Harry is face first into a pillow, one leg between Malfoy's, in an attempt to avoid his bad ankle. He has one arm against the couch and the other curled up against Malfoy's chest. He turns his head to breathe, and finds that his lips brush against Malfoy's. If it weren't for the footsteps he can hear in the corridor, the sense of danger that makes his hackles rise and his palms feel damp, he would probably jump up, brace his arms against the couch, and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He might laugh, or make a joke, or pull a face.

But he doesn't. For now, under these circumstances, with angry voices in the hall and the edge of the invisibility cloak just barely covering Malfoy's shoulder, he doesn't move. Wait, just a few seconds, hold still and it will be over in a minute.

Harry is embarrassed by the strange intimacy of this. Cool, damp skin on his, feeling one breath against his lips, and then two, Harry knows he is blushing and he can feel Malfoy's knuckles digging into his hip. Neither of them move. Malfoy's lips feel very soft and his breath feels warm against him; Malfoy is breathing fast and Harry imagines how scared he must be. Something's happened, something's turned. Slytherins against Slytherins, Filch siding with Death Eaters, and Malfoy (of all people!) at their mercy. It seems inconceivable.

Suddenly Harry feels Malfoy's lips careful grab onto his lower lip, his tongue tracing a delicate line across it, and then let go.

Harry feels as though he is screaming somewhere in the back of his head. What the hell was that? He feels utterly embarrassed, as if he had just shown up for class naked, as if he had started playing Quidditch only to discover that he had forgotten how to fly. What is thi? sWhat am I supposed to do? He thinks it's a joke, he thinks for a moment that Malfoy has fooled him. Rescue? No no, Potter. I didn't need rescuing, heroic fool. I was only looking for ways to humiliate you.

In other circumstances, when Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him and smirked, when he lobbed a sour insult at Hermione, at Ron, when he tripped Neville in the corridor, when he glared at him in class, Harry knew how to react. There was a script. When they argued, when their fists slammed into each other's faces and he felt blood racing hotter through his veins watching Malfoy entered a room all full of verve and gall, when he felt the familiar pleasure of competition in his bones, seeping out from deep inside of him and filling his whole body, he knew that this was okay, that this was normal, that this was just a hidden part of the storyline; the stage directions for his body. Malfoy gave him an endorphin rush like flying did, like standing on the edge of a cliff and imagining how it would feel to jump. Harry knew how to deal with this. The sensation of Malfoy's mouth on his own, Malfoy's tongue on his lip, he did not know how to deal with. An obscure Wizarding duel? Passing poison from his mouth into Harry's? Or something else?

He might have jumped up if he didn't hear the footsteps in the hall approaching fast, angry shouting echoing hollowly into the room. Instead he clutches at the edges of the invisibility cloak behind Malfoy's shoulder, making sure they are completely covered and hidden, his heart beating too fast and his fingers trembling, fearing what will happening if they are caught, fearing what might happen if they aren't. Beyond this one careful motion, running his fingers along the seam of his cloak, he doesn't move, can't move.

The voices drift closer, and Harry recognizes Lucius Malfoy's voice clearly, gruff and scolding, his shoes tapping angrily as he paces. He can hear doors opening and closing, sees the vague traces of light peaking in under the door, illuminating a patch of the floor momentarily, a gleaming piece of something real that seems so far from the hot breath on his face, from Malfoy's fingers flexing slightly under Harry's waist, fingers mashed between Harry's skin where his shirt has ridden up against his stomach, pinned against the cushion beneath them.

Malfoy's fingers. Suddenly this seems so important, Malfoy's fingers, moving slightly against his waist. Can you feel malevolence in the slight flexing of fingers against your skin? Harry feels certain that you can, if it's there, if you are paying attention.

Is this some kind of joke? He peers into the darkness, seeing nothing, hot breath brushing his mouth, and lips, Malfoy's lips so close he can almost feel them against him still. He pictures Malfoy's face and finds that he can't imaging him doing anything other than smirking at that moment; he would touch Harry like that and then watch him squirm, waiting for him to scream, yell, slap him, be horrified, disgusted, what? What does he expect? He touches his tongue to his lower lip, tasting for poison or something else, wondering if what it felt like to Malfoy, to do that. Wondering why he did it just then, what possessed him. Wondering if he might do it again.

The tapping of hard shoes becomes louder, more insistent, the light pooling in front of the door turns brighter. Suddenly the door opens and light pours into the room. It is startlingly bright to Harry's eyes, now accustomed to the darkness. Harry squints for a moment, looking beyond Malfoy's shoulder, watching the lantern clutched in the hand of one of the fifth year boys as it swung toward them, away from them. Harry looks over at Malfoy again, seeing his face half-shadowed. He is looking straight at Harry, as if there is nothing else, as if his father isn't standing fifteen feet away, staring stonily into the apparently empty room. Before the light disappears and the door shuts, for just a few moments that felt interminably longer, they look at each other.

Malfoy's good eye doesn't blink. His bad one is still crying endlessly, turning blue and swelling shut. His face is defiant, scared, questioning, Pleading, almost. The intensity, the sincerity, the fear in that look throws Harry's brain into a tailspin. He expects something else, scorn, challenge, something. Not this. What has just happened collapsed into Harry's brain all at once. It was a kiss. Draco Malfoy kissed him. The light disappears, the door shuts, the footsteps trail away down the hall.

Did he? Really? Harry exhales heavily, suddenly conscious that every move he makes, every breath, caresses Malfoy's face, his legs pressed into Harry's, his chest rising rapidly under Harry's hand. Harry's whole body pulses with shock, surprise, and something else, something more simple and unnamable. The pounding of his heart fills his body, making his skin quiver like the skin of a drum; he can feel his fingers shaking slightly to the double thump that he can hear throbbing in his ears. He is confused. He can see Malfoy's face in his mind, his eye swollen shut, tears running down his cheek. Is he being fooled by an injury, lulled into pity by a few stray tears?

Harry moves his hand up along Malfoy's chest and then touches his damp face, stroking his cheek, feeling curious and brave. His skin is smooth and soft, just as it looks, just as he imagined. Is he surprised that someone as hard-edged as Draco Malfoy would have skin like this, that he can cry? Does he expect Draco to turn into smoke, stone, fire, when touched? He feels Draco's face shift, feels lips against the heel of his palm. Kiss. Harry is shocked.

No one has ever kissed his hand like this before and he's embarrassed by it. He wants to be comforting and mature, he imagines what a risk it is to do this. What would, say, Ron do if Harry went up to him and kissed him on the lips? Risky business, he was liable to get punched at the very least, and he would certainly end up as a punchline in the Great Hall. It wasn't as if it had never happened; there is still a fifth year boy living with the consequences of an act like this in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

Harry realizes he can ruin Malfoy with this.

He strokes Draco's cheek with his fingers and he wants to say, without opening his mouth to say anything, that it's alright, that he's not angry or offended. He wants Draco to understand that he won't use it against him, he won't make a joke out of it. He wipes away the accidental tears and wants to tell him that this doesn't count, these aren't normal circumstances, it doesn't mean anything. To tell him that he doesn't think less of him for it, that he won't tell anyone. Aside from all these reassuring things he wants to say with this small movement of his hand against Draco's cheek, he just wants to feel Draco's skin again, wanted to touch him, feel muscles tensing under his fingers. It hadn't ever occurred to him that Malfoy might be that way, and he's a bit surprised to discover that he is. Flattered to be the object of his apparent desire, but surprised. He feels magnetic, he feels like something that Harry can't let go of.

He feels Draco move toward him, feels lips touch his own again, just barely, the palm of Draco's hand cupping the back of his head, pulling Harry forward into him. Harry feels his stomach drop, spin, and drop again as his body starts to tremble. Draco's lips are incredibly soft on his own.

If Harry has imagined kissing Draco Malfoy before, which, he has to admit, he has on occasion, sitting in potions class, or waiting for dinner to be served, it would always have to be forceful, unforgiving, involving blood and begging and pain. It would never be nice, never sweet, never gentle and careful and tender and cautious. Until now Harry imagined that Draco would be harsh and hard, he would press himself into you the way he pressed himself into the world, the way his walked into a room and assumed dominance. Kissing Draco Malfoy would be like making way for a steamroller, or getting caught beneath it. Or so Harry had thought, when he had considered it rationally. He could not have been more wrong.

Draco's mouth, his tongue sliding gently along Harry's lip, his fingers slipping through Harry's hair. Harry is almost too shocked to respond. Draco brushes his lips lightly against Harry's, leaving small, light kisses on his lower lip, and then his upper lip, until Harry found himself opening his mouth a little more, feeling Draco's damp and slick skin against his tongue. Draco does not insist, does not prod at him. There is such a complete lack of teasing, not even a sly dare, that Harry finds himself at a loss. He would have expected that, at least, a kind of physical sneer, a kind of I dare you to kiss me back, Potter. But not even this. These kisses are all cautious and thoughtful, they are questions, they are requests, waiting for territory to open up to him, standing respectfully at the boundary and hoping for an invitation.

Harry kisses him back. He doesn't wonder why he does this because there isn't room for questions in his head. Harry kisses Draco back because Draco feels so vulnerable against him, because Harry knows he is holding all the cards, because he knows Draco has everything to lose. Harry kisses Draco back because he is flattered, humbled, curious, and because he spite of everything else, he wants to. Harry feels Draco's smooth lips against him, the hot texture of his tongue, the taste of Draco rising through his brain and doesn't need to think about it anymore. He tastes of rich things, of pumpkin juice, buttered toast, roasted almonds, marzipan, vanilla, and the metallic taste of blood.

He realizes it like a smack in the face, like cold water dumped over his head. Harry knows this kiss, he knows this mouth. The universe rolls around in his head for a moment and the reassembles itself in shocking clarity. The order of events, the truth, the way things really are. He knows this kiss because Draco has kissed him before.

That fall, when Dumbledore called all the students outside to see the aurora borealis on that dark night, someone tugged on his collar, dragged him away from the crowd. Someone kissed him it left him walking on clouds for days afterward, looking around the Great Hall for clues, dropping hints around pretty Ravenclaw girls. Someone kissed him and disappeared. Someone who remained anonymous. He wondered at the time if it could be a boy; something about it made him think it might well be. He considered it carefully over a few days and decided that it would be okay. Strange, something he would have to get used to, but it would be okay. He could do that. At night he slid his hand under his pajama bottoms and imagined that he touched someone else, and it wasn't as unthinkable as he had once thought it would be.

Even then he still had no idea who it could be. He imagined a bashful Hufflepuff, an intriguing and mysterious Ravenclaw, maybe even a shy but insistent Gryffindor, but not a Slytherin. Not Malfoy. No, it couldn't be, Harry's memory of that kiss is all wrong to be Draco Malfoy, as Haryr has known him, at least. The gentleness of it, the honesty in that kind of deception could not possibly come from him. The need, the desire, it was all wrong. He would never have believed that Draco Malfoy could feel that way about him, could want him like this. No wonder he hadn't said anything at the time. Harry wouldn't have believed it. He barely believes it now.

Harry wraps his free arm around Draco, wanting to ask, wanting some kind of explanation, but wanting more of this kiss more desperately than any words either of them could offer. He opens his mouth, presses his tongue forward, remembering. That cold night, those hands against him, that beautiful kiss that had aroused him more fully than anything else ever had, it had been Draco Malfoy. He kisses Draco hard and it all rushes into him, all these disconnected memories that now have a home. The fencing, the insults, the gift at Christmas. And the fights they'd had, all the glaring, the punches and kicks and spitting in anger. And had Draco tried to kill him in January, tested out some strange Death Eater curse on him that had left him barely alive in the hospital wing for two weeks afterward? Harry had thought not, he had a gut feeling that it wasn't, and now he understands. It wasn't him, Draco had been trying to make peace. Hermione was right all along.

Draco's lips, his mouth, his tongue. He feels warm and solid, he smells so good, he tastes like holidays. Harry kisses Draco hard and desperately like he's been waiting to do it for months, for years. Harry can trace Draco's history with a few off-hand memories (a kiss in the dark, gifts, some mournful looks), but what about his own history? Now that he's here, with Draco's mouth on his lower lip, sucking it lightly and releasing, returning to caress his waiting tongue and stroke his lips again, his hands drifting down Harry's back, one against his shoulder blades and the other sliding slowly along Harry's skin, under his shirt, Harry wonders why this is not more shocking. Why he is not appalled, why he finds himself burying his fingers in Draco's silky hair and closing his eyes with the pleasure of him. His body remembers, his body knows more about this desire than Harry does. How long has he been waiting for this, without being aware that he was waiting?

The footsteps are long gone, the moon is rising. Draco's tongue, slipping around his own, his hands, both now against Harry's skin under his shirt, tracing patterns against him and making him shiver. Draco's lips, gently insistent now, traveled slowly against his jaw, against his earlobe. He stops for a minute, and Harry feels a horrible stab of fear. He's terrified suddenly that this is a joke or a game, or that he's just been caught enjoying it. He wouldn't know what to say and just holds his breath and waits.

Draco half grunts and whispers something Harry doesn't catch. He pulls Harry's glasses off his face and lays them on the floor. Harry can feel every muscle in Draco's torso as he does this, a network of motion that feels too real and ordinary to be part of this strange time and place. When Draco's arms curl around him again, Draco's lips against his again, Harry feels relieved, like he's slipped back into a comforting and impossible sleep.

When was the first dream, which was not really a dream? Harry imagines things sometimes and then claims them as unconscious thoughts, dreams he can't be held responsible for, images he doesn't have to acknowledge in the light. He thinks these things and then lets them slip away, doesn't think about them again until he is almost asleep, or almost awake. Kissing Hermione in the common room, sticking his hand up the inside of her sweater; finding Cho Chang in his bed, naked with her wrists shackled to the bedposts; and Draco Malfoy, in the boys locker room, his lips against Harry's, his wet skin under Harry's hands.

He buries the ideas when he wakes up, swings his feet over the side of the bed and stretches, ready for another day where such things don't have to be acknowledged. After two weeks of sleeping in the hospital wing Harry remembers only one dream, a dream of Draco Malfoy naked in the bed with him, hard flesh against his thigh, Draco's hands on him everywhere, and those lips on his. At the time he had been able to pretend he didn't recognize the face, that it was some dream creature, some wet dream body pressed against him. A face in the dark, a kiss, desire. It could all be dreams; nice, impossible, dreams. It seemed too problematic to even consider seriously, it had slipped from his waking mind like melted sugar. Instead it had poured into his unconscious, making his body heat up, his face flush, when Draco ambled into potions class, when he swaggered down the corridor like he owned the place. Sweet and beautiful, lovely dreams of hopelessly impossible kisses that could be discarded in the mornings, dreams that never quite disappeared.

When Harry opens his eyes he sees that the invisibility cloak has slipped off them and is lying in a silver puddle on the floor. The moon has risen higher into the sky and Harry can see the vague outline of Draco's body in shades of blue; the strong line of his shoulder, muscles shifting under his skin as his arm traveled up and down Harry's back. He closes his eyes again, shivering a little as Draco's mouth moves from one side of his neck to the other, rolling him slightly onto his back to accommodate him.

When was the first time Harry was aware of Draco this way, of his own niggling desire to touch him, to be touched by him? He slides his hand along Draco's back, feeling the solidity of his bones, the heat of him, the elegant dip of his spine, an inch of skin revealed at his lower back. September, swimming naked in the lake, turning and seeing Draco standing by the docks, his skin wet and gleaming in the bright moonlight, water dripping out of his hair, off the tips of his fingers. He was mesmerizing, all angles and elegant motion. Had Harry stared then, watching Draco walking toward the shore? He must have. The motion of his limbs, his legs pushing against the water, his arms swaying lightly, the images are etched into Harry's brain. He shuts his eyes tight and moaned a little, feeling Draco's tongue in his mouth again.

For the moment Harry loves this, and he can admit it without being afraid. If he weren't so preoccupied he might even say it, whisper it into Draco's ear. I love you like this, he could say, and it wouldn't even feel odd, it would have no consequences. He loves being here, encased in Draco, Draco's mouth against his, drifting against his neck, leaving a trail of damp kisses along his throat.

Harry's fingers find the soft skin at the base of Draco's spine. His skin is silky, so delicate and smooth. Harry strokes him there, curious, feeling Draco's lips growing more insistent against him, his hands drifting across Harry's chest. So warm and smooth, Draco feels the same way he tastes, like something reserved for special occaisons. He rubs his palm against Draco's lower back, slides his fingers gently into the hollow of Draco's spine and up under his shirt. Harry has never imagined there would be a place on Draco's body that felt like this.

Draco sighs against Harry's throat, a stream of warm air pressing against him, making his skin prickle. Harry gasps; his kneecaps are jittering. Draco slides his hand against Harry's stomach, hooks two fingers under the top of Harry's trousers. Yesterday he had suspected Draco of all kinds of evil; in spite of Hermione's gut feeling that there was more to Draco than meets the eye, Harry was not entirely convinced. Since his first day at Hogwarts Harry had been anticipating coming face to face with Draco one day, somewhere cold and sad, where they would pull out their wands and one of them would die. He always thought it would come down to that: Draco or Harry, and Harry never lost at anything. It was as though there was only one adulthood between them and they would have to fight for it.

But now Harry finds himself here, on a dusty couch in a forgotten common room, not feeling entirely in danger or entirely safe, either. He is moaning a little and breathing hard, his fingers sliding desperately and haphazardly along Draco's back. Draco smiles into Harry's neck, then shifts, kissed Harry again softly on his lips, Draco's fingers tugging upward on Harry's shirt. A request. *Please, more.*

There is something otherworldly about it all, dreamlike, as Harry holds on to the edge of his shirt and pulls it up over his head, watching Draco, now partially revealed in the half-light of the moon seeping coolly through the tall windows behind them. Draco pulls off his shirt off too, smoothes back his hair and looks down at his hands. He's breathing quickly, like he's running, like he's still got distance yet to go.

Harry feels as though he's someone else, as if he's looking through someone else's eyes at Draco, who's balling up his shirt and dropping it on top of Harry's on the rug. As if Draco were someone else as well. Harry feels as though he's in an audience somewhere, watching a strange film about two boys in the moonlight, two boys who used to hate each other and now want nothing more than to touch each other, bury themselves in each other and never resurface The whole thing rolls without a glitch or stumble or miscued line; there is a beginning, a middle and an end, and someone somewhere is directing.

Harry mimes along with the stage direction, as though this has all been well-rehearsed. Touch, kiss, groan, move closer, kiss again, fumble with shirts and buckles, hands against skin, lips, tongues, more. And then a pause. Draco is looking down at Harry, his eyes shadowed. It's as thought there's a break in the script, they've turned a page, they need to pause, check the lines, wait for direction, wait for one of them to make some kind of fateful decision that could never be considered a joke anymore. Two half-naked bodies in the bluish light, shaded eyes, a hesitation, almost a question but not quite. Harry's eyes stray to the Draco's left shoulder and stay there. He wants Draco to touch him again but the wanting seems weird and out of place. He can't speak or everything will shatter into a million pieces. If he speaks he'll have to admit what's going on, he'll have to say, yes, yes, I want you, I've always wanted you, please, don't stop now. It's easier for Harry to want Draco this much if he doesn't have to look at his face.

Draco's shoulders are shifting in the moonlight, and Harry is fixated on him. Even like this, half-naked, Draco's body isn't unfamiliar to Harry. Over the years there had been countless opportunities to bare all and glance over, look at that unbroken expanse of flesh, nipple, navel that tucks in rather than out, a patch of hair, shifting muscles normally hidden by layers of cotton and wool momentarily exposed, curiosity fulfilled.

There was the always the inevitable disrobing in the locker room after countless Quidditch games, of course, as well as several sweaty afternoons in mid-June when students roamed the grounds in loose shorts, lying in the grass studying, tossing a ball back and forth or flying, shirtless, across the garden. There had even been those couple of weeks the year before when the water stalled up in their dormitory and the Gryffindors were sent to other house bathrooms for showers. The first day they trooped apprehensively down to the Slytherin bathroom, Hermione's shoes had gone missing, but she had been smart enough to charm her clothes.

Harry tucked his glasses into the pocket of his trousers, balled up all of his belongings and hid them in a foot locker. There were a few fifth and sixth year students lathering up their hair and yawning when Harry turned on the water in the cold, startlingly white Slytherin showers. The water felt hotter, more searching against his skin here, more invasive. He had opened the foot locker again and was slipping his glasses back onto his face just as Draco walked in, naked as sin and bleary eyed. He looked confused when he saw Harry standing there dripping on the tile with a towel wrapped around his waist. He just shook his head and hmphed. Harry got dressed as quickly as he could, but watched Draco out of the corner of his eye. He watched the water drip off Draco's elbows, sluice down his thighs, noting the pinkish colour of his nipples, the way his pubic hair grew darker in the water.

Draco doesn't say anything, he just stares down at Harry as if he's looking for some mark on him or waiting for some sign. Draco looks at Harry as if he is a portrait of someone he knows, or like art, like something he owns, or wants to. Harry gets a strangely warm feeling, a tingling in his fingertips, a kind of buzzing under his skin as if he can feel Draco's eyes moving over him. He watches Draco's hair slip back over his eyes, and realizes that just now, there's nothing about him that Harry recognizes.

Draco takes a deep breath, presses his palms together, and then lays both of them on Harry. Draco's touch feels liquid, like water cascading across Harry's skin, like ever-expanding ripples as he draws his hands across Harry's chest, rubs his palms over Harry's shoulders, as he traces Harry's ribs with his fingertips. Like warm water he can drown in.

When Draco's hand slide down his body and rest for a moment on top of Harry's trousers, Harry closes his eyes again and knows he is moaning. He knows he is pleading and groaning and sounding ridiculous, but just then he doesn't care. Draco's draws his hands back up Harry's body to his shoulders, touches his face, and then lies down on top of him.

Harry has never felt skin against him this way. Not anyone's skin, not ever. Clothing hides so much, and Harry has never really guessed that it would feel so different when body presses against body. The way Draco feels, draped half on top of him, his lips on Harry's collar bone, fingers stroking his sternum, caressing his waist, palms leaving a hot path across his skin, Harry has nothing to compare it to.

He shuts his eyes and just feels Draco against him everywhere, his careful fingers, his lips, the heat of his stomach, his chest, the regular, even pace of his breathing, one of his legs between Harry's. He feels a pulsing, burning ache so deep he thinks he might burst into flame, with Draco's breath against his throat fanning at that spark that's hiding inside him. Harry can taste Draco's voice on his tongue, all smooth, soft, biting and fierce. Harry has never thought of it this way until now, but Draco tastes the way Harry would expect him to, the way he sounds, the way he is; Draco tastes like a challenge.

When Draco's fingers slip under the waist band of Harry's trousers and awkwardly strokes his hip, Harry's trembling body trebles in pitch and he opens his eyes, pulling air into his lungs as though he'd been underwater, as though he were waking up from a dream of being smothered. He says something that sounds like "Oh!" and he feels like an idiot.

He had no idea he had that many nerve endings in his hip, that stupid part of his body he uses to ram drawers shut and push open doors. But every move Draco makes feels multiplied by a million. It's as though Draco is more magical than all of them, that he can move along under Harry's skin, caressing some unknown the layer of tissue underneath that is only pure pleasure, a secret level of himself he can't find with his own fingers.

Draco pulls back a little, his hand still pressed on Harry's hip, inches from his desperately ignored cock, which is trapped inside his pants and struggling to get closer to Draco. Draco doesn't move for a moment, he just watches Harry's face. His eyes are still shadowed, his mouth is slightly open. Harry doesn't know what to do, he can't bear to look at him. So he turns his face away. He's so embarrassed he just closes his eyes. Draco leans down and sighs against Harry's cheek.

He has flashes of being utterly mortified, so mortified he wants to curl into a ball or run away. Just then he almost jumps up and screams, not at Draco, but at himself. What the hell do you think you're doing? But he doesn't. He doesn't want to, he feels as though he might die if he can't feel the heat of Draco's hand, of his breath. Harry can feel Draco's chest expanding and contracting with his breathing and he can't live without that either, as if Draco is breathing for both of them.

Harry can't explain it; the deeper he falls into Draco, the more intensely he wants Draco's lips against him, Draco's hands roaming over him, the harder he trembles. Right now the universe is poised in Draco's hand, Draco's hand down Harry's trousers. Harry wants to say something like please but it's also the last thing he wants to say. He swallows and looks up at his hand in the moonlight against Draco's shoulder, fingers shaking as if he were terrified, as if he were freezing cold or laughing.

He is watching his fingers trembling, feeling Draco's breath on his face, his aristocratic nose and his damp lips tracing small circles against Harry's cheek. Harry knows that Draco's asking for permission and he's too buried inside himself to give it. He wants Draco to just take, take whatever he wants so that Harry won't have to feel responsible for it, so that he doesn't have to open up his throat and admit it. *Yes Draco, yes. Please. Touch me and don't stop, ever.*

He turns his head toward Draco and their lips brush against each other; Draco still doesn't move. Harry closes his eyes and kisses Draco, rolling his hips a little so that Draco's hand shifts toward his groin.

Harry says something again, something that's a combination of oh and ah, but this time it's lost in Draco's mouth. Draco is kissing him hard, he's moaning now too and his hand is fumbling with Harry's belt buckle. Harry reaches down to undo it himself and feels Draco's hand, frantic and warm and trembling a little. He keeps his hand on Draco's forearm as Draco grabs hold of Harry's cock.

He doesn't have room to be embarrassed now. His whole body is arching forward into Draco, his thinks he might be saying something but he's not sure. His whole life is in Draco's fist, his whole self, he can't think of anything else and there is nothing else but that and Draco's lips on his chest.

It doesn't take very long before Harry comes into Draco's hand. He feels like he's glowing, he feels like his own heartbeat, like Draco's heartbeat. He can't feel the boundary between them anymore, he is running his thumb against Draco's hand, which is still wrapped lightly around his cock. Draco is kissing him and Harry is kissing him back leisurely, he is still basking in bliss, any sense of mortification forgotten for the moment. He just feels good. He just wants to stay still and breathe.

But eventually Draco moves; he pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes off his hand and then Harry's. It seems like the most mundane thing to do, to sponge off the evidence of this odd entanglement, clean himself of Harry's premature pleasure with scrunched up piece of cloth. For a moment, Harry remembers that he hates Draco Malfoy.

Draco wraps an arm around Harry and leans his head against Harry's shoulder. He can feel Draco's eyelashes against his chest and suddenly this seems horrifyingly intimate and strange.

Harry flushes, he feels exposed suddenly, hanging out of his underpants in the middle of some forgotten common room with Draco Malfoy. He does up his pants and buckles his belt, sitting up quickly and fumbling for his glasses and his shirt, both of which he slips on as fast as he can.

"What are..." he starts to mumble but then realizes he really doesn't want to talk right now. What are we going to do now, was what he was thinking to say, but Draco interrupts him.

"Please don't ask me anything," he says. His voice sounds normal, just as it always does, and somehow this surprises Harry.

"What?" Harry turns and looks at Draco, still half-naked and lying on his side. Harry sees the place he has been taking up next to him and how small it is, how they were on top of each other the entire time and he's terribly embarrassed again.

"Veritaserum. A lot of it. Please, don't ask me anything." Draco folds his hands over his chest and closes his eyes. There's a long pause as Harry's absorbs this. Harry suddenly has a hundred questions. Why did Draco drink Veritaserum? Where did it come from? Is that why Draco betrayed his father? Why did this just happen? Why did he do this? Is he a Death Eater? Did he try to kill Harry? If he didn't, does he know who did?

"What's going-." Harry starts, but stops himself. *What's going on* is a question, though Draco did not move to stop him. Harry's sense of fair play struggles with his curiosity and wins. He shoves his glasses closer to his eyes and sees Draco's well-trimmed fingernails, the fine hair on his chest, how tired and scared he is. He looks sad and small, he looks like a kid and not like a nemesis.

He blushes at the thought of owing Draco anything more than the courtesy of not asking any prying questions and just says, "Okay."

He'd really rather not talk anyway, he feels as if he's drunk something too, something that makes him act on desires it would be best to forget. How can he justify that? He remembers the kissing so viscerally his mouth waters a little. A kind of truce, then.

There's only so much truth a person can handle in one evening.

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