Draco's Boy

by empathic siren

No longer a repost. HPDM. Nonmagic AU. A mysterious little boy named Harry moves in next door to Draco Malfoy, and he's determined to make him his friend and learn all of his secrets. Years later, he's determined to make Harry more than a friend.

24. McLaggen's a Prat

Author's Note:Thank you, thank you to Sansa for the fabulous beta work. Also, a deeply felt thank you to all of you who read my little story and leave such wonderful reviews. I do wish I were able to keep up with them a bit better. Please know, though, that I appreciate them all.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 24: McLaggen's a Prat

Draco had a style of kissing to fit every mood. There were soft, feathery kisses that tickled Harry's skin and made him want to do stupid things, like giggle or lie tangled with Draco on warm, summer grass. The demanding ones bruised Harry's lip and made him pant and kiss back with equal force. And then there were the long, slow ones; lips sliding against lips, tongues slipping in and out. Nothing felt more perfect. Those kisses made Harry forget things for a little while. He liked forgetting things—like where he'd go at the end of term, whether he'd get to stay at Wolsford. When Draco would wake up and realize that Harry had nothing to offer him.

Fingers sliding across his cheek startled Harry from his thoughts.

"I'm beginning to think you like having spots of dirt all over your face," Draco said, laughter in his voice.

Harry leaned away from Draco's fingers. "It's just a bit of dirt and I'm in the stables doing work. I don't much care if I've got a smudge here or there."

"No you don't, do you?"

"Never have."

Draco's fingers skimmed across Harry's cheek one more time before retreating. "Maybe one day you'll see the error of your ways, but I suppose for now I can deal with it."

"Didn't know putting up with me was such a chore," Harry said, amused.

"You're a prat."

"Can't help it. You're far too influential."

"Yet I can't get you to realize how good you look when you aren't all mussed and dirty."

"Hmm," Harry responded, resisting the urge—on principle—to rub the dirt on his face away. Maybe he should pay more attention to what he looked like. Would Draco like him more? But, really, why should it matter what he looked like? Why was Draco so interested? Was he embarrassed by Harry? Was that why he acted so differently when there were other people around?

"What are you thinking about?" Draco asked.

"Just stuff. Start of term, my Botany project." Wondering when the bottom is going to drop out of this stolen life. "You know, the usual."

Draco kissed him—a soft, feathery one. Shivers danced up and down Harry's spine. "Don't think about it. You'll do fine. Classes don't start back until tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know. I just--"

"Just nothing. Honestly, Harry, you've nothing to worry about. Is this what's had you all in a twist this past week? Classes? You've been worse than a fishwife."

"Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean. You've been all moody and argumentative. Except, of course, when you're attacking me for a quick shag. You must have really liked what we did on New Year's."

Harry looked away. He could feel himself blushing "It was brilliant. You know it was."

"Good to know that's not the issue. So tell me, Potter, what's got you on edge?"

"Nothing in particular," Harry mumbled. "Just . . . stuff. Like I said before."

"Well, perhaps a proper shag will take your mind of things."

Harry's lips curled into a lazy grin. Shagging sounded like a bit of alright to him. He grabbed Draco's shirt and pulled him forward, kissing him hard. "You think that, do you?"

"Yeah. Everyone's at dinner. Let's go back to our room. We can shut the curtains and practice coming silently," Draco said, grinding himself against Harry.

Harry groaned. "Don't think I can make it that far." He canted his hips, his erection brushing Draco's.

"Fuck, Harry."

"That's the general idea," Harry murmured before leaning in for another kiss.

The door to the stable banged open. Harry and Draco sprang apart, their erections wilting in their panic to set themselves to rights.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

Heavy footsteps came closer. Draco and Harry scrambled to make themselves presentable. Harry tried to share a conspiratorial grin with Draco, but Draco avoided his gaze, standing stiffly to the side. Harry opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong when a swaggering boy came into view. He wore riding breeches and boots as if it were perfectly normal to do so at half seven on a Sunday evening in January. It was that prat, Cormac McLaggen.

"Ah, there you are, Draco," McLaggen said, ignoring Harry. "Zabini thought you might be headed this way. Checking on the horses, I see. Good to see someone else takes the dressage team as seriously as I do."

McLaggen stepped in front of Harry as if he were invisible. Draco, he noticed, did nothing to correct the slight. Harry kicked at a nearby bale of hay, purposefully trying to make at least one of them acknowledge him. Neither did.

"Now, we need to decide what to do with that Davies chap. His seat's all wrong and the lunge-line isn't helping," McLaggen said in an overly serious voice.

"Now's not really a good time. How about later?"

"But we're both here. Now's the perfect time."

"I was in the middle something. How about later?"

"Yeah, he was talking to me," Harry said, irritated at being talked about as a "thing."

McLaggen swung around, eyeing Harry up and down. "Oh, it's Potter," he said, as if just noticing that Harry was standing less than a foot away from him.

McLaggen turned back to Draco with a sniff, dismissing Harry with little more than a glance. "You can talk to the stable boy anytime you want. This is an emergency, Draco."

"Stop calling me stable boy," Harry said, frantically trying to catch Draco's gaze. He saw Draco wince and felt a cold shock.

Draco—still steadfastly avoiding Harry's gaze—rolled his eyes and huffed. "Oh, all right," he said to McLaggen. They turned as if to leave.

Harry didn't know what was happening. "Hey, wait a minute. Draco and I were talking. Your poncy little emergency can wait."

McLaggen turned back around. "No one's talking to you. Go back to whatever it is you scholarship students do when you're not scurrying around, gasping in wonder at the sight of the school's crystal goblets and things." McLaggen looked him up and down again, his eyes resting on Harry's face where the smudges of dirt were. "The Board of Governors really needs to reconsider this wave of charity," he said under his breath before turning back to Draco.

Again, Draco said nothing. Did nothing. Harry's hands balled into tight fists. "Fuck you, McLaggen."

"Case in point. Come on, Draco, let's leave Potter to his curry brushes and hay bales." McLaggen snorted. "Probably better than anything he grew up with."

Harry felt hot and sick. They were ignoring him. Anger surged through him, roaring in his ears.

"I mean seriously, Draco. I get that Potter here's a little project of yours, but you have to put the work aside on occasion."

Harry's gaze darted over to Draco, pleading silently, but Draco was staring at the floor, a frown on his face. Every fear he had about Draco's intentions—his mum's, Professor Snape's—came to the fore in one gut-wrenching rush.

A strangled cry sounded deep in Harry's throat. He sprang forward, tackling McLaggen.

"What the bloody hell?" Harry heard McLaggen shout before they landed hard on the floor, Harry on top.

"Get off of me, you sodding little savage!"

Harry threw a punch, his knuckles grazing McLaggen's temple. "I am not a fucking project, or a fucking stable boy, you bloody tosser! Or—or a savage!"

"Stop it! Both of you, stop it," Draco screamed, pulling Harry off of McLaggen. "What's wrong with you?" Draco asked, shaking Harry's shoulders hard.

"And you," Draco said, pointing at McLaggen, "stop being such a wanker."

McLaggen got to his feet. He smoothed his riding breeches. Harry scrambled to his feet as well, breathing hard and scowling.

"I ought to report you," McLaggen said.

"No one's reporting anybody. Think about it, you report Harry and Harry will be forced to tell the Headmaster about your anti-scholarship sentiment. I seem to recall you getting a dressing down for that last year," Draco said.

McLaggen sneered at Harry and Harry made to dart forward. Only Draco's stern gaze stopped him.

"Honestly, you're both idiots," Draco whispered under his breath.

Those words hurt Harry more than he cared to admit.

"Now. Cormac, let's discuss your bloody emergency back at the school. Harry, I'll be back later."

"Don't bother," Harry said and turned away, grabbing a curry brush and heading for Buckbeak's stall.

"Oi, Potter," McLaggen called.

Harry tensed, refusing to turn around.

"Anytime you want to fight like a civilized human being instead of an ignorant Neanderthal, let me know. I'm sure we can arrange something."

"Shut it, McLaggen," Draco said.

Harry heard them both leave, McLaggen chuckling all the way. He could feel the hot rush of anger boil away, leaving only insecurity in its wake. "Great, Harry. Just fucking great."

"Why do you insist on doing that oaf's job?"

The shush, shush, shush of Harry's curry brush stopped for a moment before resuming. He was surprised Draco had come back. "Mr. Hagrid's not an oaf. Don't call him that. I asked to be allowed to brush Buckbeak. I like it, and if it's too offensive to your delicate sensibilities, you can bloody well get out."

Harry heard Draco's sigh. He swallowed hard and kept brushing.

"That was really stupid, you know. McLaggen could have gone to the Headmaster, regardless of what I said."

Harry had thought about that. He'd thought about everything, including how he'd come dangerously close to fucking up his life because he was angry. Scared. "Whatever," Harry said.

"Christ, Harry. He could have hurt you."

Anything else Draco would have said was cut off by the stamp of Buckbeak's hooves. "Easy, boy," Harry murmured, running his hand across Buckbeak's flank.

"You indulge that horse, you know. Though, come to think of it, he's more beast than horse."

"He is not. He's just spirited, is all," Harry said, continuing to run his hand across Buckbeak's flank.

Harry felt like he and Buckbeak were kindred spirits of a sort. He understood what it was like to have uncontrolled emotion running through him, whose first instinct was to react rather than process. He understood what it was like to try and restrain himself and act the way people around him wanted him to act. Sometimes, though, Harry wanted to stamp his hooves and snort and bite—a little bit like he'd done earlier. That, of course, as Draco had reminded him, was a ticket straight out of Wolsford and back to the Dursleys.

"He is a beast. Did you know that he nearly threw McLaggen at the end of term. Idiot decided he wanted to ride him, said that he was the only one who could train him into a proper dressage horse." Draco snorted. "Obviously he was wrong."

Harry wasn't ready to forgive and forget. "McLaggen's a menace."

"He's just a prat, like most of the guys here."

Harry whirled around, his face flushed with anger. "No one else calls me stable boy, or a fucking pro--savage."

"Sodding hell, Harry, he's just another idiot in a sea of idiots. You really need to let it go. He's a prat. End of story."

"Whatever. Fine. I didn't even want to talk about him."

"No, you just wanted to beat him into a bloody pulp."

"So what if I did?"

"What's got into you?"

"You didn't even defend me. You let him talk to me, let him treat me, like I was nothing. Like I was worse than nothing. Is that—is that what you think of me?"

"You let him get to you, Harry. You were completely out of control and out of line."

"I was out of line? I was out of line?"

"You tackled him like some sort of street hooligan because he insulted you. Yeah. I'd say you were out of line."

"Maybe I was just upset because my goddamned boyfriend couldn't be arsed to defend me."

Draco took several steps forward, a feverish glint in his eyes. "I told you we can't tell anyone about that. They wouldn't understand, Harry."

"And that means you couldn't defend me?" Harry swiped at his face, turning his back to Draco, refusing to let him see how much he'd been hurt.

"Look, I'm sorry about that. As a general rule, I don't get involved in stupid little spats. I'm . . . Christ, Harry, this is all new to me too, you know. It's not like you're some girl whose honor I have to defend or something. It was just McLaggen, being McLaggen. I know you know that, so what's really going on?"

Harry's shoulders slumped, the renewed anger bleeding out of him, leaving him feeling lost and vulnerable. "It's. . . . Nothing."

"Liar."

Harry wanted to tell him about being afraid of having to go back to the Dursleys, about feeling sure the last seven months or so had been nothing more than a holiday. He wanted to tell him that McLaggen was right, he didn't belong, and that that was why he'd gotten so angry. But he wouldn't say any of those things. He wasn't some weak-willed, girly chap who couldn't handle life. So he said nothing, tucking away his fears.

"Look, let's just forget about what happened earlier. Let's just go to dinner," Draco said.

"No. I told you I had a job to do. We scholarship students understand hard work."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Take it any way you like."

Draco stared for a long moment before shaking his head. "Fine. See you."

Harry watched him leave, the curry brush dangling from his fingers.

&&&&

Harry stifled a yawn as he glanced around the room, silently appraising the other botany projects. Jason DuPrez's graft looked rather sickly in Harry's opinion, as did George Smith's. He glanced down at his own, wondering again if there was a slight color variation in the leaf veining that shouldn't be there.

"God, I'm tired," Smith said, slumped against the wall.

There were a few murmurs of assent, but mostly the Colloquium class couldn't be arsed to respond. Instead they stumbled around half-awake. Harry was half-awake as well, but not because he'd been up all night finishing his journal, or putting the final touches on his project. No, he'd been thinking about Draco, and the spectacular fight they'd had the previous day. The third one in less than a week.

"Christ, he's a menace," Thomas Wright grumbled as he sat down on the lab stool next to Harry.

Harry didn't miss Wright's obvious glance at his project.

"Who are you talking about?" Harry asked, pushing his planter to the side.

"Old Snapey, of course."

"Look here, Wright," Harry began, intending to defend Professor Snape, but Wright continued as if Harry hadn't said a word.

"He just had to set the project due the first week. At eight o'clock in the bloody morning on our first Saturday back, no less. We don't even have class on Saturdays."

Harry closed his mouth. A Saturday morning class really was quite cruel, Harry thought. "Better that than last Monday."

"I suppose. Wouldn't have put it past him, though," Wright said leaning back, making no attempts to hide his assessing stare of Harry's project.

Harry scowled at him.

"Not bad, Potter, but did you see Coatfield's? He'll make us all look bad."

A moment of panic surged through Harry. "No, I haven't. It's good?"

Wright nodded in that irritatingly grave manner he had. "Best get to my seat. See you at study group next Monday."

"See you," Harry said, trying to catch a glimpse of Dennis Coatfield's project.

"Harry!" Neville cried, stumbling as he made his way over to their lab table. "I was up half the night finishing my journal. Bet you've had yours done for ages, though."

Harry craned his neck, still trying to glimpse Coatfield's project. "Er, I was up late, too."

"I'll be glad to get this done. My nerves are shot."

Harry resisted the urge to chuckle at that. He quite liked Neville, but had come to realize that "Nervous Neville" wasn't just a schoolboy taunt. "I know what you mean."

Harry sighed. Too many people surrounded Coatfield and he couldn't get a proper look.

"Your graft looks really good," Neville said.

Harry turned at the compliment, shifting his focus.

"Thanks. Your project looks good, too."

Neville blushed. "Eh, I don't know about that. Your stem's nice and straight. Mine's a bit wonky, I think."

Wonky wasn't the half of it. Neville's graft was thriving, but twisted at such an odd angle that Harry couldn't conceive of how he'd done it. "I'm sure it's fine."

"Thanks, Harry, but it is a bit wonky."

Harry did chuckle then. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

"Hey, a bunch of us are going to the village for that cinema festival tonight. The school's arranged transportation and everything. Want to come?"

"Er, thanks, Nev, but I've got, um, plans already."

"Cottage party, right?"

Harry's face heated in embarrassment. "Yeah. Erm, sorry."

"Don't look so apologetic. I've long given up on being invited to one of those. I'm just surprised you're going, is all. Thought you might be feeling a bit lonely tonight."

"What do you mean? Why would you think that?"

"Well . . . I didn't mean to—I wasn't spying, or anything, I just . . . well you and Malfoy get pretty loud when you get into it. I just assumed . . . I mean, considering you were fighting, I just assumed you weren't going."

A new kind of panic surged through Harry. "It was just—we're just—what did you hear?"

Neville shrugged, keeping his eyes on the lab table. "Only that you didn't want to go. I agree with you, by the way. Cormac McLaggen is a complete wanker. I can see why you wouldn't want to go to party when he's going as well." Neville hesitated and looked up. "If you don't want to go, why are you agreeing to? You don't strike me as the sort to follow Malfoy's orders."

"He didn't order me, Neville. He just . . ." Harry scrubbed his face. Everything was so jumbled. Nothing made sense. "He just made a good point about trying to get along with difficult people."

"Why do you care, though? I mean, so you don't get along with McLaggen, hate him even. Why would Draco care about that?"

Harry was saved from having to respond by Professor Snape's impressive sweep into the room.

"I trust all of you have your projects?" Professor Snape asked.

"Yes, Professor," they said.

"Good. Present them, please. Project to your left, journal to your right."

There was a mad scramble to present journals and small planters of peach wood with grafted almond branches.

Professor Snape stalked around the room, scrutinizing each project, making unkind assessments of those he didn't like, and nodding at those he did. Coatfield, Harry noted, received an exceptionally sharp nod. Before long Professor Snape made his way to their table.

"Will wonders never cease, Mr. Longbottom. Your graft appears to be thriving."

Neville beamed.

"Amazing, considering the contorted angle at which you've grafted this poor little almond branch. Why, it looks as if it's staining against invisible bonds, a captive slave of the sturdier peach wood."

There was a titter of laughter. Neville crumpled a bit, and Harry's face flamed with embarrassment for his friend.

"Do take care, Mr. Longbottom. What we do here is as much art as science. You must possess a certain aesthetic sensibility if you wish to excel."

"Yes, Professor," Neville said, staring at the lab table.

Professor Snape turned to Harry's project, his cool gaze assessing every leaf vein and tendril. He nodded his head sharply. Harry let go the breath he'd been holding.

"The graft appears stable and well-formed. The color in the veining is a bit off, however. You'll need to watch the nutrient intake over the next few weeks to stave off rejection. Otherwise . . . this is passable, Mr. Potter."

Harry refused to give into the grin threatening to cleave his face in half. "Yes, Professor," he said in a breathy rush.

Professor Snape's lips quirked at the corners of his mouth. He strode to the front of the class, his arms resting on the mammoth podium.

"You must take extra care in this phase of the grafting. We do not want rejection. Before leaving today, please take note of Mr. Coatfield's project, which is by far the best of the group."

Harry resisted the urge to scowl.

"For my assistants—Mr. Coatfiled, Mr. Wright, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Longbottom—if you fail to complete this stage of the project, you will be stripped of assistant status and I will have to seriously consider whether to keep you in the Colloquium."

Neville made a sound in the back of his throat that conjured the image of a pig being strangled. Neville nearly knocked over his grafting project in his haste to cover his mouth with his hand, but Harry reached out and kept it steady.

"All right there, Nev?" Harry whispered as Professor Snape droned on about the precariousness of grafting.

"Yeah. S-sorry about that. Just got . . . he's just so . . . so intimidating."

Harry gave Neville a warm smile and returned his attention to Professor Snape.

"Now, before we begin the next part of our project, I wish to share an opportunity with you. I have received a summer research fellowship to study a new species of flora in Chile that has appeared spontaneously. The research required will study whether this particular specimen is new or merely one that has adapted in response to changing climate patterns."

Professor Snape paused, his eyes skimming over every student. Harry thought they rested on him a bit longer than the other students.

"I am permitted two assistants and will be choosing them from this group."

Excited, furious whispers broke out, sounding like a swarm of adolescent bees on their way to cross-pollinate for the first time. To Harry, Professor Snape's words sounded like the answer to a silent prayer.

"Quiet."

The buzzing stopped.

"My decision will be based on your project work and regular coursework. I must stress that this will be hard work and much will be expected of my assistants. The lodging will be substandard, the meals poor at best, and the work will be dirty, hot, and unrelenting. But on the other hand, if any of you are serious about botany as a profession, a research opportunity like this is unparalleled. Anyone in this class may express interest, not just my current assistants. To that end, I expect each of you to let me know by next class whether you'd like to be considered."

Harry didn't hear much of what Professor Snape said after that. He was already dreaming of a summer in Chile.

&&&&

Harry made slow work of gathering his books and project. He waited until everyone was on their way out before approaching Professor Snape.

"Er, Professor Snape?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"I just . . . I just wanted you to know that I'd like to be considered. For the research project, I mean."

Harry swallowed as Professor Snape stared back at him, his expression blank.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely."

Professor Snape hesitated. "The work will be very, very hard and, to some extent, tedious. This will not be a holiday."

Harry snorted. "Since when are any of my summers holidays," he said under his breath before he could think.

"There is that. In fact, I want to make sure that this isn't about the Dursleys."

"Of course not. I want to be a botanist. I—I want this opportunity. I work hard and I think I'd be good. A good assistant, I mean."

"I have no doubt of your work ethic or your career desires. I just want to make sure you've thought this through."

"Well, I have."

"Do not take that tone with me."

"Sorry, sir."

Professor Snape paused, staring at Harry again with that blank expression of his that made Harry want to apologize for something and stand in the corner. "Very well," he said eventually. "You will be considered."

"Thank you, sir." Harry turned to leave.

"Harry, I know you're worried about this summer, but you shouldn't be. Things will work out, no matter. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Harry smiled, thinking he did understand. "Yes, sir. Of course."

&&&&

"Red, or black?" Blaise asked, stripping off the black shirt he'd just been wearing and pointing to the red one in his hand.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because you're gay and you're supposed to know these things."

Harry looked down at his rumpled tee-shirt and back at Blaise, as if to say, "You can't be serious."

Blaise shook the red shirt at him and canted his head in response.

"Do I look like someone who knows these things? Just pick one and put it on."

Blaise sighed, tossing the red shirt to the floor and putting the black one back on. He turned back and looked Harry and up and down. "You're not going like that, are you?"

"Why is everyone so concerned about the way I dress?"

"Someone's knickers are in a twist."

"Maybe it's because you're asking stupid questions. I doubt anyone's going to care about whether you wear a red or black shirt."

Blaise laughed. "Yeah, maybe. But seriously, Potter, go shower, or something. My brother will be here in half an hour."

"Thinking about not going at all," Harry said, not looking up from the book he was trying to read.

"Fuck, Potter. Not this again. Look, just don't drink your weight in alcohol, and you'll be fine."

Harry turned a page. "It's not that."

"What is it, then, because we're supposed to leave soon."

"I just don't want to go."

"This isn't about that fight you and Draco had yesterday in Bloomsbury Hall, is it?"

"For fuck's sake, was the whole school there or something?"

"What?"

"Nothing," Harry said, tossing his book to the side. "Not important."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"You know, you can be a right bastard sometimes."

Harry grinned, making sure his lips curled back from his teeth. "Part of my charm."

"No wonder Draco likes you, then. But seriously, Potter, is this about that fight? Or any of the others you've had this week?"

Harry's fingers plowed through the folds of his green blanket. "Yes, and no."

Blaise pounced on Harry's bed, the expression on his face eager. "Tell me the yes part, then. Draco won't say a word—just stomps around and sneers at birds and things."

"I just—I dunno. Part of it's the McLaggen thing."

"I told you, McLaggen's brother and my brother are good friends. The party would have been cancelled if I hadn't invited that wanker. Killed me to do it."

"Yeah, I know. Draco told me all about it."

"So all of this is about McLaggen?"

Harry hesitated. "I . . . no. I suppose not."

"What? What is it?"

"Draco says no one can know we're together, and I get that, I guess, but that doesn't mean that I want to spend the night watching all of those little trollops hanging all over him."

Blaise clapped his hands. "I knew you'd be the jealous type!"

"Are you sure you're not gay, Blaise? You're awfully poncy."

"Ha! Thought I'd fall for that, did you? You should know by now, Potter, that it takes a lot more to get me off track than a slur against my manhood."

"Actually, I wasn't talking about the size of your cock."

Blaise laughed, falling back against the bedpost. "Good show, Potter. Finally catching on. And you didn't even stumble over the word cock." Blaise pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. "My little Harry's all grown up. He can say cock without blushing or stammering."

Harry pushed Blaises's shoulder, trying very hard not to chuckle. "Shut it, you perv. I'm trying to be serious, here."

Blaise straightened up, all sign of playfulness gone. "Yeah, I got that. But the thing is, Harry, you've got to let this go. You of all people should know that you can't make Draco do anything he doesn't want to do."

"So what are you saying? That I should just stand by and smile as he flirts with all of those girls, like there's nothing wrong with that? That I should do whatever he tells me to do?"

"Come off it, mate. There are very few people who can tell you want to do. You're rather resistant to being ordered around. I heard Draco grumbling about it all night."

"Good for him," Harry spat.

"You two are unfuckingbelievable, you know that? Before the hols, I was worried that I'd come in here and find the two of you tangled in the sheets. Now I just worry about you killing each other, and it's only been a week since we got back. What's with you?"

Harry looked away. He didn't understand why they'd been fighting so much, especially when he was the one instigating most of it. It was like everything had been perfect at New Year's and that terrified him, because Harry Potter's life wasn't allowed such brilliance. Sometimes he felt as though he were simply waiting for the axe to fall.

"So what should I do?" Harry asked.

Blaise shrugged. "Don't know what to tell you, other than you're either going to have to deal with the trollops, or be prepared to tell the world that you and Draco are gay, knowing that you'll lose Draco over that."

"He shouldn't be ashamed of me or what we have."

Blaise stood. He fiddled with his belt and smoothed his trousers. "Never said he was, mate, but he's Draco," he said, as if that explained things. Unfortunately, Harry thought, it did.

"And I'm me," Harry said to himself.

&&&&

As far as Harry was concerned, agreeing to go to the Cottage party ranked high on the list of worst possible ideas he'd ever had. He sat in the corner, nursing a beer, wishing he'd never agreed to go. First, there was that McLaggen prat, swaggering about trying to shake everyone's hand and cornering some of the more popular boys, no doubt pressing them on their opinions of the dressage team.

Harry could deal with that, actually. He'd gotten out the worst of his anger the week prior. At least it felt that way at the moment, when he was pleasantly buzzed.

What was much harder was watching girls flutter their sparkly eyelashes at Draco, or shimmy their blobby little breasts at him, or, worse, try and kiss him with their sticky, glossy pink lips. While Draco had done a good job of fending off the little harlots, he'd not looked at Harry at all. Not once. Hadn't even spoken to him. Hadn't spoken to him since their fight the day before, actually.

A girl with impossibly blonde hair laughed at something Draco said, sounding like a feral hyena. Harry growled. He finished his beer and stood to get another.

As he reached across the table, someone called his name.

"Oi, Potter."

Harry tensed and cursed under his breath. "What do you want, McLaggen?"

"Surprised to see you here, is all. How'd you get an invitation to a Cottage party? Is it charity night, or something?"

Familiar anger bubbled up in Harry, the feel of it thick and acidic. He stepped closer, not sure of what he would do, but ready to do something. Anything. He opened his mouth, prepared to spew every foul word he could think of, but Blaise interrupted.

"Yeah, McLaggen it is, glad to see you got your invitation," Blaise said, strolling up behind them. "My brother has a soft spot for sods like you, well that and your brother basically begged him for an invitation for you. Something about you not playing well with others and needing all the help you could get."

Harry sniggered as McLaggen went red in the face.

"Now unlike you, Harry here has been to all the Cottage parties—he has a standing invitation," Blaise said.

McLaggen's eyes narrowed and darted between Blaise and Harry. He snorted. "Figures Potter would have an invitation to such a pitiful excuse for a party. Cheap beer and cider? Yeah, great party." McLaggen sniffed. "The only thing missing is the cheap whores and the snakebite."

"You can leave then, if you're having such an awful time of it. I don't think anyone would mind," Blaise said.

McLaggen tossed his head—looking a bit like a horse for a moment—before sneering at Blaise and wandering off.

"What a tosser. Alright there, Harry?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"Good. Got to keep the aggro to a minimum, you know," Blaise said with a wink. "Have a bit more to drink—not too much, though—and at least pretend to have a good time, yeah?"

"Sure."

Blaise ruffled Harry's hair. "Good boy. My work is done here. Now to try and reconcile Ron and Hermione. I think he tried to touch her knickers."

Harry laughed, raising his can in silent salute. For a moment he was having a good time. The good feeling faded, though, when he turned back and saw that horrible little blonde bint affixed to Draco's side. At least Draco seemed to be suffering. Harry smiled a bit grimly.

Suddenly the music seemed too loud, the crowd too stifling. "Right," Harry said to himself, swilling down the rest of his beer, grabbing another, and heading out to the back garden.

He strolled down the path, the noise from the party diminishing with each step. If he remembered right, there was a bench on the other side of the large tree he was rounding, perfect for sitting and figuring things out in the quiet. Only when he got there, the bench was already occupied. Harry sighed.

"'Lo, Pammy."

Pammy Smythwick turned at the sound of Harry's voice. Her hair and make-up were mussed and her blouse looked a bit worse for wear. She had a glass of cider in her hand.

Harry was by her side in an instant. "You okay? You look like . . . I mean . . .well . . . you okay?"

Pammy laughed and took a drink. Harry noticed that her hand shook a bit.

"I didn't realize I looked so bloody awful."

"I . . . that is . . . you look. . . . Bugger."

Pammy laughed again.

"It's alright. I'm fine. Really. My, uh, date just got a little over-enthusiastic, I guess."

Harry had no idea how to respond. "Oh," he said eventually.

"Oh, is right."

"Did he . . . did he hurt you?"

Pammy waved away his concern. "This is nothing, Harry. Really, don't worry. It's not like he didn't have cause to think I might be a bit easy."

Harry thought he might have preferred to watch the giggly blonde flirt shamelessly with Draco than deal with this. He had absolutely no idea what to say, so he said nothing at all. Pammy didn't seem to mind. So they sat there, drinking silently.

"You ever think you're masquerading as someone you're not?" Pammy asked after a long while. "Or, that you've become someone you never set out to be?"

Harry laughed ruefully. "You've no idea."

"Hmm. I rather suspected that you weren't manor born, but I liked that about you. You have a certain amount of scruffiness. I liked that. I liked you."

"I, uh, I'm sorry, Pammy, I just . . . I don't--"

"Don't worry, I'm not making a declaration of love. I just wanted you to know that I really liked you."

Harry had no idea what Pammy was talking about and the expression on his face must have said the same thing.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about."

"Sorry, no."

"Probably just as well."

"Is this . . . is this about the, uh, kissing and everything? At the first Cottage party?"

Pammy's smile twisted to one side. "In a manner of speaking."

"Oh. I don't. It doesn't matter, anyway. I always meant to thank you for that. The kiss, I mean. The rest is a bit fuzzy and, in some ways, involves things I'd rather not think about."

"Yes, well, water under the bridge and all that, but whatever are you thanking me for?"

Harry looked away. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment. "Just that . . . God, I can't believe I'm admitting this . . . You were my first kiss."

Harry turned back and looked at Pammy. She had an unreadable expression on her face. "You're joking," she said eventually.

"Believe me, I wish I were."

"Well that's just the icing, now isn't it?"

"What?"

Pammy waved him away. "Nothing. Nothing. So I was Harry Potter's first kiss. I know a lot of girls who would be very jealous to learn that."

"Great. Thanks a lot. I'm already having a great time of it and that little bit of gossip would make things loads better, I'm sure." Harry's shoulders slumped. "I told Draco I'd never fit in with—with—well, no offense, Pammy, but with people like you and Draco and everyone else at Wolsford. I don't belong here and sooner or later everyone's going to figure that out."

Pammy set her drink down and turned, clasping Harry's hands in hers. "Sod them, Harry. Sod them all. I wish I could say that it doesn't matter, but to some of these old families it does. But that shouldn't stop you from thumbing your lovely nose at them all and telling them to sod off. You're great just the way you are, Harry."

"Uh, thanks. Erm, what about you, then? Why do you run around, doing, uh, what you do if you don't want to?"

Pammy shrugged. "It's not that easy. No, strike that. Part of me likes it very much, but there's no easy place to draw a line, I suppose." She gave Harry's hands a gentle squeeze. "But enough about that. We should get back."

"Yeah, you should, Pammy."

Harry's head whipped around at the sound of Draco's voice. In the moonlight, he could see Draco glaring at Pammy.

"What are you doing out here?" Harry asked, surprised at how tetchy his voice sounded, even to him.

"I could ask the same of you."

"I'm surprised you even noticed I was missing, what with miss-laughing-hyena all over you."

"Speak for yourself. You're practically in the lap of the mother of all barracudas."

Pammy cleared her voice. "I think this is where I slip into the night and let the two of you finish your spat in private. I don't think I'd care to know where this is headed."

Harry saw a flash of genuine fear in Draco's eyes. "Shut it, you vapid cow," Draco said with a sneer. "Go back and find yourself another little fuck."

Harry stood. "That's enough. You're such an utter arse, Draco. Pammy hasn't done anything to you—leave her the fuck alone. If you're angry with me, take it out on me, not her."

"Defending her honor, are you?"

"Surprised you figured that out, seeing as how it's such a foreign concept to you."

"Okay boys," Pammy interrupted, "I'm leaving now. Give me about five minutes and then you can bash each other's brains in. I have no idea what you're fighting about and, believe me, I have no desire to know. And don't worry, Draco, whatever's going on here stays between us."

"Too right, you are."

"I'm not doing it for your benefit, Draco. It's for Harry. He's got quite enough on his plate, especially if he has to deal with you." With a wink at Harry, Pammy turned her head and flounced off, ignoring Draco's sputtering.

"Well, that went well," Harry said.

Draco rounded on him. "What were you doing out here with her?"

"I wasn't out here with her, Draco. I came out here to get away from you, and McLaggen, and that ridiculous party. She just happened to be out here."

"How convenient." Draco paced back and forth, staring at Harry the whole time. "You looked awfully cozy. Wanted to give her a chance to suck you off, did you?"

"You've lost your mind."

"Right. And she was holding your hands because something scary jumped out of the bushes."

Things fell into place in that moment and Harry realized that he and Draco weren't so different after all. He smiled, his first genuine smile in what felt like a long time. "You're jealous."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "I am not. You take that back."

"You are. You're jealous." Harry walked forward, causing Draco to back up into the tree. "You can't stand the thought of Pammy Smythwick touching me, can you?"

Draco swallowed. His breath was ragged.

"Can you?" Harry asked, leaning in and biting the side of Draco's neck. God, it had been ages since he'd touched Draco. Kissed him. He wanted to have sex against the tree—wanted to feel connected to Draco in a way that didn't involve words or subtext.

"She was touching you," Draco said, his voice rough with anger and what sounded like lust to Harry.

Harry nibbled his way up Draco's neck. "And you didn't like it, did you?" When Draco didn't respond, Harry canted his hips forward.

Draco groaned as their erections pressed against each other. "Of course I didn't. I don't want anyone else touching you. Touching what's mine." Draco grabbed Harry's hips and pressed himself forward. He leaned in and sucked hard on the side of Harry's neck.

"Now you know—ah, god—now you know how it fucking feels."

Draco growled and whirled them around so that Harry's back was pressed against the tree. He lunged forward, kissing Harry so hard their teeth clacked together. Harry's tongue thrust into Draco's mouth. All the while they rubbed furiously against each other—pressing, squeezing, taking.

"Want you," Draco moaned before attacking Harry's neck with his teeth and tongue.

Harry growled in the back of his throat. He pivoted his foot and whirled them around, slamming Draco into the tree.

They rubbed against each other hard and fast, the friction on the cusp of painful.

They went faster and faster, their breaths whistling and wheezing as they scrabbled against each other, needing to be closer, needing to find release.

Draco came first, his body arching from the tree, pushing further into Harry, his mouth open in a silent scream. Harry followed soon after, grunting as his orgasm washed over him.

Draco slumped against the tree and both of them slid down until they were sitting on the ground. As the frenzied need they'd both felt dissipated, weariness set in. Harry was so very, very tired. He closed his eyes.

&&&&

He felt fingers carding through his hair. Harry smiled. He shifted a bit. The fingers stopped. Lips pressed lightly against the top of his head.

"We should get back. We can sneak in the side door and clean up. Hopefully everyone will be too drunk to notice that anything's off."

Harry nodded.

"Look, I'm sorry about tonight. And last week. I should have. . . . God, Harry, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to do this. It's nothing to do with you, you know that, yeah?"

Harry swallowed. He was too tired and too content at the moment to get into things with Draco. "Yeah, sure," he said, disentangling himself and getting to his feet.

Draco stopped him before he could start walking back. Harry turned, his expression questioning.

Draco stared at him a long while, looking as though he wanted to say something but couldn't find the right words. In the end he leaned forward, giving Harry one of his long, slow kisses—the kind that made Harry forget things for a little while. Harry fell into the kiss.