Draco left him gaping like a fool at the fireplace, which was merrily crackling, clearly unaware of the newfound tension in the air. The food wrappers and crumbs strewed across the floor informed Harry that he had, in fact, been with his archenemy without needing to defend himself.

He hadn't been thinking—Draco would tell him that it was a Gryffindor thing; act first, ask later—and he hadn't meant for it to be as awkward as it seemed.

Everything felt far too still, too harsh—he heard Draco's heavy breathing behind the door, and the running of the tap. A hollow thump erupted, and Harry bolted, taking a suggestion from the cowardly boy himself and hiding in the bedroom, the dark red curtains wrapped around tightly.

Draco came in later, and Harry could feel his steely glare behind the flimsy fabric. He knew, though, that there was no chance of the blonde approaching him tonight. Part of him felt relieved, part of him felt disappointed, because the tension was already winding itself up tight around him.

It bothered him. The glint in those metallic eyes—shock, fear, conflict all rolled into one—the words that fell off his lips before he'd even thought about it.

Draco was scared. Of what, Harry wasn't entirely sure—but they'd both grown dependent on each other, whether it had been forced or not. They couldn't peer behind the labels, the anger, not anymore.

Sleep did not come for either of them for a long, long time.

Later, in the midst of early morning, Harry sneaked past the slumbering (and snoring) blonde, holding his breath until he reached the frame. A loud creak of protest ripped into the air, causing the brunette to tense, but Draco didn't seem to notice.

He was able to disappear into the bathroom, turning on the tap to the shower with a long sigh of relief. The hot water curled around him, washing away leftover bits of marshmallow in his hair (Harry wasn't sure how that had occurred) and soothing his tensed muscles.

There was a faint scent in the air, the leftover traces of Malfoy lingering around him, and his hand seemed to sense what it was he wanted—but his mind refused to admit to himself.

It was very, very wrong, Harry told himself faintly, from the small lucid part of his mind, to instantly start wanking once he smelled something associated with Malfoy. But he wasn't really wanking to Malfoy, it was just something he'd noticed. Two blokes share a place, they're bound to find reminders of the other.

His rationality began to matter less as the familiar unfurling heat began to build, his hand moving faster and faster, thumb quickly grazing the sensitive tip at the end of every stroke. The taut skin of his stomach dipped in dangerously, revealing his ribs as he fought for oxygen, his teeth clamping onto his lower lip hard enough to bruise.

Lost in the humming of his own mind, lost in the small whispers and escaped whimpers, a pair of silver eyes peered through the crack, the pale lips closing tightly as saliva began to pool, and he gulped audibly.

He'd only looked to see if he was going to be finished soon, but the surprise of catching the Golden Boy commit such an explicit act held his attention with far too much ease.

Malfoy was suddenly very disappointed that the curtain was drawn, only allowing a misshapen blur to grace his line of vision. A pathetic little whimper escaped Potter's mouth as he came, multiple shudders and spasms running through his body as he sighed, breathing heavily.

And then Malfoy remembered what he was doing. Watching Potter? I'm going mad, the blonde thought, as he scrambled to return to his sleeping place before Potter realized something was off.

Wonder Boy didn't, of course. He didn't notice the sharp intake of breath that the Slytherin student had taken as he walked back in, not even tossing a glance in his direction. He just slipped behind those curtains again, having made his peace with the world, and slipped into sleep.

It was clear, that even with a raging hard on of his own, Draco was not going to get any relief. Even if he did draw his own curtains, and put a silencing charm around himself, the idea that Potter could catch him in such a vulnerable state…it did nothing to quell his arousal, of course, but Draco forced himself to think of the fat lady, squirming and whimpering in the throes of passion, and his need for a wank considerably lessened.

He dreamt of Potter, begging for release, knees close to buckling, his cock leaking as he fisted himself.

(He also dreamt of the fat lady, but that was something disturbing all on its own.)

o-o-o-o-o

"Mr. Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey began, the sternness of her tone reaching her eyes, "your wounds would heal much more quickly if you would stop picking at them,"

Draco scowled. What did the old bint care if he picked at the scabs? She disliked him as much as anyone else in this bloody school. It had been evident when she'd seen Harry's fading bruise, and her resulting reaction—Mr. Potter! What happened to you? Harry hadn't responded, just given her a weak shrug, and Pomfrey had narrowed her eyes at Draco in silent understanding of what had transpired.

Irritation rose through him, and he was about to bite out a sharp retort, but the quick glance of Potter's green orbs drilling into him caused his throat to dry.

He'd been trying not to remember the events of last night—witnessing the private acts of Saint Potter was hardly his fault, but the reminder was burned beneath his eyelids whether he liked it or not. The sounds that escaped the virginal Golden Boy's lips played over and over, like a broken record.

Potter, on the other hand, had been ignoring him like a child. He had wordlessly accompanied Draco to the infirmary, and didn't offer a counter to Snape's snarky jab—a blush had pooled at his cheeks, but he chose to keep quiet.

An odd scent infiltrated his thoughts, and he snapped back to the present. A clear cream was pooled in the Healer's hand, and she brought one finger to his skull. He flinched at her touch, and the coldness of whatever horrid concoction she was applying to his skin. Potter pretended not to notice. When she finished, he was ready to leave as quickly as possible.

"I have some potions Severus created for you. Stay here."

Draco scowled again. She returned with three vials, each assorted in color. "These will help your body absorb nutrients faster, and give you more energy. Now drink up," The blonde reluctantly obeyed, grimacing at the taste of the first potion. The last two were even worse, and Draco found himself wanting to claw the taste off of his tongue.

A piece of chocolate wrapped in foil reached his hand, and Draco looked at Potter, who was far too deliberative in how he placed the chocolate in the blonde's hand—their skin did not touch, and Harry did not offer explanation for the unexpected show of kindness.

Well, he certainly wasn't going to refuse chocolate. The candy was unwrapped slowly, hesitantly, but Draco saw no signs of an unpleasant outcome, so he popped the dark brown treat in his mouth and hid the smile that threatened to stretch across his lips.

After the pleasant taste of the candy wore off, Draco found himself wondering how Potter knew to bring it along. He had the impulse to ask, but a quick glance at Potter's neutral expression seemed to convey a challenge—you'll break before I do. And he was damned if he was going to lose to Potter.

So be it, Malfoy thought, two can play at this game.

Snape raised an eyebrow at the silence between the two rivals, but for some inexplicable reason chose not to ask. After applying a disillusionment charm to the boys, he led them back to their room. An unexpected guest was waiting there, perched on one of the chairs with his legs crossed, the teacup that had been raised to his lips suspended in the air at their arrival. McGonagall stood next to him tersely, offering an empty smile at the three males entering the room.

"Hello, Draco," the grey-haired man says, smiling in that irritatingly neutral way, "it's good to see you again."

Before he could make a scathing remark, the Headmistress gave him a hard stare and said, "Dr. Richards will be assisting you both in this matter. I expect your complete cooperation."

"Please take a seat," the man asked, gesturing to a sofa that definitely hadn't been there before. It was gold and red—Gryffindor colors. No doubt he wanted to suck up to Saint Potter.

The aforementioned saint took a seat on the couch, and Draco just shot him a withering glare and chose to sit in the large chair parallel to the traitor who was currently beaming at Harry. "You may leave," the traitor told the adults who were watching them all wearily. Snape apparently did not need to be told twice, but McGonagall lingered for a moment before following suit.

"Harry Potter, I've heard a lot about you."

"Of course," Draco muttered under his breath. The man did not seem to hear, but Harry did—his eyes narrowed behind his glasses menacingly.

At Harry's lack of response, the doctor—he was a doctor, not a Healer—turned to the blonde. "You seem to have lost quite a bit of weight. Could you tell me some of the things that have been bothering you recently?"

"I suppose rooming with a particularly irritating Gryffindor prat would bother some," Draco snapped, eyes never leaving the green ones staring at him from across the room.

"Says the snake with the emotional issues of a sodding girl!"

Draco recoiled, eyes alight, teeth bared. Potter just called him a girl! "That's rich, coming from a tosser!"

Harry was out of his seat in a flash, staring Draco down as he did the same.

"Er…" uttered Richards meekly.

"Shut up!" the two boys roared, and he kept quiet.

"What the fuck is your problem? I've done nothing to deserve the shit you keep throwing at me!"

Draco feigned sympathy. "Poor little Potty's got his feelings hurt, has he?"

"You wish," Harry growled, snaking one hand on his shoulder, his nails digging red crescents into the pale skin beneath his shirt.

Malfoy wavered for a moment, unsure about the current proximity between them. "You wouldn't be pouting like the little bender that you are, would you? Boo-hoo, mommy and daddy are gone, everyone feel sorry for me! That's what your plan has been since you came here, you bastard. Don't think for a second I buy into it!"

A mirthless chuckle escaped the brunette's throat. It was the last thing Draco had expected. "You really don't know me at all, Malfoy. Don't pretend you do just so you can justify the shit you've done," Harry's grip was tighter, the sheer weight of his arm making his knees tremble.

"I don't pretend," Malfoy said sharply, ripping the boy's hand off his shoulder in anger.

"You don't? Really, Malfoy?" Potter whispered, "So you admit, all this time, that you did know about that darling father of yours? Seems like you're the one with the plan."

That was his plan all along, Draco realized, eyes darkening. He was right to have been suspicious. Potter just couldn't stop seeking for justice, could he?

"Sorry to disappoint you, Potter, but I knew nothing about your darling Dumbledore," Malfoy's eyes lit up then, a smirk on his face, preparing for the outburst to come, "But I think it was time for the senile tosser to retire anyway."

Potter roared, shoving him harshly against the bookcase that had been behind him. "I'm going to kill you, you insufferable arse!" There was a sickening crack, and both of their eyes widened.

"Potter," Malfoy was able to utter calmly, before the waves of pain began to jolt through his head, "I do believe you just cracked my head open."

"Fuck," was all he uttered, as a thin stream of blood began trickling into the blonde's clothing, and Malfoy found himself staring at the pink lips that were currently blurring in front of gh,his face.

The doctor was all limbs, separating the two of them with quivery breaths. He gently pulled the blonde's head forward, stopping at the cry of protest he made.

"All right," the man said—Draco realized then he was American, and wondered why he hadn't noticed before—pressing a handkerchief at the wound, "You're not bleeding too bad, but let me get Madame Pomfrey to bring some supplies." He paused, looking at Potter wearily, "Please don't kill each other when I'm gone."

Harry just looked at Draco, struck by the blood, his eyes wide.

"Thanks, Potter," Draco snapped, the words coming out more sluggishly than he'd intended, his hand holding the fabric against his skull beginning to slacken.

"Hey," Harry said, putting his hand over the blonde's firmly, his fingers fitting between the bony ones neatly, "you're not allowed to fall asleep, you could have a concussion."

Shut up, you stupid prat, and stop touching me!

"Nngh," was Draco's sleepy reply, and his eyelids began to droop.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, not moving his hand at all, to Draco's chagrin, "I shouldn't have done that. But..but you can be such a git, you know!"

"You started it." Draco whispered.

"How did I start it? You spoke first!"

"You decided to start the silent treatment," Draco reminded him, his head drooping against the boy's hand.

"Like you cared!" Potter muttered.

"You're not allowed to ignore me," Draco countered childishly.

Draco didn't hear Harry's response to that, because Madame Pomfrey thundered in, screeching, "What did you do?"

He had planned on whinging about Potter, getting him in trouble, and lapping up all the attention. What he said, though, seemingly came out of nowhere.

"'S an accident," Draco mumbled, "I just tripped."

"What?" Harry and Richards cried in unison.

The removal of Harry's touch disappointed him, and the blonde shoved that particular thought away.

Madame Pomfrey busied herself with shoving some nasty potion down his throat, and pasting some ointment against the throbbing of his skull. "Can you two try to get along?" she muttered in his ear, as she worked.

He started it, thought Draco crossly. He used all of his willpower to keep the retort at bay, and when he tried to find a reason for avoiding naming Potter as the culprit, he couldn't find one.

"It really was an accident," repeated Malfoy, as Madame Pomfrey stared at him in disbelief. He conveniently kept his gaze out of line with the brunette standing beside him, but he figured he'd have some similar expression.

The woman muttered something about how she was getting too old to deal with this, and simply told him to keep an eye on the pain level and for anything unusual. When she left, Draco stared at the floor.

"Well," Dr. Richards said finally, breaking into the awkward silence, "we certainly will have a bit to talk about next time, won't we?"

"Next time?" Harry echoed, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

"Yes, your Headmistress has asked for my help, and I told her that I would meet with you as many times as necessary to offer my own theory."

"Bugger," Draco muttered, the throbbing of his skin distracting him pleasantly from the awkwardness of the situation.

"Harry," the older man handed him a card, "Please don't hesitate to contact me. Especially if it's an emergency."

"Trust me," Draco muttered sarcastically, "your Wonder Boy will be just fine."

There was a sigh in response, but he wasn't sure from who.

o-o-o-o-o

Harry was spending far too much staring at him and Draco was spending far too much time pretending not to notice. It got on the brunette's nerves.

The clinking of silverware against their plates screeched uncomfortably.

"Malfoy, will you just talk to me!" Harry snapped finally.

The blonde didn't even look at him. He just his fork to his mouth, chewed slowly, and then said, "What is there to talk about, Potter?"

A sharp intake of breath made Draco smirk. Torturing Potter was always fun. "I think you know what there is to talk about." There was a pause. "Bloody hell, will you just look at me?"

He looked up, briefly, and then returned to his plate. In the corner of his eye, he saw Potter's fist curl up tightly.

"You going to break a rib this time if you don't get what you want?" Draco asked, knowing the guilt would stab at Potter like a knife. The boy was far too predictable. His plate was soon abandoned, and Potter hadn't responded. He shrugged, his bony shoulders causing a jolt of pain to run up his skull as he lifted them.

He'd gotten up to go to the bedroom, and Harry had him cornered against the wall, hands against his shoulders, keeping him there.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He asked finally. Draco didn't dare to look into his eyes. He focused on the hollow of his neck, the shadows dancing across his olive skin, but never his face.

He remembered the sounds that delectable throat was capable of making.

"I'm not doing anything to you, Potter." It was toneless, flat.

"Stop lying to me!" he snapped, "You're baiting me, and then…and then when you get what you want you don't take it? What are you planning?"

Draco looks up, staring into the green eyes, raising a brow. "If I'd known you'd be this ungrateful I'd have told the truth."

Harry let out a sigh, and then shook his head, releasing him. "I can't fucking stand living with you anymore."

"That," Draco reminded him, as he walked away, "is all your fault, not mine."

Sometime later in the night, after Draco had given up on starting some homework, and decided to try to get to sleep (on his stomach, which was just odd), he heard Harry leave the room. He supposed the boy was attempting to be quiet, but he wasn't very good at it.

After a while, Draco decided to peek behind the creaking door and spotted the Gryffindor curling up on the sofa.

It would seem, the blonde thought bitterly, as he tried to get to sleep, that Potter couldn't stand his presence at all. Then he smiled when a plan came into mind.

"What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?" asked Harry bluntly, when he saw the boy had wrapped himself up in his duvet and settled onto one of the chairs. A silent remark transpired solely through expressions.

Pissing you off, of course. It's working, too.

"Shush, Potter. I need to get to sleep." He nestled into the fabric, smirking at Harry's outraged stare.

At Harry's angry sigh, and the pout that grew across his features, Draco felt much better, even if he would wake up with a stiff back and aching head.