A/N: *0* I did it! After months of delay, and disgraceful unprofessionalism, I finally wrote THE DRARRY! Vladexx, that lovely girl, won my 10k kiriban on Deviantart, and this was her choice, from the list of fics available for kiriban winners. I do hope it agrees with her. ^_^'

Yes, well.

I doubt I'll ever writer another Drarry. An unspoken rule for me is that whenever I venture into a new pairing, I write for it once, and that's it. I don't really have established 'ships, you see. So once I construct a story for a pairing, I don't get any more ideas for them, unless it's NaruSasu. That could be considered my OTP, I suppose.

Regarding this fic. As always, when I'm working off canon scenarios, I need to really think how I can twist events in order to come up with a believable decent into the fantastical. As such, a bit of ground work needed to be laid in the form of Draco's mindset, and what have you. I chose a scene in the seventh book as my starting place, and worked from there. Mainly because it was the only time I could see such a thing happening, but also because I like inserting things between seemingly insignificant occurrences.

So. I think this is my second foray into the HP fandom. Perhaps not quite as angsty as I thought it would be, but enjoyable just the same, I hope.

Once

Unbearable. Intolerable. Unendurable. Insufferable…

Draco could and did come up with a variety of ways to describe his life as it was now. What made it so ridiculously excruciating was that his life had been fine just a few short years ago. Fine. He'd been the subject of envy amongst his peers, the only focus of his parents' attention, the sole recipient of their love, and a proper menace to his enemies.

But then the Dark Lord had risen. And it had come to light that certain of his father's actions had been ill-advised, to put it delicately. Catastrophic, if one wanted to be blunt. And the entire Malfoy household knew it. Worse, his father had completely buggered that business with the prophecy. The whole slide from being at the pinnacle of their social circles, to their current status on the bottom rungs had started with Lucius Malfoy, Draco thought with a hidden sneer.

Worst of all, the blame wasn't entirely his father's.

Sitting in an overstuffed armchair of their drawing room, Draco allowed himself to dwell on his sixth year at Hogwarts. A shudder worked through him, despite being parked in front of a roaring fireplace and having a cup of tea resting in his lap. His sixth year had been, unquestionably, the single most ghastly year of his entire life. In it, he'd come to realize what truth was.

He could honestly say that he now had an unholy fascination with the notion of truth. He spent whole hours in silent, convoluted contemplation of it. He wasn't particularly philosophical, but he thought that the elusive element of truth must be a key component in most, if not all, philosophical issues. As far as he was concerned, this lent the concept of truth weight and importance; it was thus worthy of his time. Therefore, the energy he expended on endless thoughts of it, and on how it related to his life, was not wasted.

Last year he'd discovered the truth of himself. Horrifying, really. It had come after discovering the truth of his father's lifestyle, the lifestyle of everyone in his group of friends, his parents' friends, and generally everyone he knew to be in Slytherin or a Death Eater. He supposed some people called such an arrival at this kind of insight an epiphany. He called it the ruination of his existence as he knew it. Dear old Dad, having failed miserably with the prophecy, had escaped the Dark Lord's wrath in Azkaban, which had effectively left him, Draco, to try and shore up the family's disgrace by providing certain 'services' to the Dark Lord. Services he himself was unable to go through with. Words could not express the sheer dreadfulness of realizing you'd been mistaken your whole life.

He was on the wrong side of the war.

Which was bad, when you stopped to think about it. It would have been one thing to be incapable of cold-blooded murder while still believing in the dark arts and evil. But no. The Dark Lord had breezed back into their lives and Draco had seen first-hand the kind of life his parents had led before he was born. He'd only heard stories before. He'd listened eagerly to these, thinking them fine and glamorous. He'd wished times beyond reckoning that he'd lived during those times of high excitement and danger. Ludicrous. He now knew that there was no glamour to that kind of life, only ugliness. No fun, only fear. Only the danger was real and lived up to expectations. Surpassed them. Contrary to what he'd thought, fear was not an enjoyable emotion. Not experiencing it, and not dealing it out to others. Not anymore.

There had been a particular moment of clarity last year, wherein he'd been confronted with the truth of himself. Two moments, actually. The second moment had come when he'd been called upon to kill Dumbledore, trying even then to live up to what he'd thought he was supposed to be instead of what he'd recently realized he was. The first had come in the sixth floor boy's bathroom earlier that year.

He'd been in the middle of one of his craven bouts of confession to that ghost what's-her-name, when none other than Potter had walked in on him. There, right then, was when he'd known for sure that he was royally fucked. He'd looked up into the mirror, seen the green eyes wide with shock, and had felt the most indescribable urge to ask his rival, his enemy, for help. Potter could help him, he'd thought fleetingly. Potter and his filthy friends were amazingly adept at accomplishing the impossible, especially that Mudblood. But it was Potter he'd really felt like talking to. He'd actually had a vision of crossing the space to the doorway and…bollocks, he couldn't even think it. Well, no, yes he could. They were only thoughts. He hadn't acted on them. Very well then, he'd had a vision of laying his head on Potter's shoulder and receiving comfort.

Draco closed his eyes now in shame. He had to swallow before his thoughts were able to proceed once more in a detached manner.

He'd wanted to confide in Potter, but he hadn't. The thought had appalled him then, as it appalled him now, and he'd attacked with a hex. Or something. It was all a bit fuzzy in his mind now, but a fight had taken place and he'd been gravely injured. Before Professor Snape had arrived, he did recall Potter being remorseful. He remembered hugging this knowledge close while he'd been in the hospital wing. But yes, that moment of looking at Potter and realizing that there was something other than hatred for him in his heart still had been the real beginning for him. He'd been miserable before that, yes, but after that encounter he'd known he was fucked.

Potter occupied an unacceptable amount of his waking thoughts, a fact that did nothing to ease his misery. It added to it, mainly because he couldn't quite bring himself to identify just what it was he did feel for the blighter. He knew what he'd felt in Madam Malkin's, before the start of their first year. He'd felt an uncommon rush of gladness at meeting someone so comely and mannerly. Like it or not, most of the crowd he ran with were a bunch of uncouth commoners. He'd been attracted-

He cleared his throat slightly and sipped his tea, debating if that was the right word or not. Eventually he reasoned that private use of the word was all right…it had been ages ago, after all.

Yes, well, he'd been attracted to the quiet demeanor Potter had, and the deferential way he'd had of interacting with Madam Malkin and himself. Not to mention Potter's looks. Very comely features. The wild hair had only emphasized this. He'd been looking forward to chatting Potter up on the train when he'd discovered who he was. The Harry Potter, a potentially dark wizard of great strength, the one who'd defeated the Dark Lord himself. Draco remembered feeling an odd bubble of possessiveness and pride at having met him first. He'd felt…well, as if he and Potter were destined to be close. Things like that didn't happen by accident, not in the magical world. He'd truly felt an inextricable link with Potter settle into his bones in Madam Malkin's and the link had only intensified at learning who Potter really was. His thought at learning his full name had been, And I saw him first! Potter's first step into the magical world since his defeat of the Dark Lord was meeting me. He's mine. All mine.

To discover that Potter had made friends with a Weasley, and that he was actually sitting with one had been a disappointment, an error on Potter's part that he'd been willing to overlook. But then Potter had shown himself to have a bit of backbone and rejected his offer of friendship and guidance, and Draco would not admit, even to himself, that the hurt this caused him, despite his grudging respect for Potter's cheek, had fueled his hatred of him through all the subsequent years. He told himself that he went after Potter because he was a traitor to his kind, and on the side of good. That Potter was inferior, stupid, weak, an imbecile, and dirty. Everything and anything to egg on his desire to hurt Potter in turn, in other words. As long as he was hurt, Potter should hurt. That was his reasoning. The more he'd hurt, though, the more he'd hated Potter and the harder he'd gone after him.

It was only later, after that moment in the boy's bathroom, that he'd seen the truth of that. His campaign against Potter, every stunt he'd pulled, had been a secret plea for attention. Potter's attention. Potter's notice. Potter's regard. It was madness. Had Potter actually come up to him and said 'Let's be friends, mate, and put the past behind us,' he would have scoffed good and proper. But then he might –might, mind you- have taken him up on it.

Potter never saw him as anything but an enemy, though. He'd fueled this impression, true, but oh how it had stung. It had driven him to greater and greater acts of cruelty and spite. Watching Potter grow into a man (a damnably handsome man), and grow into his powers, he'd felt his hatred and jealousy of Potter twist in his guts.

One could argue that he had no one to blame but himself. If he'd really wanted to be in Potter's life, he could have told him of his feelings on any number of occasions…if he'd acknowledged the feelings before sixth year, that was. After all, the opportunities had presented themselves. As he seemed to do often of late, Draco lined these up in his mind, absently sipping his tea and staring into the flames.

In their first year, during their detention with the groundskeeper in the Forbidden Forest, he'd been paired with Potter after his prank on Longbottom. There'd been a stretch of time when they'd walked in silence. It had been on the tip of his tongue to make good with Potter and have an end to their animosity; it had killed him all year to see him laughing and having fun with Weasley and the Mudblood. But then they'd found the unicorn, and thoughts of friendship had been driven away by the horror of seeing the creature's blood being drunk.

Then in their second year, he'd been given a nasty shock at learning Potter wasn't on the Hogwart's Express. He'd looked all up and down the entire train. After the sorting and the feast that evening, the most unbelievable rumors had circulated about Potter and Weasley arriving in a flying car and being expelled because of it. He hadn't been easy in his mind until he'd seen Potter the following morning, in the Great Hall. He'd laughed as loudly as the rest at that Howler.

In their third year, when tales of Potter collapsing on the train from the Dementors had run wildly through the students, his initial reaction had been sympathy, one he'd masked well from everyone else. Still, the moment he'd been able to, he'd snuck up behind Potter just as they were all leaving the coaches that had brought them to Hogwarts from the Hogsmeade station. He'd leaned in to whisper if Potter had really fainted. He'd let the question sound contemptuous, but he'd had to know. To know if Potter was…well, all right. He'd seemed all right, once he'd gotten a good look into those green eyes, if a bit weak. He'd held off teasing him further, though, to target Weasley instead.

Later, when Potter had been laid up after the Dementors had shown up at that Quidditch match, he'd loitered outside the infirmary for an hour, working up the nerve to go in, until the Gryffindor team had descended en masse and made him scarper away before they could see him. He'd been particularly bitter after that, going so far as to stage a Dementor attack himself in the hopes of landing Potter in the hospital again. It would have provided him with another chance to come clean to Potter, but things hadn't gone as he'd expected. After that, he'd pretty much given up, and given in to making Potter's life as miserable as possible.

Still, in their fourth year, upon learning with the rest of the Great Hall that Potter was the fourth Triwizard Champion, he'd felt a cold hand of fear grip his insides. In the moments after Potter's name had been announced, during that deep silence, he'd looked at him. Had Potter chosen to look at the Slytherin table then, he'd have seen the expression of shock and dismay on his enemy's face. Draco had needed to mask his reaction lest any of his friends see, but he'd been unable to eat after that. It had taken a monumental force of will to carry on with animosity toward Potter as he had before, but then Moody, or Crouch as the case was, stepped in and he hadn't needed to pretend anymore. For that year.

He'd known something was planned for Potter too, known that the tournament had been a stage being set up for grander things. He'd been proud, yes, of the role his father played, of the return of dark times, but he'd been worried too. About Potter. Words couldn't have expressed his relief at seeing his nemesis emerge from that maze, even if Cedric Diggory had been dead at Potter's side. Potter hadn't been dead, and that was all he'd cared about.

Then life had begun changing. And so he had come to his sixth year, and that moment in the boy's bathroom, and then the astronomy tower, and his appalling failure, and now the Malfoy name was in complete disgrace. And here he sat with the knowledge that he didn't belong in this life, though he didn't believe he belonged on the other side either, and with no way out of it. No way except Potter. Oh yes, he was well aware of the prophecy and of Potter's possible role. Potter finishing off the Dark Lord would solve things nicely.

He decided then and there that the entire mess of his life could be laid at the feet of Lucius Malfoy after all. Who'd told his father to mix up with the Dark Lord all those years ago anyway? Draco slid his eyes sideways, to where his father also sat sipping tea. His mother sat beside his father, trying to maintain her pride at being his wife, but Draco couldn't see how she could bear the humiliation of how far they'd fallen because of him. He couldn't stand it, and he was closer to his father than she was. Or, at least he had been before the Dark Lord's rise.

He set his teacup on the small end table by his chair as his mother quietly got up to answer the door. Who could be calling at this hour? Easter holidays were traditionally quiet affairs in Malfoy Manor.

The rough sounds of someone's common speech had both him and his father frowning, before they heard his mother say distinctly, "My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know."

Draco and his father exchanged a glance at hearing this, then stood up as a filthy group of individuals were shoved into the room. Draco's eyes went directly to the one with black hair and glasses. He felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach at seeing the boy he'd secretly missed. He dimly heard his father say, "What is this?"

"They say they've got Potter," his mother was saying.

Draco could see that they had. A couple of lowlife Snatchers and Greyback had managed to find the most sought-after boy in Britain. That was Weasley there, and Granger, not to mention some other boy he recognized as part of the general group that hung around Potter. Something Thomas, he thought it was. And there was a goblin. How on earth had Potter let himself be caught?

"Draco, come here," his mother said.

It would look suspicious if he refused. So far he'd kept his thoughts and feelings well-hidden. He went to his mother and the werewolf turned the group so that Potter was directly in front of him. "Well, boy?" Greyback demanded.

He privately thought that whatever had been done to camouflage Potter's face was pretty clever, but not enough. Not to anyone who knew Potter. The bottle-green eyes, while slits, were clearly recognizable by their color. Not many people had that eye color. And the scar, while distorted, was also discernible as the one Potter was famous for. The longer hair, and shadowed jaw were a nice, rugged touch, but still. Draco looked, while trying not to look, until his father came up beside him to breathe, "Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

It was no good. He could not lie outright, not without the risk of being caught in it. Yet if he confirmed Potter's identity, and the Dark Lord was brought to kill him… "I can't-I can't be sure," he muttered evasively. He tried to turn away, to keep from looking at Harry, whom he noticed was also avoiding his eyes.

His father got him by the back of the neck and dragged him back. "But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!" He shoved Draco at Potter.

Draco had no choice but to look. His father went on to explain excitedly how the Dark Lord would forgive them everything if they were the ones to hand him Potter, to which the werewolf objected. There followed a brief discussion on what had happened to Potter's face, which had Lucius leaning close to inspect the scar. Insisting that something was there, he again urged Draco to come and look properly. "What do you think?" he asked his son.

Draco was forced to get right up close to Potter's face, and this time their eyes met. The knowledge that Draco knew Potter for who he was passed between them. Potter's eyes were direct. Not fearless, but not fearful either. Simply direct, the way his eyes always had been. They seemed to challenge Draco, to ask if he really would give him up. Draco looked into them and knew he would risk punishment before doing so. "I don't know," he said in answer to his father. He finally managed to escape and stand next to his mother by the fireplace.

His mother went on about how they needed to be absolutely sure it was Potter before they summoned the Dark Lord. Greyback called attention to Granger, turning the group so that his mother could see her clearly, and Draco felt his mouth dry up at hearing his mother's recognition of the Mudblood. "Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

"I…maybe…yeah." They were determined to bring him into it, to make him participate in Potter's capture.

At hearing his mumbled confirmation on Granger, Draco's father exclaimed as how the red-haired boy had to be Weasley. He even went around to stand in front of the tall youth. "Draco, look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son, what's his name?"

By now he had his back to the entire group, willing this madness to end, wishing himself elsewhere. He fingered a certain object he had in his pocket. "Yeah," he said heavily. "It could be." Of all places, why did Potter have to be brought to his house?

And now, as if the situation could not be any worse, here came his aunt's voice asking his mother what had happened and who the new people were. He hated Aunt Bellatrix and her loud ways, her single-minded devotion to the Dark Lord. Anyone could see that she actually fancied him, and the knowledge, the idea, never failed to make him ill. He could hear her shrieking triumph, a sound that made his skin crawl, as his father confirmed Granger's identity and Potter's. His stomach clenched tightly, then dropped like a stone when he heard her say that the Dark Lord must be summoned. He kept his back to the room, not even daring to look behind him lest his expression of horror be visible.

But no, that was his father's voice claiming the right and privilege to summon the Dark Lord. A brief respite then. And of course his aunt had to argue against that point, and now Greyback was reminding them who it was who'd actually caught Potter so it seemed there was no need to panic just yet, but it was only a matter of time. Risking a quick peek behind himself at the group, Draco fingered the object in his pocket again. Of late, he used it more and more to escape his life.

He was in time to see his aunt go rigid, staring at something one of the Snatchers was holding. When his aunt screamed at his father not to summon the Dark Lord on pain of death, he turned around fully. He witnessed the Snatcher actually refuse to give his aunt the object –a sword- and then it seemed everything was utter chaos. The Snatchers were all thrown with a hex, and then Aunt Bellatrix advanced on Greyback, who'd been forced into a penitent posture. He watched as avidly as everyone else in the room as she questioned the werewolf on where he'd gotten the sword. What was happening?

-oOo-

Greyback thought to argue at first, but in the end he said he'd found it in Potter's tent. Draco flicked a glance at the sword, but could see nothing remarkable about it. His aunt's voice snapped him out of his ruminations when she ordered him to take the unconscious Snatchers outside. "If you haven't got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me," she taunted.

His lips thinned in rage, even as his mother came to his defense. He paused in the act of withdrawing his wand to deal with the Snatchers, listening as his aunt said the situation was somehow dangerous.

Greyback was given his wand so that he might take the prisoners down to the cellar, while Aunt Bellatrix cut Granger free. Draco caught his aunt staring at him and hastened to dispose of the Snatchers…and leave them in the courtyard.

When he came back, he joined his mother, father, and Greyback in watching his aunt torture the truth out of Granger, privately relieved that Potter was safe in the cellar for the moment.

Granger professed her innocence at length, even under the influence of the Cruciatus curse…but she finally admitted that the sword was a fake. Aunt Bellatrix was not moved to believe this new lie. Lucius made a suggestion. "Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not," he said.

Draco left them there, relieved at this further delay of Potter's punishment, whatever it would be. When he got to the cellar steps, he hesitated. He could hear Potter and the rest scrambling in their cell.

Potter.

An idea came to Draco, one of simple, breath-taking genius.

Apparently there was quite a mess on their hands what with his aunt's vault having possibly been broken into, and this somehow bearing directly on whether or not the Dark Lord killed them all. And here was Potter, in a cell beneath his own house, just as he'd always fondly envisioned him. Well, no, maybe he hadn't envisioned this precisely, but he'd always wanted Potter to be his and at his mercy. To make him realize the mistake he'd made in rejecting Draco's friendship. There could have been more than friendship.

Well. It might be too late for that now, Draco thought, but he'd have Potter nonetheless. He would have satisfaction from him, if nothing else; he would never again be granted such an opportunity as this.

He went directly to their cell and cautioned them to stand back. Once inside, he kept his wand at the ready in front of him. "Potter," he said.

They all stiffened. "I heard your father tell you to bring Griphook," Potter retorted. "What are you playing at?"

"Don't go, Harry," Weasley hissed. "He'll kill you,"

Potter actually had the gall to smirk. "He couldn't kill Dumbledore, he certainly can't kill me. He's too much of a coward." The green eyes were challenging. Contemptuous, even.

Draco stared into them, and acknowledged the truth: on some levels he was a coward. And short of death, Potter had courage enough to face anything he was threatened with, so promising pain if he didn't come along would be futile. Potter would engage him happily. Fine then. I'm a bloody coward, Draco thought savagely. But I'll be a coward about this no more.

Trickery was all that was left to him, nor was it beneath him to use it.

"I'm willing to help you," Draco said. "But only if you agree to come along and do as I say."

Potter's eyes narrowed. He exchanged a glance with Weasley, Lovegood, and Thomas, then looked at Draco again. He came forward a few steps from where they were all lined up against the back wall. "What assurances will you give me?"

"None whatsoever." As if to punctuate this reply, Lucius hollered from upstairs for Draco to hurry.

Potter met Draco at the door.

-oOo-

Draco moved quickly, pushing Potter ahead of him at the point of his wand, down the hall to a cell on the end. He unlocked it, shoved Potter inside, then bolted the door behind them once he'd followed. "Lumos."

By the light of his wand tip, Draco withdrew the object from his pocket that he'd confiscated from his father's office some months ago. How his father had come by it when the Ministry's entire supply had been destroyed, he had no idea, but Lucius could only have obtained it for the purpose of righting past mistakes. He assumed his father had been unsuccessful, since their plight was as pathetic as ever.

In Draco's hand sat a Time-Turner.

Potter's eyes widened, but he said nothing as Draco looped the chain around both their necks and flipped the miniature hour-glass thrice.

Their surroundings did not undergo any change; no one had occupied this cellar in years. Three hours before Potter's capture the manor had been silent. Draco himself had been up in his room. They would not be detected down here. Draco took the Time-Turner and put it back in his pocket, out of Potter's immediate reach.

Potter swallowed. "How are you helping me?" he whispered.

That was a question Draco debated answering. On the one hand, he needed Potter to submit without a fuss; they were currently beyond the hearing of Lovegood and Ollivander, but Wormtail still conducted periodic checks of their cell. If Potter decided to fight, the scuffle would be heard. Nor did he want his wand taken away. He wasn't sure who'd win in an ordinary bout of fisticuffs, but if Potter had a wand, Draco knew he wouldn't stand a chance. If he told Potter he wasn't helping him, there'd be a fight.

On the other hand, if he didn't tell Potter the truth, and just went with what he planned to do, Potter would think Draco was blackmailing him. 'Shag me and I'll help you,' that's what it would look like. And Draco found that he didn't want Potter thinking his actions were some form of payment. He didn't want Potter thinking that he'd be so low as to ask for such a thing in exchange for his help, regardless of the fact that he was low enough to stoop to trickery. He had no intention of helping Potter…and at the same time he wanted it out once and for all that this was how he felt.

It was an idea that gave him pause. What on earth was Potter supposed to do with such knowledge? They certainly wouldn't run off into the sunset together afterward. Most likely he'd return Potter to his cell, and he himself would go upstairs and pick up where he'd left off. Whatever was about to happen here would change nothing. On the contrary, Potter would hate him more than he already did, and deservedly so.

Draco decided not to answer at all. He would let his feelings, misbegotten as they were, guide him. Whatever happened, happened, but he would not operate under false pretenses, not for this.

Just once, he wanted Potter to see him. Really see him.

Dimming his wand tip until its light was nearly extinguished, Draco then set it upright in a corner. If Potter decided to make a grab for it, he'd see in plenty of time to prevent him. When he turned around, he found the green eyes watching him warily.

Draco stared in turn. After a slow count of ten, he took a step in Potter's direction. Then another and another. When he was a foot away, he stopped.

-oOo-

Harry's eyes were wide and watchful, skipping up and down from Malfoy's face to his hands, then over to the wand in the corner. Malfoy's stance was unthreatening, and Harry found himself staring into his unwavering gray gaze. The dim light made the pupils huge, so that the irises were nothing but a thin gray line around the circle of black. The rest of Malfoy's face was just as composed. His usual sneer of pride and contempt was gone, replaced with a calm look of such openness that Harry found he couldn't look away; Draco's straightforward expression was strangely compelling.

Several fantastic realizations hit Harry at once just then. The first was that Malfoy had never stood so long in his presence without saying something. Certainly he'd never gone so long without insulting Harry, not when they were within sight of each other. The second was that Malfoy had never been this close to him, with the exception of his first ride on the Hogwart's Express, without trying to hex or hurt him in some way. Malfoy was so close that Harry could feel the faint sensation of his breath. Third, and most interesting, was that Malfoy was apparently trying to communicate with him through this silence. Harry spent long seconds, perhaps minutes, staring hard at the wide, darkened eyes, trying to understand what was being said.

And then finally it dawned on him, albeit very slowly indeed, that Malfoy's proximity was a tad unseemly. With that thought, the expression and lack of words took on a different meaning. A darker meaning, one that Harry could not bring himself to believe. It was ludicrous.

But it wasn't unheard of. Not in the boy's dormitories. It was understood that the majority of that kind of activity took place in Hufflepuff, but he should have known that Slytherin would probably have a bit as well. To Harry's knowledge, each house had a few who carried on in such a manner, but Malfoy? And then it hit him that he was the one locked alone in a cell with Malfoy, and that the strange, silent look could mean… Oh bloody hell.

Yet even as this dismaying thought swept through him, a small part of Harry's mind attempted to reason out the situation. If Malfoy had feelings, how long had he had them? He distinctly remembered the antagonistic way some of his friends behaved toward the ones they were sweet on until the object of their affection finally deigned to notice them. Then they were all boxes of chocolates and snogging in corners. But Malfoy had gone far beyond merely antagonistic.

He's always sought me out. This was the thought that played over and over in Harry's mind as the seconds ticked by. Malfoy had gone out of his way to seek him out, humiliate him, and hurt him. He'd chalked it up to the actions of an enemy. To bitter, unreasoning hatred. He simply could not believe that all those things, all the years of having Malfoy as his nemesis, had been some kind of act.

Then another thought lit up his mind. Blimey, what am I going to do if he touches me?

He really didn't have time to answer that because Malfoy had decided that enough time had passed. He was closing in.

-oOo-

Draco had watched as whatever hex that had been put on Potter's face gradually faded. The eyes had become more visible. With the return of the naturally handsome features came a pleasant heat that settled low in Draco's belly. This was helped along by Potter's own stare and the play of emotions on that normally controlled visage.

He watched them keenly. At first there was suspicion. Mistrust. Then puzzlement. Thoughtfulness. Confusion, perhaps. But it seemed that all at once, Potter's eyes widened and Draco knew. He knew at that moment that Potter had arrived at the correct conclusion, and understood what was happening here. His expression immediately after that widening of his eyes was most interesting, but Draco didn't wait. Potter knew what was coming and that was as far as he'd trust his luck so far to hold out. He closed the distance between them with a single, unhurried step.

This close, he could see that he only had a centimeter, if that on Potter. The green eyes stared into his, blinked a few times. Potter's tongue came out to wet his dry lips in a gesture eloquent of nerves. The action drew Draco's gaze downward, to those lips, and he thought, I'm really doing this. I'm really going to snog Potter. I wonder if he'll let me?

The silence –clear and ominous and deliberate- served to underline the fact that neither of them, most especially Potter, were doing anything to stop what was coming. Draco supposed that this was his answer, yet he paused when his face was close to Potter's. He could feel the other boy's breath on his lips, and knew that Potter could feel his. The green eyes were there, searching his…then dropping to his mouth.

The feel of their lips touching, of Potter standing quiescent, sent a bolt of pure sensation crackling through Draco's body. He pulled back at once, blinking in surprise and no small amount of trepidation. He saw Potter looking at him with an identical expression. Cautious this time, Draco leaned in again.

-oOo-

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, really. Harry kept perfectly still, at first refusing to believe, even in the face of Malfoy's obvious intentions, that the git would actually snog him. But then it was happening, and he'd felt nowhere near the amount of disgust he'd expected to feel. There'd been some. After all, it was Malfoy pressing his lips to his, but there'd been much more of something else. Not fear. Not enjoyment. Something. When Malfoy pulled back, and he saw the same look he knew was on his own face, Harry thought with shame, That was exciting.

It was. He'd go to his grave with the knowledge, but something about Malfoy harboring this feeling for him, and being in a dark, dank cellar, and being made to accept the feelings against his will… He would never be able to say afterwards why these things elicited such a sharp twist of excitement in him, but they did. Nor could he say it was an interest in males, since he didn't really have any. All he could really say was that it was happening, and he was letting it, and though it embarrassed and shamed him to do so, he wouldn't stop Malfoy.

I'm mad, he thought as Malfoy moved in again. The lips pressed longer this time. Completely barking.

It was the best he could come up with. He wasn't overly self-analytical, to understand that his time on the run had been ghastly enough to change him. He had a job to do and he was doing it, ignoring how thoroughly the uncertainties had undermined his confidence, or how truly frightened he was of failure. Most of all he ignored, with great success, the looming inevitability of his fight with Voldemort. Here, right now, in this dark and dirty place, with Malfoy looking at him as he'd never looked at him, and being subjected to unmentionable advances, he had finally hit rock bottom. His situation could not possibly be worse, not if he was snogging his nemesis; for the time being, Harry Potter just gave up.

And in letting go, he discovered that Malfoy's touch wasn't repulsive. Here at rock bottom, it was…almost…welcome. Most especially since he was overwhelmingly aware of Malfoy feeling the same kind of hopelessness and futility of it all. He didn't know how he knew, only that he did. It was in the way Malfoy hesitantly brought their lips together again, in the way another step was taken so that his body pressed Harry's gently against the wall, and in the guarded way Malfoy's hands found his, low down by their sides. Malfoy's hands were smooth, warm, and strong. Harry liked that. Let someone else be strong for once.

It was nothing like snogging Ginny. To be touched by a boy was decidedly less fun, but somehow more intoxicating. A sigh that was part gasp left Harry, and Malfoy pulled back once more.

-oOo-

Draco's heart hammered in his chest at seeing the look in Potter's eyes. There was understanding there, recognition. Most of all, and most unexpected, there was naked need in those eyes. He understood that what Potter needed wasn't the same as his own need, but it was need just the same. Beyond that, Draco did not bother to think. Potter needing anything from him was more than he'd hoped or dreamed for. His feelings rose up in him fiercely at that moment, and he swallowed.

Meeting each other's eyes after this first contact, it seemed that all at once they were men, not boys fighting out petty hatreds. They lived in danger, in true life or death times, and their futures were uncertain. Draco needed this, and Potter, for the moment, needed him. He searched Potter's eyes, raising his brows in a silent question, and there was a faint, answering nod.

Well all right, then. This was really happening.

He reached up and slowly removed Potter's glasses. He set them aside on the floor, reached up to clasp Potter's face, and got serious.

Perhaps once upon a time, in the privacy of his own thoughts, Draco had dreamed of love and passion and romance between Potter and himself. Over the years, he'd discovered that these sentiments rarely, if ever, had a place in reality. And that night he found that what really drove people was plain and simple need…and it was quite enough.

Aware as they both were of how limited time was and of the singularity of this encounter, there was no holding back, not for either of them. This would not happen again; all they had was now, and they only had a short time to capitalize on it.

-oOo-

Harry's long hair got tangled in Malfoy's fingers, was pulled a bit as it was combed out of the way, but his attention was focused completely on the searing, brutally hard way his mouth was fused with Malfoy's. Fierce as Ginny sometimes was, there was simply no comparison. She was a girl. This was a man. Yes, a man. Malfoy was no boy –neither was he, for that matter- and this was another revelation to him, how he was now in adult territory, beset with adult conflictions, about an adult decision he'd just made.

There was nothing whatsoever civilized or refined about the way their lips hurt so much that it felt good, or how the taste of Draco's tongue, still flavored with tea, left heat and desire uncoiling in Harry's belly. Their harsh breathing, the way Harry's hand clenched in the blond hair and his other hand clutched at Draco's arm…these things brought home to them that though they were undeniably wretched in their separate hells, sometimes there was beauty and rightness to be found in a wealth of ugly.

Yes. It was beautiful.

Draco's knee came up to part Harry's thighs, and the kiss was broken. Harry's head went back against the wall; Draco dropped his face to Harry's filthy neck, nuzzling and nipping there. The pulse was a frantic flutter against his lips. Their arms found their way around one another, and then Harry's shirt and sweater were being pushed up, pulled over his head. Draco's trousers were in turn unzipped, removed, cast aside. When they were nude, they stood barefoot and bashful, until they reached for each other, and resumed.

They weren't just new to each other, but new to the act itself. In the dim light, they undertook an exploration that Draco led, that struggled to overcome embarrassment and over-eagerness. Draco was insistent, Harry compliant. At last they grew comfortable, and Draco closed his hand around Harry's length as he brought their lips together again.

There was much heat as their desire and pleasure climbed. Their skin stuck to each other, glued with sweat and other fluids. Small whimpers, faint sighs, tiny groans. Rubbing, and soft bites. More and more kisses. Always, the hot, moist, demanding fervor of their kisses.

-oOo-

Some time was spent that way, touching each other intimately, snogging, caressing, breathing in each other and learning their bodies. Then things took a more urgent turn, and Draco trailed his hot mouth down Harry's throat, over his chest, and down his stomach.

He was confronted with Harry's arousal and the fragrant patch of dark hair around it. Both set Draco's blood racing and sizzling, the one as evidence of reciprocated desire, the other as mouth-watering ambrosia. He grasped the leaking shaft in one hand and fed himself with an impatience he couldn't check.

The taste was so enticing, and the knowledge that he was actually blowing Potter was so thrilling, that there was no room at all for disgust or anything but greedy, gobbling suction. The noisy slurping, breathless gasping, and sticky smearing of Potter's juices all served to have them both grunting and grabbing at each other.

Harry closed his hands in Draco's hair and brought his face inward, staring down as he shoved his hips forward at the same time. The pleasure was wicked. Just wicked. It twisted and spiked, climbing higher and higher, scattering all thought and hesitation until every muscle in him was tensed to the breaking point. That such sensations could even exist…

Draco gave a particularly hard suck just then and Potter erupted on a strangled cry issued between his teeth, spurting warmly and richly down his throat.

Harry went limp then, in body and mind, drifting on the aftershocks. He wilted forward, partially curved over Draco's head. There were warm kisses on his spent shaft, on his balls, on his lower stomach, and then he was gently turned so that he faced the wall. He felt more kisses climbing up his back as Draco rose behind him. The contrast of that hot mouth, and the rough, cold wall of the cell left him shivering. Or maybe it was the way the entire length of Draco's lean body settled against his, and the arm he curved around Harry's waist. He felt warm breath on the back of neck, his hair brushed from his nape, another kiss. Draco's cheek on the back of his shoulder. It was a moment of such tenderness, of real affection and care, that Harry closed his eyes hard against the moisture that sprang up.

If only his whole life could be like this one moment.

-oOo-

Potter was utterly relaxed in his arms, beneath his lips. It was a gift he would cherish the rest of his life, Draco thought. Unwilling to delay another moment, he took hold of his aching hardness and used the bell-end to part Potter's cheeks. Potter trembled slightly as moisture was spread across his anus, but did not object. Draco did that several times, moving his tip slowly up and down that heated groove. Potter's hands rose and rested unsteadily against the wall, near his head. Draco took gentle hold of one white shoulder in his teeth, positioned his tip against the quivering entrance to Potter's body, and pressed forward.

The pain fit with the dark cell and one-shot quality of this union; it was welcomed. Harry hissed out air, dug his fingers into the stone wall, but pressed back against that hot length. Draco continued forward without stopping, until he was sheathed to the hilt in the unbelievably tight depths. There was a moment when hips and buttocks pressed hard against each other, seeking more, but there was no more to be had. Draco linked his fingers with Potter's on the wall, and began moving.

It was slow at first. Though they were both aware of time escaping them, they took it slow, the better to savor what would never be repeated. Besides which, the pleasure was far too intense to allow anything more than nudging and rocking. Anything more, and they'd both end up finishing before they wanted to.

Even so, Potter's tight passage positively milked Draco of strength; he was nearly gushing in the severity of his pleasure, and it only served to facilitate greater movement. He ended up thrusting against his will, driven to satisfy the sudden sharp craving for more pleasure, and yet more. Soon his arm was tight around Potter's middle again, his other hand holding one lean hip, as they each thrust in unison, him forward, and Potter backward. Potter used the additional leverage of the wall to give his backward shoves added strength, and Draco widened his stance for balance.

That was when the gloves came off.

Draco had to grab both Potter's hips to hang on now. The pleasure, the sheer ecstasy of the act was now all around them, surrounding them in the smell, and feel, and sound of it. It wasn't the smoothest performance, or the most controlled, but it was punctuated with the short, helpless cries they tried to choke back, and the hard, demanding thrusts they pounded out between them. Draco stared downward, a frown of raw desire on his face at seeing the way Potter's pucker was stretched smooth and pink around his girth. The sight was damned stimulating, as was the sweat running down Potter's back, and the way Potter's hair flew whenever he tossed his dark head in passion. Draco dug his thumbs into the two shallow dimples above Potter's flexing ass, and somehow managed to pumps his hips even harder, now confident that he could hang on without finishing too soon.

-oOo-

Harry surrendered completely. Completely. He gave himself up to Malfoy with the certain knowledge that Malfoy would give him what he needed, whatever that was. He had no idea, and didn't care beyond the fact that Malfoy was giving it to him. Giving him more than anyone had ever given to him, and it was good. In truth, it was so far beyond good, that he had no word for it.

That he could find such pleasure and fulfillment, such affirmation, in an enemy's touch was a profound concept. Too much for him to dissect, but he accepted it. And perhaps there was no need to think about it too much.

It was only once, after all.