A Christmas story

by spellwinder

Warning: lemon, slash, shounenai Warning: translated, originally german Beta readers: City sweeper, mathnerd Dedication: for you all, enjoy! Summary: But who says that Slytherins always had to be unlucky? The curfew had started several hours ago ...

A Christmas Story

I looked over the arse which lolled towards me. Its owner twitched it in my direction, sighing, although I hadn't even touched her yet.

I was glad I didn't have to see her red face, closed my eyes and tried to concentrate in order to see only her arse, and, if possible, not to hear anything at all.

They were so many, and none of them turned me on.

I stretched out my hands, grasped the much too rotund hip, and traced the outlines with my fingers until I reached the crevice.

With an expert hand I grabbed between her buttocks and spread them like I had done so many times before, in order to examine the tiny entrance which I was about to penetrate.

I thrust into her without much ado, almost bored. I didn't want to lose time with widening or humidification, wanted to get through this.

I knew I hurt her, but she was a means to an end and I had to ease the pressure in my loins - at least for a few hours.

Somewhere along the way I realized that she screamed with every single of my thrusts.

I could have been insensible to this, but somehow I pitied her and thrust harder, hoping for the both of us to finish faster.

Only a few minutes and some fast movements later I reached a brief orgasm.

While she still shivered on the table on which she had collapsed I had already dressed and left the deserted classroom in which I always dedicated my time to my devotees.

I only wanted to have a shower; a cleaning spell would never have sufficed to wash the revulsion off me.

As fast as I could I hurried towards the dungeons, longing for the hot water on my skin. It might have seemed I was trying to get away from her, but of course there was no reason for a Malfoy to flee from the sight of a stupid girl.

Unfortunately I had to cross the whole school in order to reach the dungeons, as for my fingroom was situated in a deserted tower, while the dungeons where a different kettle of fish, and they surely weren't sky-high up on a tower.

I hurried down the moving staircases, when the one I was on suddenly changed its mind about where it was supposed to lead to.

I stopped, enervated, wondering where it would lead me. What else could I do?

I was unlucky, of course. It let directly towards the Gryffindor tower.

I had to leave as quickly as possible, even if it meant I had to cross inimical territory, for I was alone and without Crabbe and Goyle – whom I didn't usually bring along when I set off to deflower another arse.

But who says that Slytherins always had to be unlucky?

The curfew had started several hours ago at nine o'clock. Nobody besides the Prefects was to be expected on the floors, and everyone knew that the Gryffindors were Dumbledore's favourites and loved to stay put to the rules.

And, as luck would have it, I was a Prefect, even if this was not my stomping ground.

Anyhow it was better to take cover in the shadows and not to attract more attention than necessary, as for it was unknown to me where exactly the entrance to the Gryffindor common room was.

I flattened myself to the walls and into the shadows, trying, if possible, not to wake the mostly sleeping or dozing portraits, when something hit me from behind and I fell down.

One of the portraits had swung open from the inside.

Its occupant was a ridiculously plump hag in a forbidding pink garment.

And while my mind still wailed 'what did I say about luck?' my mouth mumbled "how typical for Gryffindor to choose a hag like her as guard to their common room".

Unbelievingly trying to comprehend the dimensions of the fat hag I crouched on my knees, when two pairs of legs emerged from the wall behind the portrait - one pair was wearing trousers, the other one white ankle socks – and quickly circled the portrait, which was still snoring loudly.

Again: what did I say about misfortune?

As a Prefect I would have been superior to any common pupil, and I could have threatened to report them to Snape because they were out of bed.

But obviously the legs belonged to Weasel and Granger, the mudblood. They were Prefects themselves, and this was a home match for them.

Maybe I shouldn't have attended to Weasel's young sister last week...

Granger simply stood there, arms crossed and with, I am sure, a hint of satisfaction around her lips.

When the Weasel violently dragged me to my feet and, growling, pinned me to the wall, she exaggeratedly looked in another direction.

What revulsion, when he put his hand on my mouth to stop me from screaming … it smelled of sweat, it was wet. I would have given anything to be able to wipe it off my face.

I fumbled for my wand.

Weasel would find out that I needn't necessarily scream in order to do magic.

That very moment, an iron hand grasped my wrist and wrested my wand from me.

I was afraid – just for a moment – until graciously the Weasel's hand vanished from my face.

Not because he had removed it, but because he himself was now leaning against the opposite wall and holding his head.

Granger ran to him in order to help him to his feet and reproachfully stared into the void. She was opening her mouth in protest, when a deep and calm voice near my ear said:

"It is beneath us to assault a lost student, even if he is a ferret."

The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and a shiver ran down my spine.

This voice sounded so very different, when it was whispered. I knew it:

Potter.

Probably he was wearing that famous invisibility cloak of his. You cannot buy one for money. I know. I tried with all imaginable means.

"Harry, don't you care a pap for Ginny?"

"Of course I care, but we can slug this out without lowering ourselves to his level."

Granger nodded reluctantly. She stopped the Weasel, who tried to snake around her in order to rip open my throat, but he had no chance. Soon he hung growling and jerking in her mudblood-arms.

Gryffindors. Dangerous animals! No reason, just instincts.

Unlucky me: most people continue to mistake this for bravery.

Something streaked my arm, presumably a corner of Potter's cloak

I turned and felt a breeze on my face. I could almost sense the movement, when I saw my wand flying through the corridor in direction of the stairs.

I continued to stare at the place where I suspected Potter was, hinted a barely noticeable bow towards this sportsman and then, without saying another word, I ran after my wand which had rolled around the corner and now I could hear it jingling down the stairs.

'Oh damn, I hope the paint won't graze!'

When I finally recovered it before it could actually get damaged I stood on a landing. I considered getting back up there and teaching these Dung-dors a lesson, then shrugged when I remembered my urgent need of a hot shower, and all I wanted to do was to get away.

I did not know exactly where I was, but the good thing about the Slytherin common room was that it was enough to continue to go downstairs, and sooner or later you arrived in the dungeons.

It would be easy from there on.

I practically flew down the stairs, taking three or four steps at once, always taking care not to make any unnecessary noises.

My cloak billowed silently and black around me with every jump, just as if it were a part of me.

But, honestly, I couldn't wait to get it off.

The nocturnal meeting with Potter and Company was temporarily forgotten; instead once more I envisioned the pleading round face of that Ravenclaw puppy in front of me, who so desperately demanded to be compelled to scream.

I wondered if all girls here were masochists, since they all languished for my attentions.

Ah, what a waste.

I didn't want any of them.

My stomach clenched in revulsion, when I remembered my first time with a girl.

She had convinced me, and in effect she had been quite cute – until her sweaty face distorted in lust and she didn't even turn me on in the slightest.

She had been so squashy and sweaty, her hands continued to touch every bit of me, and I knew that this wasn't up my alley.

Since then I had taken them all from the rear, a different one every single time (for they rarely came back for seconds), and she who wanted me wasn't even to ask if she was allowed to offer herself in another position to me.

I preferred arses, they were tighter and I finished faster and could then get away from them.

My preference and the meeting place were no secret to the girls of Hogwarts.

I knew whenever I went to the room in the tower there would be a naked arse waiting for me.

Only once Zabini had been squatting there and waiting for me.

I fear I had harried him a fair bit with that curse which addles the intestinal flora, and, thanks to the gods, since then no more boys had shown up in my room.

I flew down the last landing with a great leap, landed safely on my feet and one hand and headed for the common room.

For the uninitiated, the labyrinth of corridors might seem impenetrable, but after nearly seven years at this school I knew the dungeons like the back of my hand.

The mouldy air was fresh and cool, and after the midsummer heat and the smell of sweat in the tower room I voraciously breathed in and calmed down to the point that I did not run towards the common room – this wouldn't have suited a Malfoy who came back from a midnight adventure.

I put on a smug face, straightened my shoulders and crossed the wall between the two torches which never extinguished.

Only a few Slytehrins were still awake, some of them sat immersed in the armchairs by the fire, probably lost in McGonagall's homework, judging by their desperate faces.

They all looked up when I entered the room, especially Crabbe and Goyle, who didn't even breathe without my permission. They saw my usual triumphal face, some of them smiled at me which I ignored according to my rank, and in some rare cases rewarded with a broad grin or a furrowed brow.

Then, finally, I had crossed the room and reached my bedroom.

It was actually a double bedroom, but an uneven number of Slytherins had entered the seventh year at Hogwarts, and it had been beyond all question who would get the single room.

It was advantageous being a Malfoy.

The minute the door had closed behind me I impatiently ripped the cloak off my body.

Buttons ricocheted off the floor – a house elf would handle with that – and flounced without further ado to the bathroom.

The hot water rid me of the evening's revulsion and made me sleepy.

A towel wrapped around my hips, I fell on my bed and, wiping the wet and cold long hair from my face, I fell asleep almost immediately.

Again I felt the shiver run down my spine, and the little hairs on my neck stood up.

Something streaked my arm and a deep, calm and vibrating voice whispered in my ear. Warm breath grazed my cheek.

What did the voice say?

Why was no one there?

Again that touch, absolutely coincidental, that light breeze ----

When I woke up I was glad not to have worn more than a towel when I had fallen asleep.

I was soaked in sweat and I desperately desired to have another shower, a cold shower this time, because I had an enormous erection which hurt more than it pleased.

After this second shower I went back to bed, shivering and naked for the sheets were already soaked, and thought about my dream.

Potter had always magically attracted me, and I hated him for that.

All that rebellious fuss, and always he managed to stand up against inequities which others were used to ever since and which nobody even noticed any more.

Where had that bloke gotten his damned scent for these things from?

I was inexpiably jealous of Potter, because he had refused my friendship, ungracious because he attracted as much attention as I did. But whilst he innately was in the centre of attention, I had to work hard for my reputation.

Cooping up two as charismatic persons such as ourselves in a place like this had led to the inevitable ending: we were the opposite extremes of the same straightedge.

I was minus and Potter plus, I was the night, he was the day.

We repelled each other like the two different poles of a magnet – just, that was nonsense –

Again I had to think about my dream. My muscles tensed when I thought back to the vibrating of his voice-

-again and again I had to think about it, until my whole body was covered in goose bumps and I had another giant erection.

This time I didn't want to reach the point when it hurt, so I closed my fingers around my pulsing member and slowly began to pump.

Behind my closed lids I saw only air, but the faster my hand moved, the more present became the invisible touches I imagined feeling. I felt every contact of the silk sheet like a thunderbolt. A vibrating voice echoed in my head, louder and more intense the nearer I got to climax.

Panting, I clenched the sheet when I came.

I had never experienced something like this before.

I breathed deeply and leaned back into the pillow.

I became aware of how much my whole body had cramped when I tried not to alert the entire dungeons with my scream when I climaxed.

Tired, I fumbled for the wand under my pillow, and probably was fast asleep even before the "Evanesco" had taken effect.

This time I slept deeply and dreamless until the morning.

It was a Saturday morning, and Crabbe and Goyle both knew they had to smuggle down all they could carry for my breakfast and break the arm of everybody who had the insane idea to wake me up before noon.

Sometimes they took the thing with the fractured arm a bit too seriously, because once an unlucky first year had stooped, sneezing, in front of my door and shortly, after a mysterious fall down the stairs, found himself with a fractured arm at Madam Pomfrey's.

I had clarified to my gorillas that the fracturing was meant metaphorically, but it had been too late, then.

The Peewee got a Firebolt, which his parents could absolutely not afford, from an anonymous donor, and was satisfied after that.

This Saturday I crawled out of the feathers at eleven o'clock. It had been an absolutely recreating and contenting dormancy, and I felt almost euphoric, almost as if I had played a nice dirty trick on the Weasel.

Aaaah, the thought alone let me grin.

I luxuriously stretched deciding that I wasn't euphoric enough to run around nude, and put on the shorts I always wore when I went swimming. Then I chose a pair of jeans and a white shirt – I was a Malfoy, and a T-shirt would have been beneath me.

Quick-wittedly I chose one which would protect me from the summer heat with a cooling spell.

I found a tray with everything I liked most for breakfast in front of my door, took it to the common room and savoured it for good.

Today would be a hot day, and very probably we, like all the other students, would spend it lying outstretched at the lake's shore in order to enjoy the last days of summer of the school year.

The present Slys cautiously observed me in order to guess if they could dare to enjoy themselves today, for their fortune mainly depended on my respective humour.

The atmosphere relaxed considerably, the more of them noticed my content expression, and their complete dependence let me grin.

I was the prince of the dungeons, and apart from me and my favourites, no one here was interested in Potter.

Well, maybe Snape.

Soon we set off for the lake, took over our usual place under a willow and basked in the September sun. The Gryffindors had arrived some time before, but I could not spot that trio I hated, and I didn't fancy searching for them.

They showed up some time after noon, spread their blanket under another of the trees – Potter wore a pair of too old jeans and a sleeveless Bordeaux-coloured shirt which accentuated his muscles more than it hid them, and under his jeans a pair of knee-length boxers which were Bordeaux coloured, too, as he revealed before long to me – and gave us, and especially me, some threatening stares. When they realized that I ignored them despite all that had happened the evening before, they soon got bored and started to amuse themselves in Gryffindor ways.

I had dozed off in the heat, and some light breeze coming from the lake must have reminded me of the dream of the night before, because I woke up with a hard and painfully pressed to the ground erection – thanks to the gods I had been laying on my belly.

Blaise, Pansy, Gregory and some other Slys had surrounded me as if I were their sun and they my satellites and were annoyingly blabbering about.

Angrily I shooed away a beetle which tickled over my forearm, pretended I had been woken up by it, and waited for my erection to get a bit less obvious. Then I sat up cross-legged, the bulging boxers hiding my situation.

Pansy immediately tried to play on my vigil crawling in my direction, but I truly did not want to bear her and grinned a "not that discussion again"-grimace, which she interpreted accurately, sulking and slumping down where she was cowering.

In order to avoid further potentially embarrassing encounters I yelled "who wants to swim?" jumped up and ran, followed by the others, towards the lake.

After lying in the sun for hours and sleeping my circulation was not enthusiastic that I jumped, headfirst, into the frigid water.

My body cramped underwater within seconds, and my lungs seemed to transform to ice cubes.

Panic-stricken I realized that I was unable to move and a current had taken hold of me and was dragging me towards the open water in the middle of the lake. I wanted to dive to the surface but still didn't manage it and stared with horror into the obscure depths – from which a pale shadow was approaching.

I obviously thought about one of the lake's inhabitants, and more precisely I had cogitated about the giant squid, but in truth it was Harry Potter approaching me.

He dived up to my level, looked into my eyes for a moment – I could see the gill slits on the sides of his neck, his feet had become long fins and his pupils were slits in front of the bright green irises.

It was the same trick he had used during the Triwizard Tournament. He obviously had been down here for a while, otherwise someone would have noticed.

I wondered whether he regretted that the night before he had rescued me from the Weasel.

Maybe he wanted to atone for that flaw?

Did he want to watch me slowly pegging out down here?

I knew that my thoughts were impossible to guess from the look of my face and stared back at him through my cold mask.

I would not ask for help.

Finally the world in front of my eyes turned black.

When I came to, Pansy's asinine face hung above me, water was dripping from her sopping hair onto my chest and she was fumbling with her wand – very obviously she was about to do something terrible to me in the attempt to heal me.

As fast as I could, I gripped for her wrist and with a terrified squeak she let go of her wand.

"What's happened?" I asked with a croaky voice.

"We didn't see you reappear and searched everywhere for you and then we found you clutched to this tree," she wailed without even taking breath. She probably would start blubbering if no one stopped her.

Annoyed, I turned my head and tried to straighten up.

I looked around and peered around the agitated students' – Slytherins and others – legs in order to find out where I was and realized that I was several yards from the point from where I had jumped into the water. The branches of a tree were hanging into the water. Apparently Potter had hung me over one of these branches and then disappeared without attracting attention in order to keep secret that it had been he who had helped his arch enemy out of a tight corner for the second time in two days.

Sighing, I leant back into the grass and answered the many gormless questions with a shrug and an annoyed growl, and most of the onlookers pissed off not a minute too early.

Evening came, and although Crabbe, Goyle and Zabini, too, had pressed on long enough – I had almost lost my temper, and that would have turned out nasty for anyone else – I had avoided Snape to keep him from learning about my little accident at the lake in order to be allowed to go to the training.

I had to see Potter after all the things that had happened.

I was curious.

What prompted him to behave that justly towards me?

And maybe this would help me with feasible future dreams, that is: to avoid them.

When I stepped out to the Quidditch-Pitch, my team behind me and ready for the training game against Gryffindor, the Gryffindors came from the opposite changing booth, Harry in front of them, followed by his two loyal Weasleys and the rest of their team. It nearly seemed that they had only been waiting for us.

I cast a look at the Weasel, whose sister's hair was not the only red part of her while she stared to the ground, and if hate would have been a wave, Ronald the Weasel would have drowned me.

I grinned back, mounted my broom and took off, before he had a chance to get any inane ideas. I heard an angry "Malfoy, you bugger!" and laughed; the wind was tearing on my braid and I flew some loops, demonstrating my irredeemable predominance to the Weasel.

The training among our opponent houses proceeded grimly but uneventfully, excepting the fact that today particularly many bludgers flew in my direction.

I saw Potter dive for the Snitch and despite the fact that I didn't see anything I followed him, when Goyle, thanks to one of those infrequent sudden inspirations of his, vehemently struck a bludger into the Golden boy's flight path.

The bludger approached Potter from his right, who seemed not even to have noticed it.

I was on his left side and out of the danger zone.

Potter, still focussed on the for-my-eyes-invisible Snitch, continued to bolt after it and I wondered with what kind of an amateurish spell he might have bewitched his ugly glasses if they let him see that tiny Snitch but not the giant bludger, which, in the twinkling of an eye, would be smashing to his skull.

A moment later the bludger hit my shoulder with all its vehemence and I felt it dislocate with an excruciating-velvety 'Plopp'. I had stretched out an arm and hustled Potter's broom away, getting into the firing line myself.

If I owed anything to Potter, I had settled at least half of the debt.

I landed, watched Potter unperturbedly catch the Snitch.

I let my unheeded broomstick fall onto the grass and staggered, ignoring my yelling team mates, towards the castle.

Madam Pomfrey was the only person I was willing to bear today. I shooed the others away with a hiss when they came running in order to support me; one could have thought that the bludger had dislocated HIS arm by the look of Goyle's deathly pale face.

Speaking of arms, mine was uselessly dangling on my side, and the thing that drove me mad was the very dangling. I wanted to cry with pain with every tiny movement, but that would have been inappropriate for a Malfoy, and so I clenched my teeth until I heard them crack. From the corner of an eye I saw that in the meantime Potter had landed too, and went carried towards the showers on the shoulders of his team mates. This had been only a training game, what a show…

I stumped on and into the castle, Goyle and the others following me, leaving a safe distance between me and them; Crabbe was carrying my broomstick.

I felt dizzy and my teeth cracked with every step I had to climb in order to finally arrive in Pomfrey's realm.

I was already beginning to regret that I had refused the others' help, but it would have been equivalent to a loss of face if I changed my mind now, and so I had to cope with it alone.

The Mediwitch was already wrapped in her long nightdress when finally I staggered to one of the hospital wing's beds.

"Dislocated?"

I nodded.

"Quidditch?"

Another nod and I began to feel sick.

"Drink this."

She held an ampoule with a bluish potion which smelled strongly of mould to my lips, because I tried to stabilize the dislocated arm as far as possible with the sane one. And since I did not even think of leaving, I did not have a free hand.

I had barely sipped a bit of the potion when I immediately sacked to one side into a merciful unconsciousness. Mindful Madam Pomfrey caught me when I toppled over, and I distantly heard her call for Crabbe and Goyle, who had waited frightened in the doorway, to help her relocate my arm.

I slept.

The arm still hurt. It pulsed synchronously with my slow heartbeat.

I felt the pulsing and initially was not sure if I possibly only dreamt it, but it did not stop and wakened me more and more, until I definitely could not deny any more that I was awake and with a sigh started blinking my eyes.

Only now, when my head sank deeper into the pillow, I realized that there must have been another head next to mine which now suddenly had disappeared.

Around me I could only see the other empty beds of the hospital wing.

"Potter", I faintly croaked.

"Malfoy", a deep vibrating voice next to me whispered.

"What are you doing here?"

I did not get an answer, but I heard him silently whisper a spell.

"Now nobody will hear us" the invisible said in a slightly louder voice. "I hear you caught the bludger which would have sent me on a long journey to the land of Nod."

I did not answer. Not being able to see Potter while he spoke with me made me nervous.

Was he grinning under his bloody cloak?

I stretched out my left arm and reached out for the void, felt a silky tissue which by no means could be my sheet and pulled the cloak off a startled Potter's head. With a rustling noise the cloak slid to the floor.

Potter was sitting on a chair, which had been invisible before, too.

And he did not grin.

He was wearing an old pyjama which was way too large and made him seem thin, pale and small. His chin-length hair was even untidier than usual, because he had just woken up, too –how long has he been sitting here? -, his glasses were hanging crooked on his nose and instead of his eyes I saw my own reflection in them.

My right arm was held by a sling and someone had opened my braid, wherefore now thick whitish streaks were floating over the pillow and the mattress. In the dim moonlight I could not see much more apart from the dark shadows under my eyes which made me seem paler and weaker than was advisable in front of my enemy.

Why was he here?

He pre-empted me, like he did so often:

"…why?"

"I owed you for fishing me out of the lake. Now what are you doing here, and don't make me ask again?"

"I wanted to see if you were all right. You had an interesting day."

"Oh really?" I snarled back, trying to keep myself from telling how interesting the day had started.

"Tell me, Potter, why do you make all this fuss? Since when do you care if I live or die?"

"And you?" was the counter question I was not prepared for.

"Yesterday evening you easily could have come back and taken up a sturdy fight. You could have snitched on us to Snape, and this time he surely would have taken my invisibility cloak, and that would only have been advantageous for you. You could have left the bludger hitting me, and Slytherin wouldn't have had any problems during the game against Gryffindor next month.

Therefore my question is: why?"

"You behaved like a real sportsman, and I have to respect that. And in respecting you, I am no longer able to treat you like a maggot. I liked you more when you were just a wretched rat, Golden Boy."

My arm hurt when I turned in his direction, and unwillingly I sighed faintly.

"Leave me alone, Potter. I want to sleep", I whispered, suddenly honestly tired, closed my eyes and leant back into the pillow.

My head hurt, what had been in that potion?

Potter still sat there and stared at me.

"Are you really doing all this for respect, is that why you are being so straightforward with me?"

"Partly, and partly because I hope to get rid of you faster, answering your questions. I have a headache and I am tired."

Potter straightened. And I realized that he was not nearly as small as the outsized pyjama made him seem. He had some broad shoulders indeed, our Potter, and was not as undernourished as he once had been.

Had his Muggles not fed him well?

"Leave, Potter, or they will catch you and you'll get detention", I wearily mumbled and closed my eyes again.

Without standing up Potter leant down, angling for his cloak which was still lying on the floor. When his warm breath stroked my face, I kept my eyes shut.

I sighed again, when the shiver that ran down my spine jounced my shoulder.

Potter hesitated another moment, I could feel him watching me, than he quietly got to his feet – a whiff, when his cloak billowed from the movement – and I could hear his naked feet pattering gently towards the exit.

Had he whispered "Get well soon"?

Probably not.

I slept.

I dreamt of Harry Potter, his glasses hanging crooked on his nose. About how good he looked when he wore Bordeaux. How he straightened and the giant pyjama suddenly was not that giant at all, how he leant down to me and I could taste his breath….

It was a strange life: I was at Hogwarts, and Harry Potter was no longer a wretched rat.

I was bound to respect him. He had behaved honourably, and nobody had forced him to risk getting detention by visiting me in the hospital wing.

The months passed by and we saluted each other politely when we met in the halls.

The influence Potter exerted on his friends could be measured in that likewise Granger saluted me – almost politely – which caused me to abandon calling her mudblood, and the Weasel stopped turning on me as soon as he caught sight of me, but just growled viciously, which complied to the vocabulary he currently addressed me with.

His sister had come to me without my invitation, and I had dealt with her as with everyone else, she surely had made that plain to him. Probably she was embarrassed for his behaviour.

I presumed she wanted to avoid her brother to point out to even the last bonehead at Hogwarts why exactly he was so angry with me.

Needless to say that there is nothing embarrassing about having been allowed to pass some intimate moments with the most beautiful and sought-after student of Hogwarts, but I assumed that from her point of view this was to be seen otherwise, and as long as her attitude availed more than it harmed me I was inclined to oversee this.

Besides she had never meant more to me than any other of the girls who had come to me - in the majority of cases wanting to attract attention, many perhaps just out of curiosity.

Since the Quidditch-incidence I had not been again in the tower room.

I continued dreaming dreams of Potter, in which he simply moved, invisibly, breathed upon me; his cloak occasionally stroked me whilst I was completely unable to see the slightest bit of him.

That alone sufficed to awaken me every single night drenched in sweat, and every morning my bed was soaked because after taking a cold shower I invariably got back to bed naked, masturbating.

The only chance to get some relief….

The everlasting lack of rest was undermining my nerves, which wasn't helped by my schoolwork – this was the NEWT-year, and MacGonnagal had always hated me and would do so forever.

I was glad the incessant duels and cross-talks with the Gryffindor-trio had virtually ended; else wise I would have been a nervous wreck long ago.

Christmas was imminent, and almost all the students prepared for the travel home where they would celebrate with their families.

I did not want to go home, where I would have to face my father and his insane Death Eater friends who always tried to proselytize me to their good cause, which made me think: If the Dark Lord needed oh so very much persuasion to attract new followers, then his cause could not be all that convincing. Provided, of course, that the witches and wizards he tried to persuade in vain had at least a spark of sense.

For the sneaky thing about 'good causes' was that they were always a good excuse for those who preferred to leave the thinking to someone else.

Draco Malfoy was too proud to submit insomuch.

Not even to the Dark Lord, no matter how very displeased my father was; I loved being free to form my own view and would never leave the thinking to anyone else.

Thus I would stay at Hogwarts with the excuse of my parents being too worried about me and not wanting me to leave the safety of the school.

The following evening the students who would spend the holidays with their families had departed, and at dinner we all were seated amidst the professors at a big round table in the middle of the great hall, which was decorated with giant Christmas trees.

The four long house tables had been moved over against the walls.

Mistletoe, self glowing and floating Christmas baubles, never extinguishing candles, and so forth were hanging all over the place.

I tried to sit as far from the half giant and MacGonnagal as possible, and found myself as the only Slytherin in a group of Gryffindors: the Weasley-offspring, Thomas, two shy looking first or second years and … Potter.

He greeted me courteously and sat down just beside me to my right hand side, and thus segregated me from the other Gryfs, who stared only moderately enthusiastically at me.

The feast was laboured, at least as for how much I was concerned.

All these nights I had not been able to sleep, for Potter's cause, had not passed without leaving traces. I had no appetite and just sat stiffly on my chair without talking to anybody, playing with the food on my plate and drinking more butterbeer than was advisable for my empty stomach.

Mayhap for the others the feast was not as laboured as it was for me, for all around me people were laughing, eating and toasting the future victory against the Dark Lord.

I even believed to have seen some hints of a smile on MacGonnagal's stony face.

All of them were ignoring me, and it seemed no one really noticed me – that was just as well to me, I tried hard not to let down my mask in spite of my growing insobriety – excepting Potter, who continued toasting me and knocked back one butterbeer after another, growing louder and louder.

Eventually he turned towards me, smiling, and asked "Want to get out into the fresh air with me?"

Probably I wasn't looking very declining - I was not entirely sure of my facial expression anymore - because he shakily got to his feet, grabbed my hand with an amazingly strong grip and artlessly dragged me out of the great hall.

I followed him to the lake. Its shores were iced.

Fog was hanging above it and the night was starlit and frosty. I only now became aware of the cold, coming out of the Great Hall's heat.

The biting cold air pushed the noteworthy tipsiness I had worked so hard for all night brutally into the back of my skull, but somehow I knew that, going back into the warm it would come back with a vengeance.

The snow reflected the starlight and the night was less obscure than usual, for everything was surrounded by a latent bluish light.

I turned, startled, when I saw from the corner of the eye how Potter toppled backwards.

I tried to catch him out of a knee-jerk reaction, but the alcohol interfered and I missed him.

Potter laughed.

He was lying on his back in the snow, floundering with his arms and legs, and laughed.

I tipped my head and watched him, perplexed.

So this was what a few bottles of butterbeer could do to a usually intelligent human being…

Potter still laughed and threw a handful of snow at me.

At least for this my reflexes were still good enough, and I sidestepped the snow finding out that it had been a nasty ruse when Potter kicked me off my legs, making me flop with only half of my usual grace – which meant like a bag of rocks - next to him into the snowdrift.

My stomach cramped while I unsuccessfully tried to get up again and out of the deep snow.

"All the polite fussing of the last months - it a trap in order to get me unprepared, wasn't it, Potter?" I hissed through clenched teeth.

"Yes, exactly, Malfoy! And now it's your turn!" Potter yelled and swung his leg around me, pinned my shoulders into the melting snow and gave me a murderous stare.

I knew it.

And then he laughed again, long enough for me to use his interrupted concentration to sling my leg around his neck from behind and tear him to the ground.

Now I was sitting on his chest, pinning his shoulders to the snow with my hands, with my feet upon his thighs, preventing him from copying my manoeuvre.

Potter was still laughing, and the longer I listened, the more I realized he was simply drunk, not mad.

I loosened my grip a bit, watching him uncomprehendingly and slightly annoyed.

The Gryf was terribly drunk. He beamed at me and said:

"You're looking gorgeous tonight. You resemble an angel made of ice."

At first I did not know what he was up to. But then I looked down at me realizing that I was wearing white trousers and a black chemise under a white waistcoat and my white dress robes.

Adequate clothing for a feast, but considering my pale skin and the nearly white hair in front of a snowy countryside….

"You're drunk, Golden Boy, and you're going to catch a nasty 'flu" I finally answered, still sitting on his chest and wondering why I suddenly didn't feel cold any more.

Acting without thinking, the famous Gryffindor 'bravery'….

He stopped laughing and gazed seriously at me from underneath.

His glasses lay in the snow a few steps away and therefore he squinted in order to see me properly.

I had never noticed how brilliantly green his eyes were.

His serious face did not have much in common with the one of the boy he had been: the features were sterner and more pronounced than the ones of a child. He had high cheekbones, beautifully arched brows and a straight nose.

There was a crease between his brows from straining to make me out. His black and shaggy hair framed his clear face on the bright pillow of snow; it almost seemed a dark flaming aura. The scar slowly turned into a bluish lightning – not withstanding anything I felt, it was still cold.

His breath was rising in small puffs, when Harry Potter whispered to me:

"I have been dreaming of you."

In a starlit and frosty winter night I sat on Harry Potter's chest and watched him, incredulously.

The snow was melting under my knees, and chilly dankness soaked my clothes and hair.

Potter short-sightedly looked at me through his narrowed eyes, trying to read my face. I had never lowered my mask, not even for a moment.

The Gryffindor just had confessed he was dreaming of me.

Something twitched inside of me. I wouldn't know exactly what it was, or why I suddenly thought that this was bound to be some sort of a peculiar dream.

The goose bumps on my forearms and my chilly clothes proved that I was awake, however, and moreover Potter had always been a faceless presence in my dreams.

For a short moment I was speechless.

I examined the face of the Gryffindor who still lay underneath me.

The pallor of his face was surreally emphasized by the contrast of his black hair on the white snow.

His lips and the scar had turned blue, his cheeks and nose were reddened.

I got off him and, slightly swaying came to my feet and stretched out my hand in order to help him up.

"We should return inside, otherwise not even Madam Pomfrey will be able to do anything for us."

It was obvious that all this was only due to the alcohol - that much was clear to me. Maybe Potter was gay, even if I would never have suspected anything alike; and the majority of Hogwart's schoolgirls would understand why I was simply irresistible.

However, Blaise Zabini was my witness: I was not gay.

Probably I owed my erection, too, to the butterbeer – I fretfully looked at my crotch and commanded my mind to pull itself together.

At least the bulge was hidden under my in-the-breeze-billowing cloak….

Potter lay still for another moment, even though he must feel stone-cold. Was he expecting me to shout at him because of his meddlesome advances?

He shook his head, as if giving up, lowered his gaze outstretching simultaneously his hand and laying it into mine which I was still holding out to him.

His hand was big, his grip strong and the palm was raspy and ice cold.

I wanted to help him up, but he lifted his head and I saw a devilishly mischievous smile on his lips.

With a jerk he pulled me from my feet again and blatantly protesting I landed on my knees between his legs.

He caught me and pulled me into an iron embrace and looked straight into my eyes. Now that I was so very near to him, he could see me effortlessly, even without his glasses. I fell silent at the sight of these fascinating green eyes which I had never seen this clearly for they were forever hidden behind the most ugly pair of glasses of the world.

I was stiff, absolutely incapable of any movement, hypnotized by the gaze which tried to penetrate my mask.

Potter loosened his embrace, his face calm and earnest again. I could feel one of his hands drawing up my back, stroking over the shoulder which had gotten dislocated that one time, circling it once and then icy fingertips drew up my unclad neck, burying themselves in my thick braid.

I did not exactly stem against the movement when he drew my head towards himself, when his own face approached mine without ever breaking the eye contact. That gaze irresistibly kept me enamoured.

When Potter's soft and velvety lips touched mine, notwithstanding the cold which surrounded us, something melted inside of me. Heat spread, and I hoped that it was due to the butterbeers that I returned the kiss, clawing at his wet black hair.

My breath was going in fits and starts.

How long we have been kneeling clutching each other I don't know.

At some point my sense came back, whispering 'it's cold', and the magic moment passed.

I loosened from Potter's lips, looked once more at his face and wondered if I hated him for smashing my nice and clean hetero-world with a kiss.

His green eyes told a tale of longing and a bit of sorrow when he recognized my emotionless mask.

I could not hate him.

Without saying another word I removed his hands which had still been laying on my hips, stood up, took his hand once again and this time I pulled him to his feet.

I drew my wand from the leathern leg-holster and moved it with a precise flick through the air. Now my clothes were still cold, but at least they were dry. I repeated the gesture towards Potter.

Could not let him freeze, could I?

Then I wordlessly walked towards the castle.

The crunching of the snow under his soles told me that he followed me. I wanted to turn, wait for him, but I was troubled and did not want him to see me with such a tediously maintained mask.

Potter dreamt of me?

He, too?

This was a peculiar feeling. I was glad of not being alone with my little problem, but on the other hand the guy who ambled behind me was a man, and we had been enemies for ages.

Fire and water, night and day, plus and minus, the opposite poles of a magnet… wait a moment, what nonsense!

When I arrived at the gate I stopped, waiting and listening to the steps which were approaching from behind. I fixed my gaze upon the wood in front of me, my hand on the doorknob.

In the lucid night a shadow fell on the snow under my feet, and I knew the Gryffindor was standing closely alongside me.

I continued staring at the wood.

If I still had thoughts they were racing at such a velocity that I could no longer distinguish them.

I turned, lifted my head, glancing at the red knitted sweater – a Weasley-sweater, unmistakably, but incredibly the thing looked good on him.

He had goose bumps on his throat.

I lifted my gaze until I looked into his face.

The dark hair made him appear paler than he was; he seemed to glow from the inside.

The lightning on his forehead was still bluish, his lips were red and slightly swollen, the look, even if halfway covered by the recovered glasses was still full of longing and sorrow.

Once again I allowed myself to dive into the green lakes of his eyes.

"I have dreamt of you, too" I said at a voice so low that he could only hear me, if he really listened.

Then I turned and pushed open the gate. A wave of warm air seethed against me, and the tipsiness which had been iced to the back of my skull melted free in a matter of seconds and rushed forwards in order to continue the party.

I got dizzy at once; started swaying and the Gryffindor on my side seized me under my arms and dragged my swearing self astride into the Great Hall, where Hagrid, after the disappearing of the younger students, seemed to have produced a keg of firewhiskey from under his coat, which now was standing on the table, and everybody had helped themselves to plenty of the beverage. Even my uncle's face was showing a reddish shade.

One of the corners of his mouth kept jerking and tried to force the rest of the man who stared from bleary eyes into the void to grin. He made a wretched appearance fighting that grin.

I rowed with my arms and nagged like a carnival witch trying to acquit myself of Potter who loudly laughing and to everybody's entertainment dragged me to my chair and ungently deposited me on it – I missed Crabbe and Goyle ever so much.

That Gryffindor was surprisingly good at hiding his emotions behind masks for a non-Slytherin.

The evening continued and the world started spinning with a mind blowing speed. After I, like the others, too, had done justice to Hagrid's Christmas gift the last thing I remembered was a glass of firewhiskey, half emptied over my white clothes by a babbling Weasel, which I raised to my lips, and then drank.

The next morning I woke up fully dressed on my bed, only realizing that I was going to be sick, that the morning had passed long ago and that I had to hurry if I wanted to get something of the Christmas lunch.

When I exited the bathroom, dizzy and fighting the awful taste in my mouth with a potion for fresh breath, I noticed the quantity of gifts which was lying at the foot of my bed.

My mother, no doubt.

There would be time for this later.

I tottered to the wardrobe, choosing some festive accoutrements and an anti-hangover potion. Then I erratically brushed my hair which was hanging down to my hips and which was irrepressible even by hair gel, tied it up with a leather thong.

Then I swayed through the dungeons in the direction of the Great Hall, from where a delicious scent was emanating. It truly heightened the appetite, now that the anti-hangover potion proceeded to work.

In passing I noticed that the house elves had put up Christmas baubles even throughout the dungeons, doubtlessly they had took advantage of Severus' condition of the eve to get the permission for doing it.

The portraits called 'merry Christmas' to me.

I was amused and grinned.

In the Great Hall everybody was sitting and avariciously eating around the same round table at which we had already had dinner the evening before.

Harry Potter was there, too. He didn't look up when I entered the Great Hall, but I saw that he had kept the empty place beside him free for me.

There were other free seats, but I sat down on next to him.

He looked up at me when I piled some potatoes on my plate, a bit of gravy ran down his chin, and chewing and grinning he wished a good Christmas morning to me.

I muttered back and searched for the roasted duck I had smelled almost even down in the dungeons, in order to avoid looking straight at him.

Somehow I knew, if I did I would blush, and then it would be farewell, dear mask.

Contentedly I drank some of my pumpkin juice when, under the tablecloth, a leg leant against mine. It was bound to be Potter; the leg came from his direction! The shock made me choke on the juice and I snorted into my table napkin.

Everybody looked at me and I looked back apologetically, raising the beaker with the pumpkin juice back to my lips.

I did not draw back my leg, waited. Nothing else happened. There only was that leg touching mine. I felt through the trousers how very warm it was and wondered if the Gryffindor had a fever.

So we were sitting and savoured the feast.

"Have you opened your Christmas gifts yet?" Potter asked, as if we were old friends.

"No, I have just gotten up and delayed it to after lunch…" I offered graciously.

This reminded me something and I looked past Potter over to the Weasleys.

Ginny Weasley obviously had already opened her Christmas presents, for she was wearing a fine silver necklace with a Pygmypuff pendant which I think I had already seen somewhere. I knew she had only read "I'm sorry I have hurt you" on the dedication.

Probably she noticed that I was watching her. She gazed at her plate and touched the new pendant with her finger.

I therewith regarded my apologies as accepted, and if I was not a complete failure as a strategist from now on, I would not have to worry about the Weasel gang to be hostile towards me, at least not because of her.

I smiled smugly and began to wolf down my plum pudding, while under the table I still felt the gentle touch of Potter's leg against my own.

If three days before, someone would have told me that instead of repelling it I would have enjoyed Potter touching me, even were it a completely circumstantial and trivial touch, I would have heartily laughed at him.

Three months ago the same statement would probably have prompted me to hex the person in question and never to speak again with that poor moron.

What had happened to me?

Was it because all the other Slytherins had gone home to their parents?

That possibility was ruled out, my life could never be swayed that much by them.

After lunch we all sat together at the magically cleared table – me, prince of Slytherin, together with the professors, a cohort of Gryffindors, two Ravenclaws and one Hufflepuff, and nobody timorously following every slightest of my moods – that was a weird sensation – and everyone was conversing.

Apart from me, I was reflecting.

So what had happened?

I practically already had answered this question, back then, in the hospital wing.

I had begun to respect Potter, for he had treated me righteously. That was more than I could say about most of my schoolmates.

What else?

It had been a mere coincidence which had detained me from conceding to my usual sulkiness and instead of taking on Potter's friends I had had a shower. I had no more doubts that Potter had watched me hesitating on that landing with my wand ready to strike, just in case I got inane ideas.

Probably he had been wondering why I did not turn around in order to lunge at the Weasel and had followed me down to the dungeons, thinking that I might have swapped one amusement with another in tattling on them to Snape. But that was pure speculation.

At that time I had simply dropped the matter, not giving Potter any motive to revise his opinion of my person.

And so complete denegation had varied to mutual toleration, when I returned the favour during the Quidditch training.

Would we, in spite of everything, be friends eventually?

I pretty much doubted that the blame of the events of the previous eve were entirely to be put on the alcohol but decided to ignore them.

I was much too interested in following the next events to stem the tide.

I felt superior, like an uninvolved observer or an ethnologist.

The ambience was relaxed, and I already regretted of having visited the obligatory family event they called Christmas every year until now.

I leant back on my chair, contentedly holding a glass of mead on my belly, occasionally sipping and silently listening to the other's trivial babble. Betimes I sneered when the Weasel said something absolutely gormless – it was bound to be some kind of inherent capacity of his, he should become a carnie and amuse an ample audience – and all the time I felt Potter's warm leg, which was leaning against mine.

From time to time it moved ever so slightly when he changed his posture slapping someone's shoulder or leaning forwards listening to someone, but it was there all the time.

This leg touching my own was indeed very warm. I watched the Gryffindor from the side and noticed he looked rosy-cheeked.

Did he actually have a fever?

Sometime later everybody got up, and the warm leg disappeared.

I began missing it straight away, almost felt cold without its touch.

The tall Gryffindor went a few steps in the direction of their common room with his friends, for, if I had got it right, they wanted to tog themselves warmly and get out into the snow.

I had decided I preferred the companionship of the Christmas trees and a mug of hot chocolate and was about to call a house elf in order to appoint the beverage when behind me on the stairs which led to the towers a great commotion erupted.

I doubled down in order to see what caused the row and saw Potter, supported by his friends who carried him up the stairs more then they helped him climb them.

"What's happened?" I wanted to know, unheard, but the younger Weasley loudly whinged:

"Harry, you're burning with fever! We can go ice-skating tomorrow, but now let's go to Madam Pomfrey."

Potter seemed to disagree with her, but obviously his opinion did not count at all, because the red-haired brothers simply dragged him away.

I had been right, then.

I turned and went to the dungeons. I was not needed here.

Once arrived in the deserted common room I sat down by the fire in my favourite armchair, sent a house elf for a mug of hot tea and then gave some aroma to it adding some of my own firewhiskey.

I sat like that for a long time until my legs tickled, staring at the tiny green snakes which twitched through the Slytherin Christmas tree like living swags, considering the pros and cons of visiting Potter in the castle's Hospital wing. Because even if she would heal the fever in an instant Madam Pomfrey hundred per cent would not release her patient from her claws earlier than the next day.

Surely he was surrounded by his real friends most of the time, and even if they did not hate me as much as they had before, the Weasleys would never become my friends – and I did not make a point of becoming one of their friends.

Anyhow I did not want them to know that I was worrying about Gryffindor's Golden Boy.

Very probably Harry himself would not want me near him, too.

Speaking straightforwardly, we had been arch-enemies until not long ago, yesterday night could not be counted, and who could guarantee that he had actually noticed that leg thing?

When the cold and empty mug fell to the ground and roused me from my pondering, the only thing I felt of my numb feet was a very displeasing tickling.

Sighing, I shifted position in order to make the blood circulate again. When I felt somewhat better I stood up, because I had to empty my bladder. On my way to my bathroom I came past my bed. The arduous house elves had changed the sheets and arranged all the widespread presents on it.

There were at least a dozen of them, of all forms and shapes, and I could start to unwrap them just as well now.

The most of them actually came from my mother who had sent me new dress robes, some books about potions of which she knew I had not read yet, all kinds of sweets and so on. Sometimes I wondered if she really had apprehended I was of age these days.

On the other hand sweets were exactly what kept me awake when I studied History of Magic, and this was still the NEWT-year.

There was also a package from Pansy Parkinson – it was clear in my mind that she would never give up – in which, of course, I found a tasteless photograph of herself blowing kisses towards the beholder and then waved frantically and grinned – yuck.

Crabbe had given me sweets like every year, Goyle, too, but he outbalanced Crabbe with a bottle of semiprecious mead.

I got more alcohol from some other Slys and relatives.

It would definitely not go to seed.

The last package came from Harry Potter.

How typical, once there is something of importance it ended at the bottom of the pile…those gormless elf-vermin!

I read the card. There was only written 'from Harry' on the front.

I opened the envelope and read: 'come tonight. I'll wait at the lake's shore for you. Same time. We have to talk.'

That was the reason why he had asked me, if I had already opened my presents!

But, assuming I would be responsive to his pleas, how did he figure it out?

Tonight he would be lying in the hospital wing, and there would be no feast during which one could inconspicuously sneak out.

I did not fancy meeting Miss Norris. I hated the obtrusive brute.

She would hundred per cent be patrolling the corridors, Filch, the bothersome squib, likewise.

"Not everybody has an invisibility cloak, Potter" I frustrated muttered to myself.

I unwrapped the package – and when I fetched the present, I decided that tonight I would go and pay the Gryffindor a visit.

I was not sure at what time we had been at the lake the night before ….

However, I assumed that midnight was as good as any other time, and so at the twelfth chime I arrived at the gate of the Hospital wing.

Miss Norris had crossed my path, had sniffed around me a bit and followed me for a few steps, but then she abandoned soon, vanishing in the labyrinth of the dungeons.

Nobody else had bothered me on my way here.

At least the Weasleys would not be around at this time.

With my wand I scanned the gate for 'undetectable' alarm spells – as I said, it was advantageous being a Malfoy – no wonder with that father – needless to say I did not find any: back in September even Potter had been able to creep in without getting caught.

I felt cold in the sheer silk pyjama, but in case I would get caught it would be better to tell a tale of sleepwalking.

Carefully I opened the gate far enough for me to slip in, and then immediately closed it as noiselessly as possible.

My naked feet were getting ice cold on the stone floor, but at least they did not make any noise.

I felt like a six year old, attempting to steal Christmas cookies from the pantry.

In front of me was the long and familiar row of empty beds. Against the right-hand wall - I had to cross half of the spacious room to reach him - lay Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world, snoring quietly.

I approached and watched the strangely peaceful image.

He still looked slightly rosy-cheeked; the black hair once again me reminded a dark aura surrounding his head.

He was tall, at least as tall as I was, and, if I could trust the outlines under the coverlet, he was very slim, but no longer meagre.

Thereby he had broad shoulders which peered from under the blanket.

He had big hands and long fingers.

Not as rangy as mine; they emanated strength, not skilfulness.

He had a striking, not coarse face: the high cheekbones, the nearly feminine outline of his eyes, beautifully arched brows, the hint of a smile on his not too narrow and slightly opened lips.

Was he having a beautiful dream?

I smiled, too, fetched a chair and spread Potter's invisibility cloak over it in order not to be seen sitting here.

I sat cross-legged on the small seat, trying to protect my bare feet from the cold which emanated from the flagstones.

And there I sat, closely watching the sleeping hero. He looked content, too innocent to be able to do anything against the Dark Lord.

Most likely he had asked me to meet him because he did not want me to tell anyone about the night at the lake's shore. He wanted to be sure to catch me alone; he even had entrusted his invisibility cloak to me.

Such a naïve person could never be a worthy opponent for the scourge of the wizarding world.

The thought agitated me; it displeased me to think that the only purpose of this innocent boy's life was to be tortured and killed by a monster like the Dark Lord.

Nobody seemed to be interested in what would happen to him. The witches and wizards were very disposed to sacrificing a young man if it helped protecting themselves and their families and so they kept urging him.

Piteous; Potter's life surely wasn't of the easiest ones.

And still he kept being always naïve and trusting. What a peculiar person he was….

I stared intensely at the sleeping man while I sat and pondered.

I did not want to wake him; he had such a peaceful look on his face. Very rarely had he looked that peacefully at me; usually his face was contorted with rage when I saw him. What a pity, he was cuter when he wasn't angry.

Ok, alright.

Yesyes, everything's clear.

Zabini would kill me.

I had to admit that maybe I was just the slightest bit gay.

I thought about the opposite poles of a magnet, not noticing that the faint snoring had stopped.

"Draco?" Potter asked with a hushed voice, apparently very sure of himself.

"How do you know…?"

"I felt observed." He whispered back, fidgeting for his glasses on the bedside table, finding his wand, too and putting that silencing spell upon us he had already used, when he did not want us to be heard.

Whence had he got it from? I did not know it. Perhaps Granger….

Then he turned towards me, listening at my breaths for a moment it seemed - I instinctively tried to hold it - then unerringly he stretched out his hand and pulled the invisibility cloak from my head.

That was a bit like a role reversal, was it not?

A déjà vu with swapped roles.

"Well, Potter, why am I here?" I snarled unintentionally harshly – bloody habits.

"Because I have to clarify something. It's about yesterday."

Oh, what a surprise!

He continued: "It can't go on like this. I mean, everybody needs some sleep from time to time, no?"

The purpose of his babble was incomprehensible to me and how someone could wake from deep sleep and be that fit immediately, too.

"What are you talking about, Golden Boy? Put it more clearly, please."

For a moment he looked out of the opposite window, maybe he searched the right words out there in the frosty night, or hoped for an inspiration of bravery.

"Since Ron tracked you down that night in the tower I constantly dream of you. I haven't slept through a single night!

I permanently see you, how you look through the invisibility cloak straight into my eyes, how you bow to me and how you jump down the stairs like a wild animal and your cloak as your wings.

I see your white braid on the black cloak – 'blond', my mind yelled, but said nothing – and feel your breath on my face like the night when I came here visiting you.

I see your face underwater and how your eyes fixate me until you pass out.

You may as well laugh, but I want to stop these dreams, because I cannot go on like this."

The laughter got stuck in my throat.

What else was to be expected, Potter was describing the very same awkward position I was in.

What to do? What to say?

I simply sat, a blank expression on my face, and looked into those green sapphires.

"What can I do?" he asked, and his voice seemed lost in the spacious empty hall.

He was looking out of the window again; his mirthless face was a sad view.

I would have much preferred to see him again as peaceful as before when he had slept.

"I don't know" I answered after an eternity.

For a while we both looked out of the window. This night was as bright as the last one, and one could make out the deceptively peaceful outline of the forbidden forest behind the glittering snow.

Sometime I knew that it was time to go.

I stretched my cold muscles, my legs which had been crossed on the seat for the entire span were numb and prickling for the second time today, and I shivered.

Slowly and cautiously I unfolded myself, being very conscious of Potter's view on the black reflecting silk of my pyjama.

Eventually I put one foot on the ice cold stone floor and winced.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

When the second foot followed I swayed and I had to lean on the mattress for my benumbed feet were not standing very steadily.

A warm hand enclosed my wrist and caused me to lose my balance, making me slump onto the mattress on which I had steadied myself before.

Potter, half sitting, wrapped his arms around my chest from behind, taking the blanket with him.

Gryffindor bravery. He always anticipated me.

This was so warm and comfortable. I sighed quietly.

I couldn't bear the thought of walking across the whole castle on my way to the dungeons with bare feet in order to sit down in front of a very likely extinguished fire, so I pulled up my knees and wrapped my arms around them, trying to warm up my legs too.

They were so cold they seemed like icicles pressed to my stomach, and for a moment I uncontrollably shivered.

The Gryffindor noticed, draping the warm eiderdown better around us and rubbing my sides with his warm hands.

I gave in.

Not just slightly exhausted, I leant my head on his shoulder; he bent his own over my shoulder and breathed his warm breath upon my unprotected neck.

I felt his soft cheek touching mine.

My legs were still pressed against my stomach, my body refused to warm up properly.

Harry laid his hand on my shoulder and softly pressed me to the side, making me lie down on my side in front of him and then huddled against me, warming my entire backside with his warm body.

I simply couldn't protest, for it was too cosy and lovely, and I was no masochist.

His fingers played with my plait, I felt him tugging insistently on the black leather thong which tamed my irrepressible hair, and then finally he removed it.

A flood of soft hair spread over me, and by the gods, it was warmer than any blanket.

I felt him devoutly stoking my nearly white hair over and over; he could not get enough of it.

And I warmed up.

I was lying in a bed with a young man and the only thing I wanted was for him to stroke my hair.

I turned until I lay on my back, relaxed and led my head sink into the soft pillow, and through half-closed eyes I watched this other man, bent over me in devotion, petting most suavely my hair which was wrapped around me like a cloak, covering me from the chest to my bellybutton.

I watched him and felt the desire of feeling that dark, wild aura of his - I wondered if it burnt if I touched it.

I sat up and timidly stretched out my hand, cautiously stroked over it.

His hair was all pliant! I was fascinated of how soft and fluffy his steel-wool-resembling hair actually was.

Our gazes met, and I believed to fall right into those green lakes. They rushed nearer and nearer, became bigger and bigger until they seemed to be endless, when our lips touched midway.

His kiss was tender and sweet, his breath warm on my face.

I did not dare to move, not wanting to break the delicate connection; I wanted to make it immortal, my hand in his hair, and his arm around my shoulder. We were sitting nearly motionless, stroking and kissing each other for what seemed an eternity.

I entwined him with my leg; he loosened from the tender kiss, stroking my neck with his cheek.

He plied me with subtle kisses on my Adam's apple, every line of my neck, my shoulder, my collarbones.

His hand swept over my chest and I leant back my head closing my eyes and stroking over his hair and neck, making him shiver.

He began to unbutton my silken pyjama and I opened my eyes, lay back and just watched him doing it.

He slowly and devotedly unbuttoned every single button, then peeling back first the left, then the right side of the pyjama top and beheld my naked chest. I saw my reflection in his glasses: pale, slim muscles, snowy blond strands of hair spread under me.

I wanted to see him, too, so I sat up, and then I carefully pulled his pyjama top over his head when he lifted his arms for a moment. I saw a very slim, muscular body, some fair scars silhouetted against his suntanned skin.

I retraced a particularly long one with my finger and looked at him questioningly. He did not say anything, looked away, and did not want to think about it right now.

I was not free of scars myself, but they were on my back, where he hadn't been able to see them, yet.

I understood, straightened up and embraced the shivering man and held him tight. I took off his glasses and kissed every inch of his face, grasped his hair with both hands and raked it up;

I wanted him, I wanted him, I wanted him.

It was he who stretched into my kiss, his lips found mine and he clawed at my back, his lips parted and mine automatically followed. He caught my upper lip with his teeth, sucked on my lower lip. I pushed forward my tongue and let it forage for his and we keenly kissed, savagely, until I ran out of air and had to break away.

His fingers circled my shoulders, grabbed the muscles, stroked over my sides; I almost fainted.

He kissed my neck, licked the muscles of my chest, found my nipples and played with them, carefully biting one and nuzzling the other one with his fingertips, sucking, nibbling… I felt the urge to scream out loud, but I didn't have the force, so I just panted, completely out of breath.

My hands slid over his smooth, warm skin, blindly tracing the underneath obtruding muscles, kneading and massaging. I must have him.

My head snapped forward, I bit his shoulder, I clawed at his back, I must have him! Now!

His hands had found their way to my buttocks; he pinched them while he sucked at my throat and clutched at me like a drowning man.

I turned him around with gentle force, pushed him into the pillow, bit every inch of his taut skin, greedily sucked on his nipples. My hair was all over him, covering him like a white foulard.

His head jerked from the left to the right, he panted and sighed when I nibbled on the pliant skin on his sides, his nails leaving pink traces on my back.

I straightened up briefly, impatiently tearing at his pyjama pants, maybe I ripped them, but who cared?

Harry gasped, bent towards me and firmly grasped my own pyjama pants. I agreed and for just a moment left my position over the naked man in order to get rid of the disturbing silk.

The beast deployed of my momentary weakness lunging at me from behind.

He licked over my spine and made me shiver when his hot tongue wandered from my hip forwards to my waist.

His arm followed, and yet I lay on the pillow and he was atop of me.

Gods, he was so beautiful in the pale twilight, I could have cried at the look.

That angel forcefully pinned me to the mattress, his upper body kept sliding down and his teeth digging into my sides, my haunch – it was better than flying – and finally I understood what all the girls had wanted from me.

His hands stroke my thighs and I began to shiver uncontrollably.

Then I felt his tongue on my erection, and I feared that this might suffice for me to explode and cramped.

That could not be the end!

I managed to suppress the orgasm.

He had waited patiently, had endured my hands ripping on his hair and now he continued mercilessly driving me mad with his tongue. How many times can a man die?

I died sweet deaths with every single of his touches, and when he imbibed me I could not contain myself any longer. After some demanding sucking I lost control.

When I regained breath and the black spots in front of my eyes grew fewer I dared to open them and to watch that human angel.

He lay atop of me, his cheek nestled to my haunch he silently watched me.

The sight of his green eyes alone let me twitch with lust. I wanted more.

I drew him up to me, kissed his cheek tasting his sweat, kissed his lips tasting myself, licked his throat, his taut chest, his nipples and every inch of skin between myself and my target.

He sighed, roughly gripped my hair, and scratched my back, panted under my groping fingers, my scraping nails.

I let my tongue dive into his bellybutton and was pleased with the trembling I had caused, wandered over to his hip. He hissed, bent against me, I was on the right way. My fingers found his thighs and stroked them and he straddled wide for me.

Aaaah.

I saw his erection in front of me. It was enormous, and I felt it greedily stretching towards me.

My tongue ran over his long pole and he whimpered. I ran over its lustrous top and he twitched, unable to emit any sound, I stroked over his testicles and he squirmed under me, begging wordlessly. Oh yes, he wanted me.

I gave him a little foretaste with my lips, kept him on tenterhooks, and then finally I relieved him, put his cusp into my mouth and sucked on it, nibbled on it, sucked again. He exclaimed hoarsely and I loved it.

I licked my fingers and they found their way to his rear entrance, massaged and stroked it. I immersed.

First one, then, after a while, a second and a third one. He sobbed, twitched and quivered.

His hands relentlessly ripped on my hair, entangled and ensnarled in them. I observed his beautiful body which gleamed with sweat in the just risen moon's light without ever stopping torturing him with my mouth or moving my fingers inside of him.

His eyes were shut. I eyed up his wincing muscles and his hands which shadily silhouetted against my fair hair, in which they were buried.

He startled opened his eyes when I stopped – no, please, don't look at me like that – and I grasped his hands, drawing him up to me, embraced him and tasted his sweat, stroked his sweaty back, feeling his erection touching mine.

He whimpered again, wanted more, and kissed me demandingly, rubbing himself on me.

I could not refuse him myself.

Who could have refused him anything right now?

He could have asked me to die for him, and my heart would have obeyed at once.

I let him glide back onto the pillow, protectively holding his hips; I kissed his belly, then his chest and eventually his throat, while I cautiously glided into the hot tightness.

It was hot, it was tight, it was wonderful, and it was hell because I couldn't move, didn't want to hurt him.

Thus I kissed him, trembling stroked over his face, admiring his beautiful eyes, the long, dark lashes. I waited, and before long his face relaxed when he had eased into my pulsing member.

I knew it was huge and would hurt if moved rashly.

I continued to wait, and yet again black spots danced in front of my eyes, but I had to control myself. I shivered all over my body.

There, eventually, he relaxed a bit and started moving under me, squirmed, wanted me, and I loosened some mental bonds, only a few, in order to start moving slowly inside him.

He breathed heavily, scraped, jerked, he wanted more of me.

I felt him grip my arse muscles, he pinched me, wanted to force me wordlessly into a faster rhythm.

I saw his face, and what I saw let me drop all bonds.

I thrust, and he screamed hoarsely, gripping the muscles of my shoulders and clinging to me.

Another few thrusts and I would come for the second time.

The angel on the pillow panted through clenched teeth, moved into my next thrust, into the next one; a tear ran down his face.

The world blurred in front of my eyes, I sensed only him. I felt his semen squirt on my waist the very same moment I came. His muscles clenched around me, and I had the most violent orgasm ever.

I collapsed atop of him, tried to breathe again, and for a short moment everything went black.

So that was how it was supposed to feel.

I looked into Harry's face and saw wet traces of tears. He looked at me, tired, happy, and his hands began once more to stroke my hair, to unknot it and to caress it.

My head lay on his chest, and I heard his heartbeat slowly normalizing.

I languidly and lovingly stroked his waist and enjoyed his caresses, and then I fell asleep.

When I woke up he was still stroking me. The moon had wandered on and didn't shine directly through the window any more, but nevertheless I still could make out how gorgeous he was, lying there with his eyes closed, his fingers playing with some silvery strands.

I wondered if I would ever be able to separate him from my hair.

He opened his eyes and looked straight at me, looked into my eyes and down to the bottom of my soul. And he smiled.

I wished this moment would never end.

Our naked bodies were nestled to each other; we caressed each other cautiously, as if the respective other was not more than a vision from a dream and could vanish in the slightest breeze. We gently kissed, savouring each other.

I was wide awake. He was, too.

Harry tickled me to the edge of insanity with my own hair, massaged every muscle of my body, licked and tasted every drop of sweat.

I took his hand in mine and kissed the palm, licked the sweaty, salty fingers, put them into my mouth and sucked on them.

He widened me with these wet fingers, and when I lowered on him he loved me with so much softness I hardly felt any pain when his enormous erection slid into me and made me die a thousand times.

I never had felt anything alike and desperately clenched to his shoulders.

His movements, ever so gentle in the beginning, grew harder and stronger with every thrust.

Nevertheless he managed not to avert his eyes from me, not even for a second, breathing kisses on my face.

I grasped the sheet, his hair, his shoulders, his buttocks and clenched to everything I could get hold on, I did not want to die, not yet, wanted to continue feeling this. More, more and more…

My panting grew hoarser and hoarser, I heard him growl, I screamed hoarsely when he drove me into an everlasting climax, if such a thing was possible.

Our sweat slick bodies once more lay ensnared with each other; my angel's head was lying on my chest, his warm breath was stroking over my waist.

Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world, fell asleep in my embrace, humming something in his sleep with that low vibrating voice of his, and I watched over him until he woke up again.

I stayed awake, and when I apprehended a faint stripe at the horizon I woke Harry who was still lying upon me sleeping.

I had to get away before Madam Pomfrey would find me here, and I knew that she would come patrolling at daybreak.

He did not want to let me go, it did not matter to him what the others thought.

Gryffindor bravery: Only acting, no reflecting.

I alluded with not more than one word to my parents, the known Death Eaters, and he understood.

I kissed his forehead as farewell, an unbelievingly loving gesture.

Then I put my pyjamas and the invisibility cloak back on and vanished in direction of the dungeons.

The air was ice cold after Harry's warm hospital bed, and the silk stuck awkwardly to the dried sweat of the past night.

The castle was silent, not even the ghosts disturbed at this time of day.

I wondered if Peeves slept. He was dead, after all….

Finally arriving in my room I first went into the shower, enjoying the hot water on my tired muscles.

Endless weariness fulfilled me, I longed for my bed, even if it was cold and empty.

I did not bother putting on a fresh pyjama but huddled nude under the bulky eiderdown.

On the bedside table on my left there was still the black silken pyjama I had worn.

I grabbed it and buried my face in it.

That scent…!

I divined that I would have no more problems with dreams in the future.

In fact I overslept breakfast, and I didn't get lunch, either, but I got by until dinner eating of the sweets I got for Christmas.

I did not leave the dungeons until late afternoon.

I met Harry, Dean Thomas and the Weasleys, draped in warm winter cloaks and scarves, they were going ice-skating.

I politely saluted and sat down with a mug of hot chocolate near a window, like I had planned the day before, in a way that allowed me to observe them, skidding over the ice like coloured ants.

Two red and two dark tufts glowed over the ice –the Weasel seemed to skid more on the seat of his trousers than on his skates.

I smugly smiled about the boob and, when I found myself playing lost in thought with a strand of my hair, leant back and closed my eyes.

This evening Harry would find a late Christmas present under the tree in the Gryffindor common room.

He was going to be surprised to find his own invisibility cloak in the package, I was sure.

He would need to make up a tale, maybe about thievery, in order to keep his red haired friends from getting suspicious – I was glad that Granger was not here.

And he would also find a note, exactly alike the one I had found.

And tonight, at the lake's shore, I would pass him the keyword to the Slytherin common room – the brave Gryffindor would not hesitate even for a moment – and I was the only student at Hogwarts who had a single bedroom.

It undoubtedly was advantageous being a Malfoy, I thought, deeply pleased, and had another sip of hot chocolate.