"This is beautiful, Seamus," Harry said to his housemate, a little astounded. Seamus had just confessed to him that he wrote poetry and from what Harry had just read, he was quite good at it. "It's like a love letter," he said, more to himself than to his friend.

"Why mate, that's its title…" Seamus started to say when all of the sudden the parchment Harry had been holding was taken from his hand.

"A love letter? And what would you know about love letters, Potter?" Draco Malfoy said with disdain while reading from the parchment with a look of total boredom on his face. "Do you even know how to write for that matter?" he snickered.

"Give it here, Malfoy," Harry demanded, rising from the Gryffindor table and facing him.

"Please, that's so first year, Potter. Is that the best you can do? And I believe I asked you a question."

"And what exactly would you know about love letters, Malfoy? At least I know what love is, unlike you, who only use people for your convenience," Harry muttered slowly, but meaning every word.

The Great Hall was suddenly in utter silence. All eyes fixed to the exchange. Not that it was something new. After seven years, even the new students were accustomed to the fights between the two of them. At least by now they had limited them to verbal spats.

The war against Voldemort and his minions had been anti-climactic. Not easy, for the last battle was just as bloody as it could have been, but it had been short. Draco Malfoy had embraced the old cliché of rebelling against his father at the last minute, basically because he was a Slytherin through and through, and if Slytherins pride themselves on something, it was on their sense of self-preservation. In his mind, it was obvious that Harry had the upper hand, and he was not about to let his beautiful skin be marred by the mark of a loser madman. Plus, he was a coward. Everyone knew that. Be that as it may, he fought on the Light side.

Nevertheless, the animosity between him and Harry had not decreased even a bit, although they had found other ways to express it that didn't include an exchange of punches. No, it wasn't a surprise to hear them bickering. What made all those present pay attention was the topic of their latest strife. And as such, a great number of people were waiting on Draco's reaction to Harry's words – and were they in for a surprise.

"Oh, I can most certainly love, Potter, not that it is anything of your business. But that fact is totally irrelevant to the topic at hand. Your contention was that I could know nothing of love letters. Let me inform you that, unlike you, I was given a proper Wizarding education, with complete lessons of etiquette and courtship. That, plus the fact that my eyes have been privy to the most sublime and beautiful things in the world, gives me an undisputed advantage at the task of writing a breathtaking love letter," he informed Harry in his superior tone.

"Really? I wonder, how can you write of things you would know nothing about, Malfoy? Don't tell me you are in love with Parkinson," he gestured to the girl that was clinging to Draco's arm as if her life depended on it.

"What about you? Does your love for the Weaslette allow you to write love letters? If you do, I bet they are as corny as you lot," he sneered at the Gryffindor table, "and besides, writing a love letter is an art that has more to do with your mind than your heart. You could feed whatever lie you like and the other person would be none the wiser," he added with his bored tone and blank mask in place.

"I bet I can write better love letters than you," Harry said, trying to rein in his temper. There was something about Malfoy that got him going like no one else could.

Draco smirked, sure that for once, he would defeat the Gryffindor Golden Boy. "Fine, let's bet then. We will write love letters to see who can write the most convincing, beautiful and effective of them. The loser, which will be you of course, will have to acknowledge the winner's superior love writing skills in public, right here in the Great Hall."

Harry suppressed a smug smile, sure that he would have the time to smile when Malfoy was declared the loser. "And who will judge this little contest of yours?"

"Ourselves, of course. We will write the letters to each other. After all, there would be no better proof than that. My words moving you to admit what everyone here knows, that I am superior in every way. Oh, what a glorious day. Unless you are afraid to feel things you are not supposed to feel, Potter," he drawled, knowing that no self-respecting Gryffindor would ever back down from a challenge.

"In your dreams, Malfoy. And I'm supposed to believe you will be man enough to admit losing?"

"I may be a lot of things but I am a man of honour, Potter. We can use a true binding spell if you wish."

"No, that won't be necessary," he said after thinking for a little while. "All right, it's a deal. And just to show you how good a sport I am, I will write the first letter. Do we have a deadline?"

"Of course not, Potter, patience is one of the requisites in the fine art of writing love letters. Although I think we can't let this go on indefinitely. How about until the Leaving Feast? That would be four months from now, though I'm sure I won't need even half that time," he smirked.

"Fine."

"Fine."

And with that, Draco turned and walked to the Slytherin table, followed by Goyle, Zabini and Pansy, who wouldn't let his arm free.

Harry, who had recovered Seamus' poem, decided to start on his dinner. Neither one of them, Draco nor Harry, noticed the looks that were exchanged between their friends and the amused faces of both Pansy and Ginny.

At the Head Table, Prof. McGonagall turned to face Prof. Snape. "Do you think they will finally realise that all their bickering and animosity is nothing more than unresolved sexual tension and that they are the only ones not privy to that information?"

"I very much hope so. After so many years, their squabbling has lost some of its charm," the man mused with a bored tone.

Back at the Gryffindor table, Hermione whispered to Lavender. "Is it me, or is that the silliest bet they could have ever got on?"

The other girl giggled before saying, "The subconscious is a darn thing, I'll say, a bloody darn thing," and then she turned to give her brand new boyfriend Neville a hot kiss.

"For once Lavender, I have to say you are right. Bloody nuts those two are," Ron shook his head, not losing his eating rhythm even for a bit.

Harry didn't hear a single word that was uttered by his friends. He was deep in thought, chastising himself for letting Malfoy get to him like he did. As soon as they made the bet he wished they hadn't, but he was not going to back down – Gryffindor pride and everything. He glanced at the Slytherin table and suppressed a sigh, realising just how easy it would be to deal with the task at hand.

The first owl arrived the next day. Malfoy took the envelope from Potter's owl and settled down for what he was sure was going to be a most hilarious time. Gryffindors writing good love letters, what a comical concept.

Malfoy,

There was something you said that captured my attention. You said your eyes have been privy to the most sublime beauty in the world, as if implying that mine have had not such luck. I disagree greatly with you, for just that same night, while thinking about our arrangement, I looked at you and realised in that moment that my eyes have seen the most beautiful sight in the world: you. I feel like such a fool for not noticing before, yet I can't help but feel lucky, like the luckiest man in the world actually, to have been permitted to come across the perfection of your skin. I could spend the rest of my mortal days looking for a flaw in you but it would be a fool's quest, for even the tiny imperfections that you sport do nothing but accentuate your utmost beauty. I didn't know the true meaning of the world ethereal until I placed my eyes on your breathtaking features, for in you beauty and perfection are redefined.

HP

Half an hour later, Draco was still rereading the short letter, trying to see if he should believe that Potter had written it and trying to convince himself that the sudden wave of heat that was pouring over his body was due to the fact that it was hot in his dorm. Never mind the fact that it was January and he was in the dungeons, the coldest place of an already impossibly cold castle.

'And just how Draco, do you manage to get yourself in these predicaments?' he thought, realising that maybe beating Potter wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. 'No,' he shook his head, 'he got help, I'm sure. Bloody cheating git. Well, if he wants to play dirty I'll show him – and by my own means,' he mused while grabbing hold of his writing materials, dead-set on showing the Boy-Who-Lived just who Draco Malfoy really was.