It took a while for Draco to realise exactly where he was as he rubbed at his sore, puffy eyelids with the back of his pale hand, still in a state of semi-sleep. Blinking his lazy grey eyes away from the slice of sunlight that was threatening his drowsy condition irritatingly, the boy tried to focus on the shape he was lying sprawled upon. It took him a while but he finally gathered enough wit to establish that he had collapsed on the sofa last night. And that he was back in the Shrieking Shack.

God, he fucking hated this place.

He groaned as he laboriously pulled himself up to a sitting position, the springs of the uncomfortable couch whining with him as they left imprints on his strained back. Moving his arm to run his hand through his chaotic, sleep-tussled hair, the Slytherin soon realised that his body was stiff and aching all over and he mentally reproved himself for being stupid enough to sleep here when he had a perfectly comfortable bed upstairs. Did he seriously think lying here would be the ideal place to see the front door, when that underprivileged, contemptible, self-obsessed little Weasel would undeniably decide to pop by? He was such a fucking mug. You might as well have dressed him in repulsive bumblebee colours and shoved him into Hufflepuff House, right next to that corpulent and hideously happy ghost of theirs.

With a disgusted snort at his own stupidity, the boy found solid, carpeted ground and he lifted himself up onto his feet, wincing as he felt his calf muscles tensing. And then he remembered last night all over again. Weasley’s kisses, Potter’s dream… his own unspoken ultimatum. The blond swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut.

Fuck. This had all gone wrong. Everything had just gone horribly wrong.

How had his life turned to this? This stupid, melodramatic soap opera where he always came second? A place where he couldn’t control anything, existing like a stupid puppet in someone’s torturous plans? And… Jesus! Why, in the name of everything immoral and evil, was he even awake at this time of the morning anyway? It can’t have been the right time. His clock must have gone wrong. After all, Draco Malfoy had always had a relatively reliable internal clock. Maybe it was due to his meticulous nature, but he usually woke at about 8:15am, a good three quarters of an hour before his classes began. Which usually gave the extraordinarily vain boy ample time to organize his appearance. However, he was up a good few hours early today. Something he rarely did. But why…?

Then he remembered. Somewhere, in the back of his sleepy mind, he recalled the rustling of footsteps and… pacing, maybe? These noises had woken him up. Someone had woken him up. Someone who was in the shack with him…

Shit. Someone was actually in the bloody shack with him. Right bloody now.

Draco was suddenly alert, his wand summoned to his hand in a nanosecond and his weariness shaken off. He raised it threateningly, his cat-like eyes narrowed and his head turning side to side in sharp, wary and suspicious moves. The shack looked completely empty but he knew better. He could feel the presence of someone else. He could feel a gaze on his back… God, why didn’t he notice it before? He spun around, aiming his wand at nothing but a wall. His ears were almost flickering with the slightest sound and he was beginning to panic. It wasn’t safe here. He already knew it wasn’t. Dumbledore had warned him not to come back. He was such a fucking idiot! All because of Weasley. He was going to end up as a stiff in a wooden box because of a poor, ginger Gryffindor! Where was the justice in this?

But there was no way he was going without a fight. No way was an arse-kissing Death Eater going to overpower him.

“Show yourself or I’ll send you back to Voldemort in pieces,” he tried to hiss, his arm trembling regardless of his angry, silent promise to hack it off if it didn’t hold steady. But when was the last time a Death Eater breathed so loudly? Weren’t they trained to be quiet? Draco opened his mouth to say something else, maybe a curse, probably a weepy request for his mother, when an urgent and all too familiar voice shouted,

“Holy Hell, Malfoy, calm down!”

Almost immediately after the yelp, Ron Weasley seemed to materialise in front of him, dropping the invisibility cloak he was using so it pooled around his scuffed shoes. It was with the sound of a thump that Draco realised that the panicked boy had dropped something else, but the cloak had conveniently fallen over it. Weasley tried to calm his static hair by patting it anxiously. “It’s me, alright! Put that thing down, would you?! And am I the only one who knows how to say You-Know-Who around here?!” Draco blinked stupidly up at him, his eyes wide and his wand arm flopping down to his side in his genuine astonishment. The boy had actually come. Had he really chosen him over Potter?

“W-Weasley? What are you… I mean, what the …Fucking hellfire, Weasel! What in Satan’s name were you thinking?! I could have killed you! Why the heck didn’t you own up?”

The redhead’s nervous expression was only slightly hidden by a faint, uneasy little shrug.

“Dunno, you’re pretty darn funny when you’re scared stiff, Malfoy,” he said, forcing a small laugh.

It wasn’t funny. The boy wouldn’t know a joke if it walloped him in the face and then began to do an Irish jig for him. Draco turned away from the maddening look, sighing deeply through his nose and grinding his teeth. Great. Now, because of the idiot Gryffindor, his jaw had joined the other parts of his body that were aching dully. Why didn’t the Slytherin hex his own leg clean off, just to make things extra peachy?

He hated this. Why the moron couldn’t ever come right out and say what was on his mind was beyond Draco. After all, he was usually so horribly upfront. Why did he even bother being so nauseatingly friendly? Why did the Weasel always have to try and slowly break the ice between them? The ice that Draco himself emanated there? The Slytherin didn’t want it broken. At least, not in that way anyway. He wanted it to get so rock solid that it would explode with its own pressure. He wanted a solution founded in violence. He wanted… fuck, he didn’t know what he wanted. But he didn’t want this. This forced civility.

What had happened to the passion they’d once had? They can’t have had already turned boring, could they? Heaven forbid… coupley? No, he knew it was still there. Somewhere. Underneath it all. And he fucking wanted it back. He’d deal with all of Weasel’s obvious flaws if they could just be all right again. If they could just accept each other as complete opposites and just… be. Not try and change themselves until conversations became awkward and until certain Slytherin tongues had to be held.

He supposed this almost uncharacteristically sensible rationale also meant he had to accept Potter as Weasley’s best friend, even if he hated it and wanted to slowly torture Bolt Boy most of, if not all, the time. And the most worryingly disturbing thing was that he was actually reasonably willing to accept the redhead’s baggage…

Oh fuck a duck.

He was so Weasel obsessed that it should be directly against the law of everything decent.

But he would not carry on this shitting charade. He absolutely refused to rise to the fake-cheerful banter the boy was throwing at him. Slytherins didn’t banter like that. It was practically in opposition to every house rule they had. So he decided to sneer in its place.

“Why the hell are you here, Weasel?” he asked tightly, his lips pursed petulantly and his stomach doing incredibly annoying flip-flops. Fucking flip-flops… “I thought you’d made your decision by not going after me. Just like the little coward you are…”

Weasley pressed his lips together into a line, stepping tentatively forward and over the mystery object under the cloak with his palms up, as though the smaller boy would spontaneously combust any second. Or attack him like a rabid blond Chihuahua.

“Malfoy, if… if you’re talking about last night, then… Ok, listen. Just hear me out and just… just don’t get how you get, ok? I stayed up with Harry after you left and…”

Draco laughed a dry, bitter little laugh and shook his head with sardonic amusement.

“Did you now.” It wasn’t a question. “Nice to know you can replace me so swiftly. Well, at least you enjoyed yourself...”

“Malfoy…”

“But who needs Draco Malfoy when the famous Harry Potter is around and willing to bestow his services for free? But then again, it’s not as though you could pay him, could you, Weasel?”

“Malfoy, I’m warning you…”

“So, why don’t you tell me about it? Frankly, I’m quite curious. Is he a spitter or…?”

“Oh, just SHUT UP, will you!? Just SHUT the hell UP!”

He seemed to have lit a fire under the boy because Weasley practically jumped into the air like a firework, his face fierce and eyes sparking furiously. Draco’s own eyes flickered down the Gryffindor. He held his breath, hoping the idiot of a boy would just bloody well lose it and attack him, punch him, snog him… anything. But the flame-haired Weasley only yelled at him even louder.

“Jesus, why won’t you ever let me speak?! I’m trying to be nice! I’m trying to make a bloody effort and all you do is throw it back in my face! I hate it when you get like this! And not everything is about sex, y’know! You’re… you’re always bloody putting words in my mouth!”

The blond could feel the blood rushing to his pale cheeks, his body tingling and his head feeling dizzy. This was it. This is what he missed. Screw oysters, it was practically an aphrodisiac in itself.

“Oh really!?” Draco shot back, trembling unstably in his exhilaration. “Well, words are the only things I can actually get in your fucking mouth, Weasley!”

“God dammit, Malfoy!” the redhead suddenly burst out, every ounce of his composure dissipated as he lunged at Draco and fisted his hands harshly into the boy’s collar, pulling him hard against him. “What is your problem?! Why do you have to make it so hard!?"

"What so hard?!" Draco spat back, trying to struggle out of his grip and concurrently trying to tiptoe to advance his height as well.

It was at times like these that he was reminded of, and slightly intimidated by, Weasley’s strength as the boy practically lifted him up off the ground by the collar and sandwiched him against the nearest wall painfully. How many times had they done this? Draco had lost count. But he didn’t think of anything else witty or scathing to say as he tried to catch his breath, heart hammering against his now bruised ribs as Weasley looked at him in what could only be described in one word – hatred.

"You want to know what’s hard, you little bastard?!” the redhead hissed, looking so dangerous that the blond honestly didn’t know what he was going to do to him. He would not gulp. He would not let the second to last mistake in a litter that practically bathed in trash make him gulp... But oh shit, he looked scary… “Me, you pale little arse! ME!"

He was going to kill him. He knew it. Weasley was going to kill him and leave his fabulous body here to decay and feed the rodent population of Hogwarts. Draco began to squirm in obvious panic.

“Get… get the fuck off me…!” God, the stupid and extremely peeved pauper had made him squeak! For the indifference of fucking humanity…

However, Weasley didn’t let go. Instead, the boy yanked the Slytherin off the wall before slamming him back against it again, making Draco’s head bang hard against the plaster; cracked white chippings formed from the collision. The blond squeezed his eyes shut with the pain. Shit, this really was going further than he imagined it to. When had he ever actually been… fuck it, frightened of the redhead? Why was he trembling like a bloody leaf? It must have been cold. Yes, it must have been the cold that was affecting him like this…

“Like that, Malfoy?!” Weasley mocked his own voice, shaking him with all his might until the blond’s head lolled about like a corpse’s, the redhead unable to see the wide pale eyes attached to it. Oh shit, this really wasn’t good. The blond really didn’t fucking like this… “Like fucking me about and not giving a shit about me and making me feel so fucking stupid?! Making me fall for you because you feel like it and ruining every plan I had for the future?! Well?! Do you?!”

“Weasley… please…” Draco choked, his breath clogging in his chest, unable to censor out the panic in his voice. “Let me go… please…”

The Slytherin, who had closed his eyes somewhere along the line, decided to slowly open them in trepidation when he felt Weasley’s hands finally still, leaving Draco with his ears ringing. He lifted his gaze up to see the blue blurs that were the taller boy’s eyes… and he could see the slow realisation dawning in them. Furious anger slowly sobering into complete mortification and horror at his own actions. He let Draco go, staggering backwards as the blond sagged down against the wall, managing somehow to stay on his feet. Shit, he was astounded that he hadn’t just had a seizure after all that. Draco clutched his heaving, hurting chest. He was sure he was about to have a stroke.

Getting his breath back, the Malfoy, with difficulty, raised his throbbing head to see Weasley looking down at his own shaking hands with wide, completely lost eyes. As though they had betrayed him. The redhead then snapped his head up to look up at him with that utterly, endearingly, adorably befuddled look that the Slytherin always fell for. Fuck it, he was falling for it all over again, even though the crazy fucker had just tried to kill him. After all the death threats he liberally placed on well… anyone if they merely pissed him off, Draco couldn’t think of one, not one, at that moment as he gazed at the boy. Oh fuck this, why was he so enamoured with him?! Why couldn’t he just get over this stupid phase? And if he was a fag, why couldn’t he have better, more expensive taste? Why not someone rich and incredibly famous like… hell, Potter? And he immediately answered himself. It was because Potter was a scraggy and bothersome little shit, upon whom he wished a most painful and gruesome death. While Weasley was… well, unadulterated perfection in extremely tatty clothes.

It was as his distracting thoughts filled his head and a pained expression formed on his face, that the boy somehow didn’t notice Weasley launch himself at him again.

But now he wasn’t attacking him. Well, fuck him gently with a chainsaw. Now, instead, the redhead was opting to clutch him for dear life and mumble frantic nonsense into his hair.

“Oh Christ, I didn’t mean it… I didn’t hurt you, did I…? ….Oh, I’m such a fucking idiot… tell me you’ll forgive me, right…?”

Draco, still completely shocked out of his brain, tried to say something along the lines of… ‘Weasley, you stupid crazy shit! Get off me!’ But then the blond happened to remember that any excuse to touch the boy, including when the complete maniac was slamming him against the wall (minus the very pleasant groin action) was better than nothing. Besides, Weasley turned his head, caught his mouth and began kissing him so fiercely that Draco was sure he’d pulled a muscle in his tongue. And that kind of mouthful made it quite difficult for him to form logical sentences. So he didn’t try to.

He sighed and leaned against the wall, allowing his eyes to slip closed as Weasley pulled back and frenziedly covered every inch of his face with the imprint of his lips, still mumbling his inarticulate apologies and muffled declarations. Soon, long arms encircled the Slytherin possessively and pressed him tightly against a warm, hard chest. God, he was so tempted to snuggle… But no. Snuggling was bad. Snuggling is what sappy lovers did. Which they were not. No love or ghastly feelings of any kind in this relationship. No way, no day.

But despite the many things he’d denied persistently (violently) throughout his life, the boy would agree that, with that fight, something had been let loose. An understanding. A certain acceptance. A certain something. A something that meant more Weasley arse for him, which Draco greatly appreciated. He gave the aforementioned body part a wicked little squeeze, just to nail the point home. However, after initially tensing under his hands, the redhead soon relaxed and began to chuckle, the sound vibrating through both their teeth. The Slytherin pulled his lips back, looking at the boy questioningly. Then he frowned. Now what the hell did he think was so sodding funny? No one ever fucking laughed at him. Often with, but never at. He eyed the Gryffindor with an extremely childish scowl, his cheeks still tinged pink and his nose pointed up.

“Weasel, if you’re so ill-mannered that you can even consider to laugh at my brilliant kissing technique, you’d better prepare yourself for a good hiding.” The redhead ceased laughing for a bit to roll his eyes, still wearing that annoyingly cute, lopsided grin.

“Get over yourself, you enormous prat,” he said good-humouredly, illustrating his seriousness by dropping a quick peck on the blond’s upturned nose and watching the Slytherin wrinkle it soon afterwards. That tickled. “Actually, I was just thinking how all we had to do was beat the crap out of each other to get over this…”

Draco smiled incredibly dryly.

“Correction, Weasley. For you to beat the crap out of me…” The redhead winced, as though the words being said physically pained him. He flushed with guilty discomfiture.

“Jeez, Malfoy. ‘Said I was sorry, didn’t I?” The Slytherin studied him for a moment, turning his lips up a fraction and noting the almost defiant tone the boy’s voice was taking. Some people never fucking changed. He moved languidly forward and combed his hand up and through the back of the boy’s hair, pushing Weasley’s head down so their noses touched. Floppy red strands tickled at his eyes.

“I just like hearing it, my dear little Weasel,” he smirked, pushing the strands behind the redhead’s ear. This seemed ample explanation as the Gryffindor shrugged and leaned his whole body back against him, his troublesome hair falling free again.

“Yeah, well. Whatever,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning his warm forehead against the blond’s thoughtfully. “Either way, we got it sorted, didn’t we? I didn’t even need to bring it really…” He had muttered the last more to himself than Draco, now inattentively stroking the boy’s hand. Eyes still closed and his body still enjoying the comfortable heat, the paler boy let out a puff of air.

“What the heck are you babbling on about, Weasel?” the Slytherin grumbled. He hated when he wasn’t all knowing. After all, it happened so incredibly rarely. Weasley moved slightly back to explain and Draco snapped his eyes open and almost mourned the loss of the touch out loud. He bit his tongue quickly though. Malfoys had self-control. And, it now appeared to the Slytherin, permanently swollen tongues.

He felt a tug on his hand before realising that Weasley had moved back still holding it within his own larger one. His stomach knotted and there was an odd sort of silence as they both looked down at it, then caught the other’s gaze again. Weasley seemed to have forgotten what he was about to explain. And despite himself, Draco ended up reddening as much as the Weasel. They had kissed, groped each other through, and inside, their trousers and even seen the other semi or, fortuitously for Weasley, completely naked. But holding hands… it just meant more, didn’t it? Something sweet. Something a couple would do. Something that would ordinarily make Draco sick. He pulled his hand away fast, not missing the upset little noise that sounded out of his… his what? Not boyfriend. Not partner. Not lover either, since that implied a hint of a relationship.

What was the Weasel to him?

He looked at the boy closely, as though this would answer his question. Weasel was his. End of story.

The redhead, staring intently at the ground in front of his feet, opened his mouth again, trying to carry on from where distraction had previously prevented him.

“Err… anyway, like I was just saying…Um… yeah. Well, I came to try and get things sorted. And well… I thought that it’d be… I mean, it made sense if I… Um. So, yeah. I brought my chessboard.” Draco twitched a silver brow. Well, that explained the mystery object. But what the hell did chess have to do with anything? He snorted, in an especially bad mood now since his recently clasped hand had started to tingle. It was not because they had something special. Weasley probably just had a skin infection of some sort. Especially being the broke bastard he was and running water being a luxury in his household. Unhygienic and revolting really. He tried to shake the feeling off.

“Chess?” he asked, his sneering pitch causing the redhead to look up at him. “I shouldn’t be surprised, Weasley. It’s the biggest Nancy Boy game of all time.” Weasley’s bashfulness was suddenly all gone as he looked quite defensive instead. He changed expressions faster than the speed of sound, did that one. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Really, Malfoy? That’s funny, considering you’re the one who keeps trying to suck on my…”

“So, why did you think that me beating you senseless at chess would fix our twisted relationship?” Draco interjected quickly, not wanting to stir certain parts of his… character by hearing the boy finish that sentence. Just the unspoken image was hard enough to bear. So to speak.

The redhead snorted, his snappy mood bringing back his confidence. And articulacy.

“Get off your high horse, ferret boy. I happen to be pretty good.” Did he know how fucking striking he was when he was all hot, bothered and irritated by everything? Oh… but no. Draco had to stop being so preoccupied by him. The Slytherin was going to stay focused. His… his property was starting to get an attitude problem.

“Modest, much?” Draco asked, the drips of sarcasm from his question almost audible as he leaned back against the wall again, his arms and ankles both crossed as he tilted his head faintly to the side. Weasley barked with laughter.

“Ha! That’s like Snape calling oil greasy!” Draco immediately found himself frowning at the redhead as Weasley stood there, looking quite amused with himself.

“Hey, quit that,” the Slytherin warned, looking more annoyed and pouty than angry. “No Snape-bashing.”

The Gryffindor dropped the smile as he looked at him curiously, his eyebrows knitted and his expression suspicious. He opened his mouth but paused a little before sharing his thoughts.

“I don’t get it. Why... why do you like him so much, Malfoy? It’s almost like you’re…” His little red-topped head seemed to have left him in the dust again as his voice slowly trailed off. Now Weasley suddenly looked revolted. “Oh bloody hell! You’re not… you know…?” He couldn’t seem to bring himself to continue, his complexion turning sickly and his face stuck on a horrified expression. Draco rolled his eyes. Why the heck did everyone think that? Just because he was a kiss-arse it didn’t mean he… well, did it literally.

“Oh, Weasley, honestly,” he said condescendingly. How dim could the boy get? Why would a straight boy be having a fling with his male teacher? Gryffindors were so stupid. “What sort of a pervert would think that? Besides you, obviously. Fuck, I’m the biggest pervert around and I didn’t even think of it. I just like him. He’s funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yes, funny,” Draco confirmed sourly, still looking peeved that he had to explain himself. He never had to with Crabbe and Goyle. Served him right for falling for someone who could actually spell I.Q. Damn it all. “He knows the rudest ‘knock, knock’ jokes known to man… But anyway, where’s this board of yours then?”

Weasley blinked at the fast shift of topic. Then he blinked at the question, looking mistrustful.

“Err… under the cloak, I guess. Why?” Draco smiled thinly.

“So you can set it up, poor boy,” he said, highlighting his point by prodding the taller boy in the chest after every word. “Or are you scared of losing pathetically?” His plan was obviously a finely crafted and tempting one because Weasley seemed to smirk challengingly, shoot across the room in lightening speed and finally open his board onto a small table, Draco taking a seat opposite him.

It was weird. Draco had mused it many a time but now he could definitely find evidence to prove it as he watched Weasley. One minute they were fighting, then they were getting off and now they were playing chess, of all things. God, they weren’t only the odd couple or strange bedfellows. They happened to be seriously fucked up, as well.

The redhead was also looking up pensively at the Slytherin during frequent intervals, his nimble fingers obviously knowing where to place each piece without looking. Draco, who now sat stiffly and crossed his arms over his chest, stayed silent as he stared back. In fact, it was only until Weasley started to place the blond’s black pawns on the board when the Slytherin finally snapped from being surveyed so intensely.

“What in the name of McGonagall’s intact chastity belt are you gawping at, Weasel?”

Why were Weasley’s eyes twinkling like that? He didn’t fucking trust it at all. Or that infuriatingly little smile the boy was fashioning with not an inkling of remorse. Stupid remorseless prat.

“I’ve noticed something about you, Malfoy. Know what it is?” Draco stabbed a guess at the most likely of observations.

“That I’m God’s gift to men and women?” The redhead immediately rolled his eyes at this, although his expression lacked anger.

“Besides that.”

The Slytherin shrugged. Well, at least he admitted it. There was a time when the boy wouldn’t have even dared think it, let alone say it out loud. Especially to him. The blond pressed his lips together to curb the smarmy smile that was petitioning to be let loose. The Weasel had it bad for him. More than understandable that he openly admitted it. It was obvious really.

“What is it then, my little carrot-top? Go on and astonish me.” The blond leaned back into his seat slowly. Weasley lifted his glittering eyes up, which were crinkling ever so slightly with some veiled joke.

“You swear so much it just isn’t legal. And did you seriously call me carrot-top?”

What the…? And to top things off, the cute little shit was now grinning widely at him like some naughty little brat. Was he really, genuinely, criticising a Malfoy on language skills? Like those Weasleys could afford a dictionary between the ginger, raggedy lot of them…!

“I do fucking not!” Weasley just smirked even more as he lowered his eyes and put his attention fully back on setting up the board again. Draco let out a loud and extremely bad tempered snort to punctuate just how cross he was but his pout slowly dissolved into something else as an idea formed inside his head. A perverse little smile overtook his fiendish features; his eyes suddenly afire and raking confidently down the seated Gryffindor.

“You know how we can make this more interesting?” he asked casually, leaning forward on his elbows and unconsciously licking at his lips. “How about strip chess?” The redhead started, digesting the information. The wheels seemed to be leisurely turning within his head. He was beginning to understand the implications as he looked up from his pieces.

“Strip chess?” Weasley asked with mock confusion, a faint smile on his face as his wide eyes, that were feigning bewilderment, twinkled with almost animal-like hunger.

“For every Weasley piece I take, a Weasley piece of clothing has to give,” the Slytherin explained very slowly as he lightly fondled his extremely willing and purring black Queen, speaking as though to someone who only understood Mermish. Someone who could also inspire him to smile like an extremely ravenous cat. It was a credit to Weasley’s intelligence that he began to clock on, his grin only widening.

“Yeah, but aren’t there more Malfoy chess pieces than pieces of Malfoy clothing…?” the Gryffindor drawled back in the same tone, raising a very evocative eyebrow. Oh, his little redhead was confident that he’d win, was he? That cheeky smile only excited the Slytherin even more as he fidgeted slightly. Damn it, he was bloody admitting it now. Ronald Weasley, the quintessence of all things good and brave and loyal, made him fidget his arse off. It was quite disturbing that this didn’t bother the blond too much.

“You say that like it’s a disadvantage, Weasley.”

“I didn’t say it was, Malfoy.”

“Then quit gabbing and start putting those talented fingers of yours to better use.”

And so he did. Without taking another breath, the redhead opened with a pawn and with the smile and confidence of a player who rarely, if ever, lost. And Draco suddenly felt a niggle of misgiving. No… wait. He wasn’t worried. Not in the slightest. Like that gorgeous, tattered thing could take on a boy who had chess lessons from the best tutors money could buy…! And it was a civilised, aristocratic game. Weasley probably just had the luck of the devil while placing his pieces randomly around. That thing in first year with McGonagall’s chess set was probably some giant fluke… and he obviously didn’t know what he was doing. Why else would he have ended up in the hospital wing while Potter walked out unscathed? Ok, Potter did nearly die, but who gave a crap about that? He’d be a walkover.

Draco flicked his hair out of his now stony and competitive eyes. He was suddenly all seriousness. There was no way he was willing to lose this. He never lost anything. His ruthlessness and fierce determination weren’t ever overwhelmed and he refused to accept anything lower than an authoritative, brutal checkmate. With white chess pieces, and Weasley’s ego, in chunks and ruins. In fact, he was so attentively eying his opponents’ pieces and playing the safe offensive by only moving three compliant black pawns in three goes, that he didn’t even observe the clear diagonal opening directed straight towards his king until… Whoa, wait a minute. Where the fuck did Weasel think he was taking that Queen of his? Didn’t that idiot know that you shouldn’t take your Queen out near the beginning of a game? What a novice! He was so…

Oh fuck.

The Slytherin blinked in panic, feeling a wash of cold suddenly sweep over him. Jesus, how could he have not noticed before?! His mouth suddenly felt very dry. Oh. No. Bloody. Way. No way had Weasel just played against him with the legendary four move… the obvious four move…

“Checkmate, Malfoy.” The four-move checkmate. There were clearly no words in either world, Wizarding and muggle alike, to describe how extraordinarily smug the redhead looked as he grinned hugely then whooped like a hooligan. Draco who, for a full two and half minutes, had retreated into a phase of gaping like one would if one lived underwater, somehow managed to pull himself out of it. Then he acted with perfect Malfoy maturity.

“You little bastard! You obviously cheated!” he screeched. How could this have happened?! Where the hell had this victory come from? The desperate little shit had obviously charmed the board before they started playing! There was no other possible explanation. But the Gryffindork only smirked at his crazed accusation.

“Think whatever the heck you want, Malfoy, but a deal’s a deal,” Weasley retorted back with a self-important smile and in a triumphant kind of voice. A voice and a manner that just oozed with pretentiousness that Draco frankly found vulgar. But the Malfoy was beginning to unconsciously allow the boy to see how disturbed he was by the defeat. And rule number #1 of being a Malfoy included hiding one’s feelings if they were improper. Something Draco had oft forgotten within the last few days, including just then… But still! He never lost at anything! And chess? He practically gave the lessons! He even beat Lucius hands down…!

“No fucking way, Weasel. You expect me to believe that that game was clean? You set me up into a dirty trap! Your Queen came out of nowhere! You so used a vanishing spell on it!”

Weasley was evidentially starting to get a bit tetchy because his smirk was slowly turning in a 180-degree frown and he spoke with a bite of impatience.

“It didn’t ruddy well come out of nowhere, you blond nutter. Talk about a sore loser...! It’s a bloody strategy, Malfoy. Look it up if you don’t believe me… And now… I reckon that someone needs to carry out their end of the bargain.” He broke into a dark, unknowingly seductive smile. He smiled way too much in Draco’s opinion. It was sickening really how one living person could generate that much happiness. Bloody Gryffindors. All that radiated goodness was sometimes too much for a guy to take without throwing up into the nearest cauldron. Weasley leaned forward, his head directly over the board and his grin morphing into a suggestive one. All thoughts of vomit left Draco’s head immediately. “I got a pawn. So I get your robes. Fair trade, I’d say. So take em off.”

Oh yes, that one chess piece. The least carnage in a finished game of chess he’d ever had. He had a very unsatisfied feeling in his stomach and eyed the rubble that had been his taken, still whimpering, pawn. He wanted to squash it under his foot as he scowled up at the redhead. This wasn’t a fucking strip show. And he would not allow himself to be so debased. Especially by someone as lowly as Weasley. Oh yes, he knew the boy had sex on his mind, and he would have been fine with that ordinarily… But there was no way he would be the vulnerable one. No way he’d be naked when Weasley wasn’t. No way he’d follow the redhead’s orders.

“Make me, Weasel,” Draco hissed dangerously. Weasley glared back, not looking pleased. Plan not going as well as you hoped, Poor Boy?

“Is that a challenge, Malfoy?” the redhead shot back. His stubborn voice steady and his lips curled in anger. His exceptional eyes swirled like a tempest. Draco let out a thin, unpleasant smile.

“I’m a challenge, Weasley. And I’m not your property. I decide when and where. I initiate whatever we do. And you, my dear underprivileged sex toy, do as I want. Never, ever, the other way around.”

A hushed silence overtook the shack, contradicting its very name.

For a minute, the only sounds discernible were two sets of heavy breathing, overlapping one another. The boys glared at each other, never saying a word. Weasley didn’t look hurt. He looked furious. And Draco wondered, somewhere in the depths of his normally ruthless mind, who the Gryffindor was more angry at; the Slytherin or himself. The pale boy bit the inside of his cheek, waiting for a reaction. And by God, did he get one.

Weasley grabbed the left side of the square chess table and flung it aside to the ground with a crash, all the chess pieces flying to the floor and yelling indignantly at their usually sound master for such mistreatment. Neither boy heard them though as the Gryffindor jumped to his feet. The Slytherin looked warily up at his adversary’s towering, shadow-casting frame and his outburst with honest astonishment, although he had previously anticipated them. Draco swallowed as the redhead jerked him up roughly by the hand to his feet, nearly pulling his arm out of the socket with his strength. The Slytherin would have complained and sneered about that if he could actually remember English. But all he knew was that he felt oddly winded, as though he had just run a great deal. Or perhaps a short distance, considering how amazingly unfit he was. It wasn’t his fault he loathed exercise and was allergic to sweating up his impeccable clothes. Spending the whole game atop a broomstick and seeking a flying gold ball was more than enough strenuous activity in his opinion. Although Weasley seemed to be trying to prove him wrong…

He felt another jerk on his hand and felt his body collide hard with Weasley’s as the boy yanked him against him, the Gryffindor’s warm mouth fiercely, almost violently, latching onto his own. Fuck, he wouldn’t have pulled away for all the dark magic in the world… and Draco Malfoy had begun to draw the conclusion that Ronald Weasley was growing harder and harder to resist. Soon enough, Draco knew he would stop trying to… A scary thought he planned not to presently think about as his thoroughly bruised lips were kissed with all the brute force one could muster; one arm powerfully encircling his waist and pulling him as close as he could physically get while the other hand fisted and lost itself through the back of his platinum hair.

It didn’t take them long to find the sofa. Oh fuck it, he hated the sofa. It was the most uncomfortable place in the world. McGonagall must have chosen to place it there when she first heard he’d be residing here. Hideously dressed bitch that she was and obviously jealous of his natural God-like looks. But he didn’t think about McGonagall as Weasley pushed him down on the seemingly plush three-seater chair, climbing on top so their legs were entangled and then sucking on the side of Draco’s neck as frenziedly as a starving vampire, his other hand preoccupied with undoing the silver-serpent buckle on the Slytherin’s belt.

“Fuck, Ron…”

Oh, Jesus… he was incoherent. Completely out of it. He actually said the redhead’s first name… He never willingly said it. Gods, where the hell did Weasley learn all this…? He was fabulous… gorgeous… sexy… and so fucking brilliant with his hands. As long as he never stopped, Draco could do without anything. Food and water were so fucking overrated anyway. But Weasley must have been a Seer because he did just that. Stop.

Weasley pulled back, breathing hard and looking Draco aggressively, determinedly in the eye. The Slytherin leaned forward, placing his hand on the back of the Gryffindor’s neck to pull the boy back but the redhead stayed solid. His eyes had never looked so intense.

“Say you’re mine.” What the fuck? And the Slytherin decided to openly share his thoughts.

“What… the… fu-aaaahhh… Jesus. Oh Jesus… Ron… Oh Jesus, Ron…”

“Say you belong to me,” Weasley hissed through his teeth, eyes narrowed as his hands did more than just rid the Slytherin of his trousers. “Say you’re my property. Say you’re my bitch, Malfoy…”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. Fucking hell. Try to breathe, try to breathe… You know it’s not true. You better not even bloody think of saying it. He’s insignificant. He’s unimportant. You don’t need him. Even if he’s groping you through your trousers. Nothing you couldn’t do by yourself, anyway. Although that sort of thing is beneath you. No, you don’t need him. You don’t shitting need him…

Draco whimpered as he suddenly felt fingernails rake against the muscle on his thigh, every sense he owned heightened to the limit. When the hell had his trousers been pulled off? What year were they in again?

Gods, he needed him.

“Fuck…ing… hell… Weasel…” he groaned, trying to keep his eyes open as he felt his back automatically arching to the redhead’s will. Weasley had leaned down to press his nose against Draco’s own pointed one, his impressively compelling gaze still fiercely expectant, glazed with a rapacious category of lust and piercing every layer of denial the blond had ever constructed. His hot, harsh breath mixing with Draco’s own. Were they even two separate people? The Slytherin closed his eyes, burying his scorching face against the warm curve of Weasley’s throat, his lips pressed against his collarbone. He could hardly remember how to use his mouth for anything else but pleasuring the other boy but somehow he got the words “I’m your bitch, Weasley…” out. His brain had been incapacitated to too much mush to loosely remember what mortification felt like. But who the fuck used their brain to have sex? Lack of brain cell usage was actually the greatest cause of it. And he was going to have sex today if it killed him. Lucius and Voldemort could have walked in hand-in-hand for all he cared.

With his face now attached to Weasley’s and obviously designed to remain there, Draco fumbled over the buttons of his own robes. Somehow managing to pull them off along with his shirt and with a boy also sitting on his abdomen was a great achievement for even the most experienced of Wizards. What could he say? He was a natural. Then he proceeded to peel off Weasley’s tatty robes and jumper. Hell, there was no fucking way he was going to deny himself something he had been forced to wait for for months. It was just as Weasley was shrugging off his thoroughly torn jeans, with help from the ever so enthusiastic Draco, when he halted. He suddenly lifted up his head and looked about the room with swift, suspicious looks, as though he heard something.

No fucking way.

Draco would not let that happen again. He didn’t care who it was. He wasn’t going to let this become another discarded chance. They were going to fucking do it, whether Weasley thought it was a good idea or not…!

“Weasley… you’re stopping…” Draco hissed in breathless urgency through clenched teeth, his grey eyes narrowing and his tone clearly stating that the redhead was not supposed to do so. Weasley, who up till now was all strong and authoritative, suddenly looked sheepish, looking down at Draco with embarrassment and a self-conscious red tinge on his cheeks. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Well… we’ve never got this far before…” Draco blinked. Inexperience would be the last thing in the world to stop him.

“So?” he asked, still not sure where this was going and hoping for Weasel’s sake that he came up with a good excuse for talking when he could be ravishing him. Weasley bit his lip, suddenly looking apprehensive.

“Well, I dunno. I guess I’m expecting a distraction or someone to barge in and catch us or something…” Was that fucking it? Draco sat up on his elbows and glared at him like he couldn’t begin to comprehend his stupidity, his hair all over the place.

“Weasel, if you don’t fuck me now, I’m going to kill you.”

Ron Weasley’s eyes widened before he looked away with an incredulous look, a tiny smile slowly appearing on his flushed features. Trying to compose himself, he turned back and looked Draco resolutely in the eyes. Like a man on a serious and important mission. Without removing his eyes from the trembling Slytherin beneath him, he pulled his wand from his discarded trousers and cast a silencing and a locking charm around the room. He then lowered his head, pulled the Slytherin hard against him and, for once in his life, did exactly what Draco Malfoy told him to do.

***

“Malfoy…?” There was a soft whisper into the back of the Slytherin’s damp silver hair as his warm Gryffindor tenderly pulled Draco’s back against his chest, kissing his pale neck. The blond slipped his drooping eyelids shut, contentedly.

“Weasley,” he mumbled back tiredly. There seemed to be a sizeable pause before the redhead continued.

“You Ok…?” the boy asked hesitantly. Draco tried to smirk, although the redhead wouldn’t be able to see it anyway.

“I’m in fucking pain. If I didn’t enjoy that so much I’d hurt you. Ahhh… Jesus, I’ll not be able to walk for a week now…” He could feel the boy’s heated, blushing skin against his back as Weasley leaned his hot cheek on the back of his shoulder, a deep breath ruffling the Slytherin’s hair.

“Malfoy, turn around,” he beseeched in a softer voice and Draco did, however difficult it was to roll around on a three seater couch with an irresistible naked person already lying next to you. And once he turned, the blond couldn’t help but stare at him. He had already decided that he hated the redhead’s clothes. Anything that hid something as… well, exquisite as that deserved to be shrunk in the wash or have it’s colours run and threads loosen. And he’d gladly do it, too. Desecration always had been a perverse little hobby of his. Incidentally, Weasley’s face happened to be the last place Draco looked as he brazenly eyed every bit of the boy, the redhead glowing with embarrassment with being so closely scrutinised. He placed his long arms in an awkward position to hide himself as much as he could but the Malfoy quickly pulled his arms away.

“Don’t do that,” he said, sharply. “I like looking at you.” Ron looked up at him almost coyly. Strange how he was so bashful after sex. During it, the boy was a complete animal, Draco was more than happy to divulge. Just like he’d always predicted. Those fingernails scratches on his back and love bites on his neck would be there for days. The Gryffindor let out an awkward, slightly sceptical chuckle with his frank statement.

“Why? I’m not exactly all that to look at.” The Slytherin immediately rolled his eyes. He hated people who couldn’t appreciate their looks. And Weasley had better looks than most the people in this school. Right next to himself. And that was the biggest compliment Draco could ever give another living being. Fuck, he didn’t even have to lie about it either. The boy must have been fishing for compliments. How could he not know how gorgeous he was?

“Weasley, shut the fuck up,” he almost snapped, although his hand busied itself by trailing feather light down, the flat of the boy’s stomach. He found great enjoyment in seeing Weasley bite his lip with his actions. “Do you honestly believe a Malfoy would ever allow themselves to bugger a complete minger? We have our standards, after all.” Weasley pressed his lips together, looked at him with an odd, soft twinkling expression before leaning down to kiss the curve of the Slytherin’s pale, clammy throat, readjusting his body to climb atop the blond again. Draco unconsciously snuggled his face into the Gryffindor’s wet red hair and traced light circular patterns on his damp, freckled back with his fingertips, feeling Weasley sigh as the Gryffindor kissed his neck softly.

“That was bloody great though,” a vibration muffled against his throat. Draco snorted. The fucking understatement of the century. Weasley knew that was the best thing he’d ever done. Draco smiled. And he couldn’t agree more. “Are you coming back with me now?” Well, that was a very random statement. Draco pulled only a few inches away and Weasley pulled back to look him in the eye. The blond scowled. What, and stay with the shit that was Potter and the Squib Longbottom? He didn’t have any reason to go back. However, looking up at the redhead’s earnest and pleading look, Draco sighed irritably. He couldn’t believe he was giving in.

“All fucking right,” he grumbled. “I’ll come back. But if Potter interrupts us again I’m going to turn him into a mouse and feed him to your Pig. All right?” Weasley grinned broadly at Draco’s sour expression whilst shaking his head and looking as though he didn’t believe a word he’d said.

“Yeah, Malfoy. Whatever you say.”

***

Draco’s lips quirked as Weasley’s arm automatically encircled around him, both boys disappearing under the invisibility cloak. Last time they’d hidden under here, they were trying to put as much space between them as humanly possible. Right now, with Weasley’s hand brazenly resting on his bottom and his eyes glinting naughtily, the Slytherin reasoned that the situation was pretty different. Well, that was what happened when you left two horny teenaged wizards together, he supposed.

They hurried down the empty halls of Hogwarts to get to the Gryffindor Tower, thankful that it was so early and that not even ghosts would consider venturing through the corridors at this hour of the morning, especially during the Christmas holidays. Draco smiled as Weasley, with his longer legs, purposely hurried faster, trying to make the Slytherin speed up. This only stirred the Malfoy to stop dead at random intervals and snigger as the redhead’s body popped out into the open, causing the boy to yelp and scurried back frantically to cover himself with the cloak again. He was so amazingly adorable when he did that. Stupid fucking prat that he was. So Draco decided to do it at least twelve times before he tired of it (and Weasley threatening to give him a good thump in the face had nothing to do with it). They were both still smiling though as Ron whispered the password that Harry had spent a great deal of time choosing (‘Bounce, Ferret! Bounce!’) to a half asleep Fat Lady, who just snored in response and swung the door open without even looking at them. Draco looked at her contemptuously. What shit security they had. Slytherins could easily get in. Heck, he was a Slytherin. No one could ever get into the Slytherin common room, he’d recalled with a sense of pride. It would take hours as it was for a non-Slytherin to figure out which part of the wall you had to whisper the password into. With a smirk, he remembered a first year Blaise Zabini talking to the opposite wall for about half an hour before realising he’d got it wrong.

Awkwardly climbing their way through the portrait hole, they whipped the cloak off and headed upstairs to put it back in Harry’s trunk. Draco had shared his opinion to Ron for them to just to burn it and never give it back but the still-glowing redhead just smiled and gave him the finger before grabbing his hand and pulling the blond upstairs with him. The Slytherin personally didn’t understand why Weasley didn’t see the fineness of his plan as he ascended up the mahogany steps. Making Potter cry seemed like a fabulous idea to him. And that was when he walked headlong into the redhead, who had stopped dead on the top step like a statue without even opening the door. Almost losing his balance, the Slytherin caught a handrail just in time and snarled up at the Gryffindor. Fucking hell, what was his problem? Was he trying to kill him?!

“Weasley, why the fu-” The Slytherin had to use all his willpower to stop the vulgarity from being said as Weasley turned around, looking pale and wide eyed.

“My wands vibrating.” Draco couldn’t help it. He found that incredibly funny.

“Well since I did reduce you to orgasm at least three times, I’d better hope it is,” he said in a self-satisfied voice. Great looking, great lover, brilliant mind… he really was a fabulous catch. He really could just marry himself sometimes…

But Weasley just shook his head.

“No… Harry…” he whispered. Harry?! What the fuck did Potter have to do with anything?! If Weasley was trying to say that Potter had anything to do with any orgasm of his, he would strangle the bespectacled little bastard dead… But the redhead had already spun around and slammed the door open, running into the room like a maniac. Completely puzzled out of his normally so enlightened mind, the Malfoy hurried after him into the Fifth Year boys’ dorm room. Then he froze on the spot when he looked at the scene, hearing Weasley making a stifled choke in his throat.

Jesus Christ.

Potter’s bed was a completely torn apart, feathers from his pillows chillingly floating all around the room like some twisted parody of snow. What had remained of his sheets was splattered with crimson flecks of blood and Harry Potter’s trademark glasses lay broken on the floor. The shards of the dangerous-looking glass that had dislodged from the spectacles were scattered around the carpet, the wire frame completely mangled and bent out of shape. But it was the Dark Mark hovering eerily over the boy’s bed that Draco saw first. The green glow illuminated the entire room with a cold chill… but where the heck was Potter? Without saying another thing, Weasley pulled out his wand with a trembling hand.

“Locus Aperio!” he tried to croak out defiantly, his voice shaking. Fuck, he looked like he was going to cry. He looked like he was going to cry over Potter. Draco felt his teeth clench but then jumped back as bright red sparks suddenly shot out the redhead’s wand, curving into a strange neon scarlet pattern in mid-air that Draco soon realised was English:

The Riddle House, Little Hangleton

Now, where the fuck was that? But Weasley didn’t look confused as he turned to Draco, all traces of the laughter that was in his eyes only a minute ago completely dissipated.

“Tell Dumbledore Harry’s at the Riddle House,” he said, his face stone serious yet completely terrified at the same time. The Slytherin couldn’t help it. He just had to scowl at all this Potter talk. He wasn’t even in the room and Weasley was talking non-stop about him! A little voice in his head reminded him that Potter not being in the room was the only reason Weasley was talking non stop about him now but he decided to completely ignore it. Draco crossed his arms over his chest childishly.

“Why don’t you tell him, Weasel? You’re the one who’s obsessed with the four-eyed shit,” he asked with an angry pout, glaring in severe annoyance. But Weasley just shook his head, looking very white, yet determined.

“No, I have to go after him now.”

What the…? The Slytherin felt his shoulders, his whole demeanour, fall with those words. This was some kind of joke right? It had to be. Just after they’d finally done it, finally called some sort of truce, finally got everything sorted out… he was going to go gallivanting off to save Potter’s scrawny behind? No. There was no fucking way this could be happening. And if it was… Draco wouldn’t bloody allow it! And before he realised it, he grabbed onto Weasley’s arm tightly.

“No!” he cried suddenly, furiously, irrationally, losing all composure. “I won’t let you go!” Weasley, who looked shocked by the Slytherin growth on his arm, squirmed and struggled to get him off.

“Malfoy, what the hell are you doing?! Geroff!! I need to help Harry…!” Harry, Harry, Harry… always fucking Harry…!

“You stupid fucking Gryffindor!” the blond practically screamed, wanting the punch the stupid boy with all the strength he had. What the hell was wrong with him?! “You’ll get yourself killed!” But Weasley was a lot better at struggling than he was and soon pushed him off, starting to get angry in his frustration.

“You don’t bloody get it!” he spat out, looking hysterical. “Harry’ll die without me and Hermione to help him…!”

“Let him fucking die!” Draco snarled back as he latched on ferociously again, answering as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Which it was. “Who gives a shit about him!?” Weasley seriously looked murderous, as though he would kill Draco for that last remark.

“I give a shit, all right?” he hissed back, looking like he was honestly restraining himself from attacking the blond. “He’s my best mate and Dumbledore isn’t ever gonna get there in time from here! I can!” No, Draco refused to listen to reasoning of any kind. This wasn’t fucking reasoning. Those idiot Gryffindors, showing off and trying to carry off their stupidity as courage. And it wasn’t courage. It was madness… It was suicide! How could two teenaged wizards ever even think about going against the darkest wizard to ever walk the earth single-handed? And for all he knew, Potter was already dead and Weasley was going up against Voldemort by himself. And he hadn’t even counted the Death eaters. Fuck, he hadn’t even counted what Lucius alone could do…

Draco clenched his jaw very tightly, breathing through his nose.

“You’re not going. You’re not. And that’s final.” Ron blinked repeatedly. His mouth dropped open due to the sheer audacity of the boy and he shook his head in incredulous disbelief.

“Newsflash, Malfoy, but you’re not my master. So get the bloody heck off me...”

“Make me, Weasley.” The redhead yanked his arm back and Draco lost the meagre grip he’d managed to obtain. Ah shit. He was crap at this ‘threatening with muscles’ business. But Weasley didn’t look at him angrily. The proud Gryffindor swallowed hard, eyes softening and gazing at him in a way no one ever had. Draco turned away, ignoring that strange flutter he felt. He hated getting flutters. “Don’t fucking look at me like that, Weasley,” he tried to sneer nastily. It sounded more like a pleading request. Focusing his vision on a particularly large stain of blood on the sheets, Draco decided that he would refuse point blank to look at the boy. This plan only lasted for a few seconds, however, since the redhead soon afterwards lifted his shaking fingers to brush awkwardly, yet gently, at the Slytherin cheek. And Draco slandered himself to every voice within his head for not being able to bring himself to turn away from him. Weasley’s lip was trembling.

“Just… just look after Pig for me and tell my family I love them.”

With one last peck on the lips, the redhead pulled his mouth away far too soon for Draco’s liking. Before the Slytherin could say another thing, such as demanding for him to come back here, snog him properly, forget about Potter and stay here with him, the redhead sighed deeply, turned around and whispered another chant. Immediately, he and his wand disappeared in a blaze of light, strangely resembling the effect of a boy and his portkey. And even as Draco reached out to stop him, all he could grasp at was air.

The Slytherin stood there very still, his hands trembling and shivering with cold perspiration. Fuck Weasley. He couldn’t even apparate after him. Without thinking another thought, he bolted out of the common room, running straight towards Dumbledore’s office. And he didn’t give a flying fuck if anyone saw him, Draco Expelled Malfoy, tearing like a madman through the halls of Hogwarts. He had just rounded another corner when, doing something he rarely did, the boy clumsily collided head on with someone. Oh God, he’d been caught. He was sure to be kicked out for sure this time. But feeling the tight grasp on his shoulders, he soon found himself looking straight into the eyes of Severus Snape. Snape looked, if possible, even paler than usual and beside him was Dumbledore with an uncharacteristically restless look about him. Draco found the words spilling out before he could stop them, the articulacy and eloquence of the Malfoy suddenly gone.

“Professors… I… Weasley… gone….”

“Ronald has already gone after Mr Potter, hasn’t he?” Dumbledore asked, the certain urgency in his normally lulling tone unnerving Draco, his aged face lined with anxiety.

“Mr Malfoy, where did he go?” Snape asked hurriedly, then gripped his shoulders tighter when he received no answer. “… Draco! Where?!” Draco cowered slightly. Was Snape really yelling at him?

“I… the … the Riddle house. Some place called the Riddle House. But I don’t know why…”

They didn’t stay to listen. Both men practically hiked up their robes and rushed down the left corridor, looking almost comical if the situation wasn’t so morbidly serious. Well, there was no way they were going anywhere without him!! The blond hurtled after them, swallowing down salty gulps of breath as he flat-out ran. Oh, he really hated running. It made him wheeze and splutter and go annoying red and… wait! Draco hurried faster as Dumbledore and Snape opened the door to a room Draco had never even taken notice of before. It was almost camouflaged against the stone and… no! They were shutting it! They were bloody well shutting the door on him. Damn him for having the running ability of a girl! But, considering the earlier events of the day, it wasn’t exactly his fault he was running so… unusually. Bloody Weasley and his substantial assets. He tried to hurry faster but he approached the two men just as the stone door closed right in his face with a loud thump, almost taking his nose with it. He didn’t miss the sad look Dumbledore had given him. The look that clearly said, ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t come’.

But he was not giving up there. Fuck no. When did he ever start listening to the headmaster? A normal, slightly frantic teenage boy would have ordinarily beaten at the door with his fists, hollering his lungs out and demanding entry. But for once, Draco Malfoy was actually right about his station being above the norm – he was a wizard. Taking out his wand from his robe pocket, he cast every unlocking charm he could think of. Alohomora, Liberare, Movelas … heck, he even tried Unlockus in his desperation. None of them worked. This door obviously required a password. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Pressing his ear against the cold stone as a last resort, the Slytherin could hear the distinct sounds of… Christ. He could hear the sounds of someone, two people, Disapparating. But you couldn’t Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts…! It was widely known knowledge unless… And then it hit him. Unless Dumbledore wisely created a Disapparation spot that he could use in emergencies. A spot that only he, and obviously Snape, knew about. And now the blond was in on the secret. But this wasn’t useful to him in the slightest at the moment. Weasley had just fallen straight into the hands of the Dark Lord and certain death. And Draco wanted to kill Potter.

Why didn’t he do it before? All those times that Snitch Boy had been right in front of him… he could have just neatly wrapped his hands around his frail neck…

He walked in a stupor back to the common room.

Weasley was his. Not bloody Potter’s. If there was anyone he should ever rescue recklessly and stupidly risk his life for, it should have been him. And who the heck did Weasley think he was? Sacrificing himself for other people and making Draco feel so… bloody hell, he made him feel fucking terrified. The redhead belonged to him and nobody else. And all the Slytherin could do was sit and wait until the boy came back… if he ever came back.

He was practically dead.

Draco never wanted to kill his father as much as he did now. If Lucius even touched a hair on that perfect red head of his he would rip his heart out. But he would not cry. He could feel the irritating prickle of water that was trying to free itself from out the side of his eye and viciously wiped at it, leaving a clean, blood-red scratch across his eyelid. Fucking Weasley, making him fucking feel like this. Making him unintentionally hurt himself. Getting any type of emotional reaction from him...

And the worse thing was that he was just thinking about admitting it. After years of denying it until the words he said sounded ludicrous, even to himself, he was finally about ready to say those three words. The three words the redhead had been waiting for since their first… well, first consenting kiss. He sighed and walked over to the desk where Weasley had left his quills and papers, trying to ignore the traces of him all over the place. Taking a extremely raggedy quill out of its inkwell and stealing a note piece of parchment that was already etched with the redhead’s doodles, Draco scribbled it down, just to make it official.

Dumping it with a trembling hand on Longbottom’s in tray, the Slytherin stared at it for a while. He then turned and sat down into the armchair, his eyes fixed on the portrait hole, waiting. Waiting for what, he didn’t know. He honestly didn’t know what to expect from all this, but he recalled a little phrase he’d read somewhere once…

What would come would come and he, the great Draco Malfoy, would have to face it when it did.