Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter universe or its characters.
Author's Note: There will be swearing and slash in this story. Don't like, don't read.
Draco Malfoy was supremely bored in Potions class. Ugh, come on, I know this already! Why do we have to go over it eighteen zillion times? He leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh. He looked over at Potter, a seat ahead of him on the Gryffindor side of the room. He was resolutely paying attention and taking notes.
Draco smiled. Well, can't have that, can we? He was above spitballs—he was a little more dignified than the average Slytherin when it came to things involving bodily fluids, he thought—but bits of paper dipped in ink and sent on their way with a flying charm were, he thought, an opportune way of getting Potter's attention. And he'd remember Draco for the rest of the week because of the stains.
He sent one at Potter, who didn't even notice the black liquid dripping over the side of his collar. Annoyed, Draco sent another one. Still, Potter didn't look up. Damn it, Potter! Look at me! Fucking look… at… m—there you go. Draco sent Potter, whose green eyes flashed with irritation, his best prattish smile. He quickly wrote the words "I know I'm beautiful, Potter, but it's rude to stare" on some notepaper and held it up for Potter to see. Potter read it, frowning, then rolled his eyes and trained them on Professor Slughorn once more.
God, Potter, you've sunk low since the war! You'd prefer to look at Slughorn over me? I don't think so. Draco smiled, staring at the back of Potter's head.
"Draco? Why the hell are you looking at Potter like that?" Zabini hissed.
"Shh, Blaise. You're talking to a genius in the middle of brewing liquid hell for Potter. If I've got to suffer through double review Potions, then he'll suffer, too."
Zabini just shook his head. He had thought that after the war, Draco and Harry's silly little rivalry would cease. But it had just gotten worse—as had Draco's obsession with the other boy. Draco barely discussed his feelings with anyone, let alone Zabini, but the other boy had heard his half-drunken ravings on "those eyes of Potter's, and that fucking shag hair! What, does he get some every other class?"
Draco was now working on writing a single word in elegant script on a piece of notepaper. It said Prat. Draco sighed. Yes, he'd prefer something more elegant, but the idea was to get Potter's attention, which this would, even if it was only a roll of those pools of emerald he could stare into for ages—Oh, how I'd like to see them roll back in other circumstances—or a middle finger. Maybe he couldn't have Potter's gaze fixed on him the way it was on Slughorn (shudder), but he could make him look for a short while every few minutes.
Draco folded up the paper and blew it over to Potter. He frowned and opened the piece of paper, and sent Draco a look that could have curdled milk. However, Draco just sent him his best seraphic smile. To his amazement, Potter stared a little longer. Something—different was in his eyes. Draco met his eyes, trying to hide raw desire and clawing curiosity.
Then Potter shook himself and looked away with another brief glare.
Oh, no you don't, Draco thought with a grin. I'm going to have to resort to detention. One more distraction ought to do it. Potter has a short fuse, especially with me.
"Mr. Malfoy," said Slughorn, "can you list all the ingredients of Amortentia?"
Draco rattled them off absently, resolutely not looking at Potter but feeling the intense jade eyes on him like slow bullets taking their time ripping through his body. But in a good way.
That was what he hated about Potter. Well, really, he hated everything about Potter, but they said that hate was an attracting force, just like love. But Draco was lying to himself even if he said that. What it really was, the source of his attraction, was the fact that Potter had and was everything Draco could never have and never be. So he told himself he hated it, that he didn't want it, but he did—oh god, yes, he did. It was sick, but Draco had gotten used to it, and after he got tired of daily bouts of self-loathing, he finally told himself, All right, you're sick. Now can we stare at Potter?
But what he "hated" about Potter was that he made bad feelings, anxious feelings, tight feelings bubble and boil in Draco's gut, and that he made Draco like it. Of course, he was being ridiculous, blaming Harry, but hell—who else did he have to blame? Might as well blame the Boy Who Lived for being so kindhearted and sweet and brave and so fucking hot.
Slughorn had moved on about halfway through Draco's inner musings, and now he was talking to, of all people, the Golden Boy. Damn it! But I have to get him and Slughorn mad enough so we both get detention. Draco smiled wickedly. He knew just how to do it.
Zabini tugged his sleeve as he turned towards the Gryffindor side of the room, starting to open his mouth. "What the fuck are you doing?" he hissed.
"That, stunningly enough, is none of your business," Draco murmured back, and then waited until Potter was halfway through the ingredients for Polyjuice Potion. "Oh, come on, Potter, you don't really know this! Why keep up the farce? Why don't you just shove Snape's textbook in the Professor's face, with all my godfather's nice little notes in the margins?"
Potter stood up, eyes burning. "Shut up, Malfoy! Now! I swear, this whole class you have just been attempting to distract me! Throwing bits of paper and sending me notes that say prat I can deal with, but you've gone too fucking far!"
Draco stood. "Have I? For speaking the truth?"
"For twisting the truth, damn you! It's not like I stole Snape's textbook! I just found it!"
"Is that so? A bit like if I walked over and snatched those darling glasses of yours? That would be finding them, wouldn't it?"
Harry's eyes flashed and he started to draw his wand.
Draco's hand went to his wand as well.
"Detention! Malfoy, Potter, you will stay after class, and I will speak with you about doing something about your constant interruptions!"
Draco hid a smile. Harry was glaring daggers at him, but he could deal with it. It was, after all, attention.