CHAPTER 2: Of Ideas and Bothersome things

Over the next few days, Harry notices that Malfoy doesn't eat much of anything at all. In fact, he spends most of his time during meals with his head bent over a spread of homework, steadfastly ignoring the withering scowls of whoever happens to sit next to him. But despite the treatment from his housemates, and the fact he only seems to pick at his food, Malfoy still manages to maintain an aura of untouchability. And it pisses Harry off.

Malfoy should be bothered by being shunned by other Slytherins, because from what Harry remembers of the last five years of their schooling together, Malfoy has always pranced around as though he wears a crown — as some sort of self-appointed Queen of Slytherin. Yes, Queen, Harry thinks, not King, because no King can have such delicately haughty features and such an irritating love for gossip — not that Harry sees Malfoy doing much gossip lately.

But Malfoy isn't bothered — or, at least he doesn't act bothered. And this bothers Harry, because he doesn't feel like he should have to feel bothered by the way people treat Malfoy, or by the way Malfoy isn't bothered.

Harry stabs rather fiercely at his steak, listening half-heartedly as Ron talks animatedly about the upcoming Quidditch Game this weekend. It's the first game of the year, and the teams have only just finished tryouts. Harry has sort of been hoping to hear whether Malfoy's made Seeker this year, and whether Slytherin's desire to win transcends their apparent distaste for their ex-monarch — because Malfoy, Harry reluctantly admits, is a pretty decent Seeker, especially when Harry gets to beat him. Unfortunately, all he knows is that Ron's nervous, and Ginny reckons Hufflepuff's Chaser, Zacharias Smith needs to get the broom stick out of his arse before he attempts to fly on it.

This weekend's match will be Gryffindor against Slytherin, and while Harry hasn't practiced as much as he'd like to, he is more eager than anxious. Because there's something extraordinarily breath-taking about racing Malfoy against the strength of the wind in order to ensure his fingers curl around the Golden Snitch first.

Harry has tried cornering Malfoy twice in the corridors between classes, wanting to ask him whether he made the team, which is stupid, Harry supposes, because either way he'll find out soon enough. But both times Malfoy fled at the sight of him, turning in a swirl of white and black and disappearing around a corner.

Harry also had the bright idea of partnering himself up with Malfoy in potions again, so he could glean more clues from his impeccably composed pointy face up close, but as soon as Slughorn so much as mentioned the word 'partner,' Malfoy hastily settled himself alongside an unsuspecting Hufflepuff, too scared to voice their discomfort at partnering with someone whose scowl could send a whole room to their knees.

Harry thinks he's immune to that scowl, though, even though he was on the receiving end of it next lesson when Malfoy dumped his cauldron down next to poor Neville, who looked over at Harry with a wide-eyed plea, and shook a little along the shoulders. Harry grimaced at him, frowned at Malfoy until the blond's scowl faltered, and then turned to set up with Ron, who hadn't managed to bribe Hermione into helping him a second time.

Somehow, Harry has become grimly determined to get Malfoy to notice him, and he thinks that since the person he's trying to ensnare is a Slytherin, he might just have to employ some of his own Slytherin characteristics into getting what he wants.

He casts another glance towards the Slytherin table, only to see that, surprisingly, Malfoy is actually eating. With quite some enthusiasm. Harry glares down at his own plate, wondering what Malfoy's steak has that his doesn't, and then mentally shrugs, because at least Malfoy is eating something, which should mean the sickening pallor that clings with red crescents beneath Malfoy's eyes should start to fade.

Harry doesn't stop to ask himself why he cares so much.


Draco is determined not to notice Potter. Well, he'll always notice Potter, he thinks, but he's determined for Potter not to notice Draco noticing him.

Draco does up the last button of his shirt, wondering what he'll have to do today to avoid being chased down by The Chosen One. He frowns at himself in the bathroom mirror, inspecting the bags beneath his eyes that have darkened since yesterday. As the days draw closer, he becomes tireder, hungrier, and hornier.

And he hates himself. Because there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Draco shrugs away from the mirror with a snarl and strides back into the dorm. His tie isn't where he left it, hanging over the back of his desk chair, and it makes him grit his teeth, because he feels like he has been through this so many times before, and it's getting bloody boring.

"Anyone seen my tie?" He snaps.

Zabini lifts his head nonchalantly from the letter he's writing and gives Draco such a bland look that Draco huffs. He smells like whiskey and sex, and Draco resists the urge to scrunch his nose.

Crabbe and Goyle have predictably already gone down to breakfast, as they always do to grab themselves prime seats for stealing toast from First Years, so Draco turns to Nott, who doesn't look up from a magazine emblazoned with the cover of a scantily clad Witch.

"Why the fuck would I have seen your tie, Malfoy?" Nott says, with just enough nastiness laced into his surname for Draco to roll his eyes.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe for the same reason you've seen it for the mornings of the past two weeks."

Nott lets out a short laugh, the kind that's more of a derisive snort and a rise of the chest than anything resembling humour. Draco knows this because he's done the same thing, many times, just not recently.

Nott finally lowers the magazine and sits a little straighter on his bed, his blue eyes alight with something smug as he looks at Draco. "Maybe you should pay more attention to the things you love, Malfoy. That way they won't get taken from you."

And Draco just snaps. The threadbare strings of his temper have been pulled too taught, and in the next second he's right in front of Nott, his fist curled into his dorm mate's jumper as he hauls him violently to his feet, hissing, "don't you fucking dare play games with me, Nott."

The mirth drains out of Nott's lanky frame, and the mousy curls of his hair hang in his eyes as it is replaced by indignant rage at being manhandled. "Get off me!" Flecks of his spit land on Draco's cheeks, and Draco jerks him roughly by the collar until Nott's hands come up to shove him just far enough away to land an upper-cut to Draco's jaw.

Draco doesn't waste a moment before he hits back, his knuckles crunching into bone and flesh. Nott swears as blood drips from his nose, and the coppery tang of it invades Draco's nostrils and drives him to attack once more, to make sure Nott knows to never again insinuate something about Draco's father.

Nott staggers back, his hand wiping blood and spit from his face, and his eyes are pure death as he glowers at Draco, "you're gonna regret that, Malfoy." It sounds more like a gurgle, and Draco doesn't even bother scoffing.

He stretches the ache out of his fingers a few times, and pops out a crick in his neck. He feels dull pain blooming along his own jaw, but he hardly notices it. Turning, he sees Zabini eyeing him with amusement.

Draco ignores them both as he takes a deep breath, searching for traces of his own scent. Apart from it being prominent in his own part of the room, it drifts slightly from the direction of Nott's four poster. Draco takes two steps, reaches down to swipe his tie out from under Nott's bed, and then walks out of the room.


"Whoah, who d'you reckon got a piece of Malfoy's face?" Ron muses.

Harry tries not to appear too eager at the sound of Malfoy's name, and looks up. There's a purpling bruise at the corner of Malfoy's jaw, but the way the Slytherin saunters into the Great Hall with his bag slung over one shoulder says that he doesn't care at all. He does't even seem to take any notice of people's stares, and drops himself into a seat at the very end of the Slytherin table.

Harry wonders why Malfoy doesn't just cast a healing charm on himself, and doesn't realise he's spoken aloud until Ron snorts.

"Git probably likes the attention. Probably thinks it makes him look all 'rugged.'" Ron gives Hermione a wry look. "Girls like that, apparently. If the covers of 'Mione's muggle romance novels are anything to go by."

He sounds somewhat sulky, and Harry wonders whether Ron has spent time worrying over whether he looks 'rugged' enough. Hermione's cheeks tinge with pink, and she ignores Ron for the rest of breakfast.

Harry is glad to be rid of them as he excuses himself for the bathroom and goes to stand in a shadowy alcove in the entrance hall. He knows Malfoy always leaves well before class starts, no doubt to avoid the swarming masses of students, and if his lack of appetite is anything to go by then Harry thinks that should be soon.

He doesn't have to wait long, and before five minutes are up, he sees Malfoy's lithe and pale-haired figure moving past his hiding spot. Harry swears that Malfoy comes to a stop, as though he's expecting this very set-up, but Harry doesn't let himself think about it, because then he's darting out and snagging Malfoy by the arm, shoving him into the alcove and up against the wall.

There's hardly any light where they stand, but Harry is certain he sees what can only be described as a burning within the wide blaze of Malfoy's eyes. It takes him too long to realise Malfoy's trembling, and Harry takes a step back, putting distance between them, suddenly concerned that Malfoy might have more bruises unseen, and Harry's just made his injuries worse.

But then Malfoy speaks, and his voice is low and thick and strangled. "Are you fucking stupid, Potter?"

It's a funny question to ask, irrelevant almost, and Harry narrows his eyes, because he's the one who's supposed to be asking the questions here. "Who did that to you? To your face?"

It takes Malfoy's breath to catch for Harry to notice he's been panting. But if Malfoy's surprised he hides it well, seething, "why the fuck do you care?"

"I —" Harry is stumped. Because he doesn't know why he cares. He just does. "I just do." He sees the whites of Malfoy's eyes, as though they're rolling, and before the blond can slither away Harry blurts, "are you playing on Saturday?"

There's a pause that's too long, and then, "you think I'd pass up a chance to beat you? You must be stupid, Potter."

Before Harry can reply, Malfoy's gone, and, standing alone in the alcove, he tries to put a name to the sudden lightness in his stomach, excited by the knowledge that even though Malfoy might have some weird sort of illness, Harry will still get to fly with him through the Quidditch stands.

He frowns, trying to analyse the word 'with,' because he'll be playing with his teammates — against Malfoy. Harry puts the strange word down to the fact that sometimes, when their teams verse eachother, and Harry is circling the pitch and studying the vast sky for a trace of gold while Malfoy does the same, it feels as though it is just the two of them.


Draco only has ten minutes before class begins — and fuck, he can't do this again — he just can't. He promised himself he wouldn't — but he's so hard, so raw with want — and Potter just had to go and do something so incredibly stupid, not to mention dangerous, like luring Draco into a dark and shrouded alcove and then pressing him against the wall.

Draco had smelt him, that delicious Pottery smell Potter doesn't even know he carries, right before he'd been assaulted, and god he didn't even mind, because it was like something from one of Draco's fantasies come to life — only fantasy-Potter didn't lean away from him and ask him if he would be playing Quidditch. Fantasy-Potter usually did things like strip and show Draco the glorious expanse of his bare chest, like unbuttoning Draco's trousers and getting on his knees and —

Draco bangs his head against the wall. The corridor's empty, and now he only has five minutes to get himself together and forget everything about Potter, such as his lack of knowledge about the limits to Draco's self control, and his apparent desire to be mauled by someone rabid and horny.

Draco curses, gnashing his teeth on his tongue, because the thought of mauling Potter is not helping.

Footsteps and voices suddenly ring from the other end of the corridor, and Draco takes a deep breath as the stuffy smell of sweat and bodies makes its way towards him in the form of Theodore Nott, flanked on either side by Crabbe and Goyle.

Draco tugs a little on his robes, hoping the traces of his arousal are hidden, and gives the group a surveying look of indifference. Nott's managed to heal his nose, and Crabbe and Goyle look just as fat and stupid as they usually do. Draco doesn't miss them at all, especially when Nott vigorously digs his elbow into Draco's gut in passing, and they both do nothing but snigger.

"Didn't see you there, Malfoy."

"Are you fucking twelve, Nott?" Draco snaps, not because the gesture caused him pain — he's made of stronger stuff than that — but because this is actually getting pathetic, and he's starting to think that maybe Nott is twelve.

Nott pauses and swivels on his heel, his lips twisted and ready to throw back a lame response, but he's interrupted by the appearance of the Golden Trio rounding the corner. Upon seeing Draco, Potter stops abruptly, and Weasley bumps into his back and grumbles. Granger manages to keep her footing, and looks disapprovingly between all four Slytherins as though they've set up camp in the middle of the hallway on purpose.

Draco would say something snide to her, but he's all too aware of Potter's eyes trying to catch his own, and he thinks getting out of here is a better idea — even though History of Magic is about to start, a class which they all share.

Nott seems to have lost his courage in the face of the Gryffindors, and with a sneer he barges his way past them and into the classroom.

Draco follows him without a word, not wanting to be continuously studied by Potter and his bloody sidekicks, and slumps into a seat at the back of the room.


"You reckon maybe it was Nott?" Harry asks quietly.

Ron gives him a small shrug. "Who punched Malfoy in the mug? Dunno. Good on him if it was."

Harry sighs, falling behind his friends as they walk into class. He's not prepared for an hour of Professor Binns's droning voice, and he knows he's going to spend the majority of the lesson either trying to stay awake or staring at Malfoy.

To his strange disappointment, however, upon stepping into the room, he sees that Malfoy's taken a seat at the back, which means Harry won't be able to stare at him without breaking his neck. He frowns, trying to figure out why that's a problem, when it should be a good thing. He needs to concentrate on his studies, after all, just like Hermione said.

Harry resigns himself to a boring lesson and slides scribbled notes about Quidditch tactics back and forth across the table with Ron. Hermione purses her lips and presses her quill rather furiously to her parchment, and Harry just knows they're both going to get lectured for it later.

Luckily, it'll be a lot later, because Harry has Quidditch practice before dinner, and a meeting with Dumbledore after dinner. He manages to spare a semblance of pity for Ron, who he'll have to leave to fend for himself against Hermione's wrath while Harry goes to see the Headmaster. He thinks tonight he'll tell Dumbledore about Malfoy, about how Harry thinks the Slytherin is looking more harrowed by the day.

Dumbledore's bound to listen more than Ron and Hermione have, in fact Harry's starting to think he sees his best friends cringe whenever he brings up Malfoy, and vows to himself to stop talking about him. He won't say anything more about the snarky blond until after Harry's found out what he's up to.

"Why d'you think Nott has it in for Malfoy?"

Harry manages to cringe before Hermione, mentally swearing to himself, and Ron gives him a sour yet suspicious look.

"Why don't you just ask him, Harry?" Hermione says waspishly as she gathers her books to her chest.

Harry doesn't bother telling her that he already has asked Malfoy — with a very negative, if not non-existent result — but he hasn't asked Nott yet. Maybe he should do that.

They have Defence Against the Dark Arts next, but for some reason Malfoy breaks away from the rest of the class and heads down the opposite corridor. Harry frowns after him, and quickly mutters something about leaving his books behind in the classroom before slipping away from his friends.

He tries to listen for the harsh tapping of Malfoy's polished shoes against the stone floor, but can hardly hear anything. He's hesitant to turn around the corner, in case Malfoy's waiting for him on the other side with his wand pointed, or worse, his fist.

But then, with a stroke of luck, Harry remembers his invisibility cloak, and how he's had it stuffed in the bottom of his bag since he first became suspicious about Malfoy's nefarious deeds, and with a sly grin he pulls it out and throws it over himself.

As it turns out, Malfoy isn't around the corner at all, but as Harry takes several more steps he begins to catch the carried sound of low voices.

"—don't need your help!" The hiss is undeniably Malfoy's, and Harry flattens himself against the wall, edging as close as he can.

"I know you were unable to seek help in Knockturn Alley, Draco." Harry's eyes widen at the deep and hollow voice of Severus Snape. The new Defence teacher's voice is tainted with something unfamiliar, however, something almost urgent.

"So? Why the fuck do you even care?" Malfoy asks in a lethal whisper. "Why do you even want to help me? Why don't you just tell everyone!? Just like you told them about him all those years ago."

There is a pause, and Harry can almost hear the sound of Malfoy's angry exhales.

"I made the Unbreakable Vow," Snape replies evenly. "I promised your —"

"What's the fucking point? We're finished. My father made sure of that."

There's the sound of robes swooshing, and then measured footfalls which head towards where Harry tries to become one with the wall. It's Malfoy, and his snow-like hair is dishevelled, hanging too long into the tiredness of his eyes. His gait is sure, but his shoulders seem stiff, and suddenly he stops, a metre away from Harry.

Harry holds his breath, desperately hoping the cloak doesn't do something inopportune like slip, and stares dumbly at the frozen blond in front of him. Maybe Malfoy's forgotten something, maybe he's deliberating whether or not he should turn around and say something more to Snape.

But then Malfoy's eyes, cold and grey like stone, land right where Harry is but isn't — because he's invisible dammit, and there's no way Malfoy is able to see through invisibility cloaks. Harry almost misses the way Malfoy's nostrils twitch and the way his lips part, because he's too busy studying the bags beneath his eyes, and the sharpness to his cheekbones.

Malfoy seems to shake himself, and his eyelids flutter shut for a short moment before he continues walking.

Harry goes somewhat limp against the wall, wondering what he would have done if Malfoy'd actually found him out, before he allows the things he overheard to swirl into questions inside his head.

One thing he knows for sure is there is definitely something wrong with Draco Malfoy, and Snape knows what it is.


Draco strides into the Defence class room, glad that Snape hasn't arrived yet — he's probably too busy lurking in corridors — the fucking nosy sod. Being intercepted on the way to the bathroom had been terribly bad luck, because spending the hour of History of Magic staring at the tanned skin on the nape of Potter's neck and watching his infuriating interactions with Weasley had been self-inflicted torture, which called for a hasty departure to the bathroom.

What's worse, Potter's scent seems to be following him, and it's making Draco crazy with lust and hunger, not to mention rage. Because he needs to get over Harry fucking Potter — and he needs to not think about the words 'Potter' and 'fucking' in the same sentence.

Potter isn't in the classroom, even though his pathetic little friends are, which makes an alarm bell go off in a distant corner of Draco's mind. But then the Boy Wonder himself attempts to make an inconspicuous entrance into the room, notices the lack-of-Snape, and practically tumbles into the seat between Granger and Weasley. His hair is an inky mess, sticking up in every direction, as though he just pulled a jumper or something over his head and got it stuck.

Draco averts his eyes when he realises what he's doing and glares at his desk. Snape arrives a moment later, and after greeting them with the usual threats and promises of detention, begins to lapse into a dull lecture of counter-hex theory.

Draco resists the urge to sigh, because he'd been hoping to do practical, not for reasons involving the way Potter's chest would puff and preen with the chance at proving his mild adeptness for a class that isn't Potions in front of this particular teacher. And not for reasons involving the way Potter's wrist moves when he cast spells and deflects hexes, and most definitely not for the chance of being teamed up with Potter himself for a duel. Because they are all things Draco doesn't want to witness, not at all, because if he does then he won't be able to get them out of his head for the rest of the day.

Draco is doing quite well not thinking about any of this, in fact, and paying most of his attention to what Snape's saying, even though his eyes are still trained on his desk, when he begins to feel the familiar tingle of Potter's gaze. It burns the side of Draco's cheek, and makes his stomach flood with an intoxicating heat.

He risks the smallest of side-long glances, and there he is, chin resting in hand, and emerald green eyes focused on Draco. Upon seeing Draco stare back, Potter blinks, looks away, and then seems to think 'what the hell' because then his gaze is back, just as searching and intense as before.

Draco mentally curses to himself and turns back to the marked and indented surface of his desk. Only one more day, and then things will dwindle back into the normal, things will start anew. For a while.


"You're what!?"

The common room fire is warm and crackling, making Ron's face appear redder than it should be.

Harry looks around, making sure there's no one listening in. Most people have gone to bed already, Hermione included, but Harry figures Ron will end up telling her anyway.

"I said, I'm going to try and get Malfoy to be my friend."

"I heard you, mate. But why? That's fucking mental."

"It's the only way I can figure out what he's up to," Harry's thought about it a lot, and it has nothing to do with the serene blueness of Dumbledore's twinkling gaze after he'd listened to Harry's suspicions and said, 'ah, perhaps all Mr. Malfoy really needs is a friend, Harry.'

Because it's not as if Harry wants to be Malfoy's friend. He's just doing it because he has to, because if he doesn't something sinister might happen.

"Yeah, but what makes you think the git's gonna open up to you? S'not like his other friends are having much luck," Ron says, his mouth twisted at one side as though the idea of Malfoy having friends at all is other-worldly.

Harry looks at the orange and yellow hues of the fire, refusing to admit that the situation with the other Slytherin's treatment in regards to Malfoy makes him feel more pity than curiosity. "That's why it might work. He doesn't have anyone else."

Ron gives Harry the kind of look one gives a mouldy piece of bread one finds at the back of the refrigerator and then scowls. "Still don't get why it matters," he mutters.

Harry doesn't get why it matters either, he just has a feeling that it does. Very much so.

"Look, it'll only be for a little while, until I find out what's wrong with him and what he's planning."

Something livens up a little in Ron's eyes and he snorts. "I s'pose… can you imagine the look on his pointy face when he finds out he was out-Slytherined — that it was all a joke? That will be hilarious."

Harry nods and gives a half-hearted laugh, wondering why he doesn't seem to find that thought hilarious at all.