Harry was ensconced in an armchair by the fire in Gryffindor common room with Ron and Hermione. He was warm and dozy and slightly tingly from butterbeer and the residual thrill of victory still fluttering in his veins after winning the Quidditch House Cup hours before. There had been a raucous party afterward, filled with much chanting and eating and laughing and slapping of backs, the likes of which he hadn't seen since the war's end almost a year ago.

Now, though, the common room was quiet. It was two a.m. and what people were left were either dozing or talking quietly, rehashing again and again the glee which everyone in Gryffindor had felt at the sight of Draco Malfoy's expression when Harry had caught the snitch right off the top of Malfoy's smug head. Harry himself smiled sleepily at the memory. Malfoy had been so focused on trying to incite Harry to retaliation at the time that he'd rendered himself oblivious to the game around him. Harry had just been on the point of succumbing the provocation – he'd been working on his self-control all year, avoiding Malfoy and all temptation for incitement he represented – when he'd spotted the snitch hovering over the blonde halo that was the crown of Malfoy's head. Hours later, the victory was just as sweet.

Harry looked over at the sleeping forms of his two best friends and felt completely at ease. Even after a year, the sensation was still foreign to him. He was safe in the knowledge that at the moment his most pressing concern was whether to fall asleep here or make his way up the stairs to his four-poster, deciding he wouldn't mind at all drifting to sleep right here. He was too content to move. The fire was warm, the chair large and plush, and he was perfectly comfortable and perfectly exhausted.

Harry's eyelids were just beginning to droop when he was jolted awake by a sudden pounding on the Fat Lady's portrait, accompanied by indistinct hollering.

Instinct sent adrenaline rushing through his blood, sure they were under attack, but reason calmed him down again. The war was well and truly over and had been for a year. There was no one to attack them anymore.

A first year boy Harry didn't know by name scurried to the portrait hole before Harry could rouse himself. In contrast to much of the Wizarding World, who assumed Harry the Savior would take care of any disturbance, no matter how small, Gryffindor had taken to bending over backwards to ensure Harry never had to lift a finger this year. Considering the problem taken care of, Harry promptly began sinking back toward sleep, in spite of the continuing commotion.

It was not to be.

"Um, Harry Potter?" said a young voice. When he didn't stir, his name was repeated, accompanied by a timid poke. "Harry?"

"Mrph," he said, blinking. "Wha's wrong?"

"Um," the first year who'd gone to the portrait hole said, "there's someone outside the portrait hole."

"I'd noticed," said Harry, too bleary to be polite to the clearly intimidated first year.

"They want to come in," reported the boy apologetically, as if they were responsible for the disturbance.

"Who are you?" Harry asked.

"I'm called Charlie," said Charlie.

"Okay, Charlie. Tell them to go away."

"They won't go," said Charlie nervously.

Harry sighed heavily. "Did they say what they want?"

"No," Charlie said, as if he hadn't thought to consider this.

"So go ask!"

Charlie went. Harry listened to the portrait hole open and the person outside respond in raised tones to Charlie's timid murmuring. A minute later he was back.

"So?" asked Harry, eyes closed. "What is it?"

"I think you should go talk to them," Charlie suggested.

"Whatever for? Just tell them to bugger off. You're a soft-spoken type; I reckon you just weren't adamant enough the first time. Don't be shy! Just raise your voice and put some gut in it. I'm sure they'll reconsider."

Charlie hesitated. "I don't think that'll work," he said.

Harry sighed again. "Why not?"

"Because they want you."

"They want me?"

"They want to talk to you. They said that's why they came. They said they'll only go if they get to talk to you first."

"Well why didn't you say so?" asked Harry, making to stand up. Midnight visitors were one thing. Midnight visitors causing commotion and looking for him were quite another, and he was perfectly flummoxed as to who it could be.

"Sorry," Charlie squeaked. "It's just you didn't say..." he began, but Harry walked away before he could finish, much more interested in his mysterious visitor than the answer to his rhetorical question.

The hollering became more distinct the closer Harry got to the portrait hole. He caught something that sounded like, "Potter, you prat!" in a voice that seemed familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. He pushed open the portrait hole.

"Malfoy?" he gaped. There, standing in the corridor before him, was Draco Malfoy. He was still wearing his Quidditch robes and was in a state of complete dishevel. His robes gaped open at the throat, exposing a 'V' of pale chest that seemed to glow softly in the low light of the corridor. His shoulder-length hair was messy and loose from its usual bindings, swishing silkily with every small movement of his head and falling into his eyes. Upon Harry's appearance at the portrait hole, Malfoy made an attempt to pull himself up straight that revealed how unsteady he was on his feet.

"Potter!" he exclaimed in reply, with an enthusiasm Harry had never before heard emerge from Malfoy's lips in partnership with his name.

"Malfoy?" Harry repeated. "What the hell? What are you doing here?"

"Coming to see you, of course. I never see you anymore," Malfoy whined loudly. "You never talk to me anymore," he pouted.

From the flush that began on Malfoy's exposed chest and rose up over his defined collar bone, neck, and cheeks – not to mention the boisterous and flamboyant manner in which he was comporting himself – Harry deduced that Malfoy had been drinking. No great surprise after the humiliating way in which he'd lost the cup for Slytherin, Harry allowed, but still. He spared no thought to wonder that Malfoy had gotten his hands on something stronger than butterbeer; it figured that Slytherin would have ways of sneaking spirits in past Filch.

"You mean fight," Harry corrected.

This seemed to confuse Malfoy. "Fight?" he echoed.

"You mean I never fight with you anymore."

"Too true," Malfoy agreed mournfully. "We never fight anymore."

"I can't see why you'd care," Harry said, nonplussed. Of all the already improbable reasons Malfoy might have for seeking Harry out in the middle of the night, to complain about lack of attention seemed the most improbable.

"Oh, but I do," Malfoy assured him earnestly. "I need you like... like a muggle needs lectroncity!"

"Electricity?" Harry asked, lips quirking.

"Quite so! Like a muggle needs electricity." Malfoy nodded complacently, evidently quite pleased with himself for this show of wit.

"Well, here I am," said Harry. "Feel better?"

"No," Malfoy lamented. "You're only here 'cause else I would have broken in." He hiccoughed.

Harry had to suppress a laugh at the idea that Malfoy could have successfully broken into Gryffindor tower in his current state. He'd wake up half the house or get himself caught by Filch before he came anywhere close.

"You don't really care," Malfoy concluded, sighing and gazing at the floor with a rueful expression.

Care? What in blazes was Malfoy on about?

"Malfoy..." said Harry. "I think you should go back to your House now. I'm not sure you should be out like this."

Harry was partly concerned that a professor might be roused by Malfoy's overloud and exuberant voice, and partly worried about how Malfoy would feel about this encounter when he sobered up.

"Oh! See! Now he wants me to leave!" Malfoy exclaimed to the empty corridor at large, throwing his arms into the air indignantly. "I'm not good enough for the company of our Saviour, I suppose. Is that the problem? Is that why you don't bother with me any more? I'm not worthy of your attention? Now you've defeated the Dark Lord you have bigger fish to fry than your school enemy?"

Malfoy giggled. "Fish to fry..." he repeated to himself.

"Well you're not perfect either!" he announced, returning his attention to Harry. "You know what they say about you, don't you? Well, don't you?"

"What do they say?" Harry asked obligingly, figuring the best way to placate Malfoy was to play along. He could try to make sense of this baffling event later. Like in the morning.

"That you like to ride broomsticks!"

"Excuse me, um, what?" asked Harry.

"You heard me! The great Potter likes broomsticks!"

"Well," said Harry, "er, I am on the Quidditch team, so..."

Had Malfoy gone barmy? Harry was quite sure he must've. This conversation was rapidly going from uncharacteristic to downright mad. When Malfoy burst into a fit of hysterical giggling the likes of which Harry had never before seen from the blonde who had previously never so much as smiled in Harry's company, Harry's hypothesis was confirmed. Malfoy was raving off his top.

"Not Quidditch, you prat!" he managed to wheeze between laughs. "That you're a bender! Queer! Gay as... a gay bloke! Like Dumbledore! Did you know that? I read it in the Prophet a couple years ago... Who'd a known, huh?" Malfoy hiccoughed again, cutting off his spasms of laughter.

Oh dear.

"Malfoy," said Harry with measured calm, "wait here. I'l be right back."

As Harry turned and headed back inside toward his dormitory, he heard Malfoy's loud lamentations of, "Oh, no you won't. You think I'm daft? I'm not. I know you'll go off and ignore me again and leave me all alone. Oh, you don't care a bit..."

Harry raced up the stairs to his bed and grabbed his cloak, then raced back to Malfoy as fast as he could, before Malfoy could wake the whole House – or, barring that, the whole common room, including Ron and Hermione who had blessedly remained asleep and therefore unable to ask questions.

Malfoy's face lit up when Harry emerged from the portrait hole, and at the unexpected flutter it elicited from Harry's pulse, Harry had to remind himself that this bizarre puppy-like affection was merely a product of the drink, and nothing more.

"You came back!" Malfoy rejoiced. "Oh, you do care, Potter! I always knew it. You couldn't really have turned me down, a Malfoy and everything..." he trailed off and hiccoughed again, smiling stupidly.

"Hush!" Harry admonished, grabbing Malfoy roughly and pressing a finger to his lips to quiet him. Strangely, once it was there, he didn't want to move it. Malfoy's lips were surprisingly soft and pliant for someone so sharp-tongued. And, God, when had they gotten so pink?

"What are you doing?" Malfoy asked in a small voice.

For a moment, Harry lost his train of thought at the feeling of Malfoy's lips moving to speak against the suddenly oversensitive skin of his finger.

"I'm walking you back to your House," he said when he'd forced himself to focus again. "You need to go to bed." And hopefully not remember any of this in the morning, he added to himself.

"Do not," Malfoy protested.

Harry ignored him and reluctantly removed his finger from Malfoy's lips. He pulled his cloak out from under his arm and shook it out, then made to swing it about them.

"Here," he directed Malfoy, "get under this."

"What's that?" Malfoy asked, eyes wide as he took in the shimmery worn silver surface of the cloak rippling out from Harry's hands. Malfoy's eyes were a rather uncommon color grey, Harry noticed. Smooth and gleaming, with darker flecks strewn throughout, like tarnished sliver.

"An invisibility cloak," he said. "You don't want to get caught, do you?"

Malfoy shook his head. Something about the gesture, coupled with the wide eyes, struck Harry as remarkably childish and innocent, and he wondered that the combination should tug at him so endearingly.

"Thought not. Now get under," Harry said.

The cloak was swung on and the two of them ensconced inside, pressed snugly side-to-side to fit. Harry could hear Malfoy's steady breaths and could feel the combined heat from their skin warming the enclosed space around them.

"Well. This is cozy," said Malfoy dryly, sounding more like his usual self than he had all night.

"Come on," Harry said.

They began walking toward the nearest staircase, slowly because they had to be careful not to disturb the cloak.

Though it would probably be safer on several levels to refrain from speaking, a small but nagging corner of Harry reserved for all things Draco Malfoy – anger, resentment, suspicion, and, lately, determination to avoid confrontation as well as admiration of his proud poise and lean limbs and moonlight blonde hair – pulsed with the unresolved promise of Malfoy's earlier drunken pronouncements. He knew it was mad to expect any coherent follow-up from Malfoy in this state, but he couldn't let it be.

"Malfoy," he whispered.

"Potter," whispered Malfoy.

They were both looking steadfastly forward, watching they were going – well, Harry was looking steadfastly forward; he rather doubted Malfoy was doing anything steadfastly just now – but Harry snuck a glance at Malfoy and found a soft drunken shadow of a smirk etched on his lips. Not for the first time did Harry revel in the spark that that smirk sent to his belly.

They were passing through the fourth floor corridor, near the library.

"Stop," Harry directed, reaching for Malfoy's arm and tugging him off to one side of the corridor so that he was tucked into the nook between a suit of armer and the wall. Harry positioned himself in front of Malfoy so that they were face to face with Harry blockading Malfoy into the corner.

This close, Harry noticed that his eyes were just short of level with Malfoy's. He stared into them. Despite being thoroughly tipsy, Malfoy's eyes had managed to stay clear and sharp rather than going soft and blurred as Harry's tended to when he was drunk. They were penetrating and a little unnatural and gorgeous and Harry's insides began to simmer under their gaze like a cauldron set to boil. When he spoke again, it was with regrettably less assurance than he'd maintained thus far.

"Who told you that about me?" he asked. "That I... that I fancy blokes."

There was a two or three second delay between when Malfoy opened his mouth and the emergence of words from it. "Don' remember," he slurred. "Lots'o'people say it."

"Really?" said Harry. "'Cause I haven't heard anyone say anything like that."

"'Course not," Malfoy scoffed sloppily. "They're not exactly going ta say it to yer face, are they?"

"Well it's news to me," Harry muttered, unsatisfied.

Malfoy's eyes widened again. "Does that mean you're not?" he asked.

That gave Harry cause for pause. The answer was no, it didn't.

"So did you come all the way to Gryffindor in the middle of the night just to taunt me about being bent?" he asked, sidestepping the question.

Harry thought he glimpsed a flicker of protest in Malfoy's expression, but then, tipsy as he was, he obligingly allowed the question to be sidestepped.

"No," he said, though he sounded unsure of himself. Or maybe Harry just wanted him to sound unsure?

"Then what?" prompted Harry. "It's not exactly convenient, is it? And I imagine you had to trick someone into telling where it was, too. Why go through the trouble?"

"Because you don't bother with me anymore," murmured Malfoy, back to the mournful tone he'd started out with but more subdued this time.

Harry shook his head, trying to re-submerge his heart, which was bobbing on the surface of an foolish and ill-fated hope.

"You've never cared before," he argued.

"You've never left me alone before," said Malfoy, eyes and lips exaggeratedly solemn and disturbingly beautiful.

"But that still doesn't explain why you care in the first place," said Harry, his voice becoming obscurely tight with increasing urgency. He wished Malfoy were sober so he could get a straight answer. Then again, if he were sober, they probably wouldn't be having this conversation.

Besides, added the part of his mind preoccupied with notions of its own wit, it's not exactly a straight answer you're looking for, is it?

"I've always cared," said Malfoy, maudlinly. "Ever since Madam Malkin's, I have always lived for your attention. It's you who never cared," he concluded, sounding in equal measures resigned and remorseful.

No. That can't be right, Harry thought. I've always paid equal attention...

But then Malfoy sighed and his warm breath washed across Harry's face, completely distracting him from finishing his thought. Here they were, tucked into a corner, alone, at midnight, with Malfoy saying such strange things that might just turn out to be the things Harry had been waiting all his life to hear, if only he could work out exactly what Malfoy was trying to say. The unconscious caress of Malfoy's air made Harry himself sigh, feeling a little unsteady on his feet and wondering who the drunk one really was here...

Then he actually took a whiff of Malfoy's breath and came back to his senses. Something was not quite right.

"Malfoy..." he said slowly. "Your breath doesn't smell like alcohol. So how are you..."

But he didn't get a chance to finish because Malfoy suddenly stiffened, instantly losing the drunken wooziness he'd been comporting himself with all night, and ducked swiftly under Harry's arm. Then he was off, running away down the corridor.

Harry spun. "Mal–" he began to shout, then remembered it was hours past curfew. Shouting was the best way to get them both caught. "Damn," he whispered, then set off after Malfoy.

Or he meant to, anyway, but the corridor was empty. "Double damn," he amended.

The library was a hundred or so feet up to the left. It was a long shot, but Harry hoped Malfoy might have ducked in there to hide once he realized he was out past curfew without cover. Harry slipped inside.

It was black as death when Harry entered, and he was blind while his eyes adjusted.

"Malfoy," he whispered hoarsely into the darkness. "Are you in here?"

He heard a rustle and thought he caught a glimpse of black robes disappearing behind some shelves. He followed, and immediately collided with something tall and hard and warm. Malfoy.

He grabbed at the other boy, securing fistfuls of his robes even as Malfoy squirmed and tried to twist out of Harry's grip and run again. But Harry's arms were strong from Quidditch and he held firm.

"Malfoy," he hissed. "What was that?"

"Potter," came Malfoy's voice, muffled. "Ger-off me!" He continued to squirm violently.

Harry was opening his mouth to berate him when suddenly a bright light flashed into the library, blinding him again.

"Who's there?" called out a raspy voice that was unmistakably Filch's.

Harry and Malfoy exchanged a wide-eyed look.

"Quick," Harry whispered urgently, "get back under the cloak."

Malfoy tensed as if thinking about refusing, but innate Slytherin self-preservation won out over his qualms about sharing such confined space with Harry, and he allowed himself to be pulled back under the cloak.

Just in time, too. Filch rounded the corner and shined his lantern on the very section of shelves against which Harry had pressed himself, pulling Malfoy along on top of him. But Harry wasn't paying attention to Filch. He knew they were safely hidden. He was paying attention to Malfoy instead. More specifically, he was paying attention to how good and tautly supple and, goddamn it, right Malfoy's body felt pressed against his, and how subtly luminescent Malfoy's skin was in the dramatic contrast of the lantern's golden light against the shadows, and how Malfoy was looking at him with inscrutable eyes, and how he was right there.

And then Harry did something without thinking, something rash and probably very foolish which he might very well regret later. He kissed Draco Malfoy. In front of Filch.

His hand went up to hook around the nape of Malfoy's neck, using it as a lever to pull himself onto his toes and press their lips together. Malfoy's lips were still, but not impassive or unwilling. There they stood, suspended like a scene captured on a paused screen, a moment slowed down and muted so that there was nothing but them, their patient lips, and the silky brush of the cloak against their skin as it moved gently on the draft.

Then the light from Filch's lantern disappeared and plunged them back into darkness and the suspended tension of the moment was released. Harry pulled away, tipping back onto his heels.

"Oh," said Malfoy.

In the same thought that Harry realized he was still clutching Malfoy's robes, he also realized that Malfoy was no longer struggling against his grip, and actually appeared to have forgotten about it.

"Sorry," Harry apologized. "I've always wanted to do that."

"Kiss me in front of Filch?" Malfoy asked, nonplussed.

"No," Harry bit his lip, town between amusement and mortification. "Do something like that in public, where I could be seen if only I weren't under the cloak."

"Like hiding in plain sight," said Malfoy, like it made sense and wasn't thoroughly and perversely pseudo-voyeuristic.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Exactly."

They stood still and silent and awkward, neither of them knowing what to do or say to step forward from the preceding moment.

Eventually Harry spoke up. "Why did you run?" he asked.

"Why did you follow?" Malfoy countered.

"Why did you pretend to be drunk?"

"Why did you kiss me?"

Harry paused, stumped. They were at an impasse, neither willing to answer the other's question, yet neither willing to leave without an answer.

"Now what?" he asked.

"You could answer my question," offered Malfoy.

"Or you could answer mine," Harry retorted. "I asked first."

"Are we twelve?"

"Are we going to get anywhere?"

"Not like this."

"Well one of us has to go first," Harry reasoned.

"Not me," attested Malfoy petulantly.

Harry huffed in exasperation. "I don't see why not!" he exclaimed. "You were the one who showed up at my House, in the middle of the night, pretending to be drunk, just to accuse me of being bent, carry on about me not caring, and then run off!"

Malfoy pursed his lips.

"Plus I asked first," Harry couldn't resist adding.

For a moment, he wondered if Malfoy would run off again, if his curiosity would not be enough to keep him there. The angry part of him hoped he would, wanted to see Malfoy flee, tail between his legs. But the expectant part of him – the majority – hoped he would stay.

Malfoy spoke. "I ran off because you figured out that I wasn't drunk," he said.

Meanwhile, Harry realized Malfoy's hand was holding his tracing small circles on his palm that tingled all too pleasantly, and Harry wondered when that had happened, and if Malfoy realized what he was doing.

"But why were you pretending to be drunk in the first place?" he pressed.

"Because I had things to say that I couldn't say sober," Malfoy explained.

"But you were sober," Harry pointed out.

"You didn't know that."

Harry didn't think this line of reasoning was entirely sound, but he was too distracted by how nice Malfoy's absently circling fingers felt to question it further.

"Okay, but what was it you had to say to me? I don't understand. None of what you've said has made any sense."

"No?" said Malfoy, one exquisitely arched eyebrow cocked. "Why did you kiss me?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject without answering Harry's question.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Malfoy stopped him.

"Uh uh, Potter – I answered two questions in a row. Now it's your turn."

Harry scowled. He liked things far better when Malfoy was doing the talking. "I told you, I'd always wanted to –" he tried.

Malfoy shook his head. "Nope. Not good enough. This is me we're talking about," he said. As if Harry could forget. "Don't think I'm going to believe you chose to try that with me just because I was here."

"Fine," said Harry. "I kissed you because you have really nice lips and they'd been saying really nice – if barmy and confusing – things. There. Happy?"

"Maybe," said Malfoy ambiguously. "Why'd you follow me?"

"To make you explain yourself," said Harry, thinking this ought to have been obvious. "You can't leave me with some pronouncement about how despite tormenting me from day one you've always cared and then expect me not to follow."

"Can't I?" asked Malfoy, wonderingly.

"No," said Harry. "You can't. Now tell me what you meant by coming after me tonight."

Malfoy's hand moved from Harry's palm to the small of his back, where it pressed gently, like Malfoy wanted to hold him in place. As if Harry was going anywhere.

"It's just as I said," said Malfoy in a low voice, the intimacy of it in the deserted library sending shivers down Harry's spine. "You haven't been paying me any mind all semester."

"And why do you care?" Harry asked breathlessly. "Because you need me like a muggle needs electricity?" he quipped, to add a touch of bravado he didn't really feel.

It was hard to be sure in the darkness, but Harry thought he saw Malfoy blush.

"Pretty much," Malfoy admitted softly.

"And..." despite Malfoy's hand on his waist and breath on his face, and despite the headiness that was Malfoy admitting he needed Harry, Harry's stomach fluttered with nerves as he asked, "the bit about me being bent?"

"Tactics," whispered Malfoy, his face close – so close – to Harry's, lips smirking and eyes glinting and looking overall alarmingly predatory. What was more alarming, though, was how not alarmed Harry was by it.

"Tactics?" Harry repeated.

"To get you to admit it."

Harry felt a flush rising from below his waist – which was not failing to notice the proximity of Malfoy's, er, waist.

"Oh," he said. "And?"

"And I think I've something of an answer."

"Do you?" Harry wondered.

Malfoy's lips curled upwards mischievously. Instead of answering, he used his hold on Harry's back to tug him closer. The other hand, he lifted to cup the back of Harry's head and tilt his face upwards. Harry's breath caught – and Malfoy's head bent – and then his lips were on Harry's, his skin hot where it brushed against Harry's.

It was shy, but not so shy as before. Malfoy tasted like the air before rain – sweet, and a little acidic. Harry leaned backwards so that they fell against the books, tugging Malfoy with him. Malfoy braced his free hand against the shelves and sighed against Harry's lips and Harry shivered and –

"Draco..." he murmured into Malfoy's mouth.

Draco stilled, his lips moving against Harry's as he whispered, "What?"

"Draco," Harry repeated, "kiss me again."

He tugged Draco's mouth back to his, burying his fingers into the ethereal strands of Draco's hair and opening his mouth so that Draco's tongue could slip inside and so tentatively brush against his. And instead of soothing the want that was welling up so poignantly inside Harry, it only made him moan softly and arch into Draco, pressing closer and closer for more.

"Harry," breathed Draco, breaking away and pressing kisses to Harry's ear that caused Harry's fingers to tighten in Draco's hair. If he had known the sound of his name would sound so good on Draco Malfoy's tongue, he would have demanded it long ago.

"Is this what you came for?" he asked softly.

"No," said Draco, in between kisses. "I wasn't sure what I came for. But this is what I wanted."

"How long?"

"Since I developed hormones. Maybe longer."

"Bloody hell," whispered Harry into Draco's ear, whether at Draco's revelation or the stirring sensation deep inside his belly that Draco's tongue was eliciting on his neck, he wasn't sure.

He grasped Draco's face and turned it back so he could reseal their lips together, and for the next interminable space of time, all Harry was aware of was Draco's soft and expert lips, the wet brilliance of their mingling tongues, and the syncopated rhythm of their gasps and groping hands and little moans that vibrated between their mouths. Then he broke away.

"You know," he said, "I was only ignoring you because I was so mortified that you'd had the gall to become attractive over the summer."

Draco pulled back and linked at him. "Truly?" he asked, the note of hopeful joy in his voice so suddenly and essentially dear to Harry that he instinctively reached his fingers up to caress Draco's smooth, pale cheek. He glided his thumb down Draco's cheekbone to his mouth, tracing the full curve of Draco's lower lip.

"Truly," he vowed. "I think Voldemort must've been bad for your complexion or something," he teased.

"Oh, shut up, Potter," said Draco, but there was no malice in it. And as it was followed by Draco exploring the hollow of Harry's collarbone with his lips, leaving Harry shivery in the wake of the damp trail of kisses he left there, Harry decided to forgive him. Snogging draco Malfoy was vastly preferable to fighting him, anyway.

"You know," said Draco conversationally a few minutes later, as Harry worked his way across the skin of Draco's face, kissing each virgin patch as he encountered it, "I don't feel entirely sober after all. I may need you to escort me all the way back to Slytherin. And with the way things are looking for the House Cup, I'll probably be not sober again next weekend, too."

"So I suppose you'll be needing my services again then?" Harry asked, smiling against Draco's skin.

"Yes," said Draco, gasping as Harry licked the curve of his ear.

"I wouldn't let the honor go to anyone else," he said, picturing all the dark alcoves between here and Slytherin. "In fact I think it would be rather dangerous if it did."

"Why's that?" Draco asked, his breath hitching as Harry's hands slipping under the hem of his Quidditch top.

"Because I might run out of lectroncity."

Author's note:

My first one-shot : ) Maybe I ought to have been working on the next chapter of my other fic, Two Sides of the Same Coin, but this idea snuck into my imagination and I had to have it out : ) I hope you enjoyed it!

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