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Catch 22	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2973 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Summary:

Woes of a scion, Draco Malfoy is having serious Personal Issues, temporary insanity makes an appearance at breakfast and Harry finds out just how good Draco is with his tongue.

Promise?

: : :

11:15pm (later that evening)

Blaise is in a very good mood. This isn't unusual, as Blaise is almost always in a very good mood. Too much sugar, his mother reckons.

He had actually been a bit miffed the other day, bloody Draco and his big mouth... but Draco doesn't know about her, and it would probably not be a good idea to tell him yet. No, not yet, he's been a mess since he came back from the holidays, and Blaise is a good friend, and good friends don't add insult to injury. Blaise can get over Draco being an arse, because Draco's been an arse for seven years, and Blaise has perfected the routine: Blaise gets fed up, Blaise storms off, Blaise gets over it, Blaise beats him with a pillow (or, in that case, nails him with a snowball) and everything is right in the world of Slytherin again.

Blaise doesn't like to hold grudges. Life's too short. Make love, not war, that is his motto. All's fair and all that.

'All right, you randy pillocks,' he exclaims, barging into the seventh-year boys' dormitories. It's already after curfew and Blaise expects to find Draco in here, but he is not present. Crabbe and Goyle both goggle stupidly at him, like a pair of ugly goldfish that see their three-month-old plastic castle and wonder, hey, when did that get here? Theodore gives a sort of nasal grunt and buries himself further in his Playwizard, shoulders hunched in his very own way of saying, you even think of touching me, Zabini, and I will eviscerate you.

'Where be-est our most humble Dragon?' Blaise demands, folding his arms. 'He has an appointment with a pillow and a game of poker, and he still owes me ten Galleons from last time.'

Crabbe and Goyle look at one another. Crabbe shrugs, and Goyle says, 'He told us to fuck off.'

'That doesn't sound unusual,' Blaise says dismissively. 'Oi, Theodoros, our personal favour from the heavens, could you possibly take your eyes off that witch's tits for two seconds and—'

'Haven't seen him,' Theodore informs him shortly. He graces Blaise with a sharp look. 'Probably wanking off. Why don't you go join him?'

It must be torture, Blaise thinks, for someone like Theodore, who is perhaps the only thing in the Universe straighter than a ruler, to have lived with him for so long. Anything queerer than an earring in one ear and he starts twitching violently. Blaise has been trying to wear him down, but all it seems to do is wind him up further.

Not that that discourages Blaise, or anything.

He grins suggestively at Theodore. 'Spiffing, I think I just may. Care to join us? The more hands the merrier—' and Blaise bolts from the room before Theodore's hex hits him; he can hear it collide with the door as it slams behind him.

Blaise makes a quick stop at the Prefects' bathroom; Draco is not a Prefect this year—Theodore is; something about Draco's hexing the staff toilets to burp frogs while McGonagall was still 'engaged' and not making quite the clean get-away—but that doesn't stop them from all knowing the password. Finding it empty, Blaise knows that there is only one other place Draco would be at this hour, and—double checking corners to avoid Peeves, Filch and Filch's batty old cat—he takes the fastest route towards the Great Hall.

It's an ingenious place to go after curfew, really. Draco started doing it in their fourth year, and Blaise often joins him. Most students go to stupid places like the Astronomy Tower or, if it is warm enough, out to the pitch; but nobody ever thinks to go to the Great Hall, which has its enchanted ceiling so you can see the sky but also the advantage of privacy and climate control. Closed for the night, its tables have been stripped of their House colours, and the room is big, stony and dark with four long, identical oak tables and the smaller staff area at one end. The sky overheard is clear, and a million stars are winking down at him, giving him enough light to navigate the chairs without making a heinous amount of noise.

Draco is sitting on the staff table. Sometimes he sits in the Headmaster's chair and does Dumbledore impersonations, which always manages to amuse, but this time he is sitting on the edge of the table, legs dangling over the edge, with his head in his hands. This is unusual—Draco is usually looking up at the stars, mapping out constellations, rambling about how he wishes he could go up there someday and see them up close, and sometimes, when he's feeling particularly audacious, attempting to count them all.

Blaise wordlessly approaches him, and wonders if Draco even noticed him come in. Probably not; Draco may be sly and cunning and nasty to boot, but his powers of observation aren't as keen as he likes to pretend they are. Smirking, Blaise practically skips to the table, stopping about three feet from Draco and waiting, wondering how long he'll have to stand there making increasingly loud shuffling noises before Draco notices him.

This close, he can finally see Draco's face in the near-darkness, and Blaise blinks, cocks his head, and then is benumbed with shock, as if someone has suddenly hit him with a Freezing Charm.

Blaise has this list he uses for all close friends, something he has been developing and perfecting over the past seven years. It's a list of things to do in any given situation based on the established facts, how the particular friend in question is acting, and the gravity of the problem. After so many years, the List is near-perfect; he's witnessed about every sort of issue an overly emotional and less than rational teenage boy can create for himself.

Blaise depends heavily on the List to get on with Draco, who is perhaps the most temperamental of his friends; also one of his closest, and Blaise devotes an unnatural amount of time to him because of this, because Draco just needs that sort of attention. It's because he's terribly insecure, something that bewildered Blaise when he realised it, because Draco is perhaps the last person in Hogwarts with reason to feel diffident. He's pure-blood, wealthy, practically a noble by wizarding standards, popular, good-looking, intelligent and pretty sharp on a broomstick. Girls swoon over him, his fellow Slytherins obey him as if he's their general, and his father is one of the most powerful men in the country.

But in spite of all these assets, there is one thing a seventeen-year-old scion with Draco's background is not sanctioned, and that is the freedom to make up their own mind. Draco has responsibilities he doesn't want but must take, obligations to fulfil that he hates, and standards to live up to that he couldn't care less for. Blaise always asks him why he bothers, since it obviously isn't what he wants—Blaise can't understand why someone would uphold something that makes them so obviously unhappy.

It's just part of being a Malfoy, Draco tells him. Part of the job. Could be worse, right?

Apparently, it can be worse. Blaise stares at him, unsure of what to do, because nowhere on the List do instructions appear for a situation such as this. Blaise is bewildered and shocked and more than just a little worried, because he has never, ever seen Draco cry before.

To Draco's credit, it's not the sort of crying most boys do. Deny what they will, most boys cry just like girls cry, the uncontrollable and messy and sobbing-all-over sort of crying, when the occasion calls for it. Boys are just generally better at restraining the urge to cry until they're alone, and then they can pretend it never happened. Draco's not even crying if Blaise wants to be technical. Technically speaking, Draco is just sitting here with his head down and hands wound painfully tightly into his hair, quietly leaking tears. Or maybe Blaise has just missed the actual crying part, because Draco's collar and sleeves are damp, and his eyes are red-rimmed and he looks as if he may have been here a while.

Draco starts as he feels someone moving behind him, and with a rush discovers that Blaise has taken up the other side of the table, coming to sit back-to-back with him. He knows it's Blaise, because only Blaise knows he comes here when he wants time away from everyone else, and only Blaise would know better than to try and confront him when he's like this. He can feel Blaise's head resting against his own, and feels his shoulders heave in a heavy sigh as he leans back into him.

Draco doesn't sniff or gasp or anything so obvious as that, but simply exhales slowly, and Blaise can feel his shoulders shift as he moves his arms, wiping his eyes. Blaise has to say something, and soon; before Draco can think of an excuse to leave, or worse, clean himself up enough to act like he hasn't been crying at all. Blaise has spent enough time with Draco to know that he will sit here in silence and not say a word if Blaise lets him; problem with this is that it never solves anything, and whatever the problem is never fails to resurface when Draco takes this course of action, and it always ends up worse.

Blaise fumbles inside his cloak, looking for something, finds it, and hands it over his shoulder so Draco can see it. 'Cigarette?'

Draco takes it wordlessly, and Blaise hears him light it with his wand and take several long, slow drags, each breath making the air around them reek more and more of smoke. After a few minutes, he hears Draco say, 'These things taste terrible.' His voice is quiet, but even, and anything but hostile. Apparently unperturbed by his own observation, Blaise feels him inhale another drag.

Blaise gives a short laugh. 'Takes the edge off everything else, though.'

There is a pause before Draco responds with 'Yeah' and passes the cigarette back, which Blaise accepts and puffs on thoughtfully. 'Father's rather partial to them.'

Blaise starts a bit. 'Really? The great Lucius Malfoy stoops to a lowly Muggle product?'

He hears and feels Draco laugh half-heartedly against his back. 'Only when he thinks no one is looking. Though I suppose to live with yourself after half of what he's done...'

Draco trails off, and Blaise shifts a bit, so their backs are more firmly pressed up against one another; the body contact serves to reassure. Draco rarely talks about his father any more, ever since the Dark Lord's return. Blaise asked him about it once, but Draco shut the topic down before he could take it anywhere and avoids talking about family whenever possible. He hates going home for the holidays, but whenever he tries to stay, Blaise sees him get an owl bearing the Malfoy seal, and shortly thereafter, he is packed and on his way home.

'Give it here.' Blaise takes a last drag and passes the fag back for Draco to finish off. The air around them smells like an ashtray now, and they'll have to purify it or the staff is likely to smell it in the morning. He can feel Draco hesitating to tell him what the real issue is, though with the reference to his father and the severity of his despondence, Blaise is sure he can guess what it's about.

'It's not like I have a choice,' he hears Draco say finally. 'No point in even pretending I do.'

Blaise thinks about this. 'Suppose you did, though,' he says, more gently than he usually does; 'then what would you do?' When Draco doesn't answer, Blaise presses with, 'Sod the details, Draco.'

Draco sighs and crushes the butt of the cigarette on the glossy surface of the table. 'I have no fucking idea, Zabini.'

'Well, then, can I ask you something?'

'Will it matter if I say no?'

'Does he make you happy?'

Draco's back stiffens against him, and he doesn't answer for a moment. Blaise winces, because he knows he's gone too far.

'It doesn't matter,' Draco snaps, pushing off the table without looking at him. Blaise knows why he doesn't; he can hear Draco's voice crack as he speaks. 'Because I don't have a fucking choice.'

: : :

At breakfast the next morning, news has spread that Draco Malfoy is having very serious Personal Issues. The other students give him a wide berth, and even Pansy doesn't try to fawn over him, as is her usual morning routine. Crabbe and Goyle sit on either side of him like two thick, impenetrable walls, which prevents anyone from taking a seat beside him. Blaise ignores the threatening cracks of their knuckles and slips into the seat directly across from Draco.

'Morning, sunshine,' he says cheerfully.

Draco makes a sound suggestive of a snarl and says nothing.

Breakfast has barely begun when a beautiful, shockingly white owl flutters above their heads and lands daintily on the table between Blaise and Draco. Blaise raises an eyebrow; the post has already come and gone, and this owl seems to regard Draco's bodyguards with mild trepidation. There is a small piece of parchment in her beak, unaddressed. After a moment, the owl seems to come to the conclusion that preservation of confidentiality is not worth risking life and wing against Crabbe and Goyle for, and drops her delivery right there on the table before taking off again.

There is a moment's pause as the letter sits unclaimed between the two boys. Draco is staring at it as if it might very well spontaneously combust.

Blaise flexes his fingers.

Quick as a striking serpent, Draco snatches the letter off the table roughly, crumpling it somewhat. Blaise smirks and continues to eat his breakfast. Draco glances down at the letter, which contains only one line—Draco reads it three times, quickly, before crushing it in his fist.

You're not fooling anyone, you know. Not even yourself.

His answer is concise; a well-groomed eagle owl sweeps over the Gryffindor table, and with precise aim, drops its delivery in Harry's porridge.

Fuck you.

This time, Hedwig is feeling braver. She lands in a flourish of snowy feathers and hops well within crushing-reach of Crabbe and Goyle to drop her delivery in Draco's lap. Looking pleased with herself, she sweeps off again. By now, other people in the Great Hall are noticing the silent exchange via owl post. Many, many eyes follow the snowy owl back across the room to her owner.

Who you are and who I am doesn't change anything we've already said and done. You can drop the act, Malfoy.

This time, the return letter is nearly instantaneous. Hedwig has barely landed on Harry's shoulder when it drops through the air like a small, tightly-folded bombshell and hits Harry right on the forehead with a resounding thwack. Hedwig hoots reproachfully at the dark-feathered owl that makes its way back to the Slytherin table.

Fuck you.

It seems Hedwig's daring is growing with every trip; now she lands on the opposite shoulder to Draco's eagle owl, giving the Slytherin the distinct look of having his own personal Angel and Devil overlooking him, trying to dictate his actions. Unable to deny that he's already gathered attention from every eye in the Great Hall, Draco drops the guise of subtlety and snatches the letter right out of Hedwig's beak.

Promise?

Draco has never been prone to random acts of magic; his emotions are too controlled for them to get the better of his abilities, his father made sure of that. It is a big weakness to have vases and jars exploding all over the place every time one gets in an exceptionally bad mood.

Hence, it is a great surprise to many onlookers, Draco included, as his anger peaks and, with an echoing fwoomsh, the letter explodes into flames right there in his hands.

Hedwig remains sitting on his shoulder. She looks down at the charred remains of the letter and hoots dolefully.

'Piss off,' Draco hisses.

She gives him a rather reproachful look and then springs from his shoulder and soars back across the Great Hall. Blaise expects that to be that. So, it appears, does the rest of the Great Hall. Chatter and eating among the masses has resumed, and breakfast may continue on interrupted. Draco is staring at the charred remains of the letter on the table. He looks positively miserable, but, unable to think of anything to cheer him up, Blaise turns his interest back to his toast. Had he kept watching Draco, he would have seen the blonde suddenly look up and tense, as if his intuition has raised the alarm of incoming Imminent Doom.

Chatter and eating cease once more, forgotten, as the Great Hall watches Harry Potter stride boldly over to the Slytherin table. The only sound aside from Harry's footsteps is the fervent clicking of Colin Creevy's camera as it follows the Gryffindor prodigy, who reaches the Slytherin table, hailing the approach of Armageddon.

'What I want to know,' Harry says loudly, stopping beside Blaise, who blinks up at him in surprise, 'is just what, exactly, you think you'll accomplish like this.'

Draco raises his eyes to Harry without moving his head and does a marvellous job of looking unconcerned. 'Like what, Potter?'

'Like by avoiding this,' Harry snaps. 'Avoiding me.'

'Inner peace?' Draco suggests and he looks back down at the table. 'Happiness in life?'

'And you tell me that I have denial issues?'

'You have delusion issues,' Draco snaps. 'You said you have too much drama in your life, so why are you insisting on causing a scene?'

'Because you're insisting on being an idiot.'

Draco sighs dramatically. 'Go away, Potter,' he says tiredly. Then adds, almost too quietly, 'Please just go away.'

'Make me.' The challenge is issued in a much harsher tone than Harry's previous words. This time, Draco does look up.

'You seem to be under the impression that I give a damn,' Draco says. His voice is surprisingly level. 'But your intuition, as usual, is extremely lacking.'

'Big words, Malfoy, as always,' Harry taunts. 'That's all you're good at, isn't it? All you fucking do is talk.'

'And all you fucking do is gripe,' Draco snaps, but his level tone is beginning to waver. 'You never let well enough alone, Potter. Go. Away.'

'Not until you get over yourself.'

'Oh, look who the fuck is talking!'

Draco finally rises to his feet and braces both hands on the table, meeting Harry's eyes.

'I need to get over myself? Who the hell do you think you are? Striding over here like you know what's good for me, breaking school rules left and right just because you can get away with it, like you'rebetter than the rest of us—you've got a lot of bloody nerve, Potter. I want nothing to do with you. Do you understand me? Nothing. And nothing you can say or do will change that. I don't care if you get on your fucking knees and beg, I want nothing to do with you. Now kindly piss off.'

Harry meets this declaration with the same steady gaze he always reserves for encounters with Draco. He seems to consider the words carefully for several long moments; Blaise is already tense and ready to dive out of the way whenever Harry decides to pull out his wand. The staff seems to sense the danger as well—although the teachers have been watching quietly with the rest of the school, McGonagall now rises, and Snape has already left the staff table and is moving towards the boys to break up the fight before it can begin.

But these actions prove unnecessary. Harry says, very curtly, 'Fine, Malfoy. Suit yourself. That's what you're best at, after all.' And he turns and walks away.

Instead of breathing a sigh of relief and sitting down, Draco just stares stupidly after him. So does the rest of the school; since when does Harry Potter back down from Draco Malfoy? It is unheard of. It's one of those things that means the End Is Near.

Blaise looks up at Draco, who is staring after Harry, as if still trying to decide what to do, like he can't understand why Harry is walking away. Nobody was expecting Harry to give in so easily—Draco, it would appear, least of all.

'Draco,' Blaise says quietly, 'if you don't go after him now—'

He doesn't need to finish. Draco is already vaulting over the table, and sprints after Harry. In one swift movement, Draco grabs Harry by the arm, spins him around, and kisses him full on the mouth.

Later, Blaise will tell Draco how hilarious it is to see the entire staff and student body drop-mouth as one.

Draco is expecting Harry to pull away. After all, he has just told him to fuck off, not two moments ago. Harry has every right to shove Draco off and punch him. Harry can push Draco away and laugh, and make a total mockery of him, right in front of the entire school.

At first, Harry freezes, every bit as shocked as their audience. Then, slowly, he tilts his head just slightly to the left and presses his lips back against Draco's, and his right hand comes up to rest on the side of Draco's jaw. Draco responds immediately. He lets his body automatically fall in line with Harry's, and his breath catches in his throat as Harry's tongue brushes across his lips, and—his brain suffers a small overload as his senses attempt to keep up with his actions—yes... this is what he wants to feel...

Unfortunately, this is all the feeling he manages to do before someone roughly yanks him and Harry apart.

'I will assume,' Snape snarls, 'that there is a very good explanation for this.' He has Draco by the back of his neck and Harry by the shoulder, and holds them both at arm's length. He looks more furious than Draco can ever remember seeing him. 'And for both your sakes, it had better be on the grounds of temporary insanity.'

Snape's attempt to instil terror within them might have been more effective were it not for someone in the background choosing this moment to wolf-whistle, a sound which is quickly echoed and then followed by an eruption of cheering.

'Wipe that smirk off your face, Potter,' Snape growls through the rising, enthusiastic noise of the hall. He drops the Gryffindor as if he might contaminate him. 'Detention, tonight, for both of you!' He turns his glare to Draco. 'As for you—my office. Now.'

Harry meets Draco's eyes briefly—he doesn't look angry about being given detention, or even embarrassed that most of his peers are applauding. Instead, Harry grins rather sheepishly and, to Draco's complete bemusement, winks at him.

Draco's stomach does a little flip as Snape hauls him out of the Great Hall and down towards the dungeons.

Snape does not say a word all the way to his office. After shoving Draco unceremoniously inside, he slams the door behind him and stalks over to his desk. Draco hovers uncertainly by the door, unsure of whether he is actually in any trouble or not.

'What the hell were you thinking?' Snape snaps and looks up at him from the desk. 'Of all the people—of all the places—I thought you were smarter than this, Draco.'

'Sir?' Draco interrupts. 'I don't understand what you mean—'

'Don't play ignorant,' Snape snarls. 'You understand exactly what I mean.'

'Er,' Draco says, still not following. 'Sir?'

'What will your father think?'

'I...' Draco trails off, suddenly feeling panicky. 'But, I don't—he doesn't—'

'You think, after that public declaration in front of the entire school, that he won't know?' Snape demands.

'Er,' Draco says again. 'I hope not?'

'I can see you've spent time thinking this through,' Snape says. 'Have you considered what this... fiasco,' he snarls the word, 'will mean for you? Your family? Your patrimony?'

Draco looks at the floor. Of course he's thought about it. He's been thinking about it since he found out that it was Potter. But this morning... this morning he had been too concerned with losing the one spot of enjoyment he'd had all year—all of the past seven years—to think about any outside consequences of what he was doing. 'I...'

'You,' Snape interrupts, 'will be here at eight o'clock this evening to serve your detention. In the meantime, I suggest you think very carefully about the consequences of your actions, and the decisions you will now be forced into making. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, sir,' Draco says, still looking at the floor.

'Good.' Draco hears Snape's footsteps; they stop when he is stood just before him. Snape waits for Draco to look up before he continues speaking, and his voice is very low and careful. 'There is more here to consider than just yourself. Do not make the mistake of thinking that this is about you, Draco.'

'Yes, sir,' Draco says again.

Snape looks at him and says, 'Eight o'clock, Mr Malfoy.'

Draco nods and, after a moment's pause, flees the office.

: : :

Draco is not at dinner.

Ron had had a monumental fit the moment Harry had returned to the Gryffindor table that morning. So had Ginny, though Harry only knows this through Hermione, who apparently found her tearing her hair out in the loo shortly thereafter. Harry knew from Ron's feelings regarding Hermione's correspondent that the 'you don't know him' argument would not satisfy Ron, so he tried the more straightforward 'it is what it is, deal with it' approach, using the sort of tone one does not argue with. This didn't satisfy Ron, either, but it kept him from screaming at Harry, and he'd lapsed into a sulky sort of silence since.

At dinner, the school at large is still abuzz with the news that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had a snog in the Great Hall, but Harry is fervently avoiding all conversation concerning it, and Ron and Hermione are dutifully refraining from mentioning the incident. Most of the Gryffindor table is giving Harry curious looks and whispering amongst themselves and Ginny is glaring murderously at her casserole, but it seems no one is brave enough to ask him about it. Harry is used to having people talk about him like this, and it doesn't even bother him anymore. What bothers him is the vacant spot at the Slytherin table, because Harry has not seen Draco anywhere since breakfast, not even in the classes that Gryffindor and Slytherin share.

Dinner is nearly over before Hermione attempts to break the ice.

'So,' she says nonchalantly, 'I've been drawing up some timetables to help us prepare for NEWTs—'

'Those are ages away, Hermione,' Ron moans. 'We haven't even begun review work in classes yet!'

'Well, there's no point in being unprepared; these are our final marks, after all—Harry, where are you going?'

Harry is climbing out of his seat, and swings his bag over his shoulder. 'Common room,' he says automatically. 'Need to—um—check on something.'

'I'll go with you, mate,' Ron offers and begins to stand. 'I need to—ow!'

Hermione clears her throat and tries to look like she has not just kicked Ron under the table. 'I think Harry can check on it himself, Ron.'

'What?' says Ron, oblivious. 'But—'

'Yeah,' Harry says quickly. 'Need, er, some time—alone, to think, you know. Can't concentrate with all this bloody noise—sorry,' he adds at the rather hurt look Ron is giving him, but leaves the Great Hall before anyone else can ask him where he is going. Harry can feel every pair of eyes on him as he leaves the Hall and he quickens his pace.

He does not, in fact, go back to the common room, but out the main doors and into the grounds. It's still early evening, barely six o'clock, but it's winter and the sun has nearly set over the horizon, casting pink and orange shadows across the Forest and the snowy fields. Heading left, Harry leaves the frozen lake to his back and breaks into a slow jog, and the only sound is the steady fwunf fwunfof his boots as he cuts a path through the clean snow.

Harry's favourite tree on the grounds is the large, lonely beech tree that overlooks the Quidditch pitch. It's the tree Ron and him always do their homework under during the warmer months while watching the other Quidditch teams practice, and the same tree he likes to doze under in May and June when the end of the year is coming and he is dreading going back to the Dursleys' for another two months—something that he thankfully never, ever has to do again.

Harry doesn't know how he knows—call it a lucky guess—but Draco is under this tree, leaning against the trunk and looking out at the pitch, away from Harry. He's wearing his school robes and a long, dark cloak, an inky stain on the white landscape, and as Harry gets closer he can see that Draco's cheeks are pink and his hair is frosted, and it looks as if he's been standing out here for a very long time. Harry slows down and walks the last few feet, wondering when Draco is going to turn around and acknowledge him.

Draco is lost in thought, and nearly starts when he notices Harry coming up beside him. He stiffens, too, because Harry is standing very close, so close, in fact, that their shoulders are touching. It's an odd sensation, but warm and sturdy, and Draco resists the urge to lean into it. He is grateful that Harry is not looking at him yet, but at the distant pitch—they both are, afraid to look each other in the eye, because what happened earlier was in the moment and this... this is much more sober, much more deliberate, and Draco has never been so terrified of Harry in his life.

First shoulders, now elbows, and Draco feels the pressure as it moves down his arm—as Harry leans against him, closer and closer, until the backs of their hands meet. Neither of them are wearing gloves, and Draco's hand is very cold.

'Potter—' Draco stops as Harry suddenly obscures his view of the pitch; there are two fingers against his lips, and it's the only thing separating them from Harry's.

'Shut up,' Harry says. He removes his fingers. He is looking at Draco now, and Draco looks into his eyes, closer than he ever has before, and maybe it's just the snow or the closeness but Draco can't remember them ever being so very... green. Draco can feel hot breath on his lips and nose and chin and he can smell traces of gravy and cranberry and Harry is so, so frighteningly close—

'Don't,' Harry murmurs as Draco begins to back away. Harry is holding him with his eyes, because if Draco could look away he would be running, running away before this can go any further. Harry licks his lips and touches Draco's chin with his fingers and tilts Draco's head down while lifting his own head up, and their noses bump, and then their elbows and knees and shoulders are knocking together but Draco doesn't care anymore, because all he can think about is that Harry's lips are on his.

It's not like the kiss at breakfast, which was quick and chaste and the only time in his life that Draco can ever remember acting on impulse. Harry's lips press against his once, firm and slow, and he lingers on Draco's bottom lip and Draco's breath catches in his throat. Harry presses again, and Draco responds this time, and tilts his head slightly to the left and Harry's hands shift so they are holding Draco's upper arms, and they pause there, almost frozen for an instant that seems to drag on and on and on...

Harry's glasses are pressing painfully into Draco's nose and cheekbones and Draco pulls away, licking his lips. Harry makes a small noise of protest, and one of his hands moves up Draco's shoulder to the back of his neck and Harry rests his forehead against Draco's, whose breath is fogging up Harry's glasses because he is breathing so heavily. Draco reaches up, and his fingers are touching Harry's cheek and he hesitates—until Harry leans into the touch, closing his eyes. Then Draco exhales against Harry's lips and tentatively pulls off his glasses, and he lets the frames linger along the bridge of Harry's nose and then his lips, and finally Draco pulls the glasses down and away, replacing the frames with his mouth.

This time Draco is the one that presses, harder and more urgently; he takes Harry's face in his hands and pulls Harry forward, sliding his mouth over Harry's, and Harry makes another small noise, this time in surprise, and Draco swallows it. His hands and lips and cheeks are freezing cold and Harry momentarily fumbles in the face of Draco's sudden aggressiveness, but Draco is determined and holds him fast. Harry's mouth opens under him and somewhere in the middle their tongues collide and all Draco can do to lock out the cold is concentrate on how hot Harry's mouth is, breathing into his.

This is not Draco's first proper snog. His first legitimate kiss was at the Yule Ball with Pansy Parkinson, and it is an embarrassing memory that Draco wishes he could Obliviate from himself. There have been a few random snogs since then, with Pansy and other girls, and a dim memory of too much Firewhisky and Blaise comes to mind, and that tiny incident in the Charms classroom that was a bit unexpected, but at the very least, Draco has never properly kissed another boy, and Draco's certainly never kissed anyone with this sort of fervour before. It's a bit alien, a bit strange, and a large chunk of very, very good; why the hell in how many years has he never done this before?

The hand Harry has on the back of Draco's neck moves up into his hair and his fingers thread through it, stroking and tangling, and Draco shivers under the touch. Draco hasn't eaten since breakfast and Harry tastes like everything he ate at dinner and Draco is suddenly very, very hungry for everything about Harry, from the way his breath hitches when Draco bites his lower lip to the way Harry's hand tightens in his hair every time Draco sucks on his tongue, and somehow Draco is moving and Harry follows until Draco has him backed up against the tree. They bump into the trunk so hard that the tree shudders and sprinkles them with snow from its branches, but they don't take any notice.

Draco is bearing down on Harry; sometime over the past few years he's grown an inch or two taller, and though it isn't much, and they've never been close enough for it to make a difference before, it makes one now and Draco uses it to pin Harry to the tree and descend on his mouth. Harry isn't fighting him and this surprises Draco, because he's always figured Harry is the sort to be in control in any given situation, but Harry seems completely willing and allows Draco to lead the kiss, dominating Harry's tongue, and Draco runs his hands down Harry's neck and chest and seizes his hips and presses him roughly against the bark.

Somewhere in the kissing and touching their chests and hips and legs have come up against each other, and without really thinking about it Draco nudges a knee between Harry's legs. Draco's grip on Harry's hips is hard and must hurt, but Harry isn't complaining, and Draco pushes his knee against Harry's thigh. He can feel Harry smile into the kiss and lean his weight against the tree, and then he presses his thigh back against Draco's knee.

Harry doesn't know how long they are kissing and is even less sure of who pulls away first; both boys are breathless, with swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Draco's eyes are still closed but his body lingers against Harry's, and his knee is still between Harry's legs, resting against the inside of his thigh. Harry's hand is still in Draco's hair and Draco's hands are on his neck and shoulders, fingers idly caressing the skin there.

Harry dimly wonders what Draco has done with his glasses; the pitch and the landscape around them is a blurry haze of shadows and pinks and oranges on white, but Draco is close enough that Harry can see him clearly. His skin is so pale it's nearly the same colour as his hair, save for the rosy tint adorning his cheeks and the tips of his nose and ears, and the vibrant red of his lips and mouth, still moist from the kiss. There are small snowflakes caught in his eyelashes and his breath is coming in long, shallow breaths that mist the small space between their mouths. Harry knows it is cold outside, he can even feel it, so it's a good thing that he is the complete opposite of caring about it.

In one motion, Draco inhales deeply and removes his hands from Harry's neck and shoulders. Draco removes his leg, too, but more slowly, letting his knee linger against the inside of Harry's. Harry still leans against the tree for support and swallows the aggrieved noise that tries to creep out of his throat. Harry's eyes close and his head hits the rough bark as he tilts it back. Draco reaches up and takes the hand that is in his hair by the wrist and gently removes it, and kisses the palm as he pulls it down. Harry opens his eyes and trails his fingers along Draco's cheek as Draco removes his hand, still grasping his wrist.

Once Harry's hand is between them, Draco's knee is no longer near Harry's. Draco pushes Harry's glasses into his hand and releases his wrist. He is looking at Harry now, and exhales sharply and shoves his hands into the pockets of his robes.

'I'm sorry,' he says quietly.

'What?' Harry asks, panting. He wonders why Draco is apologising for perhaps the best snog he's ever had; Draco had not been lying—he is bloody fantastic with his tongue. 'Sorry for what?'

'Sorry for that,' Draco says. He looks not at Harry but at the darkening horizon behind him. 'For this. For all of it.'

Harry is confused. That morning, this now, all of it—it has all been a very good thing, as far as Harry is concerned. He tightens the grip on his glasses, suddenly feeling, without Draco so close, very cold. 'Why?'

Draco inhales deeply again and his eyes flicker back to Harry. He looks as if he is wincing. 'Because this is it, Potter. I can't do this.'

Harry blinks. The corners of his eyes scream in protest because they are beginning to freeze. 'What?' Harry says again. 'What do you mean, this is it? What about—'

'What I mean is that this is it,' Draco repeats. He looks as if he might be ill. 'Us. This. I can't do this. I can't, Potter,' he insists as Harry opens his mouth to protest. 'I'm sorry,' he says for the third time. He looks at the ground and hovers uncertainly; just as Harry moves to step forward, Draco sweeps away with a twirl of cloak and robes and stalks back to the school, leaving Harry alone by the tree and wondering if he is missing something important; or, perhaps he really is just that terrible a kisser.

: : :

Notes:

'Theodoros' is not a typo. It's the Greek root-word of the name Theodore, meaning "gift from God", just in case some of you have no idea what Blaise is on about.
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Catch 22