This is my first Harry Potter fanfic in a long while. Can someone please tell me if it is good? Or am I just wasting my time in fantasy?

I've wanted to write a fic with Harry, Blaise, and Draco for a long time. I wrote a disatisfactory one years ago. This is my attempt to write it with more plot and less rambling, and plain better. Please tell me, is it good?

I am using more of Canon's plot in this fic than I have in other, character or pairing-focused fanfics. This will be an interesting ride. Pardon me for any mistakes, please. Tell me if you find any whopping ones that scream at you.

PROMPTS FOR THIS FIC (randomly chosen):

Lake

Charm

2 a.m.

Needle

Turpentine kisses and mistaken blows

Wire

Every you, every me

I AM RETITLING THIS FIC'S OVER-USED, CLICHE TITLE. ANY IDEAS?

"EVERY YOU, EVERY ME" - until new title is decided on

by The Ultimate Otaku

XOXXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

BLAISE

No one else pissed Blaise off as much as Draco Malfoy.

He hated that goddamn smirk at every hour of the day. He hated the whining; he hated the way Malfoy got everything he wanted, even down to the best bed in the Sixth Year Slytherin dormitory (the one on the end, by the window). He hated the way Malfoy made people do things for him - which Blaise thought weak - as if he were superior. And he hated that look Malfoy got around his "friends" when he made a joke, which demanded, laugh, or else.

Mostly, Blaise hated the way that Malfoy – lazy, arrogant, bitchy Malfoy - attracted him.

The blonde's attitude was anything but attractive. Sure, he could be funny. Sure, he had wit. Sure, he was good in classes and well-read. Sure, he possessed the etiquette required of a Pureblood heir. But his idiotic preening was too much. Especially because Blaise couldn't disagree. Malfoy was attractive - especially if you could ever get him to shut up.

When he was quiet, he was even beautiful. Blaise liked to watch him. Malfoy's hair was like silver in the light, a lamp in the corridor smash full of dark robes. He watched the delicate tilt of Malfoy's head as he scanned the Great Hall. He watched the pursing, full mouth with the flash of pink moistening tongue, when Malfoy was concentrating on his studies. He watched the every curve and line in that graceful body when Malfoy rose off the Quidditch pitch. He watched the long, swaggering gait, and the languid way Malfoy draped himself over a couch, over a Hogwarts Express seat, over Pansy Parkinson (stupid, lucky girl).

Blaise watched all of it. It all pissed him off. It was torture to hear Malfoy speak his name during the brief train trips were he cavorted with the group. It was torture to hear Malfoy laugh, and to watch him, always watching and never getting a glance in return. But Blaise couldn't stop. He was pissed off at Malfoy, and at himself.

How had he gotten himself into this? Why couldn't he stop?

It was all his mother's fault. If she hadn't killed her most recent husband, Anthony, then Blaise's hormones and attention would not have needed to hunt a new target down. But she had killed Anthony, of course, when she found him with Blaise in her bed.

Ouch. Blaise hadn't meant to be discovered. He hadn't done such a bad job calculating a plan in years. He was usually so good at staying in his mother's good graces. It was a secret many men had tried to steal from him. He had taken advantage of Anthony's desperation and turned it into desperation for Blaise, instead. It was admitting to himself that he maybe missed Anthony, beautiful, tempestuous Anthony, which made Blaise go on the hunt once more.

Only Anthony had been able to distract Blaise to the point of such miscalculations. He had made Blaise stupid, stupid with lust. Blaise hadn't been that stupid in a while. It had felt good. But now...it was bad. Very bad. How was Blaise ever going to get Draco Malfoy? He had to get what he wanted. Unlike Malfoy, though, he wasn't one to expect what he wanted to fall into his lap.

No more waiting and watching. It was time to start the hunt.

XOXOXOXOXOXXOOXXOXOXOXOXO

DRACO

The dreams sometimes felt real right after he woke up. They certainly felt real during.

In this one, the burning sensation was not created by a black, consuming fire, a number of horrible spells, or the long, pale fingertips of the Dark Lord. But it was just as horrifying as the rest of them.

He lay alone, in a room so dark that he could not even see his own body. Only the needle was visible. It glowed in the dark, gleaming silver, and he could do nothing to stop it. A hand, cold and distant, pulled up his sleeve. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He tried to shake his head to get the shameful tears away. But he couldn't even move his head! He could only wait for it.

The cold pin prick of the needle touched his arm. Pain. It was like this every time. It felt like the Cruciatus curse had, when Draco was twelve and his aunt Bellatrix had decided to have some fun. She had made up for it later by teaching him Occlumency, but he would never forget the pain.

When the needle dug into his skin, the pain increased. It rolled hard through his body, and he could only compare the sensation to being yanked in different directions by Port keys. His stomach roiled with it. And always, always, the hissing voice was in his head, commanding him, praising him, or taunting him. No matter what the voice said, it always made fear clench in his gut. He was not a Gryffindor, and his lack of bravery made him loathe himself sometimes. He loathed himself most in those moments where he sat in the presence of the Dark Lord and just hearing that voice made him break out in a cold sweat. Even in dreams, it scared all the sense out of him.

The Dark Lord liked to wipe all sense away, and replace it with only his desires. Identity was important to Draco, and he had an inkling that the Dark Lord knew of his pride in his name, his House, and his possessiveness towards what he considered his. But the Dark Lord wanted Draco and all his belongings to be his. Draco wouldn't be anything, just a servant. That was perhaps the most scary part of it. His fear would come out in his dreams; the pain would wipe away everything he was.

As the needle began to carve its design into his skin, dream-Draco gritted his teeth and tried not to scream. The Dark Lord was saying his name now, tauntingly, waiting for him to break. He resisted, feeling the magic of the needle burst over him in waves. It dug deeper, and began to create a burning hot sensation.

When it left, Draco stared at the Mark the needle had left on his arm. The skull with its open mouth seemed to laugh at him. New, the Mark burned red. Sometimes in his dreams, the Mark would cool, and become black. Now the pain became so great that he had to scream. Victorious, the Dark Lord laughed at his misery.

Draco shot awake in the dark, panting. He gulped in deep breaths of air, willing himself not to throw up. It's not real, it's not real, it's not real! His face was sticky with tears, and his arms were shaking. As he sucked breath back in loudly, grateful for the Imperturbable charm around his bed, he tried to think. It was difficult, with the memory of the pain still searing through his brain. He hated that helpless feeling.

Anger followed hot on the heels of his despair. It always did that and often got him in trouble. He'd gotten detention from Snape for blasting a fellow House mate across the Sixth Year dormitory. It had felt so good! Power had coursed through him again. He hadn't even had to recite a spell; his anger had flared out and blasted the boy against the stone wall. He'd deserved it for waking up Draco in the midst of the nightmare. Draco would never nap during the day again, if the nightmares were going to haunt him even then.

Okay. He was ready. He clenched his fist against the urge to grab his wand, and took a deep breath. The fear swam in him like a fluid eel, and he cursed it over and over in his mind. If he could vent his anger somehow, in words or in spells, it was like a release. Without it, he was a robot on autopilot.

Swallowing hard, he pulled up the sleeve of his night shirt. His hand shook, and he cursed it for shaking like that.

He looked at his arm. It was blank. Of course it was. The Dark Lord had promised him the Mark only after he completed his task. What had he expected? Yet he breathed normally again, in relief, anyway.

Draco flopped back on his bed. He shut his eyes against the memory of the burning sensation on his arm, and tried to remember how much Draught of Peace potion he had left. He hated using it so quickly, especially since it was not the easiest to make, but sometimes he had to. His mother had advised it, and Snape had supplied some ingredients recently.

Draco sighed and turned over. He hated help. He hated the way his mother coddled him even more since his father had been sent to Azkaban. Almost worse than the nightmares about the Mark were the ones of his father in Azkaban…

No. He wouldn't think of that. It was not the time. He had a Quidditch game tomorrow against Gryffindor, and he would not lose to Potter this time! Potter. That was another line of thought Draco did not want to follow right now. He felt his blood pounding in his ears just at the mere beginning of a mental thread on Potter.

He leaned out of the protective, sound-proofed spell around his bed, and whispered the spells to unlock his trunk. His House mates couldn't be trusted. They were Slytherins, after all. He summoned his potions kit and returned to his bed. A gulp of Sleeping Draught was all it took, and the world faded away.

XOXOOXXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

BLAISE

It was 2 a.m in the morning. That was the second time Blaise had seen Malfoy unlock his trunk and summon some secret potions kit to his bed. Both times had been late at night, when Blaise lay awake, tortured by insomnia. He was the real Slytherin ghost, as they rarely saw the Bloody Baron – it was Blaise who haunted the Slytherin Common Room and Sixth Year dormitory at night, reading by candle light, and musing alone.

Clearly something was wrong with Malfoy. He had been the blonde's House mate for five years and counting, and had even played with Malfoy as a child long ago. In all that time, he had never known the Malfoy heir to be like this. He seemed nervous, terse, and even more sensitive and short-tempered than usual.

Malfoy didn't blow a fuse like Weasley, but his words were extra cutting, even to his House mates. They were meant to hurt rather than tease. Malfoy had caused a House mate to fly across the room and then hit him with Furnunculus two days ago, causing boils to erupt all over his victim. Then Snape had appeared (in that mysterious way he always did) and stopped it.

Malfoy had gotten a detention. He had been rash, per usual, but it also made Blaise curious. Why had he reacted so strongly, as if he were in danger? What might he have dreamt? Why was he so explosive in general lately?

It could just be Lucius Malfoy's imprisonment in Azkaban that was bothering Malfoy. Merlin knew even Blaise was a bit nervous when he considered how easily his mother could be put in there if she let anything slip. Sometimes he wished her there in his mind, but in reality, he would wish that on no one. Maybe his dad, for being an asshole idiot who'd gotten himself killed, but his mum had doled out the necessary punishment already, when Blaise was five.

He had to admit he felt a bit sorry for Malfoy, if he was worrying over his father. He hoped his House mate hadn't gone and done something stupid, like become a Death Eater. The Dark Lord was probably smarter than to recruit a teenager, but...if he wanted to punish Lucius further – purportedly Lucius had screwed up with the Dark Lord – what better way than to make his son suffer?

Blaise couldn't help but repress a shiver, imagining his House mate bowing before the Dark Lord. His mother approved wholly of Pureblood supremacy and the slaughter of Muggleborns and blood-traitors, but that was the furthest she got to supporting the Dark Lord. Having a father as a Death Eater, as well as an aunt who was the Dark Lord's right hand woman, had to be far worse.

But the mystery of Malfoy would not help Blaise fall asleep. Neither would thinking of Malfoy as he had looked in his fury before he cast Furnunculus. His face had gotten pink, which was funny, but his mouth was pursed in this distracting way that reminded Blaise of kissing, and his eyes had been like bluebell fire. God, he was gorgeous like that. He had filled out since last year alone, and gotten a little taller. It was hard to tell anything else beneath robes, even if Malfoy was a purist who wore only robes, and even if he had them tailored to fit.

This train of thought followed Blaise to sleep and was in his head the next morning at breakfast. He decided to sit away from Malfoy, because he couldn't stand watching Parkinson fawn over Malfoy one more second.

Oh. From the corner of his eye, Blaise watched Malfoy down the table. He couldn't hear what was said, but that angry expression appeared again (stop it, Blaise, he told himself) and Parkinson got up and left the hall. Well, well. That was interesting. It couldn't just be Quidditch, could it?

Blaise ate silently, and occasionally looked up from his book to glance at Malfoy. The second and third times, he caught Malfoy looking over at the Gryffindor table. Nervous? He should be. Potter looked in high spirits today, laughing with his fellow Gryffindorks. You didn't have to be a Quidditch player to know that high spirits meant good game play.

He had a Potions essay to write, but fuck it. Part of him hated seeing Malfoy lose to Potter every damn time, but he also liked watching Malfoy on a broom. It gave him far too many ideas…and he knew in the back of his head he would never get his essay done…but so what? Maybe then he'd share detention with Malfoy….God he was obsessed.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXXOOXOXOXXOXOXO

HARRY

Harry had at first thought that there was nothing that could wreck his day. It was beautiful and sunny, and he had finished his homework for the week yesterday afternoon. He had no detentions. And Ginny Weasley's hair was glowing in a very distracting way, especially as she shot up into the sky on her broom when Madam Hooch blew the whistle.

Even Ginny's hair couldn't keep Harry distracted from the Snitch, though. Malfoy was extra determined today, choosing to ignore Harry altogether and instead zoom around searching for the Snitch. Ha! Finally realized he couldn't catch the Snitch when he was spouting his mouth off, had he? Harry grinned. He wanted even more fervently to catch the Snitch now, so he could prove that he could still beat Malfoy, even if Malfoy was finally paying attention to himself instead of bothering Harry.

For a while, the game was quiet, and Harry occasionally flicked a glance at Malfoy to see if the other Seeker saw anything. Nope. Malfoy paused a couple times high in the air, his eyes scanning for the Snitch, just as Harry was doing. Then he would move to another spot. He had no pattern. Every time the crowd cheered, his head whipped towards Harry suspiciously. Harry grinned at this, and Malfoy scowled.

Gryffindor had one hundred points over Slytherin when Harry saw it. It was flitting over by Ernie Macmillan, who had been assigned as announcer. He wasn't bad at it, enthused, but nothing beat the time Luna Lovegood had held that position, in Harry's opinion.

As soon as Malfoy saw Harry shooting through the air towards the podium, he was following. The wind streamlined Harry's robes behind him, but he didn't close his eyes against the force of it. The golden Snitch was still hovering by the podium. He could hear Ernie shouting distantly, and see in his peripheral vision that Malfoy was gaining on him.

In seconds Malfoy was right next to him. Now they were shoulder to shoulder, bumping, and Malfoy's hand reached out for the Snitch –

Harry knocked his hand aside and his fingertips snapped the wing tips of the Snitch. He rolled it into his palm, feeling Malfoy's nails dig bloody scratches on the back of his hand. Malfoy cursed as Harry got a good hold on it. Harry left the Slytherin behind and flew up into the air, shaking his fist wildly.

"AND HARRY POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH YET AGAIN! GRYFFINDOR WINS!" Ernie was screaming, everyone was screaming, and Harry zoomed around a couple times before joining his team. They were in an uproar, laughing, clapping him on the back, Ginny was smiling, and Ron was crowing over Malfoy's defeat.

Harry turned to the Slytherins on the other side of the pitch, half-expecting some sort of confrontation with the blonde Slytherin.

Instead, Malfoy had his wand out, but he was pointing it at his own House mates and team. What? Harry's lip curled. It was said that Slytherins were only after their own gain, but this was proof. You never went after your House mate. The Slytherins were all shouting about something, presumably Malfoy's almost-success with the Snitch. Urquhart shouted something about the Jelly-Fingers hex, which made Ron roar in laughter.

In a flash, Malfoy had his wand out and was about to curse or hex Urquhart. Curse the team Captain, great idea, Malfoy! Harry laughed. Then Blaise Zabini, the tall, dark Slytherin Harry had seen at Slughorn's "party" on the train to Hogwarts, whipped Malfoy's wand out of his hand. He forcibly pulled Malfoy away with one arm across his shoulder.

It would have been an all-out brawl next, by the look on Malfoy's face, but Snape showed up and as soon as Malfoy saw him, he abruptly shut up. Wow. Harry wished Snape had that power all the time; then he wouldn't have had to deal with so much of Malfoy harassing him in Potions.

He left with his team then, but on the way to Hogsmeade to celebrate – thank Merlin for free afternoons – he couldn't help but wonder why Malfoy seemed more angry than usual, and what was up between him and Snape.

His musing was put aside as he, Ron, and Hermione entered the Three Broomsticks. They chose a table in the corner by a fire, and ordered Butter beer.

Harry drank it with a sigh, easing back into his chair. He laughed when Ron recounted the game from his perspective, joking the whole time, while Hermione was smiling but evidently bored. She had had enough Quidditch for the day. Harry started to discuss where they would go to next, and they readily took up the change of topic. While Hermione and Ron were arguing between Zonko's or Scrivenshaft's, more Hogwarts students came in the door. Harry lifted up his head a little when he saw a glimpse of silver amongst them, and sure enough, it was Malfoy.

He was accompanied by Blaise Zabini, surprisingly enough, and Crabbe and Goyle were mysteriously absent. The two lone Slytherins sat down on the furthest side of the room from Harry, at a little table by a window. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs waved hello, and Harry waved back. But his attention was on the Slytherins. Harry watched as the two boys treated Madam Rosmerta courteously, and then when she left to get their drinks, he found himself still staring.

Blaise Zabini was quite a mystery. He seemed to stay in the shadows for the most part, as if he lacked the tell-tale Slytherin ambition, but the story about his murderous mother on the train had made Harry wary. He knew, too, that Blaise found Ginny attractive, having overheard it before returning to his cabin after Slughorn's little get-together. So he found himself a little angry, as he stared at Zabini, but also…

Harry swallowed and looked away. Not that again. It was something he'd dealt with in Fourth Year and had tried to expunge from himself with Cho, but…there it was, again. He found that he liked other blokes sometimes, and not just as friends…Cedric had been one, but then he died. Harry didn't know how to begin figuring out this new feeling in himself. He had enough to figure out already, what with private lessons with Dumbledore, being able to see into Voldemort's head, and two constantly-bickering friends.

They so clearly wanted each other, and Harry was envious. At least they knew what they wanted, and whom.

Harry felt queasiness in his belly and a pulsing in his throat when he looked at Zabini – who was startlingly handsome, but in a more slippery, Slytherin way than Cedric's masculine, chiseled appeal. Zabini's dark skin was beautiful, and his large eyes had long lashes. (Harry remembered that from the train.) He kept his wild, curly hair held back by a swipe of some gel (Sleekeazy?), but only a little, which left curls to fall into his eyes. He kept shoving them back with one delicate, ringed hand. He was tall, and well-built, with a smooth low voice.

Harry dragged his gaze away from Zabini and back to his friends. He wanted to laugh that they hadn't noticed anything, and immediately charged into the conversation, suggesting Honeydukes. He felt a little hungry now. Or was it that maybe eating would get his mind off of, well, other ideas he currently had for what to do with his mouth…argh! He wished he had Sirius to talk to about this, because only Sirius would have felt right. Dumbledore, no, never, Ron would never understand, and Hermione would be too understanding. Plus, she might assume that just because Harry liked guys, he was gay, when Harry's inkling attraction for Ginny told him that he was clearly not.

He wondered if Zabini, with his murderous, evidently seductive mother, was a good kisser.

He looked at his watch, checking the time, and realized they had been in the Three Broomsticks for a long time. Harry was on his second or third Butter beer and was feeling dazed and woozy. His cloak was off, his sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was messy from the wind. He was leaning back so far in his chair now that he thought he might fall, but the thought only made him laugh. He felt good.

Suddenly, the snapping click of a boot interrupted the boisterous hum of Ron and Hermione's conversation. Harry looked up. There, standing right in front of him, was Malfoy. He looked cool and composed, quite like he had during the Quidditch game, and quite unlike his furious, shouting self after. His hair was growing a little long, blonde hair touching his collar, and his mouth was set in a straight line.

Harry looked at Malfoy's hands. No wand. But he fingered his anyway, and edged to sit up and look behind Malfoy. Zabini was eyeing the scene with a fire whiskey in one hand, and on the table in front of him were a few more. That was a lot of fire whiskey, Harry thought.

It was the last thing he thought before everything went mad. For the next he knew, Malfoy had grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and then oddly wrapped an arm around Harry as if he was hugging him. What in bloody hell? Then a pair of soft, gentle lips were over Harry's, brushing against his feather-light. A quick, hot tongue stroked over his mouth, a sensation which left Harry quite dazed, and then that slippery, fiery tongue was in his mouth, oh Merlin, and Harry felt the itching, aching feeling that he had when he looked at Zabini, or a few others, roar hot and fast in him. Lust.

It was pounding in his ears, and he wanted to kiss back, because that tongue was so good, he had never felt anything like it. He thought if it stroked against his tongue any more he might moan. Then in a second it was gone, and the real world returned, because Ron had yanked Malfoy away from Harry and was pounding his face, and then Zabini rushed over, and Harry heard an awful crack as Ron was hit by some spell and fell to the floor. Then Zabini dragged Malfoy away, and slammed the door to the loo closed.

"RON!"

Harry bent down by Hermione to look at his friend. Ron was unconscious, and he had a growing lump on his head. A fierce red burn mark was seared across his face, and the skin looked melted and…Harry's stomach protested. He told it to shut up, and watched with baited breath as Hermione performed healing spells. The second Ron was conscious, Harry gripped his hand, and then he leaped up.

"Harry, NO! Just let them go!"

Harry ignored Hermione, and sped towards the loo room with his wand at the ready. Just as he reached the door, he heard a whispered, "Colloportus!" The door squelched closed even tighter with magic, and Harry knew no spell would get him in there. Plus, Madam Rosmerta was glaring daggers at him, even as she helped Hermione get Ron standing. Damn!

They left Hogsmeade and went to Zonko's, because Ron insisted he was alright. Even so, they returned to Hogwarts early, and rather than talk to a distressed Hermione or wait for Ron to ask, "Why did Malfoy kiss you?" Harry went to the library to try to figure it out by himself.

Upon thinking back, he realized that the logical explanation to it all was that Malfoy had been raging drunk on fire whiskey. There was no other explanation that made any sense. Harry knew there was no ancient Pureblood tradition that said you kissed your enemy after they beat you at Quidditch. He laughed. If that were the case, Malfoy would have kissed him countless times before in the past five years at Hogwarts…

Harry put his head in his arms when the thought of that made keen eagerness and arousal reach up in him again. Malfoy was a good kisser. He had been surprisingly gentle, tender, not at all fumbling or aggressive, like someone drunk perhaps should kiss like. He obviously had experience. And his tongue…Harry groaned softly. He hadn't kissed like that with anyone before. Short, soaking kisses with Cho were nothing compared to that soft, wet heat gliding in his mouth. What would it feel like if…?

Harry groaned again. It would not do to get hard in the library, Merlin! But what was he thinking? This was Malfoy! He couldn't think of anything he liked about Malfoy, really, except for today's kiss…already though, that kiss was forcing him to re-assess, because he was a horny teenager and couldn't help it, the fates were against him, as they always had been.

He found himself assessing Malfoy's physical appearance, and while compared to Zabini or Cedric he was nothing to look at, Malfoy's mouth was finely shaped and soft, and his blue eyes were bright, and his hair had a certain glow to it…and his body, which Harry really only had the chance to ever study in Quidditch, was lean, he supposed. Malfoy always wore robes. It was hard to tell anything beneath all that. And there was that time he'd looked like a vicar at the Yule Ball…Harry's eyes had been on Cedric then, Cedric and Cho, Cedric confusing and beautiful in Harry's mind, and Cho, whom he had convinced himself he really wanted…

Argh. He thought of Draco again, and the kiss, and wanted to touch himself. He wondered what Madam Pince would do if she found someone wanking off in the library. He tried to think of Snape and other nasty things and people to get his hard-on away, but that only got him wondering why Malfoy was so suddenly obedient, or afraid, of Snape. Because why else would he have shut up when Snape showed up?

Then there was Zabini, of course...Merlin!

He went back to the Common Room with a head ache, and a foot or two of a horrible Transfiguration essay proved enough distraction. For the time being…

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXXOXOXOXOXO

Thoughts? Please?

XOXOXXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

You may notice I made some changes to Canon (aka, what we know in book 6). Here they are:

- Draco is not a Death Eater

- Harry does not suspect Draco of being one; no spying on Draco in Knockturn alley and on the train and getting his nose broken

- Lucius Malfoy is still in Azkaban

Things I kept:

- Slughorn, the Slug Club, and the Slug Club's first meeting on the train

- Harry's private lessons with Dumbledore

- Draco has an assignment from Voldemort

- Blaise, his family history, and his Canon good looks and arrogance

- Blaise's lack of respect for Malfoy and disregard for Death Eaters

- I haven't mentioned the HBP's textbook yet, but...it's there, and I think Sectumsempra, Levicorpus, etc. will make their appearances.