A/N: Not mine. Wish they were. We can all weep together, my friends...

The Dirty Truce

Fuck.

He couldn't see it. He couldn't see the snitch. Stupid fucking ball. Draco had been flying around looking for that damned ball for the better part of the afternoon, in the pouring rain no less. And it was getting dark – it was Scotland, after all. At this rate they'd be here all night. It wasn't as though you could just leave in the middle of a match.

Potter's losing his touch. Draco almost wished he'd get on with it, just so he could get inside and dry off.

Almost.

He swept the pitch with his eyes, circling. Harry was doing the same, on the other side, both copying the other, making sudden moves, then reneging, trying to unsettle the other.

He looked at the stands. He could see Granger up there, cheering her heart out, even after others had given up, moving only when someone scored a rare goal. Draco was faintly aware of a buzz growing around him, spinning up from the stands below. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Potter, streaking away towards the far end of the pitch.

He swooped, and gave chase, the wind flipping his hair into his face, eyes stinging with the wind, straining against the pelting rain. The pitch flew by; then changed direction. One of Gryffindor's lot cut him off, colliding into him. There was a mess of broom and player, locked together, speeding towards the ground at an alarming rate.

Fuck. Bloody buggering hell! Grabbing in vain to his broom as his hands slipped on the slick handle, he found his grip on material, pulling the other player off their broom just as –

Thud.

He hit the ground, before something landed on him

He gingerly opening his eyes, and saw red.

"Fuck." That seemed to be his favorite word these days. "Which one of you is it?"

"Which do you think?"

"Weaslette? What the fuck are you playing at? You could have killed us both?"

"Only one of us would've been missed," she muttered, cursing as she tried to sit up.

"What was that?" hissed Draco, pulling her roughly down onto him again. "I didn't quite hear you."

"I said, that no one would miss a death eating bastard like you." she lifted her head and met his eyes, glaring for all her might. Icy eyes stared back. He'd had enough of all the shite that lot had been playing.

"Right, you little runt. I'm sick of all the shite you lot have been shoveling my way. Death eating bastard, am I? Take a look, Weasley, take a good look," he sneered, lifting the left sleeve of his quidditch uniform.

Her eyes widened, glued to his arm. She lifted a tentative finger, tracing it lightly over his pale, unblemished skin. Her touch sent shivers down his spine, snapping him out of his reverie. He snatched his arm away, buttoning up the sleeve.

"I am not my father. I will not be enslaved. Now get off me," his tone changing. "You made me all muddy."

"It wasn't as if you were clean, anyway," she said, climbing off him gracefully.

"You're a vicious, self-righteous little bitch, aren't you." She turned, and began to walk away, only to be pulled around. A handful of mud found her face, thrown from a good foot above her.

"Malfoy!" she yelled, wiping sludge from her eyes. A smirk graced his face. Deftly she scooped up mud of her own, grabbing the back of his quidditch robes as he walked away, dumping it down his back. He froze, feeling the icky substance sliding down his spine.

He turned, slowly, and stalked towards her, intimidatingly, his face inches for hers.

"You don't scare me," she whispered. Years of experience, from growing up with six brothers, had taught her many things, and now, she thought, was the perfect time to use them. She laid her hands on his shoulders, swept her leg perpendicular to his, catching him in the knees, slamming him on his back with a resounding squelch.

Not to be outdone, Draco stretched out his arm, knocking her off her feet, moving swiftly to cover her body with his.

A fierce tussle ensued, covering them both with mud. "Bastard!" cried Ginny.

"Surely you can think of something more inventive to call me, Weasley? After all, you do like to practice insulting me at every opportunity," came the rejoinder.

"You murderous, evil, snarky, poncy, pricky GIT! Bloody buggering hell, how on earth did such a cruel personality become stuck in such a body!?"

"So you admit you find me attractive, eh, Red?" he asked, resting all his weight on her. She ran her hands though his hair, streaking the platinum locks with dirt.

"Very," she murmured, with a smirk that rivaled his.

For some reason he felt like laughing. It was so bloody ridiculous. Here he was, rolling about on the ground with the littlest weasel, and she was telling him he was hot!

She shoved him, rolling them over, straddling his hips. She was startled, though, when he did indeed begin to laugh, his chest rising painfully under her weight, tears rolling down his cheeks. She stared at him, open-mouthed.

Finally, he calmed down enough to form words. "What say you to a truce, Weaselette? You know I'm not a death eater, I know you're a wildcat. What say you to stopping the 'death-eater' shit, and sticking to the normal, generic stuff…like rolling in mud?"

"What the fuck has got into you?"

"I don't swing that way, Weaslette. I'm just sick of fighting with you – maliciously, I mean. Fighting with Weasley is all well and good; that's just natural. But you – you have spirit. I like it."

She stared at him blankly. "You want a truce."

"Ya, just thought you might be interested. Of course we'd still spar, and tussle as much as you want."

"You're odd," she observed.

Just think, right now, you're brother's having kittens thinking about what you're doing, sitting here, straddling me, and talking to me, no less. Think how more interesting it could be if we became allies…friends, of sorts."

He flashed her a smirk, which she returned.

"You're on"

"Good" he replied, just before he cupped the back of her neck, and pulled her face down to his. His thin, hot lips moved against hers, his tongue probing the slit, seeking entrance. She struggled, opening her mouth in protest, her cries silenced by his talented tongue. Slipping, sliding over hers, she quickly succumbed to his kiss. Gods, she'd never felt anything like it. Searing, hot, yet controlled. Not sloppy and insecure like Dean's. Or Harry's, for that matter.

She began to respond, her tongue battling against his, pushing. A battle of wills.

The insinuation of penetration was not lost on either of them.

She pulled away, her lips just touching his.

"We have an audience, you know"

"Fuck them." He replied, pulling her down to him again, her hair obscuring the details of their activities.

A/N: Almost-PWP. Review, Readers, or die!!! cue stalinesque music I must Thank the Keeperofthepineneedles for her review of 'Stale Baguette.' My very first...(am i making the rest of you jealous? You should be...). While you're at it, go read Keeper's fics. And make sure you review hers!!