Amor Ordinem Nescit

Despite all hopes, scrubbing floors was not an activity that you could become proficient in. It was either done or it wasn't. Nothing short of overdosing on the cleaning potion fumes and imagining you'd just been picked as the English seeker for the next World Cup could erase the mind-numbing tediousness of the activity and actually make it enjoyable. And even that was counter-productive most of the time, as Harry ruefully realised that he'd been incessantly scrubbing at the same patch of floor for the last 15 minutes.

But even that brief foray into fantasy was better than thinking about the reality of the situation he'd found himself in. To be stuck in the same room for the next three hours with Draco Malfoy and enough noxious gas to have him reciting bad love poetry and soliloquising on the beauty of pale hair and grey eyes.

Yes, much better to be daydreaming about quidditch than that.

So he picked up the brush, chose a new spot to focus his inattentions on, and pretended he didn't just see Malfoy roll his eyes at him.

It had been a week since 'The Plan', which was, as far as Harry could make out, a complete and utter failure on his part. A week since the incident in the corridor. A week since his discussion with Ron which, thankfully, he'd forgotten all about by the next day, though Hermione was still giving him occasional, 'I'll-figure-you-out' concerned glances. A week since Malfoy, for whatever reason, had suddenly, inexplicably, become a key player in his life. A week since his role as unofficial 'thorn-in-my-side' rival had become something more. Or something less. A week since the dreams had begun.

But he really wasn't going to think about that. Not here. Not with Malfoy less than 10 feet away from him.

Harry cursed whatever back luck had landed him in detention in the first place. Even though, really, it was Harry's own fault. Not that he'd ever admit that. Admit that it was his inattention that made him add one too many salamander tails to the potion, and that it was only the haphazard thought that hey, the potion was supposed to be indigo, and not seven different shades of puce, that let him know things were a little off. 'A little off' translating to an explosion that covered Harry and Ron, and not to mention the front half the classroom, in the foul pink substance. Though, on the bright side of things, it did smell kinda nice. Like cinnamon.

As to why Malfoy was in detention, he had no idea.

And he wasn't curious in the least. No siree Bob. He was just going to sit there and patiently scrub at his section of the floor until Malfoy cracked and started talking.

Which, judging by the past week, was bound to happen sooner or later.

Except that he hadn't cracked, and for the past hour had simply, unwaveringly, scrubbed the floor with a focus that belied the fact that he was anything but upper-class society and had probably never cleaned a floor in his life. He had never looked over. Never tried to engage Harry in any type of conversation, even if it were of the 'deatheater scum....Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die' variety, and not the more maddening breathy, cryptic-type of conversation that was his pattern of late. Which was so different to the established pattern of the last few days.

The last few days were Harry had pointedly tried to ignore Malfoy, while not ignoring him, only to find him there, at his back, by his side, smirking, smiling, winking, staring, to the point where Harry was beginning to see Malfoy even when he wasn't there, because he was. Always. There.

He had become some sort of puzzle that kept standing at arms length, just out of reach, waiting to be solved. And it had just gotten too much, and he had snapped. And told Malfoy in no uncertain terms to just stay away.

And Malfoy had. Evidence A: his current behaviour during detention.

And if Harry was confused before, he was even more so now.

Because Malfoy was ignoring him.

It was as if their roles were reversed. As if he'd finally been given what he wanted. Only that, he found he didn't want it anymore. And on that note he threw the brush onto the floor where it reverberated with a dull clang, and preceded to bore holes through Malfoy's head with his eyes until Malfoy paid him some kind of attention.

He didn't have to wait long. "Bored so soon, Potter?" How he managed that effortless drawl while on his hands and knees, still steadily scrubbing at the floor, was beyond Harry to figure out.

"I'm confused."

A chuckle. Though it had been clamped down, because for a second there, Harry was sure Malfoy was going to break into giggles. Maybe the fumes were finally getting to him? "Well Potter, pick up that brush again, dunk it in that bucket of water there," he pointed with his head, "and scrub."

And really, watching Malfoy as he continued to scrub the floor shouldn't have been that hypnotic. He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts, but only ended up giving himself a headache. "No."

"No, Potter?" And was it his imagination that there had been a pause, no matter how infinitesimal it may have seemed, while Malfoy had been scrubbing?

"No. I mean us. I'm confused about us." And he'd waved his hands, completely forgetting that Malfoy was facing the opposite direction and wouldn't have seen if Harry had been making finger puppets or obscene gestures.

"There is no us Potter." As cool as that. No pause whatsoever. Nothing shaking that veneer. And Harry so wanted to do that. Wanted to see him crack.

"Dammit, Malfoy! Look at me when I'm talking to you!" And for some reason, he realised he was mad. Furious. And he couldn't ever remember being this mad. Not when Dudley had pushed him out of the way that time in the zoo, or even when Aunt Marge had been going on about his parents. He was so angry, and yet, he didn't truly understand why. He just knew that somewhere along the line he'd stood up and was gesticulating widely with still soapy hands that smelled faintly of cinnamon. "Look at me!"

And ever so slowly, Malfoy let go of his brush and spun around on his back foot until he was facing Harry. He expected anger, but what he got shocked him still; his hands frozen. There was nothing. No anger, no emotion, nothing. He watched, rooted to the spot as Malfoy got to his feet and began walking over to where he stood. And continued walking until he backed Harry up into the wall.

Deja-bloody-vu.

Malfoy's mouth next to his ear, so that when he spoke, Harry swore he could hear it everywhere. Feel it everywhere. "What exactly is it you want Potter?"

Good question. But did he have to be so close?

"Well?" And it seemed he was prepared to wait for an answer because he just stood there, softly breathing. Waiting.

"I. Um, I....." can't bloody concentrate with you blowing in my ear that's what!

"Focus, Harry." And then softly, "What. Do. You. Want?"

And it seemed that he was offering something, though for the life of him, Harry had no idea what. "I want.....I want." And that was enough of as an answer as he was prepared to make, and it seemed Malfoy realised that too because he backed up a little and Harry found himself looking directly into Draco Malfoy's eyes.

Yikes.

And then Malfoy looked away, and walked back to his brush and section of the floor, and resumed scrubbing. "Well Potter, we don't have all night, and you're certainly not making a lot of progress over there."

Harry grinned and let out the breath he was holding. It was alright. Whatever it was, whatever it was between them, it was alright. "Well, Malfoy, we can't all be good little cleaners like you. I never knew you took so well to menial labour."

And Malfoy laughed. And Harry was surprised to find out he was wrong. There was something that could make this enjoyable.

Though he was a little shocked to discover that it was simply Draco Malfoy's company.