Draco Malfoy wasn't known for his good temper. Quite the opposite, really. Draco was what you might call a reactor. Blowing up at the smallest and tiniest of details gone wrong. Things have to go his way. No objections.

Enter Harry Potter. The infuriatingly hot, black-haired, green-eyed, golden boy. He was a bit of a celebrity, really. Draco supposes that adds to his charm. But of course, Draco wouldn't know, would he? He couldn't speak two words to the bispeckled boy who—Draco was sure—was one hundred percent straight. And even if he wasn't, would Draco even really have a chance? How could he compare to Cho Chang—Harry's girlfriend of two years.

Draco isn't even supposed to feel this way about males. His blood-line would be horrified with the knowledge that a Malfoy was homosexual.

Naturally, he hasn't told anyone about these feelings. Well, anyone but Pansy Parkinson, his best friend. Pansy was the nicest person Draco had ever met. He supposed if he had the balls to talk to Harry, maybe he could overtake the position, but that didn't seem likely anytime soon.

Draco supposed that Pansy wasn't the nicest to everyone else. She knew Draco was fragile—as was she—and felt the instinct to snap at anyone that crossed their path. Draco steered clear of Harry and Cho for this reason among many others.

Pansy had told him earlier that people thought they were dating and Draco laughed, saying that was hilarious if they knew just how very gay he was.

Quidditch was easily the best part of school. Expecially when Gryffindor played against Slytherin. As the keeper, Draco could easily stare at Harry and pass it as watching for the quaffle. He was an excellent keeper so no one could complain. Harry somehow made him even more foucused. Flint had asked him to play seeker, but he had hurriedly declined; there was no way he would be able to be in such close proximity to Harry without flubbing up.

Most days consisted of eating, lessons, body care, and watching Harry from out of the corners of his grey eyes. This is routine for Draco. This is average for Draco. This is home for Draco.

The day didn't feel different than any other. Draco had woken up, yawned, and stumbled out of bed at an early hour with the knowledge that today consisted of double Potions with the Gyffindors. Cho Chang would not be present.

Draco throws on his robes and snatches his bag after a quick shower, and hurries out of the dormitory. He doesn't want to be alone with any of the others ever—and today is certainly no exception. He pushes open the door and sprints up the stairs to the common room, across it, and down the set diagonal to the set he'd prior climbed up. His pale fist makes contact with the dark oaken door, impaitently. Didn't she remember what day it was?

The door swings open with a long creak after loud, protestant swearing can be heard from inside.

"Draco, I swear to Merlin. . ." Pansy's dark bob is unruly with the contrary waves she fights a fierce battle with every morning. She rests her palm against her forehead and cobalt eyes, "every damn morning you get here earli—"

"Absolutely incorrect," Draco interrupts the shorter girl, a shit-eating grin spreading across his thin lips, "yesterday was a Sunday, and I didn't wake you up. I was in the common room writing that essay for Flitwick. And, I think you'll be most pleased I've reminded you that today is going to be an excellent day." He holds up a long nimble didget every time Pansy makes to part her lips.

The dark-haired girl roughly shoves the hand from her face, "Oh sod off, Draco, it's bearly the ass-crack of fucking dawn! Potter won't even be up yet! Get a grip, mate!" Pansy is screaming in the pale boy's face, but he knows from experience—extensive experience—that she isn't mad at him. Or at least, she won't be later.

"Jesus Christ," a blonde girl inside Pansy's dorm swears with her thick Australian accent, "shut the fucking door, Parkinson!" Pansy pats Draco's cheek and shuts the door in his face.

A few hours post, Pansy and Draco are walking to breakfast. Pansy is talking a-mile-a-minute—and Draco is letting her. Part of their mutual respect comes from one-sided conversations, and they're both fine with that. Draco would usually be listening more, or doing the one-sided chatter—but his mind is too full of Harry. His lovely dark messy hair, his leafy green eyes, round glasses reflecting light from the candelabras overhead. . . .

"Draco," fingers are snapping inches away from his eyes, "you can't zone out whilst walking down the bloody corridor, besides, we're here." Pansy pushes open the great heavy doors to the Great Hall, and tugs Draco in after her.

Draco's grey eyes are already canvassing the room, picking out a tousled head of raven hair. . . Ah! There. Draco's face falls, of course with Cho Chang.

Pansy can tell what Draco is upset about without even tracing his gaze, "Don't sweat it, Double Potions, remember? No Ravenclaws." She leads the pale boy over to some empty seats at the Slytherin table, and pulls platters of bacon and kippers toward the pair. Draco sits in silence, running over the calculations of exactly how many minutes it would be until potions, and where he'd have to set up his caldron so he'd have a good view of Harry without the longing gazes and staring being acknowledged. Harry would most likely partner up with Ron Weasley, and they usually sat near the front of the room. Somewhere in the back would be good, no one would notice. . . .

Pansy seemed to have given up on yelling at him to catch his attention, and throws a heaping portion of oatmeal and piles sausage onto Draco's gleaming golden plate. He picks up a utensil and spoons some oatmeal into his mouth. The metal is cold and firm against his tongue contrasting with the warm sugary oatmeal it holds.

By the time Professor Flitwick finally finished assigning their homework for the night, Draco's legs were itching to sprint from the stuffy classroom and down to the chill, dank dungeons where Potions was taught by his favorite teacher, Professor Snape. Snape seemed to be rather fond of Draco for reasons he didn't quite understand—but was more than willing to accept. Much nicer than his birth father ever was. Snape's one flaw was the fact he despised Harry Potter with unfathomable wrath. Draco supposed Snape wouldn't like him as much if he knew he was gay for the student he hated the most.

The bell rang throughout the halls and Draco leaped from his seat, threw the leather strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, and grabbed Pansy's wrist as he dashed out the door into the crowded hallways. Pansy's robes billow out behind her as she stumbles after him knowing persistence is futile in this situation. Draco slowed to a brisk pace as they pass the Transfiguration class where Draco knows Harry is. He risks a glance in as they pass—he's not in there, Draco's heart cinches uncomfortably.

Pansy notices Draco's grip on her wrist has fallen slack and grips his upper arm to pull him past, "You're making a scene staring like some you've ingested some dingy love potion," The female's words seem to pull Draco awake and aware; he shakes his head, "I might as well have." Pansy groans and gives the blond-haired boy a hefty shove foreword.

"Amortentia is perhaps not the wisest task for some of you daft-brained imbeciles to attempt to brew, but the course requires of it," Professor Snape's curtain of greasy dark hair swings as he turns to face the chalk board and raps it sharply with his wand. Where the tip of the wand touched, white scrawl blooms and blossoms out across the board's black surface. "You will have all but ten minutes of the remainder of the class. Begin!" Draco peers up from his text book to ogle Harry and—of course—Ron Weasley who look very panic-stricken.

"This shouldn't be too hard," Pansy mumbles, her blue eyes skimming the list of ingredients and directions. She glances up at the script on the board and back down at the printed text and shuts her book and pushes it into her bag on the floor beside her.

Draco has seen Snape brew this before and noticed he didn't use the book, but seemed to pull up his own set of directions that seemed to produce a much better reaction. The hook-nosed professor had always told him that the daft students that were failing relied heavily on the book for instruction. Pansy remembers this before he does—it seems—and the blond boy follows suit.

Quite a while later, Pansy and Draco stand proudly behind their cauldron which had a gleaming mother-of-pearl sheen and spiraling steam looping up from it. Draco practically swooning from the scent of Harry emanating from within. Professor Snape strides across the room to the very back and stops in front of the two Slytherins, his face bearing what resembled a thin smile for a fraction of a second before it snapped back to its usual firm, stationary line so quickly Draco thought he might've imagined it. "Excellent job," he drawls, "fifty points to Mr. Malfoy, and another fifty to Miss. Parkinson, I think is deserved." Beneath the table, Pansy squeezes Draco's hand in triumph. Draco sneaks a glance up to the front of the room and is delighted to see Harry faintly smiling the two of them. Draco's grip on Pansy's hand increases sharply. Ron elbows Harry sharply in the ribs and his smile falls.

As the class files out, most of them darkly mumbling curses mainly directed at Snape, Pansy squeezes the two vials of potion she had managed to collect unnoticed in her robes.

Lunch has arrived and Draco's stomach feels bubbly and queasy at the same time. Harry Potter smiled at him. "My god, Draco. Get a grip." Pansy mutters, taking a bite of her sandwich. but Draco cant get a grip. He's too far gone already.

It's the next week. Draco is in the—thankfully empty—boy's toilets splashing his face with water. He takes a deep, labored breath and grips the sides of the sink, his knuckles turning white with strain. His white-blond hair is a mess, he's a mess. What was he thinking doing something like this?! he can still see his father's neat slanted scrawl on the parchment. . .

Dear Draco,

Your mother urges me to not reply at all if I was to respond in this manner, but I do not agree with her in the slightest. You are a Malfoy. You are carrying on our name. You do not like males. You will not like males. You are not homosexual. You will not be allowed in this house again until you've quelled these unwelcome and highly untrue thoughts.

Your father,

Lucius Malfoy

It was a short letter, but by far the most painful one he's ever received.

Suddenly the door opens and the worst-possible person to walk in walks in. Harry Potter.

Draco freezes instantly. Harry hasn't seen him yet. There's still time to get out. As he's pondering just what on earth he's to do, Harry notices him.

"Merlin, Draco, are you alright?" Harry's by his side in an instant and Draco can't fathom why he cares or how he knows his name.

"Y-yes," no matter his protest, the word sticks and catches in his throat.

Harry raises a dark brow and tilts his lips up in a half-smile, "Now, I know that's not true." Harry's hand is on his shoulder. Harry's hand is on his shoulder. Harry's hand is on his shoulder. "What's wrong? Please tell me, I reckon you'll feel loads better if you let it out." The green-eyed boy's words are soft and laced with concern. It reminds Draco of when his mother talked about a girl that was at school a few years lower than her. Lily Evans. Draco knew Lily had been Harry's mum and from all Narcissa told him about her, his heart went out to Harry even more than it already was.

Maybe it would help. What was Pansy always trying to get him to do? Man up and tell him.

"I d-decided to c-come out t-to my father and unless I 'q-quell the unwelcome thoughts' he'll d-disown me," Draco doesn't know where to start, so he just blurts it. Harry looked mildly surprised and still a bit concerned, but he's smiling now.

"Someone that you came out for?" Harry's hand has traveled from his shoulder to his hand. it's cold to the touch. Draco's grey eyes widen in shock. He knows. How does he know? "Don't be thick, Draco, I see how you look at me." Harry's green eyes are bright and large, looking right into his own.

"H-how. . . ." Draco starts, displeased to find that he's still stumbling over his words.

"You're not as nonchalant as you think you are, Malfoy." Harry smirks gently.

That was when Harry Potter—the one-hundred percent straight golden-boy dating Cho Chang—leaned toward him, cupped his face, and kissed him on the lips. Draco is falling, falling, falling. Somehow he's moving his lips against Harry's and he can feel the soft tufts of raven hair beneath his finger. When did he put his hands in Harry's hair?

They break apart, breathless. Draco's lips are swollen and eyes blown wide, "W-what about C-Cho?"

Harry looks amused, "What about Cho?"

"Aren't y-you dating h-her?" Draco is beyond confused. The carefully constructed pillars of what he thought his life was are rapidly crumbling apart.

"I was," Harry carefully intertwines their fingers together with a smile, "but then I realized that there's this hot guy from Slytherin who's always looking at me with such obvious attraction—"

"Oh, shut up." Draco blushes, not even realizing he's making causal conversation with the boy he's been pining after for years.

"—and I was like, damn what the hell am I doing dating a girl? So I told Cho that I was gay and she was like, oh yeah so am I. So it turns out she's lesbian and we were just both using each other as a cover for the closet."

"So you're not straight?" Draco looks up into Harry's mesmerizing green orbs.

"Not really, no."

This time it's Draco leaning forward to initiate the kiss.