Warnings: Character death (but happy ending). Slash, m/m. Don't like, don't read.

Disclaimer: This is canon-compliant. For an explanation thereof, see my profile. Some of the summarized scenes belong to J.K. Rowling entirely. I tried very hard to stay away from copying. If something sounds suspiciously like original wording, blame my selectively eidetic memory. I use sub-chapters because some of them are extremely short. Sub-chapter titles which are the same as chapter titles from books are to tell you that events in my sub-chapter by title A occur, chronologically, during J.K.'s chapter by title A. Unfamiliar sub-chapter titles are entirely my plot. Characters and related indicia, however, still belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.

JK is a much, much better writer than I, and any paraphrase I do of her is going to sound bored and sloppy because she has already chosen the perfect words. I promise my writing gets better when it's my work. Please hold out until the second chapter!

Half-Blood Prince: Will and Won't

Harry Potter was dreaming. He was sitting in a very uncomfortable chair in Dumbledore's office, attempting to have a conversation with the headmaster about leaving the Dursleys' house for the Burrow. This task, however, was greatly impeded by the snarky blonde leaning over Dumbledore's shoulder, grinning at Harry and making it exceedingly hard for Harry to concentrate on what he was doing. Malfoy had the audacity even to climb on top of Dumbledore's desk, appearing very much like an oversized cat. He reached out impossibly far from where he was reclining and—slowly, slowly—laid his fingers on Harry's cheek. Harry stopped trying to decide whether he wanted the headmaster to take him to the Burrow or Malfoy Manor. Then a light went out and Harry woke up.

He stared out at the streetlight and caught a glimpse of a tall wizard with long silver hair striding down the darkened street. Harry put the thought of how clearly he could remember how Malfoy's hand had felt on his face out of his mind and launched himself from his chair.

xxx

Draco's Detour

Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked into Madame Malkin's and stopped dead. Draco Malfoy was being fitted.

Ron and Hermione drew their wands at once, but Harry was being rudely reminded of his now-weeks-ago dream. What if Malfoy touched him, for real this time? What would it be like?

"If you're wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in," drawled Draco, and Harry drew his wand, too. He ignored Madame Malkin's flustered attempts to keep the peace in her shop and focused on loathing Malfoy. What did he care how Malfoy's hand would feel on his cheek, when he was a slimy, prejudiced git who constantly insulted everyone Harry loved? Harry got in a few good taunts to Narcissa Malfoy, pleased to watch Malfoy's face harden and hear his angry words. But when Malfoy took off his new robes, drawing them up over his head in one fluid motion, Harry admired the gracefulness through the spoiled-childishness of the act, and when Malfoy knocked into Ron on the way out, Harry had to actively prevent himself from wishing it had been him.

What is wrong with you? he chastised himself. It's Malfoy. Bane of your existence. Irritation of your life. Death Eater's son. You want nothing to do with him.

Harry put Malfoy out of his mind at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. He was not going to think of the Slytherin. Until, of course, Draco showed up outside the shop, heading down the street, and, as Harry noted out loud, motherless. Fine, thought Harry. If Malfoy was going to keep showing up, Harry was going to follow him. Besides, there were quite pressing legitimate reasons to do so. He checked that no one was looking their direction and whipped out the invisibility cloak. They barely caught up with him going down Knockturn Alley, and Harry told himself furiously that if he was glad they had caught him, it was because he was up to something. Which he was, unsurprisingly—chatting to the owner of Borgin and Burkes, the same Dark shop Harry had stumbled into in second year. Ron pulled out a set of Extendable Ears from Fred and George's shop, and they carefully fed the ends under the door. But Malfoy gave them very few clues about what he was up to. He had a broken item that he wanted Borgin's advice about fixing, but he couldn't bring it in. And he wanted a matching item reserved. Hermione elected to try and find out what, but she was nowhere near as good as intimidating Borgin as Malfoy, and the hunt was fruitless. So, they returned to Fred and George's, and Harry tried once more to put Malfoy out of his mind.

xxx

The Slug Club

This attempt, however, seemed as fruitless as the first. Harry, however, managed to convince himself that he was only interested in what Malfoy was doing at Borgin's. What else, after all, could he possibly care about? No, this strange fascination was only a further development of his hatred for Malfoy. He, therefore, allowed himself to talk almost incessantly about it, going over and rejecting possibilities. He didn't even take the warning signs of Ron's and Hermione's quick boredom with the subject seriously. And then he put two and two together: Madame Malkin's, when Malfoy hadn't let her roll up his sleeve, and Borgin's, when he had showed Borgin something that scared him, something that said who he was dealing with, something they couldn't see.

Malfoy had the Dark Mark. He was right, he knew it. But for some reason, Ron and Hermione didn't believe him. Honestly, Harry didn't find it that much of a stretch. Why would Voldemort care if someone was of age? How could Lucius and Narcissa possibly voice a complaint without severe punishment, if indeed they cared? By September 1st, Harry was convinced enough to tip off Mr Weasley about the incident.

Later, on the train, Harry's new obsession was fed by the news that Malfoy wasn't taking advantage of his position as prefect. Given the opportunity, Harry slipped into the Slytherin compartment under the invisibility cloak. The Slytherins were discussing the Slug Club. They talked about Ginny. Even Zabini thought she was pretty, apparently. Was Ginny pretty? Harry supposed she was. Very pretty, in fact. Harry wondered if Malfoy thought Pansy Parkinson, who was stroking his hair, was pretty. No, he decided. Pansy looked exactly like a pug dog. Then Malfoy began to talk about interesting things. He might have other plans than school, he said. Bigger and better things. And he could be of service to the Dark Lord. Maybe the Dark Lord had a job for him that didn't require qualifications. The train stopped. The other Slytherins filed out, but Malfoy stayed behind. He rummaged in his trunk. Harry leaned out to see what he was doing. And then Malfoy Petrified him. Harry fell, painfully, out of the luggage rack, in which he'd been hiding. He lay helpless in front of Draco Malfoy, completely at his mercy, and Draco Malfoy stepped on his nose and broke it. Never had Harry so loathed the blonde Slytherin. He expected Malfoy to steal the cloak, but instead, Malfoy covered him with it. Harry lay there, invisible, bleeding profusely, as Malfoy shut the carriage door behind him. He was leaving him on the train, to be taken back to London. Did Malfoy really hate him that much, that he would rather see Harry sent home than have his Cloak?

xxx

Sectumsempra

Malfoy was bleeding, issuing great ragged gasps. Harry splashed through the water, ignoring Myrtle's shouts as she flew out the door. He fell to his knees beside Malfoy. Slashes in Malfoy's shirt revealed matching ones in his skin, from which blood was seeping alarmingly fast. Harry's head was on fire. What could he possibly do against so much blood? He tried to staunch the bleeding with his hands, but there were too many cuts. Not even Malfoy deserves this. Numbly, without really thinking, he laid his full weight on top of Malfoy, scooping his arms underneath the unconscious blonde to pull him even closer, staunching the bleeding with his own body. There was nothing alien about holding the other boy so close, and that in itself was terrifying for reasons Harry couldn't articulate. Harry could still see the tears and snot tracking down Draco's face. Draco had been crying…and Myrtle had said he'd been there before…Something like pity tugged at Harry's heart as he held Draco. All at once, his body divorced his mind's claim on its actions, and his lips reached forward to softly brush Draco's. Startled by his own impulse, he scrambled backward, just in time to see Snape come through the door with more force than was really necessary to open it.

xxx

The Hospital Wing

Harry could not go visit Malfoy in the hospital wing. Not after that. He'd attacked him, and then kissed him, hadn't he? No, not really kissed him. It hadn't been a real kiss. And Draco—no, Malfoy—probably had no idea. He wouldn't try Crucio on Harry under Madame Pomfrey's watchful eye, would he? And that curse…Harry had to apologize. A curse like that. How could the Prince have copied it down?

Over and over he puzzled, earning strange looks from Ron and Hermione. In the end, he went. Malfoy was lying in a bed fairly close to the door, staring at the ceiling. He had on a fresh shirt, unbuttoned over white bandages. He sneered at Harry.

"Come to gloat, Potter?" He fingered his wand as though trying to decide whether to curse Harry.

"No!" said Harry, trying and failing to think of something believable to say.

"You're a rotten piece of filth, Potter, and if you don't mind," said Malfoy, every word dripping with venom, "I'd like you to sod off now." Harry held up one finger and slowly reached for his wand. When Malfoy did not try to curse him, Harry cast Muffliato upon Madam Pomfrey's door and slipped it back into his robes as Malfoy shot a confused glance at the door in question.

"I was actually coming up here to apologize," said Harry bitterly. "I didn't know what it did."

"Oh, so you decided to try it out on me?" drawled Malfoy.

"You tried to throw an Unforgivable Curse at me, if you remember," said Harry. Malfoy didn't reply, but blinked slowly. Harry was suddenly reminded of Malfoy's tear-stained cheeks. "What's Voldemort making you do?" he asked without malice. Malfoy recoiled, and some of Harry's usual irritation returned. "Oh, you work for him, and you can't even hear his name? Come on, Malfoy." Malfoy smirked suddenly. "What?" demanded Harry.

"I think lovers can use first names with each other, don't you?" Malfoy replied slowly. Harry was suddenly fervently glad he'd used Muffliato.

"What are you—We're not—"

"You kissed me, Potter. Yes, I was awake for that," Malfoy added in response to Harry's look of horror. Harry turned to leave. He would not, could not, bear this, too from Malfoy, but he felt the other grab his wrist and he was abruptly shot through with terrifying, overwhelming desire. He whipped back around and stared at Malfoy, whose face was suddenly filled with an unabashed hunger. Malfoy tugged on the wrist he held and Harry took a step forward so he was right beside the bed. Malfoy let go of his wrist and took Harry's face instead with both hands, pulling him downward to-kiss him on the lips. The touch was like a small electric shock, and Harry pressed into it, craving more. It was an extremely uncomfortable attitude for his back after only a few seconds, though, and he climbed onto the bed without really thinking about it. It was so much better than his dreams, which admittedly contained Malfoy and Ginny in equal measure. Then it broke through to him that he was sitting astride Draco Malfoy, snogging him senseless, and he broke away with a gasp.

Malfoy looked at him with an unreadable expression, and Harry climbed off the bed, trying not to notice how aroused he was, and left the room without a backward glance.

Ron might have managed it, but even Harry couldn't deny that he might possibly be attracted to Malfoy after that.

His only consolation was Ginny. He had snogged Malfoy, twice, but he couldn't fall for him. He actually enjoyed being with Ginny. He trusted her, he thought she was funny, he genuinely liked her, and so, on top of wanting to snog her quite as badly as he wanted Malfoy, he was daring to believe that he was falling in love with her as well. He didn't like Draco Malfoy, though. He didn't trust him. Those were prerequisites for loving him. At first he had tried to convince himself that it was only brotherly love that he felt for Ginny, mostly because of Ron. How would Ron react? He'd made his opinion of his sister's dating habits quite clear. But admitting to himself that his feelings for Ginny were more than that, even if he had to keep them hidden, helped him with the problem of Malfoy. He wasn't stuck with boys. He'd admitted to himself, finally, that Malfoy hadn't been a fluke. Other boys attracted his attention, too. But so did girls. Not that he was going to admit any of this. Who could he talk to? If Ron reacted badly to Harry and Ginny, how much worse might he react to Harry and some bloke, especially Draco Malfoy? Hermione might understand, but he couldn't risk her knowing for fear it might get back to Ron. She wouldn't tell Ron to spite Harry, of course, but simply the way she acting around him might change enough for Ron to notice. And he certainly couldn't tell Ginny or Malfoy.

Harry kept trying to catch Malfoy alone. To ask him again what he was doing, to talk to him, or just to kiss him again, he wasn't sure. He only knew that he desperately wanted to see what more could come of their previous interaction. Those efforts ended, though, on the night of their last Quidditch match. Harry came up to the Gryffindor common room from detention apprehensively. He opened the portrait hole and was greeted by a cacophony of screaming, cheering people in red and gold. In the middle of them all, Ron was clutching the Quidditch Cup above his head. He spotted Harry, roaring the score, but Harry barely had time to process it before Ginny was racing toward him, and he looked into her eyes and knew what she wanted, and he knew that he wanted to give it to her, and so, without planning anything out loud, they threw their arms around each other and kissed. It was nothing like kissing Malfoy. That was nothing but lust, need buried so deep it emerged when he lost control. That was hunger. This was merely emotion expressing itself. Instead of feeding his hormones, Harry was revelling in Ginny herself, experiencing pure Ginny in a way that was more intimate than anything he'd ever felt. This was falling in love.

A/N: Heh, have I scared you? Don't worry, it's D/H by the end.