Checkmate

The one I should not think of keeps rolling through my mind
And I don't want to let that go.
No lover's ever faithful, no contract truly signed,
There's nothing certain left to know,
And how the cracks begin to show!

Never make a promise or plan,
Take a little love where you can,
Nobody's on nobody's side.

Never stay too long in your bed,
Never lose your heart, use your head,
Nobody's on nobody's side.

Lyrics from "Nobody's Side" from Chess by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * *

Draco lay on top of his bed, still dressed, one arm draped over his eyes so that all that could be seen of his face was a smile. Oh God, he thought, that had been so perfect. Every single moment of it. No matter what else happened in his life, he would have this memory - of Harry confiding in him, of laughing at Filch together, of the way Harry's arms felt around his waist, of that kiss.

That kiss, where for one very brief, yet very long incredible moment, time had seemed to stop, and Draco had lost himself in the taste of Harry's warm, soft mouth. That kiss had been inspired. And Dare Chess, something he had made up right then on the spot, that had been inspired, too.

It didn't matter what Harry might do tomorrow. Draco fully expected to pay dearly for the delicious pleasure he'd had tonight, fully expected Harry to be furious, to still hate him, to reject, ridicule, and tear his heart to pieces. But it didn't matter. That was tomorrow. Tonight he had experienced perfection, and he thought he could make the memory of that feeling last a very long time.

He sighed. It was, as he had said, Harry's move. He would just have to wait and see what happened. He expected he would have to go back to avoiding Harry, pretending nothing happened, that he felt nothing. Would the memory of tonight make that easier, give him something real to hold on to for comfort when he felt that aching loneliness that kept him awake nights? Or, now that he had actually touched Harry, actually knew how perfect Harry's body felt against his own, would it make it just that much harder to pretend. Either way, Draco knew he would have to walk away from it eventually, one way or another. He and Harry could never really have a relationship. There was no future for them together. His father. . . .

* * *

Harry crept back to his dorm room under the Invisibility Cloak, got undressed and into bed, then pulled the covers up completely over his head. He lay rigid under the blankets, hands balled into fists, eyes squeezed shut, biting down on his lower lip. How could he have fallen for all that sincerity crap? The only explanation was a very simple one - Draco Malfoy was very good at playing him for an utter fool. Malfoy had tricked him again; had humiliated him, and had oh bloody hell kissed him, making a complete mockery of what Harry had confided in him.

Poor Harry Potter, crying in the hallway because he was afraid nobody loved him, wishing someone would kiss him.

Harry had no doubt that the story would be all over Slytherin House by morning, and by breakfast he would be the laughing stock of the school. It was simply too awful. He could just picture Malfoy telling the Slytherins how he had made Harry's wish come true. And the most appalling part of it, the most horrible, terrible, hideous truth of it all was that no one had ever kissed him quite like that before. Not even. . . .

The lingering memories of the gentle touch of Draco's hands, his body, his lips, were imprinted on Harry's mind. Draco's voice, his soft comments and smiles, that moment when he had said, "that is not stupid," as if he had actually understood, maybe even shared, Harry's feelings, and oh God, the warm tone his voice had held when he had called him 'Harry' - all of those things were filling Harry with a deep sense of disappointment that they hadn't been real, and a tremendous ache of loss that he really didn't want to examine too closely. How could he have been so stupid as to trust that slimy git?

Tomorrow, Malfoy would have his sport, Harry would bear it bravely and as nonchalantly as possible, and then Harry would go out and feed himself to the giant squid in the lake. Hopefully it would all be over very, very quickly.

* * *

His father. . . .

Draco sat straight up, rigid and horrified, his face suddenly drained of all color. His father! Oh God, how could he have let himself lose control like that? He had been avoiding Harry for a very, very good reason. Draco stared unseeing out into his dark room as Lucius Malfoy's face swam up before his eyes, the horrible scene from this summer replaying itself once more in his mind.

His father's cold sneering face loomed toward him as Lucius stood up and leaned menacingly forward, planting his fists in the center of the great mahogany desk in his study. His voice was a low icy hiss, vicious with suppressed anger. "You will do as I say, boy! It's time you proved to me just where your loyalties lie. The heir of this house will serve the Dark Lord."

Draco stood on the other side of the desk, trying to remain outwardly calm, to appear cool and unruffled, while his guts were seizing up in knots. He had known this day was coming. Had looked forward to it once. When had everything changed? How long had the knowledge that he loved Harry and despised his father been growing in him, so that it burst now with startling clarity on his mind in this moment? How long?

"No," he said, firmly. "I won't." He met his father's eyes, not with defiance, but with cold unshakable certainty. "Disown me."

"I WILL NOT!" Lucius slammed his hand down on the desk with a thunderous crack.

It took all of Draco's self-control not to flinch.

"This is your last year at that Hogwarts School. This is your last chance to get me Harry Potter. And you will do it." Lucius leaned further forward, malicious lights sparking fire in his steel-colored eyes. "I expect you to think of a plan to capture and deliver Harry Potter to me before the end of this school year. And if you fail . . ." Lucius smiled at Draco. It was an ugly, totally cold, smile. "I will get Harry Potter anyway, and I will give him and you both to the Dark Lord." He paused. "Do you understand what I'm saying, boy?"

"Yes," said Draco, his voice shaking with loathing. "I understand perfectly."

"Then get out of my sight until you have something to tell me that I want to hear."

The vision faded, and Draco fell back limp on the bed. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself to stop the trembling that shook him. No, he and Harry had no future at all, unless you could count being served up as an entrée to the Dark Lord together as a future. And of course, it was very unlikely that Harry Potter would want to have any kind of future with him anyway. The rejection he had always felt from Harry threatened to resurface. He tried to remember what Harry had said tonight. "Then, I'm sorry," he had said. "If it's not too late to say so." Maybe it was too late, had always been too late for them.

Draco stared up at the ceiling of his room, his thoughts churning, his emotions, always so carefully controlled, turning him inside out. He felt he was standing, unbalanced and swaying, at the edge of a vast, limitless void, a bottomless pit of darkness. If he made the wrong choice, he would fall forever. Be lost, forever. And in that moment, he knew, for him there was only one choice. One choice, and from it, only one possible plan. Slowly and painstakingly, he formed this plan, turning it over and over in his mind, shaping it, examining its flaws, crafting every part with intricate care. He kept his mind far away from the part of him that was terrified by what he was about to do. There was no time for that.

Draco got up and went to his desk. He opened the top drawer and took out a piece of parchment. With an unsteady hand, he dipped his quill into the bottle of ink and started writing:

Father,
I have done as you asked. I have devised a plan to get Harry Potter that I believe is perfect. In fact, I think it may even surprise you. When I have things in progress, I will let you know.
Your son, and heir,
Draco

Draco waited for the ink to dry, then folded the parchment into a small packet. He went to his window, pushed the leaded glass panes open, and whistled softly into the frosty night sky. Within a few moments, a huge eagle owl, silent wings outstretched, was perched on his windowsill. Draco fastened his letter to the owl's leg. "Take it to Lucius," he commanded, and without a sound, the owl was gone. There was no turning back now. If he failed, he knew with certainty, that Lucius Malfoy would kill him.

And Draco would want him to.