Chapter II

Slumping lower in his chair, Harry stifled a yawn. How one person could speak for an entire hour about the many uses of foxglove in potion-making was beyond him. That Hermione continued to listen with rapt attention amazed him further. Another yawn threatened to escape, but he clamped his mouth shut. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. Not since the night Malfoy had caught him.

His gaze slid over to where the Slytherin sat, and he couldn't help the sudden parting of his lips, nor the unconscious hitch in his breathing. Since that night he had been plagued with dreams that left him awake in the small hours of the morning, hot and sweating and nearly in tears with unsatisfied need. His pride wouldn't let him wander the halls at night again, though several times he had been nearly half way out the portrait in the common room before he caught himself.

A row away, Malfory was toying with his wand. Nothing obvious, just running the tips of his fingers up and down the wooden shaft. Up and down in a continuous rhythm, and Harry couldn't tear his eyes away. He swallowed, hard, as an unbidden image of Malfoy's fingers stroking something else flashed before his eyes. This time he couldn't stop the groan.

"Potter," Snape's oily voice cut through the fog of desire. "Since you seem to find the uses of foxglove too illuminating to listen to in silence, I think a detention is in order. My office, tonight."

"Your scar Harry—was it your scar?" He looked at Hermione, bewildered. Was what his scar? He cursed silently as he remembered the groan.

"Yeah, uh, just a twinge." He lied, "Nothing really." She gave him a concerned look, but her attention moved back to Snape as he moved on to use 34.

Back aching, Harry straightened with a moan of pain. He had been washing out caldrons for what seemed like hours. The detention hadn't sounded so bad when Snape had told him he would be hand-washing the first-years equipment, but he hadn't counted on the layers of Merlin-knows-what that was caked to seemingly everything.

Muttering a curse, Harry wrestled with his tie. The first hour down in the dungeons he had been freezing, but it hadn't been long before the physical exertion had caused him to shed first his robes, then his vest. Yanking the gold and scarlet tie off, Harry unbuttoned the top of his shirt. His arms and back burned, but he was almost thankful—hopefully by the time he was finished he'd be so exhausted that he could drop into bed without one thought of Draco.

At that thought, Harry blinked. Since when had "Malfoy" become "Draco"? Angry with himself, he grabbed another cauldron and began to scrub.

Standing in the doorway, Draco watched Harry through heavy lidded eyes. The play of muscle under the thin material of the Gryffindor's shirt had him licking his lips in anticipation. Harry hadn't been the only one suffering from sleepless nights.

"Potter."

Nearly jumping out of his skin, Harry's head jerked towards the door. Malfoy was leaning nonchalantly against the frame, a knowing smirk playing over his lips. It took Harry a couple of tries before he was able to speak.

"M-Malfoy." He was unconsciously backing up, and without warning tripped over the pile of clean cauldrons, landing sprawled on his back on the floor. Malfoy was on him in a flash, and before Harry could regain his breath he found himself straddled by the blonde boy, his hands caught in a vice-like grip behind his head.

Harry made a strangled noise of protest, but it quickly turned into a whimper as Draco ran a hand up Harry's side, stopping at his throat. Harry tried to grab at Malfoy, but found that his hands were held firm by some sort of fabric, and that no amount of frantic tugging would loosen it. Draco had managed to loop Harry's discarded tie around a metal ring on the dungeon floor, and had tied Harry's hands to it.

A surge of panic overcame the slighter boy, and he struggled helplessly under Draco until the pale hand around his throat tightened, cutting off his air. Harry forced himself to lay still, though his green eyes that were wide with fear and fixed on Malfoy's said enough.

His hand sliding from Harry's throat once he was sure that the other boy would remain still, Draco nipped at Harry's chin, delighting in the feel of the shudder the Gryffindor barely managed to suppress. Draco's hand slipped around Harry's waist, and Harry nearly moaned at the feel of the rough hand on his ass, though after a second he realized that Draco had pulled Harry's wand out of his back pocket and tossed it across the dungeon.

Furious at himself, Harry fought against the tide of desire and tried to buck Draco off again.

"What are you playing at, Malfoy?! Let me go!" He snarled, but Draco merely slid down Harry's body, and before the darker boy could utter another word, Draco's lips had fastened around Harry's nipple through his shirt.

Using lips and teeth and tongue, Draco drove every coherent thought Harry might have retained at that point out of his mind. While his tongue sent Harry reeling, Draco's hand slipped to the front of the Gryffindor's pants.