"I like you."
"Don't be a fucking idiot, Potter."
They stare at eachother across the damp and dripping cracks of the bathroom. Harry feels those same cracks like they're forming in his skin, getting deeper and deeper with every word that remains unsaid.
He watches as Malfoy's face goes from flustered to passive, a stubborn crease of irritation lingering inbetween.
The frown is still there when the blonde boy speaks, and his voice is snarky and stable — but it catches at the end. "You can leave now."
But Harry doesn't want to leave, he has never wanted not to leave a room as much as he does now, and his feet are so firmly planted on the stone tiles that he doesn't think he could leave even if he wanted to.
He clenches his jaw, his face determined, because he is sick and tired of following Malfoy for so many weeks, trailing him and trying to get a chance to pull him aside — to grab him and make him listen and tell him the things he is practically bursting with the need to tell. He thinks his head might explode — forget every searing pain that has ever plagued his scar, because this is worse, this is so much worse.
How do you tell your enemy you're obsessed with them?
You follow them into a deserted bathroom, you watch as they bend over the sink and card a hand through their snow-like hair until you think you'll go mental, and then when they notice you in the mirror, standing there like a complete creep, they spin around and gasp and curse until you blurt out the truth.
That's how you tell you're enemy you're obsessed with them. Although Harry thinks he has watered down the truth quite a bit. Because saying "I like you," is a lot less frightening than confessing, "I'm pretty sure I've gone mad because I think about you practically every second of every day. I think about how I should hate you, but can't. I think about what it would feel like to touch you, to have your skin against mine, but most of all I think about what you taste like."
When he looks back up, trying to ignore that familiar warmth flaring and twisting in his gut, Malfoy is glaring at him, and his slate grey eyes are both dark and skeptical with the gleam of a challenge.
The silence is almost too loud, and Harry might have left, might have forced his legs to move, if it hadn't been for that flicker, that spark which is both a taunt, and a dare. Because it is as if Malfoy is daring Harry to prove it, to come closer and defy the defensive stance of his body, to claim the pink tinge of his pale skin and make his actions speak louder than his words.
Harry takes a step, and he thinks about why Malfoy would tell him to go away while gazing at him like he'd rather he stayed put, and why he now looks panicked, grappling at the porcelain behind him as if Harry is about to attack him. And somewhere, in the back of Harry's mind, he admits that he is going to attack Malfoy, it just isn't going to be in the normal way a man attacks his enemy — because it'll involve lips and teeth and skin and contact and fuck — Harry is close, and Malfoy's gaze is penetrating yet resigned, as if he hadn't actually thought Harry was game enough, but now welcomes it with an unwavering stare of grey heat.
"You're bloody insane," Malfoy whispers hoarsely.
Harry doesn't deny it, because maybe he is insane, maybe that's what being a Gryffindor is all about — chasing the mundane into the extreme, so as only to get what you want, and god, does he want Malfoy. Perhaps his desire shows in his eyes, or in the predatory way he moves forward, because suddenly he sees it mirrored in the chiselled angles of Malfoy's face, in the gaze that averts from his own — embarrassed, yet excited.
And then Harry is there, right in front of him, and for a moment everything is quiet, entirely still. He can't hear the dripping of taps, and he can't feel the wetness around the hems of his trousers, he only knows Malfoy — the way he smells like cedar and apples, and the way Harry has been wrong for six years, always associating the Slytherin with ice and a cool composed calm. But fuck, he was mistaken, because Malfoy is warm, and right now he is most definitely not composed. His breath is hot, coming in uneven pants, and there's something in the lines of his shoulders that is shaking.
Harry touches their foreheads together, the tips of their noses brush, and then the stillness shatters.
They kiss, and it is everything Harry thought it would be but more — better.
It's not sweet, it's rough, like a battle between two schoolboys which comes to a brink between the harsh and unrelenting pressure of lips against lips, tongue against tongue, and Harry knows he is addicted to it, that there will never be anything else as heady and exhilarating as snogging Draco Malfoy.
He doesn't care that he's missing class, he doesn't care that Malfoy is practically clawing his neck and tearing his hair out, and he certainly doesn't care when his shoulders are suddenly grabbed, and Malfoy twists him around by fistfuls of his robes and slams him back into the sink.
Harry only cares about the moan that is shared between them, and the way Malfoy presses into him and gasps, and Harry wants to swallow that sound, swallow every startled noise which falls from those lips.
They kiss and they taste and they groan, and they don't break apart until there is a loud series of footsteps right outside the bathroom. Malfoy takes a step back, and then another, but his eyes don't leave Harry's, and Harry can see — even through the fogginess of his glasses — that their stormy depths hold a promise. A promise which says "don't you fucking dare think this is the last of this, Potter."
And Harry has never agreed with anything more than he does now, with Malfoy's unvoiced proposition.
They straighten their clothes, they try and fail to ignore eachother's swollen lips and trembling hands, and Harry is so close to just hauling him into a stall and continuing what they started, but then Malfoy sets his mouth in a harsh line and jerks his head a fraction. It's a nod that Harry can only mutely return before Malfoy turns and leaves, and then he is alone, his pulse erratic and his head throbbing with the realisation that he has probably just entered into something dangerous.
Somehow, Harry doesn't regret a second of it.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, and if anyone has any ideas or prompts for more Drarry one shots, please leave them in the comments! :)