He's glaring at Harry, fists clenched and chest heaving, and Harry holds his breath. Waiting for the first blow. Waiting for him to unsheathe his wand.

But Malfoy doesn't. He doesn't do a thing, until the anger smearing his face transforms into a map of all of his pains.
Harry's never seen so much of Malfoy in his short life. In this moment he sees more of Malfoy than he's seen of anyone, actually.
It's then that Malfoy lunges at Harry, and Harry's got his wand out halfway when the Slytherin's cold fingers cup his face and he presses insistent lips to Harry's. Malfoy makes a choked noise when Harry just freezes, so confused that his insides have forgotten their purposes and instead dance a little nervously in his belly.

The creature in his chest protests at first, but it too confusedly purrs at the lick Malfoy gives to Harry's lower lip, stumbling around like it's drunk on Firewhiskey.

Harry kisses back tentatively—with what he knows of kissing, that is—and moans quiet when Malfoy crowds into his space. His cold fingers warm as they travel into Harry's hair, his pointy nose bumps Harry's fogged glasses, his stomach touches Harry's, making him twitch.

Harry—he doesn't know what's happening, nor why, but he thinks it's good. It's really good. It makes his belly heat in knotted coils and fills his prick. Malfoy seems to think this is good, too, because he takes one hand and pulls Harry to him with a hand at his back.

The feeling of Malfoy's hard prick pressing back through their robes shakes Harry to the core, and he drops his wand, feeling too hot, too close, too out of his depth.

Malfoy shoves him away then, spitting out obscenities and wiping his mouth.

"Fuck you, Potter!" he yells.

"What—what did I do?"

Malfoy presses a fist to his forehead, gasping horridly. "Take back what you said or I'll…"

The creature in Harry's chest growls angrily. "Or what? You'll… kiss me again?"

"Shut up! Shut up!"

Harry shoves him, trying to ignore the tightness of his trousers beneath his robes. It won't go away as long as he has the memory of that kiss in his head.

Malfoy shoves him back, growling, "I'm not a coward! I'm not a daddy's boy! I'm not…" he trails off, pressing his palms into his eyes.

"Why'd you kiss me?"

"I hate you," he says.

"You kissed me."

Malfoy sucks in a breath and storms up to him, planting his lips against Harry's again. Harry lets him suck at his lips but only for a moment. He pushes at his shoulders eventually, adjusting his trousers.

"I do not go after you because I have nothing better to do. I can live with myself," he growls, emphatic in his self-doubt.

He speeds down the hall, then, leaving Harry between the two Christmas trees at the end of the corridor. The faerie lights mock Harry with their cheerfulness and goad him into following Malfoy around the corner.

Harry finds him two hallways away with the help of the Marauder's Map. Malfoy is curled up in a niche, cheeks wet and wand zapping fifteen-year-old angst at the wreath on the far wall.

"Malfoy," says Harry.

The Slytherin wipes his eyes quickly and stands, raising his wand unenthusiastically.

Harry walks up to him, fists the fabric of Malfoy's robes in his hands, and kisses him back.