I don't like this chapter as much as the first. I feel that there is too much talking and internal dialogue. Shoot. Sorry, all.

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PROMPTS:

Lake

Charm

2 a.m.

Needle

Turpentine kisses and mistaken blows

Wire

Every you, every me

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I AM RETITLING THIS FIC'S OVER-USED, CLICHE TITLE. ANY IDEAS?

EVERY YOU, EVERY ME

by The Ultimate Otaku

CHAPTER TWO

BLAISE

After preventing Potter from entering with Colloportus, Blaise walked over to where Malfoy was bent over a toilet puking his insides out. He sat on the counter behind Malfoy, in front of the row of stalls. Quietly, he asked, "So. Malfoy. Are you puking because you just kissed Potter, or because of all that fire whiskey?"

He waited until Malfoy was done making horrible sounds and then looked over. Malfoy was pale and drawn and trembling. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then glared back at Blaise.

"It was the fire whiskey, you idiot," he hissed. He turned away and sat still for a moment, taking deep breaths. Blaise waited for him to say something else, some explanation, but he didn't.

Hmm. What on earth would attract Malfoy to Potter? For surely, there could be no other reason for kissing him. He wouldn't do it on a stupid dare. He wouldn't do it, Blaise thought, even if the Dark Lord himself had ordered him to. He had transformed from angry to sulky on the way over, enough that Blaise had convinced him to stop for a drink. Or a few. And he hadn't, really, gotten all that drunk. He hadn't been too sloshed to think straight. One moment he was sitting with Blaise, then he'd waltzed over and planted one on Potter.

Ew. Blaise ran his hand through his hair. What the hell did Malfoy see in Potter? And over him? He knew he was good looking. He had had girls fawning over him even back in First Year. His private nature had hated that fawning, and he'd quickly made sure he virtually disappeared the next year. He wasn't an attention-whore like Malfoy, always spitting at his enemies like a wounded cat, and…and…

That was it! Malfoy was always hexing, cursing, and bothering Potter. Like a little boy tugging the braids of his first crush, instead of showing his attraction pleasantly, or through formal Pureblood courting style, Malfoy lashed out at every moment he could. His every insult to Potter was only to hide what he actually felt…

Blaise felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He almost wanted to go puke, too. How could this be? Malfoy liked POTTER? Scrawny, loud, obnoxious, skip-classes, Mudblood-loving, Weasel-buddy Potter? Potter was an idiot! Sure, he had avoided the Dark Lord with a series of lucky moves, but handsome? Witty? Anything at all remotely attractive, powerful, or interesting? He was none of those. He was just a boy, like so many others, except that he was the Boy Who Lived.

Was that it? Malfoy just wanted to be attached to fame? Well he had it now, if he'd ever wanted it, for being the son of a Death Eater. Wasn't that enough? Especially since the fame he had was popular amongst his lot, that of Pureblood superiority and aristocracy. So why in blazing hell would Malfoy desire Potter?

He took a deep breath, and acted against his flaring anger and bewilderment. He slid over to Malfoy's still-retching form, and put his hands on the blonde's shoulders. He felt the twitch of discomfort that earned him, but kept his hands there. Then he positioned his hands to gently support Malfoy's head. It made it easier for Malfoy to just puke, and not get a neck crick in the process, or be so close to anything gross.

When Malfoy was done, they cast a couple spells to get clean him and clear his head, and exited the loo. Blaise felt Rosmerta's glare needling them all the way to the door. She didn't like brawls, unlike the Hog's Head's bartender. He stopped at the counter and left their payment. Rosmerta didn't deserve the trouble they'd given. Both of them, even snobby Malfoy, liked Rosmerta. She was difficult not to like.

Blaise murmured, "I'm sorry about that. Sometimes he's more trouble than he's worth…"

Malfoy was leaning against the door frame quite pathetically, and Blaise was relieved that no one but he and Rosmerta could see that. The blonde looked utterly dejected, worse, if it were possible, than he had when he entered the Three Broomsticks. Joy. He was going to be hell to be around in a different way, now. Maybe Blaise could get into his head a little more now…he had little luck of getting anywhere else, like in his pants, what with Potter in the way…

Rosmerta accepted his apology with a quick nod, and Blaise dragged Malfoy away. The sunny day had darkened, and Malfoy seemed to appreciate it, walking a little more briskly. Or was that just because he didn't want to answer Blaise's questions? Well, too bad.

Blaise caught up easily with Malfoy's shorter strides. He said, "So, fire whiskey?" before Malfoy could slip away again.

Malfoy gave a noncommittal grunt. Then, shooting Blaise a look that was half way a glare and halfway some despairing thing, he mumbled, "Thanks. For the drink. Drinks."

Blaise laughed. "You're welcome. Are you going to thank me, also, for depriving you of your wand when you were about to curse Urquhart? I'm sure being kicked off the Quidditch team wouldn't help your mood."

Malfoy whirled around, his face a little pink. "What do you mean, my mood?"

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Please. Everyone in Slytherin can tell you're upset about something. It's stupid to try and hide it. But you can pretend I didn't mention it and go back to sulking over Potter, if you want."

Malfoy was definitely spitting now. "I. Am. NOT. SULKING! Over. POTTER!"

Blaise crossed his arms and glared at Malfoy. He bit back the smirk he felt creeping on him. Malfoy was actually sortof adorable when he was spitting like this. Blaise had rarely gotten to see it first day, having most seen it used from afar on Potter and co.

"Oh? Then what are you sulking over? Pray tell."

Malfoy whirled, clutching his cloak tightly to him, and then tossing it back across one shoulder. He looked very elegant, for a moment, standing in the sun. Shadows of leaves from a tree next to the road dappled his hair – grey, silver, grey, silver – and his mouth was pursed in that kissing away again. Damn. He wore a finely tailored pair of black robes, and his shoes were so shined they glittered.

He tugged the cuffs of his robes in an indecisive manner, and then shot back, "None of your damn business, Zabini. Don't try to be my friend now. Some little shoulder to cry on bitch."

Blaise couldn't help that his words came out sharp, as he followed a speeding Malfoy again. "Right. Because you have no friends, right?"

Malfoy huffed at him in another stupid, blustering, cute way. He growled, "Fuck you. You don't know anything."

Blaise laughed. "Of course. That's what all the mini Death Eaters say to their friends. So, have you been recruited yet?" He put his hand on Malfoy's left arm. Did Malfoy have the Mark?

Malfoy yanked his arm back, but not before Blaise felt the shudder that tore through the blonde's body. He smacked Blaise's hand away and marched steadily up the hill, puffing only a little. Seeker fit. He laughed in response, but the laugh was short and obviously fake.

"Zabini. You know I wouldn't tell you if I did. Again, mind your own business. And I do have friends."

Blaise caught up to Malfoy again. "Who, Parkinson? Those big dolts that follow you, Crabbe and Goyle?"

"No," Malfoy snarled, "Not them. Nott is better than them, and so is Greengrass, Hell, even Bulstrode is better. At least she has the occasional interesting thing to say. And there's quiet old Pucey."

Pucey. Huh. Blaise smirked. "And Snape?"

Malfoy stopped and stared at Blaise, and then turned away. "Snape! Come on. Just because I happen to be excellent at Potions doesn't mean I'm friends with Severus Snape."

Interesting. Blaise had seen Malfoy suck up to Snape for years, and gotten the feeling that they were somewhat comrades, or at least understood each other more than professor and student usually did. Now Malfoy wanted nothing to do with Snape. Why?

Malfoy might not be friends with Snape. "But your father is."

Malfoy shrugged. "Sure. And they were school mates, like us. So?"

Blaise sighed. Malfoy seemed determined to be angry and not let any of his real feelings show. Blaise also hated the callous way he had just been referred to, as if he were just another House mate. He wanted to change that. "You really bank into all that impersonal Pureblood shit, along with a heavy dose of Slytherin pride and selfishness, don't you?"

Malfoy laughed. "Now you sound like a Hufflepuff. Did they sort you into the wrong House, Zabini?"

Another sigh. "No, you idiot. But maybe they did for you. You'd rather be in Gryffindor, with Potter, wouldn't you? Then you could do more kissing and less verbal dueling…or, more dueling - in the bedroom."

He watched carefully for Malfoy's reaction. The blonde's face got that high, bright pink color to it, and he bit his lip, tugging it between his teeth. Then, in typical Malfoy fashion (Blaise had decided now that Malfoy was fully in denial), he ignored almost everything Blaise had said, with, "You're a whore like your mother, Zabini."

Blaise laughed at the lack of originality, and then waited a beat. They took a few more steps towards the castle grounds, and then he swung his arm out, across Malfoy's body, and shoved him back against a tree. They were toe to toe, and nose to nose. Malfoy's arm was positioned awkwardly, twisting over Blaise's left arm to stab Blaise in the ribs with his wand. But Blaise's wand was solidly positioned at Malfoy's throat.

"I might be the son of a homicidal, whoring bitch, Malfoy, but at least I'm good at it. You're not at all convincing, son of a Death Eater; you're a coward, and you can't even do something so small as to admit you have a weakness for your school enemy. But I like you anyway, you stupid fool, and if you swear to my conditions, I won't tell everyone that you kissed Potter."

Yes, it was like that. Forget any attempts at niceties. He knew they could work with Malfoy, but he was angry now, and it was too much effort to try to break Malfoy's walls down.

Malfoy laughed weakly, after a second of evident surprise. "They won't ever believe you," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, they will," Blaise stated, equally coolly, "Don't you remember our Fourth Year? Everyone was in a tizzy about Potter being in the Triwizard Tournament, and they believed all that bullshit Rita Skeeter wrote. They were hanging on her every word. Why, if I gave the information to her, I bet it would make Galleons. And everyone at Hogwarts would talk about it. I know you like attention, Malfoy, but do you want that kind?"

The blonde's face got pale. It was clear that, though he had kissed Potter and thus revealed his little secret, he didn't want the whole school knowing…or, more likely, he wanted to go back to being in denial and treating Potter like the git he was, instead of 'fessing up. Shouldn't Blaise want Malfoy to keep treating Potter badly? But no. Blaise didn't like to footy around. He wanted to set things straight with Malfoy, and then he was going to pursue getting to know his enemy. One couldn't just eliminate Potter, after all. Blaise didn't want to be sent to Azkaban for touching a hair on the precious 'Chosen One's head. Or worse, tortured by the Dark Lord for killing his prey.

Besides, Malfoy was pissing him off. Again. Why couldn't the little weasel just admit he had a thing for Potter? Even better, could he explain it to Blaise?

"You want to keep it quiet, so you can go back to sulking in your corner and treating him like a rag, don't you? Well, I don't mind the rag part, because he is one, but I'm tired of your denial."

He noticed Malfoy bristle when he called Potter a rag. Oho, possessive? Only Malfoy could sully Potter's good name?

"Just shut up and tell me what you want," Malfoy breathed. He looked like he might be panicking just a little inside. Blaise was pleased to discover he could scare Malfoy so easily. He supposed he had his mother's reputation to thank for that. Just by being her offspring, he was deemed dangerous. Dangerous, even though he'd spent most of five years at Hogwarts in the shadows.

Blaise drank in Malfoy's widened eyes and pale, fearful face, before he leaned in. He placed his mouth on Malfoy's gently at first. Instinctively his left hand kept his wand steady at Malfoy's throat, but with his other, he yanked on Malfoy's hair, pulling him up, closer, deeper into the kiss.

He kissed Malfoy hard, hungrily, before slipping his tongue forcefully into Malfoy's mouth. Mmm, it was good. Malfoy did not want to play, but Blaise did, and he tasted Malfoy, and teased his tongue. He moaned, rocking his body against the other boy, scraping his hands down Malfoy's neck and under the neck line of his robes. Malfoy tried to pull away, having lost his grip on his wand, but Blaise was too strong. He could even take Malfoy here if he wanted to, but he wouldn't.

Blaise wanted to be wanted. He wanted to see Malfoy fall off of his high horse, and be dominated. Or really, being dominated by Malfoy would be alright, too, but Malfoy had to burn with desire for him. He just had to.

Malfoy smelled like pine and sea breeze. He did not taste like barf, thankfully, and the way he squirmed when Blaise's fingers touched below his neck line was amusing. When Blaise released him from the kiss, he yanked his head back.

He looked beautiful, flushed, glaring, until he purposefully wiped the back of his hand against his mouth. But Blaise could feel the shaking in his knees, and it wasn't a spell, or that Malfoy was that scared. Blaise knew he was a good kisser.

"That's what you want?" Malfoy spat out disdainfully, as if he hadn't done the same thing to Potter earlier today. Blaise wanted to slap him.

He stabbed his wand harder against Malfoy's throat, and said, "Here's what I want: You, with me, thrice a week, and no more of your idiotic tirade against Potter. You're in denial. It's obvious. If you give some time to me – and it doesn't have to be physical, all the time – and ignore Potter, I won't tell."

Malfoy spat on the ground, as if to emphasize his disgust with Blaise or his kiss. "I'm not whoring my body out to you. This," he smoothed his hands across his chest, an image that Blaise knew would aggravate him later, "is not for sale. I'm a Malfoy, with pure blood running through me, and I would like to honor my body and not defile it with your filth."

He shut up when the tip of Blaise's wand stung his throat. "Watch it," Blaise growled, "I'm just as pure blooded as you. All you're saying is that you're a virgin and you want to save yourself, like some old-fashioned witch, and for bloody Potter of all people. I think that's the stupidest thing I've heard out of you yet…and that's a lot."

Blaise was too busy being angry, he supposed, for Malfoy managed to bend down for his wand in one quick, Seeker move. Before he could lift it higher than his waist, Blaise had his free hand on Malfoy's, crushing against it so he couldn't grip his wand properly. That lasted only a second, though, because Malfoy's hands were small and delicate like a girl's. He slipped his small hand past Blaise's, and with a good grip, shoved his wand against Blaise's chest.

"You have to give me something I want, in return," Malfoy stated, businesslike once more, "Or I'm going to blast you away right now."

There was ice in his tone. Blaise knew that Malfoy meant what he said, and he had seen Malfoy's curses, hexes, and jinxes. When Malfoy wasn't caught off guard – by Potter and his attraction to him, of course, now it made sense he'd been the fool so many times against Potter's gang – he could be fast, and he knew a great array of dark spells. One didn't have Bellatrix Lestrange as one's aunt and learn nothing dark at all. Blaise had heard stories. They couldn't all be lies.

"Fine then," Blaise said, forcing his voice to stay cool. Inside he was angry, though. He'd fucked this up royally and underestimated Malfoy, and now he was in a bind almost as much. "What do you want?"

Malfoy smirked his trademark. "Potter," he whispered, "In the Sixth Year dormitory. Alone. Except for me. October thirty-first, Halloween."

Blaise couldn't help it. He had to say – "What are you going to do to him?" Or with him, but not really, he thought, because Potter would never consent.

He'd asked it because of the look in Malfoy's eyes. It was more than lust. It was trouble.

Malfoy ignored the question again, and said, "Deal? If you can do it, I'll give you a chance. For the entire two months that it will take until Halloween, I'll…let you have a little fun. You can become Pansy's bosom buddy and leer over me with her."

Blaise hated Malfoy, in that instant. He hated that he had been put with Parkinson, for one thing. He hated that, because he was Pureblood Slytherin, he couldn't be honest. Malfoy couldn't handle it, that is. He couldn't tell Malfoy that, actually, he did sortof mean it when he said he liked him (not just in the physical sense, either), when Malfoy wasn't pissing him off. And he felt sorry for Malfoy. It wasn't just lust, though mostly it was, and he could be a better conversationalist than all the other Slytherins combined. Malfoy would never be bored with him. And he couldn't say that, no, he wouldn't mind if the fact that Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban scared Malfoy shitless, which he bet it did, because Malfoy was a daddy's boy.

Instead, he didn't say any of that. He just said, "Deal."

They stalked back to the castle, together but silent. Blaise became lost in ideas of: How to get Potter for Malfoy? If Malfoy wanted to shag him, well, even HE didn't want Potter to get raped, frankly, and if Malfoy wanted to bring Potter to the Dark Lord, well….he would be alright with that, he supposed, since fate seemed to have deemed it inevitable, but…without knowing which, he didn't know what spirit to go after Potter with. Charm and cunning, or anger and cunning? For only anger, he knew, could motivate him to capture Potter for malicious purposes. He could care less about the Dark Lord's regime; and he couldn't stand Potter, at the moment, except in thoughts of dismembering him limb from limb.

Potter, over him. He still couldn't believe it.

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DRACO

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It was not easy to avoid Harry James Potter when was angry with you. Draco knew this from past experiences, but never had Potter made the point quite as forcefully as he was making it this time.

From dawn until dusk, it seemed, Draco was avoiding Potter. Potter showed up when Draco was in Potions, of course, because they shared the class, but it was easy to ignore him there. Slughorn kept complimenting Potter's potion work so much that it was hard for Potter to keep glaring at Malfoy. Weasley was in the Hospital Wing, apparently, and Draco wondered what in hell Zabini had hit him with.

He hadn't hit Weasley with that spell, so why was Potter going after him? Perhaps it was the kiss. Maybe Potter wanted to murder him for that. Whatever reason it was, it forced Draco to move all over the place – excusing himself from lunch when Potter got up from Gryffindor table, dodging Granger and Potter in the library, and such.

Then, for a time, he was free, going to Defense Against the Dark Arts with Ravenclaw. Then he skipped Transfiguration, even though he couldn't really afford to, because he was sick of this.

Surprise, surprise, that Zabini was sitting in the Common Room when Draco showed up. He sat down on the couch with an internal groan. He was furious that he'd been put in this ridiculous deal, but since Zabini didn't have his wand stabbing Draco's throat, maybe he could just ignore it altogether. He could cheat Zabini and not fulfill his end of the deal.

But…he wanted, and needed, Potter. Draco knew that he couldn't get Potter himself. One rejection was enough for him, thanks.

That was where it had all started. All he'd wanted was a friend to talk to, and he hadn't realized that the dark-haired boy at Madam Malkin's was Harry Potter himself. Then on the train, remembering how important it was to his father he make good connections, he'd sought to be friends with Potter. That feeling of duty had driven him to ask for friendship. That and his raging curiosity about the famous Boy Who Lived.

Potter had rejected him, coldly and thoroughly. Draco didn't think he had ever been rejected before that, and never the same way since. There was something eerie about those green eyes and their cold glare. That, and he hated, hated the Weasleys, because of their blood traitor status and everything his father had told him. And Potter was immediately friends with them all! He directed his hatred towards Potter then, too.

And the rest was history. He had wanted to stop, but Draco was never good at stopping. Once he started, he couldn't stop. He couldn't just turn around and start being nice. He had his family and House reputation to think of. He noticed as a boy the way Snape, whom he looked up to, hated Potter, and figured Snape had good reason. He noticed how his father's regard for Potter soured into hatred after Draco's second year. All of this combined served as boosters for his continued antagonizing of Potter and his little friends.

Besides, it was just too much damn fun. He loved the way Potter replied with these witty, nasty little comments. It was delicious. Everyone thought the Gryffindor hero was so good and perfect and noble and brave…but he knew how to talk shit about people. And he had passion in him. It made Draco wonder if Potter was dirty in bed and if he liked it rough. He bet Potter could handle it. Potter could handle a lot.

Unlike Weasley. That was another thing. Weasley flared up so easy, it was hilarious. The Mudblood was Draco's least favorite. Her remarks were a little too close for comfort, and she always seemed to up Draco in classes. This made his father seethe, and Draco suffered for it. Damn Mudblood and her brains. Plus, he still stung about that time she'd gotten him at wand point in third year…

"What are you thinking about?"

Draco startled out of his thoughts. Zabini was lying back against the couch, one arm flung over it, looking at Draco. His eyes glittered with curiosity. He made no move to get too close, like he had yesterday, holding up Draco's head while Draco was puking. The puking had only been partly from the drink; most of it, Draco admitted privately to himself, had been nerves because he'd just kissed Potter. And Weasley threw a damn good punch. Zabini had managed to heal his face back to its smooth perfection though.

"What do you think I'm thinking about?" Draco smirked, rolling his neck. His muscles hurt from crunching his body down in quick jolts to hide from Potter, who evidently was skilled at stalking. It must be from that Invisibility Cloak Potter had. He had come so close to finding Draco several times today.

Zabini scowled. "Potter. No wonder you look so pleased. Like a cat who caught the canary. Can you explain to me why it is you like him, at least?"

Draco leaned back in the couch. Why should he tell Zabini? He hadn't told anyone else, not Snape, not Theodore Nott, no one. He didn't want to give them that much of an advantage over him. It was bad enough that Zabini had seen him kiss Potter. But he'd been staring at Potter and just…mmm…the way he'd been practically draped on that chair, with Butter beer haze in his green eyes, and Draco had thought, he deserved something good on this otherwise awful day…

Of course, in typical fashion, it had turned more awful after he'd kissed Potter. And though it was fun dodging Potter, today wasn't much fun, either.

He decided to tease Zabini. "What's not to like? Have you seen him lately? He's almost as tall as Weaselfreak, now, and have you ever seen him up close? He has eyes like none other – except his mother, I've heard. They're a very startling shade of green. You can't look away once he's grabbed you with them. He's very…intense. And he never backs down…and if you really think about it…"

Draco shuddered, "It can't be just luck that's saved him from the Dark Lord all those times. Dumbledore isn't there to always save him, like last year. And he was just a baby once…I wonder, what power lies in him. You know how when you're young, you can feel magic burning in you, acting up, and you know what it is, and it feels so fresh and good…and channeling it feels even better…he's good at channeling it. Resisting the Imperius in Fourth Year. I don't think he got special lessons from Dumbledore or anything. He just…has it. That something."

Draco realized he was rambling and saying way too much. He hadn't meant to at all. It was one of those moments where he wished desperately that he could stop his mouth when it ran off without him. But Merlin, he was engrossed in Potter just now…what that sort of power would be like in bed, and what would normal conversation with Potter be like? What did he think about his having his mother's eyes? Did he dream about having parents? Draco knew what it was like to care for his parents, but he hadn't ever had anyone close to him die…yet.

Zabini groaned, a sound of aggravation, next to him. Draco looked over.

"I knew it," Zabini said. "It's because he's mysterious as fuck. If you actually knew him in person, I bet he'd be really boring. I've seen him and Weasley in their spare time. They play Exploding Snap and Wizarding Chess just like the rest of us. Potter is bad at finishing his homework. He's late to class. He stutters when his Head of House slams him one. He feels sorry for Longbottom, for Merlin's sake. He's normal, he just got lucky. He's certainly duller than his Mudblood friend, and the fact that he's smarter than Weasley doesn't prove his worth. You're enamored over a fantasy, Malfoy."

Draco crossed his arms, even though he knew it made him look like a stubborn child. "So what if I am. You don't know him either. You're speculating just as much. Besides…I've seen my aunt talk about him. I've seen her with…him. They wouldn't…" He was wheezing now, and could barely continue, "They wouldn't talk like that if he weren't…dangerous. So, so he might skip class and stalk people in his Cloak, but…he's got another side, that's, something else. I want to know all sides of him."

Zabini said nothing at first. When he did speak, his voice was low and quiet. "…You've seen him? The Dark Lord?"

Draco nodded, and swallowed. "Yes. He…visited, once or twice."

Zabini laughed, loudly, and Draco dropped his arms and glared at his House Mate. Zabini had his head thrown back and was laughing and laughing.

"What?" Draco bellowed. "I'm not joking!"

Zabini tried to stop laughing, but couldn't, and then tried again, "I, I know, but…the Dark Lord, making a house call…ringing a door bell…with his snake sitting beside him like an obedient dog…" He gasped, and tried to get a hold of himself.

Draco stared stonily at Zabini. Ugh. Zabini just did not understand. The Dark Lord was real, as real as any of them, and he was powerful. He had visited, and of course it was not a house call, it was an important meeting. He had been accompanied by the snake. Draco had always thought snakes were beautiful, but this one, huge and shining and wetting his father's living room carpet, was…creepy as fuck, simply put. It looked at Draco with eyes that were very alive and aware, and Draco hadn't dared to pet it.

Then the Dark Lord had known his thoughts and given him permission to pet her and call her by her name, Nagini…and because it was the first time he had ever heard the Dark Lord speak in person, fear had squirmed all around inside Draco, and made him feel sick, as he petted the glistening skin of the gigantic snake…and he thought later, when the Dark Lord and his bedamned Legilimency were gone, that he never wanted to pet or see another snake in his life.

Because he would think of that hissing, horrible voice every time he did.

"Earth to Malfoy. What is wrong?"

Draco shivered again, and opened his eyes. "You don't get it," he snarled, and got up from the couch. A hot hand wrapped around his wrist and dragged him back, back to lie against Zabini's body on the couch.

"I don't. Tell me."

Draco shivered, and tried to pull away again. "No." Zabini was firm and good beneath him, another body, but Draco didn't want him; he wanted Potter.

Then a hand was pushing his hair back, up and away from his ear, and a slick, hot tongue slid out and grazed the sensitive shell of his ear. Draco jolted in Zabini's lap, because that reminded him of the snake, too, but then Zabini's tongue was licking up and down his ear, slowly, softly, and then his mouth suckled over his earlobe, and his teeth bit deliciously…Draco tried to hold back his moan, but he couldn't.

Zabini hummed in a sort of satisfied, laughing sound. He kept licking over Draco's ear, harder, faster. His arms were tight against Draco, holding him close. One of his hands began to drift up and down Draco's thigh, up and down, slowly, while his tongue was moving quickly. Now it was on Draco's neck, biting, tasting, while his fingertips played a pattern over Draco's thigh.

Draco tried to slide away, but it was only half-heartedly. He wondered what Zabini would do next. His House Mate was rubbing circles over Draco's chest with one hand, and his mouth was creating a delightful hickey on Draco's shoulder. The other hand was still on his thigh, and Draco wanted and simultaneously did not want it to move inward and upward…

The Slytherin entrance door opened then, and Nott and another student came in. Immediately Draco wriggled out of Zabini's arms and lifted himself up to stand, but not before Nott, an old friend, gave him a suggestive wink. He'd seen what they were doing. Draco scowled back, and grabbing his school bag, marched up to his dormitory.

Damn Zabini and his questions, and his skillful tongue, and damn Potter and how he made Draco talk too much, even when he wasn't present!

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Review! Please! I want to know what you all think.