Draco Malfoy had no idea Weasley had found out. He had no idea that, as dense as Weasley was, he’d finally figured out the truth. The Slytherin was, if truth were told, blissfully unaware that a psychopathic Weasley was currently hurtling in snarling rage through the tunnel towards his temporary home. As far as he knew, Draco thought everything was pretty normal. After all, while the currently unhinged Gryffindor had been travelling through the depths of a Pensieve, the easily irritable Slytherin was busy glaring at his Arithmancy class through his Observer Screen and writing up his atrociously simple essay ‘Maths and Magic have a Formulaic Connection – Explain’ for Professor Vector to collect on Friday (‘What exactly do they think I am, a fucking defective to need four days to write something as simple as Longbottom is?’). And now, at the very moment Weasley was zooming forwards like a speeding bullet to hurt him (a lot), Draco was having a shower. Actually, he was having a very nice and relaxing shower until he heard a loud CLANG and a squeak sound from the living room of the Shrieking Shack.

He growled as the sudden noise caused one clumsy, shampoo-covered finger to accidentally poke him in the right eye.

Shit.

He scolded himself at the very ungraceful act as he fumbled around blindly for the nearby sink for his wand, viciously cursing everybody he’d ever met in his life under his breath. Fucking shampoo manufacturers. They knew all the magic in the world but they couldn’t make a bloody shampoo that didn’t sting your eyes, could they? And, come to think of it, why the heck did he have to be surrounded by bloody morons everywhere he went anyway? Crabbe, Goyle and crapping dogface Parkinson… Draco just didn’t get it. Considering how ruthless and shrewd they were supposed to be, why were all the Slytherins he knew so appallingly dim? Well, all except him of course. He was always the exception. Then again, it wasn’t exactly very difficult being smarter and better looking than those idiots. Even Longbottom could give them a run for their money.

But now he was letting his mind run off with him again.

Bugger that.

Finally clutching his sweaty fingers around his wand, Draco muttered a Clean Up spell irritably with a swish of his wrist (a spell that a nymphomaniac like Draco knew by heart since a young age). Immediately feeling the lathered shampoo and hot water evaporating in seconds from his face, the Slytherin blinked to focus his vision once again then peered sneeringly passed his ajar door. He knew exactly who it was that made that racket and oh, Draco was really going to get them this time.

With a snarl, he jumped out from under the spray of warm water as he swiped viciously for the fluffy white towel hanging from the nearest hook.

Ooooh, he was pissed.

There were many things one shouldn’t do (if they liked the look of their face), and one of the topmost in that list was disturbing a Malfoy while he took a shower. And he, a Malfoy, had just been disturbed and during an exceedingly enjoyable shower at that.

He bared teeth.

The Slytherin, making his way to the living room, had scarcely tied the towel around his naked and, in his opinion, stunning self, when he heard a shrilly squeal and a little figure rocket across the room and away from Draco’s fierce, swiping grasp. He was left ferociously clutching at thin air, which only peeved Draco off more. The blond boy heard the tiny body’s back slam against the back wall and saw it covering its huge tennis ball eyes, shaking with utter fear.

“Dobby is sorry, Draco Malfoy, sir! Dobby is accidentally dropping the plates, Sir! Dobby is not seeing what he is doing! Dobby is not seeing anything, Sir!”

It didn’t take Draco long to stride over to the wall where sprawled the cowering and tiny figure of his old house-elf, who was dressed in a ridiculous tea cosy, an assortment of brightly coloured socks and a knobbly maroon jumper. It also didn’t take the Slytherin long to grasp Dobby by the ear and jerk him off the ground until he was on Draco’s eye level. The little elf writhed in pain, squealing and kicking its tiny legs into the air. With a little smirk emerging from his anger, Draco suddenly realised how much he had missed this. Punishing Dobby had been his favourite past time as a child. It was he who had first suggested that Dobby iron his hands whenever he was disobedient.

Trying to get livid again and stop reminiscing about one of the very few joys of his childhood, Draco pulled his most spiteful face (narrowed eyes and all) and snarled his mouth.

“If you’re fucking implying that I have nothing for you to see then…”

“No, Sir!” squeaked the elf in pain, wincing as Draco’s fingernails pressed deeper. “Dobby is having lots to be seeing, Sir! Dobby is just not seeing, Sir! Dobby is a bad elf!” Draco tried not to smirk. He loved it when people cowered before him like this. After all, Weasley down on his knees and begging for him was one of the biggest turn ons he could think of…

Shit, now wasn’t the time for this.

Cold showers… Dobby wearing nothing but that tea cosy… Pansy and Goyle during mad monkey sex…

Draco shuddered, remembering to sneer maliciously and tried not to sound weakened.

“Dobby is a blind fucking elf too, isn’t he?” he prompted, his voice lessening a decibel to sound more menacing. The elf nodded emphatically, as though there were nothing in the world that he agreed with more.

“Yes, Sir. Dobby is a bad elf. Bad, bad Dobby! But please Master Draco, Sir… please be giving Dobby another chance…” The elf’s lip was trembling as its eyes widened with urgent imploration. Dobby looked so desperate, so tearful, so hopeful and so wounded that anyone else would have pitied the shaking elf and lowered him to the ground. Draco, however, was a vicious creature by nature and merely sneered cruelly. A Malfoy’s timing was always immaculate and the Slytherin boy had estimated and calculated precisely that this was the perfect opportunity to stamp his victim viciously under his foot. He leaned forward, pencil nose pressed against pointed as his eyes glinted sadistically.

“Remember the last time I gave you a chance, Dobby?” he hissed dangerously, willing the elf to remember in dread. “Remember how badly you fucked that up?” The elf shook his head vigorously again, wide eyes pleading in unjust judgement.

“Dobby tried, Master Draco Sir! Harry Potter did not heed Dobby’s warning, Sir…!”

It took many a serious and tender matter to make Draco visibly lose his temper, and Dobby shook with fear as he witnessed his master spit with rage.

“You couldn’t even keep Potter from thinking he had no friends! You just couldn’t keep Scarface from going near Weasley again, could you? And then you had to go all fucking noble and tell him about Lucius’s plan…!” Dobby squealed doubly as Draco’s grip tightened even more; the ear going completely numb now.

“Dobby is sorry, Master Draco! But Harry Potter is good, sir. Harry Potter is noble and valiant and kind and…” Draco leaned back and withdrew his face, still clasping Dobby’s right ear as hard as he possibly could as he drew out his wand threateningly.

“One more word about how fucking wonderful Potter is and I’ll turn your ears into lead,” he said icily, every word enunciated clearly so Dobby could not be mistaken.

But the elf just didn’t fucking get it, did he? Dobby just looked mortified that the Slytherin could ask such a thing of him.

“But Master Draco, Sir! Harry Potter is being Dobby’s Saviour, Sir and…”

“I’m going to give you the count of three before I hex you, Dobby.” Draco spoke in a calm voice, as though he were simply going to tell Dobby the weather forecast. The house-elf’s eyes grew shiny with tears as he looked absolutely panic-stricken.

“Oh Master no!” he squealed, trying to shake his head as Draco’s fingers tightened even more around his ear. He looked as though his world were coming to an end as he wept, tears now falling down his ugly brown face. Draco took no heed, grinning wickedly on the inside.

“One…”

Dobby seemed to be trying to think of many thoughts within his mind, because his face betrayed his inner turmoil as he shook his head repeatedly. The little elf’s bat-like ear was turning red under Draco’s grip as he began to sob and squeak and splutter and make as many desperate noises and pleas as he could.

“Master, Dobby is a good elf…! Please master…”

“Two…”

“Dobby is sorry, Master Draco! Dobby is not meaning being bad…!”

“Three.” Draco said the death sentence casually, shrugged nonchalantly but his eyes gleamed with hunger. Aiming the tip steady and right between Dobby’s frightened, wide and shining eyes, the Slytherin had just opened his smirking mouth to curse when there was a sudden CRASH of the front door. The abruptness not only made the towel-clad Draco drop the house elf to the floor, who scurried away towards the door, but also made the normally calm and collected Slytherin actually drop his wand in his surprise. However, the latter only happened when he turned around and saw exactly whom it was who had just broken down his door, who it was that was now standing in the doorway and who exactly it was panting for breath and looking absolutely fuming.

Draco blinked in his shock, his mouth dropping open. After a second, he could only manage a splutter of,

“Weasley, what the fuck are you…?”

But before he could even finish that pitiful sentence, Draco had witnessed the redheaded Adonis and sexy bastard thunder fumingly towards him and pound him in the face with such brute and precise force with his fist that the blond’s head jerked back painfully and his spine slammed hard against the wall that Dobby had previously pinned his little self against. The back of the Slytherin’s head banged with blinding and star-seeing impact and, when the black had finally subsided, Draco was in too much shock to do anything but raise his fingertips to his bleeding lip, then blink and stare at Weasley in amazement.

“Mr Wheezy Sir, what is you doing?!” Dobby squeaked behind his hands, looking at the scene with an expression of both terror and slight admiration, by the door. “Mr Wheezy Sir will be getting in trouble with Professor Dumbledore, Sir! Dobby is not wanting Harry Potter’s Wheezy in trouble!”

But Weasley wasn’t heeding the house-elf or its high-pitched cries.

He was too busy glaring at the Slytherin.

Immense hatred was plainly seen on his flushed face and that ripped chest of his was heaving with breathlessness as he took deep gulps of air. Draco could see the clenched fists, the blazing tips of his ears, the snarling lips, the flashing, slit blue eyes and the absolute ferocity of his anger. Jesus, what the heck had pissed him off so much? The blond boy had never seen Weasley look so utterly pissed and so irresistibly gorgeous. And there was only one thing the Slytherin could do when he was faced with such magnificence.

Draco growled.

He snarled loudly as he returned the Gryffindor’s look, rubbing the back of his own tender head as his damp blond strands tickled his eyes. Harry Potter’s Wheezy? Fucking Potter’s Weasley? Weasley would never belong to Scarface. Draco would make damn sure of that. And Draco would also make damn bloody sure that Weasley thought twice about ever daring to punch him again.

Draco drew up his slightly slouched, pale form to his full height to look imposing, though he was still a good inch shorter than Weasley. Fuck him and his tall, glorious body. Wiping the blood from his stinging lip stiffly with the back of his hand, Draco tried to act as calmly as possible, though his cold grey eyes never left his red-haired opponent’s mad-eyed, frenzied and utterly insane expression. Any fiercer and the Slytherin was sure he would have to conjure a cage to restrain him in. However, before Draco could even think about hexing the shit for drawing such blue blood, Weasley began to tremble furiously, pointing at the Slytherin accusingly with an outstretched, shaking finger as his eyes looked strangely wide and apprehensive. And… shit, was the Weasel actually turning pale?

“You bloody git, Malfoy! You… you sick sodding pervert!” Weasley gulped down another breathless pant as he licked his lips almost painfully; his complexion so pale that he looked as though he was going to throw up. He looked beyond pissed, utterly grossed-out and he was calling Draco a Pervert (well, a ‘Sick Fucking Pervert’ to be more precise). Draco swallowed down the bile rising from his throat as he pieced it all together.

Oh Arse.

Weasley knew. He didn’t just know. He really knew.

Fuck Fuckety Fuck Fuck Fuck. The Slytherin was more screwed over than his mother.

Ok, Draco couldn’t panic. He had to be calm. He wasn’t just going overreact and grab that desk lamp over there and slam it over Weasley’s head to kill him and keep the secret forever unknown.

To do that, he would have to get rid of Dobby first.

“Dobby, leave,” Draco said simply, his normally sneering voice now a flat and serious tone as he used all his strength to keep himself from shaking and to maintain a passive appearance. “And tell no one what you’ve seen or heard.”

Dobby, gazing from master to Wheezy, looked torn but one last look at the icily severe silver-haired boy with his own bulbous, luminous eyes seemed to make up his mind. With a loud crack, the house-elf disappeared and left the two archenemies alone.

After a couple of minutes of silent glaring at each other, Weasley finally managed to regain his wits (and his breath) as he shook his head slowly and looked at Draco with those wide, disgusted though thoroughly sexy scared-looking blue eyes.

“I… I always knew you were nutters, Malfoy but I… never bloody guessed that you were some sick queer fairy as well.”

Although he spoke with a shaky and scared tone (where the heck had the anger gone? Stupid Gryffindor…) Draco could see he was trying to cover his shocked and pale expression with a look of revulsion. Nice fucking try, Weasley. And did he honestly just call Draco a shit-stabber when he was simply screaming ‘I’m a closet homo – do me now’?

The blond boy hissed between his bared teeth. Nobody was ever allowed to call him homosexual. Not gorgeous wanker Weasley. Fuck, not even himself. And before he could even think of continuing with his controlled and cold behaviour, Draco snapped.

“Who the fuck are you calling pansy-arsed, you ginger prick? You’re the one who got off when I put my hands up your robes… Remember, Weasel?”

Well, that memory sure pissed his unbalanced little canon off. So that’s where his anger had disappeared to…

Damn. Weasley really was too jumpworthy for words when he went all red and intimidating like that. Sexy, trembling little shit. With a smirk, Draco supposed that he might have well finished his taunting with a proper insult. “Or are you so pathetic that you even get a rise when that filthy little Mudblooded bitch touches you as well…?”

He had obviously hit a nerve.

Before Draco could finish his sneering sentence properly, Weasley had, like so many other times in their duelling history, growled in pure rage then pounced on the Slytherin ferociously.

In all honesty, it took Draco a minute or two to recover from the initial shock of the attack… and then it took the Slytherin more than just a couple of minutes to actually realise that Weasley wasn’t exactly punching him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The Weasel wasn’t just not punching him.

The violent little prick was kissing his face off with brutal force.

The redhead’s hard chest had slammed brutally into the Slytherin’s; Weasley using his entire body to sandwich the smaller boy excruciatingly against the wall as both their ribs and their teeth knocked painfully together with the violent impact.

What in Satan’s left bollock…?!

He really wasn’t expecting that.

Draco, who had completely lost his breath when the Gryffindor had pressed his lips fiercely and hungrily upon his own, pretty much decided that he didn’t give a Goddamn about breathing. He also decided that there was no arsing way that he was going to sit back and let Weasley take charge. He slipped his snake-like arms crushingly around the redhead’s waist and pulled the boy in possessively against his own body, commandingly sliding his tongue over the roof of the Gryffindor’s magnificent mouth. He could feel Weasley’s long arms wrap around him with almost fierce protectiveness as he pushed Draco further into and further up the wall fanatically, ferociously shoving his groin against the Slytherin’s towel hidden one and causing them both to moan unintelligibly into each other’s mouths. Draco knew he should have fucking pushed Weasley down to his knees, onto a bed, into a shower… but having him thrust the Slytherin so violently against a wall was so bloody enjoyable that he couldn’t even bring his panting mouth and sweating body to fight in resistance.

Fuck… oh fuck… oh fuck… oh fuckety fuck…

It was only a matter of time before his towel fell off and all hope would be lost…

“M… M-Mal… foy…” Weasley managed with difficulty, his pants of breath against Draco’s lips as they both squeezed their eyes tightly shut and continued to buck against each other viciously.

How the fuck could he be so bloody coherent when Draco was a sweaty mess and, in his present state, could hardly string two words together? Stupid crappy Gryffindor. The Slytherin could definitely give him something to cry about. And, with a strained and almost pained smirk, Draco skilfully slid his hand down between their violently driving bodies and cupped a certain area of Weasley so tightly with his hand that the redhead’s eyes tightened even more while he bit his adorably puckered lip until it turned white, his breathing continuing to shorten.

“L-L…Like that… W-Weas… Weasel?” Fuck this breathless and turned on disposition. If he were any harder Draco would be permanently stuck this way. And… wait, what the heck was Weasley doing opening his eyes (even if they were pretty?)? He was supposed to be so far gone that he couldn’t do anything but bloody succumb to the Slytherin’s irresistible charms! What was he bloody playing at…? However, the Slytherin was soon pleased to see that Weasley, through violently aroused moaning, could only intelligibly groan three words as Draco began to lick his way seductively across the redhead’s jawbone and down the curve of his neck; his Adam’s Apple quivering with every shaky gulp.

“M… M-Malf-foy… uh… b-bed… now.” Weasley, who looked startlingly flushed and was trying to control his heavy breathing, looked almost as though he would either cry or kill the Slytherin if refused.

Well, Draco always was one to please.

Hoisting up his loosening towel over his sweaty hips with as much dignity as he could, the blond boy, who was still trying to control his own unnaturally unsteady breathing himself, gestured for the Gryffindor to follow him. Stumbling out the room and buckling up the stairs, they were both practically breaking into a sprint in their eagerness and finally slammed the bedroom door open so hard in their impatience that one of the hinges detached from the door. But who the fuck cared about the door? Draco was too busy being shoved flat on the bed, with his back smacking hard on the mattress by an overzealous Weasley, to even take notice. Although the taller boy suddenly jumped on top of him (and painfully too), the Slytherin was too busy having the face snogged off him and drowning himself within the delectable taste as he raised his own legs and wrapped them securely around Weasley’s waist. The Slytherin had a strange and pretty sure feeling that his towel had slipped off him somewhere along the way but having Weasley eagerly sucking on his tongue was bound to make a guy oblivious to everything else around him.

Oh God he tasted good. And he felt bloody perfect to… like a warm blanket on top of him…

Wait a fucking minute. Why the hell was he talking like a bloody lovesick girl again? And why the heck was Weasley still on top? Arrogant prick. And how could Draco have become so distracted by the Weasel’s allurements to even fucking allow it? With a deep, throaty growl, the Slytherin tightened his legs with rib-breaking force as he slid his palms up the Gryffindor’s back and raked his hands through his fiery, damp red hair, grabbing fistfuls of it with clenching fingers. He smiled against his redhead’s lips as he could hear Weasley hiss in pain…

And then the situation got interesting.

They struggled against each other for domination. Draco’s fingernails were digging into Weasley’s back as Weasley sunk his teeth brutally into the blond’s left earlobe. The Slytherin could feel one of Weasley’s arms enclose around his waist and draw him against him tightly as the Gryffindor’s other hand raked through his silky silver-blond hair. Then, without warning, the redhead seized the Malfoy’s hair firmly (tighter than Draco had done to him… prick) and pulled it back, exposing more of his slender and pale throat, which he soon attacked; the redhead’s teeth and lips tracing rigorously down the cold, smooth flesh and across the curve of his willowy collarbone. He could feel Weasley’s hot breath against his neck and Draco loathed the way the Gryffindor’s mumbled, husky words raised a genuinely contented moan from him.

“You’re so bloody gorgeous…”

He should have been fighting for control. He should have been pushing Weasley off of him then jumping the sexy fuck himself. And although he was pissed with himself for not being the more dominant party (as Lucius had only too often schooled him to be) Draco was too busy craving to get rid of all of Weasley’s irksomely restraining clothes to reprimand himself too viciously.

He snaked his hands between their bodies and grabbed the opening of Weasley’s robes, literally ripping them away then sitting up to tug fiercely at the maroon jumper that was hindering he Slytherin from the naked chest he’d been fantasising about for longer than he could really remember. Their lips were unwillingly pulled off each other as Weasley hurriedly pulled the offending piece of clothing from him, practically tangling himself within the sleeves in his hurry before finally extracting it then throwing it to the ground. He then motioned to the Slytherin but the blond had frozen. Draco didn’t know how long he was gawping at the boy, but he knew one thing; Weasley really was absolutely fucking spectacular.

And it was Draco’s turn to pounce.

Grabbing his redhead’s bare waist, he pulled him fervently into his arms, falling back onto the bed as Weasley fell on top of him, his blue eyes wide with lust and amusement. Even through hungry kisses and his possessing a mind that currently resembled a fanatical blur, the Slytherin still managed to reclaim his rightful place by steering the two joined bodies into rolling until he was on top. He then, still straddling the Gryffindor, broke the kiss and clearly heard Weasley’s angry, though soft, groans for more. Draco couldn’t keep himself from grinning wickedly. This was the way it should be. With him on top and Weasley simply begging him for more.

He was a Malfoy after all…

“Weren’t you the one who called me a pansy-arse, Weasel?” Draco smirked with mounting breathlessness, shifting about on Ron’s bare abdomen teasingly. The Gryffindor scowled up at him with that adorable pout as his eyes narrowed. However, Draco could see the redhead was still getting very aroused by the Slytherin’s movements as his breath shuddered fiercely.

“Bug… bugger… just go bugger yourself, M-Malfoy…”

That sexy bastard. Draco smiled alluringly and then leaned down towards the redhead’s ear, whispering in a soft and very lustful voice.

“I’d rather you do it for me, Weasley.”

Then, with reflexes like a cat, he slammed against the boy, pinning his wrists to his sides and smiling wickedly down at his struggling, enthusiastic Gryffindor. With an almost chaste press upon his mouth (‘almost’ because Draco Malfoy could never be chaste), Draco soon moved his lips to tease at Weasley’s warm chest, feeling the erratic beating of his redhead’s heart against his mouth as he trailed his tongue to join the endearing freckles on his salty sweet torso. He finally nuzzled his face almost playfully in the boy’s toned stomach, causing Weasley to whimper lightly and arch his back to the touch. The Slytherin’s hands moved from Weasley’s hips and greedily attacked his belt as his tongue still explored his navel in utmost detail. In fact, it was only the whisper like call of his name that halted the boy in his tracks.

“Draco…?”

He flicked his eyes up at his redhead, his lips frozen upon Weasley’s abdomen. Weasley was gazing down at him with startlingly hungry, heavy-lidded blue eyes and was breathing sharply through slightly parted lips, his chest heaving with his deep exhales. He licked his lips nervously between deep breaths and gulped with endearing fear. It was pretty obvious that this was a first for him. Draco kissed his stomach lightly, his tongue flicking over the salty taste of Weasley’s stomach as his silver eyes bore into the Gryffindor’s; smiling seductively against the redhead’s sweat-soaked skin. And that was when he did it. That was when Weasley nodded his head softly, his eyes wide and his body trembling, his puckered bottom lip bit. Fuck, he really was a vision.

It was then when Draco realised that all he ever wanted in the world was this boy in front of him, offering himself.

And it was then that Draco stopped.

His hands tensed, then released their grip on the belt and he stepped away, an expression of mortification on his face. Weasley sat up, his striking face looking up at him questioningly as he lifted himself up onto his elbows. Draco’s trembling caused the Gryffindor to automatically stand up and motion both awkwardly and concernedly towards him but the Slytherin stepped back from Weasley’s outstretched arms, dodging his embrace. He was trembling with complete and utter fury.

“I’m not a fucking queer,” his snarling voice said shakily. “You’re not going to make me queer, Weasley. I’m not going to join you and your bloody club of shirt lifting queens.”

Weasley stopped dead. He looked as though the Whomping Willow had just punched him hard in the stomach. His mouth dropped open and for a few seconds he looked as though he was never going to speak again. However, it only took a matter of time for him to revert back to normal; his normally trembling, scarlet-faced and utterly pissed off expression.

Uh-oh.

He was shaking so violently that he looked as though his fiery head was going to explode any minute. He was so angry that he looked like he was in actual pain as he stepped forward, causing Draco, against his egotistical nature, to actually stepped back in real trepidation. He couldn’t mistake those furious tears in Weasley’s eyes.

“You, you… you’re such a… you’re so… you’re so far back in the closet that, that… that you’re in fucking Narnia!” he spat out in trembling fury. Draco, feeling oddly guilt-ridden (fuck, that was a bad sign) opened his mouth to say something but the redhead had already grabbed at the remains of his robes and his maroon jumper and skilfully managed to manoeuvre his elbow to bash the Slytherin right in the stomach as he bolted passed the boy and slammed out the door. The second hinge on the door creaked slowly from Weasley’s rage and, no more than a second later, the heavy oak door crashed to the floor with ground-trembling force. Still keeling over on the floor and now covered with the dust the door had shot all over him when it had impacted, Draco thought that he had dealt with that situation all wrong.

Shit.

Now, not only was he the most turned on he’d ever been in his life, but he had no idea what the heck Narnia was. Fucking Weasley with his muggle-loving and their inside jokes…

With a pained sigh, the Slytherin looked down at himself as he attempted to stand but then stopped halfway in mortification.

Ah, bollocks.

He really needed to have another shower.