Infatuation

It is a very strange thing, how chance works. On a day that was particularly dismal, it somehow came to be that Harry found himself alone with Draco in the library. Ron had disappeared a couple of hours ago with his chess set, and Harry knew he would be visiting Hermione once again. Not wanting to be around anyone and feeling rather pressured by impending exams, Harry had made a rare visit to the library, where he found Draco sitting alone at a desk by a corner window.

Draco glanced up, noticed him, and returned to reading with a dismissive twitch of the lips before Harry could sneak back out. So, pretending not to acknowledge his presence, he found a seat on the complete opposite end of the room and opened his Transfiguration text with a silent sigh. Between Ron's distraction, the incessant school gossip, and his own PTSD, It was nearly impossible to get anything done these days. Now, Draco Malfoy, once again.

Harry bent his head over his parchment and managed to eke out a first paragraph before he became immersed in his writing. A half hour passed before he realized he'd spent it productively, and for a moment, he thought everything might work out after all. However, at that point, he made the mistake of sneaking a glance at Draco, who had not made a sound the whole time.

Malfoy was leaning back now, his feet kicked up upon the table, stretching and staring at the ceiling. As he sat back up, he caught Harry watching him, grinned and winked. Harry quickly looked back at his essay, but not before rolling his eyes with the slightest hint of disdain; or so he hoped. After ten more minutes, he heard a loud sigh and looked up to see Draco levitating his books one by one with an extremely bored expression on his face.

Every once in a while, Draco stole a look in his direction, but Harry ignored him. It was so strange; the two of them being there in that room and saying nothing to each other, and it was all he could do to concentrate. He heard Malfoy get up and begin to wander around the room, whistling. Now he was certain Malfoy was trying to get his attention. He was determined to ignore him. He lasted about three minutes.

"Would you mind not doing that?"

"What? Oh, the whistling?" Harry returned Draco's innocent look with a

scathing glare, but the whistling did stop. It was no use staring at his essay, he knew; it was not going to get any longer. But he stubbornly plugged on, ignoring the sound of Malfoy pulling books off the shelves, only to slap them shut a moment later and replace them with various muttered comments.

"Why didn't you just tell McGonagall the truth?" Harry suddenly asked. Malfoy, who was only a table away at this point, snorted, but didn't answer. This irritated Harry. He had asked a simple question; it wasn't as if he were trying to start something. It was extremely rude of Malfoy to snub him after he'd covered for him when he hadn't had to.

"I did start to tell them, actually," Draco suddenly said. "Then I realized, as soon as I said that Ravenclaw's name, hey wait a minute! I'm Draco Malfoy! Who'd actually believe me?" He laughed, and Harry was a little taken aback by a look of bitterness that flickered over his sharp features.

"So I take it he didn't back you up?"

"No, he didn't." Draco did not elaborate.

"Well, that was bloody rotten of him."

At this, Draco gave him a withering look that seemed to suggest Harry was the dimmest person he'd ever met.

"Oh really? You think so? Well, you don't really know anything about it, do you, so who are you to judge? Or, I suppose I've forgotten that's one of your favorite hobbies."

Harry was blown away by this cold response to what he'd thought was a very generous attempt of his to express sympathy. He glared at him for a moment, waiting to be acknowledged.

"Is it just the fact that you're possessed by the soul of the undead, or are you really that determined to hate me?" He said finally. Draco actually turned and grinned widely at this.

"Aw, Potter, I never knew you had such warm feelings for me."

Harry thought he rather regretted engaging Malfoy in conversation at all, and bent his head back down to the work in front of him, his face growing warm with annoyance. Malfoy came over to him, however, and sat at the edge of his table, pretending to flip interestedly through a dusty old tome.

"How do you think it would have sounded," he continued, drawling in his infuriatingly patient voice, "if I had explained to McGonagall that I couldn't have poisoned anyone, because I was in the bathroom snogging Brian at the time; and he came in and denied everything? I honestly think," he continued, now putting his book down over Harry's parchment so that Harry could no longer write, "she would have been disappointed that I couldn't come up with a better story."

"I don't see why she would be surprised, considering your sex life is all anyone can talk about these days," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Is it really? I hadn't noticed." Draco continued to flip through the book that now covered Harry's work. Exasperated, Harry yanked his parchment from underneath Draco's and stood up. He was accomplishing nothing here. As he packed his things and headed for the door, Draco stood up and followed him. "Not that I've had any trouble with offers, come to think of it-" Harry tried to ignore him, but Draco was making it rather difficult by following him so closely. He had to get away from here; this was a mistake-coming back to Hogwarts-it was all a mistake. It would be really nice to be outside, right now, on the Quidditch field-

"-once they found out Blaise wanted me," Draco was saying, "next thing you know, they all want me. I suppose I could have had any number of them do my homework in exchange for a few favors, but that didn't go over so well with Brian. Even so, I'd say I get more action than…well, pretty much…anyone in the entire school. Except for Ginny Weasley. Now there's a girl who gets around more than the bloody Knight Bus."

Harry dropped his bag, turned around and faced Draco, who was wearing a smirk that made it all too clear that he knew he was finally getting to him. His face burned and he had the sudden urge to hit him in the mouth. But he restrained himself. Some part of him could not help wondering why it was so important to Draco to goad him with this information. It was not as if it were something he should be proud of; so why was he?

"Great, Malfoy, so you're the biggest whore in the whole school. That's nice to know. God only knows what you've been up to all this time; you were scarce enough when everyone else was dying left and right." He noted with some satisfaction a deepening in Draco's palor at this remark. "Well if you don't mind, I think that's enough for me. See you in class."

He started to leave, but Draco had gotten in the way, leaning casually against the door so that Harry could not open it.

"Out of the way," Harry said in a calm, threatening voice, and he felt a familiar rush of adrenaline coursing throughout his body; he had not felt this angry in a long time, nor had he really felt anything other than a numb sense of apathy for the past two years.

Draco merely smiled at this, and was looking at him with a very unnerving expression of curiosity.

"I'm just making conversation with you, Potter. Just trying to be amiable; after all, you did stick up for me with McGonagall. Why are you in such a hurry? You know what I was thinking…" and suddenly, Draco was moving in too close, and Harry took a step back, his pulse racing. "You look a little flushed. Maybe you want me too. Is that it, Potter?" Draco was leaning in uncomfortably close, but Harry felt that he was taunting him more than flirting with him. "You want to know what it's like?"

Harry's fist came back and shot right into Draco's face, splitting his lip. Draco doubled over, blood trickling from between his fingers as he covered his face with a hand. Harry stalked past and out of the room.

Hours later, after several laps around the Quidditch field at breakneck speed, Harry's anger had subsided. In its place was a growing, nagging guilt. He touched down on the field and began slowly strolling back to the school, his mind heavy. Why did it bother him so much, what he'd done? He tried to call back to memory all the awful things Malfoy had ever done, telling himself he deserved it.

But it wasn't helping; the only thing that came back to memory was the sight of Malfoy, covering his face, and that strangled, hurt laugh of surprise as he pushed past. Even though he was still being a git, he was different, and there was no denying that. Besides, hadn't Harry been saying he'd had enough of violence? He sighed at this last thought, giving into the guilt. He was just going to have to deal with it. From now on, he would simply do his best to avoid Malfoy.

As soon as class let out, he headed up to the hospital wing to see how Hermione was doing. He took the steps two at a time, his mind going in a million directions at once. There was so much to do. Visit Hermione, who would undoubtedly interrogate him over whether or not he'd finished his essay for McGonagall, meet Ron for their study session in the Gryffindor common room, and then there was the fact that Hermione's attacker had still not been discovered…a fact that was gnawing at him more and more. The nightmares had intensified since the incident, as well as his guilt for not doing what he would have done in the past, and getting to the bottom of it.

Then there was Malfoy, still on his mind, whether it was the thought of him shamelessly making out with a boy in the bathroom, who would later betray him-whatever Malfoy's excuse-or the idea that Harry had hurt him, and he'd shown no interest in retaliation. He'd half expected to be assigned to detention after the library incident, though the aftermath of mixed guilt was punishment enough. However, when Malfoy returned to dinner that evening with a bruised nose and split lip, no one seemed too interested in questioning him. Why he felt so awful about hitting Malfoy, he could not understand. For the hundredth time, he tried chalking it up to his general distaste for violence these days. How things had changed…

On the second landing he trudged more slowly, his steps becoming as laborious as his thoughts. Then Harry stopped; for a moment he thought he'd heard a muffled noise coming from that floor, just a little ways down the hall. Curious, he paused and listened. The portraits on the wall gazed at him, stopping their own conversations and activities briefly to see what he wanted before resuming their business.

He could have sworn he heard a male voice that was quickly hushed by another. An old uneasiness returned to him and he frowned, thinking of the initial uproar caused by Hermione's malady. He was torn with indecision. What should he care, what other students at Hogwarts had to whisper behind closed doors about? It didn't have anything to do with him anymore, did it? He had put all those things behind them, and hoped never to open that dark closet for a very long time. But the voices sounded a little more forceful now. One was protesting the slightest bit. The other seemed to be cold and calm-and Harry's curiosity got the better of him.

He padded softly on the carpet in the hall, trying to follow the noises. He did not have far to go. The doors on this hall were not usually open, but to his immediate left, he saw that one of them was just cracked open. He went to it and slowly, carefully, put his ear against the opening. The noises were coming from in there, but it had grown quiet. He heard some muffled movement, and wondered, his heart pounding, if whoever was in there knew that someone was listening outside. Then he heard low talking again and knew that he had not been discovered. Taking a deep breath, he put his eye to the door.

At first, it being dimly lit, he could see very little. As his eye sight adjusted, his first impression was of an extremely cluttered, forgotten classroom that had been used for storage space for at least thirty years. The room was not as large as the regular classrooms in Hogwarts; it looked as if it might seat about twelve students. Perhaps it had been used for selective classes in earlier days. He did not see anyone right away, but he became aware of the muffled sounds across the room. Two writhing, dark figures were entwined in some fierce, odd erotic battle at the far end. Harry's face grew warm with the slightest tinge of shame as he cracked the door just a little bit more, for he could have sworn he'd seen a fleck of Slytherin green-

Blaise Zabini pushed away from the table against which he was leaning, and dropped the Slytherin robe onto the ground beside him. Naked from the waist up, his brown body looked muscular and adult. But the robe was not his; his own had already been discarded halfway across the room. Harry saw him reach forcefully around with his left arm and pull someone toward him, and it was Malfoy. Malfoy, his robe gone, his chest now bare and vulnerable-looking in the dark room next to Zabini's chocolate skin, his hair falling away from his face as he leaned back, lips parted, and gasped while Zabini hungrily kissed his chin, throat, and chest. Malfoy's legs, still in their dark-colored jeans, wrapped spastically around Zabini's waist, and he was pulled closer and attacked from the other side of his neck in response.

The two Slytherins were at an angle that, while obscuring most of Zabini's face-and any possible view of Harry unless he were to turn around-allowed a glimpse of Malfoy's to be seen whenever he disentangled himself. Harry could not hear what they were saying, but every once in a while Malfoy would respond to some comment from Zabini, and they would fall into another bout of rough, passionate kissing. It was not just the sight of Malfoy with another boy that held him rooted there, mesmerized with astonishment. It was the way Malfoy made love with such abandon, the way he seemed to respond helplessly to every caress, every kiss, the contours of his slim, pale body twisting constantly with the hard, brown one pressed against him. Harry had a feeling that even if Malfoy knew he was being watched, he would not care.

At one point, Malfoy suddenly flinched and tried to push Zabini off. Harry guessed from the look of it that Zabini had bitten him a little too hard around the neck. At this, however, Zabini quickly slapped him in the face, the smack sounding harsh and loud against the muffled sounds of their passion. Malfoy's head whipped to the side and he gasped, covering the area with one palm. Harry had to bite back a gasp himself, momentarily stunned by this abuse. Unknowingly, his hand had gone straight to his wand.

But a second later, Malfoy did not appear to be hurt; in fact, he was looking into Zabini's face, mouth open, with an expression of ardent worship. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. Malfoy, who seemed only newly energized by the reprimand, wrapped his arms around Zabini's neck and plunged into a kiss so deep he threw the other boy off balance, toppling them both onto the table. There was a moment when, apart from his legs, which kicked and wound around Zabini's, Malfoy could no longer be seen in the tussle that followed. But then Zabini pushed him down and sat up, straddling his waist, caressing his chest with long, teasing strokes that ventured over his thighs and back up to his throat.

Malfoy lay there, his back arching under each touch, his red lips emitting fresh moans and pants as he turned his head to one side. The blond hair now covered his face, framing it in a bright paleness that starkly contrasted with the shadows that filled the room. At that moment, the light behind Harry seemed to hit him right in his grey eyes, for they suddenly glinted, catlike. Quickly, softly, he closed the door to where it had been and stood back, his breathing coming out in quick, nervous pants. Had Malfoy seen him watching? And had he really been standing there, all that time, watching them like a peeping tom, all the while his blood rushing, his temperature rising like mercury held next to a boiling cauldron?

"Harry!"

Hermione was sitting up, her eyes brightening and a wide smiling showing that she was very glad to see him. Harry smiled back, but he felt troubled and wondered if his smile was convincing. She usually knew when something was wrong, they had been through so much together…Suddenly, there was a lump in his throat. He wasn't sure if he would be able to speak.

"How are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking that?" he replied, coming over to her bed and taking a seat in a chair beside her. The lump in his throat subsided, just a little. She held out her hand, still beaming, and he took it in his. He could see that not one but several books, as usual, were open in her lap. She must have been studying, not wanting to fall behind. Harry was certain that, once again as usual, she was probably ahead of everyone else even after having missed a few days of classes.

"I'm all right. Really, it's quite relaxing in a way. Not much different from the library. I wouldn't have minded a spot closer to the window, though."

"You aren't missing much. Weather hasn't been all that special."

The gloominess of the hospital wing seemed only enhanced by the drudgery outside, but he sympathized with Hermione. He wouldn't have minded being outside right now, in the wet fog; anything that might cool down this fever that roiled inside him. Did it turn you on? The voice in his head sounded, he thought, a little too much like Malfoy's. Did you like watching me, Potter? For a moment he really thought he was going to be sick-

"Well, I reckon I'll be out soon enough. She told me one more-Harry? Are you all right? You aren't looking very well," Hermione frowned suddenly, peering at him with an owlish expression.

"I'm fine." Maybe you want me, too. "Haven't been sleeping much." He smiled weakly at her. Even though she said nothing, a shadow had come over her face that he knew meant she was remembering a time when Harry Potter not sleeping spelled nothing but trouble for everyone. But a moment later it was gone, and she smiled in a way he supposed was meant to be encouraging.

"Just two more months, Harry. Then we'll be gone from this place. Gone for good."

The silence of the boys' dormitory did little to calm the sound of his heart thudding in his chest. Patiently, insistently, it pumped the blood through his body at a rate just slightly faster than usual. He'd been lying awake for three hours, long after Ron, Seamus and Dean had dropped off and all noise in the common room died away. He knew by now it was going to be a long night. His mind was awake and busy; but did it really matter, he wondered? Even if he could drop off to sleep, his dreams would be just as troubling as his waking thoughts. He had not slept soundly for two years. There were too many memories to come and haunt him in his dreams; enough to last a lifetime.

But now this was keeping him awake. Tonight it was Malfoy, naked, alluring, erotic, that filled his mind. There was no fighting the obsession that was taking hold, and now that he'd made it through the day without revealing his secret, and now that his best friend was asleep and oblivious to his torment, he gave in, resigned, sinking into the sickeningly sweet ennui that had been threatening to swallow him all day.

Blaise and Draco, boyfriends. Harry could not fathom having a boyfriend. It was an intriguing thought, and he chewed on it for a while, thankful for the safety of these private hours. Once, it seemed almost a lifetime ago, he had seen Ginny Weasley with Dean Thomas, her boyfriend at the time, and been similarly struck with desire. After that he had fallen in love with her; or, as the teachers liked to say, "infatuation." It was true that he cared about her, and even now the thought of how they'd grown apart pained him. He still cared about her, he supposed, in spite of the numb apathy that had lately become a defining characteristic of his personality. Her passion had awakened his own, last year, and it seemed she was the only one who could match the intensity of his desire.

He thought about her now, calling up every memory of her that he could think of. He saw her reddish-brown hair, frank, knowing smile, her beautiful, supple body. He remembered the faint smell of flowers that always seemed to linger wherever she passed. But when he thought of Ginny now, it was almost in the same way he thought of Cho; with a vague, protective fondness. Ginny had always been right up front in a fight, and for that he loved her. But she no longer had the power to stir his passion.

His mind wandered and he was only vaguely aware of its conclusions as his thoughts turned again to Draco Malfoy. For as long as he'd known him, Malfoy had been a thorn in his side. He was always there, ready to stick a nose in when there was a moment with friends to be enjoyed, or a situation in which they might be vulnerable to unpleasant events. Then there had been his attack on Dumbledore, which had led to his death, and then all out civil war…

But Draco Malfoy, like Harry, had come out the other side a transformed person. There was something about him that, beneath the reckless, showy bravado, spoke to Harry in an irresistible whisper. He knew, though he didn't know how he knew, that something terrible had happened to Draco that year. He did not know what it was; his encounter with Voldemort and the Death Eaters, the killing of Dumbledore at the hands of Professor Snape, perhaps his own family, disgraced and banished, leaving him abandoned to return to an empty, decaying mansion. But where he'd once known only a spoiled, dangerously ambitious prat, he now recognized the familiar, haunting look of someone who, deep down inside, no longer cared what happened to him. It was the same look he saw on his own face in the mirror every morning, when no one else was looking.

However, unlike Harry, Malfoy had managed to latch onto something that allowed him to experience passion, to give voice to the unutterable screams from the deepest void of loneliness. Harry surmised, remembering the open-mouthed expressions of unbridled ecstasy, that the Slytherin had found his drug of choice, and he gave himself up to it freely and fully whenever he got the chance. He felt heat in his own face with these thoughts, and he felt a little squirmy as he realized he was now sweating under his sheets. How was Malfoy able to let himself go, make himself so vulnerable like that? Harry's hand left the back of his head, which it had been supporting on the pillow, and wandered absently down his chest and thigh.

He lay still for a moment, terrified by the temptation that presented itself; a thrilling fire was spreading under his skin, his fingers tingled as he lightly touched his inner thigh. Ron's snores were coming through regularly; the rest of the room was silent. What's so wrong with it? Which is worse, he wondered; thinking of my best friend's baby sister, or Draco Malfoy? Malfoy filled his mind's eye again, his head thrown back as he moaned and gasped at every touch delivered by Blaise. Yes, Malfoy would do anything to be touched that way, that much was quite clear; moments later, Harry imagined he would have erupted into a piercing climax, after which he would have perhaps collapsed into Zabini's arms-no, no. Not Zabini's…but rather, into Harry's. Harry could not imagine Blaise holding Malfoy with real affection, even in the aftermath of their rapture.

Only Harry, who had known the pain Malfoy felt, would have been able to hold him, to calm his panting, trembling body, sharing his agony. It was he who should be sharing such intimacy with Draco; and that's what killed him. Maybe everyone does want him, but I'm the one who deserves to have him, Harry told himself, frowning. And he wiped Zabini from the picture and placed himself there instead, his hungry mouth running over the writhing body of his enemy, his rival, his prey. His hand moved down in between his legs as he ran a tongue over his lips, imagining the taste of salt, of tears, the smell of Draco's body, which would still give off the faint scent of expensive cologne. He breathed hard as his body tingled with the thrill of being touched, highly aroused and fighting with his shame.

Maybe you want me too, the Malfoy in his head said teasingly, hopefully, as he leaned his forehead against Harry's and stroked his face. They all want me, Harry, but it's you I want. Harry rubbed more furiously, the fight lost as he imagined kissing him, tasting his tongue. Malfoy's breath would be hot against his neck, his mouth would be wet as he kissed Harry's chest softly, his lips fluttering against the skin, approaching his nipple…then he would reach up and grab a handful of the blonde hair in his fist and push him back against the table, rubbing hard against him-

Harry's excitement reached its powerful climax. With his other hand, he pulled his pillow toward his mouth and turned his face into it. "Draco!" he breathed, the explosion forceful, delicious, unbelieveable. Panting, he lay still, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down, feeling the slight chill of the room as his sweat cooled. He almost sighed with relief when he heard another soft snore from the direction of Ron's bed. It was with a mixture of slow horror and giddy, secret delight that he realized what he'd just done. It wasn't that bad…was it? It was only one time, tomorrow the spell of his fantasy would be forgotten, and he would be back to normal.

So I have a warped and twisted imagination, so what else is new, he thought wryly. Why shouldn't he? Everything else about his life had always been completely out of the ordinary, and there wasn't much he could do about that. He took a little comfort from these thoughts, and it was not long before he dropped off into a deep, luxurious slumber, bothered by only the mildest nightmares.