Author's Note: For once in my life, I have very little to say, other than I hope you enjoy this story. I expect it will be approximately five chapters long, but we'll see, shall we? :) Of course, I don't own and don't pretend to own anything related to Harry Potter (with the exception of the poster that is currently affixed to the ceiling above my bed) and am doing this purely for my own (and hopefully your) entertainment, making no money from it. Without any further ado...

How Draco Malfoy Learned to Fall in Love

Chapter One: Moonlight

Sometimes, though he'd never admit it to anyone even under pain of death, Draco Malfoy liked the feeling frustration brought him.

He liked the feeling of not remembering the incantation to turn a tortoise into a pillow. He liked it when he caught a glimpse of the Snitch during Quidditch practice, only to have it disappear from right under him, not to resurface again for another hour – if at all. He liked it when Granger had checked out all the books that he needed for a Potions assignment before he could get to them. He even liked it when Crabbe and Goyle proved too imbecilic to grasp even the simplest of concepts explained in the most basic of terms. Frustration made him angry. Anger made him passionate. And passion brought him success.

For Draco Malfoy, life had always been this way. Certainly at home, when he was ruled by his father, success was imperative. Being successful, being the best was the only way he could prove to his father that he was good enough and worthy of love, praise, affection.

But there was one kind of frustration that Draco Malfoy liked even more than the others, although this one had nothing to do with success, nor with his father's approval. It was the kind of frustration that only Draco knew he was experiencing, and the kind that only he could resolve. The kind of frustration that would lead to mortification if anyone ever found out he actually enjoyed. Draco Malfoy had a secret.

His secret was this: early in the mornings, before the sunlight started to creep into the Greenhouses and seep through the windowpanes of the Great Hall, before even the earliest of risers moved in their beds, before the house-elves themselves had started to prepare breakfast, Draco Malfoy was wide awake, and very alert. He would silently swing his feet to the floor on the side of his bed, into his slippers, and sneak out of the dormitory. He'd stealthily make his way to the bathroom, where things would start to get interesting. In the privacy of the bathroom he'd torture himself to the edge of pleasurable oblivion with his hands, cramming one fist in his mouth to keep his gasps and grunts silent. His mind would race, imagining that it wasn't his own hand driving him ever-closer to bliss. Someone else's mouth. Really, he was a teenaged boy…what else was to be expected of him? But where Draco differed from other teenaged boys was in where he stopped. While others would keep going in a wild frenzy until their bodies exploded with satisfaction, Draco would stop just on the edge, deliciously, painfully close to ecstasy, knowing that one more stroke would finish him off. Then he'd spend the rest of the day in a state of agitation that would only be relieved late that night. Yes, Draco loved being frustrated.

This particular January morning would be no different. Today, he would fantasise about his lover's lips and tongue and hands. He had never really paid much attention to the person's face or any defining features; he only knew that his lover was not a girl. He had known this for years and had come to terms with it. What had troubled him about the last few weeks was the identity of his lover. Because no longer were the hands disembodied and the lips anonymous. No longer was the hair he ruffled of an unidentifiable colour.

He had started to fantasise about Harry Potter, the boy with the lightning scar, and for the son of Voldemort's right-hand man, almost nothing could be worse. It was about as forbidden an attraction as one could have. And if Draco was honest with himself, he had to admit that having an identity to insert into his fantasy made it more intense. Certainly it was much more difficult to stop at that perfect spot in his frenzied wanking, the spot where he was so close to orgasm the thought of stopping seemed outrageous. Yet he always managed to hold off. Then he would spend the rest of the day in a state of arousal and frustration, barely able to concentrate on anything except the aching in his loins. He loved the agitation. And today he would frustrate himself to no end.

Per his usual routine, Draco stealthily made his way to the Slytherin bathroom, his slippered feet making no noise on the smooth slate floor. As he slid into the tiled room, he could feel his body responding in anticipation of what was about to come. Eagerly, he rid himself of his pyjama bottoms, casting them aside, and flung his top off to join the bottoms in a location that was not of immediate importance to Draco. Good. Now he was completely naked; that's how he liked it best. He liked the feel of the cold tile on his back as he leaned up against the wall and seized his half-hard member. There were some days when he would work himself up a little before, but today was not one of them. Today, Draco was hot and horny and eager. Forgoing any charade of foreplay with his own body, he grasped his manhood and started to move. Up, down, up, down, up, down. The rhythm of delight. Draco imagined clutching Potter's delicious arse as he pounded him against the wall. He pictured the look of elation on Potter's face as he brought him to orgasm. He pretended it was Potter's muscles clenching around his cock instead of his own hand. Faster, faster, up, down. He was so close, he could feel it. Just when he knew that it would take only one more stroke to finish him off, he released his throbbing member and scrambled to stabilise himself, clutching at the wall behind him.

Perfect, he thought. Mission accomplished. Free to spend the rest of the day in a state of uncomfortable frustration, he retrieved his pyjamas and redressed himself. Making his way silently back to his bedroom so he could pretend that he'd been there all along when the others woke, Draco anticipated that evening, when he'd be able to finish what he started, powerfully, forcefully, and vigourously, and he licked his lips in eagerness.

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Elsewhere in the castle, Harry woke up. He had woken up early almost every day since returning to Hogwarts after the Christmas holiday nearly a month ago. It wasn't intentional, but he really didn't mind. He liked being awake when nobody else was. He liked being aware. Sleep was vulnerability. Sleep was ignorance. To be asleep was to be weak, especially in the dark days upon them.

This morning, the sky was still dark. Harry opened his eyes to find a beam of moonlight streaming through his window, perforated by the shadows of falling flakes of snow. He took a moment to marvel at what a rare beauty laid before his eyes. Never in Scotland did snow and moon coincide; always the moon was shrouded by dreary gray clouds when the soft white flecks drifted down to the castle. And when the clouds dissipated to reveal the moon, the sky was usually clear and there was not a snowflake in sight.

Harry took in this small pleasure, shifting onto his side and donning his glasses so he could stare out at the masterpiece before him. As he moved, he felt the familiar hardness between his legs that had accompanied his awakening nearly every morning since he was thirteen years old. It could wait, he thought. For now he just wanted to gaze at the snow falling in the silver moonlight.

He'd always loved the moon. It was faithful and familiar, always going in the same pattern, waxing and waning like clockwork, disappearing for one or two nights but always coming back like it had done so many times before. On the nights back at Number Four, Privet Drive, when the Dursleys would lock him out for the day and 'forget' to let him back in at night, he would lie in Aunt Petunia's petunias and stare up at the moon, pretending that his parents could see it too. But that was something he'd never admit, not even to Ron or Hermione. That was something that was deeper, more personal even than what he saw in the Mirror of Erised in his first year. Harry doubted that the Cruciatas Curse could wrench that truth from his lips.

But he was torn from his wonderment and pondering by the situation between his legs, which was getting harder to ignore. Sighing, he rolled onto his back and removed his glasses. He enjoyed having an orgasm as much as the next bloke, but truthfully he found masturbating to be a little bit of an inconvenience. Still, stopping the habit seemed to be impossible, if the erection he was currently sporting was any indication. His body apparently needed the release, even if his mind didn't.

It wasn't so much the physical act of masturbation that Harry minded, but rather it was the mental aspect. His fantasies had become increasingly dissatisfying. The thought of making love to a woman, making her writhe underneath him when the pleasure became unbearable, coming inside her…it merely wasn't good enough. The alternative, however, was unacceptable. Life with Uncle Vernon had taught Harry that being a pouf – as Uncle Vernon called it – would be rewarded with some punishment tantamount to the death sentence in the Dursley household. So he had never allowed himself to wank to images involving his own gender, even since escaping to Hogwarts. It had not been easy, though. More than once in the heat of the moment had his mind wandered into illicit territory, and he'd had to stop himself, painfully close to orgasm, until he could regain control and finish with only Approved Flesh in his mind's eye. This morning, once again, he would have to push away any taboo thoughts and bring himself to a most frustrating – but acceptable – orgasm. He shut the curtains around his bed and cast a quick Silencing Charm so he wouldn't betray himself to the others. It would at least bring him relief, if it could not bring him ecstasy, thought Harry, and slid a hand under the waistband of his boxers.

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After returning to the dormitory from his early-morning excursion, Draco lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until he heard Goyle moving in the bed to his right. He rolled his eyes when he realised exactly why Goyle was stirring, and he wondered briefly why he was friends with an oaf who was such an imbecile he couldn't remember to Silence his bed when he wanked in the dorm. Coughing pointedly to remind Goyle that he was not alone, Draco got out of bed when he heard the clock in the common room chime seven. One thing Draco liked about winter was how dark it was when he woke up. It made him feel as though he'd gotten a head start on the day by beating the sun to productivity.

Draco fished out his robe from inside his trunk and dressed himself, glad that his roommates – with the exception of Goyle, who was preoccupied in his own right – were still asleep so they could not notice his current state. Until he had started experimenting with agitation, Draco had never fully appreciated the looseness of the Hogwarts robes. They easily hid his arousal, which came and went at the drop of a hat throughout days like today. When he was standing, the robes flowed enough so that it was a nonissue, and when seated, he only had to drape his robes about him strategically and nobody would be the wiser. It was perfect, really.

Draco made his way into the Great Hall like a housecat, moving silently, confidently, alertly, and predatorily.

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It is the very act of actively trying not to think about something that pushes that something to the forefront of one's mind. Invariably, if someone says, 'Don't think of Hippogriffs,' then the first thing that pops into one's head is an image of a Hippogriff. Saying 'Whatever you do, don't smile,' will result in an uncontrollable grin, possibly accompanied with a giggle. And apparently, actively not thinking about men when you wanked only worked for so long before you accidentally let one image slip into your fantasy. And furthermore, it was now apparent to Harry that that one image could be enough to send you over the edge.

'Bugger. Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger. Shit,' Harry muttered, eyes wide in disbelief. 'What are you, twelve?' Though nobody had witnessed what had just happened, Harry was embarrassed beyond measure. He had come in three minutes. He wasn't sure what was worse: the fact that he'd finished in less time than most blokes could even establish a good rhythm, or the fact that he'd finished because one stupid idea penetrated the wall he had established long ago to ward off such thoughts. He realised it was probably both.

All it had taken was imagining firm, toned flesh against his own instead of the supple softness he knew he was supposed to feel. Imagining broad shoulders and big hands, not the dainty gentleness that females could offer him. But the worst picture was the one of Harry's cock being held in hands that were not his own; another man touching the place where only Harry himself had ever touched before.

And to make matters just that much worse, it was one of the best orgasms – if not the best orgasm – he'd ever had. Three minutes with a woman, ten seconds with a man. And it was incredible.

Harry tried as hard as he could to push the thoughts away but they kept resurfacing. He could not deny what had just happened, and worse, he almost didn't want to. Rolling over onto his side and hugging his knees to his chest, he felt shameful tears escape his eyes and did his best to keep his sobs to himself.

Author's Note: Please be so kind as to review if you liked it, or even if you didn't like it very much. Especially if you didn't like it very much. Tell me how it could be better! :)