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Every You, Every Me	By : lordoberon Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 6705 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or claim any part of it. It is solely the property of J K Rowling. I make no money in the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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- 2
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EVERY YOU, EVERY ME

by lordoberon

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Chapter 2

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HARRY

Harry had thought that there was nothing that could wreck his day. It was beautiful and sunny, and he had finished his homework for the week yesterday afternoon. He had no detentions. And Ginny Weasley’s hair was glowing in a very distracting way, especially as she shot up into the sky on her broom when Madam Hooch blew the whistle.

Even Ginny’s hair couldn’t keep Harry distracted from the Snitch, though. Malfoy was extra determined today, choosing to ignore Harry altogether and instead zoom around searching for the Snitch. Ha! Finally realizing he couldn’t catch the Snitch when he was spouting his mouth off, had he? Harry grinned. He wanted even more fervently to catch the Snitch now, so he could prove that he could still beat Malfoy, even if Malfoy was finally paying attention to himself instead of bothering Harry.

For a while, the game was quiet, and Harry occasionally flicked a glance at Malfoy to see if the other Seeker saw anything. Nope. Malfoy paused a couple times high in the air, his eyes scanning for the Snitch, just as Harry was doing. Then he would move to another spot. He had no pattern. Every time the crowd cheered, his head whipped towards Harry suspiciously. Harry grinned at this, and Malfoy scowled.

Gryffindor had one hundred points over Slytherin when Harry saw it. It was flitting over by Ernie Macmillan, who had been assigned as announcer. He wasn’t bad at it, enthused, but nothing beat the time Luna Lovegood had held that position, in Harry’s opinion.

As soon as Malfoy saw Harry shooting through the air towards the podium, he was following. The wind streamlined Harry’s robes behind him, but he didn’t close his eyes against the force of it. The golden Snitch was still hovering by the podium. He could hear Ernie shouting distantly, and see in his peripheral vision that Malfoy was gaining on him.

In seconds Malfoy was right next to him. Now they were shoulder to shoulder, bumping, and Malfoy’s hand reached out for the Snitch –

Harry knocked his hand aside and his fingertips snapped the wing tips of the Snitch. He rolled it into his palm, feeling Malfoy’s nails dig bloody scratches on the back of his hand. Malfoy cursed as Harry got a good hold on it, and then he left the Slytherin behind and flew up into the air, shaking his fist wildly.

“AND HARRY POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH YET AGAIN! GRYFFINDOR WINS!” Ernie was screaming, everyone was screaming, and Harry zoomed around a couple times before joining his team. They were in an uproar, laughing, clapping him on the back, Ginny was smiling, and Ron was crowing over Malfoy’s defeat.

Harry turned to the Slytherins on the other side of the pitch, half-expecting some sort of confrontation with the blonde Slytherin.

Instead, Malfoy had his wand out, but he was pointing it at his own House mates and team. What? Harry’s lip curled. It was said that Slytherins were only after their own gain, but this was proof. You never went after your House mate. The Slytherins were all shouting about something, presumably Malfoy’s almost-success with the Snitch. Urquhart shouted something about the Jelly-Fingers hex, which made Ron roar in laughter.

In a flash, Malfoy had his wand out and was about to curse or hex Urquhart. Curse the team Captain, great idea, Malfoy! Harry laughed. Then Blaise Zabini, the tall, dark Slytherin Harry had seen at Slughorn’s “party” on the train to Hogwarts, whipped Malfoy’s wand out of his hand. He forcibly pulled Malfoy away with one arm across his shoulder.

It would have been an all-out brawl next, by the look on Malfoy’s face, but Snape showed up and as soon as Malfoy saw him, he abruptly shut up. Wow. Harry wished Snape had that power all the time; then he wouldn’t have had to deal with so much of Malfoy harassing him in Potions.

He left with his team then, but on the way to Hogsmeade to celebrate – thank Merlin for free afternoons – he couldn’t help but wonder why Malfoy seemed more angry than usual, and what was up between him and Snape.

His musing was put aside as he, Ron, and Hermione entered the Three Broomsticks. They chose a table in the corner by a fire, and ordered Butter beer.

Harry drank it with a sigh, easing back into his chair. He laughed when Ron recounted the game from his perspective, joking the whole time, while Hermione was smiling but evidently bored. She had had enough Quidditch for the day. Harry started to discuss where they would go to next, and they readily took up the change of topic. While Hermione and Ron were arguing between Zonko’s or Scrivenshaft’s, more Hogwarts students came in the door. Harry lifted up his head a little when he saw a glimpse of silver amongst them, and sure enough, it was Malfoy.

He was accompanied by Blaise Zabini, surprisingly enough, and Crabbe and Goyle were mysteriously absent. The two lone Slytherins sat down on the furthest side of the room from Harry, at a little table by a window. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs waved hello, and Harry waved back. But his attention was on the Slytherins. Harry watched as the two boys treated Madam Rosmerta courteously, and then when she left to get their drinks, he found himself still staring.

Blaise Zabini was quite a mystery. He seemed to stay in the shadows for the most part, as if he lacked the tell-tale Slytherin ambition, but the story about his murderous mother on the train had made Harry wary. He knew, too, that Blaise found Ginny attractive, having overheard it before returning to his cabin after Slughorn’s little get-together. So he found himself a little angry, as he stared at Zabini, but also…

Harry swallowed and looked away. Not that again. It was something he’d dealt with in Fourth Year and had tried to expunge from himself with Cho, but…there it was, again. He found that he liked other blokes sometimes, and not just as friends…Cedric had been one, but then he died. Harry didn’t know how to begin figuring out this new feeling in himself. He had enough to figure out already, what with private lessons with Dumbledore, being able to see into Voldemort’s head, and two constantly-bickering friends.

They so clearly wanted each other, and Harry was envious. At least they knew what they wanted, and whom.

Harry felt queasiness in his belly and a pulsing in his throat when he looked at Zabini – who was startlingly handsome, but in a more slippery, Slytherin way than Cedric’s masculine, chiseled appeal. Zabini’s dark skin was beautiful, and his large eyes had long lashes. Harry remembered that from the train. He kept his wild, curly hair held back by a swipe of some gel (Sleekeazy?), but only a little, which left curls to fall into his eyes. He kept shoving them back with one delicate, ringed hand. He was tall, and well-built, with a smooth low voice.

Harry dragged his gaze away from Zabini and back to his friends. He wanted to laugh that they hadn’t noticed anything, and immediately charged into the conversation, suggesting Honeydukes. He felt a little hungry now. Or was it that maybe eating would get his mind off of, well, other ideas he currently had for what to do with his mouth…argh! He wished he had Sirius to talk to about this, because only Sirius would have felt right. Dumbledore, no, never, Ron would never understand, and Hermione would be too understanding. Plus, she might assume that just because Harry liked guys, he was gay, when Harry’s inkling attraction for Ginny told him that he was clearly not.

He wondered if Zabini, with his murderous, evidently seductive mother, was a good kisser.

He looked at his watch, checking the time, and realized they had been in the Three Broomsticks for a long time. Harry was on his second or third Butter beer and was feeling dazed and woozy. His cloak was off, his sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was messy from the wind. He was leaning back so far in his chair now that he thought he might fall, but the thought only made him laugh. He felt good.

Suddenly, the snapping click of a boot interrupted the boisterous hum of Ron and Hermione’s conversation. Harry looked up. There, standing right in front of him, was Malfoy. He looked cool and composed, quite like he had during the Quidditch game, and quite unlike his furious, shouting self after. His hair was growing a little long, blonde hair touching his collar, and his mouth was set in a straight line.

Harry looked at Malfoy’s hands. No wand. But he fingered his anyway, and edged to sit up and look behind Malfoy. Zabini was eyeing the scene with a fire whiskey in one hand, and on the table in front of him were a few more. That was a lot of fire whiskey, Harry thought.

It was the last thing he thought before everything went mad. For the next he knew, Malfoy had grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and then oddly wrapped an arm around Harry as if he was hugging him. What in bloody hell? Then a pair of soft, gentle lips were over Harry’s, brushing against his feather-light. A quick, hot tongue stroked over his mouth, a sensation which left Harry quite dazed, and then that slippery, fiery tongue was in his mouth, oh Merlin, and Harry felt the itching, aching feeling that he had when he looked at Zabini, or a few others, roar hot and fast in him. Lust.

It was pounding in his ears, and he wanted to kiss back, because that tongue was so good, he had never felt anything like it. He thought if it stroked against his tongue any more he might moan. Then in a second it was gone, and the real world returned, because Ron had yanked Malfoy away from Harry and was pounding his face, and then Zabini rushed over, and Harry heard an awful crack as Ron was hit by some spell and fell to the floor. Then Zabini dragged Malfoy away, and slammed the door to the loo closed.

“RON!”

Harry bent down by Hermione to look at his friend. Ron was unconscious, and he had a growing lump on his head. A fierce red burn mark was seared across his face, and the skin looked melted and…Harry’s stomach protested. He told it to shut up, and watched with baited breath as Hermione performed healing spells. The second Ron was conscious, Harry gripped his hand, and then he leapt up.

“Harry, no! Just let them go!”

Harry ignored Hermione, and sped towards the loo room with his wand at the ready. Just as he reached the door, he heard a whispered, “Colloportus!” The door squelched closed even tighter with magic, and Harry knew that no amount of alohomora or any other unlocking spell would get him in there now. Plus, Madam Rosmerta was glaring daggers at him even as she helped Hermione get Ron to stand. Damn!

They left Hogsmeade and went to Zonko’s, because Ron insisted he was alright. Even so, they returned to Hogwarts early, and rather than talk to a distressed Hermione or wait for Ron to ask, “Why did Malfoy kiss you?” Harry went to the library to try to figure it out by himself.

Upon thinking back, he realized that the logical explanation to it all was that Malfoy had been raging drunk on fire whiskey. There was no other explanation that made any sense. Harry knew there was no ancient Pureblood tradition that said you kissed your enemy after they beat you at Quidditch. He laughed. If that were the case, Malfoy would have kissed him countless times before in the past five years at Hogwarts…

Harry put his head in his arms when the thought of that made keen eagerness and arousal reach up in him again. Malfoy was a good kisser. He had been surprisingly gentle, tender, not at all fumbling or aggressive, like someone drunk perhaps should kiss like. He obviously had experience. And his tongue…Harry groaned softly. He hadn’t kissed like that with anyone before. Wet, teary kisses with Cho were nothing compared to that soft, wet heat gliding in his mouth. What would it feel like if…?

Harry groaned again. It would not do to get hard in the library, but Merlin! But what was he thinking? This was Malfoy! He couldn’t think of anything he liked about Malfoy, really, except for today’s kiss…already though, that kiss was forcing him to re-assess, because he was a horny teenager and couldn’t help it, the fates were against him, as they always had been.

He found himself assessing Malfoy’s physical appearance, and while compared to Zabini or Cedric he was nothing to look at, Malfoy’s mouth was finely shaped and soft, and his blue eyes were bright, and his hair had a certain glow to it…and his body, which Harry really only had the chance to ever study in Quidditch, was lean, he supposed. Malfoy always wore robes. It was hard to tell anything beneath all that. And there was that time he’d looked like a vicar at the Yule Ball…Harry’s eyes had been on Cedric then, Cedric and Cho, Cedric confusing and beautiful in Harry’s mind, and Cho, he had convinced himself, was who he really wanted…

Argh. He thought of Draco again, and the kiss, and wanted to touch himself. He wondered what Madam Pince would do if she found someone wanking off in the library. He tried to think of Snape and other nasty things and people to get his hard-on away, but that only got him wondering why Malfoy was so suddenly obedient, or afraid, of Snape. Because why else would he have shut up when Snape showed up?

Then there was Zabini, too, of course…

He went back to the Common Room with a head ache, and a foot or two of a horrible Potions essay proved enough distraction. For the time being…

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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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More soon!
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Every You, Every Me