"Get out of my way, Potter." Draco spat, elbowing him out of the way. He was clearly running from something and his platinum, blonde hair was messy, falling across his forehead and into his dark grey eyes.
Harry moved, but watched him stalk angrily down the corridor, turning the corner sharply. He searched in his bag for the map that Fred and George had given him in his third year, tapping it and muttering 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,' and searching the map frantically for Draco's tiny ink figure, spotting after a minute that he was in the boys bathroom a few corridors away. He was stood by the sinks and Harry didn't know what he was doing, but his curiosity took over and he went after him quietly, pausing for a second outside of the bathroom before pushing the door open and walking in.

The moment he walked in he heard the sobs, and his heart wrenched strangely inside of his chest.
"Draco?" He muttered, and the sobbing abruptly stopped. He came into view and Harry saw himself reflected in a grimy mirror, along with Draco's tear-stained face and his red-rimmed eyes.
"Piss off, Potter," He growled, his voice still shaky. Harry could tell Draco was trying to steady it, despite the fact that it was obvious that he was upset, the tear-tracks still shining on his cheeks.
"No," Harry said simply, walking up behind Draco, watching him carefully in the mirror.
"I said piss off," Draco repeated, looking down at the sink, his chest heaving slightly as he tried to keep his breathing steady. He knew it was useless of course, and that Potter knew that he'd been crying, but he didn't care. He felt himself caring about less and less nowadays, since he'd been given his 'task' by Voldemort. He was finding it harder each day to do what he'd been told, and he knew that if he didn't soon then he'd be killed, but he just couldn't find it inside of him to care. What would it matter if he died – who would care? Not his parents, certainly not anyone in this dump of a school. Dumbledore would tell people he did, but of course he wouldn't – what could weak, scared Draco Malfoy mean to him? No, his star students were Potter, Weasley and that Mudblood, Granger.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, ignoring Draco's request – or order – and coming even closer, so close that he could feel Draco's back heaving against his chest.
"I can't do it," Draco replied, his shoulders beginning to shake again. Harry placed a hand on his back, feeling him tense up underneath his touch, then relaxing again as he continued to talk. "I've been told to do something that I just can't, and I don't want to anymore but I have no choice. I need help."
"I can help," Harry said quickly – not because he felt he needed to, but because it felt right. He wanted to help him.
"You can't help," Draco snapped, shaking his head. "No-one can help."
"I want to," Harry argued back. "I know it's about Voldemort, and I don't care. I'm not scared. Let me help."

Suddenly Draco turned and Harry barely had time to get it through his brain that their faces were merely inches away before their lips pressed together hard and sparks began to fizz in his nerves, fogging his brain and making him unable to think a single logical thought. All he could think of was Draco's lips and how nice they felt against his, and how strong Draco must be – from Quidditch practice? – as his arms folded around Harry and Harry mirrored the action, keeping them together. When they finally ran out of breath and pulled away, they stayed in each others arms.
"You're an idiot, Potter," He said softly, smiling. Harry grinned back, his green eyes bright.
"Aren't we on first name terms now, Malfoy?" Harry asked amusedly, and Draco shrugged.
"Maybe. It depends,"
"Depends on what?"
"Will you go out with me, Potter?"
Harry grinned again, his smile wide. "I'd be pleased to, Draco."
"Good to hear, Harry."
And then their lips met again.