sleep when he's stressed, and at some point in their sixth year, Blaise started dragging him into bed, and it's never failed to put Draco back to sleep.

The next time he wakes, it's due to an insistent rapping on the door. Draco groans and burrows deeper under the warm covers, and Blaise makes a noise of discomfort as Draco elbows him in the stomach.

'Morning to you, too,' Draco hears him mutter by his shoulder. 'Oh, hell, what is that?'

The rap-tap-tap on the door is not going away. If anything, it's getting louder. Draco curses and burrows his head under a pillow.

'If one of you does not get that fucking bird in the next ten seconds,' comes a very agitated voice from across the room, 'I swear your days of buggering will be over for good.'

It's hardly privileged information that Slytherins are not Morning People.

'Nothing is better than hearing your golden voice in the morning,' Blaise informs Theodore, stretching. 'Have I ever told you that?'

Rap-a-tap-tap.

The drapes are still closed so Draco is saved from seeing Theodore's look of utter distaste at seeing him and Blaise sharing a bed. 'Five fucking seconds and I'm turning your bed into a bonfire, Zabini,' comes the muffled threat.

'I got it,' Draco says before Blaise can get up. He rolls out of the bed, pushing the drapes aside and pointedly ignoring the eyeroll Theodore graces him with before turning over.

Opening the door, Draco winces, the sharp claws of the owl pinching his forearm as it waits for him to take the letter from its beak. It hoots once before taking off back up the staircase towards the common room and Draco unfolds the letter, squinting. It's from Snape; twenty minutes, his office. Lovely.

In half that time, Draco's showered, brushed, dressed and pacing again. Blaise is fully awake by now but doesn't attempt to stop him. Theodore is so quiet that Draco wonders idly if Blaise decided to Stun him while he was in the shower.

'It'll be all right,' Blaise says for the fourth time.

Draco gives a non-committal grunt.

'Do you know what you're going to tell him?'

'Nope.'

Blaise deliberates for a minute, and winces as Goyle gives a monumental snore. 'Ever consider just telling him the truth?'

'Hi, Dad, yes, terribly sorry about ruining your reputation and all, and I hate to break it to you like this, but your only heir's a certified shirtlifter, who, by the way, intends to run off and snog your worst enemy.' Draco looks at him. 'How's that sound to you? Think he'll take it well?'

Blaise shrugs and leans back against one of the wooden posts of his four-poster. 'Won't really make a difference either way, will it?'

Draco's already five minutes late as it is. He balls his fists and, without answering, heads upstairs to the common room. Snape's office is just down the hall from the entrance to their common room, and it takes less than a minute to make the trip, but Draco is hesitating outside the door until he's another five minutes late.

Waiting isn't going to make it any better, he tells himself. Just holding off the inevitable...

Draco opens the door, then stands in the doorway and regards them both; mid-argument from the looks of it, Snape standing up from his chair, both fists on the desk as he leans over it, greasy hair and large, hooked nose framing the award-worthy scowl carved into his clammy skin; and his father, always the proud, erect figure in a room, rigid and blonde, with his nose lifted high and pale eyes narrowed in disdain, a look of utmost contempt gracing his features.

'I told you,' Snape says curtly. 'The boy has become insolent. What would you have me do?'

Lucius turns to face his son. 'Is this true?' he demands coldly.

'Sorry,' Draco says, not moving, 'is what true?'

Lucius' expression flickers momentarily, but his calm demeanour remains intact. 'Do not feign ignorance with me, Draco. Is it true?'

Draco inhales slowly and folds his arms. 'Yes,' he says after a moment, holding his father's gaze--a testament to nerve Draco was unaware he possessed, because this is a rather difficult thing to do. 'It's true.'

Lucius regards him impassively, but Draco knows better than to trust in appearances when it comes to father; there is something dangerous brewing behind those calm grey eyes. 'All of it?'

Draco shrugs. 'I don't know what you've heard,' he admits. 'But yes, probably.'

Snape closes his eyes slowly, painfully, as if praying for patience or perhaps for Lucius to find the will to refrain from cursing his son right here and now. Lucius, however, has much more self-control than his son, and manages to contain the impulsive urge to kill.

'You will pack your things, Draco,' Lucius says after a moment's pause, 'and return here, without delay.'

Draco tenses. 'Why?'

Lucius raises an eyebrow. 'Because I'm here to take you home. Immediately.'

Draco stares and considers this for a moment; he is, after all, of age, and it is perfectly within his rights to refuse this order--that is, he reminds himself, if he is willing to suffer the consequences of disobeying his father, his father who is the King of Retribution when it comes to insubordination. But Draco feels a surge of rebellious resolution and folds his arms; he is tired of bending to this fear of his father, someone he used to admire and respect but for whom he now feels little more than abhorrence and contempt.

For now is the first time in Draco's life that he's known what he wants, and he is able to decide whether or not to choose it, even if to do so means ostracising himself from everything that has been spoon-fed to him by his family from birth.

'I told you to go and pack your things,' Lucius repeats, his voice tip-toeing on the edge of impatience.

Draco lifts his chin. 'No,' he says. 'I won't.'

There is an inevitable pause as Lucius surveys his son and Draco holds his gaze, and in his peripheral vision, Draco sees Snape reach inside his robes for his wand.

'I seem to have suffered a momentary lapse,' Lucius says smoothly, eyes murderous. 'For a moment, I was sure my son just renounced his inheritance.'

'Draco,' Snape says carefully, 'please think about what you are doing.'

'I have,' Draco replies with a shrug. He reaches for the door as he backs out of the office, pausing to glance at them both. 'And you know what? You can both go to hell.'

* * *