Endless Loop

"What's this?"

Draco whipped around, absent-mindedly tugging at the bottom of his shirt. Potter had picked up a framed photograph from his bedside table.

"Put that down," Draco snapped, his voice unusually high.

"I didn't know you sang," said Potter, studying the picture. "The choirboy look suits you, actually..."

Draco snatched the picture away, and was annoyed to see that his visitor was smirking. It made him want to hit him until he was unrecognizable. "It's not my fault," Draco said shortly, feeling an irrational need to explain, "my father signed me up when I was four...he has this thing about choirboys. I'm serious," he added, when Potter raised his eyebrows.

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his tangled hair. Why me? The question kept rolling across his mind as if set on an endless loop. Why me? It was too surreal, too nightmarish to be true. And yet here Potter was, the insufferable pest, here in his room. Draco's fingers knotted into fists at his sides. He hated Potter and his stupid smirking face, his round glasses, his dirty hair. He wanted Potter to know how disgusted he was, he wanted to yell at him, but he couldn't make the words come out; instead, his throat emitted a strangled, squeaky sound.

"Look," Draco said after clearing his throat, his hand at his neck, "can we get this over with, already?" He forced himself to scowl in Potter's direction.

Potter shrugged and turned his back on the other boy, ambling over to the bed and sitting on it. Clearly, he wasn't planning on making it easy--that was just like him. He picked up textbook that was lying, open-faced, on the comforter, and began to thumb through it, an infuriatingly placid expression painted across his face.

"Potter," Draco said through grinding teeth, walking over to him and plucking the book neatly out of his fingers. "Stop fucking with me."

Potter's eyes widened in mock surprise.

"Watch your language, Malfoy," he said. "You're hardly in the position to give orders." Draco folded his arms across his chest and said nothing, but he knew it was true, and it was making him increasingly uncomfortable. It had been easier when he had been looking the other way. He, Draco, who had never sweat in his life, was beginning to feel that the room was too stuffy. Looking at Potter, sitting there on his bed, made his stomach churn helplessly; ugly Potter, stupid Potter, Potter whom he hated.

"But alright," said Potter after a moment. "We'll do it your way."

Instantly, Draco regretted hurrying things along; his hatred was replaced with a sense of panic and dread that he had never felt before. Potter stood up, and Draco took an involuntary step back, his eyes darting towards the door, the window, sizing up his options for escape.

Potter must have noticed this because he grinned and said with exaggerated delicacy, "This is going to happen." He reached out and carefully slid his hand under Draco's shirt. His hand was warm, but Draco shivered. "So you might as well have fun."

And as Draco stared helplessly, hopelessly at Harry's bottle-green eyes, he felt his knees go weak.