The Consequences of Infatuation

Malfoy had changed over the summer. As Harry, Ron and Hermione entered their seventh year at Hogwarts they found it difficult not to notice the Slytherin's change in attitude - he was quieter, more studious. Less aggressive. Especially towards Harry, although only marginally in that particular case - but it seemed to Harry that he was the only member of the Trio to notice Malfoy's physical changes. He was taller now, almost matching Harry height for height. His pointed, pale face had smoothed out, leaving him looking merely delicate as opposed to effeminate. His body was toned and lithe under the muggle trousers and tight t-shirts that he insisted on wearing at weekends, lightly muscled from 5 years of playing Seeker in Quidditch. His hair, which for the past six years had been continuously plastered back with so much gel that it was practically rock-solid, now hung loose about his face, silvery-pale and feathery. His eyes, previously overshadowed permanently with hate and contempt, now flashed bright and silver as Malfoy took in everything around him. It was like something had happened to him over the summer to cause him to look at everything around him as though it was brand new and shiny and, in short, Malfoy was gorgeous - and Harry couldn't stop staring.

Throughout the school year, Harry's eyes followed Malfoy wherever he was, and it didn't take Malfoy long to figure out why. It wasn't long before Malfoy started looking up whenever he felt Harry's intense gaze on the back of his neck. His silver eyes would bore into Harry before he'd smirk, and lick his icy-pink lips suggestively. And Harry would blush a deep crimson and look away quickly before, mere minutes later, his gaze was drawn inexplicably back to the pale, ascetic features of Draco Malfoy. Ron would yell at Harry impatiently, to no avail. He always quailed under Harry's solemn, burning emerald gaze, and Hermione gnawed on her lower-lip, giving Harry looks containing varying degrees of concern - but never daring to admonish him for his misplaced affection. Instead, she took to scolding Ron like a much put-upon wife, stating to him that 'It's just an infatuation. It'll pass.'

Not that anybody ever seemed very convinced by this statement, least of all Hermione herself.

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One night in early March of their seventh year, there was an unexpected Death Eater attack on Hogwarts. A group of second-year Hufflepuffs, out of their dorms and having a secret game of midnight Quidditch, were killed.

All students were ordered to sleep in the Great Hall, where Dumbledore provided sleeping bags as he had done in their third-year, when the castle had been infiltrated by Sirius Black. Harry was solemn and silent as he settled into his squishy purple sleeping-bag. He was careful to keep a distance between himself and his friends, as Ron and Hermione clung to each other, almost desperately.

He gazed at the twinkling stars on the ceiling - it really is a beautiful night, he thought idly to himself - and found himself somehow unsurprised when Malfoy, his silvery-blonde hair and translucent skin shining ethereally in the pale moonlight, settled next to him in his own sleeping bag. He was surprised, however, when Malfoy wriggled out of his own bag and slid lithely into Harry, within the space of a few seconds.

"Malfoy! What -?"

"Sssh, Potter!" murmured Malfoy, grinning wickedly and covering Harry's lips with one pale, perfectly manicured hand.

"Trying to figure out how you could've thwarted the Death Eaters and saved the day are you, Potter? I wouldn't waste the brainpower if - Gods forbid - I were you Potter. The plan was infallible."

"How would you know?!" Harry moved angrily, pausing as Malfoy muttered something under his breath and suddenly becoming aware of the fact that, whilst he, Harry, could see and hear perfectly everything that was happening in the Great Hall around him, the rest of the students seemed to be completely unaware of the fact that he and Malfoy were sharing a sleeping bag.

Malfoy's silver eyes glittered malevolently at Harry's confusion, as his elegant hands deftly began to unfasten Harry's trousers.

"Malfoy, what the fuck d'you think you're doing?!"

Malfoy smirked.

"Potter, you've been staring at me for months with those bloody Avada Kedavra eyes of yours. Surely you're not so naive as to be clueless why?"

"Fuck off Malfoy, you bastard. Get your fucking hands off me!"

Harry's eyes flashed angrily, before darkening with arousal as Malfoy trailed his fingers down Harry's length.

"I'm fed up of you staring at me like that and not doing anything about it. So I'm going to do something."

He squeezed lightly and Harry whimpered, his eyes filled with anger, arousal shame and -

"Fear?"

Malfoy's eyes glinted.

"Are you scared, Potter? Finally, the great and mighty Boy Who Lived realises that Draco Malfoy is actually a threat to him, as opposed to an insignificant detail or something pretty to look at."

Harry struggled against the Slytherin and realised, albeit belatedly, that he was bound magically.

"Let me go," he said, willing his voice not to shake.

"D'you know... I don't think I will," said Malfoy, his voice contemplative as he stroked Harry's cock harder, causing the Gryffindor to whimper and thrust his hips involuntarily.

"Malfoy..." he choked. Malfoy smiled widely.

"Beg me." Malfoy squeezed harder, and increased his pace. He stared into Harry's eyes, challenging him. Harry squeezed his eyes closed.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," he spat.

"Well, actually, I was planning on topping myself. Beg. Me."

"No!"

Malfoy quickened his pace further, sweeping his thumb across the tip of Harry's cock before pumping his hand up and down harder and faster than before. Harry's hips jerked of their own accord and his eyelids tightened even further as his lips moved soundlessly.

"I'm sorry, Potter. Could you repeat that? I didn't quite catch it."

"Please," he choked quietly. "Please let me go,"

Malfoy grinned maliciously as his movements sped up once more, and Harry's back arched up as he climaxed. A tear leaked from Harry's tightly closed eyelids as his face filled with shame. Malfoy smirked, leaning over to lick the tear from Harry's face.

"There, there, Potter. Don't cry. Don't tell me that you didn't love that. After all, I was just granting your wishes, right? This little infatuation of yours?"

With that, Malfoy slithered out of Harry's sleeping bag, and was gone, leaving the Gryffindor panting and sticky, still shaking from Malfoy's assault on him.