Two Words

***Two Words***

"Bloody buggering Muggle Studies," says Draco Malfoy, as he steps into the cramped broom closet with a mighty grimace. "Stupid sixth year compulsory subjects..."

"SavetheworldfivetimeandthisistherewardIget," Harry Potter mutters, as he follows Malfoy into the cluttered space and shuts the door behind him.

Draco is busy attempting to pack his lanky frame into an un-cooperative corner. "What was that Potter?"

"Nothing."

If glowers were embers, the broom closet would have erupted into flames.

~~~~~~

"So what do we have to do again?"

Harry removes a crinkled piece of parchment from his pocket and consults it. "Besides get over the fact that we're partners for this ridiculous assignment?"

Draco expels an annoyed breath, stirring the dust from the shelves that surround the boys "Yes. Besides that," he says.

More consulting of the parchment. Harry's brow is furrowed. He sucks in his lower lip, as he often does when reading something mildly complex. "The assignment is called 'Two Words'. It's a team building exercise."

"Lovely. Where's the team?" Draco asks, bored already.

"We're it."

Draco picks at a piece of lint on his sleeve. "This can't at all be legal. Forcing students into cramped, unsanitary spaces for school projects."

"Could be worse," Harry says. "Hermione and Blaise Zabini drew Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Ron and Seamus Finnegan got the Astronomy Tower."

Draco ponders this. "Yes, you're right. That is worse. Enlighten us, Potter," Draco asks, looking pointedly at the assignment sheet. "What exactly are we supposed to do?"

~~~~~

Harry can't help but notice that Draco's face takes on rather marked peach colour when he's peeved.

"What do you mean in sentences of now more than two words? How the hell are we supposed to describe each other, for twenty minutes, in sentences of no more than two words? That's pointless."

The air in the broom closet is dank and very, very still. Draco realises that he is close enough to Harry that his breath stirs the bangs on Harry's forehead. Harry's hair is longer now. The infamous scar is covered. Draco exhales experimentally, and watches as a lock of Harry's thick, black hair momentarily flutters to the side, exposing the tip of Harry's scar.

Harry shrugs. "I've done it before. Only not in a broom closet, of course."

"When?"

"I went to a Muggle primary school. We had similar activities at school camps. The idea is for someone you already know, to think of new ways to describe you."

"You've led a pitiful, wretched existence," says Draco, not looking in the least bit sympathetic.

Harry counters this by regaling, in painstaking detail, why Draco has never won a Quidditch match against Gryffindor.

~~~~~

Draco is not pleased. "I've got your two words, Potter. Get fucked."

"We haven't started the assignment yet," Harry snarls.

"All the same. Get fucked."

"And you're not allowed to say the same pair of words more than once," Harry threatens. He pulls out his wand. Draco does the same.

"You're reading it wrong, Potter. Give it here." Draco attempts to snatch the assignment sheet from Harry's hands.

Harry scowls and holds on.

~~~~~

Draco is now attempting to patch the two, torn halves of the assignment sheet together. "Says here that there's a penalty for exceeding the two word limit."

"Oh?"

"I get to sting you with my wand." Draco looks extremely cheered at the prospect.

Harry snatches the paper back. "Says here I get to do the same."

"You know you already have an advantage, don't you Potter?"

"How so?"

Draco's grin is a perfect blend of Slytherin maliciousness and patented Draco humour. "Because you only have a ten word vocabulary."

~~~~~

It is sweltering in the room. The boys have eighteen minutes to go before the charm will run its course, and before the door of the broom closet will open.

Harry's eyes are focussed on a spot to Draco's right, any other direction would mean looking directly at the other boy. It is stuffy in the broom closet, and Draco has removed his cumbersome outer robes and jumper, hanging them over the empty lower shelves. Underneath, he is dressed in his school uniform- a white shirt, pants and the green and silver striped tie. Harry is also wearing his uniform, but he knows that he can never quite look as Draco does. Elegant limbs, fine lines, sharp angles and pale skin. Lots of pale skin. The top button of Draco's shirt is undone. A trickle of sweat escapes Draco's jaw, travelling down his neck and into the space where his collarbones almost meet. It is dark in the broom closet, but Harry can still see that Draco is flushed from the heat. The tops of his cheekbones are stained a light crimson.

"How will this better acquaint us, do you think? I already know all about you, Potter. You're an amoeba, ergo, there really isn't anything much to know about."

Harry narrows his eyes. "Likewise, Malfoy.

Two minutes later, they began their assignment.

~~~~

"Pasty face."

"Muggle lover."

"Daddy's boy."

"Muggle lover."

"Hah! No repetition!"

ZAP!

"Fucking ouch!" Draco stares daggers at Harry as he rubs a spot on his upper arm.

Harry smirks. "Big baby."

"Small moron."

Harry loses his smirk. Draco acquires it. "Messy haired."

"Girl faced."

Draco is poised with his rebuttal, but pauses at Harry's choice of insult. "Girl faced?"

ZAP!

"What! Hey I-

ZAP!

"That's not fair!"

ZAP!

Draco growls. "You're dead."

"Sexy," adds Harry, twirling his wand with a flourish. "Your turn."

Draco looks murderous now. He jabs Harry in the solar plexus, which he belatedly regrets, as this draws his eyes to Harry's collarbones. The sharp points are exposed through gaping top of Harry's shirt. "Not sexy, " Draco insists, in a slightly raspy voice.

He wonders when and how summer could have crept into the broom closet when it was still the middle of winter outside. Two teenaged boys in close proximity apparently produce a great quantity of heat. Particularly when said teenaged boys they are mortal enemies.

It must be the mortal enemies thing, Draco ponders. Mortal enemies in small confined spaces equals heat. Especially mortal enemies who have been playing a dangerous, game of 'don't catch me watching you' all year.

Harry notices that Draco's eyes seem to be locked onto his throat. With a mental smile, Harry runs a hand over his damp neck, wiping the moisture that has gathered there.

"Am too," Harry insists.

"Are not," Draco says, swallowing.

"Stop looking."

"AM NOT."

"Malfoy lies."

"Harry wishes."

"Harry?" Harry asks, momentarily surprised at Draco use of his first name.

"Potter...I meant."

ZAP.

Draco pulls his upper lip over his teeth in a feral gesture of annoyance. "Stop that."

"Two words," Harry reminds, once more.

Draco happily obliges. "Kiss my."

~~~~~

"Likes apples."

"Peanut allergy."

"Left handed."

"Only child."

"Likes strawberries."

"One testicle," Draco says, with a snigger.

Harry looks resigned. "Truth only."

Draco pouts. "Well that's not a lot of fun is it?"

ZAP!

~~~~~

Draco is right, Harry decides. It is a pointless exercise. Mortal enemies tended to know a lot about each other. They have already covered favourite colours, favourite foods, family background (much zapping had ensued) and dress sense.

"Um," says Harry. "Er."

"Hurry up."

"Quite tall?" Harry ventures.

Draco rolls his eyes.

~~~~~

Fifteen minutes have passed. Ties have been removed and sleeves have been rolled up. Draco's feet are resting in between Harry's. Polished shoes against slightly scruffy shoes.

Draco rubs his chin, thinking. "Green eyes," he says, after a moment, sounding annoyed that all other topics have already been covered.

"Silver eyes."

"Black hair."

"Blond hair."

Draco sighs, turns his eyes to the ceiling. "Everybody's hero," he says, with the tiniest hint of mockery.

"Not yours," Harry says softly, eyes focussed on an exposed thread on the hem of his pants.

Draco looks startled. He waits until Harry looks up at him once more. "Everybody's hero," he repeats, more steadily.

Harry does not zap him for his repetition. However, he does undo another button on his sweat plastered white, school shirt.

~~~~~

"Girly eyelashes."

Draco groans. Harry thinks it is more out of amusement rather than tedium, but he cannot be sure. Draco has steadfastly avoided eye contact for the last six minutes. Harry has been attempting to remedy the situation with several choice insults.

Belatedly, he wonders at the fact that their relationship has so far been based on nothing but insults (and all the attention that earns them, from each other).

Huh. When you put in that way...

"Rough hands," Draco says, rolling his stiff shoulders.

Harry looks down at his hands, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips. Broom-handle calluses. Quidditch player hands. On impulse, he takes hold of Draco's left hand, his writing hand, and tests the skin there.

Not a ridge or callus to be found. "Soft...skin," Harry admits, in defeat, reluctantly releasing Draco's hand.

Draco's eyes are a dark grey when he brings his knuckles up to brush along Harry's cheekbone. "Softer skin."

"So hot," Harry informs, his glasses fogging up with a vengeance.

Draco nods, he leans forward on the palms of his hands. "Too hot," he says, removing Harry's glasses.

"Can't breathe," Harry counters, in a squeaky voice.

"No need." Draco assures. He tilts his head slightly. His bottom lip brushes against Harry's cheek.

"Big trouble."

"Oh yes," whispers Draco with a predatory smile. He closes the distance between them and takes Harry's mouth in a kiss that is every bit as intense as the heat in the broom closet.

The next five minutes are spent thus.

~~~~~

How odd, Harry thinks, that two boys of a height, of similar builds, who wear the same sized robes, could be so vastly different.

For all his boldness, Draco is all soft sighs and even softer, pliant lips. He kisses like he flies, Harry thinks, a moment before all rationale thought deserts his body along with logic. Tentative, watchful, careful, smooth. Harry is heavier, swifter and more certain; for all that he has kissed only two people in his life, and both of them girls.

Draco's fingertips run over the hollow in between Harry's collarbones, and Harry is inspired to do the same. He dips his thumb into the crevice and presses against the base of Draco's throat, eliciting a low moan from the other boy. They are a mess of gangly limbs, damp clothing and heat. Lots and lots of heat.

The unlatching of the broom closet interrupts them as surely as if they are doused with a bucket of icy water. Cold, fresh air is sucked into the small space, instantly chilling their sweat-covered skin.

Not surprisingly, Draco is the first to recover, the first to regain his equilibrium, and his shirt, which had somehow ended up scrunched up against the door.

Harry take a moment longer to settle. His eyes are still closed when Draco touches him on the shoulder. Dragging in a cool breath, he opens his eyes.

Draco is on his feet now, dressed and immaculate, apart from the extremely wrinkled state of his uniform. He extends a hand to Harry.

Harry declines. He picks up his tie and stands.

"Look, Potter..."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'm not," Draco snaps, and then sighs. "For what it's worth, I think we aced that assignment."

"Yeah," says Harry, running a hand through his hair. His hand feels sticky and clammy. He is very aware of Draco's measuring silver stare, as if the other boy is attempting to learn something about Harry that Harry does not yet know about himself. He feels responsible, for what, he doesn't quite know. Doesn't want to know.

"It's not like there's even a possibility, for either of us to, um..."

Draco blinks at these words. His expression in unreadable, but Harry thinks he sees a glimmer of annoyance. "I don't know about that, Potter. How many broom closets are there in this castle anyway?"

"Lots, I'd wager. Filch is nothing if not dedicated," Harry responds, looking down at the tie in his hands.

The boys are silent for a moment.

"Explain how we could possibly make it work," Harry says in a rush, before his courage deserts him. "Explain it to me in two words," he adds, with a humourless laugh.

Draco does not hesitate. "You won't know if you never try."

"That's seven words, Malfoy."

Draco takes a step forward, he reaches out a hand and straightens Harry's collar. His voice is flat when he next speaks. "Yes, well I said I have a big vocabulary. My arithmetic however, is shocking." He gives Harry a final, parting look. It is vintage Malfoy, all cut steel and ice. There is something new there, disappointment,

"I'll see you on the pitch, Potter. We have a game in less than an hour."

He is halfway down the corridor when Harry calls out to him.

"Hey Malfoy..."

Draco pauses and looks over his shoulder, his slightly damp hair falling over his eyes. In that instant, Harry is quite certain he has never seen anything quite so beautiful. Or compelling. Or beyond his reach.

"Are we still mortal enemies?"

"Yes, Harry," Draco says, with a small, sad smile. "Still mortal enemies."

~~~~~