A/N: Hi everybody! Whether you're a new reader or here after Temptation on the Warfront, then welcome and I hope you enjoy the story! It's based on a popular fan theory, set in 6th year, and will most likely be around novella-length.

Warnings for: underage/mutual sex between two sixteen year olds, swearing and dark themes.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, all goes to the amazing inspiration of J.K Rowling!

CHAPTER 1: Smells and Suspicions

"You're staring at Malfoy again, mate."

Harry blinks, quickly trying to pretend it was his porridge he'd been so fascinated by. But Hermione's lifted brow tells him he isn't fooling anybody.

Harry sighs, frowns, and tries to ignore the sound of Ron Weasley stuffing half a sausage into his mouth.

"I just have a feeling he's up to something," Harry mutters, chasing the steaming oats around in his bowl with a spoon.

"Harry," Hermione begins, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She manages to cram a whole sentence of disapproval into a single word, and Harry cringes, because it's too early for being lectured, and he woke up with a headache. "You really should spend this year focusing on your studies. Besides, I think it's a little unfair of you to draw attention to Malfoy when he seems as though he's just trying to mind his own business."

"Yeah, which makes me know he's up to something. You saw him snooping around in Knockturn Alley, 'Mione, remember?"

"Maybe he was Christmas shopping," Ron offers, pouring himself more pumpkin juice.

"Ron's right, Harry. Leave Malfoy alone, or you'll start something you won't know how to finish."

Ron stifles his grin behind his goblet, no doubt glad to have Hermione say he's right about something, seeing as it doesn't happen often. "Yeah, not to mention, if you keep staring he'll start staring back." Ron shivers somewhat, implying that being on the receiving end of Draco Malfoy's grey-eyed glare is one of the most disgusting things that could ever happen.

Strangely, Harry doesn't agree. Because if Malfoy stared back then Harry thinks he would at least be able to discern a fraction of whatever it is the Slytherin is hiding from the depth of his scowl. But Malfoy doesn't stare at him, in fact, he doesn't even look at Harry — hasn't so much as glanced at him for the first two months of the new school year. And Harry wouldn't hate it nearly as much if he didn't find it so bloody bizarre. Malfoy is meant to glare at him and insult him — it's what rivals do — it's what they've always done.

But now that he practically ignores Harry's existence, Harry feels almost… disappointed. And suspicious. Because Malfoy is up to something — something slimy and hateful, most likely, and Harry will spend as long as he has to on figuring out what. Even if that means he'll be doing it alone.

Harry sighs again, for probably the tenth time this morning, and concludes his friends are just as eager to believe Malfoy's innocent as Harry is to believe him guilty.

Grudgingly, Harry drops it and goes back to his breakfast. The Christmas holidays are a month away, and Harry finds himself not wanting to return to the Burrow with Ron and Hermione. Because going to the Burrow will mean being cooped up in close quarters with Ginny, whose forwardness in recent months has done more than frighten Harry off. Last year's ordeal with Cho Chang was bad enough, and if Harry's honest with himself he really doesn't feel up to romance this year, what with the weight of his Godfather's death still plaguing him with nightmares.

He pushes away his bowl, grimacing at the horrid sound of the metal spoon clanging against the ceramic, and then after a few seconds of internal struggle, he goes back to the only thing that seems to be able to distract him from his own problems these days.

Staring at Malfoy.

Draco doesn't even bother reading his mother's letter before he scrunches it into a ball and incinerates it with a flick of his wand. The spell leaves a small black scorch mark on the wood of the table, and it makes Draco feel a little better.

But then he remembers what the letter would have said, what every one of his mother's letters have said so far, and he goes back to glaring at his uneaten toast.

Suddenly, Draco bristles, the fine hairs on his forearms and on the back of his neck standing on end, and he just knows that Potter is staring at him. Again.

If it were any number of months ago, Draco wouldn't have minded, in fact he would have relished in the narrowed green gaze of the boy who he has been trying to get the attention of for five years. But not now. Because now Draco can feel every inch of Potter's stare — can feel it burning up the length of his body and awakening urges which he can't control anymore.

And Draco has to struggle with every inch of his being not to look up — not to look into the pair of eyes he dreams about. Because if he does he'll fall apart, and then Potter will know. Potter will find out that Draco is a — a freak.

Draco abruptly rushes to his feet, his teeth clenched so hard they hurt, and strides out of the Great Hall. His fellow Slytherins pretend he was never there to begin with, and even Pansy Parkinson keeps her eyes trained away from the son of a failure. Draco doesn't care — he doesn't need any of them — and he didn't go against his mother's wishes and insist on returning to school this year just so he could talk to his 'friends.'

Draco doesn't get further than ten steps into the entrance hall before he freezes. Without turning around, he knows Potter is behind him. Draco can smell him.

Potter smells like sleep and honey, and Draco's eyelids flutter closed as he inhales, unconsciously balling his hands into fists.

"Malfoy." Potter says it as though he has the element of surprise, as though he is expecting Draco to jump out of his skin at the mere mentioning of his name, at being sneaked up on. For a brief moment, Draco entertains the thought of doing so, just to see Potter react, but that would involve opening his eyes and looking at Potter.

And Draco can't do that.

"What do you want, Potter?" Draco asks levelly, hoping to make his voice sound as indifferent as possible. He probably fails, because he'd do anything to know what Potter really wants, and whether or not Potter wants the same things as Draco. The thought causes his mouth to go dry, and Draco's nails dig into his palms.

There's the sound of shoes scuffing across the stone floor, and Draco can imagine that Potter's frowning.

"You didn't eat breakfast," Potter's tone implies that not eating breakfast is one of the most sinister things one can do, and Draco lets out a sigh as he continues walking again.

"Wait, Malfoy —"

And then for some stupid, unfathomable reason, Potter tries to grab his shoulder, and it sends searing jolts of want down Draco's spine. Draco shrugs wildly out of Potter's grip at the same time he swivels around, his teeth bared as he spits, "don't fucking touch me!"

And it is perhaps the biggest mistake he has ever made.

Because Harry Potter is standing in a state of bewilderment, and evidently he has no idea what to do with Draco's sudden rage. His eyes are wide, framed by dark lashes and thick brows drawn in confusion. But the worst part of Potter's shock is the way his lips are slightly parted, and the way Draco nearly trembles with the desire to taste them.

Because Harry Potter looks just as good as Draco remembers, and seeing him for the first time in months, seeing him so close, nearly overwhelms Draco with need and hate and revulsion.

Draco growls, stumbling back, because he has to get away — he has to hide before every wall he has built around himself comes crumbling down — he has to run before Potter finds him out — before Potter becomes disgusted.

Draco doesn't look back as he hastens up the stairs. His hands are shaking, and his shoulder tingles where Potter touched him for that split second, and no matter how hard he tries he can't rid his mind of the image of Potter's pink lips, can't stop thinking about what they might feel like against his own.

Harry doesn't know why he followed Malfoy out of the Great Hall. He doesn't know why he tried to stop him from leaving either — why he attempted to grab his shoulder and through the thick wool of Malfoy's school jumper felt the unnatural heat radiating off of his skin beneath.

Maybe Malfoy's sick, Harry thinks, because no one can be that hot and still walk and talk. Malfoy didn't look fevered, however, but Harry knows the git's talented at hiding things. Still, Harry has always been under the impression that Draco Malfoy would feel cool to the touch, icy, just like everything else about him, even his eyes.

His eyes hadn't been cold a few minutes ago, though — they were burning metal, as though Malfoy hoped to incinerate Harry with nothing but the heaviness of his hate.

Harry shakes his head, hopefully clearing it of errant stray thoughts about snarky Slytherins and their suspicious eating habits — maybe that's why Malfoy didn't finish his breakfast, because he has some weird new disease where his body temperature's hot to the point where he can't eat?

Harry cards a hand through his hair, realising trying not to think about Malfoy results with him thinking about Malfoy anyway. Maybe he really should take Hermione's advice, and throw himself into his studies face-first until there's no way out.

With one last questioning glance towards the stairs where Malfoy's lean and harried form disappeared, Harry turns and walks back into the Great Hall.

Draco slams the door to his dormitory closed, thankful that everyone's still down at breakfast, and leans his head back against it, trying to catch his breath.

He's achingly hard, his erection straining against his trousers, and he still can't stop thinking about Potter's fucking lips, and about how they might feel around his cock.

Draco groans, sliding his palm over his crotch. He can feel everything now. Every fibre of fabric rubbing against his thighs, and the scratchy cotton of his shirt grazing his nipples. He swears he can even feel the blood pounding and rushing through his cock.

His mouth waters at the thought of how Potter's mouth might feel — hot and wet, with every bud of his tongue chaffing deliciously along the underside of Draco's erection. Before he knows what he's doing, he's unbuttoning his trousers and shoving a hand into his boxers, hissing at the sensation of his sweaty palm sliding against his leaking shaft.

He swipes the pad of his thumb over the slit, letting his head fall further back as he pants, imagining Potter's hands, Potter's unruly black hair as he swallows around Draco's cock, Potter moaning and loving every inch of it —

Draco gasps, losing himself while fucking the tight circle of his fist and spilling warm stickiness all over his fingers. He cleans himself up with a few flicks of his wand, and surreptitiously straightens his tie.

He pledged to himself that he would stop wanking over Potter last year, after the bastard got Draco's father locked up in Azkaban, but then things had turned to shit, and now it's as though Draco's even more ruled by his hormones than he used to be.

And that's why Draco has to try even harder not to look at Potter, not to think about Potter, and not to be anywhere near Potter. Because he doesn't know who it'll be more dangerous for, himself, or for the boy Draco started fantasising about ever since seeing the strong slope of his shoulders enunciated by dress robes at the Yule Ball.

Doing up his trousers, he vows to himself that this will be the last time. Because Draco knows that insufferable prats such as The Chosen One don't go after people like him, and Draco has spent more than long enough trying to convince himself that this is something he has known even before what happened in the Summer.

"Harry — you've got honey all over your jumper."

Hermione's exaggerating, because the honey isn't all over Harry's jumper, just slightly spilled down the front, which is what happens when one wakes up with a headache and can't even pour honey on one's porridge properly.

Hermione titters at him and waves her wand deftly at his clothing from across the table.

"Thanks," Harry mutters, settling down beside Ron. He's glad the first thing she pointed out was the honey, and not the fact that he'd run off to unsuccessfully follow Malfoy.

"Double potions first. Kill me, Harry," Ron moans, staring morosely at what is probably his fifth sausage.

"S'not all bad, now that Snape's off our backs," Harry says, just as uninterested in his porridge as he was before.

"You mean now that you've found a way to cheat," Hermione says reproachfully from over the top of her Ancient Runes textbook.

Harry shrugs, ignoring her remark and Ron's smirk, and sends a wordless thankyou to the battered old potion's book in his school bag, which has made getting close to Slughorn, as Dumbledore had asked of him, that much easier.

Yet, as the three of them make their way down to the dungeons for their first lesson, Harry's thoughts aren't consumed by the possible identity of the 'Half-Blood Prince' as they used to be, but are circling endlessly around the sudden puzzle of Draco Malfoy.

Unsurprisingly, and thanks to Ron and Hermione's deafening bickering about Ron's eating habits after exiting the Great Hall, they arrive late. Slughorn doesn't seem to mind, even though the majority of the class are already in their seats, and simply smiles broadly at Harry's entrance. Harry supposes anyone who turns up to class alongside him, even if they were an hour late, would be spared the docking of house points.

Harry's eyes drift immediately to the back of the room, searching for a shock of white-blond hair, but Malfoy isn't here, and Harry frowns, noticing that Crabbe, Goyle and Parkinson haven't even saved Malfoy a seat.

Harry lowers himself into the seat next to Hermione, and is in the process of taking out the Prince's book when the door creaks open and Malfoy slinks into the room. Slughorn barely notices him, in fact, he doesn't even acknowledge Draco's presence apart from a casual glance from the corner of his eye before he simply continues telling them enthusiastically about the Draught of Living Death.

Harry supposes having one parent locked up in Azkaban is a sure way to avoid being recruited into the Slug club, and wonders whether he should feel pity or envy for Malfoy. Either way, Lucius deserved it, and Harry doesn't regret the man's misfortune, because if it weren't for him then maybe Sirius —

Harry's hands tighten into fists and he mentally shakes himself, deciding that listening intently to Slughorn is better than letting his mind wander off into territory which makes Harry want to tear his own eyes out in order to escape the pain. The only thing which is capable of occupying a large enough space in Harry's head to distract him from wanting to shout or scream is the curiosity presented by Malfoy, who has just taken a seat at the front of the class without so much as looking in the direction of his fellow Slytherins.

Harry doesn't know how he's missed it, the fact that Malfoy seems to have no one, not even his cronies, by his side this year. He admits that's probably because he's been too busy watching Malfoy with nothing but suspicion to take in the actions of the people around him.

A nudge to his ribs pulls his attention away from the sharp lines of Malfoy's profile, and with a murmured grumble of pain he turns to Hermione. "What?"

"Weren't you listening? We have to pair up — and I've already promised Ron I'd help him this lesson."

"Oh — right," Harry thinks Hermione's decision has more to do with not wanting to cheat and less to do with wanting to help the person she's just spent the last half hour berating for eating a whole platter of sausages, but he doesn't comment on it. "No problem."

Harry turns to catch Neville's eye, but he's already paired up with Dean, whose usual partner of Seamus didn't get out of bed this morning due to his decision to come down with an awfully well-timed cold.

Harry's gaze lands on Malfoy, his long pale fingers already setting up his cauldron on the bench solely occupied by himself. Harry doesn't think twice, even though he knows he's signing himself up for either two hours of barbed insults or two hours of deathly silence, and after grabbing his book and quill from his desk, he heads over to join Malfoy.

Malfoy's hands turn to stone as Harry comes to a stop in front of him on the other side of the bench, and Harry watches eagerly as steely grey eyes slowly rise and settle glacially somewhere on Harry's right shoulder. Figuring Malfoy's probably gone back to the whole 'not looking at him' thing, Harry merely shrugs and thumps his bag down on the stone floor.

"Can I help you, Potter?" Malfoy asks acidly.

"Yeah, actually you can. You stir, I'll chop?"

Malfoy's lips thin and his nostrils flare, which is weird, Harry thinks, but then he catches sight of the stern glare which is still determinedly trained on his torso, and Harry huffs with annoyance.

"Fuck off, Potter," Malfoy snaps before Harry can say anything, quiet enough not to be heard by anyone, but with enough venom that if Harry weren't known for his perseverance, he probably would fuck off.

"We're the only people in the room without partners. I don't like it just as much as you do, Malfoy, so just shut up and deal with it." Harry is a little shocked to see that Malfoy does shut up, however the angle of his jaw hardens, and his knuckles tighten around the stirring rod.

After a few seconds more of frigid silence, Malfoy turns soundlessly and disappears into the store cupboard to collect their ingredients, which Harry smugly takes for reluctant consent. Harry flips to the correct page of his potion's book, even though Malfoy already has his opened on the table, and starts to read over the Prince's notes.

Draco used to like Potions. He'd begun to love it after returning to school this year, because the harsh smell of the ingredients and the thick stench of the potions hide the sort of smells that make Draco's nose burn. Such as the abundance of perfume which girls slather over their necks, and the foul musk which tells Draco who's been fucking who, not to mention the most prevalent odours of sweat, lingering food, and magic. The magic smell isn't so bad, but Draco could really go without the information of who had what for breakfast.

But now — now with Potter standing so close to him that every now and then the sleeves of their robes brush, all Draco can smell is him. And it's driving him insane. Potter still carries a faint trace of honey, something a little spicy like spearmint toothpaste, and then a hint of something gloriously masculine which is purely Potter.

It's making concentrating nearly impossible, and Draco has to close his eyes and breathe deeply to stage off the erection that mercilessly keeps trying to resurface beneath the table. When he opens them, it is to see that Potter isn't following the instructions.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Draco seethes, "You're meant to cut that, not crush it!"

Potter shrugs. "But it's working. See." And he's right, Draco acknowledges with a scowl. Potter has successfully squeezed most of the juice out of their Sopophorous beans, leaving thirteen shrivelled bean carcasses strewn across the bench.

Draco's eyes narrow. "We're only supposed to put twelve beans in, not thirteen, you ignoramus."

"If you're so concerned by it then you should have done it. Instead of just standing there like a blind and deaf tosser." Potter says it callously, and Draco is about to growl before he catches the scent of Potter's mirth. It's subdued beneath the suffocating potion fumes around the room, but it's still coming from Potter, and that's why Draco is so tuned into it.

Draco's irritation ebbs into suspicion, wondering what could be so funny that Potter's having a secret laugh. He looks quickly at his textbook, checking to make sure he's read the directions correctly. And he has, because it says in clear, printed script to cut twelve beans. Not crush thirteen.

Draco chances a glance at Potter, sees his tanned, calloused hands and the sturdy shape of his wrists and stops himself before his gaze can creep higher. And then he notices the Potions book Potter has set out on his side of the bench, far enough from Draco that if Potter angles his body in the right way it's hidden from Draco's view.

Potter's arm moves back slightly as he finishes crushing the last bean, giving Draco a side-long view of a weathered and stained page, with tiny inked in handwriting crammed into the margins.

"What's that?" Draco asks at once, making a gesture towards the book.

"What's what?" Potter turns to him then, his tone one of feigned innocence as he tries to inconspicuously shove the book behind his back. Draco's honed senses don't miss the action — his eyesight locks onto it at once, and then he makes a sudden dart forwards, intent on ripping the book from Potter's grip.

Potter is almost as quick as Draco, and backs up against the side of the bench at the same time Draco lunges forward, resulting in a near tangle of arms and legs, and a suddenly intense stare-off between grey and green. All at once Draco becomes aware that he is too close — dangerously close, with his thigh against Potter's and his fist twisted into the front of his robes.

Potter doesn't look angry, only surprised, and — and curious. The mix of emotions coming off him smell so interesting that for a delirious second Draco almost leans in to brush his nose against Potter's jaw, but then he realises what he's doing and recoils with the speed one uses to avoid being hexed.

No one else in the room seems to be paying any attention to the altercation that almost took place, all too absorbed in the difficulty of their potions. Even Slughorn is caught up in trying to make sure the protrusion of his belly doesn't knock over the cauldron of the pair he's trying to help.

From the other side of the bench, at least a metre away from Potter, Draco still isn't safe. Especially because he can feel Potter's eyes digging into the side of his face, and he has to simultaneously fight the urge to scream at him to never so much as look at Draco again, and the urge grab him and throw him up against the bench and ravish him.

Draco purposefully inhales the potion fumes to attempt to ease his mind away from Potter, and then begins to stir the brew anti-clockwise.

But then there's a hand on his elbow, and Potter is right up in his personal space again, and Draco just wants to curse.

"Er—" Potter's hand drops, and Draco glares down into the pale lilac of the potion, teeth gritted firmly together. "Stir once more when you're done — but clockwise this time."

Draco won't glare at him — he won't — and he won't give in and treat himself to one last gulp of Potter's scent either — he won't — and he most certainly won't escape to the nearest bathroom as soon as he can and break the vow he made to himself not one hour ago. He won't.

Draco glares at him.

Potter stares defiantly back, one dark brow lifted slightly, and Draco just wants to smash his stupid round glasses and never look at him again. He also never wants to look away.

Draco looks away.

He stuffs his books and parchment hastily back into his bag, and then departs in a flourish of black robes.

He makes sure to slam the dungeon door behind him, and doesn't stop to think that maybe he's going about this the wrong way. That maybe if he looks at Potter — if he looks and looks and looks, then he'll never want to look again, then he'll get the sight and the smell of Potter out of his head for good.

He doesn't stop to think about this until after he's sealed himself away inside one of the toilet cubicles, cast several muffled silencing charms, and jerked himself off roughly to the vivid and intoxicating mental image of fucking Harry Potter into the potion's bench.

"Where's Mr. Malfoy gotten to then, Harry?"

Harry looks up from frowning down at the Marauder's Map beneath the bench, and into the face of Slughorn, who is beaming down at the clear coloured brew of their Draught of Living Death.

Harry's about to tell Slughorn that Malfoy's unwell with a stomachache, hence him running off to the bathroom — according to the map, but Slughorn doesn't look as though he cares for an answer, because he's too busy congratulating Harry for what he doesn't know the Prince helped him accomplish.

Harry just smiles halfheartedly, not really listening to Slughorn's compliments, because he can't stop thinking about Malfoy's glazed eyes, and the fevered flush to his normally alabaster cheeks, thinking that the Slytherin must be very sick after all.

Harry doesn't let himself wonder whether his suspicion has turned into worry, all he knows is that he is more determined than ever to uncover whatever it is that Draco Malfoy is trying to hide.