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

Author's Notes: This is my attempt to address what I find is an appalling lack of remorse in the HPB when Harry slices and dices Malfoy. For all the pointless guilt Harry suffers in previous books, in the one case where I think a whole hell of a lot of guilt would be entirely appropriate, it's given short shrift. So I'm torturing Harry here. AU for 6th year, not at all HBP compliant. So sue me.




"What's Malfoy doing? Handing out Galleons?"

At least twenty people stood crowding around Malfoy's end of the Slytherin table.

"Enough to put me off my breakfast," said Ron, who promptly stuffed two sausages in his mouth. "Stupid git is this month's "Up and Coming," in Wizard magazine," he mumbled around the sausage. "Idiot's signing autographs. Can't imagine why they'd pick him."

"Scraping the bottom of the barrel obviously. Must have asked him after I refused to respond to their owls. Pass the bacon, Ron."

Ron paused and then croaked out around the sausage bits, "They asked you?"

Fuck, Harry had done it again. He couldn't imagine why anyone would want their picture in a magazine, and he doubted Ron really did want his picture in a magazine, but Harry could tell that it hurt his feelings he hadn't been asked. Especially since Harry and that piece of shit Malfoy had. Ron had a tendency to brood about these things. A what's-wrong-with-me sort of brooding, as opposed to a thank-Merlin-they're-not-bugging-me sort of relief, which was always Harry's reaction.

"Just the once," he lied. "Bacon? Like I said. Scraping the bottom of the barrel."

Judging by the scowl on Ron's face, which seemed to start at his kneecaps and didn't end until the very tips of his hair, Harry's white lie didn't mollify him one bit. But he did pass the bacon.

"See him every fucking day, don't we? Can't believe people are paying a Galleon for a signed picture. They've lost their fucking minds," snorted Ron, his disappointment conveniently segueing into disgust. "Morons!" he shouted in the direction of the Slytherins.

Harry nodded in agreement. During the rest of breakfast, Ron kept up a running monologue on how stupid and ugly Malfoy was, and how he was canceling his subscription to Wizard in protest. Which sounded like a great idea, until Ginny pointed out that Ron didn't have a subscription to Wizard. "That's not the fucking point, Ginny," growled Ron.

While the two of them went at it, Harry grabbed one more piece of bacon, and as he munched, he watched the crowd around Malfoy slowly diminish as the prat signed picture after picture. With his last bite, a very evil thought occurred to Harry. Part of him acknowledged it was a thoroughly vile idea, perhaps even uncharacteristically brutal. But the part of him that wanted to haul back and break his knuckles against Malfoy's face gave him an enthusiastic pat on the back and cheered, "Do it, mate."

That vicious motherfucker's latest stunt was to insult his parents every chance he got. Only yesterday he asked in an innocent voice, like it was something he was genuinely curious about: "Say, Potter, do you think it's because you were obviously raised by wolves that you don't know how to dress, or do you think it's some sort of genetic anomaly, like a club foot. Did your parents wear clothes six sizes too large for them?"

This had become Malfoy's favorite M.O.; the seemingly innocent question masquerading as a verbal kick to the nuts. And if Harry marshaled some self control and didn't react, Malfoy just threw his net wider: "I smell something. Do you think Hagrid has secreted hippogriffs in his…oh sorry. It's just that Mud…Granger."

Yeah, Malfoy deserved it.

Harry got up and began to make his way to the Slytherin table. To Ron's gob-smacked, "Harry?" Harry turned around and mouthed, "S'ok," and then stood in line for a picture.

He got a few glares, a few stares, but he stood his ground. Crabbe and Goyle tried to whisper in Malfoy's ear that Harry was in line, but he waved them off with, "For the fuck of Merlin, shut up. I'm busy."

He waited and waited, rolling his eyes to himself while Malfoy held court. Did he have to carry on a bloody conversation with each and every effing one of them? Harry would be late for Potions and nothing was worth that grief. Not like Malfoy needed to worry about detention if he was late for Potions.

"Do you have an 'e' on the end of your name? Yes, they took at least forty photographs. To tell the truth, it was hard choosing which one to use for the article," Malfoy smirked.

Like he couldn't take a bad picture. Harry had to restrain himself from making gagging motions. Could Malfoy possibly be more full of himself?

"Be careful. Let the ink dry before you put it away."

Yeah, right, otherwise it'd look like Malfoy had a gigantic streak of dirt across that arrogant puss. Be a bloody improvement as far as Harry was concerned.

"You like that smile? The photographer liked it too."

Shut the fuck up, Malfoy. As if the photographer was going to say, "You've got a face like a ferret, mate. Have my job cut out for me this morning. Will have to take at least thirty or forty pictures, and hopefully one of them will have that pointy-as-all-fuck chin of yours in shadow enough so that you don't look like a goddamn rodent in a robe."

Besides, Malfoy couldn't do a proper smile if his life depended on it. More like a cross between a sneer and a smile. A snile.

Where had all these people come from? Malfoy must have signed close to fifty pictures by now. Harry figured Crabbe and Goyle threatened to hex all the younger Slytherins if they didn't grovel at Malfoy's feet. Harry had a private laugh. Probably even supplied the Galleons, the moronic tossers.

He was the last in line. He threw a galleon on the table. "Don't need your signature, Malfoy. Just the picture."

Harry snatched one off the top before Malfoy could stop him and stuffed it into his backpack. Priceless, absolutely frigging priceless the look on Malfoy's face as he tried to cover up his shock.

Motioning to Ron that they needed to hightail it out of there, Harry caught up to him as they raced down the steps to the dungeons.

"Harry," Ron panted. "What are you going to do with Malfoy's picture?"

"Think we need to start a new tradition. The Saturday Night All-Gryffindor Darts Tournament."

"Darts?"

Harry ran even faster. "Sometimes I wonder if you're even English, Ron."




Hermione was shocked.

"You can't be serious, Harry. Seamus? Dean? Using Malfoy's face as a dart board?"

They shrugged en masse and gave each other the look that said, "Girls. Never want to do anything fun."

"I refuse to play."

Feeling more than just slightly belligerent because Hermione had ripped strips off of him not ten minutes earlier when he had confided in her what they were planning to do, Ron snapped back, "Not an issue. No girls allowed."

"Fine," she harumphed. No one could harumph like Hermione, with the exception of McGonagall, of course. That bloody woman invented harumphing. "I refuse to let you do it in the common room."

Standing more or less behind her, Ron screwed up his face and mouthed, "Blah,blah,blah," in what he'd obviously hoped was a discreet manner.

"I saw that, Ronald Weasley." She whirled around and said in a shrill voice Harry thought was ominously spot on Molly Weasley when she was about to go on a tear, "I can't believe you even have the nerve to wear that prefect's badge. The younger years shouldn't be privy to this loathsome display. I so much as hear the word 'dart,' I'm reporting you all to McGonagall." She stood there tapping her foot, refusing to give ground until they trudged up to their room.

As they climbed the stairs, Ron muttered, "Woman's got eyes in the back of her fucking head."

Needs must. They just set up the dart tournament in their dorm room. It wasn't ideal, but with their backs at the door, they more or less had enough space. They had a fair turnout. It was mostly sixth years, a handful of fifth years, and a couple of second years who'd recently been on the receiving end of Malfoy's taunts because they weren't Purebloods. Harry had been to Hogsmeade earlier that day, scoring both darts and a dart board, to which they stuck Malfoy's picture.

Like all wizarding photographs, this one moved. Seeing as Harry thought of the idea, he got to go first. Plus, besides Dean, he was the only person who'd actually ever held a dart in his hand, and, in the interest of not losing any eyes, he gave a brief primer on throwing a dart. When the picture saw Harry standing there with a dart in his hand, aiming in his direction, the picture's eyes bugged out of its head and turned around. That got a big laugh out of everyone. Fine, they'd just throw the darks at the back of Malfoy's head.

In the beginning, most of their darts went wild, not entirely due to the copious amount of Firewhiskey consumed—Seamus always managed to have Firewhiskey on tap for special occasions—but Dean proved to be an excellent dart player, and Harry had a fair number of hits as well. Soon the back of Malfoy's head was covered in holes. Every time there was a successful hit, the head winced and shuddered.

At first, Harry thought this was hysterical and roared along with everyone else. And then it began to be not so funny. He realized that jerk that the picture did when someone scored was very like the jerk that Harry did when that bastard Voldemort tortured Harry's scar in the middle of the night. The tight cast of Malfoy's shoulders, just visible in the picture, was dead-on the way Harry held his shoulders while waiting for Voldemort to zing his scar. Harry knew exactly how that felt. Like his shoulders blades might shatter with the next onslaught of pain.

Harry began throwing wide on his turn, the darts bouncing off the walls instead. He laughed good-naturedly when they teased him for being a lightweight, unable to hold his liquor. Everyone else was too much in their cups to notice that Harry had stopped drinking ages ago. He hoped that as the evening progressed their darts would end up in the curtains as well.

No such luck.

Despite the fact they'd killed at least two bottles of Firewhiskey, the chance to give it to Malfoy overrode the drink. After a couple of hours, everyone had gotten the hang of it, and the darts made the picture nearly every time. As each arm pulled back, the shiny end of the dart poised for just a second before the caster let it fly, Harry's stomach would clench and then clench again as the head in the picture jerked when the dart bit into the paper.

He had to stop this.

Easier said than done. Harry complaints of boredom and suggestions of a midnight ride on their broomsticks were ignored. Even Neville hooted with glee when his darts hit the picture. When Malfoy just hung his head, too exhausted to even flinch anymore, Harry had had enough. He strode up to the picture and took it down. With a grin he hoped was sufficiently blood thirsty enough for this lot, he announced that they'd better save the target for next week's game.

There were some protests, Ron being the loudest, but Harry stood firm—after all he'd paid for the picture—and pretty soon Seamus was passing around the bottle and regaling everyone with stories about finding his gardener fucking one of the local shop girls under the hydrangeas last summer. By the time Seamus had gotten to the part where the randy gardener was shoving his hands under the girl's skirt, everyone had passed out except Harry.

"Sorry, Seamus. Need to call it a night. Can't keep my eyes open," Harry lied.

"Yeah, me neither," he yawned. "Bunch of bollocks any way. Our gardener's seventy-five years old and wouldn't know a tit from a potato. 'Night, Harry."

Harry drew the hangings closed around his four-poster and slipped into bed. He'd never been so ashamed of himself. And sure, Malfoy would have hooted and hollered louder than the rest of them if the tables were turned and Harry's picture had been the one being repeatedly stabbed with darts, but it didn't matter. He'd wished that Hermione had gone and tattled to McGonagall. If anyone had ever told him that his friends would act like a bunch of boys on loan from Lord of the Flies, he'd have laughed himself sick. Well, he wasn't laughing now. He'd seen a side to him and his friends that was pretty fucking ugly, and if he never saw it again it would be too soon.

The adrenaline carrying him through the evening as he grew more frantic finally deserted him. He desperately wanted to go to sleep, but he had one more thing he had to do. He picked up the picture that he'd placed face down on his bed. Turning it over, he whispered, "Lumos." Malfoy, still turned away, jerked, his head bent forward, his shoulders assuming that stiff resignation Harry knew so well. Harry cast a Silencing charm, and then gave the shoulder in the photo a very gentle pat with his finger.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

The head came up, but didn't turn around, and his shoulders hunched forward sharply, as if to say, "Fuck your apology." Harry ran his finger from one shoulder blade to the other, the heat of his finger leaving a little trail on the glossy surface of the photo.

"Really, really sorry." Harry tried again. He'd never knew you could cry from shame, and it took all of Harry's willpower not to breakdown.

Malfoy turned around slowly, as if he were in extreme pain. As if every molecule in his body were aching.

Harry would have expected outrage or fury, a million other reactions than the one on Malfoy's face. He never would have expected disappointment. That tore it.

He didn't turn away as he began crying; he wanted Malfoy to see his shame. Malfoy deserved to see his shame. He cried for a long time. He was better than that, or so he thought, and the realization that he wasn't was worth more than just a few tears. He cried until a particularly loud snort from the direction of Ron's bed roused him. He wiped his eyes with the edge of a sheet and tried to sniff up the snot, finally giving up and just wiping his nose on his sleeve. He looked at the picture. Malfoy rolled his eyes in disgust as if to say, "You revolting tosser, where's your handkerchief?" Harry shrugged, as if to say, "Can't find it. Sleeve was handy."

Malfoy rolled his eyes again and tried to puff an errant wisp of hair that had fallen in his face, but wasn't having much luck. Harry used his little finger to brush it away. He got a "snile" for that, but it wasn't malicious like Malfoy's sniles usually were. More like he was amused and/or grateful than anything else.

When he wasn't snarling or spewing vicious shit about someone, Malfoy was actually quite attractive. Generous mouth, that impossibly blond hair. Harry studied the curve of his chin, and with great surprise realized that he'd been thinking of Malfoy as ferrety looking for so long that he didn't realize that Malfoy had lost that pointed, sharp look. Well, he hadn't lost it so much as grown into it.

Harry ran his pinky finger over Malfoy's chin line. Malfoy didn't move or smirk or jerk away like Harry expected him to. He just kept watching Harry, passively, his brows brought together in a little question. Harry then ran his pinky over those eyebrows in a teasing gesture. This time he did get a smile, a real smile. Not with any teeth mind you, but Malfoy's amusement was real enough. What a nice mouth, thought Harry, and then caught himself. "That git has a nice mouth," he told himself sternly, to remind himself exactly who this was. But he couldn't stop studying it, and ultimately all his reminders were so much bollocks because the beauty of that mouth was so much more important than who the mouth belonged to and, fuck it, it was just a picture, wasn't it? He couldn't stop himself. That curious pinky traced the line of Malfoy's upper lip and then the lower lip and christ on a raft there was no mistaking the clenching of Harry's stomach nor the hot white pulse in his groin.

This was fucking turning him on.

But he couldn't pull away, turn the picture over, or wave a Finite Incantatem to turn out the light. Because. Because the Malfoy in the picture knew what Harry was thinking. The smile got wider; there was even a hint of teeth. And it wasn't amusement at his expense, or at least it didn't look like it. It was more of a well, well, well; what do we have here?

The portrait began running the tip of his tongue slowly over his bottom lip. Fuck. Then the top of his lip. Then more tongue and more lip and pretty soon what Malfoy was doing with his tongue and his lips was positively obscene. Harry choked out a Nox to douse the light, because even if it was a picture… He shoved his hands down his pants, jerking off with no finesse whatsoever, because he had to get off right then and there. The possibility of that mouth and tongue all over him, sucking him and laving his balls sent him over in record time, with record ferocity.

Dear Merlin, what a night for humiliations. He'd just jerked off to a picture of Draco Malfoy.




He couldn't even touch the picture after that. He just left it on his bed and fell asleep in the exact same position he'd collapsed into after he'd tossed himself off. In fact, he hadn't even moved to cast a Cleaning charm and woke-up sticky and smelling like wet goat.

Refusing to look at the picture, Harry hid it under his pillow before racing to the shower. He scrubbed himself raw, raking the washcloth over his skin, as much to cleanse himself of his cruelty as his lust.

The rest of his dorm mates were still sleeping it off, thank god, so he was only sharing breakfast with a pissed-off Hermione, who wasn't speaking to him. Good. Ignoring the loud clatter of plates and the teapot as Hermione banged them on the table to broadcast her extreme displeasure with him, he kept sneaking glances over at the Slytherin table, trying to get a glimpse of Malfoy, but apparently he was having a lie-in or didn't feel like eating because he never appeared.

Of course, Malfoy was allowed to sleep in on a Sunday morning, but…

Harry knew it was only a picture, but it was so fucking real last night. Everything. Malfoy's reaction to the darts, the shine in his eyes when he realized Harry was turned on. That mouth. That tongue. So real. He had to find out if Malfoy was okay, and the guilt that had somewhat dissipated after a night's sleep was back with a vengeance when Malfoy didn't show up for breakfast.

Another first. Not only had Harry jerked off to visions of Malfoy blowing him, but Harry actually cared if Malfoy was hurt or not. At least the Malfoy in the picture, which he couldn't really entirely divorce from the real Malfoy. This was getting very complicated, and now he had a whopping headache. Logically Harry knew that Malfoy should be okay. It was only a picture, but when had magic ever been completely logical? Like the stairs moving? Logically, you'd think stairs wouldn't be enchanted. Harry never understood that. It was bloody miracle that some first year hadn't plunged to his or her death as a result of some barmy staircase deciding to swing about. So the idea that Malfoy could actually have been hurt by last night's fiasco was improbable but not impossible.

He trudged up to the infirmary to ask Madam Pomfrey to kill this blasted headache. With his luck, she'd put it down to a hangover, and he'd have to suffer with it for hours since Hermione wouldn't take care of it for him. He could hear her snip, "Good enough for you."

Fortunately, she merely looked him over, made no pretense over smelling him to see if he stank of alcohol, and then waved her wand. "Quite a lot of headaches this morning. Mr. Malfoy was in here earlier. You wouldn't know anything about that, now would you, Mr. Potter?"

"N-n-n-no, Madam Pomfrey," and blessed the fact that she had a soft spot for him, because there was no covering up his guilty blush and stammer.

Shit. The headache was gone, replaced by a gnawing on the edges of his rib cage that he knew was guilt. He made his way slowly to the Gryffindor Tower, wondering how in the hell…

A strong arm curved around his neck and dragged him into a dark closet. He was about to raise his wand in defense when Malfoy hissed, "Accio wand." Harry's wand flew out of his hand, a weak Lumos, and Malfoy thrusted both wands under Harry's chin. And pushed.

"What the fuck did you do to me last night, Potter? What spell? What hex? Tell me or so help me god I'll tear you apart."

"I…I didn't hex you or anything like that…" Malfoy pressed harder. "Can't…talk," Harry managed to choke out.

Malfoy let up just a fraction, but shoved a palm against Harry's shoulder so hard that his arm went numb as he hit the wall.

"Tell me, you fucker. Tell me," he ordered. "I dreamt last night you were doing something to my head. My head was on fucking fire. Little pinpricks of pain all over the back of my head and neck. When I went to Madame Pomfrey, she said it was swollen." The wands pressed back into Harry's throat, and Malfoy's free hand banged Harry against the wall again. "You did something to the picture, you bastard, didn't you?"

Harry could only nod, the shame so deep that he couldn't speak.

Malfoy punched him in the stomach.

Harry would have fallen over if Malfoy's hand hadn't kept him pinned to the wall.

"Darts," he gasped. "We were playing darts. I… I…wouldn't have done it if I'd known you could feel it. Pictures…" oh christ, his shoulder hurt. "Pictures must be enchanted. You've got to get them back."

He counted to ten, desperately trying not to vomit up the small amount of breakfast he'd eaten.

The wands pushed against his Adam's apple again. "Darts. What is that? Some Muggle game?"

"Yeah, you throw something with a sharp end at a target. I tried to stop it! Really… I mean… I didn't know it would hurt you… I just… I tried to stop it!" Harry cried. "They wouldn't listen… I'm sorry."

Harry wouldn't have accepted that lame apology. Why should Malfoy?

The pressure on his throat stopped. Malfoy lowered the wands. Harry took in big gulps of air, knowing for certain that the wands would be back once Malfoy understood what they'd been doing.

"I was the target," Malfoy said in a deadpan voice.

Harry couldn't look at him. "Yeah," he admitted. Could it get any worse?

"And the rest of it?"

Oh holy fuck, kill me, Harry begged to the ether and turned his head to the side. He couldn't answer, but the furious blush said it all. Malfoy would never let him live this down. He'd probably take out a full-page announcement in The Daily Prophet, "Boy Who Lived Lives it Up to My Picture." He'd have to quit school. He couldn't face the humiliation.

"The rest of it, Potter," Malfoy demanded in a shaky whisper.

"Just…just…sorry. Sorry for that too," he said out of the side of his mouth. He couldn't help but remember how ripe that mouth had looked, wet and swollen from the repeated laving of Malfoy's tongue.

Now was a really bad time to realize that Malfoy was pressed up against him. He could feel Malfoy's breath against the side of his face. If Harry thought he'd been blushing before, it was nothing compared to this. It was extreme humiliation combined with extreme arousal, and if all of a sudden he burst into flames, he wouldn't have been surprised in the least.

He waited for Malfoy to pull away, to scream insults at him, mock his sexuality, and say something along the lines of, "How'd you think your parents would feel having a raging pouf as a son?"

Malfoy did none of those things. He stood there silently, half pressed against Harry, his breath heavy and hot on Harry's neck. Harry turned his head back just a fraction, and whispered into Malfoy's ear, "Malfoy?"

Malfoy turned so that all of him was pressed against Harry. The flat plane of Malfoy's slender frame fit against his own slender body. There was no place to hide either of their erections. The bald evidence of such mutual desire resulted in both of them uttering sharp surprised cries.

Malfoy seemed as inexperienced as himself. His fingers fumbled just as much as Harry's did as they struggled with the buttons on each other's trousers. His hands just as unsure as Harry's when shoving Harry's trousers down to his knees. And Malfoy gasped and moaned just like he did from that shy initial shock of another boy's cock in his hand. Half surprise, half joy that this fumbling and groping could feel so fucking good.

Harry didn't know what in the hell he was doing, so he did to Malfoy what he liked himself. Slow, with a little twist at the end. Then he felt the way Malfoy was handling him, a little rougher, faster, and he figured, okay, this is what Malfoy likes. He sped up, jerked a little rougher at the end. Oh, Malfoy did like that. The hand on his dick slackened as Malfoy began to fuck his hand in earnest, his uh, uh, uhs filling the small closet as he fucked Harry's hand to orgasm.

No one had told him that jerking another guy off was such a fucking turn on. He whimpered a little, shuddering uncontrollably as Malfoy slowly came back to earth.

"Shush, Potter. I'll take care of you," Malfoy murmured.

Oh fuck yeah. Yeah. Malfoy had been paying attention because it was slow and sweet and that twist. Trust Malfoy to get the twist right as those elegant hands wrapped around him. And pulled.

Afterward they collapsed, sliding their backs down the wall, their bare arses against cold stone, bare thighs and knees touching.

Malfoy uttered a cleaning charm and then a Nox to douse the light.

"You ever…do that?" asked Malfoy, still a little breathless.

"Uh no. Well, with, you know, a girl."

"The Weaslette?"

"None of your fucking business, Malfoy. But, uh, never…with uh…" He left it at that.

"Me either." Malfoy paused, and then said, "I won't tell anyone if you won't."

"Deal," Harry sighed with relief.

They sat there for a few more minutes in silence. Harry didn't want to think about what this meant. No doubt he'd brood about it later, but it had felt fucking fantastic at the time and it still felt fucking fantastic; he was going to enjoy it as long as he'd let himself.

"You need to get those pictures back. There's something magical about them."

Malfoy chuckled, "Do tell, Potter."

"More than the usual magic. Prick," and Harry gently nudged Malfoy's shoulder with his own.

"You seem to have a thing for tossing off pricks, Potter," Malfoy teased.

Harry smiled. "Only pricks with wicked hands. Think you'll get all of them back?"

"Of course." This was said with the usual Malfoy arrogance. "I'll just tell everyone that Wizard was thinking about having you next, and I'm pulling the photos in protest. If I have any problems, I just let Crabbe and Goyle have a 'word.'"

"Must be nice to have minions," Harry commented dryly.

"Fuck off, Potter."

They were quickly returning to the status quo, and Harry imagined that it wouldn't be too long before Malfoy said something really nasty, and they'd be beating each other up. He wondered if they'd pull up their pants first before they started throwing punches.

"You'll give me back my photo?" Malfoy asked in a surprisingly neutral tone.

"Yeah, of course I'll give it back." Harry put a hand on Malfoy's knee. "I'm really sorry."

Malfoy ignored him. "We should go or we'll miss lunch. I didn't have breakfast and I'm starving."

"Okay," Harry agreed but didn't move his hand.

Malfoy muttered a Lumos and then braced his palm against the top of Harry's hand to haul himself up.

"Wait," asked Harry, because he knew he'd never get another chance. "You have a beautiful mouth, Malfoy.

Harry pulled Malfoy toward him and very, very gently tasted him. Tentatively swiped his tongue into Malfoy's mouth, groaned when Malfoy's tongue swiped back. Oh so good. Soft and lush, that mouth was made for his. Every nip and bite ratcheted up his desire, and just as Harry grabbed Malfoy's arse to drag Malfoy down on top of him, Malfoy pulled away.

"Color me surprised. Who knew Potter could kiss? As can I, apparently," and he raised his eyebrows in amusement at Harry's hard on. Then he turned away and pulled up his boxers and trousers, having some difficulty in stuffing his own hard on into his boxers.

Harry could like this Malfoy. Oh sure, he was still an arrogant prat, but Harry had never seen this playful, teasing side to him. He wondered if this saucy charm played as big a factor in being the undisputed leader of the Slytherins as his father's money and clout.

He then picked up their wands from where they'd fallen on the floor, handed Harry his wand, and made to leave.

"Malfoy, could we—"

The old Draco Malfoy surfaced.

"No we could not. Are you out of your fucking mind? Don't… Just don't," he snapped.

"Okay, okay," Harry snapped back. They stared at each other with their old, patented animosity. "It… It…just felt…" and all the fight went out of him. "Felt good, didn't it? Really, really good."

Good wasn't quite the word. Right was more like it. But he knew he was already pushing it.

A malice-free snile appeared. "Yes, Potter. It did feel really, really good." Then he leaned down and said, "Your mouth isn't half bad either," and kissed him. A hard kiss, all teeth and tongue. The sort of kiss that took your balls hostage.

Before he pulled away for the last time, he whispered, "On second thought, keep the picture," and shut the door behind him as he left the room.




Fin