1. Prefect Duties; 2. Potions essay; 3. Shag Potter.

Draco Malfoy had his evening planned out to the minute. It was straight-forward enough: perform his duties as Prefect, complete his Potions essay before that—a breeze, really, if he could manage a minute or two to concentrate—and, last but not least, shag Potter. Shagging Potter, naturally, was the task he'd choose to accomplish first if he'd his druthers, but no, it never worked out that way, not unless he made a special effort. Or if Potter did, and Potter was a busy man these days.

Still, they'd manage well enough. As always.

Thus, ten o'clock rolled around with his essay still unfinished and Draco shot off, wand in hand, robes whipping impressively, and stalked the stairways and corridors, empty classrooms and deserted open spaces, loos and broom closets for the space of an hour and a half. It was dull work, enlivened only occasionally by the chance to hex a stray Fifth or Sixth Year, or shoo an addled Firstie back to the fold, but Draco took pride in it, as well he should.

Being a Prefect wasn't always easy, of course. Potter hadn't made the cut, but then Draco figured Potter didn't care. A shiny badge wasn't his idea of a goal worth striving for, nor did the Prefect's bathroom present any sort of reward. Potter had the run of the latter in any case and for the former, he'd absolutely no interest in anything that would draw him yet more attention.

Malfoy could relate. Prefects were both examples and scapegoats, not only for the student body and the Governor's Board but also for those up-your-nose modern parents who insisted on being 'involved'. No doubt the Headmistress had chosen him specially just for that reason—to serve as a shining example of the New Age and InterHouse Unity and all that bunk. Though it wasn't bunk, really. Draco was for it—his Slytherins needed every scrap of support they could muster. And he didn't mind—he'd have to cope with these same people, out in the adult world, when Hogwarts finally spewed him forth, complete with a rack of 'O's in N.E.W.T.S. to his credit and the Headmistress's letter of recommendation. It would be a decided advantage to have that pretty little badge in his back pocket and Draco was all for advantages.

Potter, too, might be an advantage. Draco caught himself thinking that way all too often. Not when he and Potter were actually doing the nasty, of course, but later, in the privacy of his own room. Maybe he shouldn't; maybe it was callous, but, bugger all, he knew Potter's agenda wasn't hearts and flowers either, so why should he give a rat's arse?

He didn't, really.

It was simply a stress-reliever, this thing with him and Potter. Nothing more than the same energy they'd exerted all those years brangling with one another diverted in a different direction. More pleasure; less hassle. Draco was all for that. And he needed it tonight.

Harry ducked out of Gryffindor at a quarter till ten like a third-rate Muggle private detective, hunching his shoulders in his school robes and keeping his eyes down. He'd his cloak with him, naturally—couldn't go creeping 'round Hogwarts without it—but he didn't like to use it unless he had to and he wasn't going far.

As usual, they'd settled on meeting in the turret room above the tower where Fluffy had once been imprisoned, now restored—along with much else at Hogwarts—after a difficult and exhausting summer. Harry himself had been charge of most of the work done on the student's quarters, so he'd outfitted the slope-sided, circular hideaway with cushions and easy chairs, thick carpets and a long, comfy couch that easily Transfigured into a bed. He'd meant originally for it to be his own secret Withdrawing Room, but after starting the affair with Malfoy he'd found it easier to use it for their nearly daily assignations.

Malfoy had stared 'round the cosy angles and small-windowed spaces under the eaves, grey eyes very wide, then narrowed, and had pursed his lips in reaction when he'd first been invited in, and Harry had fully expected to hear him comment nastily on the colours, which were decidedly not Gryffindor. But he'd kept his peace, and seemed accustomed to it now, and seldom made mention of Harry's odd fondness for purple, yellow and green, or his odd collection of strangely shaped Muggle-made teapots. No—Malfoy's attention was usually on the violet-cushioned sofa-cum-four-poster, which he generally Transfigured to the bed-version the moment he slouched through the door, sometimes when Harry was still sitting upon it.

Harry was always early; Malfoy was always late. Prefect duties were usually done and over with by midnight, but never in the first term of the year. Then, the Firsties wandered like little lost sheep and the rambunctious Fourth Years stretched their boundaries by venturing out of their common rooms just before curfew. Mix in the Fifth and Sixth Years moving about on their own secret assignations—romantic or mischievous—and the regularly scheduled Astronomy classes, and it was chaos in the corridors for a good hour or so after the student body was supposedly officially retired to their own Houses for the evening. The Professors, the Adjuncts, the Proctors and some TA's too, all were out and about, taking points and keeping a weather eye on the Prefects as they went about their business, and then sometimes socializing in their own Commons or conducting some late evening research in the Library. Harry didn't envy Draco his duty, certainly, but it rather bollixed up their own personal shag schedule, and this had become a bit of issue in recent weeks.

It was going on halfway through October and they'd worked through the majority of kinks out of 'their' time, as Harry liked to think of it, but he still wasn't entirely sure the whole thing was a good idea, even if it kept his dick happy. Malfoy was fit, no question, and easily still the Prince of Slytherin, if not all Hogwarts—as they'd referred to him in the good old days, pre-Dumbledore's death—but there were other equally fit blokes to be had for the asking and Harry was well aware he'd open invitations bubbling on the hob from quite a few of them.

Justin Finch-Fletchley, for one; Michael Corner, for another. Theo Nott, who was Malfoy's unofficial runner-up in the 'cool blond Slytherin' category, and the very attractive Terry Boot, who most certainly batted for both teams. Geoff Hooper had also made advances, and Dennis Creavey had apparently inherited his love for 'all things Potter' from his elder brother. Then there was good old Ernie, who just never stopped asking. There were others, too, including several younger Slytherins and a Hufflepuff or five, but the first set only wanted one-offs and the notoriety of shagging Harry Potter and the second sort were all about 'relationships' and 'feelings'—and the notoriety of shagging Harry Potter. Harry had enough of one-offs over the summer and 'feelings' weren't something he cared to indulge in, thanks ever so.

He'd had enough of them to last a lifetime. He imagined Malfoy was much the same. Maybe that was one of the reasons they'd connected, though Harry really didn't waste time thinking about it. It'd happened; it seemed to be working out well enough and it was damned good shagging—for now. Later? Harry didn't deal with 'later', either.

He'd quite enough on his plate as it was.

Draco was a man on a mission: shag Potter and then finish his blasted essay, both preferably before one in the morning rolled around. He'd Arithromancy first thing in the morning after breakfast and no time during break due to mandatory Quidditch practice, so it was tonight for the essay or not at all and he didn't think the Slug would buy into him skiving only due to being a bit over-scheduled. And he didn't need a detention, not if he wanted to stay 'shiny', so…yeah. But first things first.

Hard to think about much of anything with his bollocks as they were. Would have to be 'Potter to the rescue' again; get him off before he burst, yeah?

And...he was learning to be flexible, wasn't he? Oh, yes.

"Oi, Potter!" he barked impatiently as he strode into Harry's not-so-secret room, banging the dor shut behind him. "Come on—budge your bum off that or I'll hex it and you, dumbarse—we're wasting time already."

"What?" Harry mumbled, half-asleep and drowsy. It was after midnight already and he'd nodded off after finishing his homework, waiting for the belated wanker currently ordering him about so imperiously. "You sod off, Malfoy; you're lucky I'm still here."

"Yeah, yeah, come on, up," Draco grumbled, grabbing him by the arms and yanking him. Harry tottered a bit, off-balance on tired legs, and Malfoy wrapped an arm 'round Harry's back whilst waving his wand busily with the other. "There, that's it—clothes off, Potter," he snapped, and dumped his burden of weary Potter carelessly onto the mattress.

"Gods! But you're a fucking Nazi, Malfoy," Harry muttered, bouncing a bit, but he dutifully started to unbutton his shirt. "Take a bloody damper, eh?" He could Vanish it, but then why bother? It was late and he was tired—so much easier just to drop it on the floor.

"What's a Nazi, Potter?" Malfoy asked absently, whisking his wand down his front. Robes and underthings peeled away like magic and twinkled out of existence for the nonce. Potter caught sight of them neatly folding themselves just before he blinked. "Some sort of Muggle?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know." Harry skinnied out of his jeans—ones that fit, cheers; he'd gone shopping between bouts of conjuring stone blocks and lintels—and took his cotton pants with them. Socks next; he'd already toed off his trainers two hours before, when he'd first arrived. All that lot went on the floor as well. "Not nice."

"Yeah?" Malfoy said, climbing beneath the covers and casting a wordless warming spell on them. "Okay." He obviously didn't care that much. "Uh—you're ready, Potter?" He threw his wand down on the nightstand that had appeared along with the bed, and stuck a hand on Harry's shoulder to urge him along. "I bloody well am."

"What's your hurry, anyway?" Harry shot back, feeling snippy and far too bare-arsed and chilly till Draco dragged him fully under the quilt. He shifted, settling in, and his lover nipped at his neck distractedly while answering, sliding the whole of his warm weight over Harry's body with practiced ease. Harry was pressed down firmly into the sheets—the one significant change Malfoy had made to Harry's hideaway, replacing regular Hogwarts-issue with some billion-count blend of silk or something.

Nice, Harry thought, and blinked up at the grey eyes peering curiously down into his own.

"That Potions essay, Potter," Malfoy frowned fiercely. "I'm not finished it yet and the Slug'll have my balls if I don't turn it in on time. Life's a bloody bitch."

"Oh?" Harry's eyebrows went up as he arched into Malfoy's seeking lips. Draco was always way far ahead of his game; something must've happened to him to get in the way. "What was the problem this time? Parkinson again? Or was it poor Pritchard?"

"Yeah, well." Malfoy grimaced, and licked up Harry's throat to his chin, clearly disgruntled. "Pansy. Her mum visited her dad over the weekend and had to go and Owl Pans a letter about it—blasted woman. Should be cursed with boils."

"Oh—sorry," Harry said, and meant it. "That's unfortunate." It was. He'd seen what her mum's Owls could do to Parkinson. Rather made him glad he didn't have parents, if that was the kind of shit they pulled. Not his Mum, though—she wouldn't have; maybe his Dad would've, but then, Harry's Dad—he shut off that thought right there, as it wasn't worth it.

"She alright, then?"

"I guess," Draco muttered, having gotten to the corner of Harry's mouth. "Shut up and kiss me, Potter—I don't want to talk about this crap right now. Wanna fuck."

"'Kay—sorry," Harry replied equably enough, but Malfoy was already plunging in.

Draco groaned, pressing his cock into the soft-and-hard places of Potter's thighs and groin. It was met with a dick just as interested and a little rock of Draco's hips had them frotting.

This was the stuff Draco came looking for, night after night. Hot, wet, tight, and readily responsive—that was Potter. Inventive and easy. His mouth was bleeding heaven on earth and his tongue—oh, the tricks Potter could manage with his tongue! Left Draco half-blind and shouting out nonsense, sometimes, when it wound its way 'round his cock. Potter could speak fucking Parseltongue to Draco's body without making a sound.

Potter's arse, though—that was ace. Draco had never met an arse he couldn't put a good use to in the seven or eight months he'd been out from under his parent's collective thumbs, Wizard or Muggleborn, but Harry's was hands-down the best arse ever. Potter knew how to flex his posterior muscles just so, making his innards ripple, and he had this habit of squeezing tight enough to strangle Draco's rod and then letting up on the pressure, nice and easy. Like a Muggle rollercoaster, Draco decided, and it had the same effect on him: he'd scream and scream till there was no sound issuing from his open lips, but it was still all thrill and no fear, riding Harry.

Potter could make Draco come like a firehose in just under a minute if he set his mind to it, even without his superior arse: he had the hands of an artist. Long fingers, with spatulate ends that were broad and just a little rough. Bony knuckles that slotted perfectly 'round Draco's shaft and a palm made soft and slick with sweat or lube, which was better than hot satin when it smoothed over him. Then there was that twist-to-the-wrist motion Potter had nailed, little wanker, and the sly pinky tickle to the 'nads that drove Draco fucking mad as a rabid Kneazle. Draco could ejaculate just picturing Potter jerking him pff, especially if he imagined Harry's mouth sucking him all the while, cheeks moving in and out rhythmically.

Potter was definitely ace.

Quality—that was what Malfoy craved. He knew he gave it himself, so why not expect it in return? He, too, could do things to Potter that made Potter scream like a friggin' girl, and he did, just so he could watch the effects. It was all tricks he'd picked up from other shags—he'd had a fair few of those, being a resourceful sort of chap —and refined endlessly on Harry, working the ones that were particularly potent into veritable art forms.

Nipples, for one. Harry liked his chest touched, so Draco developed a method of lipping and suckling, teething and nipping that sent a flush across the planes of Potter's chest like a flame, and left him restless and breathless thereafter. Then there were Draco's teeth, a fine weapon in his arsenal of passion, nice and white and straight-edged as razors. Draco liked to bite—sometimes hard, sometimes softly—and Harry didn't bother about marks or bruises, so Draco was in his heyday, leaving them. Love bites to thighs—those caused Potter to roll his hips and rock in this tidal motion which ate up Draco's ability to restrain himself like nothing else. Love bites to the throat made Harry whine with need, a guttural sound that had Draco harder as rocks every time; nipping Potter's sensitive earlobes sent him thrusting in need, flinging his whole body into it, the same as when he flew. Open-mouthed gnawing on arse-cheeks—followed by specific, angled licking—sent chaotic tremors through Potter's legs and rendered them floppy and boneless, easy to push level with Harry's head on the pillows. If Draco closed his teeth on Harry's full lower lip, Harry would groan and practically swallow Draco's tongue.

But the best thing Draco could do was suck face like a champion—and shag. Both done hard, just shy of painful, and with a nail-biting, steely-eyed determination; both done fast, like lightning strikes or the green pulse of an AK. Both steady, unceasing and deep, as if Malfoy were one of those funny pneumatic drills the Muggles used and Potter a wall that simply had to come down.

Brilliant it went both ways; Draco would hate to come in below Potter in the shag-stakes. Second-best was no fun, was it?

And Potter favoured those two particular talents of Malfoy's rather a lot, from all indications. Certainly he wasn't averse to meeting up with Draco on a nightly basis to enjoy them to the fullest, and certainly Draco wasn't going to be calling a halt to these assignations of theirs any time soon.

Wouldn't suit his purpose and his purpose was to survive this last year at school, faculties intact.

"Hey, Malfoy," Potter piped up later, when he donning the last of his clothes. Draco looked up from easing on his loafers and waited attentively, eyebrows up in question. Potter looked to be a little hesitant, standing where he was by a hastily conjured mirror, fingers fussing with his tie.

"Yeah?"

"You want mine? My essay. Could copy some of it over, change a few words up here and there. Slughorn'll give me full points no matter what I do at this point so, if you like—"

Draco opened his mouth to say 'no' immediately, but ended up hesitating, too. He'd gone and done practically the same exact favour for Potter just last week, covering his arse when Potter totally spaced his Charms assignment, so…

"Alright," he nodded. Then added a fast "Thanks, Potter," to be polite.

"Yes, sure, no problem," Harry replied easily enough, and bent down to shuffle the tangled laces on his trainers into loose knots, as he was only planning to take them off again in five minutes. "Let me find it for you."

He rummaged haphazardly through his bulging school satchel when he was finished with his shoes, pulling out the various Muggle organizers Hermione kept after him to use to keep track of his time, all his spare paper and quills, and eventually located the parchment entitled "Potions of Pain: A Brief History".

"Here," he said, handing it over. "Just have it back to me before class tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay." Draco nodded, glancing over the close-written lines. Potter's handwriting was a tad unkempt but readable enough. Draco nodded again at something Harry had jotted down. "Good. That works, right there, that paragraph you put in on Blistering Beetles. I can use what I've got already and just pull some of the gen on the Basilisk venom over—"

"Sure, do that," Harry shrugged. He flattened down his hair one last time and Vanished the mirror. "Whatever, Malfoy—take what you need. Catch up with me at lunch?"

"Right, right, thanks again, Potter," Draco replied over his shoulder, Potter's essay tucked up his sleeve for safekeeping and a swift hand already on the door knob. He was late enough as it was; no time to linger, chatting. He turned around again at the word 'lunch', though.

"No, wait—can't do lunch. I've got practice, so right after, alright? The old Forbidden Corridor, 'round quarter to one?"

Potter nodded over at him, blinking at brighter light beaming into his room from the corridor.

"Sounds fine; I'll be there. 'Night, Draco."

"'Night, Potter. Have a good sleep."

Striding back to Slytherin, Draco wondered why he bothered wishing Potter pleasant dreams. It wasn't as though...and it would never be. Not like that.

This was stress relief. For both of them, and 'pleasant dreams' weren't part of the picture.

But...he could be polite, at least. May as well, right? It never hurt to make nice, not these days.

Harry yawned his way through COMC and then through Muggle Studies, his morning classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and the only ones he didn't share with Malfoy—two easy 'O's in N.E.W.T.S. they were, so who the fuck cared? Hagrid would never give him grief and the new Muggle Studies prof was a bloody walkover and neither of those classes meant a hill of Beans to Harry in the normal course of events. Not much did, really. Well…Hogwarts itself, he supposed. Mostly he was numb.

Hermione said it was 'reaction' and that it was alright. Ron said pretty much nothing, but Ron was a bit off himself. His losses had run deep, after all. Hermione had her hands full there, keeping Ron focussed on the future and not letting him dwell overmuch. Harry told himself he was glad of it, those two being together. He didn't have the energy to prop Ron up, too, not when he had enough to do keeping his own body upright and moving basically forward.

Harry's soggy brain woke up finally just before DADA, which he got through easily enough, partnering with an on-the-ball Malfoy, and then it was lunch time, which meant copious food and normally also meant a quick snog with that same Malfoy before Transfiguration, but didn't today.

"Oh, yeah," he said blankly to his roast beef sandwich, chops, veg and mash with gravy. "Bugger."

Hermione only glanced over at him with a strange expression and refrained from remarking. She was used to his new habit of talking to himself, though Harry was not. The Dursleys had always said the people who talked to themselves were nutters and Harry wasn't quite ready to label himself a loony, at least not by Muggle standards.

He avoided labelling himself as anything, much, now that Voldemort was gone.

He went to the Library instead, returning some books and scanning the titles in Charms for some references he needed for their next project, and then eventually wandered down rather desultorily to what had been the Forbidden Corridor but was now just another short-cut through the building, Point A to Point B. Still deserted, though; memories ran long at Hogwarts.

Malfoy was running late, as always.

"Um," Harry said. "Hi."

"Hey!" Draco answered, breathless from jogging and handing over the borrowed Potions assignment first thing. Harry stuffed it into his bag in a rush and looked up to meet that familiar gaze, green eyes a little wary. "Erm?"

"Sorry—practice ran over," Draco humped a shoulder, which brought him significantly closer to Harry somehow, and dropped his own bookbag with a quiet little thud. Harry pulled a face, shuffling back towards the nearby wall. "Didn't mean to make you wait, Potter."

"'S'okay, I'm used to it." Harry leant back against the wall and flapped a hand at Malfoy. It wasn't as though he couldn't live without this.

"Yeah?" Malfoy's lips were already ghosting over Harry's, just lightly. "Hmm." He bit Harry's lower lip, coaxing it out of its unconcious pout. "Well, I'm—"

There was a quick kiss placed round Harry's jaw to punctuate each word.

"Still—"

And another. Harry grinned, a bit helplessly, under them. Sometimes Malfoy was pretty fun to hang out with.

"Sorry."

"Mmm, m'okay..." Harry moaned, a quiet sound which perversely had Draco groaning much more loudly than he and saying his name.

"Potter."

Names, and mostly surnames names was all they uttered then. And that was sum total said aloud by either of them for about the next twenty minutes after. Till Harry remembered the schedule.

"We should go." He bopped Draco on the nose with a hard forefinger in passing, reminding him of the time. "We'll be late, for certain. Prof'll flip his wig on us."

"In a minute," Draco replied, still snogging away peaceably. "It's only right around the corner, Harry."

"And down the stairs—mmph!"

Five minutes after, sure enough, they were running pell-mell, late again, bags flapping madly behind them.