HD 'Scarlet…and Silver?'

"Look, er, Potter," Draco began, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Then he stopped, stymied. So did Potter, who had his mouth on Draco's neck. His starched high collar had been unbuttoned and his tie loosened, school robes shoved aside so that they were sliding off one shoulder uncomfortably and Potter, the engineer of Draco's unkempt appearance, was nibbling at him.

Another semi-planned rendezvous in the shadow of the Hump-Backed Witch before dinner; another opportunity for some snogging and maybe a mutual wank, if they were fast enough and lucky. It was par for Draco's new life, post Myrtle's lav. He didn't mind it, not so much.

"D'you—I mean—what if we were to—ah."

Potter smiled, that secretive twitch of the lips, which should have sat oddly on his features; Draco knew this because the rapidly heating and quite damp skin of his abused throat registered the movement of Potter's mouth. He sniffed and elevated his chin sharply; he didn't appreciate the unsolicited amusement, especially when this business was already sufficiently uncomfortable to broach.

"Never mind," he said, shortly. "Carry on then, prick. By all means, let's not interfere with what you're doing merely to discuss my wishes."

"Your wishes, Malfoy?"

Oh, definitely there was laughter, even if it was barely submerged. Draco frowned harshly at it, and would've transferred that frown directly to Potter except that he couldn't see the git's face at the moment. Stupid berk hadn't lifted his mouth from its leech-like lock on Draco's neck, and his question had tickled at bit when he asked it merely from proximity, which in turn only irrationally increased Draco's sense of ill-usage.

"And what might they be, pray tell?" Potter's lips had lifted only far enough for them to move to Draco's one ear. There they hovered. "Your wishes? I'm curious." Harry sounded far more teasing than actually curious, truth be told.

Draco turned his head sharply to the left, examining the carved stone of the Witch's arm with great interest. The Witch was constructed of a grey marble—no, surely it was basalt, similar to the Hanging Stones he'd seen at Merrivale during a family outing there. Or, perhaps a metamorphous rock of some sort; granite?

"No, really—forget it," he muttered, grateful not to have completed the thought before last. Or at least not have put his thought into words. "S'not important." And it wasn't, nor even practical. It was just that he didn't quite know what else he was supposed to do, given the circumstances.

Which had changed greatly in a matter of days, at least for Draco. Utterly reversed, in fact, to a mirror image of what they'd been before. One day he was metaphorically drowning in Dark Lord-inspired guilt and terror and literally choking on his own blood from where the git's spell had sliced him open, the remains of his weak tears salting his wounds—indeed, had bloody almost died from that spell; nearly the very next he was snogging his greatest enemy—and ruthless attacker—in the corridors, as if he'd been born solely for the purpose of doing so, and being assured by the school's ancient, doddery and entirely too knowing Headmaster that he didn't have to die—that no one had to die. Not his Mum, nor absent his father, nor even Potter.

That it didn't matter if his arm was Marked, or that his own father was a criminal and incarcerated in Azkaban. That it was purely incidental he'd tried to murder Dumbledore several times and had very nearly succeeding in harming unto death any number of other, innocent people, including Potter's best mate.

That six years of hatred, jealousy, rivalry and pranking of greater or lesser degree amounted to naught but a tiny hill of candied Every-Flavour beans. No, he was absolved because he hadn't meant it, really. He hadn't clearly understood the consequences and ramifications and since he was, thankfully, still a student at Hogwarts, though only a few short weeks away from ceasing to be a minor, he could go scot-free. And it was this very boy—young man--the bloody idiot wanker git with his laughing mouth currently sliding through Draco's hair, tumbling it every which way from where Draco'd arranged it, perfectly; this prat molesting hm—who'd been the one to step in and halt all that needless, self-inflicted torture right in its tracks. Like flagging down the Express, on a sodding whim.

Potter—Draco's bane; Draco's punishment and the direct and indirect cause of every punishment he'd ever been given. Potter, who had the most incredibly wiry, flexible body under those shameful clothes and nondescript robes; whose eyes were literally unmatchable; whose hard-soft mouth and agile, nervous hands delivered pleasure of a kind Draco had not known existed.

Oh, Merlin—Potter!

"Come on—spit it out, Malfoy," Potter urged. His lips were on Draco's temple at present, and he'd tugged insistently at Draco's neck and shoulders to get him to bow his unwilling head down those crucial inches so that they could rest there comfortably. Draco fought the increasing need to simply bury his crinkled forehead against Potter's collarbone and let him have his way. Potter always did in any case; the berk was an unstoppable force of nature.

"Nnn," Draco hedged, blushing a bit at his own lack of forethought. This was stupid; he was stupid, thinking it could work. "No…"

He'd thought better of it, now that it was time and he'd Potter's full attention. It wouldn't play out well—look at them, sneaking about like common garden thieves already. They were no longer mere schoolboys, free to flirt a bit and snog in dark corners and go out on such useless, frippery things as 'dates'. Why make their difficult and uncertain lives yet more complicated? Just because all the young people of Draco's acquaintance followed a proper course of action when pursuing their objet d'amours didn't mean he was free to do so with Potter.

"No," Draco stated, rather more firmly. He—they—couldn't risk it.

It was a bad idea—a childish fancy--and he should be more than content with what he already had.

"Tell me," Potter ordered, insistent now, and his eyes were on level with Draco's reluctant ones, and Draco's lashes could only shield him so well before Harry's stare pierced through. "Tell me, please. Draco. What did you want to say?"

"D'youwanttogotoHogsmeadewithmetomorrow?"

All in one breath, it burst out, and Draco, horrified, couldn't seem to do a single thing to prevent it. He'd been possessed, he thought wildly, and blinked rapidly at his own audacity; gasping, rather, at his own total lack of Slytherin finesse—and then he waited, with that same sharp inhalation bated.

Silence was all he got in response. Dreary, awful silence. One dull thud of his heart; two; three—would this moment never end?—and his heart beats were getting faster, as this rather indescribably awful sensation swept through Draco's body (one part shame, one part terror, two parts or more, even, of excruciating embarrassment). What would Potter say to that? What could he?

Potter—hurtful bastard that he was, Potter actually grinned boyishly as he pulled back, his lips finally departing Draco's cheek, and he was still doing it when he opened his mouth to destroy Draco's carefully cultivated mask of indifference, summoned from nowhere only by Draco's own enormous willpower.

Of course Potter would say 'no'; Draco knew that. They were hiding behind the Witch for a reason and it wasn't just because she offered one of the better locations for illicit mutual hand jobs.

"You mean, for this weekend?" Potter, it seemed, was also strangely breathless, or at least he sounded so to Draco. "Tomorrow, right? Gods! Is it a Hogsmeade weekend already? I've lost track, really—been so preoccupied lately."

"It is." Draco cut him off firmly, and put every effort into keeping his features rigidly under control. "And yes, I meant tomorrow, Potter. Naturally. When else would I mean, git?"

It may have been a sodding silly thing to do, asking Potter to walk out with him under the noses of his disapproving Housemates and those of Potter's—the entire school's, really—but he'd gone and done it and now there was nothing left but to stand by what he'd done. Draco had not been raised to go back on his word. Ever.

Draco's nostrils flared with excitement as he took in Potter's expression—was that pleasure? Interest? A willingness to say 'Yes!' despite who he was and who Potter was and all that had gone on before? Draco's pulse hastened faster (and it was already quite fast, thanks very much, firstly due to Potter's lips, and secondly due to his own brainless blurting out of his wishes. Silly, stupid wishes, Draco thought wildly; always tipping him into hot water!)

"Yes!"

Oh, Merlin, yes! Draco exulted, and then caught himself mid-inner chortle, for Potter was a wanted man, as was he—oh, Salazar, as was he—and would Headmaster Dumbledore even allow such a thing?

"That sounds brilliant, Draco!" Potter's gaze was glowing; Draco caught tiny flecks of gold swimming in it, visible now that they seemed lit from within. And the little berk hadn't stopped his pointless grinning once—in fact, it was far worse now than before.

"That's tomorrow, right?"

Oh, gods, Harry—Potter—was excited as a little kid over Draco's stupid excuse to scrape up a bit of time to spend together! Draco wondered how that could be, utterly bemused, his own barely stifled enthusiasm rising, and then he hoped like Hell their little excursion would be allowed to happen. He did so want to have a bit more time in Potter's company, and it was only a day out to Hogsmeade, nothing major.

Such a very mundane thing, a day spent wandering the local town, sampling its wares and offerings. (Salazar, the Third Years were the ones who got worked up over a Hogsmeade weekend, not the far more sophisticated Sixth Form, who sneered—at least in Slytherin—over such childish pleasures.) But it might not be possible or even advisable, given Potter's circumstances, though surely, if they were in company—Mudblood and Weaselbee would there, he was certain, and likely to ruin it just with their presence—surely it wasn't too much to ask?

"Yes, tomorrow. How many times must I repeat that, Potter?" Draco sniped. "Are you having trouble with the concept of time passing? See, today is Friday, all day, and thus tomorrow is Saturday, according to the Gregorian calendar, established as of—

"Shut it, Malfoy," Harry said automatically, and looked as though he were telling over his schedule mentally. "Wait, no—let me think for a half a sec. I've detention yet."

They were schoolboys, still—barely. Potter, Draco decided, could skive off whatever it was that was getting in the way, right? Pish-tosh to detention; they'd both make it later if they had to. Really, they were still just kids yet and that was what kids did, wasn't it? Childish things? Irresponsible things?

He'd go to the Headmaster himself, Draco vowed, pulling Potter closer, wrapping his arms around the quicksilver energy as if to contain it; lay his case before the old Wizard and promise to serve Potter's detention himself, even go so far as sign an agreement allowing them to be flanked about by all of Gryffindor House if need be and that piddling D.A. of Potter's besides should Dumbledore allow it—anything to keep that expression stuck on Potter's dumb scrunched-up-with-smiles face. It was an utterly brilliant look on him; Draco had never seen the like.

"Erm, I think I can," Potter said, finally. "Yes."

Perhaps this was what Potter looked like when he was happy? Draco wondered. If so, he liked it. Made him want to break out into a bit of a goofy grin himself.

Silly git, Draco thought fondly, to be so worked up over a mere walk to the local watering hole.

"Then...you'll go?" he asked aloud, his voice quite deliberately bland. He did want to make sure Potter understood what he was asking—exactly what he was asking. "With me?"

Harry peered at him, eyes suddenly narrowed in quick suspicion. Clearly, he'd been struck with the sudden thought Draco was taking the piss on him. "Did you not pick up on the 'yes', Malfoy? I thought I just said so. Yes, I'll go. It sounds a good break from swotting, actually, and I've not been to Hogsmeade in ages—not to faff about, at any rate. If you, er—if you mean it."

"Of course I mean it!" Draco was quite indignant now that the first hurdle was cleared. He'd deal with his own Head and Dumbledore privately; no need to worry Potter with details.

"Good," Potter still seemed a bit narrow-eyed and untrusting, but Draco ignored it. "It's settled then," Potter went on. "When should we meet?"

"Directly after breakfast," Draco informed him. "I want to get an early start, before all the Thirdies clutter up the nicer shops. I've things I need—parchment, ink, a book—and we should stop in at Zonko's and Honeydukes—"

"Malfoy," Potter interrupted him.

"Have an early lunch, too, as the service is always better before two," Draco nattered on, planning their itinerary aloud.

"Draco!" Potter said, quite insistently.

"What?" Draco was irritated with Potter's rudeness; he was speaking, wasn't he? Not the thing, just trampling over someone's thought process like a bloody hippogriff in an apothecary!

"We're wasting valuable time, you know. Right now. Class will start soon, so, er—why don't you put that babbling mouth of yours to a better use, eh?"

"What?" Draco was momentarily taken aback...until he saw the sparkle in Potter's eyes and his exceptionally sharp ears caught the faint murmur of a student body gathering up its mass to move towards dinner.

"Oh! Yes, Potter—sorry," he grinned. He tightened his loose hold on Potter's hips and buttocks—and such firm ones they were, and ones he'd plans for—

"Come a little closer, why don't you?" Draco leered, feeling quite rakish.

Potter smirked at him. "That's better, Malfoy. Now you're with the programme."

"Shut up, wanker, or I'll shut you up," Draco felt constrained to threaten the git, poking at his ribs ever so gently.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Malfoy—do!"

The third Saturday in May was bright, calm and clear, the only haze lying purple and peaceful on the mountains hovering in the distance. Up close, everything—every leaf, every late-blooming Highlands blossom—was sharply in focus and newly minted. It was mild, and Draco and Harry hadn't bothered to wear their robes, though Draco had worn one of his beloved jerseys, being a bit thin-skinned and not wanting to bother with warming charms should he feel chilled.

Potter, he was certain, never felt chilled. The git had hot blood under that mostly calm and increasingly self-assured exterior. He moved more like a man than a boy, these days, and Draco appreciated that with all his heart—and his groin. A pleasant dull ached had settled there, shortly after his successful meeting with Dumbledore and not even his Head's distant sneers could dissipate it.

Nothing could, it seemed, not even Gryffindors. There were hordes of them, just as he'd feared, and they were certainly curious and not at all timid about quizzing Potter as to why he'd chosen Draco Malfoy, of all people, to accompany him to Hogsmeade. There were a few that were furious, as well: the gingers, male and female, and the Granger, who glared at him beady-eyed. But a quiet word from Potter and the chaperone's continual presence seemed to keep any outright aggression under control and Draco wasn't molested—too much—as he strolled along with Potter. It was hardly ideal, and not what he'd really wanted, but still…they had the day before them, and no reason to hide their 'togetherness'.

"Where first, Malfoy? I want to go to Honeyduke's," Potter announced, not waiting politely for Draco to express his desires.

"Humph! Of course you do, you sugar addict," he responded. "Very well, but Tomes & Scholls first. I've a book I've ordered in to retrieve."

"Yes, all right," Harry agreed carelessly, his face tipped up to catch the sun. It had been raining—a cold, dreary end of April, suitable for Draco's previous feelings of imminent doom—and it was a pleasure to see the sun at all, and to experience spring in the Highlands. "Then Honeyduke's straight after, and then Zonko's. I've ordered in a few things myself," he smiled—secretively again, Draco noticed, and wondered what, if anything, Potter might have up his sleeve.

"But you'll still stay us, right, Harry?" The Weasel suddenly jostled Draco—knocking him hard sideways, so that he stumbled; rough enough to perhaps bruise his shoulder through the thin, fine-gauge wool he wore. Draco scowled in return but refrained from immediate hexing at Harry's matching scowl.

"Quit it, Ron," Harry ordered. "I told you last night—and we're not getting into this now. I've a right to a little enjoyment in my life—"

"Pah!" Weasley sputtered, his hands clenching into fists. "How you can find it in you to think any part of his company's enjoyable, Harry, I'll never—"

"I said, shut up, Ron," Harry's reply was quiet but the stare he sliced the balmy air with was no less of a threat. "We'll discuss it again later, if you must, 'cause I certainly don't, but not now. Now is for Hogsmeade and I'll be damned if I let you ruin my day out for me with stupid squabbling, Ron. Malfoy is here, with me, and here he will be—"

Draco just restrained himself from sticking his tongue out at Weaselbee and saying 'So there!'

"Harry," Granger jumped into the show, evidently unable to keep quiet, but she at least didn't haul off and slap Draco silly. "You know it's only that we care for you, and we're—well, to be honest, Harry, Malfoy here is certainly the very last person we'd expect to see you with."

"Any why not, Granger?" Draco demanded. "He's a right to see anyone he chooses, as do I—"

"You haven't any rights—or shouldn't, you damned Death Eater!" Weasley snarled, his hand back on his wand again, but Harry was right there, stuffing him back in his hole.

"Ron," he repeated, insistently. "If you can't be civil, then you need to take yourself off. I won't put up with it."

"Why should I be the one? Why can't he go? Bloodsucking scum!"

"Ron!" Granger spoke up again, her tone a whip-crack, and with its sound Weasley reluctantly subsided, grumbling under his breath. "Look, Harry's just promised we'll talk it over later, alright? Let it go for now—he's right. Now's the time for Hogsmeade."

"Fine!"

Weaslebee clearly wasn't satisfied to let it go and the look he sent Draco's way caused the hairs on the back of his neck rise. There'd be some sort of retribution coming and Draco would do well to watch his back in the near future—there'd be hexes sent first opportunity when they returned tomight, no doubt.

"But we will be discussing it later, Harry; don't think for a moment we won't!" the angry boy added furiously and only stopped there because Granger pinched him quite hard on the forearm, Draco noticed, wincing in unwilling sympathy. By Merlin, the Walking Brain was a fierce one!

"Fine, fine—whatever, Ron," Harry waved him off. "Later." He shifted a bit, side to side in his trainers, and focused his gaze carefully off into the distance. "Look, er. Why don't you and Hermione go on ahead and we'll catch up at Madame Rosmerta's or something? Have a little breather, yeah?" He sent a hopeful grimace towards Granger, who was obviously the most sensible of the three of them, to Draco's mind, and she returned it with a small off-center smile of her own.

"Sure, Harry," she replied, after a longish pause. "Come on, Ron." She put a hand on her boyfriend's arm, urging him along a bit faster.

"Wait! What?" Ron protested, but Granger was whispering furiously in his ear as the two of them pulled ahead, and in a minute, she glanced back at Harry and Draco, her smile a shade less tense, though still tentative. "An hour or so, right, Harry? Then we'll meet up?"

"Yeah, well. More like two, I think," Harry nodded, and Draco, being assiduously polite, silently inclined his head as well. "See you at lunch, Hermione. Get us a table and er, have a good time in the meanwhile."

Granger's bright gaze slid over to Draco's face before she turned away for the final time and for a second he felt much as he had when Aunt Bellatrix was teaching him Occulomancy: like a beetle pinned to wall by tiny poisonous darts; and it was quite clear to him then that she trusted him not at all and it was only Harry's specific request that kept her from hexing him quite as hard as Weasley git so obviously wished to.

"Right," Harry nodded. "Uh—see you, Hermione. Ron," he repeated and finally the two of them moved on ahead, to Draco's great—and unspoken—relief.

"Sorry about that," Potter said casually, after a minute or two of companionable walking had passed, side-by-side, knuckles brushing now and then. They were nearly to the village; Draco could see the church spire ahead and the familiar flags flapping desultorily in the morning breeze. It carried an underlying chill—no doubt due to the snow lying still on the nearby mountains—but it was still pleasant.

"No problem," he replied, equably. It wasn't, really. He'd expected worse, but evidently Potter had anticipated a fracas-in-the-making and had averted the coming and inevitable run-in between the other two-thirds of the Trio and Draco for the nonce. "Shall we get a move on, then? Time wastes, Potter."

They browsed through the bookstore, Draco retrieving and paying for his package, and then went off to Zonko's, where Potter did the same, looking quite pleased with himself. With the parcels shrunken and time on their hands, they wandered about Honeyduke's for a good half-hour, purchasing a great deal of chocolate in various forms and, for Draco, several bags of the hard boiled green-apple sweets he liked to suck on when he was writing essays.

He'd much schoolwork to catch up on before mid-June rolled around. Far too much valuable study time had been lost to mending the Cabinet and his poor attempts on the Headmaster's life, and his grades reflected that, sadly. But Potter had mentioned they'd swot DADA together, and Charms, and Draco looked forward to it. He looked forward to nearly any excuse that intimated additional hours spent in Potter's company.

"Malfoy," Potter turned to him when they were at last finishing their purchasing, and nodded toward a crooked, half-hidden alley a block or so down the High Street. "Come on—you haven't seen all of Hogsmeade till you've seen Kringleshank's Emporium. Let's go there next."

"What's Kringleshank's, Potter? Another joke shop?" Draco sneered. Honestly, he appreciated a good prank as well as the next person, perhaps more, but Harry seemed unnaturally interested in them. Perhaps Potter was one of those people—the sick sort, who couldn't resist pulling a joke, no matter what the circumstances? Like those twin Weasels—but no; Draco would've noticed. He knew Potter far too well at this point. Comfortably well, with the ease of a very old friend.

"No. It's a jeweler's," Harry replied, and snatched Draco's one hand as if it were a Snitch he wanted. "Come on; last one there's buying lunch!"

"But, I don't know where we're going! That's not fair, Potter!"

Draco hurried after him—was towed after him, actually, like a barge to a tugboat—and tried not to wonder too hard as he raced along the narrow, windy way about Potter wanting suddenly to visit a jewelers' shop. It was far too odd of him, the barmy git; completely not what Draco was expecting, and Draco couldn't help but be curious, really—but it was likely only that Potter wanted to purchased a gift for Granger, perhaps as a reward for being civil.

That was it, Draco decided, breathlessly, when they'd arrived at a tiny, common, rather grimy shop tucked into a further nameless side alley located off the first one and positively crammed full of rather inexpensive baubles.

Looking about him with a derisive eye, Draco let go of Harry's hand—or tried to. "So, why here, Potter, of all places? Surely, there are shops in London you could patronize—"

"Belt up, Malfoy," Harry glared, tightening his grip on Draco's hand just a bit more than strictly necessary. "I like it here and Mr. Kringleshanks always has just what I'm looking for." Potter dragged him peremptorily over to a largish dusty glass case with an ancient cash register atop it, filled with an array of silver: chains, bracelets, necklets, rings and the like. Draco found his eyes zeroing in on the rings. For some reason.

"Potter, I don't want to waste much time here," he warned disagreeably, suddenly feeling terribly uncomfortable. "We've all sorts of places still to visit, remember?"

But the entire time he was speaking, Draco was also utterly unable to cease mentally pawing through the shop's pathetic little wares—except that they weren't, not at all! There'd evidently been a Glamour of sorts cast on the counter case, because a closer look revealed the finest grade of silver wrought with exquisite artisanship, set with jewels as rare and valuable as any of the ones Draco's mother boasted of in her collection.

"I need to visit Scrivenshaft's, too," Draco went on, gamely, "and we've only an hour left, you realize," vainly attempting to disregard Harry's firm order to 'Just look, Malfoy' and doggedly sticking to his complaining.

He didn't want to be here, in this stupid little dusty shop, with all these lovely pieces spread before him, each as tempting as the distilled attar of the Devil's Snare, when he'd family jewels enough of his own at home in the Manor's cellar vault and he'd been thinking recently—just a passing thought, of course—of how Potter might like to receive some sort of keepsake.

Probably never had anything of the sort, Draco decided loftily, being terribly poor and brought up by those godsawful Muggles. Probably didn't own a single valuable thing to call his own—well, except that Cloak of his, and his broom. Draco had wondered now and then—hadn't dwelled on it—but he'd wondered if Potter might not appreciate some sort of gift. A remembrance. Certainly, Draco was wealthy enough to see his way clear to purchasing a little something to signify their budding friendship, even if Potter wasn't. Likely he'd never even think of such a thing, being Muggle-raised, so Draco would need first to educate him concerning the finer points of gifting amongst Wizards. It was quite an involved and symbolic process, Draco recalled, his mind wandering for a moment, until he recalled that this was not at all what he'd intended.

"And I'd like to stop in at Sprintwitches, too, Potter, so really, we should be moving on, all right?" A gift. Yes. But not now, and not from here. And what Draco really wanted to give was something of his own—his family's—to make it known that he and Potter were now—most definitely—not enemies.

"Draco," Potter's voice was quite adamantine and unyielding. "Just look. Look at those rings—right there, see? The braided ones with the stones? Which one d'you like?"

Draco could afford it, being a Malfoy. Though those rings were rather stunning in their own right and suitably costly.

He blinked stupidly and Potter waved a quick hand before his nose, frowning.

"Draco!"

"What?" Draco asked blankly. Harry grimaced and tugged at his hand again, forcing him a little closer to the case.

"Which one do you like, Draco?" he asked, his enunciation very slow and excessively patient, rather as if he were addressing someone mental. "Those are the friendship rings, Malfoy, there. And—and the other, too. Which one do you like the most? I'd like to give it to you."

"What?" Draco asked again, his mind skipping from here to there and everywhere, and none of the stops made sense. "Why?" he demanded, his stomach twisting suddenly, sending the chocolate from the Frogs they'd eaten into unpleasant roils.

It was perfectly all right for him to present Harry—Potter—with a little something (from the Malfoy collection, preferably, as the jewels his family claimed were all rare and very valuable and there'd hardly been a chance, had there? to stop in where his Mother usually commissioned her pieces and order something bespoke); simply as a reminder of their, er…their new-found friendship. Things happened, after all, and Potter might be interested—nay, even comforted—by having a small wearable of harking back to the time they'd spent recently, entente.

Harry was practically shaking him by the shoulders, trying to get his attention.

"Listen, won't you? Look, Malfoy, I'm well aware this is all arse about face, and I know for certain we're going to shag later, which is when I wanted to give it to you—I've been to the Shack just last night and it's all clear—but—"

"The Shack?" Draco shrieked, his voice rising. "The Shrieking Shack? I'm not setting foot in that horrible place, Potter! You must be off your fucking nut!"

"But, it doesn't matter, does it, Draco?" The green eyes were pleading and Draco's jaw dropped. He'd never had Potter—Harry—look at him that way; hadn't even been able to imagine it. "The timing? I mean—I mean to say, it's not like there's anyone else—"

"No!" Draco made sure to confirm this. No, there was no one else. He couldn't conceive of that, either. There was only Potter—had always been Potter—would always—

Draco didn't like to think of the future. It was coming, he knew; that was enough.

"Potter?" But he was so confused—what was Potter saying here? What did he want of Draco?

"Good," Potter was saying. "Good—me neither, Draco. You understand, then, why I want to do this, right? Why I want you to have—to have, well, something. I mean, we should have something—something visible that'll say it for us, right? So people won't be asking after us all the time and making stupid comments—"

"Potter?"

"Yeah?"

"You aren't," Draco gulped, because this was alternate universe stuff, this concept; totally foreign, "you aren't...by any chance…asking me to m-m-marry—"

"No!" Harry seemed completely freaked out that he even asked that, and Draco's pulse settled down a bit in relief. "Gods, no, Draco! We're only—you're only—we're not even seventeen yet, for Merlin's Sake! I'm not thinking of marriage, believe me!"

"…G-Good," Draco confirmed, nodding. His heart sank ever so slightly but he told himself that was only reaction to all this unforeseen stress, and then fervently thanked all the old gods this Kingleshocks person wasn't hovering about to witness him losing his composure—and if not marriage, precisely, then what exactly did Potter—Harry?—mean by giving him a ring? Rings were for…special people. Er, Bonded or 'to-be-Bonded' Witches and Wizards. Not…just friends. Lovers, perhaps, but emphatically not mere friends.

"Not yet, certainly," Potter was blabbing on, "but later, maybe, if I…if I make it."

Draco snogged him; instantly reeled him in right in the middle of the shop, wrapping his arms all the way 'round Potter's slighter form, engulfing him, and stuck his tongue right down Harry's throat, forcing back those last few words, cutting off the terrible word 'if' at the nub, silencing it thoroughly. There was no 'if' involved—no! Potter would make it; Potter always made it, despite dragons and that bleeding basilisk he'd heard tell of and the Ministry and even—even the Dark Lord.

Potter would walk out of this whole sodding mess alive and no one—not even Potter—was allowed to say differently. Draco would ensure it.

"It's alright, then? Draco?" Potter peered up at him, panting a bit and scanning Draco's pale features anxiously. "Draco! Talk to me, git! Don't just stare at me!"

"Um," Draco replied, all eloquence fled. He attempted a tiny nod, instead.

"And you'll wear it? Not take it off?" Potter seemed very uncertain.

"I'll, uh—er, yes," Draco mumbled, not quite audibly. He very seldom blushed like this—not a brilliant scarlet all over, from the roots of his blond hair to the curl of his toes. That habit had been shed long ago, along with his playful attempts at badge-making and silly songs. These days he was all about being cool—chilly, even—and always composed. A man in a man's world, doing a man's job. Men didn't blush like Firstie schoolgirls.

"Draco?" Harry's voice and eyes were both concerned. He'd obviously not heard Draco confirm he'd wear this ring—would be proud beyond belief to flaunt it. And Draco couldn't bear to look; he closed his eyes to shut out Potter's searching ones. He couldn't possibly say something like that again—not in public!

"I'll—I'll wear anything you give me, Potter!" he gabbled—swore—and gathered Potter—Harry—up again, though he'd barely just let him go; hard and fast and all inclusive, practically lifting the smaller man right off his feet, burying his steaming hot face into Potter's frowsy, wild hair, "aslongasyoupromisetowearmine!"

"Er?" Potter wriggled a bit in Draco's grip, trying to get a decent look at Draco's burning cheeks and perhaps lip-read as well, because that last request of Draco's had come out all at once, without Draco's volition, and gods, but he was so very—so very!

"Wear. Mine. Too," Draco got hold of himself and repeated his request, deliberately drawing each short syllable out to its fullest. He pulled back a bit from their messy embrace, just enough to glare down at the stupid git who discombobulated him thoroughly at every turn and stile. "You have to promise to wear mine, too, Potter, or I won't do it. Understand, dimwit?"

The grin that broke through Potter's undeniable anxiety was most definitely more welcome than any May morning.

"Well—yes, Malfoy," Potter replied, quite droll, now. "That's the general idea."

"Ahem," an elderly Wizard cleared his throat, and quite abruptly appeared on the other side of the case. "I'd wager you boys are in need of my assistance now, correct?"

Harry turned to the Wizard eagerly, as far as Draco's arms allowed it. Draco kept his eyes lowered for another second or two, blinking faster than usual, perhaps. The poor excuse for a decent shop was terribly, terribly dusty inside. Obviously lacked decent house elves to clean it.

"Mr. Kringleshanks! Yes—well, we were just going to ask to try those on. See—all right, Draco?—those in that red box, over there. With the rubies set in. That's okay, isn't it?"

Harry glanced up quickly at Draco for confirmation but his companion was preoccupied with staring at the man standing before them, all decked out in dark violet robes practically sprouting outsize stars and indecent amounts of spangles and cheerfully running his gnarled fingers through his excessively long silver-grey beard.

The old Wizard twinkled at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles and Draco quite thought it possible that their Headmaster might very well have a distant cousin right here in Hogsmeade, working in a tiny hovel-like shop in a bloody backwater village, and he wondered…many things. But he said:

"Yes, Harry."

"Yes, Harry; that's all very well and good but it's still a filthy place and likely it's still haunted,"

Draco tapped his foot impatiently, staring about a very poor excuse for a bedroom, which was actually dominated by the bed. That piece of furniture was massive and, fortunately, not dirty in any way, but Draco still wasn't best pleased.

"It's a bed, isn't it, git?" Harry poked him in the ribs, which incidentally sent him staggering off-balance towards the item in question before he regained his feet. "And it's not haunted, you tosser! That was Professor Lupin, I tell you—he's a werewolf!"

"Quit it, you sneaky little bastard!" Draco snapped. "Stop shoving me about! We could just as easily have put on Glamours and rented a room-by-the-hour at the Hog's Head! If you'd bothered to ask me first, I'd've cover the bill out of my pocket money."

"No, we couldn't. Trust me—it wouldn't've been wise."

For an instant, Harry's face took on an odd, adult sort of expression—rather as if he were sucking a lemon—but then that was replaced by irritated anticipation. "Look, Malfoy, we've only about a half-hour, tops, before Ron and Hermione will come looking for me. We've already missed dinner and if you want to do this—"

"Oh, fuck off, Potter!" Draco barked back. "Come here, won't you? Let's get those rags you laughingly call clothing off you."

"Good-oh! Nice to see you finally in a cooperative mood, Malfoy," Potter sneered, "I was thinking that never happened." But he did draw closer, and Draco waved his wand at him and then at himself, banishing their garb to a place that wasn't cobwebby and likely full of spiders.

"Get on the bed, then," he ordered, and quickly clambered on himself, snapping his fingers to fill them full of lubrecant. Potter might blather on about only having half-an-hour, but Draco would take his time with this.

It was their first time, really. In a bed, that was—with no possibility of someone coming round a corner unexpectedly or accidently opening a charmed door. It should be…it should be worth every Galleon Potter had paid for the ring Draco now sported on his finger; the bright silver gleam blooded with a small, faceted ruby.

Valuable, that. Draco knew for certain, for he'd insisted on his right to purchase Potter's matching one, despite the prat's useless protesting.

"We're both in this, right?" he'd whispered furiously in Potter's ear after he'd drawn him privately aside in the Kinkleshaft's shop, resisting somehow the overwhelming urge to lick it. "Aren't we?"

"Yes…" Potter had seemed strangely reluctant to allow Draco his due; his green eyes were quite skeptical. "I think."

"Well, then—you have to let me, Harry," Draco had told him. "I want to do it. I wanted to give you one of my own; that's much better—"

"No," Harry had replied decisively, his whisper marginally louder than Draco's and overriding it. "It's better to have something fresh, Draco. Something that's ours."

"Whatever, Potter—I'm just saying you can't simply buy both. I will purchase the other; it's only proper."

Potter had raised a speculative brow at him and sent a glance towards Mr. Kringleshoot, who was patiently awaiting them to bring their discussion to a finish. "'Proper', is it? Er, I suppose so. But don't think it'll always be like this, Draco. In the future—"

"Let the future take care of itself, Harry," Draco kissed the ear; he couldn't resist. "Let me give this to you now, please."

And he had, and Potter had allowed him, as well, to slide it securely onto his grubby, sweet-sticky finger outside the shop and then they'd snogged the living daylights out of one another for rather a long time in the shadow of a nearby cistern before taking off at a run for The Three Broomsticks, as they were already fifteen minutes past the time they'd all agreed to meet.

Draco had spelled both the rings invisible before they'd joined up with Weasley and Granger, out of simple Slytherin caution, and wishing, too, to keep the meal as pleasant as possible all around. Harry had said he'd wanted an enjoyable day, and Draco would do his utmost to make it so, Weaselbee notwithstanding. He would exercise great control; as it turned out, he needed every ounce of it.

They hadn't been shed of the pair of them for the remainder of the day, and it was only Potter's direct command that sent a red-facing and puffing Weasel and his slap-happy girlfriend on their way. Then they'd raced again, hell bent for leather, and fetched up at the last place Draco could imagine shagging.

He was not best pleased.

"Legs up, Potter," Draco ordered abruptly, and then shoved them there himself, not waiting. Harry didn't fight him, but his eyes were glinting in that glittery, infuriating way he had: challenging, and with exactly the righteous air that always sent the wind up Draco.

"Pushy," was all Potter said.

"Well," Draco returned, snippily, "You've certainly wasted enough time already, just getting here, haven't you? My friends would've taken the hint directly after lunch. So, you'd best get used to it, Potter; I'm about to get much pushier yet."

That sent Potter into peals of laughter, which was exactly what Draco intended, and he allowed himself a grin and passing snog as he slathered the lube carefully 'round Potter's not-quite-virgin arsehole. The pucker was delicate and pink and Draco could've lavished hours on it, enticing Potter into quivering, breathless readiness—indeed, inducing him to come, without ever touching his cock—but they didn't have hours.

Harry shifted his hips, adjusting his legs more comfortably where they rested against gingerly Draco's shoulders. Draco straddled him and leaned in so that their bellies pressed together, his lips travelling over pert nipples, raising a flush across Harry's skin as he went.

"Like that, do you? Want some more?" Harry nodded and Draco began working up his throat, nipping it and matching each little bite with the thrust of finger, till Harry was moving restlessly about underneath him, his breath coming short and sharp in the quiet of the room.

"More?"

Draco didn't wait for the nod; he had two fingers in and was scissoring away, his gaze trained on Harry's face going slack under his rapid but careful ministrations. Draco got his hand on Harry's cock and stated pumping away, smearing the clear precum around when it welled up; giving the foreskin a teasing lick and suck here and there. Soon enough, Harry's prick had swelled to a lovely reddish-purple at the bulging tip, and was hard as marble statues down the length of it. Draco eyed it avidly. Harry was well-hung; in proportion, naturally, but thick at the base of him. Draco salivated a bit, licking the tell-tale moisture away from his parted lips at the last minute. He'd rather wanted Harry in him, as well, but they hadn't enough minutes left as it was.

Next time, he vowed to himself, and Summoned more lube with the charm every Wizarding boy learnt at puberty.

He slicked himself expertly, feeling the way his cock angled off a bit to the right—not quite perfect, but respectably long and unblemished, his privates furred with a fine, thin opaque fuzz below the jut of him.

"Ready?" he breathed and Harry nodded after a slight pause; he'd had to pry his eyes open to focus on Draco before he could do so.

"Please," Harry replied, suddenly eager and bright-eyed, and Draco centred himself, using his slippery fingertips to keep the way clear and unobstructed. Harry's arse was firm and springy beneath his palm and he wanted so badly to sink his teeth into it, mark it as he'd marked Harry's finger.

"Breath in, then, Potter—and don't, by all that's holy, fucking stop breathing on me, alright?" he warned, and shoved the first of his inches in on the words. Harry gasped, jolting and wriggling, so that Draco sat carefully back on his heels and put an arm up to hold Harry's shivering legs still, smoothing a soothing hand down long muscled thighs and running the fingers of the other all over Harry's flagging dick, coaxing him back from whatever precipice he was on, mentally. "Steady!"

Another few inches, backing off in the middle to make sure he was spreading the lube properly within, and then an abruptly impatient Draco rammed home, rattling Potter's teeth in his head.

"Fuck!" Harry yelped. "Easy there, Malfoy!"

"Y-Yeah? S-Sorry!"

Draco looked to Potter's expression to see if it was alright, but Harry's eyes were shut so tight his dark brows were wrinkled, the lashes damp, and he was wincing and biting his lower lip nearly through.

"Harry?" Draco wanted to ask if he should pull out; if he could be doing something to make it better, but the damage was done and he could only watch Potter's face as the grimace slowly faded, and his firm lips finally twitched at the corners and then parted slightly, revealing a glimpse of that pink tongue. Then there was a whole great sea of green-gold for Draco to fall into and Potter's bloodied lower lip curving into something approaching a classic Malfoy smirk.

"Fuck me, Malfoy," he whispered, and Draco didn't need to be told again.

It had been only hours—eight, to his count—since he'd wanked off in the shower, knowing full well he was spending the day at Potter's side, in the company of the enemy, and therefore couldn't afford to be caught out with a stiffie. His precautions apparently made no sodding difference; he could've pulled off ten times in succession and Harry would still make him harder than the famed White Cliffs of Dover just by breathing. Draco plunged and pulled, rocked and twisted, with Potter joining in eagerly as he got used to it, finally ending up urging Draco on at every turn, and it didn't take long at all before he felt that so-familiar pressure in his gut.

"Potter! Harry!" He needed to know—his mind was going to go sideways any second now, and he needed to know if Harry was—if Harry was.

God's, Draco! he screamed at himself in that eternal pause, feeling the veriest fool for forgetting. Make it so, you fuckwit!

Draco grabbed at Harry's neglected dick again—he'd let go somehow in the midst of his own selfish pleasure—and pulled once, twice and a third time, and Harry gurgled like he was dying and then arched his spine into Draco's final shove.

They shouted, nearly in unison; Draco crying out 'Harry!' and Harry stuttering Muggle obscenities, and Draco went down in an exhausted heap next to his partner, gasping through his dried-out nostrils and swallowing over and over.

"Bloody Hades," Draco whimpered. "Tempus." It had taken only ten short minutes, start to finish. He'd have to fucking do better next time or Potter might assume he was new at this lover business.

Bad enough Potter had the habit of pulling his soul out through his cock, sometimes—or it felt that way, to Draco. Like being wanked by a sodding Dementor, but in a very good way, and Draco would hand over that particular piece of his psychic anatomy any day in exchange for Potter to be there always, so he could practice that particular Dark Art of his on Draco on a steady basis . And it had to be Dark because it felt so fucking brilliant; there was no comparison.

Just like there was no comparison to what had just happened between them.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, panting. "Me, too," and they both shut their eyes for just a quick moment—a moment.

"Fuck!" Harry observed, after several of those moments had passed, his eyes snapping open in alarm. "Tempus! Shite! We're late, Malfoy—shift your lily-white arse!"

"Fuck!" Draco echoed faintly. They were, indeed, and Professor Snape would be on the prowl for him, and likely Headmaster Dumbledore, too, as he'd bloody promised his first born in exchange for having Potter returned, safe and sound, by the last fall of twilight. And fuck if the waxing moon wasn't already visible through the grimy window.

Then there was the Muggleborn bint and Weaslebee to contend with; likely they'd be climbing the walls by now, awaiting their Hero. Draco would be hexed to sodding pieces.

Clothes were spelled on in a jiffy; Draco's boots stomped into and his stray fly buttons fastened as they tripped down the creaky stairs. Draco had no recollection of them sprinting the half-mile or so back to Hogwarts afterwards, or of retying his tie along the way, settling his jersey and fumbling his belt and wand holster into place as he did so. That just happened, because it bloody well had to, as it simply happened that Potter tucked in his shirttails and managed not to lose his precious spectacles to the process, the clumsy git. He did, however, nearly shed his one broken-down trainer in their rush. Precious seconds were lost to Potter attempting futilely to lace it properly whilst still impelling himself forward, till finally an impatient Draco muttered a harmless variant of the Shoe-Lace spell and fastened the shoe firmly—and possibly permanently—to Potter's foot.

Fortunately, the twilights of May were long, lush and slow in coming.

Still, both Granger and Weasley were loitering conspicuously in the Hogwart's entryway, glowering and brandishing wand tips furtively under cover of their robes as they paced. But they had managed it by dusk fall, thankfully, and Draco took advantage of the golden opportunity to snog Harry quickly one last time, directly under the two Gryffindor's wrinkled-up noses (in horrified disgust, no doubt; Draco curled his own upper lip in stiff irritation and heartily wished them both to perdition), before they all headed off to their separate common rooms.

Well—Potter was firmly herded to his by his glaring lieutenants, but then that was obviously the jealous ginger git's doing. Draco sauntered, as he was wont to do after a particularly satisfying sexual experience, and crowed inwardly over the horrified looks on the Mudblood's and the Weasel's faces when they finally caught sight of the matching rings. He'd quite forgotten to spell them in the haste of their pell-mell return to the Castle. Draco shrugged the oversight away—they'd have to know sometime and it may as well be official, as it was—and admired his own on the way back to Slytherin, turning it this way and that in the torchlight.

And then that snog—oh, it rated very highly on Draco's personal Snog Scale, to date. Pity it was the very last of them.

The last one. Which meant that that it would have to last them both all the way through the usual common room nonsense of group games and chatter, nagging schoolwork and Draco's usual two hours of Prefect duties or…until he and Harry finally met up once again in the Room of Requirement, just after the stroke of midnight.

Which, for a boy of nearly seventeen, was a very long time to wait.

Finite