No, your eyes aren't deceiving you; chapter two is finally here. It took about a century (give or take a few days, lol) to fill in the missing pieces and hunt out *most* of the errors-if you find any I missed, please let me know!-but it's done and posted and now I can get to work on chapter three. :D Whew.

I don't think this chapter was as IC as the first. I tried to keep things from getting too fluffy, but I've got a feeling I didn't quite manage it, lol. XD I hope you enjoy the chapter, regardless.

By the way, this fic is rated M for a reason, folks. It contains sex, copious use of swearwords, and unflattering descriptions of Severus Snape. You've been warned. XD The scene in the dorm is NOT the First Time scene; that's coming in the next chapter (or so) and will be worthy of the M rating. :D

Last but certainly not least, a huge thanks goes out to everybody who's read/reviewed/favorited this so far! You guys are awesome.


Chapter Two: Fuel To The Fire

Encounter number three, despite its swiftness, lent plenty of fuel to the fire.

Harry had earned a detention with Snape - through no fault of his own, of course, that bit of diced griffin tongue leapt right out of his hand into Malfoy's hair! - and he was having a grand old time down in the dungeons, scraping a thick blue substance reminiscent of dried glue from the younger students' cauldrons.

By hand.

. . . Well, okay, he had a chisel. Even Snape wasn't cruel enough to make him pry it out with his fingers. It was easy to understand, though, why Harry was growing a bit frustrated.

Chip.

Chip.

Thunk. The chisel skittered down the side of the cauldron, slamming his wrist against the rim.

Swearing profusely, he dropped the chisel and clutched at his stinging wrist with his opposite hand. He seriously contemplated chucking the chisel at the wall - or Snape, if the greasy git chose that moment to return from whatever probably-made-up errand he was on - as he waited for the pain to subside.

After taking a minute or so to compose himself and rein in the near-irresistible urge to break something, he snatched up the chisel and set to work again. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could escape this hellhole.

After five minutes, he'd reached the point where he was working on autopilot. Chip. Chip. Chip. Not a whole lot of concentration involved there.

After ten minutes, his wrist was starting to ache from the constant jarring.

Fifteen minutes into Harry's two-hours-long sojourn in Hell, Flint came strolling in, parchment and self-inking quill in hand. He, unlike Harry, didn't seem to be there for punishment. Unless you counted the very act of being in Snape's presence as a punishment, that is . . . which, for some inexplicable reason, most Gryffindors did.

"Hi, Profess-" he began, trailing off abruptly when he caught sight of Harry.

After a couple quick glances to the left and the right (and then a couple more, just to be thorough), Flint verified that they were alone and said, Slytherin drawl in full force, "Fancy seeing you here, Potter." He threw in a suggestive leer as an afterthought, which, to his surprise, Harry found humorous rather than disgusting.

Luckily, Flint's assessment was correct, and Snape didn't come waltzing in at the exact moment Harry answered with a dry, "Yeah, I can see why you'd be surprised. Who ever heard of a student being in a classroom?"

Flint grinned, showing off his crooked, animalistic teeth. "A bit feisty today, are we, Potter?"

He swaggered over to sit on top of the desk nearest Harry, the predatory expression never leaving his face. The wood creaked beneath his considerable weight - Flint was, by no definition of the word, small - but, miraculously, it held.

After he'd gotten himself comfortably settled, he started tapping his quill against the edge of the desk. Quick, staccato snaps, and while it wasn't irritating yet, it soon would be.

"Scrubbing the second years' cauldrons, eh?"

Harry grimaced. "Yep. At this rate, I'll be done by the time I'm thirty. Your head's blocking my light, by the way."

To Harry's astonishment, Flint slouched lower without so much as a snarky comment. Torchlight, no longer hidden from view, outlined a few flyaway strands of hair as it shone past his head. He glanced around again, likely on reflex, as he asked, "D'you know where Snape wandered off to?"

Harry shrugged. "No idea. The only thing he said before he left was, 'Blow up my classroom while I'm gone, Potter, and I'll have you scrubbing cauldrons 'til June.'"

Flint barked out a laugh. Harry was shocked; he'd never heard Flint genuinely laugh before. Jeer, snap, taunt, even growl, yes. But laugh? No.

"He really hates you, doesn't he?"

Harry glanced up from the cauldron he was scraping out - the third one; with any luck he'd be finished by midnight - and shot Flint an incredulous look. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Potter . . ." Flint said, looking at him pointedly. On a face like Flint's, it was a tad frightening.

"Fine, fine." Harry held his hands up in surrender. "He absolutely loathes me. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Mmhmm. What'd you do?" He sounded a little too amused for Harry's liking. "I mean, he's a right bastard and he hates most everybody, don't get me wrong, but every time he sees you it's like he's suddenly developed a bad case of heartburn."

"I didn't do anything. He just doesn't know when to let go of an old grudge."

Flint cocked a thick, dark eyebrow at him in question. Harry just shrugged and stabbed at the blue cauldron-gunk, paying the task more attention than was strictly necessary.

After a long, dragged-out moment of silence, Flint made an exasperated noise and asked, "Does that mean you're not gonna tell me?"

Harry glanced up at him, a quick flash of bright green iris and oft-repaired wire frames before he looked down at the cauldron again. Taking a particularly vicious jab with his chisel, he asked, "Why d'you care anyway?"

"I don't." It was a little too quick, a little too defensive, though, and Harry'd had plenty of practice with lies. He could recognize one when he heard it.

He didn't say anything, though. He just watched, a tiny smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth, as Flint hopped off the desk and beat a hasty retreat.


Their fourth encounter began with a shock. Not literally, of course.

Harry was meandering his way back to Gryffindor Tower from the Owlery, not causing trouble for once, when a set of hands darted out from behind a tapestry of Juletrus the Jumbled and yanked him backwards into an alcove. A beefy arm pinned him against broad, solid muscle, and a large, sweat-damp hand was cupped over his mouth and nose, discouraging any thoughts he might've had about screaming for help.

Unbeknownst to his kidnapper, it also had the unfortunate side-effect of restricting air flow. . . .

Harry panicked, distressed by the sudden lack of oxygen and the arms squashing him. He wriggled and thrashed for all he was worth, putting everything he had into it.

"Hold still, damn it!" an uncomfortably familiar voice hissed through the darkness. "I'm not gonna hurt you!" He squeezed Harry for emphasis, which didn't do much to support his claim. Twisting and squirming didn't seem to be getting Harry anywhere, though, so he complied, going limp in the older boy's too-tight grip.

"Quiet, okay?" The hand was removed, and not a second too soon. Harry dragged in a great gulp of air, slumping against Flint as sweet, sweet oxygen reached his brain. The arms around him loosened their grip, switching from pinning him in place to propping him up.

A couple more deep breaths helped Harry recover from his brief brush with asphyxiation. He yanked himself from Flint's now-slack grip and snapped, "What's your bloody problem? Are you fucking insane? What in Merlin's name was that for?" Then he recalled who exactly he was talking to and winced, already anticipating the sharp 'crack!' of knuckles against vulnerable flesh. Fists would be flying any second if Flint's near-legendary temper decided to make itself known.

Oddly enough, though, Flint didn't seem to take offense. There was an amused snort - well, it sounded amused - and, rather than firing off a hex (or, considering the space available, maybe a quick jab to the face was more likely) Flint just murmured, "Lumos."

When the tip of his wand flared with light, it illuminated the tiny alcove they were wedged into. It also revealed the swollen, bruised mess Flint affectionately called a face.

"Bloody hell, what happened t'you?" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself - a frequent problem when Flint was around, apparently. Where was that brain-to-mouth filter of his when he really needed it?

Despite its bluntness, however, the question was definitely justified. A huge purple-black shiner was blooming, centered by Flint's blood-shot left eye, and the rest of his face didn't seem much better off. There was some impressive swelling going on along his jawline. The skin there reminded Harry of raw meat - red, puffy, and tender-looking, liberally peppered with dark stubble. It didn't look like he'd had the nerve to attempt shaving.

"Bludger to the face," Flint said, his tone dismissive. "Shockingly enough, Hufflepuff's got some halfway competent Beaters this year."

Harry, courage bolstered by his earlier escape from the jaws of death, reached out to skim a couple of fingers over the bridge of Flint's nose. "Yeah, I'd say so," he muttered, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. "What'd you want to talk to me about, anyway?" he asked, dropping his hand to his side again.

"Huh?"

"I'm assuming you snatched me from the corridor without so much as a by-your-leave for a reason."

"Oh, right," Flint said. Harry could practically see the light bulb flickering on above his head. "Wanted to talk about this thrice-damned crush you've got on me, Potter." It was blunt and straight to the point - not unusual for Flint. Sly, too - he reached out and grabbed hold of Harry's shirt collar just in time to stop him from bolting at the mention of the word "crush".

"It's getting damned ridiculous, y'know," Flint continued. "I know you like me, Potter, so you can bloody well stop trying to hide it."

Oh sweet Merlin, he was going to die. He was going to have a heart attack right then and there, and then Oliver would feel the need to murder Flint for (accidentally) offing his star Seeker, and then they'd both be stone-cold dead. He was going straight to hell, too, just like Aunt Petunia had claimed on numerous occasions. Flint, of course, wasn't exactly angel material, so he'd been stuck with the Slytherin for all eternity. The torment would go on, and on, and on. . . .

Harry was jerked from his spiraling fit of despair by the sudden, bruising pressure of Flint's mouth against his own.

He kissed back on instinct, opening his mouth and letting Flint's tongue work its way inside.

The taste hit him after a second, like swiping his tongue through the inside of an ashtray. That, coupled with the slick heat of Flint's tongue on his gums, was enough to bring reality crashing in. He jerked back as if he'd been burned.

"Flint?" he choked out, nearly speechless with shock. He'd only just come to terms with the fact that he fancied another bloke, and now said bloke was trying to make out with him in a dark alcove? Talk about a brain-buster.

Flint didn't say anything, nor did he dive down for a second kiss. Instead, he shifted his attention to Harry's neck, sucking and nipping at his Adam's apple with the determination of someone who'd set his sights on getting laid and was going to manage it, obstacles be damned.

Big hands settled on slender hips, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world, as Flint stepped closer and steered Harry up against the wall.

It felt good - teeth scraping against skin, a nose nudging his jaw, the soft rasp of Flint's stubble. The stone at his back was rough and cool through the fabric of his shirt.

He'd never done anything like this before. Never had someone else's mouth on his throat or someone else's hands on his body. Never felt his nerve endings singing under someone else's attention, lips and teeth and tongue. It was almost too good. Speaking of things that were too good, Flint was probably the equivalent of eating a whole quart of Dark Chocolate Mint in one sitting; a guilty pleasure, great at the time but something that would soon be regretted.

Panting under Flint's ministrations, Harry tried to shove those thoughts aside - out of sight, out of mind as the saying goes. Besides, comparing Flint to ice cream was all wrong. For one thing, ice cream was cold, and Flint was hot.

Maybe it was better to just stop thinking and act on impulse. It hadn't steered him wrong before. Well . . . it had, but it had never resulted in irreversible damage.

Better to just give in, right? He tilted his head back for better access, clenching both hands in the fabric of Flint's shirt.

Flint's hands, meanwhile, weren't quite as innocent. One had started out settled on Harry's hip, and it remained there, but the other snaked its way up underneath his shirt. He was urged forward a half-step, farther away from the wall, as fingers splayed across his back. They burned fever-hot against his skin, but it was a good heat, keeping him grounded.

It felt natural, almost, having that huge hand - wide-palmed, blunt-nailed, and Quidditch-callused - resting against the curve of his spine. It was like background music to the lips mouthing along his neck; not even close to center stage but still an integral part of the experience. Welcomed and appreciated . . . something he'd miss once it was gone.

The hand on his hip shifted, rucking his shirt up enough to press against the bare skin beneath. Fingers curled under the waistband of his slacks, and he reacted instinctively, pressing his hips forward.

His crotch rubbed against Flint's thigh, which had somehow snuck forward and nudged his legs apart while he'd been distracted by the mouth ravishing his neck. He unclenched one of his hands from Flint's shirt and curled it around behind Flint's neck, hoping for some leverage as he rocked his hips experimentally.

Flint huffed a laugh at Harry's enthusiasm, even as he slid his hand further forward, front and center, and got to work on Harry's belt buckle. The jingle of metal against metal drowned out ragged breathing for a moment, and then it fell silent as Flint unbuttoned his slacks and yanked the zipper down. A large hand palmed the bulge at the front of his boxers, in sync with Flint's rather sharp teeth biting at the juncture where neck met shoulder. Harry bucked into the contact, moaning. He raised his head and watched Flint through lust-glazed eyes, swiping his tongue over the swollen jut of his lower lip.

Spurred on by Harry's positive response, Flint stroked him a couple more times. Then again. And again. That was all it took; Harry was a typical teenage guy - well, if the whole lived-through-a-Killing-Curse thing was ignored, anyway - and he had all the control of one, too. Not much, to say the least.

For a few moments Harry was content to tilt his head back, part his lips, and revel in post-coital euphoria. Eventually, though, it occurred to him that he'd been neglecting his manners, and reciprocation would probably be a good idea. He dropped both hands to Flint's belt and fumbled the buckle open, followed by the button and zipper.

Then, finally, he shoved a hand past the waistband of Flint's boxers.

Flint was hot and heavy in his palm as he stroked. It was awkward, and the angle felt wrong, but it seemed to work just fine. Soon Flint was rocking his hips in sync with Harry's hand, thrusting into his fist.

Flint's bitten-off groans filled the air as they moved together. He ducked his head low and pressed his face against Harry's ear, his breathing fast and harsh. His movements grew more erratic with each stroke, until he finally stilled, letting out a guttural moan as he reached his climax.

"Fuck," Flint groaned against his neck a couple beats later, having just then regained the ability to speak in words that weren't 'guh', 'auhhh', or 'mmhh'. He took a moment to collect himself, blinking far more than was typical - Harry could feel the rapid flutter of lashes against his ear - and then he used the wall to shove himself upright.

"Not bad, Potter. Not bad at all." His voice was a low, satisfied rumble as he tucked himself back into his slacks and made sure everything was arranged comfortably. Digging his wand out of his pocket, he muttered a spell, and the warm wetness on Harry's stomach and thighs vanished.

Then, with the same familiar bluntness that Harry was quickly coming to appreciate, he asked, "I don't suppose you're up for a fuck, are you?"

"Not at the moment, no," Harry said, even as he felt blood rushing back to his groin at the very thought. "Don't think I'm ready yet. Not for that." Hand jobs in dark alcoves or deserted classrooms were more his speed right now. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all. Besides that, he'd only just come to terms with liking blokes. Flint was a bit - okay, a lot - older than him, and he'd plainly had a lot more time to experiment with the whole two-guys-gettin'-it-on thing.

Their age gap felt enormous and echoingly vast just then.

"S'okay. Didn't think you were," Flint admitted. "Had to hear you say it, though." The disappointment in his voice was well-hidden, but still detectable. "Maybe next time, eh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe next time . . ." Harry swallowed, struggling against the tightness in his throat. "I'll see you 'round, then?" Against his better judgment, he hoped he would.

"Soon. Count on it," Flint said, shooting him a lecherous grin as he ducked out into the corridor.

And on that note, their encounter ended as swiftly as it had begun.


A week and several fumbling but enthusiastic trysts later, an enormous tawny owl greeted Harry at breakfast. Rather intimately, at that: it landed in his lap.

He just barely had time to register its presence - and the sharp talons digging into his thigh - before it winged away again, a stolen piece of toast clutched in its beak. He spared a moment to gawk after it, then came to his senses and snagged the sloppily folded bit of parchment it had left on the tabletop.

After all the excitement of its arrival, the note itself was a letdown.

It was only a line long, and the handwriting was spiky and barely legible. He couldn't help but wonder how any of the professors deciphered Flint's handwriting, or if they even bothered to. Maybe they just assigned him a random score, or did eenie meenie minie moe when they pulled out their grade books. Anything was possible considering the integrity - or lack thereof - regularly exhibited by some members of the Hogwarts staff.

Potter
Entrance Hall at midnight.
Flint

"Who's it from?" Ron asked, craning his neck to get a look at the parchment.

Harry hastily re-folded the note and stuffed it in his trouser pocket alongside his wand. "Wood. He wants to set up some extra practice sessions." He was only half-lying. Oliver had cornered him in the hallway the previous afternoon to discuss just that. It was Oliver's last chance to win the Cup, and he was way past being fanatic about it.

Ron seemed to accept the answer. He turned around to face his waffle-heaped plate, then glanced along the table, evidently searching for something. Spying it, he pointed in the general vicinity of Harry's elbow and asked, "Mind passing me the syrup, mate?"

Harry snatched the jug away from a possibly-sorta-could-be-reaching second-year's hand and passed it across. Accepting it with a show of good manners that would've had his mum positively beaming, Ron focused on drowning his breakfast. He employed a single-minded intensity rarely used on anything besides Quidditch or chess - certainly not on schoolwork - and Harry, watching, decided it was safe to relax.

Mentally, he breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted . . . for the moment, anyway.


Harry kept a sharp lookout as he descended the staircase into the Entrance Hall. He felt exposed, even with his wand drawn and the comforting weight of his Invisibility Cloak over his head and shoulders. It was five to midnight, and anything and anyone could be wandering about the castle.

Harry didn't see Flint immediately, but then again, was he stupid enough to stand around where anybody passing through would notice him? He seriously doubted it. Professors and poltergeists and cantankerous caretakers were all out and about at this time of night, and after seven years at Hogwarts - particularly as a member of Slytherin House, whose students were notorious for not giving a damn about rules or curfews - Flint probably knew that all too well.

Near the foot of the staircase, he swept the cloak off. He draped it over his arm, ready to be thrown on again at a moment's notice, as he cleared the last step.

He leaned against the banister and scanned the deserted Entrance Hall. Flint didn't seem to be around - he would've said something, done something to get Harry's attention, if he was - but it couldn't hurt to check. Maybe Flint hadn't noticed his approach. He had been invisible, after all.

When a quick once-over revealed no signs of Flint, he straightened up - no, not in that sense of the word - and walked over to the double doors that led outside. They creaked loud enough to wake a basilisk-Petrified second year as he inched them open, and he winced, glancing around in case the noise attracted any unwanted attention.

A quick left-to-right glance out there yielded no better results, and when he returned to his place near the foot of the stairs, his expression was one of impatience.

It was going on 12:15 by the time Harry heard footsteps echoing over marble floor. He snatched the Cloak off his arm and threw it over his head, crouching down to hide the tips of his shoes. He edged backwards until he was pressed flush against the banister, just in case it was one of the teachers out on patrol. He'd feel like a right idiot if Snape came stalking up from the dungeons - probably hell-bent on catching miscreant Gryffindors out and about past curfew - and walked straight into him because he was too stupid to move when he had the chance. On marble flooring, taking a step would be tantamount to whipping the Cloak off and tap-dancing on the steps, singing, "Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty Hogwarts," at the top of his lungs. Maybe the rest of the school song, too, if he happened to bring his foot down too hard.

It wasn't Snape that exited the corridor leading down to the dungeons, though, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief as Flint came to a halt at the foot of the stairs.

"Finally," he said, shoving himself upright and stepping away from the banister. "I was about ready to give up."

Flint jerked around, quick as a startled deer, to look at him. Or rather, the empty air beside him. He was at least a foot off in his estimate, but it was a pretty good guess considering Harry's current state of invisibility. "Potter? Is that you?"

Belatedly, Harry yanked the Cloak off. "Yep, it's me. Sorry 'bout that. Didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't scared," Flint shot back. After all, what self-respecting Slytherin would ever admit to being frightened? Flint glanced at the shimmery cloth he was holding and cut Harry off before he could reply. "Invisibility Cloak, eh? Where in Salazar's name did you get one of those?"

He folded the Cloak up and tucked it away in his pocket; no point in keeping it out, not with Flint here and no professors in sight. "It was my dad's."

"Family heirloom, then. Most of the old Pureblood families have that sort of thing lying around. Not Invisibility Cloaks, obviously - those things are bloody rare - but you get the idea." Apparently deciding he'd been informative enough for the time being, Flint drew his wand and said a quick, "Lumos." Light illuminated their corner of the room, casting odd shadows on the steps and walls.

To distract himself from the creepy atmosphere, Harry focused all his attention on Flint. His face, he noted, was healing up nicely. The bruising was nearly gone; only a few small patches of mottled yellow remained where it'd been the worst, and even those were half-faded.

"What's this about giving up, now?" Flint asked, directing the light towards him and throwing his face into shadow again.

Harry squinted under the sudden onslaught. "You're late. A lot late. I was ready to leave."

"Good thing you didn't, then," Flint said. He leaned in to catch Harry's mouth for a long, lazy kiss, and when he pulled away, he was smirking. Harry wondered briefly if that was his default expression. . . .

"Come with me." He started walking away; judging from the swiftness of his stride, he obviously expected Harry to follow.

He hesitated. Flint was heading for the dungeons - not somewhere a Gryffindor (or anyone for that matter) ought to be during school hours, let alone after dark. Flint paused at the threshold and cocked an eyebrow, having noticed that Harry was still standing, statue-like, at the foot of the staircase. "Or you could sit around up here by yourself, I guess. Don't see why you'd wanna, but it's an option."

With that, he turned and strode off.

Harry, after a split-second of further indecision, followed him.

He hastened to catch up, having to jog a bit to compensate for Flint's considerably longer stride. Flint flashed him a quick, predatory grin as Harry fell into step beside him.

"Where exactly are we going, now?" he asked as they started down a short set of stone stairs, entering the dungeons proper.

"You'll see." Reading the anxiety still present in Harry's expression - or maybe, Slytherin that he was, he could smell Harry's fear in the air? - Flint added, "Don't worry, kid. You'll like it." The confidence in his tone didn't do much to assuage Harry's concern, and 'kid' only served to make him bristle.

He kept his mouth shut, though, and did his best to keep up as they ventured deeper and deeper under the school, guided only by the dim light from Flint's wand. Although Hogwarts - or anywhere, really - had a tendency to look different in the dark, he recognized the route as a familiar one. Two lefts and a right turn ahead, Snape's domain stood deserted. Unless the greasy bat was back from his nighttime rounds and grading papers (on a vicious curve) in his office, of course, or doing whatever else cranky, bitter Potions masters did late at night in the privacy of their living quarters.

They took a right instead of a left at the first intersection, though, and Harry had to wrack his brains to think of somewhere else they might be going. Surely Flint wouldn't bring him all the way down here for a quickie in an abandoned classroom? Cliche though it was, the Astronomy Tower would make a far better choice for that. . . .

Right. Left. Left. Right again. Another left. Left.

It wasn't until they reached a surprisingly familiar stretch of bare, damp wall, and Flint stopped to face it, that Harry recalled another possible location. He hadn't been there for nearly a year now, but this particular section of stone was just about where he remembered the Slytherin common room's entrance being. The convoluted route should've tipped him off; while disguised as Crabbe and Goyle, he and Ron'd had a devil of a time finding their way. They'd had to be rescued by Malfoy, of all people.

His revelation was confirmed when Flint said, "Might wanna put your Cloak on, Potter, unless you'd rather explain your presence to any Slythies still up and about."

He waited while Harry fumbled his Cloak out and vanished from view, then directed a quick, soft-spoken, "Heritage," at the wall. The password must've been correct, because a hidden door in the wall slid back to reveal the long, low-ceilinged room beyond.

Flint crossed the threshold, momentarily silhouetted by the eerie green glow cast from lamps within, and Harry rushed after, lest he be locked out in the corridor. Even in a castle where staircases moved and suits of armor walked the halls, doors opening of their own accord weren't too common. He'd rather not arouse suspicion if he could help it.

Just as well; as the door slid shut behind him, he noticed several Slytherins - fifth or six years, from the looks of them - ranged around the fire, talking in low voices and passing sheets of parchment back and forth. Who in their right mind, he couldn't help but wonder, would stay up past midnight doing homework? Besides Percy, that is, and his mental state was debatable - particularly around exam time - so he didn't count.

He couldn't help but marvel at their studious nature as he pursued Flint across the room, keeping quiet as best he could. It was like having the mute button on on the telly - he was sure they could hear his light footsteps, his adrenaline-heavy breathing, the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart as it threatened to beat its way through his chest.

No one stood from their chair or shouted an indignant, "Oi, you there!" though, and he followed Flint down a short flight of steps to the boy's dorms without incident. When he reached the bottom and peered down the short torch-lit corridor, he found Flint waiting in front of the third door on the right.

When Flint remained there, apparently unaware of his arrival, he stuck a hand out from under the Cloak and wiggled his fingers. It served to both garner a snort and spur Flint into action.

The Slytherin held a finger to his lips to indicate silence, then shouldered the door open and slipped inside. Harry crept through after him and tapped Flint's arm to let him know it was safe to close the door. He could hear snores issuing from the nearest bed, and mumbling - nonsensical and badly slurred - from somewhere off to the right. It was hard to make out where, exactly, in the dark.

He was led over to one of the enormous green-curtained four-posters; the one nearest the bathroom, as it turned out. Flint reached in and dug clothes out of the rumpled sheets, relocating them to the floor using a method Harry liked to call the "Seamus Hurl" - toss them with the same care a particularly blood-thirsty cat would show a mouse, and wherever they land is their resting place for days, even weeks, on end.

Flint hopped onto the bed and, after shoving the bedding back to make more space, waved him over. He drew the curtains after he'd felt the mattress dip under Harry's weight, then drew his wand again and directed it at the curtains. He murmured a few quick spells. Their surroundings flared briefly with first gold light, and then white, before settling back into darkness.

"All right," Flint said, no longer whispering. "You can take the Cloak off. We're all set; I tossed a couple privacy and silencing spells up."

Harry tugged the Cloak off and laid it aside, then reached a hand up to smooth his ruffled hair. It did no good; his attempt at convincing the strands to lie flat was half-hearted at best.

"Don't bother, Potter." Flint grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his head. "It's just gonna get messed up again anyway." He tangled a hand in Harry's hair, as if for emphasis, and tugged him in to smash their mouths together.


Forty minutes later found Harry patting down the blankets in search of his clothes. Flint, still tangled in the sheets, watched him drowsily. The dark posed no obstacle, his eyes having long-since adjusted to the lack of light.

The sensation of soft, many-times-washed cotton beneath his fingers contrasted sharply with Flint's silken sheets - which, judging by the feel, were composed of some fine, expensive material befitting a rich Pureblood - and he identified it with ease. Definitely his shirt.

He tugged it on. The scratchy, stiff-edged presence of a tag against his throat told him he had it backwards (and possibly inside-out, as well), but honestly, did it matter? With any luck, Flint was the only person who'd see him like this.

He found a sock on his next foray through the bedding, rolled half-way back on itself and still sweat-damp from being on his foot. He yanked it on, regardless, and returned to the search.

His fingertips grazed denim on the third pass, and he curled searching fingers around it, dragging it closer. He laid them - because yeah, they were definitely jeans, and therefore plural - by his knee and swept his hand through the sheets again, hunting for his boxers. When four separate tries yielded no results, he admitted defeat. It was no big deal, going commando - just up to the dorm, and then he'd be taking all his clothes off anyway.

He shifted onto his hips and stuck both feet through the leg-openings, then dragged the fabric over his calves, past his knees, up his thighs. They felt strangely over-sized, and the inch-and-a-half gap between the waistband and his skin - after he'd buttoned up - confirmed it.

. . . Bugger. He'd grabbed the wrong pair.

He reached down to pop the button again, but Flint's voice, lazy and post-coital relaxed, stopped him. "Don't worry 'bout it. I'll get 'em back later."

"You sure?" He plucked at the dark material that encased his thighs, wondering if it was worth the effort of trying to find his own. Thus far, they'd been stubbornly elusive, and he did fancy a bit of shut-eye before Transfiguration the next morning. It was tough enough puzzling out new spells when his brain was working at full capacity; sleep-deprived, he'd be a down-right hazard.

"For Merlin's sakes, Potter. 'S not-" he paused to yawn "-not like they're my only pair."

Well, then. That sealed it; when Flint started getting tetchy, it was best not to argue.

He snatched his shoes from the corner of the mattress - those, at least, he could differentiate from Flint's without modeling them first - and jammed his feet in. He tied the laces quickly, ending up with sloppy knots despite his best efforts.

"Hey. I'm a sock short here. If you find another one in the morning, it's mine."

"'K," Flint grunted. His ability to speak in full sentences was degenerating as the minutes wore on, reducing him to short, choppy replies.

Arching his back to peer over his shoulder at Harry, he asked, "S'ya t'morrow?" The question was punctuated by a jaw-popping yawn. Harry 'mmhmm'ed a confirmation, and Flint dropped his head again, nuzzling the pillow.

Harry perched on the edge of the bed for a beat or two, watching Flint's body relax into both sleep and the mattress. Then, with a yawn of his own, he wrapped himself in his Cloak and drew the curtain back enough to climb out.

Muted snores could still be heard from the neighboring bed, and someone shifted - hopefully in their sleep - as he crept over to the door and slipped into the corridor beyond. It was eerily quiet out there, the castle's atmosphere heavy with the hushed sounds of half a thousand people in varying states of slumber. He crossed the now-deserted common room and ascended the stairs in that same silence, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the stone enough to make him cringe.

Ron's snoring greeted him when he reached the dorm, and the unnerving quiet was finally broken. He stripped and crawled into bed, the cold sheets a shock against his skin until his body heat warmed them. Cocooning himself in the blankets, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.