'What the buggering fuck was that?' Draco thought frantically as he lost touch with his pride and ran, pounding feet echoing through empty stone hallways, away from the scene of the crime. One minute he'd wanted nothing more than to beat Potter to a messy pulp, and the next minute he was suppressing the urge to taste his lip blood. It was entirely that bleeding Golden Boy's fault. If he'd just kept better control of his pathetic lackeys, Creevey never would've taken the photo, and he, Draco, wouldn't have to deal with that image popping up every time he caught a glimpse of raven hair.
The whole bloody Wizarding world wouldn't be watching them and hedging their bets about who topped. Like it wasn't obvious, anyway. Anyone with half a brain could see that, with Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, it'd be decided on a fuck-by-fuck basis that they'd battle tooth-and-nail over every time. Neither one would ever agree to be fully submissive to the other… His thoughts trailed off lecherously, finding it all too easy to amend the infamous image to suit his fantasies.
"Bloody buggering fuck!" he shouted aloud, lashing out with one fist to strike the wall in a very un-Malfoyish manner. The sensation of warm blood on his knuckles soothed him.
"You called?" Blaise inquired, appearing, seemingly from nowhere, at his side.
Draco was miffed. No one managed to sneak up on him. Ever! Damn Blaise for catching him at a weak moment. He'd expected the halls to be empty caverns just waiting to absorb his rage. Speaking of…
"What are you doing out of class?" he demanded archly. They both had History of Magic this period.
Blaise smirked. "In a word? Pansy."
Draco waved his hands frantically in disgust. "Enough said!" he protested, not wanting to hear another word about it.
The dark-haired Slytherin raised a brow. "I'm guessing she didn't achieve her goal, then?"
"Goal?" Draco echoed.
Blaise chuckled. "She shagged me to make you jealous," he explained.
Draco shuddered, grimacing. "Oh, that's wretched," he moaned. Once he'd recovered from his wave of revulsion, he asked, "Why'd you shag her?"
He shrugged. "She was there." He eyed Draco curiously. "What were you screeching about, anyway?"
The Slytherin Prince glowered. "Malfoys don't screech."
Blaise shook his head. "Right then. What were you… raging manfully about?"
"Potter," Draco spat, that one word speaking volumes.
Blaise nodded sympathetically. "He wanted to top?" he filled in.
Only years of practice kept Draco from exploding like Weasel. Unfortunately, Blaise's words conjured up the feel of Harry pressing him into the wall, bodies perfectly aligned from shoulder to hip... Summoning up his best Malfoy glare, he murmured disdainfully, "not as such."
"So, you were on top?" Blaise asked, eying him speculatively.
"Merlin's Hairy Bollocks!" Draco growled, silvery-gray eyes blazing. His friend instantly backed away. It wasn't wise to piss off a Malfoy. One usually left such dangerous things to Harry Potter.
"Just kidding?" he offered.
Draco pinned him in his gaze, eyes glittering and dangerous. "Potter might let people walk all over him, but he's a bleeding-heart Gryffindor."
Blaise winced, looking appropriately chastened. "Sorry, mate."
Draco nodded stiffly, and they continued in silence to History of Magic. Binns didn't appear to notice that they'd arrived thirty minutes late.
Harry had hoped to slide unobtrusively into the Charms classroom. Hermione had been nice enough to save him a seat, but unfortunately she'd chosen to sit at the front of the classroom like the diligent student she was. He could only thank Merlin that Malfoy didn't have Charms this period, so they didn't have to walk in together and set the school in an uproar. He didn't even want to guess what nasty conclusions everyone would jump to.
'Like the fact that you wanted to lick the soft flesh on the underside of his wrists?' his mind pointed out tactlessly.
He ruthlessly shoved the encounter from his thoughts, focusing on Hermione's questioning gaze. The brunette fixed him with her chocolate eyes and raised a questioning brow.
"Where were you?" she whispered, when Flitwick paused to scribble frantically on the board.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Malfoy," he spat, allowing that one word to explain everything.
"Oh Harry," the witch replied, but Flitwick resumed his lecture, so she didn't elaborate. The set of her jaw told him he'd be on the receiving end of a different kind of lecture later about his bad habit of getting into tussles with his nemesis. Given how grateful he was that she was sticking by his side through this fiasco (unlike certain flame-tressed traitors), he couldn't find it in himself to begrudge her motherly instincts.
He was too keyed up to focus on Flitwick's foray into the history of some obscure Charm. Normally he would've held a hushed conversation with Ron, but the redhead was sitting with Neville and they still weren't speaking. He scowled. Like Malfoy had any call blaming this all on Harry. If Malfoy weren't such a bleeding arsehole, they wouldn't have been fighting in the first place, and Harry wouldn't have that horrid image blooming in his head in Technicolor at the slightest provocation.
He could only imagine what his classmates would make of their confrontation today. What the bloody hell had possessed him to trap those damnable, pale wrists above Malfoy's head? At the time, he'd been willing to do anything to get the upper hand, but in retrospect, that one move implicated a whole new, unexplored pathway of interaction. Those wide, stormy gray eyes had caught and matched the sudden heat in his own before Harry managed to escape.
Lost in thought about how soft Malfoy's platinum tresses looked up close, Harry completely forgot where he was. Which was, of course, the moment that Flitwick chose to call on him.
"Ah, Mr. Potter, would you care to hazard a guess?"
Harry jerked to attention. "His wrists are ugly!" he shouted. Blinking rapidly, he belatedly realized that he'd spoken those words aloud, in front of everyone. "Um," he stammered over a wave of laughter and calculating stares from his classmates.
"Would you please answer the question now, Mr. Potter?" Flitwick prompted, peering impatiently over his glasses at his wayward student.
"Um," Harry hedged, having absolutely no idea what the question was. He looked desperately at Hermione for help. She made a series of complicated hand gestures that made no sense. Resigned to being wildly off base, he murmured, "Reducto?"
Flitwick frowned. "No, Mr. Potter. You cannot Charm a glass figurine to dance by blowing it up."
"Right," he muttered, conceding defeat. His classmates helpfully exploded with laughter.
Harry kept his eyes trained on his desk for the rest of the lesson, seething. This was all Malfoy's fault, with his wrists, and eyes, and shiny hair. Bloody pillock.
