Well, I had intended on leaving this fic on hiatus until I'd finished my other work but, to be honest, I can't resist continuing it. I've just had a need to submerge myself in the Potterverse since Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and the film OotP came out. I'm so sad it's all over for the books… but here's to JKR changing her mind and filling in the gaps at the end (and hopefully including a brief Draco/Harry affair before they both settle for the straight life). Please do try and review if you read it. Cheers!

Pale moonlight came in through the window beside the four-poster bed, casting an eerie glow over the boy under the covers. In an almost violent motion, he heaved over onto his side, staring into space with a frustrated expression on his face. Ron's loud snoring pushed against his eardrums like the noise of a drill, while Neville's whimpering and murmuring—"No, Snape… grnnghh… don't know the answer… unghh… no, don't! Naaaargh!"—was a constant hum in the background. His own soft breathing seemed unnaturally quiet amongst all of this.

Harry Potter lifted a hand to rub at his eyes wearily, cursing himself for his inability to get some much needed sleep like the other Gryffindors. His brain was refusing to stop whirring madly around, replaying the same thoughts and memories from the previous events in the library over and over. All the boy could think of was Draco-Bloody-Malfoy; of his stupid slicked back hair, of his sickly pale skin and of his tantalisingly full lips that begged to be touched.

As that traitorous thought entered his head, the sixth year flipped angrily onto his stomach, burying his face in the soft white pillow. Never before had the Slytherin consumed his mind so thoroughly. It had to be the potion's so-called 'undesirable effects'. He'd been spared the extreme nausea in lieu of turning into a—a—no, he couldn't even think the word. Not in connection with Malfoy. The very thought sickened him and yet, at the same time, something in the back of his head was singing a very different tune.

Harry seized the pillow violently and pressed it over his head, as if covering his ears would make it all go away. The minutes ticked by at a flobberworm's pace but eventually the boy fell asleep, only to be chased through his dreams by a pair of cold grey eyes.

---

"Oi!"

The sudden shout and sensation of a shoe hitting his leg ripped Harry out of his dreams, and he stirred, groggily, as the unwelcome voice saw fit to once again invade his sensitive ears.

"Harry, mate, get up. It's time for breakfast!" Ron announced with far too much cheer, removing his shoe from the back of Harry's knee and proceeding to rip the covers away.

Without them as a barrier, the Gryffindor gave up on his attempt at ignoring the boy and sat up with a grumble. He ran a hand lightly through his hair, trying to flatten a severe case of bedhead, then gave up and put his glasses on. Ron came into focus, already dressed and raring to head down to the Great Hall for some breakfast. This kind of early morning alertness was rare in his housemate and, right at this moment, it was annoying to say the least. Who in their right mind would be so excited about getting up this early on a Saturday?

"Are you possessed or what?" Harry asked irritably, climbing out of bed and quickly changing into a pair of jeans and an oversized red sweater that had once been Dudley's.

The ginger male was unfazed by the crankiness aimed at him and grinned, almost bouncing up and down in his apparent excitement. "You didn't forget that it's the Quidditch try-outs today, did you, mate?"

Harry's mouth dropped open in surprise. Quidditch try-outs?! Then the memory came back to him, with a vague sense of doom, of agreeing to let Ron handle posting the announcement and sorting the arrangements, after he'd begged and begged to do it for hours. The last thing he wanted to do today was get on a broom, let alone have to shoulder the responsibility of choosing the team for the upcoming year of Quidditch at Hogwarts. The captain's badge had arrived in the holidays to a mingled sense of happiness and horror from The Boy Who Lived. He felt that there was no way he would be able to measure up to Wood or Angelina and he was sure Gryffindor were doomed.

"No, no, I remember," he said, feigning a grin to the best of his ability at his best friend. "I can't wait."

Masking a heavy sigh at the duty before him with a cough, Harry followed Ron as he headed out of the common room, not paying attention to his housemate ramble on about Quidditch and how he was really looking forward to some fried eggs and bacon.

---

Two hours later and Harry was standing out on the Quidditch Pitch in the crisp morning air, surveying the assembled crowd with slight panic. They did not look the least bit like a bunch of Quidditch players, nor did they seem to have the potential to turn into them. On the bright side, however, the team had suffered considerable damage last year but still managed to win the Cup so maybe they would make it through the season unscathed.

"Right," the boy said slightly hesitantly, half expecting one of the previous captains to come out and start barking orders at him. "Right, well, urhmm… right. The team. We need to pick players. So, well, I guess we'll play a game and, erm, see how you do."

One tumultuous game later, and the students were once again assembled in front of him. Some looked like they were extremely happy with the way it had gone, while others seemed scared about the results, and Neville was just a bit bruised really. After announcing that he would post the results in the common room later that week, Harry trudged away with Ginny, Ron and Hermione—the latter of whom had tagged along to watch the proceedings and offer much needed moral support—trying to pay attention to the conversation he was supposed to be engaged in but finding himself zoning out nonetheless.

---

The rest of the weekend had passed relatively uneventfully, punctuated with brief attempts at tackling his Potions homework while he tried to sort out the team for the upcoming Quidditch season. Some of the kids who had tried out kept pestering him for an answer but his lips were very much sealed—mostly because he had no idea who to pick for the team. It just wouldn't be the same without the players he'd grown used to over the years.

Before he knew it, Monday morning had arrived and it was time to get ready for Transfiguration. The sixth year joined the rest of his housemates heading off towards the classroom, not particularly looking forward to an hour of what would most likely be horrifically boring and/or difficult spell-casting to drive in the message that the N.E.W.T.'s were not going to be a piece of cake by any stretch of the imagination. McGonagall was thorough like that.

The first thing he noticed upon entering the room was that Malfoy, sat right at the back of the room next to Millicent Bulstrode, was staring at him with a murderous expression. And if anyone knew what murderous expressions looked like, it was Harry Potter. He avoided the Slytherin's hard gaze, swallowing hard and thinking back to what had happened in the library. There would no doubt be a confrontation soon. Harry had managed to avoid Draco all weekend by staying in the Gryffindor common room as much as possible but it would be hard to keep out of his way forever. His mind threw disturbing images at him of what could happen not so far in the future and he suddenly felt queasy.

"Good morning, sixth years," said McGonagall once the last dregs of students had arrived, surveying the survivors of the O.W.L. exam. "Each and every one of you is here today because you excelled at the Transfiguration exam last year. As such, I will be expecting the very best from all of you. Please do not disappoint me."

Harry sighed. This was definitely not going to be a fun lesson by any stretch of the imagination.

The Professor set out the plan for the lesson and the students all got on with it obediently but the Gryffindor was having trouble paying attention to the task at hand. Each time he tried to tackle the conjuring spell in the Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, he found himself distracted by the feeling of being watched very intently. And each time he craned his neck to look around the room, it was Malfoy who couldn't tear his eyes away. It was just impossible to concentrate on spell casting. Next to him, Hermione had almost effortlessly conjured up a very small button, while on the other side Ron appeared to have given up after his wand had shot out some sparks and singed the desk.

"This is too hard," Ron groaned, poking at the burnt bit of wood in front of him, and casting an irritated glance at the small collection of buttons Hermione was building up.

The girl sighed noisily.

"Oh honestly, Ronald, it wouldn't be this difficult if you would actually read the textbook!" she exclaimed, turning to the right page in the redhead's book. "You were doing it wrong, you're supposed to emphasise the last syllable, not the first. And you definitely aren't going to conjure anything just waving your wand around like a madman."

Harry tuned the pair out as they began to bicker like an old married couple, focusing his attentions not on conjuring anything out of nowhere but instead on returning Malfoy's stare with iron determination. Regardless of his thoughts before, which had been easily amplified while lying in bed worrying like that, he was now certain that he just wanted to hit the boy again. It had felt so good punching him, like his fist had been made for that very purpose. And every inch of him had been filled with adrenaline and the heady rush of the moment. The sixth year very rarely felt that alive anymore. Sirius' death had left him, for the most part, feeling hollow and detached from everyone else, and it was thrilling to feel like a human again, if only for the few minutes he'd been confronting the boy.

When the lesson drew to a close—with no better results for Ron and Harry than at the start of the class—the green-eyed student watched with slightly narrowed eyes as Malfoy marched past, pausing for the briefest of moments to deposit a wrinkled bit of parchment on his desk. Unfolding the paper, his eyes grazed over the little drawing of himself being ruthlessly beaten to a pulp by the Slytherin and focused instead on the messily scrawled words: Quidditch Pitch. Midnight. Wand.

---

That afternoon, Harry finished choosing the Quidditch team. He posted the announcement and quickly vacated the common room, seeking to avoid the Gryffindors who either wanted to thank him rather too enthusiastically for picking them or to demand why their names weren't on the list. It just seemed wise to stay out of the way for a bit. The first game was scheduled earlier than usual—at the weekend, in fact—and he was slightly wary as his team would be taking on Slytherin and their new captain, Malfoy. Not good.

Once he figured the fuss would have died down, the Gryffindor headed back to find the common room empty apart from Ron and Hermione. A stroke of luck, at last. Seating himself in a heavily padded armchair, he produced the piece of parchment Draco had left him from his pocket and placed it on the table between them, waiting for their reactions. He knew exactly what they would say, really, but still felt it necessary to get their opinions on the matter.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione gasped, looking perturbed. "You're not going to go, are you?"

Ron just looked annoyed, shaking his head as he held the thin parchment between his fingers. "Well mate, I hope you kick his bony arse."

"Don't be silly Ron! He can't possibly go. It's obviously a trap, Malfoy will probably have about ten Slytherins waiting in the dark."

Harry shrugged, taking the note back from Ron and shoving it in the pocket of his school trousers. Their reactions were predictable; the girl never wanted him to rise to the bait of things like this and the boy was all for a fight with the Slytherin, as was always the case. And he knew it would probably be a trap but he couldn't resist the summons. It wasn't a case of machismo or not looking a coward, he just knew that part of him needed this, thirsted for it as though his body was fed by confrontation.

"Well, I'm going," said the green-eyed one simply, ignoring Hermione's protests. "And I'm taking the invisibility cloak."

Hermione spent the duration of dinner that day trying to persuade him to change his mind but he was not budging. He needed to feel anger, and hate, and pain to know that he was still alive and not simply a ghost floating through life and not feeling any of it.

---

While his other housemates were getting safely into bed for some sleep, Harry was polishing his wand with a glazed look in his eyes, already anticipating the events ahead with relish. He wasn't scared of Malfoy in the least. There had been moments, of course, when he'd had those disturbing thoughts and feelings but it hadn't lasted and he was sure now that the potion had worn off. After all, Hermione had only been lovey-dovey with Pansy for the one day so there was no way it would still be affecting him. This night was purely about the ongoing rivalry between the boys which would drive them both to insanity if it wasn't given an outlet sometimes.

After a cocky wink to Ron, the boy almost ran to reach the Quidditch Pitch as midnight rolled along, safely hidden under the cover of his father's invisibility cloak. When his feet moved onto the springy, slightly wet grass underfoot, his eyes caught sight of a familiar person standing just by the first set of goals, leaning lightly against the right post. In the darkness, Draco's hair and skin seemed to almost glow as they were caught by the moonlight. He allowed himself a moment to study the boy—purely for a fighting edge, that is—then dramatically whipped off the invisibility cloak after moving himself directly in front of the Slytherin.

Draco reacted with equal drama, jumping violently at the sudden revelation that Harry was standing in front of him. For a moment his face was pure shock as he stumbled backwards but then he was clawing back his composure and settling for the ever faithful sneer of disdain that he directed towards his rival with full intensity. One pale hand slipped into his robes, drawing out his wand slowly and holding it at his side.

"How long have you been here?" The Slytherin demanded, voice showing the anger he felt at being surprised.

Harry was feeling incredibly smug—it was clear that he had control here, if only for a few moments. "Never you mind that, Malfoy. I'm guessing you didn't ask me here for chitchat."

The blond narrowed his eyes. "Obviously."

Without bothering to explain, he lifted his wand and pointed it at Harry, shifting effortlessly into the duelling position. This momentarily sent the Gryffindor back to their second year, so long ago when they had duelled for the first and only time. Now it seemed they would get a chance to try again, without any interruptions. The boy took his own wand out without hesitation, mirroring the other's movements and standing ready.

"Bet you're glad there's no one here to see you get your arse kicked, eh Malfoy?"

Draco snorted. "I'm not going to get my arse kicked, Scarhead… Incendio!"

The sudden spell casting caught Harry off guard but he whipped his wand up in front of him and countered seconds later with a cry of the blasting curse's incantation, moving sideways in case the fire managed to get through. The power of his spell rushed through the air and collided with the flames from Draco's, creating a loud bang and a flash of colour that made his eyes sting. The Slytherin was quick on the draw and immediately shouted, "Impedimenta!"

"Expelliarmus!"

Although he could hardly believe his eyes, the force of his spell ploughed through the air and hit Malfoy hard, sending him back a few steps as his wand flew out of his hand and into the air. Harry dove forwards out of the way of the impediment jinx and caught the wand, mouth hanging open in surprise as he stood there in silence. For a moment he almost expected the other boy to accept defeat, then suddenly he had been tackled with surprising strength from such a slender person. They crashed to the ground with a thud, wrestling with each other for control even as they fell.

"You're going down, Potter!" Draco thundered, resorting to muggle methods without his wand and soundly punching the boy in the stomach.

This winded Harry and he tried to double over on the wet grass but found himself unable to as Malfoy was on top of him still, hitting whatever he could reach and just generally being a nuisance. This was creating a sort of friction over his body though and his aggression changed, like a switch had been flicked, to blinding panic as the friction began to feel pleasant. His head was saying one thing (in this case, 'run away!') but his body was saying something entirely different and if he didn't get out immediately, there would be dire consequences. He heaved upwards, trying to get away from the other boy but that only served to emphasise the problem he was trying to avoid as he pushed against him.

"Gonna use your wand on an unarmed man, are you, Potter? That's not very Gryffindor of you," Draco sneered, appearing disdainful but still pulling back sharply to put some distance between them. Spotting his discarded wand on the grass, he snatched it up and pointed it down at the horrified boy on the floor… then suddenly noticed what exactly the problem was.

Harry's wand, too, was discarded on the floor.

Silence reigned. Then—

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?" Malfoy roared, disgust etched across his features and flooding his grey eyes. He seemed unsure how to act, other than moving backwards with a mixture of anger and revulsion.

There was not a single thing that Harry could think of to say to get out of the situation. The damage was done, there was no hiding it—in fact, Draco was staring right at it. Even the panic and embarrassment and countless other emotions flooding his system did nothing to quell the problem, for the feel of the Slytherin's body still lingered on him and the memory seemed to be burned into his mind. He didn't think he would ever be able to forget it.

"I knew you were a freak but I didn't think you were gay," Draco hissed in a vicious tone, eyes still fixed on the object of Harry's embarrassment. "You're fucking disgusting."

Harry dragged himself up off the floor, prompting the Slytherin to move even further back, grabbing his wand in the process. "I'm not gay, Malfoy! You shut your mouth!"

Draco's eyes darkened to a stormy grey at that exclamation and he began to stalk towards the Gryffindor with slow, delicate steps like a lion zoning in on its prey. This caused Harry to stir uneasily, wondering what the git was planning… there weren't a lot of things that could make this situation worse but he could think of a few.

"Oh no?" he asked silkily, still moving forwards until just inches separated them. Malfoy moved his head in, quelling his mind's frantic warnings to get the hell out of there, until his lips were by Harry's ear. Then he whispered his next words, soft breath tickling the other boy's ear and making him shiver involuntarily. "Then why do you have more wood than the Whomping Willow?"

The part of Harry's mind that had been controlling his thoughts in the library had stepped to the forefront again, making his body all the more sensitive to the close proximity of his rival. Even just the smell of the Slytherin was intoxicating.

"I think you want me, Potter. You do, don't you?"

By this point, all reason had left him. Draco had moved his head so that they were facing each other, lips so close they were almost touching, and he was so terrified that he could hardly breathe. But his vocal cords seemed to be moving of their own accord, not taking into account the part of his brain screaming for him to stop before the damage was done and it was too late. But there was no stopping now. And his head seemed to be pulled in like there was a magnetic force at work, though he fought to stop himself from simply crushing their lips together.

"…Y—yes."

"Thought so."

Then, just like that, Draco brought a knee up and rammed it into Harry's stomach, winding him for the second time that night. He shoved the boy backwards and sneered down at him, eyes filled once more with that murderous gleam he had seen earlier in the day. There was nothing left of the person that had appeared just for that moment to lay the bait and set the trap.

"You disgust me," he spat, delivering a hard kick to the Gryffindor's side before turning and stalking off towards the castle in a whirl of black robes.

Stunned and horrified at what had just happened, Harry didn't move for at least half an hour. He just lay there, his sore body cushioned by the wet grass as he realised that he was now in some serious shit.