"I know they say keep your enemies closer, but this is ridiculous."
Potter is smirking at him. This was not the way it was meant to happen. He'd delivered the kiss as he would one of his usual insults: quick and dry. Since the scar-headed wanker had sliced open his chest (in a purely literal sense, of course – Malfoys are not romantic creatures, after all) and landed him in the hospital wing, Draco had longed for nothing more than to return the favour. The wound itself had healed, but being caught off guard, humiliated, by the bloody Gryffindor tosser, that still stung. He needed to see the same shock and embarrassment reflected in those stupid green eyes, had dreamt of nothing else. Not that he would admit to dreaming about Potter, in any way, ever.
He could have just jeered at him, of course, but if Draco is honest with himself, his confidence and wit seem to be drying up along with his previously unshakeable faith in his parents' beliefs. He can't quite bring himself to goad Potter about being an orphan when he finds himself envious of the freedom to choose the right course, rather than being born into one.
And so bereft of any banter and incensed by the sudden appearance of Potter in the fourth-floor corridor he's stopped in, he does the first thing he can think of to provoke a response from the other boy – he kisses him. Just a peck, but Potter is Potter, and surely he should be blushing, or blustering, or something? But his face is giving nothing away. Even the smirk doesn't reach his eyes, and without Potter's trademark over-reaction, he seems, well, not like Potter. It's discomfiting. Not to mention the nonchalant comment – "keep your enemies closer," – and honestly they are now extremely close, because Potter is holding him. Not in an amorous way either. Holding him fast. He's not going anywhere unless Potter decides to let him.
This was not the way it was meant to happen, at all. It wasn't meant to happen, full stop, but the happening should have caught Potter out, whereas it's Draco who feels exposed, even more so than in that disgusting bathroom where he was found crying. How the fuck did this happen? And really what he should do now, a little voice in his head is screaming at his mouth, which has yet to act on the startling developments, is say something, you moron! Too late, Potter is, once a-fucking-gain, streets ahead of him in the reaction department.
"I put you in the hospital." Potter says, as though commenting on an odd cloud formation. He seems vaguely curious. Not half as curious as Draco, of course, whose face still isn't working because his mind is stuck firmly on why the fuck Potter is still holding him in a fucking hallway after a kiss recounting that fun time recently when one of them nearly died at the other's hand? Potter's looking at him like he's a potion that won't turn quite the colour he wants it to – not that that's happened recently, since he became some sort of overnight genius on the subject, to Draco's further chagrin – and now he should really say something, because Potter is gaining more and more of the upper hand, if that's possible, while he stands here in his arms like a lemon.
"I put you in the hospital, and you kissed me." And there's no reason why that completely accurate statement should be the push that forces Draco into action, but it is.
"What the fuck makes you think those things are related, Potter?" he spits venomously, his grip tightening (at what point did his hand get there, anyway?) on Potter's arm. And Potter laughs at him. Draco's so incredulous he barely has room for anger. Barely, but it's still there somewhere, the anger is always there, because what are enemies for? So now at least Draco's summoning the will to glare daggers at Still-Holding-Him Potter, which feels like a small victory.
"Of course they're related. You can't just summon up some wall between them, pretend like I didn't seriously injure you, almost killed you, for Go- Merlin's sake!" At least Potter has the decency to sound even slightly bothered by the situation, to slip up on that Muggle-ism. Not that it would have made any difference if he'd said God instead of Merlin: they're both dead anyway, Draco's brain supplies.
"You wouldn't have killed me, Potter, it wouldn't have looked good in the papers – not to mention the damage it would do to that hero complex of yours," Draco sneers. Maybe, just maybe, he can get out of this by pretending still to be the arrogant snob he used to be, before fear and doubt and Potter got in the way. The first step would be to let go of Potter, of course, but their position had become a competition, and he would be damned if he was going to lose to this prat again. He moves his left hand down from Potter's shoulder to his waist, slowly sliding his hand over the school sweater, watching Potter's face for any reaction – if he's lucky, maybe even the shock and embarrassment he'd been going for to begin with.
The ever insufferable Potter merely raises an eyebrow at him and – oh God – changes his grip on Draco to one that's unbearably… intimate. It brings their faces far too close together, but either Potter has no sense of personal space (comes from spending his summers huddled in a bedsit with the million Weasley siblings, Draco's inner bastard adds) or any discomfort he feels is more than worth it as long as his opponent feels worse. Maybe before Draco changed the game from insults to chicken, he should have taken some time to find out that this new game was one Potter was infinitely better at playing. Shit. "You trust me, then, Malfoy?" He's smirking again, the tosser.
"Trust you not to kill me? Of course I do, you're the poster child for Gryffindors everywhere. What is it again? Daring, nerve and chivalry?" Draco is immensely proud of himself for the sneer he musters. Just like the old days, but with added homoeroticism and dear god don't even think the word erotic about Potter, just because he's clearly fit and has his hand right above your – shutting down that train of thought, Draco – just because you've considered going broomstick to broomstick off the pitch, if you know what I mean – "Nerve is all very well, I suppose, but daring and chivalry combined pretty much guarantee that you're going to be an idiot and a pansy, don't they?"
Draco's sneer stays in place for all of a second. Then he's hefted bodily into the air by Potter, and slammed into the stone wall behind him, which winds him with an extremely undignified 'oof'. His toes are skimming the floor, one of his legs between Potter's (or vice versa, or both, really) and really, if he'd thought his previous position had been inappropriate, this was positively obscene. Potter's not smiling now, but he's not out of control either, not angry, just… forceful. Well done, Draco, worst possible moment for that word to enter your mind, no really, good work, that won't be at all noticeable if he decides to press up against you – not like that you desperate weirdo, oh Merlin he's leaning in to you, damn his stupid face –
"I said," Potter breathes against his cheek, setting Draco's feet on the floor, but pressing closer to him, and the warmth settling on his hips definitely helps to clarify where this is headed, "do you trust me?"
"No," Draco whispers, and it's true, he doesn't trust this Potter any more than he trusts himself right now, and the body he'd put his faith in was wrapping itself around Potter (stupid traitorous arms) so that wasn't to be trusted at all. And he could, of course, get out of this, but he's spent this entire year trying to prove he's equal to destiny, and it gets fucking frustrating after a while: pretty much immediately, really. So he gives in, because fuck reason.
But even if he's probably losing whatever game Potter thinks they're playing by meeting Potter's lips as they move towards his, agreeing to whatever this is, it strikes Draco that if anything could provide the incentive he needs to fulfil the Dark Lord's bidding, it's the thought of Potter's face when he realises his peace-loving idol Dumbledore is dead. It'll be quite something to see regardless, but if Draco has a hand in striking this prat full of sadness and shame, it might just be reason enough to see his morbid mission through. Potter chuckles against his mouth, forever in control.
Draco chuckles too. Payback's a bitch.