Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Warnings: There is slash in this story. There is also swearing. If either of these things bothers you, then I can't imagine why you'd want to read this story.
Author's Note: If you have no objections to the above, enjoy. Please review!
Draco Malfoy hated Harry Potter. That much was obvious. They threw insults and punches routinely in the halls, and they served detention in venom-filled silence.
And Harry Potter hated Draco Malfoy. He hated how condescending he was, the way he had to bully to think well of himself, and the way he bent to his father's will like a reed trembling in the force of a gale.
So it would have been pretty fucking difficult to explain what exactly they were doing sucking face in the Room of Requirement.
Draco thought he remembered the turn of events leading up to this pretty well, even if he didn't really understand it. They had been fighting, as per usual, and fighting had led not to blows this time but instead to flying accusations, which had led to a kiss, which had led to where he was now—tongue dancing with Potter's, spread-eagled beneath the other boy on the floor, moaning his appreciation for Potter's—Harry's—touches on his chest, neck, thighs, face.
"Mm," said the Gryffindor with a gasp, then sat up suddenly. Draco gave a cry of protest, but bit his tongue halfway through, realizing what he was doing. Gray met green for a minute. Then Harry said, "Draco, what exactly are we doing?"
Draco mulled this over, feeling Harry's eyes all over him and keeping back a smile. Then he sat up, leaning back on his hands luxuriantly, and said, "I don't know, Harry. I really don't." He smiled slightly and ran a hand up Harry's arm to rest on the back of his neck. "But I can tell you what we're not doing. I can tell you that precisely." He pulled Harry in for another kiss. "I can tell you," he said between kisses, "that we're not, as of now, making out. We're not," he gasped as Harry started kissing down his chest, "we're not on the floor of the Room of Requirement, despite the fact that by rights there should be a bed, it being the Room of Requirement—" there was a laugh from where Harry was enthusiastically engaged in giving him a love bite—"and we are certainly not debauching each other when we're supposed to be reporting to Filch or somebody for detention."
"Nn, let's hope it's Filch, he always gets too drunk to remember about detentions these days," Harry muttered, ending his sentence with a moan as Draco ran his hands up the Boy Who Lived's chest, removing his shirt in the process.
"And we are not, Heaven forbid, enjoying this."
Harry brought his lips back up to Draco's, smiling. He embedded his fingers in Draco's hair, tugging him closer and earning a breathy whisper of, "oh god, Harry," for his trouble. Finally, when they broke apart, Harry said, "No, we are not. We are also not making plans to see each other later tonight?"
Draco's eyes lit up. "And where are we not meeting?" he asked, circling his arms around Harry's neck.
"Mm—Astronomy Tower? Midnight, just to be cliché?"
Draco lazily raised himself up on his knees to trace the famous lightning-bolt scar with his tongue, pressing himself closer to the object of his affections. "Right."
For a night of things not done, all told, the enemies thought it a night well-spent.