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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Super long chapter to make up for my horrible late updating!!

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HARRY POTTER, VIRGIN EXTRAORDINAIRE

by lordoberon

Chapter 8

Then Potter blurted out, “Um, what else should we do?”

As it turned out, they did not get the chance to answer that question. Draco was spirited off with his mother to some safe place. Blaise was not told how long he would be gone, and knew he couldn’t write letters to Draco wherever he was going. This bugged him, but there wasn’t anything for it.

Things might have gone back to normal – before Draco had kissed Potter, before Blaise had enjoyed Potter’s kiss – except the entire world was different, with the Dark Lord dead. More and more people in the mornings at the Great Hall were reading newspapers. Announcements about Death Eaters caught were flashing across headlines. Parents who feared for their children’s safety, thinking Death Eaters would attack Hogwarts – to get at Potter – were pulling their children out of school, from every House.

For a week, it was not definite whether Potter would stay, because of this possibility of his presence being a danger to Hogwarts staff and students. But when he continued showing up at classes, and started being summoned for meetings with the Headmaster less, Blaise figured what everyone else whispered about – Potter was staying at Hogwarts, because what was safer than being under the watchful eye of Dumbledore?

And really, they whispered, did the boy-turned-man (or superman)-now-he’d-done-great-things need any protection? Why fear Death Eaters, when he had killed their master? Rumors circled, inside Slytherin and without, about the secret powers Potter had been hiding.

Blaise knew better, but he kept his mouth shut. He laughed as Potter was accosted daily by crowds of adoring fans. They kissed him and hugged him, they asked for autographs, they piled gifts on him. Potter often walked into the Great Hall red with embarrassment, lip marks from girls on his cheeks. He began to wear a perpetual scowl morning, noon, and night. Every morning was chaos at the Gryffindor table as Potter received loads of mail – love and hate, gifts and danger alike.

One day, Potter was in the hospital from a nasty potion that had arrived in an envelope he’d opened (idiot). Another day, Snape put him in detention because he’d been forced to haul a load of boxes of gifts to class, in order to make it to an early Potions class. And on yet another day, Blaise heard a rumor that Potter had taken to going out flying, alone at night, in order to get away from all the attention.

Unlike the image that Snape (and, in the past, Draco) had of him, Potter was turning out to be quite the opposite of an attention whore. Blaise watched him. He saw the way Potter pleaded with his adorers to leave him alone. He witnessed Potter struggle to not yell at some younger students when they cornered him between classes, and foist arms off of him. His friends weren’t always there to help him out, try as they might. Potter was, if anything, more vehement with his admirers when his friends were absent. Blaise suspected that was the pressure of Granger’s whingeing sympathy and Weasley’s irritating jealousy.

What was funny was that Potter seemed to mind the positive attention more than the negative. When it came to insults hurled at him across corridors and the Great Hall, he ignored it, unless someone called Granger a Mudblood. When Slytherins attacked him, he became the calm leader, directing his friends where to stand and suggesting defensive spells.

Perhaps he had it in him to be an Auror after all. Blaise wondered.

Because of the truce, because he couldn’t resist, and because he admitted he was a little jealous over how many people got a becoming flush to run across Potter’s face, Blaise took to following Potter, secretly. He told himself that it was because he wanted to protect the idiot, and not because he was developing a creepy fascination like Draco had. No, he was just keeping his end of the truce they were holding, which Potter had asked for so desperately.

He had no qualms against hitting his Housemates with jinxes and hexes before they could reach Potter and spring another attack. It was good practice. It was even good fun. He never openly opposed them, keeping to the shadows, but he tried to prevent them from hurting Potter. There was too much on Potter’s plate already. One only had to look at Potter to see the attention was exhausting him. If Blaise wasn’t watching out for him, he could be hit by a nasty spell, because of not being totally alert.

Because of his mother’s reputation and his strict privacy and personal space rules, Blaise escaped most of the conversations held amidst his fellow Slytherins. He was relieved. Just being in the Slytherin Common Room was like being in a room of angry cats hissing at each other. Everyone was tense, whether their parents were affiliated with the Dark Lord or not. Most if not all were frightened, and it seemed daily now an exasperated Snape showed up to break up another fight between two members of Slytherin House. Sometimes they were even public, outside of the Common Room.

In the second week after the Dark Lord’s demise, House Points were docked from students who flocked around Potter. Professors began to patrol the corridors so that students could not congregate to harass Potter positively or negatively. It became nicknamed “Potter Patrol,” and the first time Potter found out about it, he was visibly angry. His face turned red, and he swore something in a vicious aside to Weasley and Granger, and then left with anger in his every rigid limb.

The extreme lack of whorish desire for attention in Potter became attractive. Anyone else would have been at least a little pleased, a little proud, but not Potter. He seemed to loathe the attention. Obviously, he’d gotten so much over his lifetime, it was enough to make anyone sick of it. But where was the sense of triumph in him? He had killed the Dark Lord who murdered his parents. Shouldn’t he be happy?

Maybe that was just something Blaise wasn’t privy to. Potter probably celebrated privately with his friends and fellow Gryffindors.

Blaise didn’t go out of his way to talk to Potter. Yes, they’d made a truce, yes, he was curious, and yes, he even remembered that burning kiss sometimes. But Potter wanted this more than he did. Same with Draco wanting Potter. Blaise, having given up on the both of them, was caught in the middle. Potter should make the first move, if anything was going to happen.

They met with each other accidentally late one night. Blaise was wandering the drafty corridors with a heavy cloak, slow in sleepiness, but caught by insomnia. He was on the Third Floor corridor when the yawning of portrait people was interrupted by a series of bangs, and a yelp of pain. It came from the next floor down.

Blaise leaned over the railing. His eyes had adjusted to the dim candle light, and he could make out Peeves clattering chairs together and tossing them against the walls. He didn’t see Blaise, for he rushed up the corridor to the left, shouting in a song at the top of his lungs:

“Clumsy student sneaking around

Peevsy heard him make a sound

Hit him with a chair he did

Now where is that stupid kid?”

A quick sweep of the corridor didn’t reveal anyone to Blaise. He turned his head to the right, and the left, and saw nothing. Hmm. What was that all about? Probably some stupid First Year had squirreled into a broom closet or some such with its tiny body and was hiding now.

He kept walking, and at the top of the stairs, he saw it.

A flash of ankle, all alone, with nothing connected to it, which quickly disappeared into nothingness again. Aha!

Blaise leapt forward down the staircase, and grabbed at seemingly thin air. But soft cloth yielded to his hands, with a body underneath, and Blaise whisked it away with a grin of victory.

“Potter,” he breathed, “You creeping scoundrel. What are you doing? If I hadn’t been coming from the opposite direction, I’d think you were following me.”

Red-faced at being caught, half of one arm still invisible because of his Cloak, Potter said, “Well, maybe you were following me. You’ve sure been doing a lot of that lately.” He was breathing heavily from running, and holding a spot on his side – from running, or from being hit by Peeves’ chair?

Blaise smiled, and looked over Potter’s night clothes. They were a pair of thick blue flannels, and strangely enough, they actually fit him. They were a very boyish thing to wear to bed, not at all befitting a sixteen year old, and they made Blaise laugh.

“Cute outfit. So you noticed my following you?”

Potter flushed more, which was annoyingly sweet, and crossed his arms across his chest. He had his wand in one hand, and a piece of paper sticking out from a back pocket of his trousers. “So you admit to following me. I knew it. Will you stop it? I can take care of myself!”

“Oh, I know,” Blaise murmured, and then he leaned over to try and snatch the mysterious paper from Potter’s back pocket.

“Hey!” Quickly Potter dodged away and his wand lifted and pointed at Blaise. “Stop that!”

“Hmph.” Blaise crossed his arms and then got an idea. Smirking, he took the Cloak and put it on himself.

He’d never tried one on, or even seen one. This was amazing! It was surprisingly easy to breathe in, and silky on his skin. Blaise quietly crept up the stairway, waiting to see what Potter would do.

“Damn it –“

Potter leapt forward, and Blaise tried to dodge aside, but Potter was too fast, and too annoyed at getting his precious Cloak snatched. He bowled into Blaise, and only a quick spell stopped Blaise from slamming his head on the stairway. Laughing, he collapsed on the stairs with Potter half on top of him.

Potter stared down at Blaise, and it was amazing how intensely green his eyes were. Blaise simply sat there, waiting for Potter to make a move, but the hero was shy now, or too indignant about the Cloak being taken. He took his Cloak and got off of Blaise, instead of doing something more interesting like giving Blaise another kiss.

Wordlessly Blaise got up and started walking. Potter followed him, which wasn’t very surprising. It was so easy to manipulate someone who had a crush on you. How delightful. But why did he have to look interesting, with his hair even more wild, and his eyes sparkling and more alert than they’d been in two weeks? Then there were the pajamas. Blaise bet Draco would die if he saw them. They were childish, but they showed off more of the shape of Potter’s body than anything else Blaise had ever seen him wear. Robes were too billowy.

Blaise hooked his arm around Potter’s and dragged him into a dark classroom. He whispered a Lumos, and sat Potter down in a chair while he sat on the table in front of it. Everything was dusty, and it made him sneeze.

“Tell you what. If you show me your mysterious paper, I’ll kiss you.”

Potter swallowed, and shifted in his chair. Then he seemed to make some resolve, for he bit his lip and said, “No.”

“Alright.” Blaise pretended to think, shifting from side to side on the table. Potter was deciding to be stubborn and try to be in the right, or stick to his principles, or some such hogwash thing. If Blaise let things continue on like this, Potter would never make a move. It seemed he was insecure when it came to relationships beyond his friends.

Quickly Blaise leaned down, and yanking Potter up by the soft collar of his pajama shirt, he kissed Potter, hard.

He made it slow and languorous, exploring that warmth and wet. He slipped his tongue against Potter’s to create a moan, and when he pushed harder, another, deeper moan. Mmm. Potter sounded good. Blaise knew he’d be in trouble if Draco knew about this, but he’d wanted to kiss Potter for a while now, and he could only stand repressing himself for so long.

Besides…Blaise slid one hand down Potter’s back, down in a slow, circling arc…and snatched the paper out of Potter’s trouser pocket. He pulled out of the kiss and backed up off the table, and by the time Potter realized what he’d done, he had opened the paper up.

Blank?

Blaise turned around to a glowering Potter. He waved the paper, which Potter snatched from his hands. Blaise sighed. “So what is it, really? Spelled with a password, right?”

Potter nodded, and put the paper back in his pocket. He seemed to want to give Blaise that much, after Blaise had kissed him.

Blaise moved in closer, but Potter was wary now when Blaise’s arm went over his shoulder, bringing his cloak along to drape around Potter.

“Aren’t you cold? This doesn’t seem nearly enough for a cold castle at midnight,” Blaise said, picking at Potter’s pajamas. He didn’t know why he was suddenly being so nice to Potter, except that Potter was especially enjoyable to tease.

Potter tried to shrug the cloak away, but then he seemed to give up. He sighed. “Do you have to be a typical Slytherin and make me wonder what your ulterior motives are?”

“Oi.” Blaise held his up his hands. “At least I gave you the best kiss you’ve received in the past two weeks, right?”

Potter laughed, nodding. “Yeah, there is that.”

Blaise settled them in a squishy, dusty couch in the corner of the room. “I’ll give you another one.”

Potter blushed again, and looked at Blaise. “What’s the price this time?” He tried to sound cool and calm, but failed utterly.

“No price,” Blaise said, “Not one Knut.”

He leaned in before Potter could say something about other prices. Potter’s left hand had the blank paper in it, and he held it high in the air, as if Blaise’s arms weren’t longer than his. Then Blaise kissed him again.

He lingered over Potter’s lips, noticing how they were soft and bitten from anger, and he bit them further, eliciting a moan. He let his tongue drift over Potter’s mouth, marveling that such a popular, famous person was so freakishly normal (and yet not), and he wondered what he could do to get Potter’s fire again. He wanted the fire in the kiss that had been there in their first.

He thrust his tongue hard in Potter’s mouth, swirling and shoving, drinking Potter in. That got a response. Potter lunged in a little, wrapping his arms around Blaise’s neck and grabbing fistfuls of Blaise’s hair. He arched his body up into Blaise’s body, groaning as their tongues entwined.

Blaise slid his hands past the button holes of Potter’s shirt, and touched the soft skin there. Potter jumped at the touch, practically upsetting the entire thing. This made Blaise curious, but he also wanted Potter to calm the hell down. Virgin. So he pushed his hand in, snapping buttons off, and swept a soothing stroke down Potter’s chest.

It wasn’t working. The Gryffindor made a strangled, hungry sound into the kiss, and his heart beat quicker beneath Blaise’s fingers. Merlin, that only made Blaise want him more. He ripped open the collar then, and began to give wet, biting kisses down Potter’s neck. His thumb edged over a hard nipple, and he pulled Potter up, and over, so that the smaller boy was ensconced in his lap and easy to reach.

Potter arched up to Blaise’s touch. He panted heavily at Blaise’s ministrations on his neck, and he tugged at Blaise’s hair. When Blaise created a hickey at the junction of his shoulder and neck, he laughed, “That’s going to make them wonder.”

His hands moved down from tugging Blaise’s hair to pushing down his back. Then, in a quick, nervous motion that was also greedy, his hands swept up to Blaise’s front and crept beneath his shirt.

Blaise jolted back. “Shit, your hands are cold!”

Potter laughed, even as his hands continued to move up, exploring Blaise’s torso. His fingers were long and callused from Quidditch, and they moved slowly. He seemed to want to memorize the feel of Blaise’s skin. Blaise let him linger, even though he was cold. His own hands moved down Potter’s torso, and then Potter flinched when his hands reached Potter’s right side.

“What is it?”

“Peeves’ chair…ow.”

Potter lifted his shirt up to look at the wound, and Blaise took advantage of the gesture to whisk Potter’s shirt off of him entirely. There was a red welt on Potter’s side, and the area was evidently quite tender. But it seemed mostly a surface wound. Blaise was good at diagnosing wounds; he’d seen his mother torment her husbands with Cruciatus many a time before killing them, and as a boy, he had used to try and save some of them from the pain.

That was before he’d realized she killed them, not that they “left,” and before he’d given up on changing her ways.

“It’s just a skin wound.” And Blaise bent down to lave his tongue over the mark.

“Ooh, that stings.” But Potter let Blaise continue anyway. And he let Blaise settle his hands over his hips, and made a delicious whimpering sound when Blaise pushed his tongue over a nipple. Potter’s hands were tight on his shoulders, and he moved closer to Blaise’s body, and then, bravely, delightfully, his hungry tongue was licking up Blaise’s neck, and his teeth nibbled Blaise’s ear.

Blaise moaned appreciatively as Potter sucked over his ear in slow, hard sucks, and swiped his tongue all over. He felt the heat of lust trickling into his limbs, and contemplated Draco’s theory that he didn’t know how to make friends, only how to be a whore.

Maybe Draco was right. Wasn’t he ready, in this moment, to seduce Potter, and mostly for the pleasure he got from Potter’s virginal ways and mystery and blushing? He wouldn’t be doing it for Potter. And Draco would be furious. He would hate Blaise forever, and Blaise would never get to kiss him or talk to him again. And Draco loved Potter.

Even though he felt good right now, he wouldn’t feel good later, if he kept on with this. So Blaise pulled away, and gently pushed Potter off his lap.

“Look,” he said. “We made a deal with Draco. About being civil. And…I shouldn’t just indulge myself. Or you. I…”

He took a deep breath. “I’m not good at getting to know people. And it seems like that’s what you want from me. More than this,” he gestured between them, “attraction.”

He licked his lips. There, he’d admitted it. He was attracted to Potter.

Potter scratched his head, and then put his shirt back on. “You’re right,” he said. “I do want more from all this. Thank you for admitting that. And um…the kissing and all, um…thanks. It was a de-stresser.”

Blaise smiled. “No problem.”

They sat there, looking at each other, and Potter looked contemplative and pleased at the same time. Then he pulled a small Chess set out of his pocket and say, “Play you a game?”

Blaise was sorely tempted to roll his eyes, having seen Potter and Weasley play Chess obsessively, but he nodded anyway. They set up the pieces, spelling them not to fall out of place. Blaise played White, Potter Black. He moved a pawn out to start freeing space for his queen, and watched as Potter moved a knight out.

Ten minutes later, and Blaise was impressed. Potter was good. He should be, because Weasley was good, too, and they played it so much. But he had learned Chess years ago, and Potter was actually holding his own against him very well. He didn’t foolishly sacrifice pieces, nor did he take forever to make a move.

Five minutes later, and he was almost beating Blaise. Blaise was hunched over the board, chin on his fists, staring, calculating strategies. Potter sat back on the couch, smiling.

“I’ve got you,” he declared, “fair and square.”

Blaise held up a finger. “Not yet.” He made his move.

Potter looked. “Damn,” he growled.

The rest was lightning quick. Blaise almost lost, but at the last moment, he caught Potter’s last rook, and then it was all over.

“Checkmate,” he breathed, and smiled over at Potter.

The Gryffindor swore and crossed his arms. He scowled at the final formation, at the pieces Blaise had taken, and then laughed. “You’re good! How long have you been playing?”

Blaise put the board aside, and lay back on the couch. He elongated it so his legs could stretch out and not entwine with Potter’s. “Years. Since I was little.”

“Ron, too. He used to play his brothers all the time, especially Bill and Charlie. I learned from an old chess set Dudley threw away and left the instructions by.”

Blaise quirked an eyebrow. “Dudley?” He laughed. “What kind of name is that?”

Potter bit his lip, gnawing it in his teeth, and seemed to answer reluctantly. “He’s my cousin. It’s stupid, and so is he.”

Blaise breathed in slowly so as to not reveal his interest. “Oh. Your Muggle cousin?”

Potter nodded. “Yeah. He gets loads of things every birthday, and a Chess set was one of them. I played against myself, until I met Ron. And I hadn’t played wizarding chess before meeting him, either.”

“How boring. So it’s really all that bad, living with these Muggles? Your mother’s blood, right?”

Potter frowned. “My aunt, yeah. Anyway…” He shifted uncomfortably against the couch, and Blaise could tell he wished he hadn’t said anything, and usually didn’t talk about this.

“Let’s go exploring under your Cloak. I’d like to try it on again.”

Potter brightened. “Alright. Where to?”

Blaise paused, and then handed Potter his chess set back. “I want to explore the castle’s secrets. Don’t you know some?”

Potter raised his eyebrows, and then with a turn of his head he said, “I might.” The smile on his face gave away that he definitely did.

Blaise laughed. “Great subtlety, Potter. Show me.”

They edged off the couch, and Blaise bent down a little so Potter could whisk the Cloak over his head. They both fit, surprisingly.

He grinned. “This thing is amazing…” Combing fingers down the edge, he caressed it, wishing he had one of his own.

Potter grinned back. “It is. Alright, come on. We have to walk at the same pace so it doesn’t fall off…and hang onto it a bit…make sure your toes aren’t poking out…”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

He followed Potter out of the room and down the corridor. Down, down they went, and for a while they were silent. Then Blaise said, “So, how do you feel about Draco finally catching the Snitch?”

Potter blinked, and then protested. “That! That wasn’t a win. It was a Portkey he caught – I mean the Snitch was turned into one – and then we both went to Malfoy Manor, so…it doesn’t count.”

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “It does too. He caught the Snitch first. Your hand was second. It was his catch. And it’s still a Snitch, even if it was briefly a Portkey. They decided Slytherin won, besides. So you’re just being a sore loser about it.”

He couldn’t see Potter’s expression as they were now walking, but caught the frown in his voice. “I guess. Anyway…I’ve beaten him loads of times, one win isn’t much.”

Blaise laughed silently at Gryffindor pride. “But one win is a start.”

Potter shrugged. “I suppose. Except…I’m not going to let him ‘start,’ I’m going to beat him.”

Blaise laughed outright. “I guess the truce doesn’t count for Quidditch, does it?”

Potter shook his head, and smiled. “Of course not.” Then abruptly he said, “Are you hungry?”

They had stopped in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit. Blaise had never seen a more boring painting in Hogwarts – actually, maybe ever. Most of the Hogwarts paintings he’d seen were of people. Why fruit?

He looked sideways at Potter, catching the secretive smirk there, and smirked back. “I could be…why?”

He was in fact not really hungry, but his curiosity demanded he be, at the moment, for the sake of finding out what Potter was hiding.

“Well, I am. And this is the kitchens. Come on.”

He said a password to the portrait – “Itchy feet,” and it opened soundlessly.

Blaise followed Potter into the kitchens. It was hot in here! He threw off the Cloak, and looked around. House Elves rushed forwards, platters of pancakes and hot pies and jugs of warm pumpkin juice in their hands. One thrust a pie in Blaise’s hand and a plate of pancakes in Potter’s free hand, and Blaise had time to take in the large expanse of room and the squeaking of Elf voices before he was urged by the mass of little bodies into a chair by a crackling fire.

A goblet of pumpkin juice was poured out for him and put in front of him. Blaise took in the good smells, and leaned back in his chair. “Mmm. Good service.”

“You is too kind, sir! We are happy to please you sir and Harry Potter sir!”

Blaise smiled and nodded. Potter had packed up his Cloak and sat across from Blaise, digging into his pancakes. He smiled at the House Elves, nodding, and shooed them away with a few too many thank yous. But suddenly one piped up from the back –

“Harry Potter, sir! You is here! Dobby is so happy! Dobby has been waiting for you to come again!”

Potter laughed as a small House Elf piled with badly-knitted gloves and a stack of hats bowled into him, grabbing onto his leg like a rabid dog. Blaise laughed at the weird display, nearly spitting his pumpkin juice.

“Potter, who on earth is this?”

Potter flushed, and looked up at Blaise as he tried to pry the House Elf off of him finger by finger. “Er, this is Dobby, er…”

“Dobby?” Blaise laughed loudly. “Are you serious? That old Malfoy House Elf?”

The House Elf edged away from Potter’s leg and looked up sourly at Blaise. “You is friend with my old Masters…sir…is you not?”

Blaise looked at Potter, who looked tense, and then back at the suddenly grumpy House Elf. “I am, Dobby,” he said coolly, and then for Potter’s sake he added a smile, “But I was never a fan of Lucius.”

That warmed up the little guy a bit. His eyes widened, his frown left, and he looked with those huge eyes from Blaise to Potter.

“You is friends with Harry Potter, sir?”

Blaise took a deep breath. He wasn’t really friends with Potter, no, but then again, he wasn’t trying to seduce him at the moment, and well, damn, he supposed he did like him. That’s what being friends was, really – liking someone, without any of the deliciousness of sex involved. Argh. That’s what Draco said Blaise wasn’t good at. Friendship. He really wasn’t a nymphomaniac or anything; he liked conversation and games and whatnot as much as anyone else…but the act of seduction, and that moment of sparkling, burning attraction, were addictive to him.

“Friends, sure,” he said finally, and dipped his head in Potter’s direction.

Potter nodded, as if he’d been waiting for Blaise to say it. Dobby smiled, and asked, “Harry Potter, sir, how is Harry Potter’s Hermione and Weezy friends?”

Blaise snickered. “Weezy!”

Potter laughed. “They’re good. How are you, Dobby?”

Halfway through a dizzying summary of life as a Hogwarts kitchen House Elf, right when Dobby was starting to glorify the awful hats and gloves which Blaise found out were Granger’s handiwork (figures), Potter said, “Okay, Dobby, okay. I’m glad you’re happy. Thank you for coming to see me. Um, I will come again. Maybe Blaise will come with me…”

Blaise downed the rest of his pumpkin juice, and leaned back, pushing his hair out of the way. “Sure. Why not.”

A while later, with the House Elves nearby but not quite hovering, and with Potter was done eating, Blaise said, “So. How did the Malfoy House Elf get here?”

Potter proceeded to tell him the story. Blaise laughed at the sock part, and nodded to the bit about Dumbledore’s kindness (just to make Potter happy). He chose to say nothing about Granger’s House Elf Liberation Front (Merlin!), and when Potter was finished, he waited for Blaise to respond more.

Gryffindors were so much more talkative. Blaise leaned on one elbow, gazing into the fire. “I never liked Lucius. He’s got all the problems Draco has, tenfold, and more. He’s arrogant, cruel, and he thinks the world should revolve around his tastes and opinions. I’ve seen him do Cruciatus – on one of my ‘lovely’ visits to Malfoy Manor as a child – and I think he holds a lot of anger in. Draco has anger and bitterness, too, but he can’t hold it in – he’s always lashing out, as you know. Lucius’ composure is all a fraud. He’s secretly furious whenever things don’t go his way. Narcissa is calmer, though she can be an icicle. She doesn’t manipulate as much as Lucius does. She speaks her mind.”

Potter swirled his spoon in his mug. “How long have you known the Malfoys?”

“About ten years, now. We’d meet at functions; I was about six and a half when I first went over there. We played, like other children, but it’s much more controlled and composed than what you see with Muggle children.”

“Repressive.”

Blaise shrugged, ignoring Potter’s tone – it said that he thought Muggle’s free lifestyle – ruled by all their contraptions – was better than any attempt to squeeze nobility of bearing and elegance into children. But he didn’t understand; Purebloods were like royalty. With power, you had to look good, and that included your children; so as a Pureblood child, you couldn’t be playing all the time. At least, that was the standard kept up by families like the Malfoys and Zabinis. The Weasleys were a whole different story.

“That Chamber of Secrets, with the diary of Voldemort and all…is it still around?”

“Er, yeah. Yeah, it is. Want to see it?”

Blaise stood up and pushed away from the table. “I would. But I bet it’s one of the grandest things around here. Maybe save it for another time.”

He watched the flush that rode itself down Potter’s face, and held back a smile at the squeaked, “Another time?”

Blaise nodded. “Yes. You see, I can’t sleep…often. So…I figured we could meet up again. Why not here? Besides, you look tired.”

Potter shook his head. “I’m, I’m not…” He yawned. “I’m not tired.”

“Hmph. Right. Listen, you don’t have to sacrifice anything for me. Go to bed.”

Potter stumbled his way off of his chair, and pulled the Cloak from his pocket. “I don’t really feel like sleeping.”

Blaise doubted it. What Potter really wanted, he knew, was more time with him. Against his wish, he felt a keen satisfaction at the thought.

“Tell you what,” he said, “Walk me to your House entrance. I won’t share where it is with anyone. That way I make sure you don’t bump into anything and alert Peeves again.”

Remembering, Potter put a hand against the sore spot on his side. “Alright.”

Blaise followed him silently up, up, down corridors, past snoozing paintings, and all the while he was thinking. He really did want to do this again. Potter was good spending time with. He wasn’t dull, he wasn’t currently being stupid, or rash, or waffling. And he knew a lot about the castle; Blaise could feel it. Exploring the castle at night was just the entertainment Blaise needed in the midst of insomnia.

And seeing Potter in his ridiculous, more fitting blue pajamas wasn’t a deterrent, either.

They stopped in front of a portrait of a fat lady. Rolls of fat drooped off her arms. Her blonde hair was rumpled in sleep, as she lay with her head down on her hands.

Blaise smirked. “This is the way to Gryffindor? I’d thought it would much grander. At least someone dumb but trying to be brave, like Sir Cadogan.”

Potter crossed his arms. “The Fat Lady is great, actually. She’s a lot of fun, and not nearly as annoying as the Slytherin entrance.”

“What?” A flash of annoyance dashed through Blaise. “You’ve been in our common room? Without anyone knowing?”

Potter smiled. “Of course without anyone knowing. Even Malfoy didn’t know I was there, and he was in the room.”

Blaise grumbled something. “You used the Cloak?”

Potter shook his head. “No. It’s a secret.”

Blaise sighed. “Another one? Must I bribe you again?”

And he grabbed Potter’s Cloak, threw it over them, and there, in front of the snoozing Fat Lady, with no one able to see, he kissed Potter again. He let his frustration come through a little, making the kiss hard and forceful. Potter gripped his shoulders, moaning. When Blaise lingered, when his tongue stopped dueling and started caressing, Potter’s hands clutched tighter, and his kiss in return was fiery – there! There it was. That was what Blaise had wanted.

He pulled away, gasping, and Potter gasped too. They stared at each other under the Cloak. Blaise took in Potter’s flush, his wet lips, and the drowning green of his eyes. He wanted more of this. He wanted more Potter. No wonder Draco had gotten obsessed. He was something…not in the sense that he’d killed the Dark Lord, not in the sense that Blaise had his full attention – though that was pleasing – but in the sense that he was fun, unpredictable, and a good kisser.

Potter cleared his throat and whispered, “Can we do this again?”

Blaise smiled. “What part?”

Potter laughed breathily. “All of it.”

“Yes. But there’s no need to whisper, idiot. If anyone’d been around, they would have heard you moan.”

Potter’s face turned red. “They’ll just think it was a ghost in the wall.”

“That? I wouldn’t think so. It was a very distinctive kind of moan.”

“Well,” Potter was snappish now but his eyes were laughing, “It was your fault! And I won’t tell you the story. Not yet. Later. I’d like to tell Malfoy, too.”

Blaise remembered Draco suddenly – he’d forgotten him a bit now, hadn’t he? – and the promise he’d made ages back, that he’d deliver Potter to Draco for Halloween…funny, how different circumstances were now…but Halloween was coming up close.

“See you tomorrow,” he said. Slipping out of the Cloak after combing the premises, he hurried down, down, down, back to the dark dankness of Slytherin Common Room.
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Every You, Every Me