A/N.

Hello! Sorry for the slow update. I was super busy with work, then I found this chapter really difficult. It's starting to get interesting though… hope you enjoy their, uh, banter…

Lemme know what you think.

Harry felt terrible.

No. Not terrible. That was melodramatic, even for him. He just felt… awkward.

It wasn't like anything was different, really. The morning had passed as normal. Breakfast, third years, then sixth years. He and Draco had chatted and worked together like they had for the past six weeks, and he was almost getting used to it, then class finished and they headed to Draco's rooms – like normal – to spend morning break reading their mail on the sofa.

When there was no one else around, nothing to act as a buffer between them, that was when Harry felt uncomfortable.

He just didn't get it. Sure, he'd agreed that he'd acknowledge his feelings, but what did that actually mean? How was he supposed to act? He supposed it was – as Draco had said – a relief, not to have to constantly make sure he wasn't staring, or to try judge the appropriate distance to sit apart from him, or any of the other nothings that Harry had slowly become paranoid about… but it wasn't like they were going to start flirting with each other now, were they? Acknowledging was not the same as acting on, and Harry just didn't know what to expect, didn't know where to start.

Especially difficult because he wanted to flirt with him. It wasn't like telling Draco that he liked him had made any of those feelings disappear. Slouching up against the armrest, he eyed Malfoy over the top of a letter (from an Enid Smallarm, inviting him over for tea and brown sugar biscuits).

Draco's head was bent over a thick, official looking piece of parchment, his eyebrows drawn together in the slightest frown. Harrys palms itched to grab his wrist and pull him over, to have Draco's weight on him, to unbutton that shirt and explore the hollow between his collarbones…

Ugh, that line of thinking was dangerous. Sitting up, Harry cast Enid's letter into the should probably reply to someday pile and reached for the next envelope.

Ah. His copy of the weeks incident report from the Ministry, that was boring enough to distract him from the slow tightening in his pants. He slumped further down the sofa to read it.

A charmed cutlery set had glued a few muggle mouths shut in Aberdeen. A search of the local pawn shop had turned up an ancient snitch, a pair of silver candlesticks with everlasting candles, and – sadly – a puffskein fur coat. Investigation still under way…

Fa-a-ascinating. Harry huffed, flicked to the next page.

This was more like it. Garrick Sauer, a known werewolf sympathiser (of the Greyback variety, rather than the Lupin persuasion) and anti-muggle adherent was petitioning for a UK visa. It would never happen, obviously, but it was interesting.

How long had it been since he'd been face to face with a feral werewolf? A long time. Twelve, fourteen years ago? The last of Greybacks little experiments. It had been distressing, what he'd done to the girl to make her so savage, but they'd had to deal with it, with her. At the thought, a scar on his chest – a souvenir from that encounter – twinged, and he absent-mindedly pushed his hand under his shirt to rub at it.

They'd tracked her down to a tunnel beneath an overpass in Wales. Wild, half-starved, scared, she was only a teenager, but she'd taken off Reece's hand before they managed to get her contained. They'd offered to help her, but she said she'd rather die than accept help from any wizard. She was as good as her word, too. She hung herself from the bars of her holding cell, with her own filthy shoelaces.

Oh, he hoped Sauer tried to get into Britain illegally. He hoped he had the chance to end someone who made excuses for what had been done to that girl.

"Bad news?"

Harry blinked. He'd been miles away, staring at nothing. "Uh…"

Draco had half-turned towards him, his elbow up on the back of the sofa, a soft kind of concern on his face. He hated that look. That was the look he'd been given every time someone thought he was weak. He'd been given that look after he'd passed out because of the Dementors, when Sirius had died, when Dumbledore had died. Ginny had given him that look after the werewolf girl had killed herself…

"Potter?" Draco frowned, leaning forward.

"Yeah… I mean, no. Not bad news…" Harry waved the papers still in one hand. "Just reminiscing."

"Happy memories, clearly." Draco's voice dripped with sarcasm, something Harry much preferred to the gentle sympathy.

"What other kind could I possibly have?" Harry countered, raising an eyebrow and earning himself one of Draco's huffs.

"Well then, if you're not about to start sobbing, could you possibly deign to cover yourself up?" Draco gestured, waving a long hand into the space between them, a motion that caught Harry's attention long enough that he took a second to register what Malfoy had actually said.

Oh… Oh… His hand was still rubbing at the scar that crossed his third and fourth ribs, pulling up his shirt to bare his stomach. Was that what Draco was looking at him like that for? With his eyebrow all arched and that mocking smile on his lips. It wasn't something he'd even thought about, his scar had just itched…

"Uh…" Harry froze, not really sure how he was meant to react. He probably should just pull his damn shirt down, but it felt too much like losing.

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Potter, but you're rather distracting, and in light of recent… revelations…" That eyebrow arched higher, his eyes trained steadily on Harrys, like he was forcing himself not to look down.

Ohhhh… Harry stifled a grin. Well, that was good for his ego. Craning his neck, he regarded the expanse of skin between his pants and shirt. He didn't see what was so distracting about it. Maybe Malfoy had a thing for body hair? He certainly had enough of that. The dark trail that ran from his navel down into his pants had spread over the years, and now it extended up his stomach and connected up with his chest hair. Ugh, what if Malfoy hated body hair, and he was distracted because it was grossing him out?

He glanced up. No, Draco was very not grossed out. His gaze had followed Harry's down to his exposed skin, and when he dragged it back to Harry's face, his eyes were dark, his cheeks red, and his pointed look very, very deliberate. Harry's mouth went dry. Was this what acknowledging their feelings was in practice? Not bothering to mask the want in their eyes? Draco wanted him, Harry could read that on his face like it was text.

"Rescued any kittens lately?"

What? Somewhere, beyond the part of his brain that was struggling to process what was going on, his mind found a quote from that Witch Weekly article. Potter looks like he rescues kittens from burning buildings or something…

"Only thing I've ever saved from a burning building is you." He managed, before realising his mistake. Even before Draco's face tensed, he wanted to inhale those words back into his lungs. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. No, don't make him think of that… of Crabbe. Desperate to stop Draco from affecting his smooth, emotionless mask, he finally pulled his arm from his top and used his hands to push himself up. "Does that mean I get to call you Kitten?"

That worked. Harry had never seen Draco look so conflicted. Amusement warred with pure disgust at the thought of being called something so saccharine, and eventually (with an expression on his face that was directly inherited from his mother, like he could smell something awful) he answered. "No. No you may not."

"Kitten." Harry purred. "It suits you."

"I am not above obliviating you." Draco threatened, but he couldn't quite keep the scowl in place. "Or perhaps just gagging you." He smirked at that. "There are some rather ingenious variants of the Incarcerous spell."

Merlin. Harry didn't even like the thought of being tied up, but Draco's Incarcerous line still turned him on. He wasn't fully hard, but it wouldn't take much. One more suggestive remark from Draco, and he'd be throbbing.

"Find another way to shut me up, Malfoy… ropes won't work." He didn't want to dwell on why he'd mastered every binding counter curse. Memories of being tied to Riddell's father's grave haunted him enough at night, he didn't need to dust off those thoughts during the day.

Draco's smirk grew into something wicked. "A way to shut you up…" He raised his index finger to his lip in mock contemplation. "Something to keep your mouth occupied, perhaps?"

Yup. That did it. Harry was hard. He didn't know what Malfoy specifically wanted with his mouth, and he didn't care. He just wanted to do it. He stared.

"Like lecturing your Gryffindors…" There was a sigh in Draco's voice. "It's time to go back to class."

"Shit." Harry grimaced, shifting to sit up properly. "That."

Draco huffed his semi-laugh. "Yes, that. Our job. The reason we're here…"

"Yeah, you're gonna have to give me a minute." Or maybe ten minutes, and some privacy. Or maybe you could lie down with me here and… Harry let his head drop, took a long, deep breath. That train of thought wasn't helping.

He felt stupid, of course he did… but he kind of also didn't care. Draco knew that Harry wanted him, and though Harry seemed to be the only one of them that was sporting a painfully hard erection, Draco was a guy, he'd know what this was like… He looked up into Draco's amused face. "Oh shut up, you did this on purpose." He growled.

"I didn't say anything." Malfoy stood, utterly smug. "I'll go start without you. You just… take as much time as you need."

Ten minutes and some privacy it was… shit. He slumped back onto the sofa as soon as Draco swept out the room, looked down to glare at where his pants tented. Was he really going to jerk off in Draco's rooms? No. Obviously not. That would be… well, it would be kind of exactly what Draco thought he was doing, right? He'd basically given Harry permission. So what was the harm?

His fly was open and his hand was working before he had the chance to talk himself out of it. Something to keep your mouth occupied, perhaps? What had he been thinking? Kissing? Harry imagined their lips together, their tongues. He pictured his mouth on Draco's neck, fine stubble rasping at his cheek. Or was Draco thinking of something more carnal? Every time he'd imagined them together, he'd visualised Draco's mouth around his cock… but picturing the opposite was… exciting. Looking up to watch Malfoy's flushed face, heavy eyes, stuttered breaths.

He held that image in his head, Draco's face as he watched Harry suck him off. What would he be like when he came? Was he the noisy type, or the long, shuddering breath type? Would he squeeze his eyes shut, or did he like to hold eye contact? In Harry's fantasy, Draco bit his lip, and tangled his hand in Harry's hair, and let out a juddering moan as he came in Harry's mouth… in the real world, Harry bit his lip, and clutched at the sofa cushion, and whined as he came across his own stomach.

It was weird that Harry felt so good, afterwards.

He felt awkward, of course. He'd wanked on Draco's sofa, and Draco knew about it. It was weird. But he still kind of didn't care. He got what the acknowledging his feelings thing was about now. He was allowed to lust after Malfoy. Malfoy liked it.

Slightly delirious in his post-orgasmic daze, Harry laughed. Of course Draco would like it. He'd always been a vain, preening little peacock. He'd love the idea of Harry, his childhood nemesis, getting horny over him. Horny enough to need an impromptu release in the middle of the morning, no less. Draco loved that kind of power. He was probably flouncing around the classroom at that very moment, giddy with the thought of his effect on The Chosen One.

He groped for his wand to clean himself off, thinking that maybe this acknowledging development could be fun. Angsty and sexually frustrating, but fun. It wasn't what Harry actually wanted, obviously, but it was better than when he'd been hiding it. He'd have to jerk off at least twice a day, more, if Draco kept that kind of innuendo up, but he'd manage.

He'd manage. He laughed again as he pulled his trousers up. Why was nothing ever normal with him?

After he slid into the classroom – trying desperately not the blush and waiting for a jibe from an overly-cheerful Draco that never came – the rest of the lesson passed without incident. Well, the students were practicing non-verbal duelling, so there were definitely incidents… they just weren't unexpected.

What was unexpected was Minerva's news at lunchtime. Harry had been so distracted over the last few days that he'd completely forgotten about his request to hold Patronus classes in the evening.

"The board approves." McGonagall said happily as she dropped a parchment dangerously close to Harry's full plate. "Third year and up. You can start the lessons whenever you like." And she swanned off to her seat.

Harry didn't know what to say. He'd been so excited for these classes, the kind of hesitant it'll never happen kind of excited that had him pretending it wasn't a big deal, when it really was. It didn't make any real sense, but the chance to teach the Patronus charm just made him feel good, reminded him of some of his happiest… no, not happiest. Learning and teaching that Patronus charm reminded Harry of some of the most important times he'd spent at this school. Of Lupins unwavering patience and the trust that Dumbledores Army had put in him. He turned the parchment over in his hands.

"Well done, Potter." Malfoy eyed the twelve signatures that spanned the bottom of the paper. "They'll be talking about this for years."

Harry snorted. Typical Slytherin fame-mongering. "Ah, yes, because I was beginning to worry that there wasn't enough talk."

He could almost hear Draco rolling his eyes. "If you teach even a quarter of those third years to produce a non-corporeal Patronus, you're proving more about the ability of those children and your teaching methods than the board would like to admit."

"I, uh…" Harry looked up. Didn't he feel like a massive git. "Yeah." He agreed, remembering all the times that he and his peers were underestimated, back when he was at school. "I s'pose it would."

Draco nodded. His voice dropped to something near a whisper "Could I ask a favour?"

"Course. Anything." Harry had jerked off in the man's rooms after all, he kind of owed him. He bit back a grin at the thought.

"Private lessons?"

Harry blinked. Draco couldn't cast a Patronus? But Draco was good at magic. He was powerful. Sure, maybe he was never given lessons, but the teenaged Draco would have surely looked the spell up as soon as he'd realised Harry could cast one. He had been spiteful and petty like that, and more than capable of teaching himself advanced magic on the sly.

"I've just never been able to get the knack of it." Draco offered by way of explanation. "So if you could…"

"Yeah. Sure." He dropped the parchment and picked up his fork. "We'll start tonight, if you're free."

"My rooms?"

Harry shook his head, swallowed his mouthful of pasta. "Nah. The DADA room should work fine. We'll go after dinner?"

Draco looked just the slightest bit confused at that. "We could just stay after 6th period."

"We could." Harry agreed. "But after six weeks of treacle tart and hardly any exercise, I need to get on my broom. I'm getting fat."

Malfoy's eyes lit up at that. Quidditch. "Fancy a challenge?"

He thought about it. He'd like the practice, of course, and to ogle Draco all strapped up in his flying leathers. But he also needed to clear his head, especially if he was going to be spending the evening alone with Malfoy.

"Bad idea." He leaned forward, lowered his voice, hoped that to the students, it just looked like any of the intense conversations that the teachers sometimes had.

"Hmm?" Draco's gaze was level, as always, but his pupils widened, making his eyes dark. "How so?"

"Your leathers, Malfoy," Harry breathed. He was hyper-aware of everyone around him, of how monumentally idiotic it was to talk about this with Flitwick sitting at his left elbow. But it was definitely thrilling. "make me want to do very stupid things."

"In that case…" Draco smirked, nodding like Harry had just said something completely reasonable. "We wouldn't want you to do anything stupid, would we?"