A/N: A short little canon-divergent one shot that takes place during Chapter 7 of The Half Blood Prince, just after Draco has broken Harry's nose.

On the Hogwarts Express

Draco wrenches open the sliding door, the red-painted metal screeching unpleasantly in its un-oiled frame. Stepping over the threshold, he makes his way past the empty compartments, weaving through the sweet wrappings scattered across the corridors, towards the exit to the carriage.

He forces himself to feel a sense of vicious satisfaction. He makes himself remember that Potter is the boy who has put his father in Azkaban - he is the reason Draco has had to consent to the Dark Lord's command, the hideous Mark, the instruction to murder. He wills himself to keep walking, to not regret what he has just done.

It doesn't matter than Potter is an orphan, that his Muggle relatives apparently treat him like shit, that Bellatrix Lestrange (how could Draco possibly think of her as his Aunt when she had been in Azkaban his whole life?) had killed Potter's godfather in the Department of Mysteries three months ago.

None of all that fucking matters!

And it certainly doesn't cut Draco open with guilt for walking away now, doesn't make him regret the crunch of bone under the heel of his boot. The sound had been…well, if not pleasing, then at least necessary.

It had been necessary because Potter had deserved it. It had been coming to him for six years now. He is the frustrating, talentless, overblown, too-skinny Gryffindor Golden Boy who Draco hates with his entire being, hates so intensely it is the strongest thing he has ever felt for anybody in his entire life, hates so much that the fact that he'd just broken Potter's nose should have sent him into paroxysms of malicious delight.

Except…he can feel his stomach recoiling from the thought of Potter lying there, invisible, probably bleeding out all over the dirty train floor.

It is everything his father has always accused him of - this weak and embarrassing inability to carry out even the simplest acts of violence. It has always scared him half to death, the thought of using the Cruciatus Curse on another person, perhaps more than casting Avada Kedavra even. A Killing Curse is final, over in a heartbeat…but when you cast a Crucio, you can hear the screams echo in your ears, know that you are responsible, understand that you have hurt somebody so horribly that it might send them into madness…

His father finds Muggle-baiting cathartic, has been doing it illegally since Draco's childhood, believes that it's well deserved punishment for those with filthy, unworthy blood running through their veins. But even as Draco had laughed uneasily at the stories for years, even as he had forced himself to spit the word "Mudblood" at Granger, he had always wondered, troubled and unsettled: how can a person be blamed for simply being born into a Muggle family?

Last Christmas, right after her breakout, as she'd sat there in the Manor's drawing room, Bellatrix had described, her dirt-encrusted nails tracing the edges of her teacup, her dark eyes alight with glee, torturing Longbottom's parents as they had screamed and screamed and screamed. There had been complete silence, Rodolphus and Rabastan just grinning along, Draco petrified, his parents too far away to care as they worried obsessively about a prophecy hidden deep within the Department of Mysteries.

When the Dark Lord had branded the Mark into his forearm, the acrid stench of burning flesh permeating the air around them, making Draco's stomach roll, he had shut his mind so completely that he'd been on the verge of passing out, afraid that even Occlumency wouldn't be enough to hide how terrified he is of drawing blood from other people, inflicting any kind of bodily harm, even on an old man and an infuriating boy he had been raised to despise.

His hand is on the carriage door now and he can see the Hogsmeade platform through the windowed square set in the length of steel, but again he thinks of Potter splayed out in a pool of his own blood, perhaps unconscious from the pain, not waking even when the train reaches London, left there for days or weeks or Salazar knows how long, and something in his stomach twists so violently that he groans.

Drops his head.

Swears under his breath.

Turns back.

He almost can't believe his weakness extends so far that even Potter is protected by it. For a second, he wonders if that's all it is - his aversion to violence - that is making him rethink the plan that had been percolating in his brain the entire time he'd been lying there during the train ride to Hogwarts, head in Pansy's lap, after he had caught that flash of white streaking through the air in front of him.

But digging deeper into his feelings and motivations when it comes to Potter is a sure way to have his thoughts tangled together in minutes, so he forces them out of his mind and, when he makes it to the carriage he and the others had been inside earlier, simply tries not to flinch at the muffled groans emanating from within.

Fuck. Why does he always have to be so fucking weak?

His fingers latch onto heavy silken fabric on the first try, and when he pulls, Potter's Invisibility Cloak comes away wet and warm, the blood trickling down Draco's white button-down school shirt.

He closes his eyes against Potter's gaze, too green and too wide, as though scared that Draco has come back to finish him off.

"Finite."

Potter scrambles to his feet, back pressed against the window, glasses askew, nose still bleeding freely, face and neck splattered with it, mouth parted, wand pointed warily at Draco, who just murmurs, "Episkey."

The flow is stanched immediately, and Potter wipes his sleeve across his face like the uncouth plebeian he has always been.

Honestly, Draco thinks bitterly, the strength of the magic this boy possesses - that he had displayed during the Triwizard Tournament and in Barty Crouch Jr.'s fourth year Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons and inside a cold Little Hangleton graveyard on a chaotic summer night two years ago…it is incredible…extraordinary…so rare.

But it has always been laughably obvious that Potter doesn't know how to wield his magic - control it like Draco would have taught himself to do had he been blessed with such power.

It is probably the exact reason that the Boy Wonder won't make it through his sixth year, will be murdered by the Dark Lord soon enough.

Draco forces a grim smirk to twist his mouth as he faces Potter's idiotically bewildered expression, and turns to leave, until he realizes that -

"We've left the platform." Potter's voice is startled.

- the carriage floor is moving, thrumming with energy underfoot, making an awful chugging sound that only serves to stoke Draco's loathing for Potter up ten-fold.

"This is all your fucking fault," he snarls, feels his fingers curl into tight fists at his sides.

"Me? What did I do?" Potter's voice is equally furious, his ridiculously green eyes flashing with both indignation and panic.

The train picks up speed.

The window behind Potter is dark, the Highland mountains rushing by in a blur.

"If you had just left me the fuck alone, we wouldn't be in this mess! How the fuck are we supposed to get back to Hogsmeade from London? Fuck!" Draco runs a hand through his hair, an uncharacteristic gesture that would have horrified his mother once upon a time. "We have to get off this train now. I'm going to tell the driver he has to stop."

He moves to back out of the doorway, but Potter's voice is unexpectedly harsh. "And say what? That you broke my nose, were planning on leaving me here, then lost your nerve at the last second? Wake up, Malfoy. We have no reason to still be on this train."

Draco can feel the angry red heat creeping up his neck. "I didn't lose my nerve!" He hopes the sneer in his voice hides the dread creeping into his stomach.

"Then what?" Potter laughs, but it's an ugly sound, and when he speaks, his voice is heavy with sarcasm. "No wait, don't tell me. You felt guilty. You regretted smashing my face in. You came back to save me."

Draco looks away, away from the redness of Potter's mouth, heart thumping in his ears, and that seems to confirm something for Potter because that mouth twists unpleasantly.

"We both know you just didn't want to get thrown into Azkaban with your father. As always, you did it to save your own skin."

And that's better than if he had guessed the truth, so Draco just shrugs noncommittally, trying to relax the set of his shoulders.

Potter sighs, and all the resentment that had saturated his voice seems to leave his body. He presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his now undamaged nose - a small mercy that Draco is regretting more intensely with each second.

"It'll be fine. Something like this happened to Ron and me in second year. We'll just owl the school -"

Draco breaks in to what would no doubt have been a very long and very mind-numbing story. "Exactly how stupid are you, Potter? My owl is with Pansy, and I assume yours is with either the Weasel or the Mudblood. We can't send post to anybody."

At that, Potter straightens, and Draco can't help but notice that it brings them eye to eye in the small carriage, and that does something strange to his breathing. As far as he can recall, it is one of the only times that Potter hasn't been hunched over as though trying to escape everyone's attention (an exercise in futility if Draco had ever seen one), and the sight of the boy actually utilizing his full height - an infuriatingly respectable six feet (almost exactly matching Draco's stature, though he'd always been loathe to agree with Pansy whenever she'd pointed it out) - is unexpectedly breathtaking.

Until Potter opens his maddeningly red mouth, that is. "Don't call her that."

"Why? It is what she is, after all."

And maybe Draco is asking for it - a brawl, a fist to the face, a knee to the stomach - anything to make these frustrating thoughts go away, anything to summon the repulsion he knows he should be feeling in such close proximity to the boy that is responsible for his father's incarceration, his mother's subsequent near-mindlessness.

But Potter doesn't rise to the bait as easily as he often has in the past, perhaps because the pain of his broken nose is still too fresh for him to want to incur another injury, but he does shoot Draco a filthy look before throwing himself onto the worn, plaid-upholstered seat to Draco's right.

"Just what exactly do you think you're doing, Potter?"

"I'm sitting down, Malfoy." The voice is fatigued, no trace of heat.

"Well get back up! We don't have time for this, do you hear me? We need to get back to Hogwarts right now!"

"What's the big deal? We'll go back to King's Cross, sneak away when the driver is checking the carriages, find The Leaky Cauldron, get to an Apothecary in Diagon Alley, then send an owl to the school." Potter shrugs, leaning his head back against the seat. "Simple."

Draco has to clench his teeth against the sight of Potter's prominent Adam's apple, bobbing up and down along that pale throat, even through the throbbing headache forming in his temples. "Simple? Simple?Have you gone mad? I am not traipsing all over London with you!"

"Suit yourself." Potter shrugs again, letting his eyes drift shut. "It's the best plan I've got, and I'm sticking with it."

Draco lasts about thirty minutes, arms held stiffly at his sides, before he sighs explosively, sinking down slowly onto the seat to his left, the one he'd been occupying with Pansy earlier.

In spite of his sour mood, he can't stop his mind from noting that the view is a lot better this time round, what with the yellow moonlight spilling into the compartment, making everything about the Boy Wonder seem…gentler somehow.

Except that across from him, Potter is no longer resting, his gaze is suddenly sharper, posture once again straight, and that should certainly be a worrying development.

"So." Potter draws the syllable out, letting it stretch out uncomfortably in the silence that follows.

"So what?"

"How was your summer?" It's said lightly, but Draco knows better than to think of the words as simply an inane question.

His guard is up in an instant. "What's it to you?"

Potter can't possibly know about the initiation, can he?

"Nothing. Just trying to make conversation."

"Well do us both a favour and shut up for the entirety of the trip back to London." Draco crosses his arms, then inwardly curses himself for having committed what he knows is a protective gesture, especially when Potter's eyes seem to flash with triumph.

"Why so fidgety with the arms, Malfoy?"

Still fuming at his own giveaway, he doubles his concentration on maintaining a perfectly calm expression, refusing to lower his arms, to give Potter any more satisfaction. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really? So what exactly was it that you were opening your robes to show Borgin in Knockturn Alley the other day?"

It's almost like being in third year again, when Potter had thrown a handful of mud at his face outside the Shrieking Shack - this is just like that, and Draco struggles not to let his horror show.

How can Potter possibly know about what had happened in the store?

Does he know about the Vanishing Cabinet?

Does he know about the Mark?

"Why Potter, how very interested you seem to be about my state of undress. I didn't know your inclinations ran that way." In spite of the trepidation tricking its way down his spine, he does his best to let his voice taper into that amused drawl he had practiced so often as a child, with which he'd tried so hard to imitate and impress his father.

"My inclinations don't run that way," Potter glares. "I just want to know what you're hiding. And you are hiding something, Malfoy."

Draco pretends not to hear him.

"If I'd had any idea about this attraction you seem to be harboring for me, I would have done something about it sooner." His voice is lower now, more suggestive, the tone he often uses when he needs something from Pansy.

Potter's eyes are wary, as though he can sense the danger.

"What would you have done?"

Draco smirks, uncrosses his arms, leans forward slightly.

"Well I would have fucked you and had Crabbe and Goyle take pictures, of course. Then I would have had The Prophet pay a king's ransom for the story of just how very much the Chosen One liked bending over for me."

Potter has reeled back in shock, eyes wide, and he opens his too-red mouth to hiss, "You bastard, that's -"

But Draco cuts him off, intending to bring up more things that he knows aren't true, won't ever be true, but things that will get Potter worked up just the same, just enough to forget about Borgin.

"I always knew you had to be bent, Potter." Another heavy weight settles in his stomach, at having to mock something he already knows to be true about himself, but it's okay, he will do this if he has to, if it will make Potter change the subject.

In any case, nobody knows about his preference for boys, and he has already decided to never act on it, his desires have only ever translated to fantasies, to his own rough fingers shoved inside himself in the dark of night.

"In spite of your awful hair, and the horrible clothes, and those hideous glasses, there was always just something." He makes the corners of his mouth curl into another smirk. "I was there that day in Hogsmeade, you know? In that teashop last year, when you sent poor Chang into hysterics - I'm assuming with your terrible conversation and inadequate Muggle-bred table manners. Pansy and I nearly wet ourselves with laughter. It was an absolute train wreck, Potter."

The boy in front of him flushes darkly.

"So it's little wonder to me you're not straight. But what would your legions of fans say? All those girls, panting after their Hero, suddenly finding out that he'd rather be inside Viktor Krum's pants than theirs. And what about Girl Weasley? Been pining after you since second year, hasn't she? I bet she'd -"

"Petrificus Totalus."

He feels his whole body freeze instantly, muscles locking tight, but his mind is screaming the word "no" over and over again and his heart is sinking into his stomach. He can't believe this is happening, can't believe that he had relaxed his guard for even an instant around Potter, hadn't even had his wand in his hand.

And now Potter, eyes blazing with fury, jaw set in a hard line, is leaning forward to unbutton the cuff of Draco's left sleeve, is pushing the material up, is just staring down at the ugly and twisted black carving he sees on Draco's forearm.

"I knew it."

His expression and voice are equally blank - none of the shock, or disbelief, or disappointment that Draco might have expected to see and hear, but somehow that is absolutely no comfort to him, and he is horrified to realize that his eyes are suddenly stinging.

And fuck, isn't that just perfect?

That Potter can make him feel ashamed of the Mark he'd had to take. There hadn't been a choice at all - it had been either this, or his mother's life - and he'd told himself that he wouldn't feel guilty for the decision that had saved her, that he wouldn't ever apologize for the thing he had been asked to do, that he would steel himself, fix the damn Cabinet, get the others into the school so that they could kill his pathetically senile excuse for a Headmaster, and that would be that.

And yet, between his watering eyes and the hot shame bubbling in his stomach, his body is betraying him.

Potter's too-warm fingers are inexplicably tracing the jagged shape of the skull, the undulating lines of the serpent, and Draco wishes more than anything that he could just fucking move - not only because he wants to punch and beat and just crush Potter for making him feel so raw, so cowardly and so so sorry - but mostly because he wants to wrench his arm away because Potter shouldn't be touching that thing.

It is pure evil, and Potter is…

"Finite."

Potter has drawn back, the burning heat of his touch gone, his eyes trained on the darkness outside the window. He is not so much as glancing at Draco, who finds that far from attacking Potter in a murderous rage, his body, now freed, is shaking like a leaf in gale force wind, his entire frame trembling against the seat.

Mortified, he forces his uncooperative fingers to jerk down his sleeve, and then waits, shame and anxiety making his palms slippery at his sides, for the inevitable explosion.

"Why?"

Not an explosion then.

Just a deadly quiet register he hasn't ever heard Potter use, that still averted gaze, and the slightly flickering lights overhead that hadn't been unsteady at all a few minutes ago.

"Because I had to." He fights to keep his manner calm and unrepentant.

"Did you? Why's that?"

Draco can't bear the polite tone, as though Potter is trying desperately to control his temper, so he makes up for it by deliberately raising his own voice.

"He would have killed my mother if I hadn't agreed to it! He would have had Bellatrix do it right there in front of me, and then he would have killed me too! And I don't care if you think that's not a good enough reason, Potter! You don't know what it's like, to have your mother's life in the balance, to have no other option. You don't get to fucking judge me! Just fuck off with your stupid uncontrolled magic and 'I knew it' rubbish! I don't have to justify myself to you."

His hands are still too shaky, and his voice sounds close to breaking.

"You're right. I don't know what that's like." Potter is staring right at him now, but there is no sympathy in the handsome features. "Because he did kill my mother, she died trying to save me, and that's something I will always have to live with. But you know what, Malfoy?"

Here, Potter is the one who leans forward.

"She was also willing to die for the Order. Both my parents fought against him back then, putting themselves at risk again and again, because he and his Death Eaters were killing and torturing innocent people. They fought against people like your dad and your aunt - filthy, awful, despicable human beings - and it didn't matter that they'd just had a baby, and it looked like the Order was going to lose, and that they might be killed themselves at any moment."

Draco swallows hard against the horrible shame now clawing its way up his throat, but Potter continues.

"Standing up for what was good…what was right…it was more important to them than anything else. And it's the same way for me."

"It isn't so black and white, Potter. It's not about being a Gryffindor to the last - it's about the people you love, about to die, and knowing that you can save them, that you would do anything to save them, and that there is no other way. Haven't you ever felt that way before?"

He doesn't even care that he is searching, almost pleading, for understanding now, and something flickers in the hard green eyes.

"I have. Five years ago, at Hogwarts, when he told me he could bring my parents back from the dead. I almost gave him the Philosopher's Stone."

Potter shakes his head slightly, as though clearing it of the memory.

"But I was eleven years old, and I didn't know enough about him, about my parents, about anything really, to know what I was doing. Now, even if there was some way to have them back, I don't think I would take it. Not if it meant him gaining strength. I wouldn't know how to live with myself if I did."

"What would you have me do then, Potter? Defy him? Tell him I changed my mind, made a mistake?" Draco laughs, intending for it to be scathing, but the sound comes out bordering on hysterical. "I can't! I can't let my mother die."

"Willing to kill people for him instead then, are you?" Potter asks, voice crackling with anger.

"No." Draco closes his eyes. "But I'm willing to for my mother."

"He will force you to, you know?"

"I know," Draco whispers through constricted airways.

"What if he orders you to kill a child? Someone in our year, or someone you've seen around school? Did you know that in the last war, Marlene McKinnon was pregnant when he murdered her? What if to save your mother's life, Malfoy, you had to kill someone else's mother?"

Draco can feel the burn building again behind his eyes, but he keeps his head ducked low because he just can't look up and let Potter see how scared he is.

Minutes pass before Potter speaks again. "What if we could protect her? Your mother, I mean."

Draco's heart clenches hard inside his chest. "We?"

"The Order. Dumbledore. Me."

Draco looks up to find that Potter is sitting up straighter against his seat, no longer looking exhausted.

"How?"

"There are ways we can keep her safe - the both of you, actually. We could hide you away. I have a house, a place he'd never find you."

Draco's heart is pounding, his mind racing at a mile a minute as he considers the proposition, but in the end, he shakes his head roughly.

"Potter, this is the Dark Lord we're talking about. Of course he would find us! And my father! He'd be dead in his cell the instant we disappeared from the Manor."

"Dumbledore could have your father taken out of Azkaban. There are…I know of some Aurors, they could convince the Ministry to release your father under protective custody if he was willing to testify against the other Death Eaters."

"My father would never agree to that," Draco whispers, a sinking feeling in his chest.

Fuck, he had actually been hoping…

"Not even if he found out about what you've been forced to do?"

"Especially not then. I think this - taking the Mark - it would make him proud."

"Do you want him to be proud of you?" Potter demands, eyes flashing.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Potter? This isn't about that!"

"Right. It's about your mother. And The Order can help her. Your father is many, many things, Malfoy, but he loves your mother, and he loves you. He'd want the pair of you to be safe. And working for Voldemort, doing whatever it is that he's asked you to do…"

"He won't testify, Potter. I think he'd rather die. He'd rather we all die." Draco's voice is flat.

He wants the conversation to be over.

He wants the shattered feeling in his chest to go away.

Potter reaches forward, hands on Draco's shoulders, forcing eye contact. "No, Malfoy. Your father is not that loyal. He doesn't care about Voldemort. Not really. Convince him to talk."

Draco can't look away this time, he can't speak either, his breath caught somewhere in his throat.

"Malfoy…Draco…think about it. This is a chance. Let us help." Potter shakes him slightly. "Let me help."

He wants to say yes, wants so badly to just nod, let Potter and his sodding Order take care of everything. But a horrible voice in the back of his mind - and it sounds an awful lot like his father's sneer - is insisting that this plan is a very bad idea.

The silence stretches on, but the thoughts in his mind are no less clear, jumbled and racing and he just can't think, not when his decision could mean the end of his entire family and certainly not when Potter is so close.

That mouth, not just red now, but glistening slightly, is just too fucking close.

But Potter's grip on Draco's shoulders has slackened almost completely, as though the lack of response confirms that Draco is saying no, and that's not true, Draco wants to say yes, he does, and he doesn't want Potter to be disappointed in him anymore, doesn't know why that is, but knows without a shadow of a doubt that it's true.

He doesn't know what to say though, is so afraid that whatever answer he gives will be the wrong one, so he just looks down at his fingers, twisting restlessly in his lap.

"Potter?" His voice is small.

"What is it, Malfoy?" Potter asks, sounding weary and hollow, now completely back in his seat.

"I'm sorry," Draco says with a slow exhale. "For what happened to Sirius Black in the Ministry. And for breaking your nose. And for, you know, saying all that stuff about you being…"

"Forget it. Just forget it. Please just…go away. Find another compartment." Potter's eyes slide shut, and his forehead creases into a pained grimace.

Except that Draco doesn't want to go away.

Panic rises in his throat at he stares at Potter.

He despises the horribly lost and confused and broken feeling that has been gnawing away in the pit of his stomach for months now, and somehow he just knows that Potter is the only person in the whole world who might just be able to fix it. More than that, he hasn't been able to get Potter out of his fucking head for what seems like forever, and he hates that Potter is just sitting there, looking pretty fucking broken himself, with his inviting lips and his sad green eyes…

Almost without his permission, his fingers reach out.

Find the zipper to Potter's Muggle jeans.

Pull it undone.

"The fuck?" Potter's eyes aren't sad anymore. They've snapped open and are round with shock. "Malfoy, what the hell are you doing?"

He moves to stand, frantically tries to push Draco away, but Draco doesn't let go.

He has no idea what the hell he's doing. The only thing for certain is that he needs this. Even if it's wrong, and even if he's never done it before, and even if he might never get to have it again, he'll take it because Potter is the only person in the world that has ever made him feel the dizzying rush of desires pounding through his body now - the need to overpower, the need to control, and the need to haveblurring and seeping together so horribly that Draco can't decide whether he wants to fuck Potter, or to be fucked by Potter. He turns, shoves Potter hard up against the window, pins him there with his body. His right hand finds its way inside Potter's pants, and in the next second, his fingers have wrapped themselves around Potter's cock, hot and heavy against his palm.

Potter stops thrashing and freezes completely, mouth parted just so, breathing hard as Draco works his hand slowly up and down the rapidly hardening length. But when Draco works open his own trousers, bucks forward slightly so that his own cock, already rock-hard and leaking, brushes up against Potter's, and groans, "Is this okay?"…

That is when Potter finally reacts.

His hands drop down to Draco's hips, holding on tight enough to leave bruises, just before he rocks back with a breathless whimper. Gasping, heart pounding wildly in his chest, Draco plants his hands against the glass on either side of Potter's head and jerks forward roughly, muffling his groan against Potter's hair. Again and again he slams forward, Potter pressed tight between Draco and the window, his movements becoming more wanton with every delicious grind, moaning and writhing and arching his spine like he'd been born to do it.

Harder and harder, faster and faster, they push their hips against each others, the movements so violent that the cool metal of Potter's belt-buckle presses into Draco's thigh hard enough to hurt, but it's nowhere near enough to make him stop, not even when he feels in danger of passing out from the delicious friction, the slick slide of skin on skin. He feels Potter's gasps against his neck, knows that the sounds coming out of his own mouth are no better, breathless and needy and harsh in the terrifying otherwise-silence of the compartment.

It is horrible, some distant part of his mind realizes, as though every shameful feeling he's ever had for Potter is being stripped bare to be heard and pitied and laughed at, but he can't keep his mouth shut either, can't keep his moans inside, it feels too good, Potter feels too fucking good, so he leans forward and sinks his teeth into the plump fullness of Potter's ruby-red lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and then that lip falls open and Draco loses himself inside the mouth that has been driving him to distraction for what he thinks might be fucking years, and fuck, the taste of that mouth, slightly sweet like vanilla and slightly sour like citrus, together with the heat of Potter's cock, rubbing hard against his, drives him over the edge, and he's coming harder than he ever has before, clutching at Potter's shoulders, thrusting his tongue into Potter's mouth, spilling warm and wet and sticky onto Potter's skin.

He pulls away breathless, ignoring Potter's bewildered cry.

He can't help the ragged exhales that fall from his throat, nor can he help tearing the buttons off Potter's shirt, yanking it open roughly and pressing wet sloppy kisses down that pale throat, his right hand tugging roughly at Potter's hair, his left twisting and pulling at Potter's nipples until Potter is a squirming, panting mess under him, leaking against his stomach.

Fighting the voice inside his head that screams at him to stop now, Draco drops to his knees.

Presses a soft kiss to Potter's left hipbone.

Takes a long, slow lick of Potter's cock.

Potter's entire body goes taut, and for a second, Draco swears he stops breathing. But then he exhales in a rush, his head slams back against the window, and he pushes his hips forward with a low groan.

Trying to ignore the way his heart speeds up in anticipation, Draco wraps his lips around Potter in earnest, lapping on the swollen head, the salty taste of pre-come thick and unfamiliar on his tongue. He places moist open-mouthed kisses along Potter's shaft, and then tries to take as much of Potter inside his mouth as he can manage, sucking and licking and slurping around the length working its way in and out of his throat.

He has no idea whether he is doing this correctly, his hands feeling useless on Potter's hips, his mouth feeling abused and sore and stretched too wide, but he does know when Potter is about to come - the hands in his hair tighten almost convulsively, Potter's spine curves up so hard that it looks almost painful and Potter's jaw drops open in a way that makes him look beautiful, and fuck if that isn't a term Draco would have never applied to the Gryffindor before.

But he doesn't have time to wonder at how sweaty and flushed and fucking glorious Potter looks when he comes, because then the bitter taste of come is filling his mouth, and spilling out over his lips, and dribbling slightly onto his chin.

Potter pushes him away gently, then seems to slide down the window to the carriage floor, boneless and exhausted and shivering, but with enough strength to stop Draco when he tries to clean up the sticky mess on his face.

"Let me."

The fingers around Draco's jaw are tight, but Potter's thumb is gentle as it skims gently over Draco's left cheekbone, and his tongue is soft as it collects his own come along Draco's mouth.

When Potter finally pulls away, Draco quickly does up his trousers, not wanting Potter to see that he is hard again.

"Do you know what your father was after in the Department of Mysteries in May?"

Draco's head snaps up sharply to find Potter watching him with an inscrutable expression on his face, jeans still undone, shirt still half-hanging off his shoulders.

"A prophecy."

Potter nods slightly. "Do you know what it was about?"

He doesn't want to admit it, but finds himself shaking his head slowly.

"It was about me. Well…me and him, I should say."

He feels a bitter tug at the corner of his mouth. "Isn't everything?"

Potter doesn't return the smile. "This prophecy…Professor Trelawney made it, years ago, and Dumbledore was the one who heard it. It's the reason Voldemort went after my parents, you know." Here, Potter hesitates. "There's a line in the prophecy…right at the end. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all summer. It goes: neither can live while the other survives."

For a moment, Draco feels his forehead crease in confusion, then understanding hits him like a sucker punch to the stomach.

He inhales sharply.

"If you stay at his side, Malfoy, not only will you be forced to kill people, torture them, hurt them, but I can also guarantee that you will either lose everything when I kill him, or become his most honoredservant after he kills me."

He feels a horrible sort of dread choking at his heart, and he tries his very best to push it aside, but Potter is having none of it.

He extends a trembling hand, clutches at Draco's collar.

"It's either that I die, or he does. That's it. There is no other way."

Potter is breathing heavily, chest expanding with each exhale.

"Which outcome are you willing to live with, Draco?"

Draco closes his eyes at the use of his name, can't bear to hear it come out of Potter's mouth, can't stand to let the burn behind his eyes spill down his face.

He holds his voice as steady as he can. "I don't care about either outcome. I just want to protect my mother. And I'm certain that there is a better chance of that happening if I side with the Dark Lord."

"You're lying. You do care. You care about me. Look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don't."

"I don't care." He forces himself to meet and hold that penetrating gaze, feels the lie burn in his throat, feels the lurch in his stomach, feels like he's about ten seconds away from dry-heaving his heart out onto the carriage floor.

Potter's face is still unreadable, even as he whispers again, "You're lying."

Draco's hands are shaking at his sides. "No, I'm really not."

"Right," Potter replies, swallowing loudly.

And it's like someone has somehow muted the color of Potter's eyes, dulled them to a bearable shade of green, one that doesn't make Draco want to taste every inch of Potter's body but pierces straight through him all the same because it's a flat green, a dead green, as if Potter doesn't so much as feel an ounce of surprise.

"Excuse me," he continues, standing abruptly and straightening his clothes as best he can. "We'll have reached London in a few minutes, I think. And I need to use the bathroom."

With that, and a distant nod that does terrible things to Draco's heart, Potter steps out of the compartment, gently pulling the sliding door shut behind himself, the red-painted metal screeching unpleasantly in its un-oiled frame.

Hi guys! I like this one shot as it stands, but I've also written a (much happier) alternate ending, which you can find in the next chapter if you feel so inclined :)