Disclaimer: Three guesses what I'm going to put here.
(A/N: Hereby deeming my previous attempt at slash at least moderately successful (by my own very, very low standards) I present to you another one. I couldn't quite bring myself to write something quite so depressing again, and I don't have the skill to write long stories in the first person (insofar as I am aware) this is going to be monumentally different.
On the actual story: Here we have a moderately alternate universe. And when I say moderately, I mean it. Aside from the obvious (because unless I missed what would have been the best chapter ever, Harry/Draco has not and will never happen in canon) I have made very few changes as yet (Snape's still teaching potions 'cause he's waaaay more interesting than Slughorn, for example). It's set in sixth year (yeah, they're minors; oh my god, guess what, teenagers have sex!). If you're still confused or need to know whether a certain event happened, REVIEW ME and I will be more than happy to clear it up for you.
And if you actually read all that, consult a nearby psychiatrist. There may be something wrong with you.)
Chapter 1: Caring is Creepy
I think I'll go home and mull this over
before I cram it down my throat
--The Shins
Sweat. That was the first thing. The pressure, the feeling in the pit of his stomach like it was being doused with ice-water, the sudden rush of blood. The pain was the last thing on his mind, and it had eased after a minute anyway.
His pale skin. His eyes focused, determined, but flickering slightly with the intensity of his arousal. More than passionate. Fierce. Animalistic.
The taste of his tongue. The weight of his body.
"Draco…" The name left his lips as a whisper, a near-silent exhalation instantly followed by a sharp intake of breath. "I—"
"All right, Harry?" Ron Weasley said suspiciously.
"What? Oh…yeah." Harry shifted his sheets in order to hide the certain something he'd left on them from view. "Just…er…dreaming."
A faint line of worry creased Ron's face. "Not…one of those dreams, right?" he said in a low voice.
Despite the fact that this was a perfectly reasonable question, as Harry's dreams had developed the nasty little habit of actually happening, he found himself vaguely annoyed by it. "No," Harry said with a small frown. "Do you have to ask me that every morning?"
"Only when you're screaming like that," Ron answered. Harry flushed very slightly.
"It's nothing," Harry said stiffly.
Of that he was hardly sure. But he said it anyway.
OoOoOo
Even years later, Harry distinctly remembered the first time he'd caught himself staring at Draco Malfoy.
Potions. Professor Snape had, as usual, saddled them with some immensely complicated and irritating potion, and Harry had, as usual, been having a fairly difficult time of it. On this particular occasion, the activity was also astoundingly dull, comprised largely of long periods where you did nothing but stare into your cauldron waiting for it to turn just the right shade of puce.
Next to him, Hermione Granger was gazing intently at her cauldron without the slightest hint of boredom.
"Hermione," he began in a whisper, desperate for something to do, "do you—"
"I can't think of any conceivable reason why you should need to talk, Potter," Snape said from directly behind him, exercising his uncanny ability to move in complete silence. He glanced at Harry's cauldron; it had begun to smoke slightly, which as far as Harry knew it was not supposed to be doing. "I daresay you've other things to pay attention to." A swirl of black robes and he was back at his desk, assigning failing marks to a stack of essays as though he hadn't gotten up at all.
Harry sighed, but didn't look back at his cauldron. His emerald eyes scanned the room aimlessly for something of interest, settling on someone at the next table over.
How does he get his hair that bloody blond?
His wristwatch ticked away the impossibly lengthy seconds.
It's kind of cool.
Tick.
He's looks different when he's doing something other than terrorizing people.
Tick.
Sort of…good, actually.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
And then Draco looked up. And slowly, deliberately, as though testing to see how long it could possibly take him and how suggestive he could possibly make it look, he smiled.
Harry jumped, crashing into the table behind him and sending the contents of his own cauldron flying.
"Detention, Potter," Snape said in a bored tone.
OoOoOo
"I'm only saying it must have been something," Hermione said defensively several hours later.
"It's Snape," said Ron, feeling this was its own explanation. "Since when does he need a reason to be an arse?"
"Teachers don't just—Harry?"
Harry did not answer.
That's not what's supposed to happen. He's not supposed to smile at me. He's supposed to tell on me or tell me to bugger off or throw something at me or do any of the other stupid, irritating things he's been doing for the last six years. Then things would make sense again. Then I wouldn't—
"—and you've said about two words all day," Hermione finished, giving Harry the impression that she'd been talking for some time without his noticing. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine," Harry said firmly. Then he seemed to rethink the question. "Actually, I've got a headache. I'm going to get some air."
"Harry—"
He didn't wait for the rest of the sentence.
OoOoOo
Strangely enough, the best place Harry had found to "get some air" was in fact inside the castle.
I need somewhere to think, he thought intently as he paced the seventh floor corridor, checking the blank stretch of wall facing him every few seconds. I need to be alone. I need somewhere where no one will bother me…
"Shouldn't you be in bed, Potter?"
Harry forced himself not to react.
"Shouldn't you be finding someone else to annoy, Malfoy?"
"After all the trouble I took following you? Don't think I will, thanks. What are you doing here?" His tone was pleasant, almost conversational.
Not like him at all…
"Why were you following me?"
Draco grinned, but didn't say anything, which was somehow even more exasperating.
"What do you want?"
"Well," he answered thoughtfully, "First, because…I suppose I find you interesting. And the second…I expect you'll work that one out on your own."
What is he on about?
"Malfoy—"
"Goodnight, Potter. Don't stay out too late."
"Malfoy!"
But with that same perplexing smile, he turned a corner and was gone.
It was quite possibly the first time Harry had ever been sorry to see the back of him.
(a further A/N: Ha, you though I was done, didn't you? Wrong. I am not. Just wanted to say you may have an e-cookie if you get the main title reference without resorting to Google.)