HD 'Longbottom, That Wanker'

by tigersilver

A green-eyed Malfoy and an impatient, angry, vengeful Harry results in a highly volatile brew.

Author: tigersilver
Title: 'Longbottom, That Wanker!'
Rating: NC-17
WC: 6,000
Warnings: Hogwarts, post-war. Anger management issues, green-eyed Malfoys and a cut above mere frottage. In apology to my charity fic people, who are kindly very patient with me.

HD 'Longbottom, That Wanker!'

"Potter!"

Harry went right on walking.

Perhaps he ducked his chin a smidgeon and allowed his hair to flop down and obscure his spectacles; perhaps he was only glancing casually at his schoolbag to ensure he'd remembered his essay for the Slug. A corner of it peeked out at him from beneath the flap, a reassuring presence.

The essay on the virtues of Distillated Irish Swamp Gas wasn't the issue; Malfoy—that wanker—was.

"Pot-ter!"

The upper class drawl was tending toward screechy as it drew close upon his heels; Harry instinctively quickened his pace, a spurt of haste compelling him. They were still entirely too near the Great Hall and he wanted no witnesses for any confrontation between him and Malfoy. Ron had skived Potions this year as he wasn't planning on Aurors; Hermione was tucked snugly in her Head Girl's room bed, down with a rare case of the migraine—fortunate, that, or he'd not even have considered coming this way. Taking a deliberate path through the distant reaches of Slytherin territory was risky and Harry knew it; it left him vulnerable to all sorts of guerilla-style attacks from certain impossibly infuriating blond prats.

Blond prats who banged him and—most recently—still managed to turn him a cold shoulder!

Harry fumed.

However, certain risks could be calculated and sometimes the end was necessary to justify the means. But he was by no means planning to make this easy on The Great Offender. Bastard would be forced to chase him down, Harry resolved, with a sly little pat to the curling edge of his essay.

All the way through the bloody dungeons. Bastard could suffer some; that was all to the good.

"You little minx, Potter!" Malfoy, coming up fast from behind him as they jointly clattered down the last of the usual pathways to Potions and ducked smartly into a lesser known tributary, was both out of breath and noticeably irked. "Wait up, I said! A moment, git! What are you even thinking, rushing off like this? I asked you to wait!"

"You said no such thing," Harry retorted when Malfoy at last drew level, breathing harshly from his hurry.

He cast a quick sideways glance in Malfoy's direction: his cheeks were pink from effort and his hair was flyaway after running Harry to ground. No Sleekeazy's today, then. Good.

"About wanting me to wait for you. In fact, we've not exchanged a single civil word for hours, Malfoy," he added stoically, his distant gaze firmly fixed on an upcoming stairwell as it swung into place. It slotted into its carven stone notches with a satisfyingly solid 'thunk!'—a gruff grind of granite-to-granite which nearly covered up his dark muttering addendum: "Which is bloody brill by me, thanks sooo much—no worries. Who ever wants to talk to a wanker, anyway?"

"Potter, I have a fairly large bone to pick with you," Malfoy gave no sign of overhearing that last jibe, only advised Harry sharply of the existence of his latest complaint, from a position well abreast of and matching Harry's lope with elegant ease. They strode on hastily, deliberately not looking at one another-at least on Harry's end of it. "I shouldn't have to chase after you to do so, either," Malfoy minced, not content to let it rest at mere announcing.

Harry only grunted, scowling.

Malfoy had caught his breath nicely in the interim and seemed returned to his usual imperturbable self…excepting the distinct hint of bite in each word, flavouring them with a fine show of well-bred temper.

"And pardon me, you noisome little git, but I did most clearly request you wait, just now. No mistake, not two minutes ago, Potter, just before you bolted. Less, really. Half Gryffindor heard me, I should imagine, but then…perhaps you didn't, over the collective plebian rumpus? Or perhaps it was your mate Longbottom's blather that blocked out my request? He was sitting so close to you, after all. Practically curled up on your lap, Potter."

No, no; the usual Malfoy sneer was a bit breathless yet, even if acrid as the Gobi desert; Harry, stealing a split-second peek, managed to confirm he'd discomfited the git. Well, super! Fantastic, in fact.

Oh, yes. Precisely what was called for when dealing with the average Malfoy: that expensive Aubusson carpet under their toffee-nosed toes? Give it a sharp tug and see what happens.

"What rumpus, Malfoy?" Harry was all uninterested innocence. Malfoy released a hiss, bumping their shoulders with unnecessary roughness. Harry ignored that, too, merely by sidestepping smartly.

Unbending and very much resolute, he snapped his eyes forward again and upped the pace of his rapid march downwards and dungeon-wards. Slug would forgive him most things, true, but he did appreciate a certain degree of punctuality; Harry tried to oblige him, most days. Today's might be a bit iffy, dependent upon the results of this confrontation. But no matter—Harry could manage the loss of a few points if it procured him what he required.

And what he required only Malfoy could give. The arse!

"That was no rumpus; that was normal breakfast," Harry riposted. "And you haven't uttered a peep to me all morning. Not one. Couldn't be bothered, could you?" He tossed his head and doggedly kept up his fast stride, robes flapping furiously out at his sides in a Snape-like fashion. "Oh, no—pardon. I'm mistaken, aren't I? Not since last night have you addressed me directly, Malfoy. Not even to insult me."

Harry allowed a certain level of deadpan incredulity to seep into his tone, as if amazed he'd not been hauled over the coals by Malfoy for something. Malfoy had it coming, really, to be pricked about with thorny words and matching sneers, if only for being such an utter arse and a bloody nincompoop. And blind jealous, apparently, over someone he'd no good reason to be jealous of, and dense as a thicket, as well—and, and…well, Harry could go on, but what would be the point?

Point was to force the issue. Have it out cleanly in the open, damn it! Harry was sick and tired of being miscast; he certainly wasn't tolerating it from the pusillanimous, parsimonious dick strolling so languidly along beside him.

"Bosh!" Malfoy responded indignantly, his stroll now a decided stomp. "Poppycock!" Harry didn't bother to check but he could well imagine Malfoy's air of well-born outrage. "I most certainly did, Potter," he insisted, long legs matching up to Harry's steady semi-trot with irksome ease. "And you most definitely heard me call out to you, too. I know because I saw you looking over my way right after, so don't deny it. But…perhaps…"

"Perhaps?" Harry, reluctant but intrigued, was forced to prompt the miscreant after a long moment. "P'raps what, Malfoy?"

Malfoy only sniffed. He was apparently too offended for words. Harry shrugged that off, affecting total non-interest. If Malfoy could play kindergarten games, then so could he. They paced the length of the remaining transverse corridor to the next stairwell in an uncomfortable state of strained silence.

"I'm thinking…" At long last, Malfoy deigned to end the silent treatment, cocking his lint-white head and eying Harry with decided disfavour. "That by all indications…and correct me if I'm off base here, Potter, but…"

"Yes?" Harry's lips twitched as he sneaked another minuscule peep at his companion. Malfoy's attractive full-face flush had centred itself into two brilliantly scarlet stains, much like the brilliant banners of warfare, one allocated to each high plane of cheekbone. It was no longer the practicalities of sheer bustle-and-hurry affecting the prat, it was that quick-as-mercury boiling Malfoy temper. The same temper that always landed the git in a heap of trouble. Harry knew the signs of it like the very back of his own hand: intimately.

Well and good, then; Malfoy was certainly in trouble now! No way was Harry touching the git again in any intimate fashion until they'd cleared this matter up.

In fact, he only barely forced down a faint curl of sheer glee, that first twinge of real satisfaction unfurling in his twisted gut in rather more than eight hours-long, unending, unhappy hours of pondering precisely what had crawled up Malfoy's tight bum to upset him so-and with Harry, whom he claimed to be fond of. The resulting conclusion had been surprising. Now Harry only needed to know if he'd been on track...and to make sure he gave bloody Malfoy a little of his own back, the great berk.

"Go on, then," he prodded maliciously. "You were thinking…? Not that you're not always thinking and most of it rubbish, of course. Cod head."

"Just perhaps, Potter," Malfoy ignored that sally neatly, only continuing slowly, deliberately, in a throaty, gravelly tone, as if the very words irked him to speak—a deep rich snarl of a voice, close relative to the one that always sent an instantaneous answering shiver up Harry's spinal column when employed during snogs and shags. "It might be that you were far too much caught up yapping with your Longbottom to actually hear. He did monopolize you this morning, did he not? Bloody well drooling into your plate, he was, from what I could see. In your lap, practically. As I've mentioned."

"Hardly," Harry muttered. "You make too much of it, Malfoy. We were talking. About plants, if you must know. Nev is always like that over plants."

"Huh," Malfoy was unconvinced. He smirked his patent disbelief, curling a cruelly thin upper lip. "Must've been completely fascinating, I should think, whatever it was he was whispering so fervently in your lovely little shell-like ear. You certainly seemed all full of wonder, Potter. Amazed you bothered to glance my way at all, really."

"Malfoy—"

"Likely your Weasel didn't appreciate that much," Malfoy's measured drawl didn't pause, "as he's usually the one drubbing away on your pretty little ears in the mornings, isn't he? Not bloody Longbottom. That's a new one, Longbottom—but not that new. He's feeling fairly bold these days, isn't he? A bit above himself, don't you think? But then...you're not exactly discouraging him, are you?"

"I don't know what you mean, Malfoy."

"You know exactly what I mean, Potter. 'Good old Nev' this and 'my mate Nev' that. That's not at all a new thing, is it?"

The next dusty, cramped stairwell was quite short; barely even worthy of being called one. It delivered its two irate occupants abruptly into a long, wide marbled corridor, one that marched majestically through the seldom-used rear regions of the dungeons—an alternate path to the Potions classroom that few students were aware of other than the upper-year Slytherins, the staff and the Prefects. And of course Harry, who knew Hogwarts very well indeed.

He cleared his throat meaningfully and advanced his own attack. "Nev, eh?"

Malfoy, dogging Harry's heels like a bloodhound, allowed him a tiny acknowledging bob of thrust-out chin, along with a meaningful scowl. "Of course Longbottom. The wanker."

Quite deliberately Harry folded his lips into a tight thin line as he slowed his fast clip to a more moderate walk. Perhaps his trainers hit the marble tiles of the floor with a tad more force than usual; perhaps it was only the palpable tension in the air that resonated through the medium of stamp-and-squeak of crepe-sole on polished stone.

"Hmm," he hummed, as if considering Malfoy's assertions seriously. "Not sure where you're going with this, Malfoy, but Nev and I were discussing Sprout's quarterly project, if you must know. And Ron has nothing to do with anything, so leave him out of it."

"Huh," Malfoy scoffed beside him, his eyes fierce and narrowed. "So you say, Potter. Discussing the quarterly, were you? Of course. By all means you should speak to Longbottom first, before anyone. Not your actual partner or anything. It's not as if he-meaning me, Potter-would be the obvious person to consult, is it? No, no. Of course it's Longbottom. Naturally."

Harry sped up again, teeth snapping. Malfoy followed closely, giving off the distinct impression of a disgruntled raptor in pursuit of unexpectedly agile prey. By rights, Harry grumped to himself, the git should actually be groveling right about now, for having drawn all sorts of completely asinine assumptions and then running amok with them, but he clearly wasn't. He would, though, soon enough...and Harry knew exactly what buttons he should be pushing to elicit that desired effect.

"Why?" he spat out, deliberately stirring up the white-hot embers of his own ire. He was a bit more than miffed, wasn't he? His feelings had been bruised, yes. Malfoy had earned a bit of suffering to make up for that; Harry would happy to provide it. "Is that some sort of problem for you, dickweed—me and Nev having a little chat up over the kippers? Because I don't see that it's any of your business, who I chose to sit with at meals. Indeed, I didn't think you'd even noticed, Malfoy—and why should you? You've not noticed me since last night, apparently, and then it was only my arse. I could've danced naked on the High Table this morning for all you'd've cared."

"Oh, no—there's no problem, Potter," Malfoy flapped a casual hand, "and why should there be? Chat up good old Nev all you like-except that you're not his partner, Potter—not in NEWTS Herbology, at least. You'd be mine, if I recall correctly. As officially assigned, at least. Though Merlin knows you're above all that nonsensical assignment shite, aren't you? And I'm sure Professor Sprout will hook you up with anyone you might desire, should you wish to change her class protocol up after the fact. Am I not correct, in thinking that? Golden Boy?"

He snorted nastily at Harry's immediate sideways venomous glare and accompanying 'Hmph!'"

"Oh, come now, let's be brutally honest, shall we?" Malfoy smirked, waving that hand again. "What's a few broken rules between Hogwart's resident Saviour and one of its professors? You are one of her very favourite students, aren't you, Potter? You and Longbottom, both. Bloody green-thumbed suck ups."

"Hmph!" Harry could hardly believe his own ears: first the git was misguided enough to accuse Harry of cheating and now he was supposed to be a bleeding brown-noser! Malfoy, for his part, was visibly seething beside him; his knuckles white on the wide leather strap of his shoulder bag, his face carefully blank and tautly drawn, as it always was when he exhibited the first frightening stage of primal rage.

Harry, feeling quite nasty about it indeed—and with plenty of good reason, thanks!—exulted silently to see Malfoy reduced to such a state of apoplectic ill-humour. The dickhead deserved every moment he reaped of feeling horribly out-of-kilter and blindingly off-balance—certainly he inflicted the exact same emotional imbalance on Harry every damned day. His turn, then. Finally!

Git.

"I am that," he allowed judiciously, purposefully edging sideways and away from his intent pursuer, albeit his footsteps slowing to a mere stroll. Malfoy followed right after, frowning, and shoved shoulders with unnecessary force, urging Harry forward again. Stumbling, they veered closer to the pale glossy sheen of the white wall. "I suppose," he added, expressly to twist the proverbial dagger and do a bit of ripping on his own behalf. "You might claim that, Malfoy. If you wish."

"What? That you're Sprout's little favourite? Or that pernicious wanker Longbottom's?" Malfoy sniped, sneering triumphantly. "No argument there, Potter. Should say it's obvious. A blind Hufflepuff Firstie fresh off the Express could see it, plain as day."

"Hmm. I see now what you're getting at, Malfoy." Harry knew full well his deliberate air of dawdling about would irritate the prat beside him. And too, his cool composure when Malfoy likely expected the usual Harry-style explosion. That would only up the carvable glut of tension being built between them. And…well, hang bloody timeliness for Slughorn's sake, he resolved further, on the very crooked spur of the quavering split-second. He grinned to himself-unpleasantly-and slowed to an irritating snail's crawl. This current moment between them was rather more crucial than most, in the long run. It should be prolonged to its fullest extent; Malfoy should suffer some.

Harry had. All last night, in fact. And this morning. It was only right, yeah?

"But no, Malfoy," he clarified, not willing to allow a single opportunity to get in a dig pass by. "I meant my being your Herbology partner, actually. But being allotted to work with you on the quarterly project has absolutely no bearing on whom I choose to discuss the assignment with, does it? Everyone of us in Sprout's class knows exactly what every other one is up to, don't we? Or have we sworn some sort of juvenile secrecy pact I've not been made aware of, you and me, Malfoy? Because I can't think there's need for it. It's not like any of them would care; there's not exactly a whole hell of a lot of opportunities to rack up rep in NEWTS Herbology, Malfoy. Knowledge is knowledge—and the quarterlies are designed to benefit all of us, git. We're sitting the same exam, in the end."

"Oh, ho!"

Malfoy harrumphed melodramatically. He stopped his progress altogether, snagging Harry's elbow to halt him too. Spun neatly in place on a well-shod heel, only to glare down at Harry directly, grey eyes glittering slits of diamond ice and glinting arctic fire.

"Now we finally get to the meat of the matter!" he crowed. "About time, yeah? And to answer your question: hardly, Potter. It's only the common courtesy I feel the utter lack of, that's all. But don't mind it, please—I'd expect no less from the likes of you. Why should you care if you're rude to me, eh? What does that matter? I'm only the boyfriend, Potter-not your precious mate Longbottom. So, please—by all means—feel free to work with bloody Longbottom in my place. Tell him anything you like—share all our notes and ideas-take his bloody green leafy brain and dive in, Potter. Immerse yourself in his gittishness. He'll love that, won't he? He's practically your other adoptive brother, isn't he, after the Weasel? I'm so sure he's gagging to do most anything for you, git. He'll fall over fucking backwards!"

"Really, now?"

Harry's teeth snapped shut with an audible 'click!'; he managed to keep his glare leveled at Malfoy's Slytherin Prefect's badge, though. His eyes, as he knew to his great regret, were far too speaking when he felt strongly—and Malfoy wasn't the only Wizard present experiencing the blazing hot spark of righteously stoked anger.

"Do tell, git. You seriously believe Nev is that smitten, still? And with me, Malfoy? Well, he had his chance already, if you remember? And he didn't bother to take it and neither did I and all of that, the whole of it, is absolutely none of your bloody business, you nosy prat. It's ancient history, so keep your pointy beak well out of it—and keep your mouth shut about Nev. He's my friend, you noxious arse. Lay off him."

"That's not the point, Potter!" Malfoy protested, his hand tightening painfully on Harry's arm. "I don't care if he's your mate, git-for-brains. Mates is one thing; the point here is he was practically sprawled all over you not even five fucking minutes ago—and it didn't look as though you were objecting in the slightest, you poncy little flirt! He wants you, Potter—it's clear as day."

"You rotter! He wasn't! And he doesn't—this is all in your bloody-minded head! Nev's not like that, Malfoy. Maybe you are, but he isn't."

Harry glared determinedly at Malfoy's shirtfront. He felt the absolute white-hot fury born of being the one wrongly accused. Likely Malfoy's little pearly buttons on his bespoke shirt would catch fire as a result, should he continue to stare so heatedly at them. He'd a bit of temper himself, Harry admitted freely; this might turn ugly if he didn't keep a tight rein. He drew a sharp calming breath to counter the sizzle in his pounding head and ducked his chin down even lower, till it knocked against his collarbone, focusing intently on his innocuously scuffed trainers instead.

Malfoy dared tsk!, for all the world like a disappointed Hermione; that same dismay displayed on his too-handsome face, that very same slight air of anxious concern. It irked Harry no end that he should do so; he growled under his breath in response.

"I don't think so, Potter," Malfoy's clipped reply stabbed like tiny fillet knives, his fingernails digging cruelly into the flesh of Harry's elbow joint, rolling tendons and arteries this way and that. Harry winced, feeling the tidal wave of fury that small action exposed. Another bloody mark earned from bloody Malfoy; just what he didn't require! "I've got eyes, you know? I saw what I saw," the absurd prick continued, his uppity tone prissy as all hell. He loomed over Harry like some idiot moral avenger, forcing his horrid long legs between Harry's locked kneecaps. "Even from across the damned Hall. Couldn't help myself, really."

Smarmy officious arsehole! Harry scowled at his trainers, incensed beyond reason. Malfoy was just so, so evilly assured, so utterly positive that it was his way or the highway-that there could be no other explanation but his own. Always had to be right, Malfoy-even if it cost him.

But—Harry risked a curious, split-second glance upwards—the git's angular features were arranged in a way far differently than the occasional smug, self-satisfied set they took usually on when Malfoy was proven right. His face was pained, instead; all the lines of it twisted up and scowling blackly, and he was so scorchingly angry it was visible: a red tide rising that had evidently boiled all the good sense straight out his blond head.

Harry dropped his gaze as fast as he'd raised it, stoically refusing to counter Malfoy's belligerent stare. He didn't give a whit if the bastard was that upset with him. Let him be!

Let him! Harry was also angry—no one needed to be shut the fuck out of his lover's head like this! Fuck Malfoy! And fuck this whole idiotically escalating situation—but something had to give and it wasn't going to be Harry.

"You know." He gathered a deep steadying breath and proceeded to inform his trainers in a perfectly sensible voice, one that reeked of reason. It'd be the red flag to the bullheaded git confronting him, he knew...and was bitterly glad of it, too. "I've been waiting for this exact moment. Knew it was coming. After all, you've not gone to the trouble of listing my assorted insufficiencies for me for quite some time, Malfoy. By all means go ahead, as you're clearly itching to—tell me I'm a plebe and a wanker. Tell me I should've kept my trap firmly shut and not dared discuss plants with the resident Hogwarts expert," he sneered, gritting his teeth with a chomp and flashing them tightly at the harmless sight of the two sets of shoes, cheap trainers and expensive leather loafers, toed up together and practically atop one another. A fool would assume those shoes belonged together-a fool would allow himself to be rode roughshod and made out to be the equivalent of a whoring git by a supposedly cuckolded bastard with less good sense than the average Jarvey! Harry was no fool. "Tell me," he demanded, never pausing for a second breath, not needing it. He was bouyed up on fury alone. "Neville's cooked up some evil master plan to come between us—tell me, do."

"Pot—"

"Tell me, Malfoy." Harry overrode the interruption not by raising his voice, as he usually would, but by lowering it to a dangerous rumble, one that vibrated his chest and sent his already jumpy heart into a tight clench. "Advise me, please, that I'm nothing but a bloody slag and a pathetic bounder and you're ever so disappointed with me for flirting openly with poor old unsuspecting Nev—'cause I'm waiting. Standing right here, git, so let's hear every little bit of that load of poison you've got stored up in you, just waiting to spill—don't hold back, now. Have at it, Malfoy."

"Potter!"

Malfoy slung his bookbag down with an abrupt 'clunk', sending textbooks and parchment scattering every which way without heeding, and muscled towards Harry's still figure with both long, slim hands outthrust. He gathered Harry's rigid shoulders into twinned grips of steely possession and shoved his pointy nose right against Harry's spectacles, dislodging them. They racked sideways and half-off his face and Harry shook them completely off with a quick jerk of his set jaw. Who needed to see such a prick as Malfoy was, anyway? He could practically taste him, the dick had his sharp-set face so damned near Harry's.

"Potter!" Malfoy pleaded, "You're completely out of line—listen!"

He'd a peculiar wild-eyed look to him, the git did, as if the regular old pleasant Harry he knew—and shagged regularly—had transmuted to some terribly volatile substance in the space of a blink and might go off at any moment, spraying vituperation dramatically in every direction. As if reliable old Harry suddenly required super special handling and he, Malfoy, was forced to hold back and tread carefully or something horrendous might happen.

Something disastrous. Something…irrevocable.

Harry tensed under the hands holding him captive, the nervous energy that had charged him stilling abruptly. There was only Malfoy's irritated voice to fill his ears and the echo of it, resounding off the chilly marble.

"And do stop whatever it is you're doing with your blasted magic, git," Malfoy ordered. "The floor's shaking!"

It was, but Harry couldn't give a fuck. Let it shake; in fact, let it shake Malfoy right off him,like his bloody spectacles! Good riddance!

"What?" he snapped back. "Are you afraid of me now, Malfoy? Think I'll break something? Stoopid!"

The absurd idea caused him to snort derision: a small, soft sound falling in the midst of all their mutual heavy breathing. He'd far more control that Malfoy gave him credit for, Harry knew. If he hadn't he'd have been a goner long ago.

But maybe Malfoy didn't realize that. And alright, perhaps above and beyond the noise of their laboring lungs there was the faint unmistakable trickle of loosened mortar pattering down the pristine walls of the corridor—and yes, perhaps, too, the evenly spaced sconce lights were flaring a good foot higher than was usual.

Fine, then. Harry had never claimed to be perfect. But at least he was bloody constant! And Malfoy shouldn't have the slightest doubt of it, Merlin take him!

"Potter, you bloody git!" Malfoy wasn't done his scold. "Stop jumping to bloody conclusions!"

Maybe blasted Malfoy was right to snap on the kid gloves for handling him, Harry thought—maybe they were needed; he grinned ferally at the Slytherin badge heaving before him as Malfoy yammered away at him, highly pleased.

This was certainly a decent reaction and it was more than he'd gotten from the prick last night. Or horribly early this morning, when he'd crawled out of Malfoy's bed in close-lipped silence and made himself scarce.

When Malfoy—though he'd been given every opportunity—hadn't said a word as to why he was being such a sulky dickhead.

"You—you're being absurd!" Malfoy's voice rough and fast, words stumbling over themselves in their haste to emerge. "I'm hardly likely to—to say such things right to your face! I wouldn't! I'm not disappointed with you, Potter—far from it! All that's been long settled—you know that as well as I do, don't you? Besides, it's not true, Potter, about me thinking anything like—not true, and if you'd just listen to me for once in your bleeding life, you'd know that-"

He was cut off mid-stream. All this was indeed ancient history…but perhaps it did still matter? Only one way to find out, yeah? Harry had enough bones that needed picking he could make up a bloody skeleton of them—and most of them could be laid at Malfoy's door, the bloody molester!

"No." Harry, face flinty, raised his snapping eyes to confront Malfoy's sizzling gaze at long last. He shifted his shoulders in Malfoy's grip, twisting to free himself, but was unsuccessful. Malfoy only clamped down all the harder, his jaw set hard and grim. "You won't. You won't do that, will you? That's not your style, is it, Malfoy? You'll mention it to Zabini, instead. And then Zabini will drop a quiet word into Dean's ear. And then Seamus will hear from Dean how you're so bloody fed up with my irresponsibility and my thoughtless shenanigans and how I go about flirting with everything that moves—male and female—and the whole damned school will know something's up between us in ten minutes flat. That's how it'll be, isn't it?"

"Potter!"

"Shut up, Malfoy—you now it's true. It's what you do, you Slytherin fucker. And me? I'll end up branded a fucking tosser for playing around with Nev on the side and then you'll assume the role of abused innocent, won't you? How fucking apt, Malfoy—just like bloody last year, all over again. Poor baby—poor, poor put-upon Draco Malfoy. Harry Potter done him wrong!"

"Potter, you git!" Malfoy shoved his entire person closer; bent his neck and used his damp forehead to hastily press Harry's head firmly against the corridor's smooth, echoing wall, squashing their noses and cheeks together. Their lips brushed accidentally in a mockery of a sideways snog. Harry closed his eyes against the forced invasion; they were burning like mad behind his twitching lids and there was no possible way he'd be reduced to sniveling before this loony githead! "I never—I fucking never!" Malfoy protested heatedly. "Do you even hear yourself—what you're saying to me? Shut up!"

"I won't!"

Harry surged forward automatically, ready for a fight. He bared his teeth furiously in a wicked white-toothed smile that held absolutely no humour at all, not even a hint of it, and made as if to raise his arms to strike out. Got nowhere at all with it: Malfoy released his aching shoulders only to wrap his arms 'round Harry in a vise-like embrace, bear-hugging him into submission.

"And why should I?" Harry demanded furiously, undaunted. His mouth was still free, right? He could wound Malfoy just as much with words as with fists! "You're a bleeding dog-in-the-manger, Malfoy, so why the hell should I keep quiet? Why do I have to eat it, huh? I've the right to say any damned thing I like! You can't stop me!"

"Well, you can't say that, Potter!"

Malfoy slid his hot hurting hands up to grasp Harry's jaw, his fingers spread wide and biting as he held his struggling captive mostly immobile. Harry kicked at Malfoy's unguarded shins in a swell of temper. Crepe soles, however, weren't exactly the hobnailed boots he wished he was wearing.

"Because I never!"

"Then what was last night in the Library about, then?" Harry stopped fighting to ask, quietly enough. A hush fell between them as Malfoy's eyes widened. His forehead creased instantly and he grimaced at Harry, making all sorts of odd expressions, all incomprehensible. "Why did you stop speaking to me all the sudden?" Harry persisted intently. "Explain it, please, because I don't follow, git. I don't understand you, Malfoy."

Malfoy looked as though he'd swallowed any number of bitter lemons; his nose scrunched up and he scowled biliously, as if his stomach ached. He shrugged discontentedly and his arms tightened to an impossible degree, constricting Harry's breathing.

"That-that's different, Potter," he stuttered. "That's was Longbottom's fault. He fancies you and you know it! I never said a fucking word about you to Blaise—I know you were just being friendly! But it's not right, Potter—not right at all. It makes me bloody sick to my friggin' stomach, alright? Still, the daft twat's your mate, isn't he? Saved your life, yeah? More than I did, I guess. I suppose you owe him, even—or that's what I tell myself when I want to hex his bits to China and back. But I'm not getting in the way of that, arse. Not my bloody right, is it?"

"You don't," Harry flatly contradicted his opponent. "No." He swallowed a weird lump that risen in his throat, one that insisted on swelling to fill it. "Look. It's not that you don't have the right, Malfoy, it's that you don't trust me. You gave me the bloody cold shoulder the second Nev showed up last night—as soon as you saw he'd shifted over to our table, didn't you? As if it's my fault Nev's a little weird right now. Which, yeah, he is, okay? But that's still nothing to do with us, Malfoy. He's got his own problems, bugger it, and they're all his own making. I'm just listening, Malfoy. It's what friends do."

"Potter!" Malfoy's face was anguished. "Merlin, Potter—you think I don't know that? I do know it, which is why I've said bloody nothing about it—not a blinking word! Kept my thoughts to mysel—"

"The fuck you have, Malfoy," Harry countered viciously. "The fuck you have, git! You liar! You said something to that bloody-minded snake pit of Slytherins of yours last night and I had Ron up my freakin' nose all this whole morning in the dorm, wanting to know what Parkinson meant when she asked him if you were a free agent again! They're sleeping together, Malfoy—they fucking gossip, alright? And then you didn't even bother to come by the room last night, like you said you would. I had to bloody drag the damned cloak out and go find you! What, am I soiled goods now? You're actually avoiding me?"

"Harry!"

The hands were so tight 'round Harry's cheeks and jawbone he quite thought he might hear his teeth crack from the pressure next. His eardrums tingled.

"Come on! It's—I—you're—Harry, he wants you! Can you blame me? Can you really? That bastard's a bloody insidious wanker! He'll snatch you away in two shakes, Harry, if he thinks you're even the slightest bit willing! He's only looking for the chance, Harry; you know that, don't you? Bloody everyone knows that, Harry. No wonder I'm seeing red, alright? No wonder!"

"So you take it out on me, then?" Harry raised a cool eyebrow, standing still and cold within Malfoy's grasp. "That's your solution? Sodding make me feel like shite because you're suspicious of Neville? That's rich, Malfoy. Shows just how much this means to you, doesn't it? Not much," he spat, wrenching his chin out of Malfoy's hands and turning it abruptly sideways. "Not much at all."

He closed his eyes on a heavy sigh, one that seemed to deflate his every cell and nerve ending and leave him feeling horribly feeble. It had escalated, this, and while it had been fun and maybe even a little thrilling to imagine Malfoy jealous of him, he'd not thought what that cold-eyed bloodless fury had really been telling him.

The stoopid twat he'd presented his idiot heart to on a blinkin' platter didn't trust him any farther than he could toss him. Wasn't that just a friggin' picnic?

"My…gods, please!"

Malfoy slumped hard against Harry, crushing him into the wall with al the weight of his limbs and all the while firming his hands 'round Harry's throat and chin, cradling his head and forcing him back to his precious position.

"Please, please. Look at me. Listen to yourself, Harry! You're making me out to be the bloody villain, Harry, and all I was was a little concerned, damn it! I'm anxious, alright? I know he's your friend; I fucking well know you've a history between you, okay? It's only natural I'd worry over it—over him, the thieving bastard. Not you, Harry—never you!"

"Bah!" Harry exploded, twisting away and sideways finally, all his limbs active a flail of compressed fury. "You green-eyed, passive-aggressive git, Malfoy! You blinkered blind pointy prick! As if I would ever have any sort of interest in Nev when I've got you! Are you mad?"

"Yes!" Malfoy kept his hands on Harry's person through sheer blind luck, preventing him from bolting. "Yes, alright? I am! I'm raving, Harry, okay? Okay! I am—it's true—I admit it! I'm downright illogical, Harry—unreasonable as fuck. You would be, too, if I dared pull this shite—if I had Zabini breathing down my bloody neck every instant, living in my bleeding pocket, always wanting into my fucking britches!"

"A-ha!" Harry snarled. "You admit it, finally! He is after you, isn't he? I thought so!"

"Wait—what? He is not!"

"You just told me so, Malfoy!" Harry was bitterly triumphant. "You said it loud and clear: Blaise has been panting after you for ages—that's what you just said! So freakin' nice of you to finally come clean about it, arsewipe. Past time, I'd say. Thanks for the head's up."

"You—he—you're mental, Harry," Malfoy breathed, shaking his head ever so faintly, strands of his fine hair mingling into Harry's sweat-dampened fringe. "Positively mental. Blaise doesn't want me, Harry—he's my mate, for chrissake. We've been friends forever—since we were both in short pants, Harry! Played together in kindergarten; shared the same tutors! Give me an effin' break, will you? And I don't want him! Which is far more to the point, fuck it!"

"Suuuure you don't, Malfoy—oh, this is just fucking super," Harry muttered squirming. "Bloody fantastic. Wait till Ron and Hermione hear this!"

"Bugger Ron and Hermione, Harry! Would you, for fucking Merlin's sake, stop with that infernal Malfoy?" Draco pleaded. "You make it sound like we're in Sixth Year again, Harry! Call me by my damned name, will you? You do it in bed, damn it! You might as well do it when you're ripping me a new one, too!"

"Do we really, Malfoy," Harry drawled the prick's surname most deliberately, "sound like that? Fancy. Sixth Year, as I recall, was not our finest, was it? We were definitely at odds during Sixth. I seem to remember having my nose broken, Malfoy. Brutally. And you tried to Crucio me, twat. Crucio!"

Malfoy gave Harry an impatient little jiggle, as if to physically remove him from the lingering memories of stalking, hexing, blood-spattered tile and miasma of misery that was Sixth.

"Oh and you—you!" Draco gasped. "What about the Sectum—no. No!" He sucked in such a sharp breath his cheeks swelled. Blew it out with a impatient huff before Harry's disagreeable glare. "No, I will not go there. I won't. Look, Harry—enough about Sixth. Forget it. I didn't even intend to bring it up, alright? Focus on the now, please. Now is what's important, after all. Don't you agree?"

Somehow, in some way, perhaps despite themselves, they'd settled into a relatively comfortable position; Harry leaning up against the shiny white wall, Draco pressing firm and hard against him, his lean warmth welcome in the drafty wide corridor.

But they weren't finished, were they? No...not by a long shot.

"Oh, no!" Harry exclaimed abruptly, wriggling furiously again in yet another abortive effort to pull away. "You're not doing this to me, Malfoy. You're not." He was certain he was bruised about the neck and any hope of making Potions class in a timely manner was up in smoke. He was sure, also, that both he and Draco were sporting boners. Insistent ones, but he gallantly attempted to ignore them both. "I don't bloody well think so, you see?" he growled. "I think it is all about Sixth Year, still. I don't believe you've ever really gotten past what I did to you, back then. You resent me. You think I'll hurt you when you least expect it, don't you?"

"Oh…Harry," Draco sighed hugely, his arms tensing as he exerted his superiour reach and advantageous position to keep Harry stalled in place. "Of course I do, git. It's to be expected, isn't it?"

Harry blinked up at him, startled. That one he hadn't seen coming at all!

"Wh-what?"

"I said, of course, Harry," Draco replied softly. "Logically, yes, I do expect it. I've spent almost all our years at school expecting you to harm me one way or another—and just as much time planning how I could harm you."

"Well, then," Harry began, frowning. "If it's that way—"

"No—no, Harry. It isn't, not any more. Listen," Draco jumped in before Harry could manage to wrap his unwilling tongue 'round delivery of the gut-twistingly horrible logic that followed. "That only means we need to relearn a few things, alright? Break some bad habits we share—sort out better ways of being angry at one another…that's all."

He pressed the lightest of kisses upon Harry's parted lips; drew back with sigh and a twitch of a sharp angled eyebrow. "I was just jealous, Harry. I'm always jealous. Don't you know that by now?"

Harry had to touch him; had to—must. He felt as if he would die if he didn't and Draco Malfoy's smooth shaven chin was quite possibly the best sensation his fingertips had ever experienced. He let them linger, trailing across the faint lines stress had impressed upon that pale face, finding the brush of lashes as he threaded them into Draco's fringe.

"Do you?" he asked, eyes wide. "Really feel that?"

"Mmm." Draco nodded. "Pathetic, isn't it?"

"You mustn't," Harry told him earnestly. He arched his spine off the wall in an effort to get closer, telling Draco wordlessly with all his eager body that there was nothing to fear.

No fear. Harry wasn't going anywhere, not even Potions. Not a sodding chance.

"You needn't," he whispered, squirming about so he could fling his arm 'round Draco's nape and haul him closer—close enough to snog decently. For real. "I love you, you know?"

"Yeah?" It was a bit muffled, that. Draco's mouth was occupied. When he drew back at last he asked the same question, if a bit differently. "Is that so, Harry?"

"Absolutely," Harry grinned. "You can't doubt me, Draco. I ventured down here last night, didn't I? Wouldn't do that for anyone but you, prat. Only you."

"You have a problem with Slytherin, Harry?" Harry could sense Draco didn't truly care what answer he returned; there was a questioning palm fumbling down his shirt and across the buttons of his trousers that told him that so very plainly. "I'm offended; we won't harm you, Golden One."

"Zabini might eat me, Draco, if Parkinson—ah! Harder, yeah? If Parkinson doesn't get me first. I don't think she's quite forgiven me for actually surviving-and for taking you away from her. Very scary, she—is! Ahhhh!"

"The real dog-in-the-manger, yeah?" Draco chuckled. "On the bright side, Pans should keep the Weasel busy enough and out of my hair. Now we only need settle your lanky wanker friend Longbottom."

"You're such a bitch, Draco."

"That's right, Harry, I am," Draco popped a kiss upon the tip of Harry's nose. He drew back, smiling widely. "So don't push me, alright?"

Harry's belt buckle and trousers had meanwhile been magically unfastened and were down about his hobbled ankles; the last of Harry's recriminations ended on a startled squeak.

"Don't push—me, either!" Harry gasped, hips forward. "Oh, um…good—that's reallyverygood, right there, Draco. Right there!"

"Mmmm, that's it," Draco crooned, clearly distracted by what he was fondling. "Shall I, Harry?" The one hand cupped him and gently rolled his bollocks; the other one left Harry's nape somewhat regretfully and found its way down his flexing back, gripping and pinching as it travelled, only to end up plastered firmly across Harry's bum, squeezing rhythmically in a mind-altering pulse. "I want to. I want you," he muttered, eyelids drooping to half-mast. Toe your shoes off, Harry, alright? They're in the way."

"Yesss!" Harry performed an awkward form of clogging and managed to free up one leg completely. Draco grabbed his thigh as soon it was bared and drew it up, guiding Harry's knee 'round his waist. "But—here? Is it alright?"

"Hmm, should be," Draco murmured. He stuck his tongue in Harry's ear. "Better be," he added ruefully, "as I don't think I can really stop. Hop up, now. Ready?"

"Oh! Oh, if—if you say so, then," Harry gasped. "Bring it, Draco!"

"Bring it I will, Harry." Draco promised, gnawing his merry, sloppy way down Harry's throat and collar. "But not dry, nitwit. Hang on—hey! What're you doing, Harry?"

Harry snapped his fingers and grinned, cat ate canary style.

"Magic, twat. A little wandless wonder Seamus taught me. Handy, hmm?"

"I'll say," Draco agreed, his cock and Harry's arse practically aswim in fragrant oil. "Maybe a little less power behind that next time, though. I can hardly aim, berk. And everything down here's very slippery." "

"No complaining," Harry informed him. "We've been through that already—time's up for whinging, Draco. Just get in me. You can do that, can't you?"

"I imagine I might be able to manage," Draco allowed, "if you'll hold very still, Harry. It is a bit of mess, you know."

"Prat," Harry muttered, but he stilled his clenching thigh where it tightened 'round Draco's jutting hips and balanced carefully on his remaining trainer. "Alright? Umph!"

"Oh…yes," Draco hummed his relief. "I think so. How 'bout you, Harry?"

"Wanker," Harry rejoined fondly. "Now. Perhaps a bit of shoving, fathead? Some force? At this rate, we'll both miss Transfigurations, too."

"As if that mattered, Harry," Draco chuckled. "You're also McGonagall's favourite. And I come along with you, don't I? A matched set, so to speak, so we're alright, I think. She'll forgive us, I'm sure. Plenty of time left—might even spell up a daybed, yeah?"

"Definitely a wanker," Harry grinned. "Why is it I love that about you?"

"No idea," Draco smiled, pressing tiny kisses across Harry's forehead as he angled his hips for a proper shove. "But I'm not complaining."

"Just about poor old Nev, then." Harry remarked, his back arching as Draco unerringly found his sweet spot.

"That wanker! Not now, Potter." Draco's nostrils flared as he pulled neatly out, only to imbed himself to the hilt with a lurch. "Not now!"

"Right!" Harry yelped. "Oh—gods—Merlin! You don't pull your punches, do you?"

"No," Draco whispered against Harry's parted lips. "Not when it comes to you, Harry. Never have, never will."

"That—would be—why it is," Harry panted, as Draco fell into an easy, insides-scrambling rhythm, "that I—love you—then!"

"Same goes, Harry—same goes."

Finis