Draco walked through the halls of Hogwarts as if he owned them, as if his ancestors had bled over the stone and magic that built it (or at least invested a lot of money into it); his chin tilted, eyelids lazily fluttering and shoulders down, he exuded an air of aristocracy that one could only inherit. Whether his peers recognised it for what it was or not, whether they scorned his inborn sense of self-assurance behind his back or to his face, it didn't matter. The Walk – nothing so crass as a swagger – was as much a part of him as his silvering hair and antagonistic nature.

There was nothing quite so evidently arrogant about Blaise Zabini, neither in his walk nor his attitude. He sat quietly in the Slytherin Common Room, the drafts tickling the nape of his neck and blowing his overlong fringe into his eyes. There was a chair, stone-touched and straight-backed, tucked into a sought-after warm corner that he favoured. It was always empty, but pale green eyes never rose in inquiry. They remained, like Blaise's RP-accented voice, perfectly level.

Blaise studied Divination, Arithmancy, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and History of Magic. He preferred to do his homework as soon as he got it, one leg tucked under him on that impossibly uncomfortable chair, leaning on his knees and writing furiously. He wrote with a Muggle-style pen, a fashion in the other Houses, and chewed on the end with sharp, straight, teeth. Hard enough to mark.

He didn't talk to many Slytherins but was courteous to any who approached, instead taking his friends from Ravenclaw. While inter-House friendships were not uncommon in the higher years, it was odd for a Slytherin to be seen 'lowering' themselves in such a way. But then, Blaise wasn't quite like other Slytherins. When there were rumours that he'd been seen in Hogsmeade in the company of a Gryffindor (the Irish one with the drink problem), Draco had raised an eyebrow at the slim figure in the corner.

"He amuses me," was the only explanation offered before the hand resumed writing, parchment skiffling onto the floor.

When he had been caught in the Astronomy Tower by Pansy Parkinson (followed closely by Bulstrode, Millicent – it is better to sneak on than be snaked out), in a clinch with Terry Boot, Blaise hadn't even bothered with verbalisations. A shrug, quick ripple of couldn't-care-less, and the head was bent over again, tangles of hair obscuring his face.

He didn't follow Quidditch.

Draco snapped.

"What is wrong with you?"

Ripping parchment sounded like something altogether more violent, more primal in the dark, fire-reflection hollowing faces and sinking eyes. Spark. Flare. Burn.

Draco's hand found itself holding onto Blaise's bicep as the other searched for a hold in tendrilled hair. His face was perilously close to full girlish lips and he wanted to sink his teeth into them and mark, somehow, this creature that didn't even blink as Draco held on and yanked.

"Do you have a problem, Draco?" The voice was flat, even as Draco watched Blaise's throat with a hunter's fixation.

"Yes."

"Oh." Blaise's throat bobbed again and he arched an eyebrow at the other boy. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No."

"Oh." And "Oh, oh fuck-" when Draco's mouth was on his neck, hot and wet and teeth nipping flesh and his tongue tracking from collarbone to jaw before biting and Blaise could feel the bruises blossom. His scalp was raw from the tugging on his hair and he sucked on his own lip, becoming stiff and immobile in Draco's arms.

"What are you doing?"

Draco let go, non-too-gently untangling his fingers from the clinging strands of hair, and took a step back. His pale face was flushed across his cheekbones, his pupils huge in their surrounding grey, and he was panting heavily.

Blaise smoothed out his robes and tucked his pen behind his ear, ignoring the tight feel of the skin on his neck. "Well?"

The fire – purely for aesthetics, as if offered no heat – flickered for a moment, casting shadows over the Common Room. When it flared again the Malfoy in Draco had returned; an imperious tilt to his chin, his arms folded across his chest, he was every inch the aristocrat.

"I want you. Is that a problem?"

When Lucius had thrown one of his 'dinners' in Draco’s sixth year, he had invited the Zabinis. They were an old pureblood family but rarely made an appearance – Lucius called them 'weekend members'. They were more unusual for not having inducted their son in his sixteenth birthday; in fifth year quite a few Slytherins had caught a 36-hour flu, or been bereaved of a remote family member. Only Blaise and Draco's forearms remained untouched out of their 'circle', if the former could be said to belong to any circle at all.

On this particular occasion Blaise came with them, his long limbs encased in black Muggle-style clothing, shockingly inappropriate and yet none commented. He was polite to the adults that spoke to him and hinted of 'bigger things', and drank of the ritualistic wine when it was passed to him, but his skin stayed unmarked.

Draco could see his arms now. Flawless, like the rest of him. Blaise’s skin was too soft to be unenchanted, and Draco felt a vicious thrill when he saw the dark smudges on his throat, fingerprints of want.

Blaise reached down to pick up the shards of his work, trying to retrieve the words he’d scribbled down in slim letters. Sighing softly at the damage he squinted up at the other boy, noticing for the first time that they were alone.

"It's a problem if you're going to make a habit of ripping up my essays. I've got Binns tomorrow and the silly sod's going to go corporeal if I don’t hand this in."

It was possibly the longest speech Draco had ever heard from Blaise. He stepped forward and winced as the brittle parchment broke beneath his heels. Perhaps he'd been a little bit childish. He unbent his posture and crouched down, gathering a few stray paragraphs and piling them in Blaise's lap.

"Er. Well, I-" Malfoys don't say they're sorry. "You know."

A nod. Blaise knew. Wordlessly he reached out and grabbed hold of Draco's arm, pulling up his robe-sleeve to inspect the skin beneath. Finding it unmarked, he raised cool green eyes to Draco's pale.

"Not planning on joining any after-school clubs, are you?"

A small voice in the back of the Malfoy's head bristled at the tone of the question, and pointed to lines of unbroken blood and nobility. Draco told it quite firmly to shut up.

"I don't play very well with others."

Blaise smiled like, like – Draco hadn't seen anything he could use as a simile. He'd quite simply never seen anything so pleased and smug and owning as that expression. It was fangs over a bare and submissive neck, it was knowing and satisfied and thousand aspects of Blaise he'd never seen before, that were there all the time. The boy-who-was-not pulled Draco onto the arm of his chair – and it wasn't all that bad when you tried it – and insinuated one long-fingered hand high between his thighs. The blond started at the touch and was treated to the smile again.

"Don’t you want to play, dear Draco?"

And then he knew, he knew this game. Draco reached behind Blaise's head and took the pen from behind his ear, drawing it slowly into his mouth. He drew it out again, slick with saliva. "I suppose I could make an exception, just this once. I'm terribly magnanimous, you know."

The other boy grinned and hitched his hand a little further up before removing it completely and nabbing the pen from Draco's hand. Ignoring the protest he produced a roll of parchment from the mess on the floor and rested it precariously on his knee, settling as if he was in it for the night.

"What are you doing now, Zabini?"

The look would have stilled a troll. Possibly two.

"I'm working. I told you, this is for tomorrow. I refuse to let my marks slip because you want to shag me."

Blinking didn't seem an appropriate response but it was all Draco could manage. "Oh." He slid off the uncomfortable chair and made to leave before a surprisingly strong hand grabbed his sleeve.

"Where do you think you're going? You're going to help me with this essay, you magnanimous wanker. All work and no play makes Blaise a very dull boy."