It's Not A Love Potion - 7a/14
Title: It's Not A Love Potion
Rating: R
Disclaimer: *disclaims*
Summary: “Now, lust potions develop feelings of desire in the taker without the affection that a love potion gives, so Malfoy, you will find that you continue to see Potter as the insufferable twit that he is." Not HBP/DH compliant.
Author note: This story is complete and just needs bazzing through the beta machine, so updates will be fairly regular. I'm still finding my feet in the whole fic-writing thing, so feedback - concrit especially - would be most welcome.
[<< Previous chapter]
Harry was standing in front of the mirror in the boys’ dorm having a small breakdown. He had never before even had an inkling that he was anything other than a normal (well…), heterosexual teenage boy, and yet here he was, bloody fantasising about Draco Malfoy! Of all people!
Yeah, there was definitely a lot of evidence to suggest that all this Dark Lord battling had seriously affected his mind. Take yesterday, for example: there he was, just catching up on his sleep in the Room of Requirement, and he had such a realistic dream about Malfoy doing - well, doing something that he should really not be doing in Harry’s dream. And the terrible thing was, if the completely relaxed state Harry was in when he woke up was anything to go by, he had enjoyed it a lot.
There hadn’t been any, uh, physical evidence of Harry’s enjoyment, though, which had puzzled him for a while. But then he’d remembered just where he was and figured that the Room of Requirement would do its thing to make sure that Harry didn’t wake up sticky and uncomfortable, a fact for which he was admittedly grateful.
But then he’d met Malfoy as usual that night and the memory of the dream had been all he could think about. He was sure that Malfoy had to have noticed something; his face must have been bright red for the whole evening. And then Malfoy had started kissing him…
Harry lifted a hand to the purpling mark on his neck and leaned into the mirror, examining it closely. It had felt so good, Malfoy lavishing attention on him like that. Even Malfoy’s weight pressing down on his leg had turned him on, even when Malfoy bit him. There was definitely something wrong with him.
He was just contemplating whether to get Madam Pomfrey to make sure he hadn’t hit his head at his last Quidditch practice or something when the dormitory door opened and the freckled face of Ron Weasley poked around it.
“Oi, Harry, get a move on, would you? It’s almost-ahh, you’re thinking about her.”
Oh, yeah. Her. The ‘girlfriend’. Malfoy’s advice last night had worked like a charm and Harry was accosted by five different people as soon as he’d made it back to the common room. He’d managed to get away with a vague ‘we want to keep it a secret, you know’, trusting that it’d be all over the school by morning that Harry Potter had a mysterious lover.
As Harry was currently hiding in his dorm, he didn’t really know if the plan had worked or not.
Ron came and stood behind his shoulder and peered into the mirror. He ruffled his hair a bit, turning his head from side to side to admire the effect. “Mate,” he said, once satisfied. “I don’t care if you’re too lovesick to eat, I’m starving. Are you coming or not?”
Ah, well. It was probably better to get it over and done with. At least it’d keep attention off Malfoy for a few weeks until he’d taken the antidote, Harry told himself. It was the least Harry could do after abandoning him like that last weekend.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” he said resignedly and braced himself.
It was as bad as he expected. As soon as he and Ron stepped through the doors, the level of chatter in the Great Hall rose considerably. Harry winced and made directly for the Gryffindor table, taking care not to make eye contact with anyone, least of all Malfoy. Hermione was waiting for them.
“You sure know how to get the school talking, Harry,” she said, a little sympathetically.
Harry ignored her and eyed the neatly-folded copy of The Daily Prophet by the side of her bowl of cornflakes. “I’m not in it, am I?” he asked warily.
“Nope,” she replied, tossing the paper across the table. “It’ll probably take a few days until they pick up on it.”
“Gee, Hermione, that makes me feel so much better,” Harry told her, and she shrugged.
Harry’s classes that day were an absolute mess. Nobody (except Hermione) managed to get any work done at all because they were all too busy pestering Harry. By the end of the day the phrase ‘I’m not telling you who it is, we want to keep it quiet’ was practically an automatic response for Harry to any question asked of him and his ears were ringing from the shrill interrogations of what felt like the entire female population of Hogwarts.
Potions, predictably, was the worst. Snape had been in a particularly foul mood (most likely due to Harry supposedly being happy), and Malfoy fell into silent peals of laughter whenever the word ‘girlfriend’ was mentioned, which was incredibly frequently to say that Snape furiously demanded silence every time someone so much as breathed.
Even in his own common room, Harry didn’t find peace. Lavender and Parvati followed him around, cooing about love at first sight and the heightened element of mystery surrounding him or some such rubbish, and all in all it was actually a relief to finally escape to meet Malfoy.
That was, of course, until he actually met Malfoy. Harry didn’t know how his brain managed to think someone so irritatingly arrogant and yet at the same time really not mind it at all when held down by them and ravished. Surely the ideas should be conflicting?
Nonetheless, Harry had to live through being held to the wall and snogged by a surprisingly-strong Malfoy, all the while fighting the urge to spin them around and shove Malfoy backwards, holding him pinned while their mouths battled and… and trying to make sure that Malfoy didn’t realise that Harry was hard. God, but sometimes Harry enjoyed wearing robes.
He arranged to meet Malfoy at eleven the following day, predicting that the Room of Requirement would probably be the only safe place in the school for him on a Saturday.
Even with no homework to do, it was still the early hours of the morning before Harry gratefully tumbled into his four-poster, ignoring the suggestive whistles from his dorm mates as he tried and failed to sneak in without them hearing and preparing himself for the inevitable Malfoy dreams with a resigned sort of anticipation.
***
When he woke the next day, it was to an empty dormitory. Harry checked his watch. Ten o’clock. It wasn’t unusual for everybody to be awake by then (getting up at seven every morning was quite a hard habit to break), but Harry still felt that he’d been given a wonderful reprieve from the childish questions of a room full of teenage boys (‘Have you done it yet, Harry?’, ‘Has she let you touch her tits?’, ‘She better be fit. She is fit, right, Harry?’, ‘Have you touched her down there?’), and showered and dressed quickly before his moment of tranquillity was ruined.
Making a snap decision to take the coward’s route to the Room of Requirement, Harry grabbed his Invisibility cloak from his trunk and swirled it around himself, enjoying as always the feeling of freedom that came with the knowledge that nobody could see him.
He scribbled a quick note to Ron should he come looking for him and snuck out of the dorm, having to press himself against the wall halfway down the spiral staircase to avoid an oblivious Colin Creevey.
His journey to the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy was blissfully uninterrupted and once he reached the deserted corridor, he pulled off the cloak and stuffed it into his bag.
Once standing in front of the door to his and Malfoy’s room, though, he found himself altogether unwilling to enter. Just why did he promise his day away to general exasperation and sexual frustration?
Maybe if he treated Malfoy the way he would Ron, Harry mused, staring hard at the doorknob, then his thoughts would stop happening. Yeah, that was it. His mind was probably getting confused; every time he met Malfoy he ended up getting kissed. Maybe if they were to act more like… friends… then Harry would get over whatever little problem he was having.
Although how exactly did one act like friends with one’s nemesis-turned-sexual-fantasy-subject? Especially when said sexual fantasy subject kissed him at every opportunity and Harry was absolutely not at all going to kiss him back.
Not that Malfoy would likely complain if Harry were to kiss him. It was more a matter of morals. Malfoy was being forced into this, whereas Harry still had full control over his brain (apparently) and so to kiss Malfoy now would be almost taking advantage of him. In a good way. Maybe.
Either way, it wasn’t going to happen. Harry would make sure of that.
Malfoy was already in the Room, lounging idly on the bed. Harry, refusing to even think about Malfoy-bed-Harry related thoughts, flopped down on the squashy red settee.
His attempts at keeping a distance between them were promptly shunned, however, as Malfoy swiftly walked over to him and straddled his lap, going in for a kiss.
In this position, it was awfully difficult for Harry not to push his hips upward and find out if Malfoy was as affected by the kiss as he was. Although, even if Malfoy did have a hard-on, it wouldn’t be real. There’s no way that Malfoy would like Harry like that under normal circumstances. So why the hell was Harry…?
Malfoy broke the kiss and sat up, irritably pushing the hair out of his eyes. The two of them stared at each other.
He’s your friend, Harry told himself firmly. Just act like he’s your friend... talk to him!
“What do you wear under your robes?” he blurted.
Oh, very platonic, Potter, well done.
Malfoy looked (understandably) confused. “Excuse me?”
Harry mentally cursed. “Well,” he said, scrabbling for something to say to make him sound like less of an idiot. “Ron and Neville just wear jeans under their school stuff, but I can’t really imagine you in denim… or anything…”
Harry’s brain happily supplied him with images of Malfoy in denim. And then Malfoy in nothing at all.
“Are you asking me to strip for you, Potter?” A smirk curled around Malfoy’s lips. Malfoy coyly undoing the buttons of his shirt to expose a pale chest... Harry shook his head quickly.
“Er, no,” he said, his mouth dry. “I’m-I’m just curious. I’ve never… I mean…”
Malfoy took pity on him. “Well,” he said slowly. “It depends? The really traditional purebloods tend not to wear anything underneath…” oh god oh god, please tell me that Malfoy is not naked underneath his robes right now oh god “… but being that exposed really creeps me out.” … shit. I mean, uh, thank goodness.
“I usually just go with shirt and trousers. Not much different to what you wear, really, although my trousers certainly aren’t blue.”
“What sort of stuff are they made of? Just cotton?” Harry asked, wondering just why, exactly, he was inquiring about the material of Malfoy’s trousers. He truly was a master conversationalist. No, really.
Malfoy gave him a strange look. “I can’t say I’ve ever really studied them all that closely, Potter,” he said. “If you’re really that curious, I’d try to sneak you in to my dorm so you can frolic in my wardrobe to your heart’s content, except that’s pretty much impossible. This is Slytherin we’re talking about.”
“Yeah, but…” Harry faltered. Was he really going to tell Malfoy this? Was he forgetting just who he was talking to? Was he letting his over-imaginative dick think for him? Was he really stupid enough to ignore all these internal questions? “I have this.” And he pulled out the Invisibility cloak from his bag.
Malfoy’s jaw dropped.
“I’ve always wanted one of those!” he said in an awed voice, reaching out to run his fingers over the light, silky fabric. “Dad always said that if I ever beat Granger in an exam, he’d get me one.”
Harry shook off the strangeness of hearing Malfoy call his father something as normal as ‘Dad’.
“Can I try it on?”
Surely Harry wasn’t going to trust Malfoy with his dead father’s cloak. “Sure,” he said, and Malfoy clambered excitedly off Harry’s lap. Harry surreptitiously adjusted himself while Malfoy was distracted.
Eventually, after much persuasion on Harry’s part (‘Oh wow, look Potter, I’m a member of the Headless Hunt!’), Malfoy agreed to sneak Harry into Slytherin.
Harry didn’t know why he was so intrigued by the thought of seeing Malfoy’s bedroom (aside from the obvious: more realistic fantasies), but it certainly was nothing to do with the material of Malfoy’s clothing. He settled for curiosity as to whether it had changed since second year. Yeah, that’d do.
The two of them managed to successfully make it through the Slytherin common room (password: Parselmouth) with Harry under the cloak, staring around with interest, and Malfoy leading the way, stalking confidently towards a narrow corridor leading from the main room, well and truly in his element.
The narrow corridor turned out to lead to the dormitories and Malfoy stopped at the seventh door on the left side. Looking over his shoulder for the first time since they entered the common room, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
Harry didn’t know what he was expecting, but the layout was pretty much the same as Gryffindor, except the bed sheets and hangings were in green. He was about to say so when Malfoy held up a hand and gestured to a door leading from the dorm, presumably the bathroom. Harry understood and fell silent.
“Hello?” Malfoy called, peering around the door. He turned back around with a satisfied smile. “No one here.”
Harry finally pulled the cloak off. “The layout’s pretty much the-what?” The smile had slid off Malfoy’s face and his eyes were almost comically wide.
“It’s just… seeing you in my bedroom. Merlin.” He slowly walked towards Harry. Now Malfoy had said it, Harry’s own mind seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Get a grip, Potter!
Oh, but… but Malfoy was kissing him again, and it was just that much more difficult to resist him when he was standing mere feet away from Malfoy’s bed (although admittedly Harry didn’t know which one it was). Malfoy seemed to think so too, because he let out a little moan and slid his hand up Harry’s T-shirt. Harry’s skin tingled. It was really, really hard not to kiss back.
In fact, Harry was considering throwing his morals out of the window… when the door slammed open.
“Parkinson! This isn’t what it-”
“Shit, Panse, when are you going to learn how to knock?”
“Early afternoon on a Saturday, I didn’t think I needed to,” she said weakly, staring at them, one hand still on the doorknob.
Malfoy’s hand was still just under the hem of Harry’s T-shirt. Harry’s squirmed to try and get Malfoy to move it. Malfoy stubbornly refused. “Are you going to shut the door?” Malfoy asked irritably, shooting a ‘shut up and trust me!’ look at Harry as soon as Parkinson’s back was turned. Harry wasn’t sure that trusting Malfoy was a wise decision, really, but what choice did he have?
“Okay,” Parkinson said shortly after she’d slammed the door to the dormitory closed (which Harry also didn’t think was the best of ideas; how had he managed to get himself locked in a room with two Slytherins?). “Explain.”
Malfoy squeezed Harry’s wrist painfully (which Harry interpreted as ‘do not speak’) and began. “Well, uh. We’re kind of… a thing.” Harry began to splutter a protest but Malfoy’s nails dug into the skin of Harry’s arm and that really hurt. Harry shut up.
He needn’t have, apparently.
“I don’t believe you,” Parkinson said shortly. “Prove it.”
“Prove-?!”
“What do you want us to do?”
She tilted her head, contemplating. It was by far the scariest thing Harry had ever seen. “I want you to snog,” she decided.
Malfoy grinned. “That’s no problem, right, Harry?”
Harry, feeling way out of his depth, disagreed. “I don’t really think-”
“Oh, come on,” Malfoy said in an airy tone of voice that was somewhat belied by his vice-like grip on Harry’s wrist and wide eyes. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”
While that was technically true, Harry still wasn’t altogether happy with the situation.
“Never in front of someone else,” he muttered, trying not to give Malfoy’s cover story away by saying ‘Well yes but that was only once and only then because you had pissed me off’.
“Cute,” Parkinson said curtly. “But you should know that if I don’t see some action within the next ten seconds, I am going straight back into the common room and telling the whole house that Harry Potter is in your bedroom, Draco.”
“Pansy!”
“You shouldn’t keep stuff from me, then. Seven seconds.”
“Potter, please.”
“… five… four… three…”
In the end, it was the hopeless expression on Malfoy’s face that convinced him. Cursing his life in seven different ways, Harry leaned forwards and awkwardly mashed his mouth against Malfoy’s. Thankfully, it was over quickly, and he hastily pulled away and glanced over at Parkinson.
She did not look impressed.
[Part II thisaway >>]
Rating: R
Disclaimer: *disclaims*
Summary: “Now, lust potions develop feelings of desire in the taker without the affection that a love potion gives, so Malfoy, you will find that you continue to see Potter as the insufferable twit that he is." Not HBP/DH compliant.
Author note: This story is complete and just needs bazzing through the beta machine, so updates will be fairly regular. I'm still finding my feet in the whole fic-writing thing, so feedback - concrit especially - would be most welcome.
[<< Previous chapter]
Harry was standing in front of the mirror in the boys’ dorm having a small breakdown. He had never before even had an inkling that he was anything other than a normal (well…), heterosexual teenage boy, and yet here he was, bloody fantasising about Draco Malfoy! Of all people!
Yeah, there was definitely a lot of evidence to suggest that all this Dark Lord battling had seriously affected his mind. Take yesterday, for example: there he was, just catching up on his sleep in the Room of Requirement, and he had such a realistic dream about Malfoy doing - well, doing something that he should really not be doing in Harry’s dream. And the terrible thing was, if the completely relaxed state Harry was in when he woke up was anything to go by, he had enjoyed it a lot.
There hadn’t been any, uh, physical evidence of Harry’s enjoyment, though, which had puzzled him for a while. But then he’d remembered just where he was and figured that the Room of Requirement would do its thing to make sure that Harry didn’t wake up sticky and uncomfortable, a fact for which he was admittedly grateful.
But then he’d met Malfoy as usual that night and the memory of the dream had been all he could think about. He was sure that Malfoy had to have noticed something; his face must have been bright red for the whole evening. And then Malfoy had started kissing him…
Harry lifted a hand to the purpling mark on his neck and leaned into the mirror, examining it closely. It had felt so good, Malfoy lavishing attention on him like that. Even Malfoy’s weight pressing down on his leg had turned him on, even when Malfoy bit him. There was definitely something wrong with him.
He was just contemplating whether to get Madam Pomfrey to make sure he hadn’t hit his head at his last Quidditch practice or something when the dormitory door opened and the freckled face of Ron Weasley poked around it.
“Oi, Harry, get a move on, would you? It’s almost-ahh, you’re thinking about her.”
Oh, yeah. Her. The ‘girlfriend’. Malfoy’s advice last night had worked like a charm and Harry was accosted by five different people as soon as he’d made it back to the common room. He’d managed to get away with a vague ‘we want to keep it a secret, you know’, trusting that it’d be all over the school by morning that Harry Potter had a mysterious lover.
As Harry was currently hiding in his dorm, he didn’t really know if the plan had worked or not.
Ron came and stood behind his shoulder and peered into the mirror. He ruffled his hair a bit, turning his head from side to side to admire the effect. “Mate,” he said, once satisfied. “I don’t care if you’re too lovesick to eat, I’m starving. Are you coming or not?”
Ah, well. It was probably better to get it over and done with. At least it’d keep attention off Malfoy for a few weeks until he’d taken the antidote, Harry told himself. It was the least Harry could do after abandoning him like that last weekend.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” he said resignedly and braced himself.
It was as bad as he expected. As soon as he and Ron stepped through the doors, the level of chatter in the Great Hall rose considerably. Harry winced and made directly for the Gryffindor table, taking care not to make eye contact with anyone, least of all Malfoy. Hermione was waiting for them.
“You sure know how to get the school talking, Harry,” she said, a little sympathetically.
Harry ignored her and eyed the neatly-folded copy of The Daily Prophet by the side of her bowl of cornflakes. “I’m not in it, am I?” he asked warily.
“Nope,” she replied, tossing the paper across the table. “It’ll probably take a few days until they pick up on it.”
“Gee, Hermione, that makes me feel so much better,” Harry told her, and she shrugged.
Harry’s classes that day were an absolute mess. Nobody (except Hermione) managed to get any work done at all because they were all too busy pestering Harry. By the end of the day the phrase ‘I’m not telling you who it is, we want to keep it quiet’ was practically an automatic response for Harry to any question asked of him and his ears were ringing from the shrill interrogations of what felt like the entire female population of Hogwarts.
Potions, predictably, was the worst. Snape had been in a particularly foul mood (most likely due to Harry supposedly being happy), and Malfoy fell into silent peals of laughter whenever the word ‘girlfriend’ was mentioned, which was incredibly frequently to say that Snape furiously demanded silence every time someone so much as breathed.
Even in his own common room, Harry didn’t find peace. Lavender and Parvati followed him around, cooing about love at first sight and the heightened element of mystery surrounding him or some such rubbish, and all in all it was actually a relief to finally escape to meet Malfoy.
That was, of course, until he actually met Malfoy. Harry didn’t know how his brain managed to think someone so irritatingly arrogant and yet at the same time really not mind it at all when held down by them and ravished. Surely the ideas should be conflicting?
Nonetheless, Harry had to live through being held to the wall and snogged by a surprisingly-strong Malfoy, all the while fighting the urge to spin them around and shove Malfoy backwards, holding him pinned while their mouths battled and… and trying to make sure that Malfoy didn’t realise that Harry was hard. God, but sometimes Harry enjoyed wearing robes.
He arranged to meet Malfoy at eleven the following day, predicting that the Room of Requirement would probably be the only safe place in the school for him on a Saturday.
Even with no homework to do, it was still the early hours of the morning before Harry gratefully tumbled into his four-poster, ignoring the suggestive whistles from his dorm mates as he tried and failed to sneak in without them hearing and preparing himself for the inevitable Malfoy dreams with a resigned sort of anticipation.
***
When he woke the next day, it was to an empty dormitory. Harry checked his watch. Ten o’clock. It wasn’t unusual for everybody to be awake by then (getting up at seven every morning was quite a hard habit to break), but Harry still felt that he’d been given a wonderful reprieve from the childish questions of a room full of teenage boys (‘Have you done it yet, Harry?’, ‘Has she let you touch her tits?’, ‘She better be fit. She is fit, right, Harry?’, ‘Have you touched her down there?’), and showered and dressed quickly before his moment of tranquillity was ruined.
Making a snap decision to take the coward’s route to the Room of Requirement, Harry grabbed his Invisibility cloak from his trunk and swirled it around himself, enjoying as always the feeling of freedom that came with the knowledge that nobody could see him.
He scribbled a quick note to Ron should he come looking for him and snuck out of the dorm, having to press himself against the wall halfway down the spiral staircase to avoid an oblivious Colin Creevey.
His journey to the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy was blissfully uninterrupted and once he reached the deserted corridor, he pulled off the cloak and stuffed it into his bag.
Once standing in front of the door to his and Malfoy’s room, though, he found himself altogether unwilling to enter. Just why did he promise his day away to general exasperation and sexual frustration?
Maybe if he treated Malfoy the way he would Ron, Harry mused, staring hard at the doorknob, then his thoughts would stop happening. Yeah, that was it. His mind was probably getting confused; every time he met Malfoy he ended up getting kissed. Maybe if they were to act more like… friends… then Harry would get over whatever little problem he was having.
Although how exactly did one act like friends with one’s nemesis-turned-sexual-fantasy-subject? Especially when said sexual fantasy subject kissed him at every opportunity and Harry was absolutely not at all going to kiss him back.
Not that Malfoy would likely complain if Harry were to kiss him. It was more a matter of morals. Malfoy was being forced into this, whereas Harry still had full control over his brain (apparently) and so to kiss Malfoy now would be almost taking advantage of him. In a good way. Maybe.
Either way, it wasn’t going to happen. Harry would make sure of that.
Malfoy was already in the Room, lounging idly on the bed. Harry, refusing to even think about Malfoy-bed-Harry related thoughts, flopped down on the squashy red settee.
His attempts at keeping a distance between them were promptly shunned, however, as Malfoy swiftly walked over to him and straddled his lap, going in for a kiss.
In this position, it was awfully difficult for Harry not to push his hips upward and find out if Malfoy was as affected by the kiss as he was. Although, even if Malfoy did have a hard-on, it wouldn’t be real. There’s no way that Malfoy would like Harry like that under normal circumstances. So why the hell was Harry…?
Malfoy broke the kiss and sat up, irritably pushing the hair out of his eyes. The two of them stared at each other.
He’s your friend, Harry told himself firmly. Just act like he’s your friend... talk to him!
“What do you wear under your robes?” he blurted.
Oh, very platonic, Potter, well done.
Malfoy looked (understandably) confused. “Excuse me?”
Harry mentally cursed. “Well,” he said, scrabbling for something to say to make him sound like less of an idiot. “Ron and Neville just wear jeans under their school stuff, but I can’t really imagine you in denim… or anything…”
Harry’s brain happily supplied him with images of Malfoy in denim. And then Malfoy in nothing at all.
“Are you asking me to strip for you, Potter?” A smirk curled around Malfoy’s lips. Malfoy coyly undoing the buttons of his shirt to expose a pale chest... Harry shook his head quickly.
“Er, no,” he said, his mouth dry. “I’m-I’m just curious. I’ve never… I mean…”
Malfoy took pity on him. “Well,” he said slowly. “It depends? The really traditional purebloods tend not to wear anything underneath…” oh god oh god, please tell me that Malfoy is not naked underneath his robes right now oh god “… but being that exposed really creeps me out.” … shit. I mean, uh, thank goodness.
“I usually just go with shirt and trousers. Not much different to what you wear, really, although my trousers certainly aren’t blue.”
“What sort of stuff are they made of? Just cotton?” Harry asked, wondering just why, exactly, he was inquiring about the material of Malfoy’s trousers. He truly was a master conversationalist. No, really.
Malfoy gave him a strange look. “I can’t say I’ve ever really studied them all that closely, Potter,” he said. “If you’re really that curious, I’d try to sneak you in to my dorm so you can frolic in my wardrobe to your heart’s content, except that’s pretty much impossible. This is Slytherin we’re talking about.”
“Yeah, but…” Harry faltered. Was he really going to tell Malfoy this? Was he forgetting just who he was talking to? Was he letting his over-imaginative dick think for him? Was he really stupid enough to ignore all these internal questions? “I have this.” And he pulled out the Invisibility cloak from his bag.
Malfoy’s jaw dropped.
“I’ve always wanted one of those!” he said in an awed voice, reaching out to run his fingers over the light, silky fabric. “Dad always said that if I ever beat Granger in an exam, he’d get me one.”
Harry shook off the strangeness of hearing Malfoy call his father something as normal as ‘Dad’.
“Can I try it on?”
Surely Harry wasn’t going to trust Malfoy with his dead father’s cloak. “Sure,” he said, and Malfoy clambered excitedly off Harry’s lap. Harry surreptitiously adjusted himself while Malfoy was distracted.
Eventually, after much persuasion on Harry’s part (‘Oh wow, look Potter, I’m a member of the Headless Hunt!’), Malfoy agreed to sneak Harry into Slytherin.
Harry didn’t know why he was so intrigued by the thought of seeing Malfoy’s bedroom (aside from the obvious: more realistic fantasies), but it certainly was nothing to do with the material of Malfoy’s clothing. He settled for curiosity as to whether it had changed since second year. Yeah, that’d do.
The two of them managed to successfully make it through the Slytherin common room (password: Parselmouth) with Harry under the cloak, staring around with interest, and Malfoy leading the way, stalking confidently towards a narrow corridor leading from the main room, well and truly in his element.
The narrow corridor turned out to lead to the dormitories and Malfoy stopped at the seventh door on the left side. Looking over his shoulder for the first time since they entered the common room, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
Harry didn’t know what he was expecting, but the layout was pretty much the same as Gryffindor, except the bed sheets and hangings were in green. He was about to say so when Malfoy held up a hand and gestured to a door leading from the dorm, presumably the bathroom. Harry understood and fell silent.
“Hello?” Malfoy called, peering around the door. He turned back around with a satisfied smile. “No one here.”
Harry finally pulled the cloak off. “The layout’s pretty much the-what?” The smile had slid off Malfoy’s face and his eyes were almost comically wide.
“It’s just… seeing you in my bedroom. Merlin.” He slowly walked towards Harry. Now Malfoy had said it, Harry’s own mind seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Get a grip, Potter!
Oh, but… but Malfoy was kissing him again, and it was just that much more difficult to resist him when he was standing mere feet away from Malfoy’s bed (although admittedly Harry didn’t know which one it was). Malfoy seemed to think so too, because he let out a little moan and slid his hand up Harry’s T-shirt. Harry’s skin tingled. It was really, really hard not to kiss back.
In fact, Harry was considering throwing his morals out of the window… when the door slammed open.
“Parkinson! This isn’t what it-”
“Shit, Panse, when are you going to learn how to knock?”
“Early afternoon on a Saturday, I didn’t think I needed to,” she said weakly, staring at them, one hand still on the doorknob.
Malfoy’s hand was still just under the hem of Harry’s T-shirt. Harry’s squirmed to try and get Malfoy to move it. Malfoy stubbornly refused. “Are you going to shut the door?” Malfoy asked irritably, shooting a ‘shut up and trust me!’ look at Harry as soon as Parkinson’s back was turned. Harry wasn’t sure that trusting Malfoy was a wise decision, really, but what choice did he have?
“Okay,” Parkinson said shortly after she’d slammed the door to the dormitory closed (which Harry also didn’t think was the best of ideas; how had he managed to get himself locked in a room with two Slytherins?). “Explain.”
Malfoy squeezed Harry’s wrist painfully (which Harry interpreted as ‘do not speak’) and began. “Well, uh. We’re kind of… a thing.” Harry began to splutter a protest but Malfoy’s nails dug into the skin of Harry’s arm and that really hurt. Harry shut up.
He needn’t have, apparently.
“I don’t believe you,” Parkinson said shortly. “Prove it.”
“Prove-?!”
“What do you want us to do?”
She tilted her head, contemplating. It was by far the scariest thing Harry had ever seen. “I want you to snog,” she decided.
Malfoy grinned. “That’s no problem, right, Harry?”
Harry, feeling way out of his depth, disagreed. “I don’t really think-”
“Oh, come on,” Malfoy said in an airy tone of voice that was somewhat belied by his vice-like grip on Harry’s wrist and wide eyes. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”
While that was technically true, Harry still wasn’t altogether happy with the situation.
“Never in front of someone else,” he muttered, trying not to give Malfoy’s cover story away by saying ‘Well yes but that was only once and only then because you had pissed me off’.
“Cute,” Parkinson said curtly. “But you should know that if I don’t see some action within the next ten seconds, I am going straight back into the common room and telling the whole house that Harry Potter is in your bedroom, Draco.”
“Pansy!”
“You shouldn’t keep stuff from me, then. Seven seconds.”
“Potter, please.”
“… five… four… three…”
In the end, it was the hopeless expression on Malfoy’s face that convinced him. Cursing his life in seven different ways, Harry leaned forwards and awkwardly mashed his mouth against Malfoy’s. Thankfully, it was over quickly, and he hastily pulled away and glanced over at Parkinson.
She did not look impressed.
[Part II thisaway >>]