Love Under Will

Chapter Six

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Rating: R for language, frequent sexual situations, and angst

Disclaimer: I don't own anything here, except the writing. No profit is intended except the sheer joy I get out of constructing this story.

Note: Info on points raised throughout the story will always be chapter-specific; look at the end of each chapter for notes as necessary.

Chapter Six: Hands Over Hearts

Harry was quivering inside out, his stomach doing regular lurches as a half-queasy, half-petrified sensation rolled over him.  He had raced back to the Gryffindor tower in a frenzy, only to stop below the stairs to the common room.  A sudden, swift dread plummeted over him.  He could hear laughter upstairs, and he knew that the moment he walked through the portrait-hole he’d have to fend off questions; it wasn’t as though doing detention with Malfoy wasn’t a notable event to begin with, and his racing heartbeat and flushed cheeks would be a dead giveaway that something had happened.  He could just hear Seamus laughingly asking if Malfoy had tried anything on him.

No…it was…entirely mutual. 

He cursed under his breath.  He couldn’t go in there.   He didn’t want to deal with that right now.  He wanted to be alone.    He’d already had plenty of human contact for one night. 

I don’t believe this.  I just kissed Malfoy.  I—kissed—Malfoy.

Harry was relatively new to kissing, but he wasn’t bad at it, and he certainly knew enough about it to know when it was particularly mind-blowing.   This kiss had been so incredible he couldn’t wrap his brain around it.   He was still shaking, nearly a quarter of an hour later.  The memory, the still-fresh imprint of Draco Malfoy’s lips quaking against his, his body pressed next to him, his tongue so completely inside of him—all of it left him with an ache and a yearning that were almost unbearable.  Harry nearly buckled under it, gripping the stone wall to keep from dropping to his knees right there in the stairwell.  In all of his life, nothing had ever gripped his heart with as much urgency as he felt now. 

God.  Draco. Draco Malfoy.  He was going crazy.   He hated Malfoy.  HATED him! 

His head was splitting.  He couldn’t get the taste of Draco off of his lips, or the feel of him out of his head.  He was afraid to swallow even though the lump in his throat demanded it.  He wanted to throw a punch into the wall beside him, but realized at the last second that he couldn’t because of the Quidditch match the next day—which he was going to have to play against Malfoy.

He thought of Draco in his Quidditch robes. 

He thought of Draco in only his Quidditch robes.

“Oh my god,” whispered Harry. 

Draco appeared before him in his mind, his robes lightly draped over his pale, smooth chest.  He fixed Harry with a come-hither look from dancing silver-gold eyes.

Harry turned and leaned against the wall, shivering.  He wouldn’t think about that.  His brain wasn’t going there. He wasn’t thinking about how sexy Draco had looked yelling at him earlier, or how taut with lust his voice had been whispering into Harry’s ear.  He wasn’t thinking about how Draco might sound moaning under his touch, or how it would feel to run his fingertips along the graceful arch of that arrogant neck... 

“Oh my god,” whispered Harry.

He heard himself telling Malfoy, “You don’t know what I want,” in a tone that told him exactly what he wanted. 

But he didn’t want it. He didn’t.  Unthinkable.   It was just lust, that’s all it had been.

Sure.  You always go around making moves on your detention partners.  The fact that it was the boy you’ve been obsessed with beating for over four years was purely coincidence.

Malfoy hated him as much as he hated Malfoy.  That had to be true. Didn’t it?

As true as the way he was looking at you tonight, like you were his dessert.  But that was just incidental.  And the fact that you’ve been thinking about him constantly—just ignore that.

Malfoy had been his worst enemy since the day they met. 

Exactly.  You don’t really want to know what he’d look like spread-eagled on your bed.

Malfoy had gone out of his way to make Harry’s life as hellish as possible. 

Like hell, yes.  Never mind that it might be heaven to be close to him—right up close and personal…you don’t care about that. 

“Oh my god,” whispered Harry again, feebly this time.

You don’t want to kiss him again.  How could you?

He saw himself wrapping his hands around Draco’s waist, their bodies pressed together…

You curse the day…

…envisioned Draco raising his thigh and aligning it with Harry’s, rubbing it slowly against his hip as he ran long, delicate fingers through Harry’s hair, murmuring his name softly…

…you ever met Malfoy…

…as Harry leaned into kiss the space between Draco’s neck and shoulder…sensed the rushing of his own blood as he pummeled his body into Draco’s, overcome by the strength and the power of the form beneath him…and finally, finally, claimed Draco’s lips again in an all-consuming, searing kiss…

Half-gasping, half-sobbing, Harry, his body flat, pressing hard against the wall under the shadows, got to his feet and fought back with all his might against the ache straining through his entire being.  He would not give into this.  No! he thought firmly,  trying to shut out the fantasy; but he only succeeded in shutting down, now feeling more anxious, confused, and immobilized than ever. 

The hallway was entirely empty, but it made no difference; he had nowhere to hide anyway.  Nowhere to hide from the rest of the world, and nowhere to hide from himself.  

He felt betrayed.  By his own fucking judgment.   Tonight he had willingly walked into something he wasn’t sure if he could handle, something he wasn’t even sure he wanted. 

And, god help him—something in him was screaming out for more.

When Harry opened his eyes the next morning he felt he could face ten Voldemorts before he could face Draco Malfoy.  Sleep had come only after hours of agony, and as he opened his sand-filled eyes the miserable sense of dread in the pit of his stomach increased to fill him like water sinking a shipwreck.  He was anxious for the moment he faced Draco.  It couldn’t come fast enough; he hoped he never saw him again.  He was going to have to sit through two hours of potions with Malfoy at his side…was going to have to fly next to him that evening…

“I don’t think I can do this,” he mumbled.

“What’s that, Harry?  Why are you still in bed?   You’d better hurry or you’ll miss breakfast.”  Harry winced and sat up.  Ron eyed him critically.  “Blimey, Harry, you really have been having trouble sleeping, haven’t you?  Look at the circles under your eyes.”

“I can’t very well do that, can I?” Harry snapped irritably.  Ron jumped, taken aback, and Harry added, “Sorry,” now feeling guilty as well as self-conscious.  Ron cast him a look of concern, but said nothing further. 

At breakfast he sat silently, his back to the Slytherin table, so unable to concentrate on anything but Malfoy that he remained grimly silent, staring solemnly at his untouched plate and starting only when he heard Draco’s sharp, unmistakable laugh behind him.  It made him instantly both happy and upset.  Just what the hell does he find so funny? He thought irritably, pissed that Malfoy was obviously finding it easier to distract himself than he was, pissed that he couldn’t stop thinking about last night, pissed that Malfoy apparently could, and pissed that it mattered so much to begin with. 

He began to feel ill as the sound of Malfoy’s light, penetrating voice washed over him.  “Harry, are you okay?”  Hermione was staring at him.

“He’s all right,” Ron said gently, and Harry was suddenly grateful for his best friend’s presence.  “Harry just didn’t sleep well, is all.”

“Harry, are you feeling up for Quidditch?”  Katie Bell asked.

“The Quidditch match!” Neville said with an air of amazement. “I’d completely forgotten about that, what with the duel, and Snape and all.”

"You will manage to rest sometime today, won’t you?” the tall seventh-year chaser continued.  “You’ll need all your energy if you’re going to beat Malfoy to the Snitch today.”

"Yeah, he’ll be out for blood,” Ron grumbled.   “Of course he always is, but it’s been an All-Malfoy, All-the-Time week for you, hasn’t it, Harry?”

And you’ve loved every minute of it.

“I guess you could say that,” Harry said shortly.  He smiled faintly at Katie and nodded encouragingly.  As he did, a wave of fresh determination swept over him.  He was the Gryffindor Seeker, about to play Slytherin today for the lead in the Quidditch cup.  That was what he needed to focus on; not how good the Slytherin Seeker might look in—or out—of his robes, or how nice his lips had tasted the night before.  Dammit, he was Harry Potter, the youngest Seeker in a century, and he wasn’t going to let anything as insignificant as a late-night snog throw off his game.  “I feel fine,” he responded through gritted teeth.  “We’ve got them.”

But Harry, for all his confidence, couldn’t escape the finality of partnering Malfoy in Potions.  As breakfast ended and he headed back to Herbology with the others, he found his eyes straying to the Slytherin table before he realized what he was doing.  No! Don’t look at—but it was too late, for his eyes had landed on the impeccable figure of Malfoy, who, mid-sentence to Goyle, seemed to feel the pull of Harry’s eyes, and turned around to look directly at him.

Harry’s heart heaved, and Malfoy instantly lost the power of speech, a look of terror, yearning, and a thousand other emotions darting through his features in a split second.  He instantly looked away from Harry again, but the previous moment appeared to have left him visibly shaken.  So Malfoy wasn’t as impervious as he’d thought.  He’d been right: Draco, from the looks of it, had had no sleep either, his fine silvery hair a crumpled mess falling around his wan face.  The image stayed with Harry long after he turned away and left the dining hall, and the thought persisted: how in the world am I going to get through this day?

Harry’s mood hadn’t improved by the time he found himself trudging blindly through the dungeons to Potions.  As he walked between Ron and Hermione down the corridor he felt his last vestiges of control slipping away.  The weight in his stomach had spread over the rest of him, and he was finding it hard to pick up his legs and make them move towards his imminent doom.  Any moment he expected to meet Draco’s long, angular face, his eyes burning with intensity: whether it would be intense hate or nervousness or something else altogether, Harry had no idea; he knew only that whatever it was, he couldn’t bear the thought of facing it. 

He was concentrating so hard on not thinking about Draco that he was unable to think of anything else.

“…Harry?  Harry!”

“Hu—what?”

“Good grief, where are you today?  Did you even hear what Hermione was just saying?”

Harry shook his head.  Hermione re-launched into a diatribe about how she couldn’t figure out why they were studying such an advanced potion.   “I checked in Moste Potente Potions and it’s in there along with Polyjuice and all these other much less harmful substances.  I mean, honestly, teaching us how to brew this is practically enabling us to commit murder!  You’d think Dumbledore would prevent Snape from showing us something like this!”

“Well, but think, Herm, nobody stopped Moody—I mean, Crouch—from showing us the Unforgivable Curses.  He said we’ve got to be prepared—have to know what we’re up against—and as much as I hate to say it, he had a point.   That’s probably what Snape is thinking now.”

Hermione had a ready retort, but Harry missed it, as just at that moment he caught the words, “—What do you think’s the matter with him? He’s been acting all funny lately, ‘ave you noticed?”  His breath caught in his chest. It was the thick, gruff voice of Goyle, who was lumbering along with Crabbe a little ways behind them. They must be talking about Draco, he thought, clenching his fist in involuntary anxiety.  Wasn’t he with them?  Why not? Where was he?  He slowed his steps and craned his ear.

“A little,” said Crabbe dully. He sounded as though he had a mouthful of something.

“I dunno. He was actin’ all odd-like this morning. Did you hear how loud he was being? That’s not like him.”  Crabbe grunted.   Goyle seemed to accept this as enough of a response.  “Well, whatever it is, he better be over it by this afternoon.  He won’t kick any Gryffindor arse in that state.”

Another grunt from Crabbe seemed to end the conversation (if you could call it that) and as they entered the dungeon Harry could feel his heart pounding in his throat.  He wanted desperately to look around for Draco, but he also couldn’t bear the thought of—

“EARTH TO HARRY!”

“What? What is it?” Harry jumped.  “Geez, Ron!”

“Well, Hermione was trying to go over the ingredients with us in case Snape decides to quiz us, and you weren’t bloody paying attention, and—Look, Harry, what is wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, all right? Just—please, just stop asking!”

Ron looked hurt, but he grimaced and nodded.  “All right. Fine.”  Hermione put a hand on his shoulder consolingly, but Ron moved past them both without another word to take his place next to a sneering Crabbe.  Hermione gave Harry a concerned look, but Harry was too preoccupied, and took his seat at Malfoy’s normal spot without bothering to apologize.  He felt bad, but dammit, where was he?  He slumped slowly down in his seat at Draco’s desk, unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed.  Part of him resented the idea that Draco was too cowardly to show up and look him in the eyes after what happened; yet, considering the trouble Harry was having doing the same thing, he couldn’t help thinking Draco had been smart to stay away.

Snape swept in and announced with a sinister smile that he was indeed giving them a full hour quiz on the Diabolution Solution.  Harry groaned and wiped the sleep out of his eyes, feeling stupid and foolish for having ignored Hermione and snapped at Ron.  He should have known Snape would pull this: he loved being particularly nasty on the days Gryffindor and Slytherin played each other.    

Harry was staring dully at the items on his desk, wondering if he should get Draco’s half of the potion out, or if he should get ready to fail the quiz by himself—he’d been focusing on other things this week than Deathjoy Serum ingredients—when the door to the back of the classroom slowly creaked open.   Snape looked up with something like relief, and a terrible, awful cold gripped Harry from his head to his toes.  This was it.  He reached for his quill and buried his head in his tablet, but his hand began to tremble so badly he could barely write.  Get a grip!  He instructed himself fiercely, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves.   

He didn’t dare turn around and look, but Malfoy seemed to be taking an awfully long time getting there, walking with deliberate slowness—perhaps screwing up his resolve.  When he reached his seat he slid gracefully into it, pointedly avoiding looking at Harry.  Snape continued with his quiz instructions once Malfoy had settled in: they were each to mix one half of the potion’s twelve different ingredients without help from their notes.  At the end of the period the two halves would be mixed together to form the serum.  Groans ensued from all sides: even for Snape this was a difficult, overly complicated quiz. 

Harry’s brain was racing desperately.  He was sure he’d never remember the correct amounts of all the parts of the mixture.  As if reading his mind, Pansy Parkinson timidly asked if they could confer with their partners.   She was instantly followed with a chorus of agreement from everyone else.   “You may confer once and only once, at the beginning of the quiz, on who will do which half of the potion.  You can at that time discuss whatever is necessary regarding the preparation of the two halves.  After that time period, however—” Snape paused menacingly—“you are each of you on your own.”

Harry gulped.  He didn’t know which was worse, making an idiot of himself in front of Draco today of all days, or having to ask Draco for help under the same circumstances.  Either way, he figured, he couldn’t very well get out of speaking to him.  Maybe he could make it brief.

Summoning all his courage Harry turned to face Draco. “Right, then,” he said faintly, appalled at how uptight and nervous he sounded, “I’ll take the wolfsbane if you’ll take the brew mix and…” he trailed off.   Draco’s eyes were still fixed deliberately on Snape, not him, his normal pallor replaced with a scarlet flush.  In his already edgy state this just irked Harry more, and he hissed harshly, “For god’s sake, at least look at me.” 

The moment he said that he regretted it; Draco obligingly turned and fixed Harry with his gaze, which was drawn thin from lack of sleep and just as darkly intense as Harry had anticipated; but the moment their eyes met the sternness in Draco’s wavered, and Harry was instantly overwhelmed with the memory of their kiss; so recent, so passionate, so raw and physical and exhilarating.  His glance flickered down to Draco’s lips.  He couldn’t help it: he wanted to taste them again; and when he felt Draco’s gaze sweep involuntarily over his own mouth, Harry forgot about everything else.  He forgot about fighting the color rising in his cheeks; he forgot about the Deathjoy serum; he allowed himself to be lost in the wild mix of emotions sweeping over him, unchecked.  He knew Draco was in the middle of the same experience, and for a long moment they simply drank in one another’s faces as pulse upon pulse of feeling flowed between them. 

Harry hadn’t known what emotions he would have when he next faced Draco.  Now what he felt most of all was the most surprising thing: not anger, or anxiety, or fear—but comfort.  He didn’t want to examine it as he looked into those cloudy amber-gray eyes; he just wanted to keep it right there between them.

With a considerable effort, Draco swallowed and spoke, still not inclined to break their steady gaze into one another’s faces.  “Yes?”   His voice was harsh but his eyes were oh, so soft…

Harry blinked mistily.  Damn you… you felt so good in my arms last night… Perhaps Draco was thinking the same thing; his mouth had gone dry and he licked his lips before answering, the quick flick of his tongue sending sparks throughout Harry and causing him to sputter suddenly, “Look, last night—Draco, I—”

It was hearing his first name that did it.  The spell was broken: Draco sat back with a jolt and hastily snarled, “There’s nothing about last night that’s worth discussing, Potter.”  Harry’s name sounded suddenly foreign.  He closed his eyes, trying to erase his mortification.

What did you think he’d do anyway, you moron?

What did you want him to do? 

“Just do the wolfsbane and let me handle the rest, and don’t forget to cut it up properly,” Malfoy dictated.  Harry nodded, wishing he could apparate on the spot.  “Do you remember how many portions of nettles?” Draco pressed, his drill-sergeant tone attempting to make up for his unsteady breathing.   “Three fourths for every cup,” he instructed, “and don’t forget to let the water cool before you mix it with the herbs.” 

Harry nodded silently at all this.  Why did you even mention last night? Why? 

Maybe it would have been all right—you could’ve—  

Could’ve what, Potter?  Held hands?

He glanced down at Malfoy’s hands.  They were trembling the way his own had been earlier.  Before he could stop himself he wondered what it would feel like to just reach over, slip his fingers around the slim curves of Draco’s own; he felt in his mind the pressure of flesh against flesh as their hands curled into one another…and now he was quivering with nervousness and excitement that would not fade or lessen in intensity.

The next ninety minutes were nothing short of excruciating.  As much as he tried to focus on the serum, he kept losing track because of the way his gaze kept shifting to Draco’s face, or to his slim, straight figure.  At first he expected a reprimand from the Slytherin to stop staring; but then it became clear that the same thing was happening to Draco, who every now and then would risk a glance at Harry only to stop and run his fingers roughly through his long silver hair as if trying to get a grip on himself.  He couldn’t know the heart-quickening affect this had on Harry, who would in turn shove his glasses forcefully up on his nose and rub the perspiration off of his scar, while Draco frantically closed his eyes as if trying to block the image of a sweaty Harry Potter from his mind.

It was useless; he couldn’t concentrate.  Twice he had to pour out his measurements and redo them because he couldn’t remember what he’d just measured.  Once he saw Draco, whose handwriting was already shaky, angrily rip up a parchment full of ingredients and start over because he’d forgotten something.   It was getting ridiculous.  Harry’s nerves were stretched to the limit.   The comfort of Draco’s soft gaze had been replaced by a hammering, unquenchable anxiety.  When he finally reached the last stage of his half of the potion he let out an audible sigh of relief.  Now all he had to do was let the nettle mix cool before he added the wolfsbane.  They still had ten minutes and Draco, who had the more complicated half of the serum, had only one ingredient left to add.  It lay measured carefully in front of him as he jotted down the amounts on his second parchment. 

Relieved they’d gotten through the quiz successfully, Harry sat back and tried to relax as he watched Draco.  He wondered why he’d never noticed that Malfoy was left-handed.  Didn’t they say lefties were more intelligent—more creative and innovative?  He tried to remember, focusing his eyes on Draco’s face: on his well-defined jaw-line, which met soft cheeks and soft lips at either end; the sharp, straight contours of his forehead, nose, and chin—a striking profile that never failed to turn heads, regardless of what people thought of Malfoy’s character.

Harry felt a sharp pang of something unnamable, something more than a little unnerving.  He looked closer at those soft, fine eyelashes, fluttering under two thin straight brows now furrowed in concentration; and with a start he realized what it was that he felt looking at Draco right now: possessiveness.  Draco wasn’t just Harry’s enemy anymore: he was…he was his.  His to touch, his to lust after—his to hate.  It was a strange, nasty, heavenly sensation, and Harry didn’t understand it; but Draco’s golden eyes were sinking into his soul like lead weights, and Harry was starting not to care about anything else—especially not logic.  Just then the helium effect Draco was having upon him didn’t seem so illogical.  Just then the fiery urge to have Draco under his skin, on the tip of his tongue, and anywhere else he wanted him felt anything but wrong.  Just then Harry didn’t care whether he’d always felt this, deep in the pit of his soul, or if the whole thing was nothing but a lustful delusion.  All he knew was that, just then, he was looking at what he wanted.

And oh, how he wanted.

Somewhere in the midst of this mad euphoric craving that earlier sense of comfort slipped into Harry’s reverie, something tender and gentle, so oddly out of place among the more intense emotions he was feeling that it shook Harry awake a bit.

And then he felt it: Draco’s hand on his.

Without realizing it Harry had drawn his left hand near Draco’s right, which lay curled into a half-fist on the bench between them as he wrote.  At least, it had lain so before somehow working its way imperceptibly against Harry’s, where it lingered ever so slightly, his smallest finger unconsciously, gently tracing the back of Harry’s ring finger.  Harry gaped and froze with one glance at Draco: he had no idea that he was touching Harry at all.

Harry shifted in his chair, half-afraid of being noticed even though he knew their hands were out of sight.  Desperate to move and yet unwilling to break the contact, he raised his fingers from the bench and pressed them up into Draco’s in an attempt to get Draco to realize what he was doing.  As soon as he did it he hated himself: the touch was too tantalizing to resist.  Draco was totally immersed in scribbling down the last ingredient; but the part of him that was enjoying playing with Harry’s hand seemed to savor the movement immensely, for he slid even more of his hand over Harry’s, to Harry’s delicious horror, and began gingerly caressing the length of Harry’s fingers.  Harry felt his breath leave him.  All he could do was sit helplessly, and the worst part of all was that he didn’t want to do anything about it.  Draco’s fingers were considerably longer than his, and so slender that they fitted between his own as easily as air.  It felt so comfortable, so natural; and as Draco’s hand curved over his knuckles the only thing that seemed more natural to Harry was gently flipping his hand so that their palms met, so that he could meet the inevitable urge to lace their fingertips together before he exploded with yearning to possess Draco Malfoy’s tight, hot grasp.

He was completely entranced.  His mind was shrieking that it was the worst mistake…

…but the way he felt when Draco Malfoy closed his fingers around his own was the newest best feeling of Harry Potter’s life. 

Unfortunately, just then Draco glanced down, and the dream ended.

He didn’t scream, but he drew back so suddenly and sharply that he knocked over his cauldron, sending the concoction he’d spent all period preparing oozing out onto the table.  Instantly Harry reached across and saved the remainder, but Draco, now visibly shaking and making no attempt to hide his discomposure (which made it seem, for him, that much more discomposing), whipped out his wand and muttered, “Dissolutia,” so quickly he forgot to be careful of his wand, which literally jumped in his hand and sent out a strange steam that not only instantly evaporated the spilt Diabolution Solution, but all that remained in the pot.

Harry’s heart nose-dived and Draco, for a stunned moment, just stared.  Then, with one mind, they went to work, Harry frantically mixing ingredients while Draco grabbed them and measured them out with a lethal sort of frenzied calm.   Snape had already begun checking the other students’ work, and even though Harry knew he’d save their table for the end, he knew they’d never be able to recreate their work.  Turning around to Ron, who had just endured a string of insults from Snape and was now gathering his books to leave, he hissed, “Don’t wait for me!”  Ron nodded, still aggravated at Harry for snapping at him before, and he didn’t stick around to ask questions. 

Harry returned his attention to Draco.  Within a few harried minutes they managed to throw together a messy looking substitute for the original, and Draco now sat staring glumly at it as Harry hastily added his own half of the potion and waited hopefully for a flash of green light.

What they got was a loud, atomic explosion of green glop.

They covered their faces but it went everywhere—onto Harry’s glasses, into Draco’s beautiful platinum hair.  He reeled, recovered and pointed wordlessly at Harry’s side of the table with a look of death; the wolfsbane was lying forgotten in the corner.  Harry, who had taken off his glasses to wipe them clean, gaped and cast Draco a contrite gaze.  “Oh, no,” he groaned.  Draco, looking back, seemed unsure what to do; for a moment as his eyes met Harry’s, he seemed to be fighting an urge not to wipe the remnants of the potion off of his face and laugh the whole thing off.  But just then…

Snape was suddenly standing over them, black robes billowing menacingly out behind him like some sort of grim specter.  Harry braced for the worst, but Draco visibly cringed, and Harry realized the Slytherin had never done anything remotely worthy of the teacher’s displeasure—until now.

Snape took one sweeping glance at the leftover exploded potion, their dripping clothes, the forgotten ingredient—and cut them both off curtly, his voice dark.  “I don’t want to know.  No marks, for either half.”   His eye fixed Draco.  “Mr. Malfoy, I’m disappointed in you,” he said coldly.

Draco’s face contorted as though he’d been slapped.

As he fell back in his chair the pain and shame in his face were so strong that Harry, without thinking, leaped to his feet.  The few students remaining in the room stared as he yelled at Snape.  “That was completely uncalled for!   You didn’t even look at our parchment—we had all the right information, shouldn’t we at least get credit for that?”  Snape began to retort, but Harry continued recklessly, “Go on! Take a look at Malfoy’s, he knew what he was doing!” 

He shoved the paper in Snape’s face even as Draco said sharply beside him, “Shut up, Potter.”

Harry, however, had gone too far to quit.  “I’m serious, Professor!” he pleaded.  “Draco’s half was right but there was an accident—it’s my fault.  You always give him points when he doesn’t deserve any, it shouldn’t be too hard to give them to him now when he does.” 

He sat back down bitterly. Snape eyed him in pure astonishment, and Harry realized that had he not been defending Draco Malfoy he’d surely be facing expulsion for accosting a teacher. 

And over Malfoy.  Fuck!

“Twenty points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter!” Snape snapped finally.  “Mr. Malfoy is quite man enough to handle himself without your leaping to his defense, and if you thought you’d seize the opportunity to gain yourself another admirer, you’re very much mistaken.  My apologies, Draco, for partnering you with Potter, but even I had no idea of the heights of his incompetence.” 

Harry, his cheeks burning, glanced at Draco, a part of him wishing the Slytherin would speak out in his defense even as he knew it was futile.  Malfoy was still ashen-faced over Snape’s first insult; Harry doubted he even cared about the grade. 

Snape was still glaring.  “My decision still stands.   No marks.”  Harry, seething, fixed his eyes with loathing on the teacher; Malfoy was getting his books together in a dazed silence.

Harry watched him in wordless confusion.  Five days earlier he would have relished Malfoy getting what was coming to him; but damn him, the kiss had apparently rendered Harry sensitive to Draco’s vulnerability.  You didn’t have to be a fan of either to know how much Draco worshiped Snape.  Harry wanted desperately to feel exultant, but he couldn’t.  He could feel Draco’s mortification; it was palpable, scorching Harry’s own cheeks scarlet; and all he could muster when he looked at the Slytherin was sympathy. 

He grabbed his books and almost knocked his chair over on the way after Malfoy, who was making a hurried exit.  In the hallway he caught up with the other wizard’s quick stride and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.  Malfoy whipped around to face him, icy and expressionless.  “What do you want, Potter?”

Harry took a deep breath and steadied his gaze.  “I’m sorry,” he said forcibly, unable to avoid amazement at hearing himself say those words to Malfoy.

Draco’s face remained a wall.  “Save it,” he answered coldly.  “I don’t need your apologies—you’ve already done enough.”

He turned and began to walk proudly away, and Harry, desperate to show Draco that he understood what he was feeling, to reassure him any way he could, leaned forward and grasped his elbow.

Lightning ran through him at the contact, but Draco jerked away venomously.  “Fuck off, Potter,” he hissed deliberately, his eyes glittering, snake-like slits.  “Do you hear me?  Fuck—Off!”  

Malfoy’s volume wasn’t loud, but the rage behind his words was deafening.  Harry backed away, gaping uncertainly, and Draco retreated without another glance his way.

So that was that.

For a moment Harry knew only a blinding, numbing ache of loss and defeat. 

Then he started to get mad.

Rage was a familiar emotion where Malfoy was concerned, and he welcomed it, especially now, even though he didn’t know who he was more pissed off at—Draco or himself.  “Fine,” he muttered under his breath as the Slytherin walked away, tacking on, “spineless bastard,” after a moment, with more venom than he felt, because it seemed appropriate.

By the time he reached his next class, his anger at Draco had almost driven away the lingering sensations of his touch.

Almost.

______

If you think the hand-holding action in this scene was cheesy, OOC, and over the top, blame her *points to Ashkta* --because she assured me that it wasn’t. *hugs Ashkta* Also, to all the people who have come to me with reviews thus far, I want to say that I am so extremely grateful to each of you. Your reception of this story has been the most wonderful thing I could have hoped for. Thanks to Franzi as always for being so patient and astute, and for helping me to think like an editor and not just a cheesy fanfic writer. Huge schnoogles to the Draco_101 list, especially Fran and Nancy, and finally to my wonderful new friend Erica. You have all let me explore and ramble about Draco and Harry to my heart’s desire, and have yet to tell me to shut up.

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