A/N: Okay, guys. My computer finally and completely died. I lost all of my personal files and am unable to retrieve them. This means I have lost all of my reviews, which were saved into a special file, as well as my responses. I finally got a new computer, and I had to go onto fanfiction and copy and paste all of my own stories into a new Word program, which I have discovered is not compatiable with fucking fanfiction, so I then had to paste it all into Notepad or whatever the fuck it is. I am rather pissed right now. I also lost two future chapters of Stonewall High, and rewrote this one in a fit of rage. If it doesn't make sense, if it doesn't mean your expectations, if it just plain sucks--whatever. I did my best.

...Okay. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be nasty. I love you all.

Hope you enjoy this...

Chapter Eleven

After pausing to get over the initial shock, Harry smiled broadly, completely aware that he was naked, and that Malfoy was staring at him with wide, fiery eyes. The ice had melted.

Oh, could this day get any better? Harry wondered, slowly moving out of the shower's spray and towards Malfoy.

"Malfoy," he all but purred, "what a pleasant…surprise. Care to join me?" He realized, belatedly, that he might be acting too forward, but he couldn't help himself, and it was too late to go back now.

Harry could see Malfoy struggling for his infamously effortless composure. "F-fuck off, Potter. I-I just came to tell you…to tell you that what happened today was pure luck on your part. I'm better than…than you, got it? I'll always be…better…" And here he lost his battle and his eyes drifted downward along Harry's body.

"Really?" Harry whispered, his voice almost lost in the thunder of the shower. "Are you, Malfoy? Are you above me?" He advanced on the blonde boy, still smiling, eyes bright from beneath his dripping hair. "Because I'm not so sure about that. In fact, I think we're equals." His smile turned into a smirk when Malfoy stumbled back a few steps, looking confused and lost and sexy as hell. "Think about it," he continued. "We're both competitive. We're both intelligent. We're both looking for fulfillment. We're both bloody gorgeous. We're very, very similar, really. We'd probably get along rather well, don't you agree?"

"No!" Malfoy snapped, looking torn, ready to bolt for the door, ready to throw Harry down onto the floor and have his wicked way, ready to beg for mercy, ready to threaten. He chose the latter. "You stay away from me, Potter. Do you hear me? You stay away."

Harry paused and cocked his head. "Do you really want me to?"

"Yes!" the other boy hissed, curling his arms around himself in a strangely vulnerable gesture. "Yes, stay away from me, God, just stay away."

Harry glanced down at Malfoy's rather obvious erection pointedly. "Okay," he replied after a beat of silence, and returned to the showers without protest.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Draco stood gaping at Potter's retreating back. What the hell had just happened?

In his confusion--and for some reason, outrage--he felt the unwelcome lust begin to drain away and the logic return to his brain. He looked around the locker room aimlessly, knowing it was the perfect time to make a clean escape, yet remained unmoving. Inexorably, his gaze turned to Potter again, his form almost lost in the steam from the shower.

Honestly! What the hell had just happened? Had Potter really given up on pursuing him? Had Potter, just like that given up on the come-hither smiles, the secret little winks, the longing looks cast from across crowded rooms? Would he never again catcall to Draco when he passed him on the sidewalk on that goddamned skateboard of his, never again make obscene gestures and frankly hit on him when they happened upon each other in private?

Was that all it had taken? A simple "go away"? Draco was stunned, and hardly realized it when he spoke.

"That's it?" he whined over the shower. Immediately, he clapped a hand over his mouth in horror.

Potter's head emerged from the steam, face curiously blank. "I beg your pardon? What's it?"

"That!" Draco yelled, unable to help himself. "All this time, you've been harassing me, acting like a fag, trying to get into my pants, and all it took to get you to fuck off was a 'stay away'? Are you kidding me, Potter? Are you kidding me?"

The top half of Potter's body followed his head and Draco felt the urge to stare returning. Stoically, he fought it, glaring into Potter's gorgeous green eyes and trying to maintain the fury he was feeling just a moment ago. It was slowly being replaced by a thick, sick swirl of hurt low in his stomach. This is stupid, he told himself. He was getting what he wanted. Potter was leaving him alone, leaving him to his girlfriend and his leisure time and his painfully dull life. This was what he'd wanted all along.

So why did it feel like someone had just punched him in the gut?

"No, I'm not kidding you," Potter was saying calmly. "For some reason or another, I like you, Malfoy. I really do. I know next to nothing about you; you've snubbed me at every turn. But I thought, apparently foolishly, that you might have some feelings within you, buried but awaiting discovery, that might allow you to return this affection. I'd have even settled for friendship. You've made yourself perfectly clear, however--you don't like me. You don't like me talking to you, flirting with you, looking at you, being within a ten foot radius of you. So I've taken the hint. I'll leave you alone. Alright?"

Potter's calm was infuriating and the hurt stabbed into him more forcefully in the face of it. Draco's face twisted at his inner turmoil, though he didn't realize it. His head pounded and his mouth pulled into a frightening grimace. "Oh, fuck you!" he suddenly screamed. Intending to storm out the door, he found himself stalking towards the shower, furious and in pain and wanting nothing more than to pound Potter's wide-eyed face in.

It was Potter's turn to stumble back, looking ridiculous, naked with green hair and smudged eye makeup, holding up an arm to ward off the attack that was obviously coming. Draco strode through the spray, uncaring that his designer silk shirt was getting wet, uncaring that water filled his Doc Martens instantly. He nearly fumbled when he saw the boy up close, noticed his should- be perfect body was marred with bruises and faded scars, and with what could have been a tattoo. More metal glinted at his chest and stomach--piercings again. But his rage was too much and he ignored this all. Potter opened his mouth to speak, but stopped with a surprised gasp as Draco grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him close, until their faces were nearly touching.

"I hate you, you stupid fuck," Draco whispered. "I hate you!"

And suddenly, their mouths were shoved together, violent and hateful and needy, tongues battling for dominance as Draco shoved the other boy hard against the tiled wall. Potter responded immediately, wrapping his arms around Draco's slender back and crushing him to his own body. Their hands were everywhere, touching and grasping and groping frantically in all the right places, as if they had done this a thousand times before, a million times before. They didn't pause for breath; they didn't pause to think. They didn't pause for anything.

Somehow, they ended up on the floor, with Potter on top, tearing at Draco's shirt impatiently. The scalding water pounded down on both of them, and neither cared. The floor was hard, uncomfortable, and dirty. Neither noticed as Potter's head ducked down, teeth nipping at the blonde boy's exposed chest hungrily while his hands worked on his belt buckle with the ease of much experience.

Draco was in ecstasy, head thrown back, eyes closed, just feeling. He loved the touch of those long fingered hands, calloused and perfect against the pampered soft of his own flesh. He loved the feel of the slim, hard body bearing down on his own. He loved the toned clenching of the other boy's shoulder muscles beneath his own strong hands. He had been wrong: this…this is what he had wanted all along. This was perfect. This was everything.

Distantly, he heard the sound of a zipped being hastily undone. "Oh, God, yes, yes, yes, please, please, Harry, just like--"

And suddenly, the sound of his own voice made him aware of what was happening; completely and utterly aware of what he was doing, of what he was about to do.

He was about to have sex with another boy.

"No!" he shouted, not liking the panicky, hopeless sound of his own voice. He shoved a startled Harry Potter off of him and scrambled off the floor, nearly hyperventilating. "No, no, no," he repeated, clutching the remnants of his shirt to his chest, holding up his jeans, and nearly in tears. He couldn't look at Potter; he couldn't stand the sight of him, sitting dazed and confused, undeniably naked and aroused, on the locker room floor.

So he did the only thing he could. He fled.

Praying no one was around, he ran through an empty gym and into the school. Unwilling to take chances, he darted into the nearest bathroom, and now he was crying, in great, hysterical sobs. He stumbled to a halt in front of a mirror and began to cry harder when he saw his reflection. He was a mess. His shirt was in tatters, his pants undone. His usually perfect hair hung about his flushed face in dripping tangles, and oh, how he hated Harry Potter for doing this, how he hated him.

Malfoys did not like boys. Malfoys were perfect, power hungry, and straight. Malfoys didn't cry. Malfoys didn't almost have sex on locker room floors.

"I am a Malfoy," he told his reflection, willing back the tears. "I am a Malfoy, and this is not me. This was a mistake. This is not me." The sound of his own voice, hitched and unsteady, nonetheless helped him to gain control. He did his best to fix his hair and his clothes, and when he was done, he could see his usual, fathomless self in his reflection, battered but possessed.

But the hurt was still there, the need and the want, the empty feeling of pretending to be someone he wasn't. And looking into his own eyes, he knew he would never be the same.

And it was all Harry Potter's fucking fault.

A/N#2: Well? Sorry about the reviews, guys. I really am.