Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related entities are not mine; I just borrow them from time to time.

A/N: Written as a Christmas present for a friend who wanted in-character Harry/Draco.

Harry grumbled to himself as he walked off the Quidditch pitch. Gryffindor had won against Slytherin but STILL. Ron hadn't done well at ALL as the Keeper and Malfoy's chorus of Slytherins hardly helped. Stupid Ron, stupid Malfoy…and then there was Umbridge trying to do everything to make his life Hell. The very thought of that god damn toad made him slam his fist into one of the lockers, merely missing Fred or George. He was too angry to care which one right now. Evidentially distraught by his little strop, everyone else on the team cleaned up and scrambled out quickly, leaving Harry to whine, complain, and mope in peace.

He stayed in the shower for at least thirty minutes, not because he was actually that dirty, but because the scalding water gave him something else to be angry at. With Umbridge doing her thing, and Malfoy doing his thing, and The Daily Prophet making everything worse, and the nightmares about the door, and still, in November, not being able to forget about Cedric and the way he died…yeah, he assured himself. He had every reason to be mad with rage. Which he was, according to Hermione. What did she know other than well…everything? Nothing. She didn't know anything about what he was going through. No one did.

None of them could EVER possibly understand what it was like to have their parents murdered, to grow up in a house with abusive Muggles, to always find someone who wanted to kill him for reasons he couldn't fathom. To watch a truly innocent boy get killed, even if he did deserve something for stealing Cho Chang from the boy who really deserved her.

Dah! Just thinking about how unreasonable he was being was maddening! Cedric had never done anything to him except help him. He hadn't done anything to anyone except try to be the Triwizard Champion. And even if he did deserve to be punched for stealing Cho from Harry, he hadn't deserved to die, especially not in the way that he did. Voldemort had just pushed him aside like a stupid first-year who got stuck in one of the trick staircases! He hadn't even given Cedric Diggory, the Pride of Hufflepuff and Hogwarts in General, a chance to fight, but he'd let Harry escape for the fourth bloody time!

"Maybe I should drown myself in here," Harry huffed bitterly, though no one was listening.

He tried this and promptly failed. So he made the water cooler and tried again. He failed…again. After a few more valiant attempts at turkey suicide, he gave up, turned the water off, and got himself a towel. Although he dried off and slid into his pajama pants, he couldn't manage to get past that point. Instead, he took to languidly laying on one of the benches, glaring up at the ceiling and reprimanding it for any offense it might commit against him in the future. It was probably plotting against him right now, stupid, bloody ceiling. Too bad it wasn't alive, or he might have tried using Avada Kedavra on it for looking at him funny.

Suddenly, he heard a slow, cold laughing from behind him. Although he knew he'd probably regret it, Harry slid backwards on the bench until his head fell backwards. Standing in the locker room doorway was none other than the smuggest Slytherin son of a bitch, Draco Malfoy. Aside from the stark contrast of his black boxers, he was completely naked, displaying every inch of pale, Pureblood skin like it was a museum exhibit. At least he didn't have his celebratory Dark Mark yet; Voldemort was probably waiting to give it to him as a birthday present. Stupid fucking bastard – Harry hated him with all his heart.

"Well, well, well," he chuckled coldly, sounding exactly like his father. "Look what we have here. Patronus Potter, fresh-faced loony bin inmate. Tell me, Potter, does your scar hurt? Are you having visions? You're getting to be just as bad as that Lovegood bitch in your post-child stardom downfall."

"Shut your fucking face, Malfoy," Harry snapped viciously.

"Ooh, testy today, aren't we, Potter? Getting upset that the Dark Lord's back and, for once, you, your sidekick, and your pet Mudblood can't do anything? Or, even worse, that the wizarding world's turned on you? Bet it's quite a shock that you're not Saint Potter, everyone's favorite little tragic hero anymore."

"I don't have the energy right now. Get the fuck out of my face."

"Bet you miss Old Rita saying you cry about your parents every night now, don't you? Never having been in your situation, I can't say."

"AND I SUPPOSE YOU THINK IT'S FUN TO HAVE EVERYTHING YOU MEET TRY TO KILL YOU, DON'T YOU!"

"Do you?"

"WHY WOULD I! I ENJOY BEING ALIVE, YOU FUCKWIT!"

"Wouldn't know it with the way you've been acting."

"THERE IS NOTHING DIFFERENT ABOUT HOW I'VE BEEN ACTING! I AM JUST THE SAME AS I'VE ALWAYS BEEN!"

"Except that you yell at everyone who crosses you."

"I DO NOT!"

"Then what are you doing at me?"

"USING SUBTLETY TO TELL YOU THAT I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR FUCKING FACE AROUND HERE ANYMORE!"

"The day you use subtlety is the day I'll snog Granger."

"THEN WHY DON'T YOU JUST GO UP TO THE LIBRARY AND SNOG HER BRAINS OUT RIGHT THE FUCK NOW! I'M BEING PERFECTLY SUBTLE!"

"Yeah, like a blast of Avada Kedavra to the head."

"YOU THINK YOU'RE SO AMAZING DON'T YOU, MALFOY!"

"Of course I do. I mean, it's true."

"YOU MAKE ME SICK, YOU FUCKING PRAT."

"Likewise, Potter."

"BOY DO I HATE YOU!"

"Again: likewise."

"AND I HATE YOUR FACE TOO! I WISH THERE WASN'T A RULE AGAINST BEATING YOU WITH A BLUDGER OR I SO WOULD!"

"Since when have rules stopped Saint Potter?"

"MAYBE I GOT MY HEAD CHECKED OVER THE SUMMER!"

"Then you should go to whoever did the job and get your Galleons back."

"FUCK YOU!"

"Please, I have taste."

"AT LEAST I HAVE FRIENDS AND NOT HENCHMEN!"

"Don't underestimate the power of henchmen, Potter; they're quite handy. And they never disagree with you."

"AND THAT'S WHY YOU'RE A BLOODY FUCKING BITCH!"

"Oh yeah? Well, you're a Half-blood son of two morons."

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TALK ABOUT MY PARENTS! YOU DIDN'T KNOW MY PARENTS, YOU NEVER WILL, AND DON'T YOU FUCKING TALK ABOUT THEM!"

"As far as I understand it, you didn't know them either."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I'LL HEX YOU!"

"I'd like to see you try."

Harry groaned, pulling himself into a sitting position. As if the splitting headache he was getting from his rage wasn't enough on its own, looking at Malfoy upside down was beginning to make it look like there were three of him, and one was more than enough for anyone. After he had his bearings, he turned around to glare at Malfoy properly, straddling and leaning on the bench because he didn't want to hold himself up. As he and Malfoy glared at each other, gray eyes on green, Harry took note that the slimy git couldn't keep eye contact with him. His eyes kept drifting elsewhere on Harry's person; Harry didn't want to know where. He and Draco were just mortal enemies – nothing more, nothing less.

And he was wearing his Prefect's badge over his crotch, a double symbol of power.

No! He liked Cho, and he'd even harbored feelings for Ginny and occasionally Hermione. There was a reason why the male member went so well with the female attachment, and besides! Malfoy was a slimy, disgusting, smarmy, racist prat! He had taste. Malfoy, on the other hand, was dating Pansy Parkinson, which showed a complete lack of taste. And he was quite obviously staring at Harry's chest, which was incredibly disconcerting. He snapped his eyes back to Harry's.

"I hate you, Potter," he hissed acidly.

"LIKEWISE, MALFOY!"

"Oh yeah? Well…I hate you more."

"NO I HATE YOU MORE!"

"The fuck you do."

"I SO DO!"

"Prove it."

"OKAY! I WILL!"

Oh fuck. Quick! What was the best possible way to prove to Malfoy that he – Harry – hated that smarmy git more? The first thing that came mind was also what Harry acted on: he slowly shoved himself up off of the bench, and Malfoy flushed pink, like he was expecting Harry to break his nose. Instead, Harry grabbed Malfoy, and shoved him – head first – onto his mouth. To make it clear just how much he despised Malfoy, Harry shoved his tongue in too.

Oddly enough, Malfoy didn't resist.

Actually, he relented to Harry surprisingly quickly and reciprocated the gift of a tongue. The contrast of the two was striking: one was long, thin, snakelike, and clearly used to this form of activity, while the other was shorter, faintly sweeter-tasting, and wholly inexperienced. A massage started their interaction, rather, the faint prodding of one by the other, which led them into a joint rubbing of each other. Slowly, this became a form of dance, filled with Odyssean twists and turns, and a mess of confusion to rival Harry's attempts at reading tea leaves in Trelawney's class. A shudder rushed out from one of the tongue's mouths, but they were now too close together to tell whose.

As they progressed further into the kiss, Harry felt Malfoy's skin go cold and clammy under his hands; he pulled the blond boy's head in further, threatening to completely envelop his face. That'd show that prat who hated whom more, and it was clearly Harry. Seeming as though it had taken a great force of will to resist, Malfoy let his stiff arms go, wrapping them around Harry's neck and sending shivers down his spine. They kept their tongues in constant dance, barely stopping to breathe. Breathing was the secret of life, but to break apart would have been to commit suicide anyway. Finally, Harry surrendered his grasp on Malfoy's head, and instead brought his hands down to the other boy's waist; without warning, he pulled them closer, so that both their chests were touching, as close as possible, but not closer than their tongues.

Then one of Malfoy's hands grew lustful and restless. Craving more than it had gotten, it snaked its way down Harry's back and came full circle, moving further downward on its quest for satisfaction.

Only when both boys realized where it ended up did they realize what they were doing.

Each of them blushing scarlet – even Malfoy, who was usually just tickled pink – they snapped away from each other and looked away. Their dance was abruptly ended by a crashing chandelier, and just the thought of how they'd held each other made more blood rush to their faces. Shuddering violently, they attempted to look at each other, but looked away, too embarrassed to even stay mortal enemies. Finally, Malfoy stood up straight, even though he kept his eyes to the ground. He coughed loudly, and Harry took on the same position. Neither tried to catch the other's eye, nor did they speak for at least a minute. They merely stared at the floor that the might have shamelessly collapsed onto if they hadn't been careful

"So," Malfoy sighed heatedly.

"SO!" Harry yelped; unlike the previous times he'd spoken raucously, he wasn't angry. Rather, he appeared to be so nervous that he'd lost control of his voice.

"This never leaves the locker room, Potter."

"NATURALLY!"

"And I still hate you."

"LIKEWISE MALFOY!"

"No, I mean I really do hate you."

"I HATE YOU TOO!"

"You're a filthy Mudblood lover."

"YOU'RE A ROTTEN SON OF A BITCH!"

"I'm serious. I really do hate you."

"AT LEAST WE AGREE ON ONE THING!"

They attempted to make eye contact again, and actually held succeeded, but not for long. After only a few seconds, Malfoy blushed again and ran out of the locker room.

He was probably running off to go snog Pansy or something like that. Harry actually found himself sighing bitterly and seething at the thought. No, no, no, no, no.

He turned on his heel and stormed back to his locker to get a shirt. He was going to finish getting dressed, go upstairs to the library, find Ron and Hermione and forget ALL about this nonsense with Malfoy. As far as the rest of the school was concerned, nothing had happened between them. They were enemies to the death and would never be in the same room as each other without making snide comments and plotting against each other. They hadn't even come close to making a truce for peace, let alone snogging or, God forbid, declaring their undying love for each other. Nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

Harry was so wrapped up in his systematic denial of empirical truths that he couldn't pay attention to the shirt he grabbed out of his locker. Still, he threw it on, grabbed his wand from the pocket of his Quidditch robes, and ran up for the library.

In the library, Ron and Hermione were busy at work on their latest assignment for Charms, which, naturally, meant that Hermione was working on it while Ron copied over her shoulder. Occasionally, she'd pull her chair away, as a clue for him to stop being lazy and do his own work for a change. Instead, her plan backfired and he just brought his chair closer each time, getting his long nose dangerously close to her forest of brown hair. She disapproved of that even more. Library time was time for studying, not time for dropping romantic hints at your friends. Actually, she was fairly certain that he had no clue that he was signaling anything to her, since, Prefect badge or not, he was still so daft sometimes. Without her moving her chair, he moved his closer and brought his head so close to her shoulder that she thought he might put it on her.

Not that she necessarily minded, it was just weird having her personal space infringed on, it was just kind of weird that he was getting so cozy in the library.

"WELL ISN'T THIS JUST SPECTACULAR!" someone shouted behind them.

Oh dear, sweet, merciful Merlin. Harry was in a strop…again. Sighing heatedly, he sat on Hermione's other side and looked at what she and Ron were nominally working on.

"CHARMS HOMEWORK." he yelled. "AND I BET YOU TWO ARE JUST GOING TO RUN OFF AND SNOG IN FLITWICK'S CLASS ROOM AREN'T YOU!"

Hermione blushed. "No! Ronald was just trying to copy off me!"

"So she moved away, and I moved closer so I could see her work," Ron explained, charmingly befuddled at Harry's rage; after all, Gryffindor had won the Quidditch match…there wasn't anything to be upset about. "Oi, mate, what's your problem?"

"NO, I DID NOT JUST GET DONE SNOGGING DRACO MALFOY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!"

"Uhm, no one said you did, Harry," Hermione ventured cautiously.

"WELL GOOD! BECAUSE I DIDN'T! HE'S A MANGY, SLIMY, RACIST GIT AND I HATE HIM!"

"So do the rest of us, mate."

"But…if you're going to insist that you didn't snog Malfoy, well, you might want to take that shirt off."

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, HERMIONE!"

"Uh, Harry, best mate forever-"

"EXCEPT UNTIL THE END OF THE FIRST TASK LAST YEAR!"

"Uh, yeah, except that. But, I'm with Hermione on this one. You should really take your shirt off."

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO? CAN'T YOU JUST GO SNOG EACH OTHER WITHOUT DRAGGING ME INTO YOUR BISEXUAL THREEWAY!"

"This isn't about that, Harry, just…well…look!"

Hermione pointed her wand at the nearest window and muttered a charm to make it more like a mirror. Although he figured he'd probably hate himself for it, Harry turned and glared at his reflection. Instantaneously, his mood softened slightly and he saw what they were talking about: in his rush to get out of the locker room, he had grabbed a shirt he'd bought behind Mrs. Weasley's back on one trip to Diagon Alley, and had resolved to only wear under something else, which made it an ideal practice shirt. It was black cotton, a little loose around his recently-inflicted scrawniness, but it still managed to show off what goods he had to offer. Styled like a jersey, the front read, in rainbow-print letters, "Studio 54 Fighters"; the back read "Recruiter" and advertised his team number as "69." Behind him, he heard a few younger Hufflepuff students giggling, but a well-timed glare sent them on their way. He turned to Ron and Hermione, who also looked on the verge of exploding with laughter.

"I'LL BE IN THE DORMITORY," he barked vehemently.

And with that, he stalked off, positively fuming.

Once he was out of earshot, Ron and Hermione both collapsed on the table, laughing hysterically at Harry's accidental self-outing. And he'd "found himself" with Malfoy, of all people! Ron ran down a list in his head: "Firebolt broomstick – bloody freakin' expensive, but your godfather's rich, you prat. Invisibility Cloak – also bloody freakin' expensive, but it was your dad's and Dumbledore's a nutter. Donating to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes – 1,000 Galleons in Triwizard prize money. Accidentally outing yourself to the entire library?"

"Priceless," Ron chuckled softly. "Absolutely bloody priceless."