A/N: Hey guys! Guess what? It's Monday! Time for a story! :D

So this particular one-shot is based off a dream I had that was wonderful and wouldn't get out of my head until I wrote something about it. So I did. And now here we are.

For my friends from Ostriches: I promised you one-shots on Mondays, and that's going to happen for a few weeks. Then a whole bunch of one-shots got away from me and are multi-chaptered affairs. I'll figure out a new schedule then because, rest assured, I will not make you wait a week in between chapters.

For those who gave me prompts: Thank you thank you thank you! I'm publishing stories in the order they were written/finished, so that's why this guy is first, even though it's not from a prompt. But next Monday is all about MirrorFlower and DarkWind, and then LittleThingsToMakeYouSmile and then I'll have to see which gets finished first because I had a terrible case of start-itis and have three stories going at once (bad Nicole! bad!), but roughly speaking, that's the schedule!

While I have a bunch more prompts waiting to be written, if there's something you'd like to see, please PM me with any and all bunnies you've got lying around! I can't promise dates or anything, and I'm trying to fulfill prompts in the order I receive them, but there is nothing I love more than plot bunnies ^.^

Burning Platinum

Harry was not doing well in potions today. This wasn't surprising; without the Half-Prince's book, and spending a year off hunting Horcruxes, he had lost whatever knack he'd had for the subject. He was still in Slughorn's good graces, what with defeating Voldemort and becoming even more famous, and Harry was pretty sure that was the only reason he wasn't failing. That, and the fact that Hermione had assigned herself to be his potions partner after the first few lessons, when it became painfully clear he hadn't the slightest idea what he was doing.

Today, though. Today not even Hermione's constant nagging was helping. Halfway through she gave up and ignored him, focusing entirely on her own potion. Harry didn't even notice.

The thing was, today Draco Malfoy hadn't gelled his hair back.

Harry didn't know why. Malfoy always wore his hair back. He always looked impeccable. He was never anything less than perfect. Today was no different in that regard; his robes were perfectly arranged and his potion was, as far as Harry could tell, flawless.

So why was his hair down?

Half the class had left before Harry realized the lesson was over. He quickly poured his potion—though really, that was a rather grand word for what he had come up with—into a flask, labeled it, and cleaned his station as quickly as possible. He had to get out of this room. Hell, he had to get out of the castle; it was late October and quite chilly, but he thought the cold air would do him a world of good.

Harry put his flask on Slughorn's desk along with everyone else's and had just enough brain space left to notice his was a bright, acidic green while the rest of the class had produced a dark purple concoction.

"Distracted today, eh, Harry?" Slughorn asked with a chuckle. "Not to worry, we all have our off days."

"Not all of us." Harry's knees nearly gave out. Malfoy was suddenly next to him, right next to him, and delicately set his perfectly purple potion down next to Harry's. "Really, Potter, I would have thought even you had mastered healing potions by now. How on earth did you make it through last year without such knowledge?"

"Now, now, Draco," Slughorn said, saving Harry an awkward, half-coherent stumbling response. "I clearly recall a less-than-ideal love potion bearing your name a few weeks ago. The idea is to make the object of your affections dreamy and infatuated, not to bond them to you for life."

Both Harry and Draco flushed, and Harry quickly left before he could hear an explanation. The last thing he needed was to hear Malfoy discussing love potions. Especially overly powerful love potions.

Halfway down the hallway Harry realized that outside was out of the question, at least for now. His obsession with Malfoy was nothing new, and even this turn towards the romantic had lingered about since sixth year. He had even gotten used to the all-consuming, lust-filled, needy fantasies by the third week of classes. What had been a harmless crush had slammed full-force into him with the first glance of Malfoy on the Hogwarts Express. He never questioned it; it was logical, almost, in a crazy sort of way. Hermione had figured it out almost immediately, Ron a day or two after, but it seemed the rest of the eighth years remained clueless.

An absolute necessity, given that they were all sharing a dorm. There was no longer room for them in their respective houses, and since the returning class was so small, they had been stored in an old tower that hadn't been used for at least a century. At least Harry was still rooming with Ron and Neville. There were inter-house rooms, stemming from a noticeable lack of Slytherins. He didn't know how he would have survived sleeping in the same room as Malfoy. Just sharing a common room with him was hard enough.

Harry shook himself. Back to the present. Back to Malfoy's bloody hair. Why had he worn it down? He clearly had enough time to dress and ready himself for the day. In fact he had left the tower before Harry, who had only caught the briefest glimpse of his exit as he descended the stairs. Not enough to notice his hair, apparently.

He let himself into an empty classroom and leaned heavily against the desk. Outside still sounded good, and as an eventual goal it was quite promising, but for the moment he couldn't make it farther than that particular spot. He might have survived long enough to make it out the front doors had Malfoy not appeared so suddenly next to him, and had the topic of love potions not arisen.

Really, though, that was bollocks, the bit about the love potions. It was his hair and his proximity that was too much. For Merlin's sake, he had smelled the other boy. Vanilla. Harry shivered just remembering. He had known what Malfoy smelled like for a while now—sharing a tower would do that—but he had never been so close, especially not while he was already so unraveled.

Harry closed his eyes. Malfoy's hair hanging in his face. His fringe almost-but-not-quite blocking his slate eyes as he leaned over his cauldron to stir. The way he pushed it out of his eyes absentmindedly only for it to immediately fall again. The tiny flame from his cauldron occasionally casting golden highlights when he was chopping his fig roots so carefully his nose nearly touched the table and his hair was right next to the flame.

How incredibly, deliciously soft it had looked. How hard it had been for Harry to not vault across the room and run his hands through it. The surprised look on Malfoy's face when he fisted the softness in his hands, the way his eyes would widen and his mouth would open just slightly, just enough for Harry to kiss him senseless. The way—

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

Harry jerked, nearly losing his balance, eyes flying open. Malfoy stood at the door, smirking, blocking the only exit. His hair hung in his face. Harry gripped the desk very, very tightly. He was flushed, he knew it, and he was fairly certain his pupils were at least twice the size they should have been. He thought his robes were hiding anything going on below the belt but he couldn't be certain, nor could he check without alerting Malfoy.

"I'm—" Harry wracked his brain, trying to find a plausible excuse for the fact he could barely stand and he was looking at Malfoy like he was the most delicious thing on the planet. Which he was. Especially with his hair down like that. "—trying to figure out where my potion went wrong."

"Ah," Malfoy said, advancing. This was good, because the door was now unguarded, but far worse since he was slowly but surely invading Harry's personal space. "You thought it a better idea to contemplate in an empty classroom, rather than with the Potions Master? With said potion in front of you?"

"Yes," Harry said definitively. He may have licked his lips, he wasn't sure. At least it looked like he was focusing on Malfoy; his fringe hung in front of his eyes and just to the side. It wasn't like when he couldn't stop staring at other things, specifically when those other things were clad in nothing but thin Slytherin-colored pajama bottoms or, on one memorable occasion, a single towel hanging dangerously low. Though, to be fair, he was looking at everything that particular time, like the way water drops slid down his thin frame and disappeared beneath the towel, and how long his legs were, and how his stupid bloody hair looked when it was wet and—and now was not the time to be thinking about such things.

"Hmm," Malfoy replied. He tossed his head, and Harry's eyes followed every movement of his hair. If only he could touch it, just once, to confirm it was as soft and silky as he imagined. "You did seem to have trouble focusing in class."

Malfoy had noticed? What was that about? Since when was Harry even on his radar, beyond derisive comments in the halls and the occasional insult thrown about in the tower? He had even gone so far as to mellow a little, and Harry was pretty sure they were still fighting only to keep up appearances. He certainly didn't want to be fighting. Not when there were so many other things he could be doing.

"Potter," Malfoy drawled. "Your eyes are glazed over. What's got your tiny little brain so occupied?"

Harry forced himself back to the conversation. "Potions, I told you," he said, striving for annoyance. He did sound annoyed, a little bit, but he thought he might have also come across as a bit breathy and distracted, and that was not a good thing at all.

"Somehow I don't believe you." Malfoy ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back only to let it fall again. Harry gulped. It almost seemed like he knew, and was purposefully teasing Harry. But how could he? True, Harry's obsession with Draco's hair reached back almost to the beginning of this year, but he hadn't thought it had been that obvious. Not mostly, at least. "Why lie now, when we've been so civil to each other?"

"I wouldn't exactly call you civil," Harry said. His voice was steadier. Much better. "And a lie between life-long enemies is hardly news."

"But we aren't enemies anymore," Malfoy said, continuing his slow walk towards Harry. He was a cat stalking its pray. "We're housemates, bordering on friends."

"Friends?" Harry threw back. "This is the longest conversation we've had all year. Probably ever."

Malfoy cocked his head. Now one eye was completely covered and the other free, his fringe hanging to the side. His eye was sparkling and dangerous, but it was worth it for the swish his fringe made. It had to be soft. Really fucking soft. Harry gripped the desk tighter. He had no idea how long his self-control would last, and wasn't at all interested in finding out.

"Bordering on friends, I said," Malfoy replied. "There hasn't been a single raised word or curse all year. As far as our relationship goes, that counts as friendship."

Harry was stuck on the word relationship. Such an innocent word. Such a stupid, stupid word. The way Malfoy's lips looked forming it, how he had seemed to draw it out, though Harry thought that might have been in his head.

"Friends don't corner each other in abandoned classrooms," Harry said.

"Yes they do," Malfoy replied. "When they're concerned about each other. And I'm concerned. You were so very, very distracted. What if something's wrong? I'd hate to leave you to suffer on your own."

Malfoy now stood only a foot or two away, and Harry had to work very hard to keep his breathing even and his hands firmly clenched on the desk.

"I'm fine, Malfoy," Harry said. "You can go now."

"I'm not so sure about that." Malfoy closed the distance between them and put his hand on Harry's forehead. His skin was dreadfully smooth and deliciously cool, sending shivers down his spine. "You feel warm. Is a trip to the infirmary in order?"

"No," Harry said. He wanted to move away, to get that hand off his head before something happened, but he couldn't bring himself to. There was quite a bit going on in his trousers, and he was entirely certain if Malfoy were to look down, or even step forward by no more than a few inches he'd be given away. "I'm just, er, embarrassed, from screwing up so badly. Flushed, you know."

"Flushed indeed," Malfoy said, trailing his hand down to Harry's cheek. Harry's eyes flickered shut and he forced them open. "With embarrassment, though? I'm less certain of that."

"What else would it be?" Harry asked irritably. He backed up a few steps, keeping his hands on the desk, walking the line between far enough that Malfoy was no longer touching him, that they were no longer sharing the same breath, but staying close enough he couldn't see the inevitable tenting. "You've seen me embarrassed enough. You know that look."

"I do," Malfoy replied, dropping his arm. "But in sharing close quarters, I have learned a few other looks. A fit of giggles when Weasley accidentally ate a Canary Cream. Aching tiredness after hours and hours of studying. Sadness, staring out the window, longing for your Quidditch days. You know, you could have just asked me. I'd take you on any time."

"Brilliant," Harry said. "You're not entirely daft. Was there a point to that?"

"Oh yes," Malfoy replied, his signature smirk returning. "I've also caught on to arousal, Potter. I had my suspicions for a while, but that experiment with the towel, that confirmed it. Your eyes dilate, you flush, you shake just slightly, your eyes dart around like you're trying not to look at me and, if I were to touch you, like this—" He was close again, when had that happened?, and he laid a hand flat on Harry's chest, just above his heart, "—you jerk away, then immediately forward again. Not to mention the obvious." His eyes flicked down, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut. This was not happening. It couldn't be. It wasn't fair, dammit. He just wanted a plain, normal, boring last year to get the N.E.W.T.s he needed for a job at the Ministry. This was absolutely not part of that plan.

He ran through Malfoy's words again. The towel thing, that had been on purpose? To study him? Anger flared through him. That was really not fair. It was mean. A trap. And Malfoy was trying to say they were friends?

"Friends don't—er—towels," Harry stammered. That was not good at all, definitely didn't cement Malfoy's suspicions.

"Er, towels?" Malfoy echoed. "Er, towels indeed. I was expecting an argument, a rebuke, some attempt to regain whatever dignity you possess. Er, towels does nothing for you."

Harry realized Malfoy's hand was still on his chest. Something should probably be done about that. He should also respond. With dignity. An argument, a rebuke, like Malfoy said.

"Your hair," he said instead.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"

"You didn't gel it back," Harry said. This was not the way the conversation was supposed to be going, not at all. He needed to fix that. "Not that I care."

Malfoy ignored the obviously untrue statement tacked on the end of the matter at hand. "Keen observation skills, Potter. What's it to you how I wear my hair?"

"You distracted me," Harry accused. "That's why my potion was so bollocks."

Malfoy ran his free hand through his hair again. He tilted his head down very slightly, just enough so he was looking up at Harry through his fringe. "This?" he asked. "This distracted you?"

"Yes," Harry said. He searched for something, anything to change the direction of the conversation. "What do you think about the match this weekend? Betting on Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff?"

"Hmm," Malfoy said, considering. "I thought a change of style would behoove me. Trying to get away from that Death Eater reputation, you know. Perhaps if I didn't look so reserved, people would be less afraid of me. And Ravenclaw, of course. Hufflepuff couldn't win a match if they had the whole field to themselves."

Harry's brow furrowed. "How does having your hair down make you look less frightening?"

"Well it certainly seemed to work on you," Malfoy replied. "Though perhaps less frightening is the wrong phrase. Enhance your already pathetic crush on me? Make it so obvious the entire class knows, Slughorn included? That was certainly an unexpected and amusing side effect."

"I don't have a crush on you," Harry stated firmly. Which was true. His feelings went far beyond a crush, though he couldn't argue with pathetic.

"No?" Malfoy asked. He closed the distance between them, pressing their bodies together, still keeping a hand on his chest. "Then tell me why your heartbeat just sped up, the slack-jawed expression on your face, and the hardness I am quite sure isn't your wand pressing against me."

"I'm—embarrassed," Harry managed.

"I'm quite sure," Malfoy said. "But I think your poor performance in potions is out of the running for possible explanations. Though actually, I do believe they are directly related, if I was truly distracting you as much as you claim I did."

Harry was pressed against the desk. His hands were slippery with sweat, and it was harder and harder to hold onto the wood. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from reach up and running a hand through Malfoy's hair, to prevent himself from thrusting forward. Malfoy was clearly not affected by their situation in the slightest: embarrassing, yes, absolutely humiliating; heartbreaking as well? The knife twisting through his stomach certainly seemed to think so. He knew if he were to tell Malfoy his feelings he'd just get laughed at, and he knew it wouldn't be pleasant, but he hadn't expected this dark emptiness filling him. That was just pathetic. Pathetic and depressing.

"Leave me alone, would you?" Harry asked numbly. "You've had your fun. Just get out."

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair again, and Harry just looked away. It was still sexy, way more than it should have been, but the rejection was too much.

"Before I let you touch my hair?" Malfoy asked. Harry jerked to face him. "That wouldn't be very nice of me, now would it? Not when you want to so desperately."

"I don't want your pity, Malfoy," Harry said, a voice in the back of his head screaming at him to shut the fuck up and bury his hands in the silky smoothness.

"Pity?" Draco asked. "I don't pity you. If you want to touch my hair, then do it. You have my official permission. Rest assured, pity didn't even cross my mind."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Then why would you offer?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Malfoy asked. "I like having my hair touched. It's nice. Pansy used to, but she's at Beauxbatons now, and her parents have decided the name Malfoy is far beneath them, and I am no longer welcome in their home. In all honesty, I quite like physical contact. I never received much from my parents, and I hardly have a fan club following me and begging to touch me. So if you want to, please. I invite your touch."

Harry stared at him. Unexpected didn't even begin to cover it. Malfoy had never shared anything like personal information with him, ever.

"I won't—I'm not interested," Harry said. "I'm not bending to your will. I'm not a fan club."

"If we both want the same thing, why not act on it?" Malfoy asked.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to make sense of this. "Physical contact," he said. "What do you mean by physical contact?"

Malfoy paused. "This is between just us, yes? You won't go blabbing to Granger and Weasley?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "Just us."

"I miss cuddling," Malfoy said quietly. "Pansy was all over me, all the time. It could be annoying, but the warmth of another body, of someone who wanted to be with me, that was brilliant. She's sneak into the dorms at night and after—well, you know—she'd stay, and let me hold her. She thought it quite silly, but she never protested, not at the risk of falling out of my good graces."

"I never—I mean, I know what you mean," Harry replied. "Only without my personal harem waiting on me hand and foot. My family never touched me. Hermione holds my hand, sometimes, and leans against me, but for comfort. I've never had—" He broke off, rendered speechless. Malfoy put a hand on the back of his head and drew him closer. Harry was tucked beneath his head, held in what was—a hug? He thought so. He could smell the ever-present vanilla but there was something under it, a muskiness that belonged to Malfoy and Malfoy alone.

"Secret cuddle buddies," Malfoy said with a small laugh. "I could use a secret cuddle buddy."

Harry couldn't even try to speak. He closed his eyes and breathed vanilla. He wrapped his arms around Malfoy, working to keep them still on his back, to not trace patterns through the robes, to stop himself from going lower or higher. Permission or not, he wasn't about to touch Malfoy's hair, not without permission to do a whole lot more. There wouldn't be any turning back from that, any self-control whatsoever.

"You can be distracting too, you know," Malfoy said quietly.

Harry's eyes flew open. "I—what?"

Malfoy laughed again at his available vocabulary. "Has anybody ever told you how cute you look when you yawn?"

Harry gaped. "Um, no."

"Then I am pleased to be the first," Malfoy said. "Your hair, even. That unruly mess. I just want to smooth it into submission. I could, I'm certain of it. It might take some time, and more product than you could imagine, but I'd like the challenge. The very distracting challenge."

Someone—Malfoy—was distracted by his hair? "You're putting me on," Harry said. "No one likes my hair. It's stupid."

"No, I like it," Malfoy said. "Especially when you've just woken up and it's full of corkscrews and cowlicks."

Harry pulled away, just enough so he could see Malfoy's expression. He certainly looked sincere. "You like my bedhead?"

"I do."

"Well then, I suppose you have permission to touch my hair, too," Harry said, stunned. "We'll have to have a talk about that product, though."

Malfoy laughed. Harry had never heard him laugh so many times, and without a hint of malice. "Yes, I imagine we will." He released Harry from his grip and ran his hands through his hair. Harry's eyes slipped shut and he let out a quiet whimper. "Merlin, Potter, have you ever taken a brush to this mess?"

Harry jerked away, the moment ruined. "Yes," he said angrily. "Every day."

Malfoy grabbed his head and resumed his ministrations. "Stay still. If you ever expect me to fix it, you've got to stop moving around."

Harry couldn't think like this, when they were still pressed together, when Malfoy had requested to be his cuddle buddy, whatever that meant, when Malfoy was running his hands through his hair, supposedly neatening it, more massaging his scalp. He grabbed Malfoy's wrists—fuck they were smooth, and small, obscenely tantalizing, and removed his hands.

"I thought I had your permission," Malfoy asked curiously.

"Permission revoked," Harry said. He couldn't explain why, couldn't tell him it was too much, that he couldn't stand it after he had been—well, not exactly rejected, sort of the opposite, actually. That he couldn't stand it ever, not if they weren't together, and that was a stupid thought, a dangerously stupid thought, when they were this close, and Harry was still holding Malfoy's wrists at shoulder height, he thought maybe because he wanted those hands on his face again, to kiss him, and while that was really stupid and absolutely not going to happen, having them close by, that was maybe not such a bad thing, just in case.

"Why?" Malfoy asked.

Harry dropped his gaze, looking off to the side again. "You know why."

"Your pathetic crush?" Malfoy asked. Harry could hear the smirk—or was it maybe a smile?—in his voice as he continued, "Potter, am I turning you on?"

Harry worked very hard not to change his affect at all. "Of course not."

Malfoy moved forward, inserting himself between Harry's legs, and Harry let out a breath. Malfoy was affected, obviously, irrevocably affected. Harry's hands sagged, though Malfoy kept his hands at shoulder height. Harry licked his lips, still keeping his eyes away from Malfoy's, looking at him not was so not an option, not when everything was written all over his face.

"Clearly, Potter, you are not the only one influenced by this situation," Malfoy said quietly. "So let me touch your hair. Why not?"

Harry thought of a lot of why nots, but vocalizing them seemed like a bad idea. However, it didn't seem like he was in control of the speech center of his brain. "I might kiss you. Or move against you. Possibly sink to the floor because I can't hold myself up. Even more embarrassing, I might just faint away, like in a bloody romance novel."

Malfoy considered. "I'm okay with any of those options. I'd rather you stay conscious, obviously. But it would be quite flattering."

"Oh—okay?" Harry stammered. "You'd be okay with me kissing you?"

"Entirely. Now, if you would be so kind as to release my arms, I'd very much like to get back to what I was doing."

Harry let go, and Malfoy returned to his hair, combing his fingers through it, massaging his head, occasionally dipping down to trace circles on the back of his neck. Harry whimpered again. His hands were still floating around his shoulders. Very, very hesitantly he rested his hands on Malfoy's shoulders.

"Mm, you've finally got it," Malfoy said. "You can touch me, I told you."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in the situation. Just his shoulders were enough to send tingles throughout his entire body. Then he opened his eyes and once again pulled Malfoy's hands away from his hair.

"Stop," he said quietly. "I can't do this. I can't be your cuddle buddy, whatever that means. Move, would you? And leave?"

Malfoy looked legitimately upset. That was hurt in his eyes, Harry was quite sure. "Why?" he asked, just as quietly. "I don't want to leave. You don't want me to. So why should I?"

"That pathetic crush," Harry said, voice dropping further. "It's—I want you, more than a casual cuddle. This is—it's not good, for me. It—" Harry cut himself off. He was going to say that it hurt, but that was beyond pathetic, venturing into territories he wasn't willing to sink down to.

"If you want more from me, then take it," Malfoy said. "I told you; run your hands through my hair. Kiss me. Move against me. Do whatever you like."

"No," Harry said again. "It wouldn't be real." He tried to move, seriously tried to escape, but Malfoy held him firmly in place with his hips, his hands on his shoulders.

"Why not?"

"You don't feel the same way about me," Harry replied. "Merlin, Malfoy, don't make me say this. We've already been over how pathetic I am. Don't rub it in."

"Harry, I'm not." The use of his first name was enough to make him look at Malfoy again. He had a very strange expression on his face. "Why would you think I don't feel the same?"

Harry stared at him. "I—everything?"

"Everything?" Malfoy repeated. "Everything, like how I want to stay with you, like how I want to touch you, how I want you to touch me, like how I told you to kiss me? All of that, that's me not wanting you?"

"You said buddy," Harry said, almost accusingly. "You said cuddle buddy."

"Perhaps I was nervous," Malfoy replied. "Perhaps the idea of the Golden Boy wanting a Death Eater was too much to imagine."

Harry was at an utter loss. Words weren't available. Muscles didn't respond to commands he couldn't give. His entire brain had shut down.

"If you wanted to say something, now would be a good time," Malfoy said. "I know about your pathetic crush. I know you're attracted to me. I know—" He took a deep breath. "I know I don't know if I'm right, and I would really appreciate it if you said something."

"I like you," Harry said. "A lot. Have for a while. Kiss me."

Malfoy cupped his cheek with one hand and rested the other on the back of his neck. He leaned down, lips hovering just above Harry's.

"Please," Harry said. The knife was back, twisting. Malfoy had never actually said he liked him. Maybe he was just—just—Harry didn't know. Just something. "If you like me, kiss me."

Malfoy sighed. "Of course I like you." He closed the distance. His lips were soft and sweet and undemanding, not at all what Harry would have guessed. Had guessed, actually. Had guessed over and over again, late into the night, bed covered with silencing spells and the curtains spelled shut. Harry whimpered for the third time, taking a moment to remember he should probably kiss back, rather than just stand there in awe.

Harry lost the battle with his hands. He stroked Malfoy's hair, buried his hands in it. Silky didn't even begin to describe it. He couldn't think, but he did know one thing: he was never letting go.

The end.

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