Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's Notes: If masturbation is not your thing, please pick another story to read. Many people have betaed this along the way. Thanks so much to fauxwen, for betaing the earlier chapters, plus snottygrrl, amanuensis1, silentauror, shaggirl, alliekatgal, lizzie_omalley, confusedkayt, lexique, acromantular, and, finally, gabe_speaks contributed to the later madness. My thanks!


Christ, what a cock-up. If he didn't need Crabbe and Goyle to do his bidding (code word for beating up people he didn't like), he'd have hexed their faces off for their utter incompetence. What was the point of having minions, for God's sake, if they couldn't follow simple orders?

Draco Malfoy was indulging in a colossal temper tantrum. Trying to right the world by shattering glasses with a flick of his wand, each pinpoint of rage dissipating with a ping and a pop as the glass disintegrated to shards and dust. That was how it was supposed to work. This bout had done nothing for him short of giving him a sore wrist. He had wanted to win that Quidditch game in the worst possible way. As usual, that insufferable git, Potter, had aced him out once more, the snitch a hair's breadth away when Potter snatched it out from under him. If Crabbe and Goyle had killed him with the bludgers, as instructed repeatedly before the match in the Slytherin locker room, they would have won the match. Really! How difficult was it to understand?

"Kill Potter with a bludger."

Five simple words and they fucked it up.

Potter got the snitch; Draco was thoroughly humiliated yet again. And the worst part. The absolute worst part. Potter came lumbering up to him after the game, with all the grace of some rabid sheep dog, for Potter's obligatory I-fucked-you-over-once-again-Draco-Malfoy handshake of victory, and when Draco shoved his hand out, Harry shook his hand but then held on to it. Then. THEN. Potter leaned in and said very distinctly, "You played a beautiful game, Malfoy. I…" Potter was going to say something else but was pulled away by hysterical, frothing-at-the-mouth Gryffindors for some post-match celebration. Bastard. Draco smashed another glass with a flick of his wand. He imagined he could hear the whoops and screams of victory from the Gryffindor common room all the way down here in the dungeons. How dare he! Had Draco given him permission to compliment him? Bastard, again! Another glass appeared, hovering about eye level in the far corner of the room. He raised his wand. Zap! Glass number forty-nine blown to smithereens.

There was a knock and then the door to his bedchamber opened. A disembodied voice asked, "Draco, you still smashing glasses?"

"No, Blaise, they've decided to self-destruct on their own to save me the trouble. I hope Crabbe and Goyle have immigrated to Mozambique within the last hour because there's no telling what I'll do to them when I see them. I have a wand and I know how to use it." Blaise's head peeked around the edge of the door. At the very thought of the two of them, he raised his wand again—zing—and Blaise ducked his head back around the door as another glass shattered.

"A forty-glass night, huh?" asked the voice from behind the safety of the door.

Draco threw his wand on the bed. "A personal best. Fifty. You can come in now. I'm done. Some snotty little house-elf told me that's my daily limit."

Blaise stepped out from behind the door and surveyed the shards of glass littering the floor of Draco's room. Cocking his head to one side, he studied Draco. "You're still wound tighter than a drum. Why don't you just conjure up some more?"

Merlin, give him patience. He was surrounded by idiots. "It's not the same," he growled. Blaise got that look on his face that Draco hated. The one that shrieked, "Humor him, just humor him, he's in one of those moods." Draco began kicking the leg of his bed. "I hate," kick, "this miserable," kick, "excuse for a school. Limited to fifty fucking glasses. After all the money my father's donated? I should be able to shatter as many glasses as I want." Draco stamped his foot. "It's all Potter's fault."

"Sure it is, Draco," Blaise agreed, clearly trying to mollify him. "Come on, it's time for dinner."

"Forget it, Blaise," Draco snapped. "The only thing possibly worse than having my eyes gouged out with a blunt fork would be to listen to Gryffindors hooting and hollering like a bunch of deranged banshees. One word from the Weasel in the mood I'm in and I'd curse him and be in Azkaban by morning snogging some Dementor. Which is no doubt Potter's evil cunning plan. But I've seen through his ruse and have no intention of becoming a Dementor's boytoy."

Blaise sighed. "Has anyone ever told you that you've got a completely unhealthy fixation on Harry Potter?"

Draco narrowed his eyes and reached for his wand. "Your point?"

"Fine, be insane." Blaise threw up his hands in defeat. "Have your fucking chocolate bars for dinner. Again."

Draco waved Blaise away. When the door had shut, Draco opened the drawer where he kept boxes of chocolate for emergencies just like this one. Belgian or French? Dark or milk? Fuck it. Not even the chocolate would work tonight. He slammed the drawer shut and reached for the bottle of Firewhiskey hidden under his bed. "Fucking Potter," he murmured and raised the bottle to his lips.

The hangover was Potter's fault, too. Somehow. Draco resolutely clung to the fantasy that Malfoys, by virtue of their bloodline, were somehow immune to hangovers; therefore, he was always stunned whenever he woke up with one. Life just wasn't fair. What was the point of being a pureblood if it didn't ensure that you always won the games you played and never got hangovers? Stumbling into the shower, he announced to the room at large, "I will maim the first person who utters a single sound in my direction." Now he wouldn't have to listen to the snivelings and grovelings of Crabbe and Goyle, who had not yet fled to Mozambique. He must speak to Blaise. His instructions had been quite clear.

The heat of the shower, and the sudden appearance of a glass of what smelled like hangover potion that Draco downed immediately and thereby felt a million times better, restored him to near normal. Well, as normal as Draco Malfoy could be. Considering. He even felt well enough to do the list: flawless hair, check; near genius, given; and phenomenal physical beauty, you're so bloody right. He began to wrap the towel around himself when he smugly noticed that his cock looked especially sassy this morning. Yes, he must still be a little hung over because he forgot perhaps the most important part. Perfect dick. Oh, double check with a cherry on top.

Slytherins were, by and large, spectacularly endowed. Goyle had an especially nice cock. Too bad he had the face of a constipated warthog and the personality of a cucumber. No Slytherin had any reason to slink around the showers searching for a towel to cover up the lack thereof. Oh. Except for Crabbe. Draco frowned. Hard to say what happened there. Vitamin deficiency, perhaps? Crabbe was the exception, living proof that the old saw correlating foot size with dick size was full of shit. Didn't bear thinking about. We all had crosses to bear.

Draco had always been insufferably cocksure until he got a gander at Blaise. Jesus, it was nearly the size of Wales…

Hmmm, which perfectly pressed white shirt should he wear today? This one…no, god, had the hangover caused permanent brain damage? No white shirts before May…

Not that Draco would ever consider being anyone's bottom, but one glance at that monster… Before Blaise even laid a hand on him Draco informed him in no uncertain terms, "I am a top, most definitely a top. Hell will freeze over before I even consider letting you near my arse with that thing." Fortunately, Blaise was a natural, if pushy, bottom. Not that Draco minded. He liked his partners with a little bite to them. Completely submissive fucks were boring…

These gray flannels or those gray flannels. Or those gray flannels. Bugger.

Which is why he found himself fucking fewer and fewer girls. In fact, when was the last time he had a girl? He paused, one leg in his trousers, one leg out. Quite a long time. Months, perhaps? A Ravenclaw bint whose name he couldn't remember. All he could remember was how boring it was.

Blaise was anything but boring, but their affair was short-lived as even a simple blow job required several healing charms to restore Draco's voice. He'd never believed one could be too big, but several trysts later, he began to revise that notion. Draco liked his vocal cords, thank you very much; he had no intention of sacrificing them in the name of wanton sex. Thank god that fling ended fairly soon, with no physical or emotional repercussions. They remained the best of friends, Draco shooing Blaise in the direction of Pansy. Who, after one night with Blaise was so grateful to Draco for more or less bequeathing Blaise to her, promised to name her first born after him. Now Pansy waltzed around Hogwarts happy as a pig in mud, notwithstanding her near-chronic case of laryngitis.

He pulled on a pair of black wool cashmere socks and, in another morning ritual, ran an elegant finger along the length of the monogram, which completely circled his ankle.


Draco Black Cesarus Lucius Guillaume Lorenzo Jean-Franc Maximillius Klaus Frederick Tertian Dromenico Malfoy.

Yes, that drinking binge had destroyed critical brain cells, because for some reason seeing his perfectly monogrammed socks made him think of the Potter/socks episode in potions last January. He should have killed Potter then when he had the chance.

The two of them were paired in double Potions, as usual. Draco suspected that Snape was more than just a little bit of a sadist; otherwise, why inflict two people on each other whose absolute mutual hatred was already becoming the stuff of legend, and they hadn't even graduated yet? They'd been working on a particularly difficult potion for over two weeks, and a major portion of their grades was riding on its successful completion. Both of them were in the process of chopping up mandrake roots when that utter moron Longbottom blew up his caldron for the second time that week. Despite it happening nearly every class, this had been a rather spectacular explosion, causing Draco to drop his knife in surprise. Bending down to pick it up, he couldn't believe his eyes.

The horror.

Straightening up slowly, he leaned toward Potter and said in a low voice, "Potter, tell me that you're pulling my leg. That I'm not seeing what I'm seeing. That this is some twisted plot on your part to screw up my N.E.W.T.S. for this class."

Potter stopped chopping and put down the knife. "What are you nattering on about this time, Malfoy?"

Draco pointed.

"My shoes?" Potter said, clearly confused. "Just trainers. What's the big deal?"

"Not the fucking trainers, you imbecile. The socks," Draco hissed.

Potter pulled up his pant legs and looked at his socks.

"What's the matter with them?" he asked. "They're just socks."

"You," and here Draco couldn't suppress a shudder, "are a disaster walking; a train wreck, Potter. I used the word 'socks' for want of a suitable term. There isn't a word in the dictionary that adequately describes those things that you are trying to pass off as socks. First, those are so not socks. Socks actually have a shape. Second, I may be going out on a limb here, although I highly doubt it, but most people actually wear colours that match. For a reason. Socks that do not match usually indicate insanity or stupidity. In your case, both may apply. They're puddling around the base of your ankles like wet noodles. You should pitch them in the rubbish bin this instant for that reason alone. Your appalling lack of any sort of style other than 'if it's six sizes too big for me and is completely hideous I'll be happy to wear it' is now beginning to make a hell of a lot of sense. You are not only blind but also colourblind to boot. Although that doesn't explain why you wear clothes so enormous that even that oaf Hagrid would be swimming in them. Perhaps a mystery better left unsolved."

Potter rolled his eyes, picked up his knife, and began to chop again. "Honestly, Malfoy, I don't know what you're on about.

Draco felt a headache coming on and began rubbing his temples. "Please don't tease me anymore. Tell me you're joking," he pleaded. "Puddling aside. Tell me that you dress in the dark. Tell me you know that one sock is blue and the other green, and that you're just pulling a supreme mind fuck on me for the sheer hell of it."

"Whatever, Malfoy. Here, I'm done with these roots."

"Fuck the roots. One sock is blue, one sock is green. Admit it."

Potter hiked up the legs of his pants one more time and then let the pant legs fall. "Both look sort of blue to me. Maybe not the same blue. But close enough."

"Oh, Merlin's balls, since when did sort-of-blue become a colour?" Draco muttered, and whipped out his wand and flicked his wrist. "At least now they're the same colour. I refuse to do anything about the puddling," he sniffed. "I'm warning you. If I see those pathetic imitation socks again, I'll hex them off your feet."

"Whatever floats your boat, Malfoy. When do I put in the roots? Now?"

Draco stared at Potter, then stared at the socks. With a sigh, he raised his wand and charmed the elastic back in them so that there weren't flopping around Potter's ankles anymore.

Potter looked down as his ankles and laughed. "Thanks. You're a complete nutter, Malfoy. Absolutely balmy. You do you know that?" Potter had called Draco a number of names over the years, nutter being a standard insult, but this wasn't said with the usual rancor. Indeed, it was followed by a small but genuine smile, perhaps the first smile Potter had ever directed right at Draco.

It wasn't until the end of class that Draco noticed that he'd charmed the socks so that they matched exactly the colour of Potter's eyes.

It was while fussing with his tie, Draco musing absentmindedly over his own rather fulsome charms, moving on to Blaise's dick, and then that nice bit of Goyle's, when he got the idea. Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant if he did say so himself. Sometimes he astonished even himself. Yes, he had checked near genius off his list this morning. "Go me," he said out loud, and gave his tie a nice smart tug. If he couldn't best the Gryffindors in Quidditch, he would best them in an area where he absolutely knew Slytherin could win.

On Monday morning, notices were posted in the dormitory rooms of all seventh-year males in all four houses.

Slytherin House to Host
The First Annual Cock Olympic
Saturday Night, April 14, 7:00 pm
Old Charms Classroom
BYOW (bring your own wood)

Which house has the longest and most "eager" cocks? Judges will be assigned from all four houses. Contestants will be expected to wank (proof in the pudding optional) to determine the total length of cock to receive full points. The house with the highest total centimeters wins. The winning house will be hosted by the losing houses for the next three Saturday nights at The Three Broomsticks, as much butterbeer as the winning house can consume.

Contestants will be allowed to jerk off for five minutes, at which point a judge will measure in centimeters the length of said contestant's cock.

Stopwatches and hand lotion will be provided.

All wands are to be confiscated at entrance to room.

Any contestant discovered using an engorgement charm will result in the entire house being disqualified.

The length of each cock will be measured at the end of the five-minute grace period. The house with the greatest total centimeters wins the match.

May the Best House Wank

Blaise had persuaded Draco that he really had to include the Hufflepuffs, although Draco knew that they'd all be thrown out within the first round. What a complete and utter waste of time, Draco snorted. There couldn't possibly be a decent dick in that whole house, or his name was Scarhead Fuckface Fashion Victim Shit-for-Brains Oh-and-I'm Colourblind-Too Potter. But Blaise insisted, giving Draco pause. Had the Sorting Hat made a mistake? Sometimes Blaise displayed a shocking and very uncharacteristic notion of fair play for a Slytherin. Then Draco thought of Blaise's cock. Naturally he'd been put in Slytherin. What was Draco thinking? He'd been half inclined to not include the Ravenclaws as well, but after having caught a glimpse of Terry Boot's cock in the shower three years ago, even Draco had to concede that brains didn't necessarily cancel out brawn in all the right places.

The turnout was incredible, surpassing even Draco's expectations. A total of fifty boys showed up, nearly all the seventh years. Draco wasn't sure this was a bid for free booze or a desire to strut one's stuff. No matter. As long as they dropped their pants and went at it, who cared why they were here.

Draco had exempted Crabbe from the contest by naming him time keeper. No sense in humiliating him. Blaise was so well-endowed that they could afford to lose the couple of inches. And some nameless Hufflepuff sent word that he couldn't make it, claiming to have dragon pox, but no one believed him. Fucking coward. After a shaky start, the judges got the hang of measuring the finished product, and things were moving along swimmingly.

With supreme satisfaction, Draco noted that the Hufflepuffs had the smallest dicks in creation. At some point early on in the game, just as the last Hufflepuff was hustled off to the side lines, he leaned over and whispered into Blaise's ear, "Told you so." Could he call them or what? As he predicted, they were all knocked out in the first round, relegated to standing at the edges of the room, watching other boys wank off, the cocks getting larger and larger as the contest progressed. He didn't know how any of them would be able to hold their heads up in the Great Hall ever again. Although he supposed if you were showering with a bunch of people all of whom had dicks the size of cocktail wieners, then it really didn't matter. It was the context.

The Ravenclaws were surprisingly uneven; some built, some not. Draco once again was treated to the sight of Terry Boot's quite decent cock. This time he could actually look without seeming like a complete pervert. Not long, but nice and thick. Draco filed that away for future reference.

The night wore on. Liters of hand lotion dispensed, trousers dropped, boxers were shoved down below the knees. Boys pulling their dicks, fondling their balls, the judges with rulers at the ready. Draco noticed that like the Slytherins, the Gryffindors were saving the big guns for last. Thomas went down first ("Colour me shocked and amazed," whispered Draco to Blaise), followed by Finnigan (which surprised Draco after last summer's extremely interesting holiday weekend in Dublin, where, based on the pubs he'd frequented, he assumed all Irishmen were built like dray horses; but then he remembered that Finnigan was only half-Irish), and so on. Pretty soon it was down to Greg, Blaise, and Draco on the Slytherin side, Potter, the Weasel, and Longbottom on the Gryffindor side. Draco didn't even bother to hide his smirk. Longbottom! If that completely sorry excuse for a wizard had a dick any bigger than a cornichon he'd eat his silk boxer shorts for breakfast. And why were the ginger-haired freak Weasel and the prat Potter both wearing shit-eating grins?

"Well, Gentlemen, we are down to the last," Draco drawled, "And the best?" Draco took a quick peek at the clipboard bearing the tally so far. Slytherin was ahead by two centimeters already.

How do you spell victory?


The room reeked of the oily, heavy scent of hand lotion. Nearly all the boys were pulling on their pants and underwear in an effort to ease the erections that wouldn't go away. Despite all the frantic rubbing, no one had come yet, although some looked like they had been close. A few boys were favoring their wrists. Casualties of war.

"Who's up next?" Blaise demanded and slapped a ruler against the flat of his hand. Longbottom winced. Honestly, it was too pathetic.

The Weasel sauntered up and the room became quiet. He stepped out of his trousers, then lowered his boxers (Draco rolled his eyes; trust that completely pathetic tosser to sport white boxers) and began to stroke. Draco stifled a yawn, and then motioned to Goyle to get going. After a couple of minutes, Draco checked on Goyle's progress, good, not bad. How was Goyle measuring up against Potty's sidekick?

Argh! Why did he have to look?

Even the Weasel's pubic hair was red. It'd be a fucking miracle if he didn't have nightmares for weeks. Where's that blunt fork when you needed it? Draco forced himself to concentrate on a particular large freckle on the Weasel's neck. He abhorred freckles on principle, but anything was preferable to an eyeful of Weasel pubes. Finally, Blaise announced Weasel's tally (not bad Draco had to admit, although wild Thestrals wouldn't have pulled it out of him), but then Blaise grinned and said that Goyle was still the winner by three millimeters. Draco heaved a sigh of relief and leaned over to double check the tally. Still ahead, of course. He could taste the butterbeer already, all the colder and sweeter for having been paid for by that git Potter. And then Potter stepped up to the center of the room and began unbuttoning his pants.

Draco tensed. The amusement he'd gotten watching forty-plus boys tossing themselves off in public on the off chance of winning free butterbeer disappeared completely to be replaced by knots of some indescribable tension that only Potter was capable of producing in him.


Industrial-strength hate.

He hated the Weasel, hated Dumbledore, hated brussel sprouts, but these hates didn't tear him up inside. These hates weren't worthy of fifty glasses. Weasel wasn't even worth raising his wand hand. Dumbledore? At the very most a five-glass man. Brussel sprouts? Never more than seven glasses. After last Christmas, Voldemort earned himself an astonishing twenty-glass minimum. But Potter? That night after the game, Draco could have smashed a hundred glasses, his hair, eyes, and skin shiny with glass dust as Draco pointlessly shattered glass after glass after glass in a fruitless effort to dissipate some of his rage.

Potter was such an utter klutz in every aspect of his life, he couldn't even match socks and was barely able to chop mandrake root without slicing at least one of his fingers, but put the fucking idiot on a broom and he transformed into grace and speed personified. Potter owned the broom, owned the air around him. Ever since their fifth year, Draco had snuck up to the Astronomy tower with a pair of omnioculars to watch Potter whenever the Gryffindors had the pitch. He told Blaise he was spying on them to discover their strategies for upcoming matches, but honestly. Gryffindor didn't need a strategy. They had Potter. Watching Potter fly on his broom filled Draco with the loveliest sense of lassitude. As Malfoys do not do lassitude, this freaked the hell out of him, but he couldn't stop himself. And he hated Potter for that, too. For his weakness. Because after watching Potter fly, Draco felt the same way he did after a particularly good wank. Lazy, happy, and calm. Draco liked feeling calm. And happy. He rarely felt happy; amused was about as good as it got. But it was more than that. Potter on a broom was sure, confident, brash, cheeky even. A lot more appealing than that "incompetents are us" routine. Completely. Fucking. Beautiful. If Draco were being honest with himself. Once, to his eternal shame, Draco had watched Potter for over two hours, circling above the Quidditch field, letting the broom take him where it would. Afterwards, Draco ran back to his room and wanked off to the most tremendous orgasm he'd ever had, groaning out a tortured "Harry," as he soaked his sheets.

The next day he pushed Potter down the stairs.

Lately, Draco found himself hating Potter with such increasing venom that it frightened even him. He hated how Potter was morphing into a man so quickly that when he ran into him the other day, he didn't recognize him. Draco was calling over his shoulder to Blaise, when he suddenly stumbled over a foot and began to fall. Simultaneously, strong arms caught him as Draco reached out to steady himself, his hands cupping a trim waist. Hellooooo. Who did this lovely body belong to? Draco pasted on his sexiest smile, and was about to look up and pour on the Malfoy charm when he smelled Potter's particular scent. Vanilla. Potter always smelled of vanilla. Draco took one completely involuntary sniff and then elbowed Potter in the stomach while snarling, "Watch where you're going, you blind idiot." Draco was shocked to discover his hands tingled for hours afterwards. Like he'd touched magic.

Slight of Hand

Potter—who in every respect was one of the clumsiest people Draco had ever had the misfortune to meet, the twit shuffled everywhere and still tripped over everything in his path and even tripped when there was nothing in his path, does he ever pick up his feet, but what could you expect from a moron who believed that mismatched socks were an acceptable lifestyle choice—undid his pants with a confidence and ease that Draco had only seen him exhibit on the Quidditch pitch when he was chasing the Snitch. If Draco had injected fifteen chocolate bars and five cups of espresso I.V., he couldn't have been more wound up. He watched in horror and fascination as Potter's pants fell in slow motion to pool around his ankles.

What the hell?

Fuckingpathetictwat; miserableloathsomewanker, pitifulfour-eyedgit; scarredhideoustwit; prickteasewhoringcunt; wretchedinsufferable TOSSER!



Draco barely heard Crabbe's voice announcing, "Get ready; set; go!" Conversely, the click of the stopwatch reverberated like an explosion in his ear, and then for the next five minutes Draco felt every tight and desperate molecule of air forcing its way through his lungs. Later, Draco suspected that if at that moment Crabbe had shouted that Draco's hair was on fire, Draco would have told him to fuck off, gladly letting himself be incinerated to a heap of beautiful white ash rather than reach for a pail of water. For that would have meant taking his eyes off of Potter. Which he wouldn't have done for all the chocolate in France, or all the glasses in Britain, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland combined:

  • Not with Potter's slim waist and the flat of his olive-toned stomach not three feet from him and Draco aching to rip the shirt off of Potter's back because his nipples were beginning to pucker under the soft cotton of his white tee-shirt, whether from nerves or arousal, and what did they look like and would they taste of vanilla and salt and did Potter like having them touched and pinched and licked and bit and pulled oh so gently and oh god maybe pinched and licked and bit and pulled not so gently?

  • Not as Draco's eyes followed the dark hair on Potter's stomach as it tapered into the most inviting vee of black, curly, coarse pubic hair, which nestled a very nice half-hard cock pulling away from plump balls that were already hanging a little low and no doubt a little sweaty and how would they feel cupped in Draco's hands?

  • Not as he watched Potter close his eyes and then with one hand, the nails bit down to the nubs, fondle one ball, then the other, oh yes, and, holyfuck, the thumb of Potter's other hand, shitshitshit, began to tease his cock, rubbing his flat of his thumb up and down the underside of his cock for a minute and when Draco thought he'd scream from anticipation, "You bastard, grab your cock, or I'm going to fucking well kill you," the right side of Potter's mouth twitched up just a fraction of a centimeter, and then he slowly began sliding his thumb back and forth under his slit.

Draco thought it couldn't possibly get worse. But he was wrong.

Because Potter shuddered and brought his other hand up to his mouth, ran his thumb over his bottom lip before wetting it with his tongue, and then sneaking his hand under his tee-shirt, he began thumbing and pinching first one nipple and then the other, while the other hand continued to massage his head, and Draco didn't know what was worse, finally getting a teasing glimpse of Potter's large, dark nipples as he played with them or getting only a teasing glimpse of Potter's large, dark nipples as he played with them, and Draco silently groaned because his own balls began clenching in that hot, tight, hot way that usually meant he was about six seconds from coming and he knew that if that fucker didn't stop he was going to cream in his pants but Potter did stop, and Draco was about to exhale a giant sigh of relief, but then Potter licked his palm, closed his saliva-shiny hand around his cock, and began to pump, while the thumb of the other hand kept its gentle round and round under the slit.

Unable to take his eyes off of Potter, Draco began counting seconds in an attempt to stave off his pending orgasm. As he watched in continuing horror, Potter stroked, teased, and massaged his cock to complete fullness, giving everyone in the room an honors thesis presentation on how to jerk off.

One-hundred twenty, one-hundred twenty-one… Why in the fucking hell hadn't Crabbe called time yet? One-hundred twenty-two… Could I deep throat that? One-hundred twenty-three… Ohchrist, he's fucking his hand now… One-hundred twenty-four… Surely,surely, surely, surely…uh…surely, it had been… One-hundred twenty-four… Five minutes already. One-hundred twenty-five… Why, why, why does one of the nicest cocks I've ever seen belong to that git? One-hundred twenty-six… If Potter keeps this up I'm going to loose it. One-hundred twenty-seven… And then I'll never be able to get it up again. One-hundred twenty-seven… The humiliation would be much too much to bear. One-hundred twenty-seven… Has Potter ever sucked anyone off? One-hundred twenty-seven… One-hundred twenty-seven… One-hundred twenty-seven… One-hundred twenty-seven…

"Time," yelled Crabbe and Potter stopped. Just like that. Draco didn't know whether to cry from relief or frustration. Potter cupped his dick with one hand so Blaise and Ron could measure it, pulled down his shirt with his other, and before Draco could turn away, he opened his eyes and stared right into Draco's. Potter didn't so much as a flick a glance in Weasley's or Blaise's direction. And Potter, the arch-typical Gryffindor, who for the entire seven years Draco had known him had been an open book, every emotion stamped in big earnest letters on his face, was here and now completely inscrutable, so devoid of expression that if Draco hadn't known better he'd have sworn that this was a Slytherin. Because only a Slytherin could have done such a virtuoso performance with his own dick in front of fifty other boys and then just stop, acting like he'd spent the last five minutes untying a knot in his shoelace.

Potter didn't blink or even acknowledge his score when Blaise announced it to the room; he kept his eyes riveted on Draco. Was this a challenge, a question, a bet, a fuck you, or, god, he wondered, an invitation? Draco stood mesmerized as those eyes continued to make some demand or statement Draco didn't understand. If the room hadn't full of people he'd have hit him, screamed at him, "What the fuck do you want, Potter?" anything to break that cool appraisal that was feeding this horrible arousal.

The spell was broken when Blaise slapped him on the back. "Oi, Draco, your turn, Potter beat Goyle." At those words, Potter bent down, grabbed the waistband of his pants to hoist them back up on his hips, and then shoved his cock to the side, struggling with the zipper as his pants tented out from his still full-blown erection. But he didn't move; he just stood there. Christ. He intended to watch Draco jerk off with the same scrutiny with which Draco had watched him.

Being a near a genius, he'd worn his robes tonight. Earlier that afternoon, he spent a couple of hours debating what to wear. Not too casual, it was up to him to inject a note of formality into this affair, yet he didn't want to put on too much of the dog. With any luck, this would become a yearly tradition, whereby Slytherin could humiliate the three other houses without any effort. He frowned; the cost of all that hand lotion had been considerable. Perhaps he should have the other houses chip in. Sort of an equipment fee. He flipped through his wardrobe containing forty dress robes, twenty white dress shirts, thirty blue dress shirts, and twenty pairs of gray flannels (Draco like round numbers) before settling on midnight blue robes that brought out the gray in his eyes.

All that mental effort for nothing. Fuck. At this point, he could been wearing a robe made out of burlap, because all he cared about was hiding his erection, which was stuck to his silk boxer shorts. Please, he prayed. Don't let me have stained the front of my trousers.

"Ready, Draco?" Blaise asked absentmindedly, while totaling up the inches from Goyle and Potter.

Ready? You could say that, Draco thought bitterly. Oh Merlin. He didn't need five minutes. He didn't even need five seconds. He was so hard, that close, a mere two strokes and he'd flood his hand. At a loss over what to do, he coughed a few times in a desperate bid to buy time. Blaise, sensing something was wrong, asked him if he was all right. He nodded and then coughed again trying to eke out another few seconds of grace. Blaise conjured up a glass of water, which Draco sipped slowly.

What to do?

Should he just fuck it?

Tell Crabbe to stuff this farce and measure him right then and there. Let the world see that with a few strokes of his hand, Harry Potter had reduced Draco Malfoy, of incomparable physical beauty, grace, elegance, and charm, oh, addendum, mustn't omit the perfect dick part, into a whimpering mess with a hard-on the size of Europe. A Draco Malfoy who could've cared less about the socks Potter was wearing because given half a chance and two seconds, Draco would charm off every stitch of what Potter called his clothes.

Thank god for breeding. If this wasn't what being a Pureblood was all about. Just as he was about to admit defeat, open his robes and let come what may, a little evil voice inside of him admonished, "Get a grip. Draco. You are a Malfoy. You are a Slytherin. Don't let this sad little colourblind freak get the better of you."

Coughing again into his left hand as a distraction, Draco clenched his right hand so tightly that his nails gouged half-moon marks into the palm of his hand. He kept grinding his nails into his palm until he felt pain and warmth. Continuing to abuse his palm with his nails, slowly but surely he felt his erection softening.


Keeping his right palm clenched tight against the side of his robe in case his palm really started bleeding, he tossed his chin in a defiant jerk and looked back into Potter's eyes, the question, the answer, the challenge still there. Just for him. He knew it.

"You want a show, Potter?" Draco sneered.

The energy between them shifted, then broke. Like Potter was surprised or uncertain about what was going to happen next.

Potter winged a look in the Weasel's direction, rolled his eyes, and snapped back with the usual scorn with which he addressed Draco, "No, I don't. Just wank off, you jerk. Let's get this over with." They were back to the status quo.

But not.

Because Draco could see that Potter's erection hadn't abated one iota, and that Potter's upper lip was shiny with sweat. Just like his

You Put Your Right Hand In…

If Potter wanted a show, he'd get a show. But first…

Turning around to put his water glass on the table, Draco snuck a lightning-fast hand under the flap of his robe to determine whether or not he had leaked through his shorts to his trousers. No, thank Merlin's dick, no! Tomorrow morning after ascertaining—pro forma, of course—that his monogrammed socks were indeed monogrammed with all the initials in the proper order, he'd send Mother an enormous bouquet of perfect white tulips with a card informing her that whatever she paid for his shorts, they were worth (underline "worth") every (underline "every") Galleon. And could she order another twenty pair? The next time Blaise teased him about how the yearly cost of his custom-made boxers ran neck and neck with the GNP of Portugal, Blaise could just suck his cock. Twice.

The legendary Malfoy confidence restored to its normal insufferable level, Draco muttered a healing charm on his palm, placed his hands on his hips, and turned around. Slowly. To face forty-plus pair of eyes trained on him. And forty-plus bodies with their legs cantilevered out from their bodies to give their erections much needed relief. Hmmm, there seemed to be a definite correlation between which direction someone's leg was angled and whether they were right or left-handed. But he was ambidextrous, so which way… No, no, no, back to the task at hand.

Scrunching up his brow, he shook his head ever so slightly as he surveyed the room, as if to say, "You poor pathetic tossers (for once that sobriquet absolutely appropriate), you call that wanking?"

While privately acknowledging (was it possible to Obliviate oneself?) that watching Potter palm himself brought Draco to within a hair's breadth of an orgasm—as in fuckinghellthatwasthehottestthingI'veeverseen—he would rather proposition McGonagall and Dumbledore for a threesome (whips and chains obligatory) than admit it. And based on the odd angle of forty-something legs, he wasn't the only person in the room impressed by Potter's hand/dick coordination. However, never let it be said that Malfoys didn't rise to a challenge. The amateurs (specifically one very, very, gifted amateur) could hand it over and let a pro show how it was done. By the end of his five minutes, if he didn't have at least a third of the room popping their corks, so to speak, his name wasn't Draco Black Cesarus Lucius Guillaume Lorenzo Jean-Franc Maximillius Klaus Frederick Tertian Dromenico Malfoy. Any memories they might have of Harry's strong brown hand caressing and thumbing a perfectly delicious-looking dick or flicking a peaked brown nipple or nervous fingers flitting across the flat of his stomach or any other manner of sexual acrobatics on Potter's part would be flobberworm feed compared to the performance they were about to witness.

Pureblood. Purely fucking awesome. Pure Malfoy.

One more sweep of the room and his eyes came to rest on a grim-faced Potter, which did absolutely nothing for his rather nice bottom lip. The second their eyes met, Potter brought his arms up around himself in a tight hug. Draco noted with immense satisfaction that Potter still had a full-blown, christ-that-had-to-hurt hard-on.

Well, you scarfaced pathetic git, if you think you hurt now

"Blaise," Draco drawled, "Can we get this show on the road? I don't have all night."

"Right, Draco. Vince," Blaise asked Crabbe, "Ready?" but he kept his eyes on Draco; his little coughing fit hadn't passed unnoticed. In code, Blaise raised his left eyebrow and turned his head one inch toward Draco in the silent question, "You okay?" Draco responded with his right eyebrow raised and a smile. "Absolutely fucking brilliant," he signaled.

Blaise lowered his eyebrow slowly in such a manner that said, "Had me worried."

Draco had spent the entire summer of his fifth year perfecting the eyebrow code. He'd refined it over the years, and now a room full of Slytherins could carry on a conversation without so much as uttering a single word. It was amazing how handy that turned out to be, especially since Blaise and Pansy were now an item. On most days all Pansy could manage was a croak with consonants. Of course, not everyone was as proficient as Draco, Blaise, and Pansy, but even Crabbe, severe vitamin deficiency notwithstanding, had mastered the basics. Draco's only failure was that complete immovable lump Millicent Bulstrode. Honestly, he would have had more success with an ice cube. Assuming ice cubes had eyebrows. After spending hours demonstrating the most simple of phrases, he started to develop a very unflattering twitch whereby his eyebrows began to move uncontrollably in six different directions, while hers remained cemented in place. He conceded defeat. No great loss, frankly. Who really wanted to converse, even in eyebrow code, with Millicent Bulstrode?

Unbuttoning his robe in a trice and without even looking in his direction, Draco handed it to Goyle. Whose hand was at the ready. Ah, minions. Perhaps he'd reconsider Goyle's exile to Mozambique. He'd put him on minion probation instead. Crabbe, too. He was in a generous mood, now that he could all but taste a Slytherin victory.

Draco stood in front of Potter in a simple button-down blue shirt, gray flannels, his beloved monogrammed socks, and dragon-hide loafers. An outfit that didn't exactly scream out, "Fuck me into the mattress," so much as, "Say, you want to go to the library and do Arithmancy problems for a couple of hours?" but when one is handed lemons, one must make lemonade. Besides, Draco didn't need any manner of props, because Draco Malfoy had the most shaggable body in Hogwarts.

Not that there hadn't been some concern on that score.

Over the years, Draco watched his peers scamper into puberty, while his own body remained skinny and shapeless. Although his voice matured into a very acceptable baritone, his shoulders didn't fill out, nor did he develop any of the other lovely hallmarks of puberty, with the exception of pubic hair. Thank Merlin for small miracles, because at that point all speculation—fuck yourself six ways to Sunday, Nott—as to whether he'd been using glamours on his hair was put to rest, thank you very much. But that was it. Aside from his voice changing and his pubes growing in, he just got taller. At sixteen, he resembled nothing so much a mutant six-year-old with a deep voice. Many a night he lay in bed cursing the fact that he'd inherited the less-than-sublime physique of his hated Great-Uncle Roman Black.

The fates relented, however, and during the summer before his seventh year the Malfoy genes came to the fore. Skinny and thin became sleek and taut. Hours of Quidditch practice had toned his stomach to perfection, and, then, as if he needed yet another reminder of how completely fucking blessed he was to be a Malfoy, the somewhat infamous Malfoy arse appeared seemingly overnight. An arse that looked so hot in black leather that the only thing hotter was said arse out of black leather. Life didn't get much better.

Nodding at Blaise to let him know he was ready, Draco poised an elegant finger over his left shirt cuff button. At Crabbe's "Go!" Draco closed his eyes and whispered to himself, "Show time."

As he quickly unbuttoned his cuffs and the front of his shirt, Draco pondered exactly what images he should conjure up while bringing himself to the brink. Critical, really. Because he wanted to get within one stroke of coming, as full and flushed as possible. Every millimeter counted.

Shirt open, the flat of his hands resting on the blond thatch of hair that grew down the length of his stomach into his pubis. Moving them up the hard line of his ribs, he begins to palm his nipples lightly, teasing, wooing them.

He would not think about Potter. Absolutely not. Now that he'd come to his senses, that little loss of control was obviously due to some hex or potion slipped in his pumpkin juice. There was no fucking way Draco found Potter physically attractive. Who could?

  • That scar. Enough said.

  • The hair. A complete horror story in itself.

  • That utter lack of even the most rudimentary fashion sense; rudimentary as in matching one's socks before venturing out in public. And, as if he needed any more ammunition on that score, the git didn't even have the decency to wear underwear.
  • Speaking of underwear, that waist, his hands on Potter's waist that day in the hallway… No, no, no, don't think about the waist.

  • Wonder what his ankles were like? Ankles were Draco's secret weakness (and kink). Probably knobby. Ugly. Yes, Potter would have hideous ankles.

A troll, an absolute troll. Well, not tall enough for a troll; possibly a troll who was a dwarf. The bottom line: any fantasy featuring Potter was out of the question.

Thumb and index finger come to a point, and begin pullingpinchingrolling taut nipples back forth.

There was that stupendous afternoon with Blaise several months ago at the end of their affair. Oh yes, figs, raspberries, a bottle of his father's finest cognac, and melted chocolate. Draco remembered their frantic kissing, mouths wet and nut-flavored from the alcohol; Blaise's wrenching moan as Draco poured the warm chocolate over the cleft of his arse; the chocolate coating Draco's cheeks and chin as his tongue lapped away; and Blaise coming without even Draco touching him. Draco's cock jumped. He'd have to unbutton his pants soon or he'd asphyxiate.

Sucking gently on one thumb while the other hand continues to squeeze and pull at his left nipple. A soft slurping sound as his thumb leaves his mouth and begins to circle round and round his right nipple, tender and aching now as it reacts to the wet and air and stimulation; his cock throbs in sympathy, silently begging: me, what about me? Other thumb slips into his mouth and lips begin to suck. Body arches into growing erection.

Surprising what excellent lube melted chocolate made. Wonderful afternoon. Draco hardened. Yes!

Unfortunately, as with all of Draco's more brilliant plans, it backfired. And as wonderful as the afternoon had been, Draco couldn't help but remember the aftermath. He woke up the next morning in horrible pain, his dick covered in enormous red spots that hurt and itched. It must have been that French chocolate; the Belgians wouldn't even consider using such shoddy ingredients.

Assuming he could even stand the pain, God forbid he'd even think about approaching anyone for a shag. If he'd been propositioned by someone with a dick advertising sixth stage venereal disease, they'd hear his screams in, well, Mozambique. Even wanking was out of the question. Can you spell hell on earth? B.e.i.n.g-a-s.e.v.e.n.t.e.e.n-y.e.a.r-o.l.d-b.o.y-a.n.d-u.n.a.b.l.e-t.o-j.e.r.k-o.f.f. Blaise was similarly afflicted, although certainly better off than Draco. For two weeks Draco couldn't wank and Blaise couldn't sit down.

Finally, after Draco's sexual frustration grew to such heights that he began indiscriminately hexing anyone who even so much as looked in his direction, Blaise dragged the both of them off to Madam Pomfrey. Possibly the most embarrassing thirty minutes of his life. Madam Pomfrey clearly didn't believe their story that they'd had an allergic reaction to soap. Utter cow.

"I trust that you two will be more careful about what soaps you use in future." "Do you think you're really old enough to be using soap?" "Do I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore about the fact you boys are using soap?" On and on it went. Only Blaise's repeated kicks to his shins kept Draco from hexing her mouth shut. After they promised not to bathe again, it was all he could do not to snatch the container of salve from her hand. The final indignity: "Do you want me to administer the salve?" To this day, whenever she saw him she'd ask him if he was still using soap.

Utter cow with a cherry on top.

Of course, even a simple hand job had both of them recalling the regrettable chocolate-aphrodisiac-cum-lube-cum-severe-allergic-reaction episode. Thus, their affair ended amicably. Draco handed Blaise over to Pansy with a few cryptic words about Blaise's allergy to chocolate, it's the size of Wales, and a couple of sure-fire healing charms for a sore throat.

To Draco's horror, his cock began to wilt at the memory. No! He began mentally scrambling for anything that would bring his cock back to hardness; an arse came into mind, light brown. Au naturel or the remnants of a summer holiday at the seashore? Sans bathing trunks? Potter would certainly feel right at home. Suddenly, he saw his hands kneading, teasing…

While a wet thumb teases his left nipple, a sure hand unbuttons, then unzips his flannels. A quick shimmy of hips and the trousers fall to the floor. Cupping, rolling his balls though his boxers, the slick caress of the silk and the pressure of his hand brings his erection back to full force. A loud grunt in the background signals that one had fallen, forty-six to go. He sighs with relief.

Now where was he? Oh yes, pale, long, elegant fingers stroked the darker skin, which was so intoxicating his stomach curled inside out. So. Beautiful. Reaching for the cup of melted chocolate (this time the finest bittersweet Belgian chocolate, make no mistake), he raised the cup about ten inches above that beautiful arse and poured the chocolate slowly, oh so slowly, over both cheeks, in the cleft…

Shrugging off his shirt so that it hangs in the crook of his elbows, he then pulls his arms away from his body. His shirt falls to the floor with a soft shush. Off in the distance, another grunt…

It was like watching someone pour a shot of espresso into a latte. The swirl of dark brown against the lighter brown of a plump arse cheek. Holy hell, that delicious clench of his stomach again. A voice whimpered, "Draco. Fuck. Oh fuck." Fantasy Draco stopped. He knew that voice. Who was it? All of a sudden fantasy Draco and real Draco were one and the same, and they both knew that this was Potter's husky rasp crying out his name, crying out his pleasure, his desire.

No! No! No! No Potter!

Clearly, there must still have been traces of that hex in his system. Think. Think. Okay, Terry Boot had terrific shoulders and that thick cock…

His left hand sneaks under the waistband of his boxer shorts to wrap around himself, his body arching again into the palm of one hand, while his right hand slides in behind the fabric of his boxers to cup the curve of his arse where it meets his leg. Both hands squeeze. He arches even more, the muscles in his back stretching into the motion. The hand on his arse moves to his waistband and yanks his boxer shorts down just enough to free his cock and balls. One hand then returns to his arse, fingers just close enough to the cleft to tease. Off in the distance, he hears two moans—no, three. His hand moves up his cock and his thumb slowly pushes under the slit and…

Boot. Think Boot. Draco imagined the two of them standing naked, front to back. They were the same height, which was odd, because Draco was at least half a head taller than Boot, but hell, this was a fantasy. Draco embraced him, his mouth nuzzled Boot's dark hair (wait, wasn't Boot blond?), his erection pushing up against Boot's arse. Boot was pushing back and panting in short, hot breaths, the quick in and out of Boot's back throbbing gently against Draco's chest. Fucking hell, Draco had never been so excited. He pulled back a little and dragged his tongue across the entire width of Boot's back, from shoulder tip to shoulder tip. Merlin's balls, who knew Boot tasted so good? Like vanilla. He heard himself moaning, not sure now whether he was moaning in his fantasy or moaning out loud, but who the fuck cared, because his fantasy self was sucking at the curve of where Potter's neck and shoulder met and it was wonderful. His stomach was doing the tango, his groin was doing the mambo, and he was pushing against Potter's arse… Fuck!

No! No! No! No Potter!

He opened his eyes to orient himself, to stop this, to fight this. Which turned out to be yet another idea gone wrong, because right in front of him stood Potter, the tight-lipped grimace gone. Once again Potter was questioning, demanding. The look on his face seemed to say that even though forty-six pairs of eyes could see the same thing, it was his for the taking. Oh goddamn him. Goddamn him. Draco hated not knowing, not being in control, not taking because he didn't know what was being offered. And then Potter did something that truly made Draco hate him. Hate him more than he'd ever hated him. Potter ran the tip of his tongue over that luscious bottom lip, which was now shiny and somewhat swollen. Had Potter been worrying it with his teeth? An image appeared of Potter bending over him, playfully nipping Draco's neck, shoulders, just below his navel, the inside of his thighs. Draco's stomach and groin clenched so hard that it was all he could do to stay upright. Goddamn that bastard to hell. Draco closed his eyes again and hung his head in defeat.

The hand cupping his arse moves toward his balls. He hears more moans off in the distance; they seem much fainter than before, but he doesn't really care who is getting off because he needs to fondle his balls or he will die. He can't help himself and mouths, "Fuck," as he rolls them back and forth in a sweaty palm as he brings his other hand up to his mouth. Licking his palm in broad, slow stripes so that it's good and wet, he returns his hand to his dick and begins to stroke, fondle, stroke with a twist at the end, ohfuckyeah, just a slight twist, fondle…

He and Potter were naked on an anonymous bed. His body stood out in sharp relief, but for some reason Potter was vague in parts. Like Draco was near-sighted. And Potter was touching him, but not sexually. Inexplicably, Potter was tickling him, and Draco was laughing, giggling even. The real Draco knew that he'd never giggled in his entire life. He wouldn't even know how to giggle, but somehow the fantasy Draco was doing an excellent imitation of it. "Give up, you prat?" fantasy Harry demanded. "Never. Never," panted out fantasy Draco in between giggles. More tickling ensued, but somehow Draco turned the tables and he was tickling Potter. Potter's throaty, deep guffaws unraveled something very deep inside Draco, and the tickling turned into gentle caresses down the length of Potter's waist. Potter nuzzled into the curve of Draco's body, laved Draco's ear with a very wet tongue, and whispered, "Draco," with an ease that suggested he said it every day of his life. What's more, hearing Harry say his name like that spurred more unraveling, more unwinding. In fact, it wasn't an unwinding so much as something had finally stopped. The only thing Draco could liken it to was a top that had ceased its frantic spinning, was wobbling, then did an exhausted bobbing first to one side and then the other, until it final tipped on its side, utterly spent.

The cessation of this something that had no name was such a relief that Draco almost sobbed with it. If he didn't know any better, he'd have sworn it felt like happiness. Harry's name was on his lips, and he was about to answer back, to respond to Harry's call of his name, when hands began to stroke his thighs, again with an ease like these hands had done this a million times before. Draco arched into these wonderful hands as they begin to stroke, fondle, stroke with a twist at the end, ohfuckyeah, just a slight twist, fondle…

Then Harry began to call his name again, and Draco turned toward it, expecting the same lovely breathy murmur that jellied Draco's insides before…but something was wrong. No sexy murmur. No, it was insistent, like he was trying to get his attention. Not now, Potter, you git. So close, so close. Just a little… Like that, just like that…

"Draco! Draco, it's time," Harry barked. But it wasn't Harry's voice. It sounded like Blaise. What in the fuck was Blaise doing interrupting his fantasy? He was destroying what had been shaping up to be the wank of the century.

"Blaise," Draco snapped open his eyes and growled, "You'd better like the weather in Africa—"

Blaise coughed and raised his eyebrows—first right, then left—to indicate they weren't exactly alone. The understatement of the year. Draco wasn't in bed with Harry Potter getting the hand job of the century. He was standing in a room with forty-something boys holding their crotches, he wasn't wearing a shirt, his trousers were pooled around his ankles, and his hand was clutching his dick. In front of him stood Harry Potter, his arms still wrapped around himself, the edges of his teeth slightly red with blood as they tore into his bottom lip.

Hand It Over

Draco might have imagined it, but he didn't think anyone in the entire room was breathing or moving. Oh, shit. Shit! In those few seconds of suspended animation, Draco began to panic, sweat pooling under his arms and in the small of his back. Fuck, please someone kill me now. Private humiliation was one thing. Nothing could be worse than adopting Potter as a fantasy figure. His Malfoy ancestors were making gagging noises in their graves. But he'd punish himself later, restricting himself to eating only American chocolate for an entire week. A severe punishment to be sure, however, no less than he deserved. American milk chocolate. But his private hell was nothing compared to this public flogging. Spine-crushing, abject humiliation in front of his peers. Where's a Portkey to Mozambique when you bloody well needed it?

He was just this side of total despair when two blessed words popped into his head.

The List.

Oh God. The List. Flawless hair. Check. Near genius. Given. The completely uncharacteristic panic nearly paralyzing him began to abate. He checked a whimper of gratitude. It was working. Phenomenal physical beauty. You're so bloody right. As he mentally ticked off all his personal charms, the Malfoy starch, the confidence, the absolute bloody sass that was as natural to Draco as breathing came back, not with a whimper but a roar. He arched his back ever so slightly because the best part Perfect dick.

As if there was any room for debate on that score.


Suck rocks, Potter, he crowed to himself. Based on the number of people Draco had heard grunting and no doubt flooding their anxious little hands during his five-minute gala performance, Potter was choking on Draco's wanking dust. That dwarf-like troll didn't bring off a single person despite all his cock-sure hand action and delicious nipple tweaking. Was it even open to debate that Draco's equipment and technique certainly beat, hands down, that scarred, blind-as-a-bat, absolute twit, who would, under no circumstances, ever blacken his fantasy life again?

Rolling his shoulders in a lazy, devil-may-care attitude, he tilted his chin in what he hoped was a killing gesture of nonchalance and gave Blaise a confident smirk. "Ready when you are, Zabini." As if it were, ho-hum, just another day in the life of Draco Malfoy to be ogled by nearly his entire class, about three seconds from orgasm, as he wanked off to some sordid private fantasy. Flannels around his ankles. So standard. Silk boxers riding under his balls. Yawn. Happened the other day, as a matter of fact. Yawn again. While staring down his arch enemy.

Wait. That did happen every day. The staring part.

Potter hadn't moved an inch, his upper teeth still worrying that frankly sexy bottom lip. Fuck, he prayed, make Potter as deaf as he was blind. Because if Draco had uttered out loud half of what he'd said in the fantasy, Draco was Flooing immediately to Mozambique. No, Africa wasn't nearly far enough: Bangkok. A slight frissure appeared in his newly minted armor, widening with every millisecond, until his trusty evil little voice screeched, "Don't go there, Draco!"

Thank Merlin his evil voice occasionally doubled as the voice of reason.

Right. Lowering his eyelids until they were nearly closed, he pulled his eyes away from Potter's bottom lip and, with all the sated grace of a jungle cat that had just consumed an exceptionally fat zebra, turned his attention to Blaise and raised an eyebrow.

Blaise handed Vince the ruler and grabbed the clipboard with the tally sheet, quill at the ready. Vince, with his usual lack of affect—which is to say his face had all the animation of a ventriloquist's dummy—placed the ruler next to Draco's dick and measured. Three seconds later, Vince's chin jerked up, his eyebrows wriggling frantically at Blaise but not making an ounce of sense.

Clearly, a refresher course in eyebrow code was called for. What's the frigging point of having a secret eyebrow code if the codees can't understand the coders?

All Draco could determine from Vince's manic eyebrow action was, "Tie me fucking hell." Had Vince developed some sort of bondage fetish recently? Too bad. Now was not the time for Vince to indulge in his fucked-up kink. Draco motioned with his eyebrows for Vince to get a move on or by morning he'd be leaping across the Serengeti Plains with the gazelles. Not that Draco didn't have a soft spot for other people's kinks—glass houses and all that—but this was ridiculous. Time was—well, it wasn't money—but, well, time. Draco wasn't getting any harder here. Vince swallowed slowly and deeply, and then looked down again at the ruler. When he looked up again, he patently refused to meet Draco's eye and whispered something in Blaise's ear. Blaise whispered something back. Vince tried to muffle his voice, but in his desperation his voice cracked and nearly everyone in the room heard him.

"But I've measured it three times already, and he's getting smaller."

"Blaaaiiisse," hissed Draco, in an undertone.

Blaise replied with a resigned roll of his left eyebrow in apology and announced to the room at large, "Tie. Malfoy and Potter are tied."

"A TIE?" Draco roared. Impossible! Draco didn't care how gorgeous Potter's cock was. This just wasn't on! "Not. Bloody. Likely. A tie with Scarhead?" he sputtered.

"For god's sake, Malfoy. Shut the fuck up," snarled Weasley. As usual, the Weasel was spoiling for a fight, and Draco wasn't the only one who thought so, because the colour-blind freak finally stopped torturing his bottom lip to whisper something in the Weasel's ear while simultaneously laying a restraining hand on his shoulder. Unfortunately, Potter hadn't clapped a hand over the Weasel's mouth. "No one's questioned the scores," he continued ranting. "Your house's doing the bloody measuring. Belt up, you git."

Total erection buster. Even Weasel's voice was ginger. Every vowel, every consonant coming out of that twit's mouth caused Draco's erection to sag, sorry millimeter by sorry millimeter.

"Weasel," Draco opened his eyes. Fucking ginger-haired, ginger-voiced cretin. "If ever I want your opinion on anything, I'll let you know. Do us all a tremendous favor and hold your breath until I do. There's a good boy."

So furious he didn't give a flying fuck of what impression he was making, Draco shoved his now decidedly soft-ish dick into his boxer shorts, leaned down and hauled up his pants, and then held out a hand for his shirt, which Greg supplied at the ready. Ignoring the incredulous gasps around him as Blaise pulled out his dick in all it's as-big-as-Wales glory and went to town, Draco tried to button his shirt. So angry he tore half the buttons off before he could feed them into their buttonholes, Draco grimaced as he slipped his shirttail into his trousers and zipped up. Had Blaise gone mad? Couldn't he have given Draco an eighth of an inch more? Blaise's credentials as a Slytherin were in serious jeopardy. A subject the two of them would be discussing later, you could be sure of that.

He hated everyone.

Potter most of all.

With half his shirt buttons missing, he probably resembled some destitute Muggle, desperate for a handout. Why, oh why, hadn't he worn an undershirt? He held out his hand for his robes. Odd. He jerked his hand a little to signal his extreme irritation. Still no robes. Where in the hell were his robes? Deep breath. Bending over to ostensibly adjust a trouser cuff, he searched for Greg's ankles. No fat ankles in grubby white socks in sight.

He stood up to scan the room, but Greg seemed to have completely disappeared, leaving Draco to parade around in this wreck of a dress shirt. Fine. He'd find the robes himself.

Before he could move, however, Vince shoved the clipboard into Draco's hand. "Oi, Draco, would you hold the clipboard?" Draco was so shocked—did he look like the type of moron who should be holding a clipboard?—he didn't even smack Vince in front of all these non-Slytherins, the standard punishment for uttering that plebian "oi" in his presence. Those perverted twins (and people said he was twisted?) used it with abandon, and since they were the poster boys for everything low brow, Draco had forbidden all Slytherins from uttering it in his presence.

Draco held up the clipboard and pretended to study the numbers. It should have been his moment of shared glory. Blaise was working that enormous cock to victory, but his misery knew no bounds. The groans of the crowd should have had him smirking to beat the band, his sneer getting more pronounced with every lengthening pull. Instead, he was standing in a shirt missing half its buttons, reduced to being clipboard monitor, his dick soft but aching like hell from not getting off, and staring at the pitiful standings of some Hufflepuff who'd been thrown out in the first round.

Tied with Potter. This was undoubtedly the worst day of his life. After the contest, he'd return to his room and indulge in a marathon glass-smashing session. Five hundred glasses minimum, quota or no daily quota, and he'd fucking strangle any house elves that tried to limit him to the fifty-glass-a-day bullshit. Once the glasses were shattered, he'd drink himself into a coma. Not even winning the stupid contest was going to make up for this horror of a day. He doubted he'd even enjoy the gloating once they'd won. He'd put on a good show, of course, but it would all be an act because he'd have to face the reality in the morning.

And every morning after that.

How was he going to do The List? There can't be two perfect dicks. Perhaps Potter had a small, disgusting bend in his dick. He frowned. Was he grasping at the proverbial straw? He had to admit, having had a ringside seat, so to speak, that Potter's dick certainly didn't appear to have any nausea-inducing twists or bends. Perhaps a mole? Draco hated moles almost as much as he hated freckles. Yes! An ugly mole on the underside. One with gnarly bumps. Potter's dick only looked perfect, but on closer inspection there'd be a mole, the sort of mole that would give Draco nightmares for years if he ever he sucked off Potter. Not that he would suck Potter, of course.

The consoling thought that Potter had a mole on his dick, which in Draco's imagination was growing second by second until Potter's dick was nearly all mole, somewhat restored his confidence. Not to mention that Blaise was nearly done. Draco wondered, not for the first time, how in the hell had he gotten his mouth around even half of Blaise's dick. It wasn't just long, it was a thick motherfucker.

Of course, being a near genius at giving blow jobs helped.

He sneaked a glance over the room. The Ravenclaws were whispering among themselves, no doubt spewing some intellectual garbage about the Zabini gene pool and how many generations of six-inchers spawned seven-inches who spawned eight-inchers, and so on, to produce that stupendous cock. Blaise probably got it from his mother's side. Sophoria Zabini had a rack not to be believed. Draco didn't bother to hide his yawn. Boring tossers. Without fail, they'd take something like a messy and highly satisfying hand-job and morph it into an Arithmancy treatise on the pressure and number of tugs it took to come. Except Ravenclaws used the word "ejaculate." The third time he heard it in reference to himself, "Draco, honey, did you ejaculate?" as if that were open to debate, he crossed all Ravenclaws off his "to fuck" list.

Of course, not a single Hufflepuff ever made it to his "to fuck" list. Draco didn't need any manner of contests to discern there wasn't a shaggable arse or pussy in the whole house.

Sad. To a man, the Hufflepuffs' jaws were on the floor as Blaise jerked off. Not surprising faced with a dick like that, as they'd been taking showers for seven years with classmates at Weeny Dick Central. If you took every dick in that house and lined them up, they'd still fall short compared to Blaise. Probably wouldn't hurt to post a suicide watch on the Astronomy Tower. Glancing around some more… Dammit all to hell. Draco sighed. Vince looked like he was about to cry. When this was all over, he'd give Vince a bar of his finest chocolate as a consolation prize. It wasn't Vince's fault that his mother couldn't be arsed to keep up with his vitamins. The woman should be AK'd. Negligent bitch.

Draco looked at his watch. Blaise had another thirty seconds or so. Poor Vince. Dick-wise, he'd have been right at home in Hufflepuff. Kind of cruel, really. What was the Sorting Hat thinking, putting Vince into a house that had a centuries-old reputation for being hung? Oh well, there must have been other overriding factors. Perhaps Vince's sheer delight in beating up people tipped the scales.

It was truly amazing at how cock-challenged all the Hufflepuffs were. Was there some sort of corresponding factor among the girls? Like tits no bigger than a Galleon, or, god, wouldn't it just be too cruel if they all had cunts the size of breadboxes, but their male counterparts had pencil dicks. No, nature abhors a vacuum. The girls probably all had really tight cunts to fit those really small dicks. Hmmm, maybe it was time to revisit his iron-clad rule of never letting his dick within three feet of a Hufflepuff. Tight cunts… It would be like fucking a virgin arse. Like an olive-skinned virgin arse, pushed up in the air, shiny from saliva and lube…

"Ten inches," said Vince in his ear.

Draco motioned frantically with his hand for Vince to shut the fuck up.

An arse he'd caress with both hands before moving down to catch slim hips and then he'd kiss one cheek and then the other and then ask, "Ready?" and get a throaty, low, "Yeah," in return and then…

"Draco, ten inches. Write it down."

Enough! Time to stop being Mr. Nice Guy. No more minion probation, no more reprieves from Mozambique. It was straight off to Afri—

He raised his head from the clipboard. Apparently done, Blaise was trying without much success to tuck that monster dick back in his pants. My god, it was like wrestling with a crocodile. When would Pansy come to her senses?


Everyone was looking at him.


Because he was supposed to be writing down Blaise's stats.

"Ten inches?" Draco muttered.

"Yeah. You okay?" Vince whispered.

With a curt nod and a shaky hand, Draco filled in the numbers, trying not to mark the parchment with a sweaty palm.

Surreptitiously wiping first one hand, then the other on his pants, he quickly determined, short of Longbottom having a twelve-inch dick, they'd easily win by roughly eight inches. He'd owl Madam Rosmerta in the morning to set up the details in honor of the Slytherin win. If that pathetic wanker were any bigger than his thumb, Draco would bottom for Potter in front of everyone at the Leaving Feast.

After blowing the ink dry on the parchment, Draco was about issue Blaise a hearty congratulations when he spied Potter and Weasel escorting Longbottom to the front of the room, shit-eating grins on both their faces.

Why were they grinning?

They'd just seen a cock the size of Wales, Longbottom couldn't possibly…


It couldn't be.

When the three of them reached the front of the room, Potter chirped, "Neville's turn."

Draco had a very bad feeling about this, like he wanted to throw up. A chirping Potter could not be good. And Longbottom, whose entire existence was nothing but one long furious blush, wasn't blushing one bloody bit. In fact, he was unzipping himself with what Draco would call, if it were anyone else, aplomb.

No. NO. NO!

Draco glanced at Blaise, who responded with a tense jerk of his shoulders.

Longbottom reached into his white y-fronts…

Oh. My. God.

It couldn't possibly be real! Now all those effing Gryffindors had ear-to-ear grins. Christ, the fucker was halfway down his frigging thigh. Nine inches at least and he wasn't even hard. Longbottom, with a cock the size of Europe. Fucking, absolutely fucking impossible.

"Gryffindors are all disqualified. Slytherin wins," snapped Draco.

Bedlam broke out. Gryffindors shouting at Draco, Slytherins shouting back in Draco's defense, Weasley immediately lunging for Draco, fist in air and poised to inflict major damage, only to be held back by Thomas and Finnigan. And in the middle of all this commotion, Longbottom just stood there, flaccid cock hanging outside his y-fronts. An ear-piercing whistle from Potter brought everything to a halt.

"Look, Malfoy. You can't disqualify us," Potter stated in a quiet voice.

"I sure as hell can. Just watch me." Draco threw the clipboard down on the table, and held up a copy of the announcement. "Remember? Use of engorgement charms results in the entire house being disqualified. That fucking thing can't be real. It's not…well, human. Clearly, someone used an engorgement charm on him. He couldn't do it himself. His balls would have ended up in Cardiff, his dick in Peking. Did you get off waving your wand at Longbottom's dick?"

Weasley made to lunge for Draco again, only to be stopped by Potter's raised-up palm.

"It's okay, Ron. Simple enough to determine." Potter pointed toward the table where they'd stashed their wands. "Ask Zabini to check Neville for charms."

If Draco had felt nauseated before, it was nothing to what he felt now. That dick wasn't natural. It couldn't be. But Potter was almost vibrating with the same bloody confidence he displayed on the Quidditch field. The easy, loose set of his shoulders, that bottom lip curved in the tiniest smile. It was a foregone conclusion. Somehow, Neville Longbottom, whose intellectual ability was limited to being able to distinguish rosemary from sage, fucking hell, could the bastard even brew tea?, was going to go down in Hogwarts' history as having the largest dick of any student. Ever.

Draco was going to lose.


Lights flickered, the table began hopping on its four legs, the windows began rattling in their casings.

"Get your wand and check him," Draco ordered Blaise and marched out the door before he destroyed the room.

Hand Over Matter

Draco strode through the hallways not caring where he was going, just heading anywhere in the direction of down. Eventually he'd arrive at the dungeons and the safety of his room and there would be glasses to smash and chocolate to savor and booze to guzzle and no Potter.

"Malfoy. Malfoy! MALFOY, YOU WANKER!"


He picked up the pace, abandoning all pretence at being cool because fucking cool went out the fucking window ten minutes ago when the Slytherins lost the contest because Longbottom has the cock that ate Europe and Asia and let's throw in effing Africa as well. If he had to face Potter… Draco started flat out running, taking any corridor, scrambling down flights of any staircase that appeared in view, three four steps at a time. Had he ever scrambled in his life? This is what Potter had reduced him to. A scrambler. Scrambling sucked. This was how people broke ankles. Legs even. Maybe even both legs. And he'd end up in the hospital wing, with that total hag Pomfrey making smart remarks about soap and boys who used soap ended up with broken legs. He decided then and there he loathed scrambling and added it to the list of things to hate Potter for.


The voice became fainter; he must be giving Potter the slip.

Draco didn't believe in God, because wizards didn't believe in God, and Draco wouldn't have believed in God anyway, because he had enough on his plate believing in the omnipotence of being a Malfoy. There just wasn't room for God on his checklist in the morning, and he'd be damned if he was going to give up one single item on his list. It was nearly full, and he needed to leave open at least one spot for possible epiphanies. After all, the appearance of the Malfoy arse had been a complete surprise (and a bloody welcome addition, and if ever there been a time to get on his knees and thank a deity it was that summer). What other delicious surprises awaited him? Absolutely no room for anything else.


What had Draco done to deserve this? Nothing justified this. Nothing! Not the time he forced his parents to sit through his rendition of "House-Elves: the Musical." Not the time he convinced Pansy that a black leather bustier was perfectly appropriate attire for tea at the Connaught. Not the time they raided the laundry, stole all the bras belonging to the seventh-year girls, and held a contest called "Witch Cup?" And wasn't Granger a still-waters-run-large kind of girl?

Nothing justified this: him running through the hallways, trying to dodge Potter-of-the-perfect-cock-no-vitamin-deficiency-there-christ-I-didn't-think-that-because-he's-blind-and-dorky-and-why-the-fuck-didn't-he-take-off-his-shirt-so-I-could-see-his-nipples-instead-of-that-crappy-sneaky-peeky-thing-I-had-to-do-out-of-the-corner-of-my-eyes-which-gave-me-a-headache-and-what-the-hell-does-his-arse-look-like….

He stopped, leaned up against a wall, and closed his eyes, trying to regain his breath. Why did everything these days come down to Potter's arse?

"Malfoy…" a hand came down on his shoulder.

Draco shrieked and reached for his wand. No wand up his sleeve.

Because it was in Potter's hand. Holding it out for him to take.

He wished he could tell Potter to go to hell, but he couldn't. It was his wand.

And even Draco had to admit it was bad form to kill your arch enemy right after he'd returned your wand.

Granted. He'd get his wand, wait five minutes, and then he'd do it.

Before he could even finish snatching the wand from Potter's outstretched hand, the git starting yelling.

"What in the fuck is the matter with you? It was a stupid wanking contest, and you're acting like you've just lost the Triwizard Tournament. Why do you have to turn everything into some goddamn soap opera?"

Potter was furious, as furious as Draco. Between their combined rages, their magic went berserk. Walls began to spit pellets everywhere, whole stones twisted from side to side. He was going to be crushed to death. With Potter. Sorry, wrong again. It seemed they were going to be suffocated. The dust became so thick from the stones grinding against each other that Potter faded from view into a chalky grey void. Then a firm hand grabbed Draco's wrist and started marching him back and forth along the corridor in the dust.

Potter had finally gone mad and had decided to take Draco with him. Draco ground his feet into the stone floor to no avail. Potter merely tightened his grip and pulled Draco behind him. Suddenly, Draco was pulled in a different direction and could it be through a door to safety?

His face hurt like hell from the pebbles pelting him and he'd have scars, he just KNEW it, and all that dust probably would give him spots and he'd never had a spot in his entire life. Malfoys just do not get spots. He'd be the first one—although to be honest, Great Uncle Roman Black looked like he was born to have hellacious spots, must ask mother. And that space on his list was NOT for spot checks… Oh my god, he couldn't breathe. Draco bent over, coughing up dust so violently he was convinced his left lung had just hit the wall. Without that lung, would his chest be lopsided? More coughing, but he was determined to bloody well keep his right lung no matter what. Maybe Madam I-hate-soap Pomfrey could grow him a second one. Oh hell. Now Potter was slapping him on the back, an obvious attempt at forcing the second lung to fly out his mouth. Potter was trying to kill him.

"You okay?" Potter coughed.

And people said Slytherins were evil; they were just misunderstood. Gryffindors were the evil ones. Potter was a perfect example. Feigning concern only seconds after trying to dislodge his lung.

"Touch me," coughcough, "again," wheeze, "Potter," pant, "and you're a dead man," Draco warned.

"Right. You're being a complete prick, so you must be fine," panted Potter.

A few hundred wheezes later, Draco stood up straight just as Potter muttered a Lumos. They were in a smallish room, nothing on the walls, not even a fireplace, with only a small waist-high table for furniture. Even the door had vanished.

This castle hated him. Stuck in a room with Potter and no door. He bet those flea-infested house-elves did this. Revenge for all that grief Draco gave them vis à vis the fifty-glass limit.

"Where the fuck are we, Potter?"

"The Room of Requirement. I wished like hell for it while we were in the dust storm. Why I was walking back and forth, you stupid tosser. Not much help in that department, Malfoy. You're heavier than you look. It's a magical room."

"Really? Do fucking tell? A magical room? Don't tell me we're in a magic castle? You big kidder, you. Go on, pull my other leg. Next thing you'll tell me is that you can do magic tricks with a wave of that pointy stick in your hand."

"Sod off, Malfoy. Pardon me for saving your sorry arse. This table is a little weird, just sitting here. I wonder what we're supposed to use it for." At some point, Potter must have cleaned his glasses because except for the lenses, he was entirely covered in white dust from his head to his toes. Draco must be equally filthy.

"It looks perfectly suitable for bashing your brains in. Let's test it."

Potter snorted. "Oh for god's sake, are you still hacked off about that stupid contest? You are a total piece of work. Like it's such a big deal. Losing the wank olympics. Like someone has any control over the size of their dick. Or their classmates' dicks." Harry rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to say something else, something no doubt irritating and annoying and all manner of Gryffindor tripe, and then he shut his mouth. Potter raised his wand and pointed it at Draco.

For some reason, lots of people, even the odd and very stupid Slytherin on occasion, seemed to think that Draco had no sense of humor and saw fit to comment on this fact. Ridiculous. This was patently false and proven time and time again when Draco bogey-hexed them for their ill-informed remarks. Draco had a marvelous sense of humor. Buckets of it. Ask Crabbe and Goyle. Really. What he did lack, and readily admitted to, was a sense of irony. He'd never given a rat's arse before, but now one millisecond of irony all of a sudden seemed crucial because there was nothing to laugh about here because Potter was truly and absolutely going to kill him this time and a healthy dose of irony might make his death a little more bearable.

Draco closed his eyes and tried to dredge up irony.

Hmmm, why did irony make him feel so clean?

"There, that's better."

All the dust was gone from both of them. Potter wasn't casting Unforgivables. He was casting cleaning charms.

In any other circumstance, Draco would have been pleased. He hated cleaning charms on principle; they were the provenance of house elves. No self-respecting wizard should even learn cleaning charms. But once again Potter upset the fucking apple cart. Why couldn't the bastard be predictable? Be his enemy. Get with the program.

"You are a moron! Why did you do that?"

"Because you were covered in dust from your little temper tantrum, Mr. Poor Loser," Potter huffed. "Want me to put it back?"

That didn't even deserve a reply. Potter just didn't get it. Arch enemies cast Unforgivables on each other, they do not cast cleaning charms. It was bad enough that his friends were idiots; apparently this applied to his arch enemies as well.

"Why did you follow me? To gloat, you sanctimonious prick?" Draco demanded.

Potter stuck his wand into hair and scratched that thatch masquerading as hair. A pebble dislodged itself and rolled on to the floor. Draco stifled the urge to start smacking Potter's head. Idiot didn't even know how to do a proper cleaning charm.

"You, uh, you left your wand in the room. I… I didn't think you'd want to be without it. I don't like being without mine."

If ever there was a time for a headache, it was now. Ah, right on schedule.

"Let me get this straight." Draco held up one finger. "I am so furious when Longbottom unveils that monstrosity he calls a dick, a cock so gargantuan it makes an elephant's trunk look like a shoelace, that the windows in the room start shattering. We agree on this point?"

Potter shrugged.

Draco held up a second finger. "I am so furious at the certainty of losing the contest I devised, I organized, and that I wanted to win WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY FUCKING BEING that I race out of the room and stomp down the halls in a blind rage. Yes?"

Potter nodded.

Draco held up a third finger. "And the person responsible for this rage, the one person above everyone else who should, at the very minimum, be high-tailing his underwear-challenged arse to the Gryffindor Tower or even leaving the country—an idea I thoroughly endorse, by the way—THAT PERSON follows me to hand me my wand. You notice, Potter, that NONE of the Slytherins followed me. Not a one. Not EVEN Crabbe or Goyle. If that doesn't speak volumes, I don't know what does. DO YOU HAVE SHIT FOR BRAINS?"

"Why are you so worked up about this?" Harry challenged, matching volume for volume. "We thought it would be funny. I mean, Neville. That dick." Potter chortled. Draco hated chortling. People chortled in response to ironic situations. And didn't this cock-up prove how valid was his refusal to countenance irony? "Ron and I assumed everyone knew. I couldn't understand why you looked so fucking smug the whole time, frankly. Hard to keep something that phenomenal a secret."

"Slytherins don't spend their time speculating about the size of other boys' cocks." A total lie. It was one of Draco's favorite subjects; he brought it up at least twice a day.

"You don't? We talk about it all the time. Not surprised about the Hufflepuffs. Were you? They make Seamus look hung. Anyway, you git, we didn't know we were going to win until the end. It was a joke. Ha. You know? Ha. Ha." Harry stressed the last words and repeated them very slowly as if Draco didn't understand English. "If you're going to be so effing stupid about the whole thing, I'll pay for the butterbeers. You have no sense of humor, Malfoy."

There it was again! That humor thing.

"It's not about the money, twitwit. And nobody else found it funny," Draco snapped. "Only your pathetic, childish Gryffindors."

"You didn't stay long enough to find out," Potter snapped back. "Everyone else was in hysterics. Even your precious, evil Slytherins. They're probably still laughing. Apparently you're the only one who can't see the humor in it. Forty-eight guys jerking off for butterbeers, and the one guy everyone thinks has a dick the length and width of a string bean sports a piece down to his knees. It was priceless."

Noises that were suspiciously close to giggling or even laughing began to emanate from the direction of Potter's mouth. Until he saw Draco's face.

"This isn't about the size of Neville's dick, is it?"

"Fuck off, Potter." Draco began turning around in a circle looking for the door before he remembered there wasn't a door.

"Apparently, we're not done. And don't bother trying to use your wand, it's hopeless. We're in here together until we sort this out." Harry pointed his wand in the direction of the Quidditch field. "Your stupid wanking contest was all about me catching the Snitch last week, wasn't it?"

Draco's headache skyrocketed from twinges to moderately painful to severe agony, by-passing irritating, extremely annoying, and hurts like hell in one second flat. It was the type of headache that required an immediate infusion of eight chocolate bars eaten in rapid succession, followed by five quick shots of French brandy.

"Was not," Draco retorted, and would have lied more vigorously, but he couldn't. Because as much as Draco loathed Potter—and he didn't think he'd ever hated Potter as much as he hated him this very second—Potter's walking and arm-waving were causing Potter to sweat and, combined with Potter's natural vanilla aroma, were causing increasingly horrible things to happen to Draco's dick.

Like making it hard.

"Why can't I be good at Quidditch, Malfoy? Why can't we have the same size dicks? Your grades are better than mine in everything but DADA," Potter demanded. Dammit it all to hell; more pacing, more evil, wonderful arm-waving. Nipples getting hard from the cotton of Potter's shirt riding over them. More sweaty vanilla-y smells. "You're pretty good in Potions, and I wish to christ I could say it's because Snape favors you to a disgusting extent, but that's not true. Not that he doesn't, but, well, you're good. Arithmancy. You're neck and neck with Hermione in that. I can't make heads or tails of it. Why can't you let me just let me be good at Quidditch without throwing a total bloody fit when I win?"

"Because I can't," Draco hissed. 'I should be the best at everything. I'm the best at everything else, why not Quidditch? It only makes sense."

"You are totally effing nuts. First of all, you delusional fucker, you are not the best at everything else. And second, that is so fucking unfair," Potter threw his hands up. "One thing. I bumble through most everything else. I can't see. According to you, I can't even tell blue from green. Why can't I be good at Quidditch?"

"You can. You just can't be better than me." Draco pointed his wand at Potter's chest. "Not," poke, "better," poke, "than," poke again, "me."

"Touch me with your wand again, Malfoy, and I'll shove it down your fucking throat," growled Potter. Draco pulled it back but kept it aimed at Potter's heart. Potter raised his wand and adopted the same aggressive posture. "You can't even stand to have the same size dick as mine. I saw you trying to coerce Zabini to give you just an eighth of an inch more. What was with all that fucking eyebrow wriggling? You complete bastard. And, and…the wanking off. That show was for me, wasn't it?" Potter's voice plummeted at least an octave. "Not for anybody else. You were whoring yourself for me and me alone. You were thinking of me when you were jerking off weren't you? Were you fucking me or was I fucking you? What were we doing, Malfoy? Did I have my hand wrapped around that gorgeous cock of yours?"

Draco couldn't speak, couldn't even shake his head. He lowered his wand because his hands were shaking so badly. It was a miracle he didn't drop it.

Three beats and then Potter dropped his wand hand, too.

"No. Didn't. Wasn't." Draco managed to croak in protest.

"Yes, you were. I heard you. My name. I don't think anyone else did, but I did. You whispered 'Harry.'"

Draco wanted to say no, but couldn't because he wanted to die first. That simple. Die. He couldn't move except to turn his head away. Oh, this was humiliation. Everything up to now had been but a trial run. A dress rehearsal for the real thing.

A hand that smelled of vanilla, hand lotion, and dust cupped his chin and forced his face forward.

"Malfoy, look at me," Potter said, his voice gentle. "It's okay. I thought of you, too."

Draco opened his eyes, expecting to see triumph. Glee. Victory. And what he saw was the same look that Potter had given him earlier when Potter had finished jerking off for the contest. At the time Draco didn't know what in the hell Potter was asking. Now he realized it wasn't a question so much as a confession. And permission.

While Draco's evil voice hopped up and down on his left shoulder screaming, "Mantra! Remember your mantra. No Potter. No Potter," the rest of him surrendered quite willingly.

They lay their wands on the table. With nervous fingers, Potter undid the remaining buttons on Draco's shirt and then pushed it off his shoulders. Draco straightened his arms, shook them a little, and his shirt fell to the floor. Draco then pushed Potter's tee-shirt up over his nipples, a naughty finger catching one of Potter's nipples in its ascent, bringing a hiss and a shy smile from Potter. Simultaneously unbuttoning and unzipping their pants, the rasp of zippers as they slid down the only sounds in the room. They let their pants pool at their feet. Draco was momentarily panic-stricken when he realized that his dick, now no longer confined behind his pants, was tenting out from his boxers, announcing loud and clear how aroused he was. He needn't have worried. Potter's dick was just as eager, with no pesky boxer shorts in the way. With one hand Draco cupped himself and with the other, he pulled his boxers down to his knees.

If it had been anyone else, anyone else, Draco would have preened, flaunted himself by putting an elegant hand on his hip and thrusting it forward for emphasis to showcase the lean line of his body, the taut belly, the hint of his arse. Then he would have drawled something along the lines of, "Like what you see?"

What he hated most about Potter was his irritating ability to rewrite Draco's carefully crafted scripts. No smart come-ons, come-backs, or bon mots came to mind. Nada. In fact, both of them stood there silent, erections bobbing in front of them, checking out each other's bodies from the corners of their eyes. Draco couldn't remember the last time he felt this shy; bloody hell if he didn't blush when Potter's eyes lingered over one of his nipples.

In those shapeless pieces of cloth stitched together that Harry called his clothes, he looked skinny and forlorn, playing the orphan card to the hilt. Out of his clothes, in the harsh light of Potter's carelessly spelled Lumos, skinny need not apply. Potter had had his own little metamorphosis over the summer. Draco longed to run two fingers over the tight coil of muscle lining the tops of Potter's shoulder blades or wrap a hot hand around a hard bicep. Throw in the sharply defined waist sloping into slender hips and skinny went out the window, replaced by wirysinewybastardIwantthatrightnow.

Just as he was about to reach out, cup that waist with both hands, Potter murmured, "Just like earlier?"

Draco could only nod as they began a repeat performance for each other. This was almost impossible, because they both kept getting distracted while watching the other. At the sight of Potter's hands cupping his own balls, Draco nearly came, and Potter was having the same problem if the grunt he made when Draco ran a wet thumb over his slit was any indication.

When Potter finally grabbed his cock and began the slow slide up and down with a spit-slick palm, Draco tried to follow suit, but he could only fumble with all the grace of a twelve-year old having his first wank. Because that wonderful unraveling in his earlier fantasy began to become real, the untying of a myriad of knots, one by one. That exhilarating disintegration of his personal wards, if you will, where Draco realized once again that this was something very close to happiness. Though that was something Draco had never really sought or missed, he now wondered why. Why had he been so content to be merely content? And why was this happening while doing something as mundane as jerking off in front of Potter?

Draco hated asking himself questions, hated not knowing the answers, and hated knowing there were more questions to be asked; now he found himself having won the Trifecta for all three. His own personal Triwizard Tournament. Fear—real fear—snaked through him as he watched Potter match him slide for slide, caress for caress. Somewhere between the time Potter first unzipped his pants and Draco tried to button his nearly button-less shirt, the game changed, and now something far more dangerous than getting off was happening. He jerked his head up, determined to take back control, to say something with the patented Malfoy sneer. But when he met Potter's eyes, once again the motherfucker had hijacked the script. Because Potter's face, a face that never met an emotion it didn't want to broadcast, mirrored back at Draco all the emotions he was trying desperately to hide behind the snark. Fear, confusion, wonder, uncertainty, overwhelmed by desire. For him.

Potter stepped forward and clamped a sweating hand on Draco's equally sweaty shoulder, never breaking eye contact. "Not enough," he whispered, and shifted his hips forward until their cocks touched. If Potter hadn't had a grip on his shoulder, Draco would have fallen to his knees. Oh, fuck. Fu…Okay? in Potter's eyes. He moved his hand to overlap Potter's so that they were jerking off together. With the other hand, he cupped Potter's chin, to watch that face validate his own conflict. His own desire. Like they were dancing, he played partner to Potter's lead, letting Potter determine the rhythm. He'd lie to himself later; tell himself it was because he really wasn't full on participating, just letting Potter have his way. A simple hand job he could have gotten from anyone else. They'd come, do the obligatory cleaning charms on each other, a "so long," and that would be that.

But in the here and now he knew differently.

As hand jobs went it, was adequate. Blaise would be Undersecretary of Hand Jobs if such a job existed on merit. But bloody fucking hell, the knots were unraveling so quickly he wondered if his soul would just float away, with nothing to anchor it. He leaned into Harry's hand to keep him on this earth as he let passion eat him. They warmed each other's cheeks with their now furious panting, and when Potter's eyes finally closed, and his fingers dug into Draco's shoulder begging for purchase before the inevitable, and his knees bumped into Draco's as Potter's back began to arch, Draco held on fast to his orgasm with everything he had, determined to see the expression on Potter's face as he came.

As Potter's body arched into his orgasm in one long sweep of movement, he smiled. A smile of joy, surrender, joy at that surrender. Crying Harry as the last knot unraveled, Draco found himself coming and coming and coming, not in response to his own pleasure, but at the joy of witnessing another's.

Hell in a Handbasket

As Draco came back to earth, he noticed he didn't have the energy to open his eyes, and his knees and ankles had taken a vacation to Africa. They just didn't exist. The only thing keeping him upright were two strong, warm hands pressing against the small of his back, plus the grip he had on the shoulders of the boy with the warm hands.

But who the fuck cared? Draco could lose a few body parts right now and never notice. Comme ci, comme ça. Knots you are so my bitch. Because this was fucking bliss.

Right then and there he decided that he was done sticking his dick in girls. Done. Boring fucks, all of them. Nothing could be better than this. His body, still twitching a little from one motherfucker of an orgasm, was plastered against a warm male body slightly off-center so that their hips bones nestled against each other. So fucking perfect. Like hand in glove. And christ, the planes of their chests met each other, no breasts in the way, they were so close, their cocks now soft and sticky from come, squished together against the flat of their stomachs. Yeah, fucking-me-twice bliss. He sighed and snuggled even closer.

One hand left his back and began carding fingers through his hair—oh yeah, sweet, don't stop—methodically brushing damp tendrils of hair away from his sweaty forehead. He moved slightly into the hand to show his approval. His cock, randy bastard, jerked slightly to indicate new interest and the corresponding cock jerked, too. Could round two be far behind?

"Round two, round two," begged his cock. Oh yeah. But this time he'd suck that cock, now thrusting enthusiastically against his stomach. Not that the handjob didn't make him come his brains out, but his mouth ached, ached with the desire to do something, something… And just as he was about to lower his head to suck on a collarbone, the other boy whispered, "Draco," and nuzzled his head against Draco's own, his hand cupping the back of Draco's head in a very proprietary but gentle gesture.

It was only then that Draco realized it wasn't just any sinewy, wirey, gorgeous-arsed boy rubbing his hardening cock against Draco's hardening cock.

Fuck everyone in the entire castle… No, fuck all of Britain. Heads were going to roll, people were goddamned Apparating to Africa within the hour, license or no license. Their body parts could splinch themselves over Spain, Portugal, and fucking Italy for all he cared, because that throaty, husky whisper belonged to just one person.

Harry Potter.

Shit! He had Potter come all over his stomach! His stomach. And his come was all over Potter's stomach and their come had co-mingled and was now PotterMalfoycome, no, MalfoyPottercome, and he thought he was going to be sick.

"No!" he shouted and wrenched himself away from Potter.

This was a rather stupid move as moves went, because with his pants and boxers still bunched around his ankles, he kerplunked flat on his arse. Propped up on his elbows and splayed out like some Christmas goose about to be stuffed, he knew he looked supremely inelegant. And although elegance wasn't on his morning list, because, well, some things were so innate that they didn't need to be on the list, like breathing and constant sneering, the absence of elegance, or, worse, the appearance of inelegance was yet another indignity to be piled on that now-tower of indignities. Draco conceded that for anyone else it would have been impossible to be elegant when your arch enemy's come was matting your stomach hair. But he was a Malfoy. If anyone could pull it off, it would be him. However, maintaining any semblance of elegance splayed out on the floor with arch-enemy-come-matted stomach hair, having been tripped by the clothes you couldn't be arsed to remove because you were so fucking horny, was beyond even his abilities.

Bloody fucking hell.

"Malfoy, do you want help up?"

Draco closed his eyes.

He started counting to ten.

Once he'd reached ten he'd open them, fully expecting to find himself a victim of an alcohol-induced fit of temporary insanity. His dick would not be twitching with glee, nor would he smell like he'd been mucking about in a barn with animals. No. He'd open his eyes to find himself most happily in his bedroom on his bed, one hand clutching an empty bottle of his father's finest cognac, the other wrapped around a nearly over-flowing vial of hangover potion, and an empty five-pound box of chocolates at his side, his chest littered with those little brown crinkly paper liners used to protect chocolates from one another.

Were these little brown paper thingees necessary? Were they chocolate condoms? Without them, did chocolates shag each other to make more chocolates? With his current run of bad luck, all those vile raspberry creams—when he was Minister he'd ban raspberry creams from all of Britain—would be the randiest ones and they'd stick it to all the caramels, and he'd end up with forty raspberry creams, blech!, and five caramels.

Surely his ten seconds were up; he could now open his eyes.

Hmmmm, it didn't feel like a nice comfy mattress underneath his arse. It felt like the cold stone floor of a tenth-century castle—the same floor he'd crashed onto fifteen seconds earlier. Or it would if his arse hadn't gone completely numb, because stone floors in tenth-century castles gave new meaning to the phrase "when hell freezes over."

Better play it safe. He opened one eye.

Did he see a silk green bed curtain? Did he spy a poster of his four-poster? Did he catch a glimpse of himself in his five-meter by ten-meter mirror?

Of course. Fucking. Not.

Potter stood in front of him, extending some sort of appendage; he only caught a glimpse. His attention was elsewhere. Courtesy of his fleeting but enthusiastic thrusting against Draco's stomach, Potter had a beautiful new hard-on. At mouth level. Draco's mouth level, to be exact. His cock gave a roar of approval and jumped to attention, crowing in a traitorous hallelujah that he'd given up girls because who'd want to eat pussy when you could suck dick? "This dick! This dick!" begged his own cock.

He shook his head and closed his eye.

"Don't be an arse. Bet that floor's colder than fuck. Here, take my hand."

Right. Take his hand. Pay no attention to that cock four inches from your mouth, just reach around… For the first time, he wondered if Blaise's constant bleating about him being insane could be true.

Because only a completely bat-shit insane Draco Malfoy would wank off with Harry Potter, then proceed to nestle into Potter's body with some pathetic post-coital purr, then beg for more gratuitous head petting like some goddamn poncy housecat (can cats be ponces? Hmmmm?), rut against Potter's stomach, their come mashing together even more so that they were, like, completely and totally mixed, and then, in a final act of mind-blowing lunacy (no pun intended), blow Potter.

He was on the verge of saying fuck it, this close to grabbing Potter and giving him a blowjob that would suck black off a cauldron, but thank god, the near genius part of him was still functioning, even if his cock had become Benedick Arnold. Because Potter had clearly hexed him when he conjured that cleaning charm. And even though his cock was sorely miffed at this epiphany, the rest of Draco nearly sobbed with relief. It wasn't him. It was some diabolical charm that those Gryffindors devised. They probably handed it down from generation to generation. Draco was so sick of everyone thinking these Gryffindors were nice people who played fair. Utter cretins. A secret charm nobody knew about. Selfish cunning bastards, not sharing that with everyone. Imagine, camouflaging a mi-cock-su-cock charm as a cleaning charm. "Oh, you have a spot on your shirt. There, took it right off. Do you want to suck my dick?"

Emboldened by this epiphany, he somehow scrambled to his feet without falling over, and hitched his boxers and trousers up and over his frisky cock, which still hadn't entirely given up hope.

"Hah, Potter! I say hah! I'm on to your little scheme. Let me say right here and now that you Gryffindors are the most bloody selfish wankers I've ever run across."

Potter stood there looking like he didn't know what Draco was talking about. Sneaky cunt. "Scheme? What are you on about now, Malfoy?"

Draco tried to wrench his pants together so that he could zipper them closed. But, as Potter's erection seemed to show no signs of abating (god, sneaky cunt squared, no cubed), his eyes and dick continued to conspire against him because he couldn't look away and, short of a freezing charm, his dick wouldn't behave.

"For god's sake, do…do something about that," he waved in the direction of Potter's crotch.

Potter covered his erection with a woefully inadequate palm. "Malfoy, what scheme?"

Needs must. Draco grabbed his wand from the wee table and pointed a freezing charm on his dick. There, he'd make a Hufflepuff feel right at home. He zippered his pants closed and grabbed his shirt from off the floor.

"Don't act so clueless. Granted, you do clueless very well, but in this case it's too little, too late. The sex charm masquerading as a cleaning charm. As if you didn't know."

"Like I'd know how to do a sex charm." Potter used his own freezing charm to shrink himself and shoved his dick in his pants. "For fuck sake, just because it felt pretty fucking fantastic—"

"Of course it felt fantastic! I had my hand on your dick—"

"And don't even try to tell me that you didn't feel the same way—"

"Stupid idiot. Of course I did. You had your hand on my dick…" That didn't come out quite the way Draco intended it to. "How do you explain this," Draco demanded, motioning between them, "if it wasn't a hex or a charm, Mr. I-Don't-Do-Sex-Charms-I-Am-Such-A-Goddamn-Liar. Well?"

"We're sexually attracted to each other? Why do you have to make things so effing complicated?" Potter threw his arms up in the air as if frustrated.

"No way!" Draco sputtered. "Deny all you want. It's the spell. You're such a perverted pillock that you probably cast it on yourself as well. We are not attracted to each other. We are enemies. That's with," Draco counted on his fingers, "three 'e's'. What part of this equation don't you get?"

Potter shrugged that insufferable Potter-esque shrug. "Look, I don't understand this anymore than you do, Malfoy. I hate your fucking guts just as much as you hate mine. And I know how to spell enemies, you prat. It's just…just… Couldn't we just, you know, give each other hand jobs and forget the enemy stuff for a few minutes? Like, we unfreeze our dicks and, uh, do stuff. We don't even need to talk. You talk too much anyway. Hand jobs and maybe some kissing? When you're not sneering you have a really nice mouth."

"I do not talk too much. You're just jealous, since you can't string a sentence together without a plethora of those pathetic 'uhs' and 'you knows' and 'stuffs.' One 'stuff' in a sentence is unacceptable. A second 'stuff' on the heels of the first one is a sign of terminal stupidity. Acknowledging your limitations, I am going to put this in language that is crystal clear. We are not going for round two. Ever. Even if it weren't for the freezing charm, the hex would have worn off by now—"

"More like you got off," Potter grumbled.

"Oh, and like you didn't?"

"Of course I did. That's my point, you completely maddening tosser!"

He pointed his wand in Potter's direction. "No, Potter, the point is that enemies do not give hand jobs to each other. That in itself is proof positive that this was magic. Attracted to each other? HAH! Hah again! I will discover what charm or hex you used on me, and then I will go to the Headmaster and prove to him that his Golden Boy is nothing but a deviant who casts sex spells on unsuspecting innocents."

Potter had the nerve to smirk. "One 'hah' in a sentence is unacceptable. A second 'hah' on the heels of the first one is a sign of terminal stupidity. And are these same innocents who hosted the wank olympics?"

Draco curbed the impulse to smash his fist into Potter's face. He needed to find Blaise right away before the hex completely wore off. He turned away and said in a loud voice, "If this utter piece of shit castle doesn't produce a door this instant, I will personally to go Beauxbatons and Durmstrang and spread the word that it's put together with imitation stone and sealing wax."

A door appeared.

Blackmail. It's a good thing.


Oh. Draco found himself at the entrance to the Slytherin dorms. Right. He banged on Blaise's door. No answer. He banged again, just to be polite and then didn't wait. The curtains were drawn around Blaise's bed. What the hell? Draco yanked them back.

Merlin's dick.

Pansy was on her knees in the vee between Blaise's legs, his cock in her mouth, and Blaise on his back in an exact imitation of Draco's inelegant sprawl not ten minutes earlier. Which didn't help Draco's mood one iota, because clearly Blaise was getting sucked off rather nicely, and all Draco had gotten for his sprawl was a nice case of freezer burn on his arse.

"Pansy, stop that this instant," Draco demanded.

"Dwaaoooo?" she garbled, not freeing her mouth just yet.

As much as Draco had to admire her ability to even utter a single sound considering she had that thing choking her airway, this was beyond the pale. Honestly, she wasn't going to have any vocal chords left at all if she kept this up. He would have a word with her in the morning. Based on how she was deep-throating Blaise, she'd have a whopping case of laryngitis tomorrow and the entire conversation would have to be conducted in eyebrow code.

"I need to talk to Blaise."

Blaise picked up his wand and spelled the curtains shut.

Draco incinerated them. "Stop acting like horny teenagers. Get your dick out of Pansy's mouth and meet me in my room. Right now. It's a matter of life or death."

Blaise started and Pansy looked around at Draco, her eyes wide. "Life or death?" she repeated.

"Yes, Blaise's, if he doesn't get his dick out of your mouth and into my room. Chop chop."

"God, you're impossible," Blaise grumbled. "Pans, stop, you know what he's like. This had better be good."

"Bring your wand," Draco ordered.

Pansy moved from between Blaise's legs, and gave Draco a pronounced pout before sitting back in the pillows and grabbing a pack of cigarettes. Blaise Accio'd a dressing gown, took a drag off of her cigarette, and gave her a tit a squeeze before following Draco out of the room.

"Muttering is lowbrow, Blaise. I suggest you break that nasty habit at once."

"I was reminding myself that (a) you're my friend; (b) you're my friend who's insane; and (c) you're my friend who's insane who will never let me finish receiving a most superior blowjob until I listen to your insane ranting and call it for what it is. Insane ranting. Now, Pansy is waiting. If she's asleep by the time you've done having your hissy fit, I will kill you."

"I do not have hissy fits." Blaise gave a contemptuous snort. "Besides, it's not like you don't get blow jobs every day," Draco grumbled. Since he wasn't getting blow jobs every day, he really didn't think Blaise had a cock to stand on. Draco shut the door and locked it. "Check me for charms or hexes. Sex charms or hexes."

Blaise went rigid and his eyes darkened, no mean feat because his eyes were already black.

"Please tell me you're joking." Blaise began sniffing in Draco's general direction. "You smell like six different kinds of fuck. This couldn't have waited until morning?" Blaise pinched the spot between his eyes, a gesture that seemed to be endemic to everyone Draco knew. "Need I remind you that I haven't gotten off yet, even though you obviously have, and now you want to know if you've been hexed. Wished I'd been hexed. BECAUSE THEN I WOULD HAVE GOTTEN OFF TOO!"

"No need to shout. And no, it couldn't wait until morning," Draco snapped.

Blaise folded his arms in front of him and made the "gimme" sign with his hand.

Christ. Just when Draco seriously began questioning Blaise's credentials (like his abject refusal to give Draco's cock one more fucking millimeter so he could beat Potter), Blaise pulled something like this. It was times like these that Draco realized that Blaise was the most Slytherin of the Slytherins. His very unpredictability made him certainly the most dangerous. Crafty bastard.

And as if Draco didn't know exactly what he meant by that hand gesture, Blaise followed it up with, "Tell me who, or I'm hightailing back to bed and warding the room so that not even the Headmaster himself could blast his way in."

Fuck. Draco would have to tell him. Blaise was really the only person he trusted to do a charm or hex diagnostic on him. If Crabbe and Goyle so much as pointed their wands in his direction, they'd cock it up, no question. Look at the bludger business. Draco still hadn't forgiven them for that debacle. Instead of checking for or removing Potter's curse, they'd probably cast some charm on him, fuck it up, resulting in him trying to bite off his own dick.

"P…er" Draco mumbled, trying to leave out the "o" and both "t's" to make it as Potter-less as possible.

"Excuse me?"

Draco tried to bluff it out. "You know, the one with the scar." There must be at least one other boy in the school with a scar.

"You made it with Potter?" If Blaise's jawed dropped any more, he could give himself a blow job.

"No, no, no. Not really. Well sort of. But not," Draco protested. "He hexed me. Pretended to do a cleaning charm after the castle nearly suffocated us to death but it wasn't a cleaning charm at all but a centuries old Gryffindor sex charm handed down by Godric Gryffindor himself, I'm sure, and the selfish wankers have been keeping it to themselves for centuries and then I was all clean but then…then there was the…uh…sex part. See, you get clean first, then have this compulsion to touch your arch enemy's cock. It's really evil, Blaise. So evil and brilliant we need to beat the shit out of Potter in the morning so he'll tell us how to cast it."

Blaise's arms dropped as if exhausted. "Draco, am I supposed to understand even a quarter of that utter shite? No, don't answer that, I'll get another twenty-minute explanation and by that time Pansy will be asleep. Take off your clothes," he sighed. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I get a warm mouth around my dick."

Since Draco hadn't bother to put back on his shirt and was still only in his trousers, boxers, socks, and shoes, it only took a second to undress. For the next five minutes, Blaise walked around him, muttering incantations, waving his wand over every inch of Draco's body, tsking and uttering "oh mys," and even a "jesus christ."

Draco knew it. Potter had hexed him. Denial, denial, denial, my arse. Potter could just Apparate to Egypt because here was proof positive.

"Must have used six or seven charms. The sex was so fantastic, Blaise. You have no idea. Bet he used a fucking encyclopedia of…"

Blaise was shaking his head back and forth slowly.

"You delusional fucker." Why did that sound familiar? "Aside from the freezing charm you used on your dick, and I think you over-did it, it'll be a miracle if you have an erection for the rest of this month, never mind the rest of the week, nothing. Not one single hex or charm. "

Draco shook his head. It wasn't possible. Just Not Possible. He began to crumple. He hated crumpling. "Not one?" Please, please, please, just one.

"No, Draco. Not one." He gave Draco's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Now, I'm going back to my room, and hopefully Pansy, who I swear has had her gag reflex removed, will still be awake. I'd thank you to… Draco?" That was the thing about Blaise, why he made such a poor minion. He had brains and more than your average acumen and knew his charms and hexes and, even worse, he knew crumpling when he saw it. "You okay?" <,p>

Draco nodded, more to get Blaise out of his room than anything else.

"You want a memory charm?" Draco shook his head. "Want me to ask the house-elves for glasses so that you can smash away?"

Draco shook his head again. Glasses were pointless when on the ten scale, ten being, "Merlin's dick, someone kill me now," you'd reached a twenty-five. This was worse than last Christmas, when he discovered that his father was a boot-licking toady to a megalomaniac who couldn't even be arsed to spell himself a proper nose. Slits. His father followed the orders of a man who apparently believed that slits and nostrils were one and the same. Not to mention the megalomaniac bit.

"Look, I'll be in my room if you need me. On second thought, don't have a meltdown for at least twenty minutes. Okay?" and with another friendly grasp of his shoulder, Blaise was out the door, sprinting toward Pansy and her nice warm mouth.

Draco paced back and forth. He relived the entire day—from the first toss off to his storming out of the Room of Requirement—searching for some reasonable explanation why that hand job with Potter had him purring and cooing into Potter's shoulder like some, well, some girl. And as much as he would have liked to dismiss Blaise's ability to detect spells, he was a fucking god at it. Which left only one explanation: Draco was actually attracted to Potter. That scarred, color-blind git with the amazing dick and a pert little arse and nipples that were begging to be licked and…

"Enough," he screamed at the ceiling. "And you, you traitor, you," he hissed at his dick, which was now hard, of course. So much for the over-zealous freezing charm. Visions of Potter jerking off was clearly a sure fire way to ensure a first-class boner, evidenced by his cock jerking and leaking in a pathetic bid for a little hand/dick action. "You can just suffer, you turncoat."

Bleeding fuck, he was now actually talking to his own dick. If his dick started to answer him back, he was going to hang himself in the Astronomy Tower.

Right. His body had betrayed him before. Remember those nadir years when he was little more than a blond dwarf with a baritone? He was more than just a perfect body, which for some reason seemed hell bent on betraying him with that dark-haired freak.

He was a Malfoy.

He was a near genius.

He'd refuse to let that I-can't-distinguish-blue-from-green-challenged moron get to him.

More pacing, a slight break for a couple of squares of chocolate, and then it came to him. It was so simple, so clever, so Malfoy that he'd do that rarest of rare things tomorrow morning after his shower. He'd cross out the "near" and underline "genius." Twice. Too fucking right.


The owl had said: "Meet me in twenty minutes in the Astronomy Tower." Draco cast a Tempus. Good. Potter was late. Draco expected him to be late, and it wouldn't have done at all for his expectations on this score to be dashed. Draco hated tardy people on principle. He never thought he'd be in the position of having to scrounge up additional Potter-hating ammunition, but since his body had decided to betray him, here he was, exacting every bit of satisfaction as the minutes ticked by. This only worked up to a point, because with each mounting minute, Draco began to realize that a late arse was still a fetching arse on the right person, or the wrong person, as the case may be. He frowned, which lasted only as long as the thought of Potter commando in pajama bottoms or, even better, the thought of Potter without pajamas entirely. Yay! shouted his cock by way of a hearty jerk.

He looked down.

"Fucking traitor," he hissed and realized he was talking to his dick. Again. And hadn't he put a moratorium on one-on-one conversations with his cock? It must be because he was antsy. He'd sent that owl thirty-three minutes ago. How long does it take to roll out of bed and shuffle to the Astronomy Tower? Merlin's knickers, it wasn't like Gryffindor Tower was located in Glasgow for fuck's sake.

He'd only given a minimum of thought, i.e., three-quarters of a second, to whether or not it was too early to send Potter an owl. So what if it was four a.m.? Potter had gotten in a good five hours of sleep. He'd been awake all night; Potter had no room for complaints. Clearly this enemy business was falling on his shoulders alone. Potter could just suck it up. Lazy git.

Round two Draco's arse.

M.A.P. would solve all his Potter-related problems. Of course, it was only a matter of time, but if he'd needed any more proof that he'd finally catapulted over the whole near-genius business to absolutely uncontested "genius" territory, it was his creation of M.A.P.; its very simplicity was what made it brilliant. Even Millicent wouldn't have trouble with it, and she was as thick as two planks. As soon as that tardy bastard arrived, he'd lay down the law. Something he always loved doing.

Which was why being Minister of Magic had such appeal. Can you imagine? It was enough to give Draco a permanent hard on. A job where you laid down the law all fucking day long.

"Greg, if you do not improve your table manners, you'll spend all future meals dining with the giant squid."

"Pansy, my eyebrows are exhausted. Please refrain from blowing Blaise for twenty-four hours so that we can actually speak to each other. I don't think I've heard you utter a single word in five days,"

A few choice words to Blaise, putting him in his place: "For god's sake, you fucking sex manic, leave off shoving your dick down her throat for a couple of days. She has a very nice twat; use it."

Not that Blaise would care. He never gave a toss when Draco decided to be ministerial, and there was nothing to suggest that he'd care when Draco was actually Minister of Magic. But he never made a to-do about it either, perfectly willing to let others think that what Draco said mattered, so Draco couldn't really complain too loudly.

Plus, Draco needed Blaise. Besides Pansy, Blaise was the only Slytherin Draco even remotely trusted. Well, trust wasn't exactly right. Only a fool would put trust and Slytherin in the same sentence. No one trusted Slytherins as a rule (except for Millicent), but when something horrific happened (like that spell that went very wrong in their fifth year and Draco ended up with a third ball) Blaise was there. With a wand that knew what it was doing. While he was actually quite fond of Greg and Vince, in dire situations they were worthless. So. No. He really couldn't afford to alienate Blaise, because when the shit hit the fan, you wanted Zabini at your back disposing of the evidence. Superfluous body parts. Whatever. And as much as he hated to admit it, for some odd reason, Draco's plans had a way of going pear-shaped these days.

Which didn't make any sense when you considered the near-genius thing.

Take the wank Olympics. That seemed like a perfect idea. But in hindsight, there were too many people; the potential fuck-up factor was huge. If it hadn't been so close to being Ravenclaw-ish, he would have run the numbers to determine if a statistical upset was possible. Although, with less people it really wouldn't have been, well, Olympian. Plus, no amount of Arithmancy would have predicted Longbottom and that, there was no other word for it, monstrosity.

That was another thing to add to his Potter-hating list. Like it was common knowledge? He could count on one hand the number of conversations he'd participated in where Longbottom's name had come up. And if someone had mentioned Longbottom's dick, he probably would have starting casting Unforgivables. The very idea of Longbottom even having a dick was enough to make him dry heave, although the absence of one was also rather squicky. Draco threw up his hands.

Despite being early May, it was fecking perishing out in the Astronomy Tower. Probably not the most optimum place to meet, but with his dick saluting every time Draco even thought of Potter, it seemed prudent to pick someplace chilly. No telling what it would do with Potter in the flesh, so to speak. In addition to all the other horrific things that had happened that day, he was at war with his dick. Not something he could have possibly imagined in a million years. If you couldn't trust your own dick, whose could you trust?

Of course, there is cold, and then there's "shit, my balls have shrunk to the size of peas" cold. He hadn't counted on a freak frost that had blanketed the grounds. Which was yet again another instance of pear-shaped hell, because regardless of how freaking freezing it was, the mere thought of pajamasPotter and nopajamasPotter and his dick started dancing in his boxers, still determined to feed this perverse attraction.

This was Potter's fault.

Draco cast yet another Warming charm, because while he was completely and royally pissed off at his dick, he really didn't fancy having a case of frostbite there. That would necessitate a trip to that sorry excuse for a nurse, and Draco's nether regions had had enough of her ministrations to last a lifetime.

Where in the bleeding fuck was Potter?

Removing a piece of rolled-up parchment from underneath his cloak, he cast a Lumos and reviewed M.A.P. He allowed himself a self-satisfied chuckle and decided right there and then that he'd just change his list in the morning to "genius" and be done with it. While relishing the thought of crossing out "genius" every day for the rest of his life, he heard a few curses and the sound of someone stumbling up the staircase.

Potter didn't so much enter the tower as fall through the doorway.

"You're late, Potter."

Potter ignored him and groaned, "Couldn't whatever that is so effing important wait until…" Potter squinted at the window. "Daylight?"

"No, it could not. I'm doing all the heavy lifting here, you lazy arse. You're treating this enemy business with as much seriousness as you do your wardrobe, and we don't need to be visiting that sad little subject again, do we?" Draco gave Potter a very stern look and noticed that Potter's elbow was poking out through his robe.

It was times like these when he envied Potter's raging myopia, because a case of instant blindness would have been extremely welcome right about now.

"That is the most hideous bathrobe I've ever seen. Even if you were six-years old, it would still be objectionable in the extreme. I wouldn't even consider cutting it up into rags and using it to polish my broom."

Never in Draco's wildest nightmares could he have envisioned that the affair of the socks would be superseded by a more horrendous sartorial disaster, but then again he'd never seen Potter in his bathrobe. Unlike everything else in Potter's wardrobe, which was six sizes too large, this was six sizes too small. The two ends barely met in the middle, and the cuffs of the sleeves reached only halfway down his forearm. Baby-shit yellow in color, red choo-choo trains were stamped all over it, surrounded by beaming cows, chickens, and sheep. The trains were very poorly rendered. If they hadn't had black stumps poking out from the top of them, alleged smokestacks, Draco would have assumed they were red pillows with wheels. The animals' smiles were nothing short of sinister, as if plotting to kill the trains.

"Oh, my cousin's hand-me-down," Potter explained. "I keep meaning to buy myself another one, but always forget. Before I know it, it's freezing in the dormitory and all I've got in my trunk is this stupid shit robe."

Draco's would sooner have eaten a raspberry cream before letting that fabric anywhere near his person.

"How long has your elbow been frayed?"

"A few weeks, maybe? Am shit at mending charms." Potter yawned and ran a hand over his elbow. "It's cold," he frowned.

"You are, without a doubt, the sorriest specimen of utter flobberworm shit, I've ever laid eyes on." Draco Transfigured the fabric of Potter's robe into a respectable Black Watch tartan, enlarged it so that it fit properly, repaired the elbow, and then cast another Warming charm.

Potter looked down at the robe, flexed his arm to check out the newly mended elbow, and gave Draco a sleepy smile. "Thanks, Malfoy."

The man would be the death of him.

"Dammit to hell!" Draco yelled. "Don't you get it? You're not supposed to smile at me, you complete and utter moron!"

"Chill, Malfoy," Potter yawned.

He didn't seem too arsed about Draco's little temper tantrum, which was so close to Blaise' general indifference, that at any other time this would have sent Draco into a tailspin. Zen!Potter? Surely the gods wouldn't be that cruel? Impossible. Potter was probably still half asleep.

"You fixed my robe, you arse. What should I have done?" And then he stretched. Which accentuated the fact that Potter had a waist as long as the Cornish coastline.

Draco's palms itched. Oh. Oh. To run his hands the length of that waist and then cup that nice, nice arse. His hands clenched involuntarily, the resulting crackle of the parchment paper the perfect reminder of why he was here.

"I've already given you a primer on how to wear socks. I draw the line at teaching you darning charms. There is a limit and I've reached it. Now, one of us has to tote that barge and lift that bale, and since you've abdicated all responsibility in this regard, I've taken it on myself to put the 'e' back in enemy."

"Surely you didn't ask me to come down here in the fucking middle of the night for a spelling lesson?" Potter asked, incredulous, that adorable smile replaced by outrage. He was waking up. Excellent.

"Hardly," scoffed Draco. "There is the small matter of our hands on each other's dicks earlier today. Or was that yesterday? No matter. To insure that that ridiculous display doesn't—"

"It wasn't ridiculous," Potter butted in. "It was fun. I liked it. You liked it. Can we stop talking about being enemies and more about having fun? In fact, you really do yammer on and on, Malfoy."

"E as in enemy, not F as in fun!" Draco sputtered. This would never do. Things were about to bollocks themselves up again, because once Draco started thinking about the alphabet there was A as in arse and C as in cock and L as in lip. And P as in Potter, which was nothing more than a hop, skip, and a jump to P as in pear-shaped. It was time to hammer home that things were going to get back on track. Since Potter was being an utter twat about the entire enemy business, it was up to Draco Malfoy, Slytherin genius, to thwart once and for all this sick and demented sexual attraction between the two of them. Normally, Draco didn't mind sick and demented with his sex, but his usual kink in that direction ran to blindfolds and water sports, not hand jobs with the Gryffindor poster boy.

"Ta da!" Draco unfurled the parchment in front of Potter and waited. Potter squinted, blinked a lot, ran his hand through his hair, and yawned. Twice.

"What's this shit?" Potter mumbled. "You got me out of bed at four in the effing morning to read this stupid list that tells me to fuck off in ten different ways? You manage to say that to me in Potions every morning. When it's daylight!"

"Potter, Potter, Potter," Draco clucked. "This is possibly the most brilliant thing I've ever devised. It even surpasses the eye… Never mind about that. This is M.A.P.!" and he shook the parchment to emphasize its importance.

"M.A.P.? What in the hell does that stand for?"

Draco was so excited he could barely get the words out.

"Malfoy's Approved Phrases. It took me hours to come up with precisely the right acronym. I toyed with Malfoy's Approved Sentences, but M.A.S. didn't work for obvious reasons. Didn't convey the right impression."

"Nope," Potter shook his head. "Not at all."

That sounded nearly snide. Draco knew snide. He narrowed his eyes and studied Potter; but, no, Potter's face was smooth without a hint of mockery.

"I did give Malfoy's Approved Commands a whirl, because I like the proximity of my name to the word 'command,' but then that ended up being M.A.C., which sounded ridiculously Scottish."

"We can't have that," Potter agreed. "So why do we need this stupid—"

At that Draco gave him a look.

"This, um, brilliant list? We tell each other to fuck off every day, several times a day, We've never needed cheat sheets before. Sort of comes naturally, if you know what I mean."

"First of all, it's a list." At that Draco stopped because, well, lists were, well, lists. Enough said.

Potter brought his eyebrows together in confusion.

"Don't you have lists, Potter?"

Potter shook his head. That explained quite a lot. Perhaps everything. And Draco said so.

"Not that I'm surprised," Draco snorted. "The mismatched socks, a dead giveaway. It's never too late, frankly. Even for you. I'd start off small." Draco gave Potter's hair a quick once over. "Very small in fact." Draco had a horrifying thought. "You do brush your teeth every day, don't you?"

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

Draco pointed his wand at him. "Look, I'm not the list-challenged individual in this tower. Now, I wouldn't bother with putting teeth brushing on your list because if you're not doing that on a daily basis then you might as well run into the Forbidden Forest this very instant and start living with the squirrels because you're half-feral as it is. And your hair?"

"Most days." Potter's chin went up in defiance.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear that, Potter. However, the list will take care of that. We will keep it down to only fives items, so that we don't overwhelm you in the beginning.1. Shower. 2. Put on specs. 3. Comb thatch. 4. Dress. 5. Put on matching socks that have elastic and don't puddle around your ankles, which is really a subset of dressing but you've proven yourself very untrustworthy in that regard, which is why I'm making it a separate item."

"How many items on your list, Malfoy?"

Was that actual curiosity or amusement? It was hard to tell. But, then again, there was nothing inherently amusing about lists, so it must have been genuine curiosity.

"Oh, don't even attempt to compare yourself to me. You're light years behind me so don't even attempt to catch up. I've got roughly thirty items. It fluctuates with the seasons. Plus there's the whole issue of switching to the lighter gray flannels as opposed to the charcoal gray flannels, and switching to white shirts as opposed to the light blue ones when spring arrives. Mother thinks that after April one should eschew the cashmere sweaters for merino wool ones, but then she lives in civilized Wiltshire, and we are trapped here in this frozen wasteland they call Scotland. Plus there's that whole libido business. I find myself wanking more in the spring and summer than I do in the winter. Which adds to the list…"

"You have wanking on the list?"

Potter's eyes looked very large behind his specs.

"Just for form's sake. I'm wanking all the time, actually. Not like I'd forget, but it's nice to cross it off all the same. Some days I can cross it off three times, which is always fun. Then there's the hair, and the perfect dick, and the near genius thing, and checking that the monograms on my socks, all sixteen letters, are correct. Then I need to…"

"You. Check. The. Monograms. On. Your. Socks?" Potter was speaking in a stilted, strangled manner, like to say the words physically hurt his lips.

Draco peered at him. "Of course. Not that you're any sort of authority on socks. In fact, rather the anti-authority, as we've established." Draco suspected anti-authority wasn't a word, but it sounded good.

Potter scratched his thatch. "The letters of the monogram. They're going to change?"

"They might. You never know." Draco challenged.

Potter held up his hands in defeat.

"There's always those pressing side issues in the a.m. The morning list is always much more involved than any of the other lists. The lunch list? Fairly marginal. But the before bed list? Some days? Just horrendous." Draco sighed.

"What pressing issues?" Potter asked and rolled his hand, encouraging Draco to continue.

"Whether I'm exiling Vince and Greg to Africa that day. They are really piss poor minions. I run myself ragged trying to impart basic minion protocol, but it goes in one ear and out the…"

Draco stopped mid-sentence. Potter had the strangest look on his face. If Draco hadn't known any better he'd swear it was affection.


Potter smiled at him again. "So add hand jobs with Potter to the list. Squeeze me on the lunch list and we're all set."

His dick thought that was a grand idea and began to swell. Draco's eyes were positively captivated by that smile. The long bottom line curved up just so. Draco wanted to feel that smile against the soft patch of skin just underneath his neck. And then the smile would break and Draco would miss it until that lower lip latched onto… Fortunately, Potter reached for his hand, the one clutching the parchment. The crackle of the paper as Potter grabbed him once again brought sanity to the fore.

"No!" Draco pulled away. "We are not doing this again. First of all, I don't have any empty spots on the lists. I need to save a couple for emergencies. Second, WE ARE MORTAL ENEMIES. What part of this don't you get? For years, we've been hating each other quite nicely and a couple of wanks later, it's all forgotten."

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy. I still can't stand you. Plus, I think you're bat-shit insane. But I really like your dick."

Potter had the nerve to grin at that.

"I do not find that amusing in the least, so wipe that silly smirk off of your face. Henceforth, I am not speaking to you. Neither is my dick. Ever again. If I need to say something to you, I'll call out the number that corresponds to this list. If I don't talk to you, then I don't interact with you. If I don't interact, then we won't want to…" Draco flailed in the air with one hand, the other one clutching the parchment tight.

"This isn't going to work, Malfoy," Potter protested. "First of all, I like it better when you don't speak. And second, we're studying for our N.E.W.T.S. We're partners. If I fail Potions because of your insane scheme, I'll make you eat your nuts for breakfast."

"That's why I invented M.A.P.," Draco snarled. "We have to communicate with each other, but it doesn't mean we have to talk. I've covered that issue thoroughly. When I have to speak to you, I shall do it by number. I've put them in order of importance and anticipated use. Shall we review?"

Draco cast a strong Lumos, unfurled the parchment, and used his wand to point to each number.

"Number one. The all purpose phrase: 'Fuck off, Potter.' I anticipate I'll be using that one constantly.

"Number two. 'Shut up, Potter.' That will probably get nearly as much use as number one.

"Number three. 'I loathe you, Potter.' Self-explanatory, really.

"Number four. 'You are doing that wrong, you knife-impaired toad. Smaller." See, I was thinking of Potions when I devised this.

"Number five. 'You are doing that wrong, you incompetent toerag. Larger.'

"Number six. 'Stir that fill-in-blank more times, counterclock-wise or clockwise, slowly or faster, you complete tool.' That is a little tricky, but we'll have to make do. The protocol will be, five, seven, counter clockwise, faster. I've covered all the bases. I have no interest in failing that class. Fuck me over just because you've got this lovely dick begging to be fisted and you will live to regret it.

"Number seven. 'Those fill-in-the-blank are an absolute eyesore.' I debated whether to make it specific, but given the recent robe disaster, I'm extremely pleased I left it blank. Protocol will be as follows: 'Six, shoes.' I don't think I need to be detailed. Your lack of taste speaks for itself.

"Number eight. 'Potter, your choice in friends leaves something to be desired. Remove the Weasel from my presence before I pummel him into the ground.' Again self-explanatory.

"Number nine. 'Get out of my way, Potter.'

"Number ten. 'Say that again and I will break your jaw.'

"That's it. Now, I would prefer you didn't speak at all. Frankly, I can't see you using four, five, six, or seven because you are a Potions idiot and I am a Potions god. But if you do want to use any other of the other numbers, feel free. Obviously, the name is interchangeable…"

Potter pointed his wand at Draco. There was no other way to describe it other than extremely menacing. "I am not using your fucking M.O.P."

"That's M.A.P!"

"M.O.R.O.N. Malfoy's Obnoxious Ridiculous Overbearing Nonsense."

"It's M.A.P.," Draco insisted through gritted teeth.

"D.I.M. Draco's Insane Mind."

"M.A.P! M.A.P! M.A.P!" shouted Draco and stomped his foot.

By this point they were only inches from each other, their wands jabbing each other's ribs. Potter was so furious, the heat from Potter's breath warmed his cheek.

"You are absolutely insane, Malfoy," Potter ground out. "Hell will freeze over before I use that stupid list." He made for the door, but before he exited the tower, he yanked off the robe, threw it in Draco's face, and shouted, "F. U. C. K. U.!"

I Have to Hand it to You

He hated life; hated, hated, hated life. The gleeful sense of victory that had eluded him for years? Finally, he could taste it. What he'd plotted, maneuvered, lied, schemed, and got down on his knees and prayed to the God Godiva was at hand. And it didn't matter. Could anything be more fucked up?

Given that the Wank Olympics had failed in the most fabulous way possible, his normally astounding confidence was a wee bit shaken. Not only had the Slytherins lost, but he'd been forced to (a) watch Weasley jack off; (b) had nearly humiliated himself in front of his entire class (what a blessing that Pansy hadn't been there because she would have sussed out what was going on in a bat-shit minute and she never would have let him live it down); (c) that annoying, irritating, stupid, bumbling magical incompetent Longbottom whipped out a dick as big as Portugal; and (d), the worst thing of all, he'd jacked off Potter and Potter had jacked off him, and now his dick was making demands. Of course, it always made demands. Normally Draco was quite happy to satisfy them. But now he was actually having conversations with his dick, and the majority of them were pushing for sex with that color-challenged tosser, whose idea of a robe was something five sizes too small with choo-choo trains all over it.

So yes, life had gone utterly pear-shaped, and it was all Potter's fault.

As brilliant as he thought M.A.P. was, it had surpassed even his expectations. And since he always had ridiculously high expectations, which meant he was always royally disappointed, the success of M.A.P. should have had him at the head of a conga-line, snaking their way through the Great Hall, with everyone behind him chanting, "Dra-Co! Dra-Co!" as they shimmied and shaked their way through the halls of Hogwarts. What an image! How delicious! Twenty-one days ago that very thought would have had him hard and weeping. As it was, his dick only gave a sad little jerk, as if to say, "So?"

The first week was a beta of sorts. Naturally, in Potions it got quite a work out, but he was able to throw out a few 2's, 3's, and a goodly number of 8's in his every day interactions with Potter. Not surprisingly, Pansy and Blaise caught on immediately, even without him defining any of the specific terms, which pretty much certified his genius as far as he was concerned. Of course, it had to be modified somewhat regarding names and a few wee other issues--not something he had originally anticipated--but who was he to stand in the way of the juggernaut of genius? He snarled at the Weasel no fewer than six times a week, "Two, Weasel," and by the end of week two, the entire school population was speaking in M.A.P.

With the help of Pansy and Blaise, he put together a M.A.P. lexicon and circulated it around the school. By the end of week three, not only were there over one hundred phrases coined to numbers, people began to add to it. Draco could be generous. If people wanted to capitalize on his brilliance, why not? It got so that entire conversations were conducted in numbers. He thought he'd reached the pinnacle when he heard Granger say to Weasel, "Absolutely not, Ronald. You can just 15 and for good measure, why not 24 yourself." But no, it got even better. He was just about to turn the corner to where the Great Hall was located when he heard Dumbledore say to McGonagall, "That Hornswangle. After our last Firecall I said to him, 'Three, Hornswangle.' Fortunately, he thought I said, 'Tea.' Now I have to waste a good hour on Thursday sipping inferior tea with that man." Really, it couldn't possibly get any better.

And none of it mattered.

Because there was one lone holdout, one person who refused to use M.A.P., who refused to respond to anything said in M.A.P., and who after week one had told Draco that if he uttered another phrase in M.A.P. in his presence that Potter would use a Charm that would render him impotent for the next month.

Normally, Draco would have been outraged, first, because if anyone were issuing threats it should have been him, and, second, because erections are one of those pesky little things that are often most inconvenient, but you really missed them when they were gone. Cause for alarm, really. Sadly, to be impotent around Potter would have been a blessing, because he was anything BUT limp-ish around Potter. The exact opposite, in fact. Every Potions class, for two agonizing hours, he battled raging, horrible, straining-against-his trousers boners that leaked all over his shorts. Nothing but begging-for-relief erections every Potions class at the mere sight of that idiot. Draco toyed with the idea of actually inciting Potter to render him impotent because these constant erections in Potter's presence were damn painful.

No, Potter refused to use it, even as Weasley and Granger were throwing numbers around like they were confetti. The one person who really mattered, the one person whose use of M.A.P. was damn well mandatory for it to matter, refused to use it. Point blank refused and was even, well, hostile to the very idea. Something that was standard in Potter's general attitude toward him, so no surprises there, but still!

Plus, Draco was convinced that Potter was deliberately winding him up every single Potions class vis a vis the sock thing. Not only was he mixing hues, but some mornings he'd appear with a blue sock on one foot and a black sock on the other. The other day he had a black sock on one foot and a WHITE sock on the other. Not that Draco could even lambast Potter for these sartorial catastrophes since they weren't speaking to each other at this point, because Draco had quickly come to the conclusion that if Potter did actually hex his dick, the possibility of him fucking it up was enormous thereby rendering Draco impotent for life. So, no, they weren't talking, only communicating in grunts, elbows to the ribs, and a lot of animated wand waving. To date they had managed to avoid blowing up the Potions lab, but it was a near thing.

Draco stifled a yawn as he faced yet another Potions class. The mere thought of standing next to Potter for two hours had woken his dick up, but his dick hadn't had the courtesy to tell his brain. He was so fucking exhausted. Sleep, what was sleep? He hadn't slept a wink the night before, asking himself over and over again why had something that had seemingly gone so well had gone so wrong? When Potter stumbled into Potions, looking as bleary eyed as Draco felt, had it been anyone else, he might have felt a niggling of sympathy. As it was, he felt nothing but total and utter rage. Because to wear mismatched socks was bad enough. But this morning, that bastard, that dick-stripping, blind-as-a-bat-plonker wasn't wearing any socks. Hints of BARE Potter ankles were winking in and out of Draco's sight as Potter shuffled over to his seat.

Oh. My. Fuck.

Now Draco had lots of kinks. He owned up to spanking, blindfolds, watersports, bondage, and the occasional cross-dressing. People have on many occasions suggested to him that the glass-smashing thing was not only kinky but a little whackadoodle. And the list thing was so anal that it bordered on kinky. He violently disagreed with both of those assessments. The glass thing was a rational reaction to life's curve balls, and how anyone functioned without a list was beyond him. And there wasn't anything weird about the chocolate thing. In fact, he thought it pretty kinky if you didn't have a chocolate fetish. Not normal in his opinion. So yes, kinks. He had them.

But is there anything more galling than discovering a kink you never knew you had, and to discover it in Potions--of all places--was just cruel beyond belief. Doubly cruel beyond belief was that it was Potter's ankles that were giving him the mother of all erections. What in the hell was the matter with the man? It might be May, but there was frost on the ground this morning--thank you, climatic hell-hole that is freezing Scotland.

Draco tried to visual Blaise's ankles. Nothing, not even a twinge of lust. Pansy? She had exceptionally gorgeous feet with absolutely delightful baby toes, but she registered nada on the kink scale. It was Potter related, Potter generated, and would Potter please go to hell right now? Could Draco hate him anymore more? He didn't think so. Draco didn't have blue balls. He had navy balls with sparkles on top.

Draco had managed to maintain his normal level of sneer during Snape's general lecture. Not that he'd paid attention to a single word, because who could with the thought that very soon he would be standing a mere three inches away from those ankles. It was a struggle to walk to the laboratory tables without looking like a hunchback he was so hard.

Walking up to the lab table, fumbling with his parchment in one hand--on which he'd written nothing--and quill and wand in the other, and nearly stumbling--something that Draco hadn't done since he was nine months old--in anticipation of being right next to... Yes! No, that should be a no, except it was such a fucking hallelujah suck-my-dick-for-eternity "yes," because there was that particular vanilla-y aroma that was essence of Potter and mixed in with the chalky, sweet smell of toothpaste. Add bare Potter ankles to that and he was done.

Needs must.

He looked up. Everyone's attention was focused on Snape's daily harangue against Longbottom. Now that Draco knew that Longbottom had only one item on his daily list and that item was, "Biggest dick in England," he honestly didn't know why Longbottom was so intimidated by Snape. If he had a dick down to his knees, nothing that Snape could possibly say would have had any effect on him what so ever. There are some absolutes that trump everything else and having a dick as big as Portugal was one of them. Typical Gryffindor. They never seem to understand what was really important.

Draco had learned in his short life to never look a gift horse in the mouth. Seize the moment, so to speak. He hauled back and socked Potter in the stomach.

The "oomph" Potter let out was music to his ears. Snape stopped mid-snarl and the entire class turned toward them.

"Must be something he ate, sir." Potter managed to eke out some sort of garbled protest that fortunately didn't make any sense. "Shall I take him to Madame Pomfrey?"

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape began to speak in a skeptical tone that suggested that he wasn't fooled one bit, but the gods were smiling on Draco this morning. All of a sudden the liquid in Longbottom's cauldron began to screech and turned a shade of mustard that was always a bad sign.

"I'll take him right now," Draco yelled over Snape's roar of disgust as everyone hit the floor in anticipation of some gigantic explosion.

Hustling Potter out the door, which the bastard didn't make very easy because he was still hunched over in pain, perhaps he should have pulled that punch a little bit, Draco made a beeline for the wall tapestry a few corridors over.

"Malfoy. I'm. Going. To--" Potter panted out before Draco dragged him behind the wall hanging, threw him against the wall, and then plastered himself against Potter.

"What in the fuck are you... Oh."

Potter was so bloody thick. What in the hell did it look like he was doing? Draco didn't think there were any other ways to interpret a hand shoved down one's pants and grabbing whatever came to hand, so to speak. Dear Merlin, it felt so wonderful, so hot, so unspeakably Potteresque that Draco's knees went weak. Potter went from, wow, my stomach really hurts, to, wow, my dick is really hard in five seconds flat. There, yes, there, Draco had to, he had to just. Just. Taste. One little. A small one. Will probably. Not taste. Spectacular.

There was vanilla and toothpaste and fucking hell. Potter tasted like chocolate. Not just any chocolate, but the finest Swiss chocolate ever created. A deep rich bittersweet flavor that wasn't cloying or too bitter, not a hint of raspberry cream anywhere. Potter's mouth was tart and lush and Draco never wanted to stop kissing him. Ever. It was like eating chocolate but chocolate with a lips and a dick. Not even Draco--whose imagination was acknowledged by all to be a little too frisky--could ever have dreamt up such perfection.

Had Potter ever kissed anyone? Based on the inept, what-in-the-hell-do-I-do-with-my-mouth-now moves, it seemed not. But thank the unicorn Merlin rode in on, Potter was a quick study. He went from inept to fantastic in short order. Sadly, it didn't matter because Potter could have had the kissing skills of a flobberworm and it would have felt fantastic. Plus he was moving into Draco's hand like he was dying for it, his hands digging into Draco's shoulder blades. Which was gratifying, because Draco was pretty much on the verge of death himself. Toeing off his trainer and then his sock, he waited. He waited until Potter's mouth went slack and there was that perfect second between when know you're going to come your effing brains out and you do. At that moment, he placed the arch of his foot against Potter's ankle. His foot was warm and Potter's ankle was cool and Draco surged forward, coming in his trousers, just as Potter surged toward him coming in Draco's hand.

There are no words or numbers to describe the sheer bliss of that orgasm.

It was a miracle that they didn't collapse. As they stood there panting in the afterglow, somehow they kept each other standing, the physics of the two of them leaning against each other somehow keeping them upright. Potter's hand came up to pet his hair, even as Draco couldn't help but thumb that so-soft spot behind Potter's ear.

God, he was fucked. Potter tasted like chocolate. Not flobberworm jizz or elf piss or any of the things that one would assume the ultimate Gryffidor would taste like. Draco laid his mouth against Potter's neck and sucked. Yes, chocolate with hints of caramel. He lingered there for a second, nibbling on Potter's earlobe, dragging his flat of his tongue along the "L" of Potter's neckline for one last, final taste, and then he bent down, grabbed his shoe and sock, and ran.

To Be Continued