Excuse Me, Do You Fucking Mind?

If Draco Malfoy’s life had been one typical of a romantic comedy aimed at tween girls and also The Gays, this would be the point where Potter confessed his undying adoration and a catchy song played in the background while Draco rolled his eyes and began to smile and then they both kissed and the credits rolled.

Unfortunately, (because of course an ‘unfortunately,’ was due, Draco lived in the real world and not in an embarrassing and admittedly adorable romcom) reality was a cruel bitch. And not in the fun way. 

Additionally, Potter was miles from the typical romcom male lead, in that he was a solid five out of ten, and his entire personality revolved around being Fucking Awkward.

Draco blamed him for everything. Which was on par with normal, but the last few days had been anything but normal, so.

Anyways, Draco blamed Potter for it all. For kissing him, and for ruining all of Draco’s carefully constructed restraint. For seeming interested one second, and then avoiding Draco the next. For being childishly dramatic just because he was jealous, and then giving Draco the silent treatment. For—for being himself, and letting Draco fall so helplessly in love. For holding Draco’s heart in his hand, and digging his nails into it. For being such a fucking loser that Draco wanted to kick him in the balls but also just, like, kiss his face off. Even after everything.

Just for the record, it was Potter who had kissed Draco. Not the other way around. Flirty insinuations on Draco’s end were irrelevant. Potter had made the first move. Potter had blushed, held eye contact, and stared when he thought Draco wasn’t paying attention (the fool. Draco was always paying attention.) All of it was Potter. Potter was the cause.

Potter was always the fucking cause.

And the two-faced bastard, what had he done when he’d seen Draco for the first time after the kiss?

He’d arrived just on time to Chemistry (which, now that Draco thought about it, was probably a purposeful choice), and without a glance Draco’s direction or any movement of acknowledgement, had sat at his desk. 

Obviously, this had annoyed Draco. But Draco held a modicum of maturity and was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Draco was also, regrettably, head over heels and would’ve licked the floor for Potter’s attention, but not everything needs be said.

Anyways, so Draco, the mature one, had laughed a little and said, in a charming, velvety voice, “Good morning to you too,”

At this point, it is important perhaps to note that Draco was so very fluent in his particular brand of sarcasm that he had trouble turning it off most days, and thus the aforementioned greeting may— may— have come off as a sneer. It was, of course, very much not a sneer—as previously mentioned, it was in fact a desperate cry for attention. That maybe sounded a little bit like a sneer. Whatever.

Anyways.

Potter had glanced in Draco’s direction, the overhead lights glancing off his glasses, a new cut on his chin (Draco had a sudden, quiet, vision just then, of Potter—his haystack hair salt and pepper, his eyelids sagging—still with small cuts on his face. He’ll never be able to shave without hurting himself, the knob.) Draco could feel his own heartbeat in his ears, and then a roaring crash when he processed the eye contact between them. Those eyelashes, far too lovely for the likes of this boy. And the colour in those eyes—darker, touching hazel when the sky was overcast. The sky was overcast, Draco remembered. Snape was on his laptop, deciding how best to be a knobhead without getting fired. Harry Potter was so very close to Draco, he could’ve leant forward and kissed him right there, fuck the upheaval. But the lines of Potter’s lips weren’t soft, Draco remembered that, as well. It was the first sign Draco noticed, the only red flag before the arsehole said a cursory, ‘Yeah, hi,’ and turned back around.

Was Draco disappointed? No, of course not.

Was Draco considering homicide? Well, maybe a little.

And then Snape began his lesson. And fuck Potter if he thought Draco would make an effort with him after that.

Except, the thing was—well—

“You’re a simp.” accused Pansy.

“Get fucked, Pansy.” Draco scowled into his hands.

“I can’t believe it,” Pansy continued, “You’re a simp. And for Potter.”

“I, for one, saw this coming,” Blaise commented.

“Eat a bag of shit, Blaise.”

“Maybe later,”

“You’ve disappointed me, Malfoy.” Pansy continued. “The son of Narcissa Black,” she scoffed, sneering, “A simp.”

“He used to simp for Remus all the time,” Blaise said, as Draco continued to attempt spontaneous combustion with his head in his arms. “Still does, now that I think about it. You’re a bit of a hoe, aren’t you, Draco-darling?” he finished, cheerfully.

“Remus is Remus,” Pansy stated. She continued, disdainfully,  “Potter is Potter.”

“That’s the problem,” Draco muttered into the table.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Draco took in a deep breath, lifting his head to shoot his demons a haughty look, “Fuck off.”

“That was unoriginal, I’m disappointed, Dracon.”

“I’m sorry, Blaise,” Draco said, scathingly, “Rub chilli on your arsehole.”

“Subpar, but I’ll let it slide because you’re distraught.”

“I cannot believe you asked him how to upload the homework.” Pansy continued, contempt in her eyes.

“What was I supposed to do, get a detention for not uploading the homework?”

“Yes.” Pansy replied, without hesitation. “A thousand times, yes. What is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you.” 

“Now Dracon, lets not pretend to be incompetent,”

Pansy gestured exorbitantly in Blaise’s direction and looked towards Draco with ‘Exactly.’ written all over her stupid face.

Draco pursed his lips and thought back to Potter’s behaviour. Or lack thereof. He swallowed against the weird fuzziness in his throat. “I was just making conversation,”

“Like a decent human being,”

“Exactly,”

“Because you’re a decent human being.” Pansy stared at him.

“I’m decent.” Draco muttered. “Sometimes.”

“You’re also pathetic, I’m quickly learning.”

“Look at him pout,” Blaise laughed, leaning forward to pinch Draco’s cheek over Pansy’s derision.

“Don’t touch me.” Draco scowled.

Blaise pinched his other cheek, “Stop pretending to be Smaug, Toothless,”

“Tell me, Toothless,” Pansy leaned forward on the table, “Why the fuck you would lower yourself.”

Draco wished Luna was here. He slapped Blaise’s hands away, scowling. “He kissed me.”

“Yes, and?” Pansy spit.

“And,” Draco repeated, lost for words. 

“Was your honour besmirched?” Blaise laughed. “I always thought you’d be the one to defile Potter, not the other way around.”

“Shut up.” Draco muttered. Hating how vulnerable he felt, he couldn’t help but continue, “It just—confuses me that he—” doesn’t care. Draco looked at his fingers. “How could he just...so easily...”

After the look they’d shared directly afterwards. The exhilaration, the fear. And something else, Draco thought, something—softer. But maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe the taste of something more had been imagined, and all that had occurred was just—skin, and lips, and hormonal teenage boys. And a challenge. Nothing Potter loved more than a challenge. ‘I told you I wasn’t a coward,’

And he wasn’t, they both knew. He never had been, even for a moment.

Draco was just a challenge overcome.

A storm passed over Pansy’s face. “Look at you!”

“This is why we don’t fall in love with Harry Potter, Dracon.”

Draco didn’t even attempt rebutting that. There was no point. Blaise spoke nothing but the truth.

“I can’t believe you asked him what time it was.” Pansy fumed.

Draco dropped his head back into his arms. “Why am I friends with you people?”

“And the chemical formula for ethanoic acid.” Pansy scoffed. “As if you don’t know. As if he would know.”

“To be fair, Pans, he did know.”

“You’re not helping, Blaise.”

“Neither are you, sweetheart. We both exist exclusively to be unhelpful.”

“How dare you—”

“Leave me,” Draco groaned, loudly, “Please.”

“And I cannot believe you asked him for a rubber.” Pansy continued, “A rubber! Imagine!”

“That was pretty stupid, to be fair.” Blaise agreed. “You haven’t used a pencil since third year.”

“You don’t even own a pencil.” Pansy hissed. “Idiot.”

Draco huffed in misery when he remembered the odd look Potter had shot him when he’d asked. The only display of emotion he’d shown.

“Our little Dracon,” Blaise said, fondly, “our sweet, idiot baby.”

“Don’t you dare speak to Potter again,” Pansy seethed, “You hear me, Draco?”

Draco did hear. He just—he heard.

Think of it as an—experience, Draco stared at the gravel by his feet, Character development. Stupid Potter, with his stupid lips. He scowled, And his tongue. Stupid tongue.

He would’ve put his earphones in, but he didn’t feel like listening to whale noises. Every other song in the world was about love and Draco quite liked not anger-sobbing in public places so that was a no go. Granted, not many people were around—it was after school hours and Draco was waiting for Looney. There was no reason for this other than he wanted to see her. Looney offered tea as well as her particular, unapologetic gentleness. And, you know, Draco’s life currently sucked balls.

I’m a whiner, Draco thought in acknowledgement before continuing to indulge in his whiny thoughts.

I can’t believe he kissed me. The entitlement of him. On his lonesome position on the wooden bench, the recollection felt enhanced. I can’t believe he actually kissed me. With his stupid mouth. And more than once, Draco couldn’t help but remember. Multiple times, and each as desperate as the last. The kisses had been desperate, hadn’t they? Or maybe Draco had imagined that. What was the difference between horniness and enthusiasm? Between anger and frustration? It can’t have been nothing, he can’t have felt no desire. Meaningful desire—even if it was laced with anger. Draco wished, fervently, that Potter was in front of him right then, so that he could confirm his thoughts. Reading Harry Potter’s face was an art that Draco had mastered. Imagining his thoughts when he wasn’t present, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. It frequently formed the core of Draco’s frustration with life.

Get off my mind, Draco scowled at the clear sky, Harry Potter, you unbearable twat. 

Despite its ominous beginning, it was the first nice day of the year. Winter had cracked into reluctant April sunlight. The flowers were beginning to bloom, the days were getting longer. Pathetic fallacy is a lie, thought Draco, amidst all that loveliness. There was something terribly sobering in the realisation that even under the sun, it was possible to be miserable. 

Harry Potter. Draco sighed. He can barely string a sentence together, I can’t believe I feel this much for him. Ineptitude was a turn off, except in Harry’s hands, where it was endearing. The softness with which Draco thought about Potter sometimes was awful. Where had all the acidity gone? Surely, it still existed somewhere. Where did he learn to kiss, anyway? Draco frowned. I bet he kissed his hand as practice. The thought of Potter making out with his own hand should have been hilarious. It should have been pathetic. But Draco thought of Potter, thin night clothes, in darkness. Maybe the practice had turned him on. The idea of Potter getting increasingly turned on, all by himself. Enough. Draco cut off that line of thought, hurriedly. We can’t forget all the girls, Draco remembered in sudden bad-humour. Ha. Potty the Celebrity. It would be nice to punch Potter in the stomach, just once.

“Thinking about Potter?” came Theo’s voice.

“No.” was Draco’s immediate reply.

“If you insist,” Theo laughed, sitting down next to Draco. “Though when you’re scowling into space, it’s usually Potter.”

“I’m always scowling into space.”

“Case in point.”

Draco scowled. “Was there a reason you came over to irritate me?”

“Would you believe me if I said that I’ve brought you flowers?”

“Not for a second,” 

“Smart boy,” Theo smiled, moving a lock of hair out of Draco’s eyes.

And despite his awful day—his own fault, really, god knows what had possessed him to expect anything—Draco felt his lips begin to turn up at the corners, “Why, Theodore, that was awfully gay,” the word satirically hushed.

“Was it?” now a lock gingerly behind Draco’s ear, and a lingering touch.

“That was even gayer, Theodore,” Draco eyed him, pleased despite himself. “You’re being gay, you realise,”

Maybe Draco was just an attention whore. Maybe it was the lack of attention that was making him upset and not the fact that Potter, specifically, was the offender. Yes, that must be it. Potter was insignificant. Draco was just an attention-seeker.

Draco thought, If I think it enough times, I’ll eventually begin to believe it.

“You’re the one who was being gay first,” Theo dropped his hand and moved closer to Draco, enough that their entire bodies were touching, “With your face.”

What’s this? Draco looked at Theo sideways. Had he eaten something off? The boldness was uncharacteristic. “Did you just call my face gay?”

“Of course I did, look at you.”

Alright, thought Draco, pleased but suspiciously. “I’ll take that as a compliment,”

“Take it as you want.” Theo moved his knee to bang against Draco’s, his eyes clear and blue and nowhere unmanageably green. No cringy light of justice. No trouble. No arguing just for the hell of it.

No unfathomable understanding.

Life would be easier if Draco loved Theodore. Far, far easier. And perhaps in some alternate universe—where hate was just contempt and not love turned sideways—he did love Theodore. And in that universe all Draco had to deal with was Theo’s bouts of internalised homophobia. Easy.

That was a joke. Nothing was fucking easy. Draco hated his life.

“You’re in a good mood,” Draco said, because Theo was.

“I told you, your face is being gay.”

“Well then, you’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Theo moved a nonexistent something off of Draco’s collar, “for waiting for me. And also for your face, I guess.”

Well. thought Draco, with the calm that comes with being too emotionally fatigued to care, This is awkward.

“I was waiting for Luna,”

Theo grimaced. He looked away.

For lack of anything better to say, and because the awkwardness hit him all of a sudden at full force, Draco muttered, “Sorry,”

A moment passed in unbearable silence. Draco opened his mouth to say something—maybe apologise again, maybe diffuse the situation with a joke. Maybe break out into some Adele. Everyone loved a good Adele.

As if agitated into speech by the unspoken threat of Adele, Theo said, “You’re embarrassing me by apologising.”

Draco sighed. He was right. What could Draco say? You’re right, I’m sorry. 

You’re right, I’m wrong. 

You’re right. I’m just experiencing a shitload of angst right now, it’s messing with my brain. 

He settled on, “I’m not myself today.”

Because he wasn’t.

Draco Malfoy would never be this upset over a boy. Draco Malfoy would never indulge in such petty misery after having completely foreseen this future. Of course Potter would ignore what happened. They had kissed. They had kissed.

They had kissed, after all.

It was such a shame that every one of Potter’s breaths was felt by Draco’s heartstrings. Especially now, after Potter had moaned right into Draco’s mouth. After the vibrations had travelled through Draco’s body. He thought he could still feel them lingering on his tongue, if he held himself still enough.

It was so pathetic of him. If his life had been a book, in a hundred years some seventeen year old would read it and scoff at the seeming exaggeration. Why was all of it so embarrassing? Why was all of it so demeaning?

And why didn’t Harry Potter feel it too?

“Neither am I.” Theo mumbled. “Of course you’re waiting for your cousin.”

“It’s one of those days.” said Draco, wryly.

Theo remained silently by Draco’s side, holding himself in shame. With that, Draco felt for him a sort of sympathy. What a feeble pair the two of them made.

“Want to hear the highlight of my day?” Draco asked his comrade in pity.

“No.”

“Of course you do,” Draco continued, “This boy—kinda fit—he told me my face was gay.”

No response from Theo. It was Draco’s turn to be embarrassed. To be embarrassed by someone who’s already embarrassed, what an embarrassing turn of events.

“If I was feeling more like myself, I’d have come up with something better.”

Theo’s eyes were narrowed, and fixed on the ground. “You’re cruel, Draco.”

Draco blinked. “Well, yes,” There was no point denying it.

“Don’t say things like that to me,”

Does he like me, or does he like indulging in his secret desires? Draco would never know, because Draco would never ask. And he supposed he really was cruel, because he hoped, dearly, for the latter. To save himself the headache.

“I’ve told you you’re fit before.” he said instead. Sometimes, feigned ignorance was the kindest response. Though nobody would ever believe that Draco would choose to be kind.

“Don’t tell me I’m the highlight of your day.”

“Right.” Draco said, looking away. “Being told my face looks gay was actually the worst thing that has ever happened to me. How dare you.”

Theo shook his head. Draco turned his head back to catch him smiling.

“My face is completely straight, look.” Draco bit his lip and raised an eyebrow. “I’m the very epitome of a lad.” He lifted one of his arms and flexed his biceps. “Gainz.”

“Draco, stop.” Theo laughed, horrified.

“Just two lads, innit.” Draco nodded.

“Oh my god.”

“I only shower on Mondays.” Draco continued.

Theo laughed. He lifted his hand to touch Draco’s hair, “No wonder your hair’s so greasy.”

“Gainz.”

“What have I started,” Theo pushed Draco’s hair back from his face.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Just two lads staring at each other.”

“What kind of lad has the name Draco.”

“Me.” Draco noticed Theo hadn’t removed his hand from his hair. “Just two lads about to snog in public.”

Theo blushed and moved away. Draco grinned.

“I’m as bent as a straight line.” he said, as a strong burst of wind blew his hair every which way.

“Your father’s lost decades of his life waiting to hear you say that,” 

“It’s all part of my demonic pact.” Draco smirked. “You don’t think I look this good without sacrifice do you?”

“Your father’s life,” repeated Theo.

“No one said it had to be my sacrifice.”

Theo burst out laughing.

And it felt kind of—nice. Draco wondered, briefly, if Theo could ever stand up to his family. If there would ever come a day, five, maybe ten years from now, where he could kiss another guy without hating himself for it.

“You’re awful.” Theo said, eventually.

“Yeah,” Draco agreed. “For the record, so are you.”

“I know.” Theo sighed. “What a pair.”

And that is when a piece of abandoned paper flew directly into Draco’s face.

“A magnet for misfortune.” Theo commented.

Draco rubbed the sting out of his eyes. “Yes, paper. The greatest tragedy to have disturbed man.” He placed a hand on his chest and lamented, “How will I ever get over this moment.”

“Good to know your sarcasm wasn’t affected by the trauma.”

“It’ll be the last thing to go,” Draco returned, “Just before they fuck me into my grave you’ll hear a— agh,” a candywrapper flew into Draco’s eyes.

“Nice.” Theo laughed. “‘Agh!’”

“Fuck off.”

“‘Don’t you fucking dare crumple my shirt!’” Theo continued, in a high-pitched voice, ‘“It’s Gucci!’”

“That,” Draco acquiesced, his vision blocked by the infernal wind messing with his hair, “was actually pretty accurate,”

“I know.”

The wind was being a special bitch today. Draco felt strongly inclined to give it the finger, but stopped himself, just barely, with the thought that the scene would look awfully pathetic. Draco was miserable, and in unrequited love with an incorrigible loser, but he still had certain standards to uphold. The second Draco had that thought, a gust of wind caused him to lose grip on his phone. It fell to the ground with a loud smack.

“This is comical.” Theo observed, unhelpfully.

What the actual fuck. A sudden thought struck Draco as he opened his eyes. He stared at his phone, screen-down, on the ground. He then stared at his hand, which remained in the same position it’d been in this whole time. His nostrils flared as he lifted his head to look up at the uncharacteristically cloudless sky.

“Genuinely comical,” Theo bent over to pick up Draco’s phone. “It’s cracked.”

“What are the bloody odds.” Draco smiled, tightly. He took his phone from Theo’s hands and scowled when he saw his reflection on the cracked screen. “My hair.”

“Windswept,”

“Shut up,” Draco patted his hair down to no avail, his annoyance a heavy pit in his stomach.

“And there’s Potter,” Theo nodded, laughingly, “Perfect.”

There you are. Draco put his phone in his pocket. Clenching his jaw, he got up from the bench. This, annoyingly, made Theo laugh harder.

“Taking your frustration out on him is going to make your day worse,” he called, in between laughs.

“I agree.” Draco replied, his mood worsening with every step. It was time, it seemed, to fight with the wind.

Potter had the gall to pretend he didn’t notice Draco. He stood by a wall, his hands in his pockets. Without a care in the world. Nothing irked Draco more than being ignored by Potter, even in such a blatantly put-on way. There was no better way to make Draco feel like he had lost. Looking at Potter, at the lack of immediate self-torment—he had lost, by falling so unbearably. All he ever did, nowadays, was lose.

“Was ruining my hair the only way you could think of getting my attention?” he asked, as coldly as he could manage.

Potter glanced at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was exasperating that his attention still evoked this inevitable pleasure. How would Draco ever convince himself to stop finding so much joy in losing?

“Wind, on a cloudless day. From every direction and out of nowhere.” Draco returned, narrowing his eyes. “Is harassing people fun for you?” He’d almost slipped and added ‘Golden-boy.’ There was no room for such intimacy in this conversation.

Potter’s expression darkened, his ears reddened. “It can be windy on a cloudless day.”

He wasn’t looking at Draco. Coward. 

“Not feeling honourable today?” Draco asked viciously, moving closer and into Potter’s line of vision, “It’s hard keeping up the act all the time, isn’t it?” Draco glared coldly into Potter’s eyes. All that miserable green, that miserable face. Just being in front of him, having to contain all this energy without being able to touch him, without being wanted back, was miserable. It was awful. For this emotion to be unrequited, and so absolutely at that.

Potter clenched his jaw. “Guess I’ve been spending too much time with you.”

“So you admit to the harassment.”

Potter flushed harder. “Is this fun for you?”

Draco lost his hold on control for a moment. “Is this fun for me?” he felt the tears climbing up his throat, shooting towards his eyes. Horrified with himself, he suppressed them. Hell would freeze over before Potter would see him cry. Again—damn it all. “Yeah, it is. What gave it away?”

“You were laughing.” Potter said. His voice was strained. Draco noticed how tightly he was balling his fists. His words shot with venom, “Does your boyfriend know?”

“Know what?” Draco asked, daring Potter to say it. Daring him to acknowledge the kiss.

Silence. Potter looked away, his hair fell over his eyes, shadowed them from the world.

Look at him, thought Draco, furiously.

“You don’t get to act like a victim,” he said, a faint tremor in his voice from all he wasn’t allowing himself to feel, “You don’t get to be jealous,” if that’s what he even was.

If Potter felt enough to be jealous...

Draco was aware, vaguely, that he wasn’t acting half as unflappable as he should have been. It frustrated him, but the conversation was moving too fast for him to take control. Everything was instinct.

“I thought this would make the game more fun for you.” Potter spat at the ground.

“Always a disappointment, Potter,” Draco sneered. He noted, somewhere, the lack of denial. What new game was this?

“No matter what I do, then.”

What gives him the right to say that? “You and your fucking violin.” Draco returned, coldly, “Get over yourself.”

“Bored, already?” Potter lifted his eyes, glared accusingly.

And it wasn’t the lack of feeling, because by now Draco had realised that there was no lack of anything where Potter and him were concerned. It was just the accusation of Draco’s nefariousness. How could Potter not see how much he meant to Draco? How could he not have realised, by now, that Draco was vile and unpleasant and hideous in all the ways that mattered, but even then he had a heart. To be misunderstood by the person who owned it was too much.

“Yeah.” Draco turned away, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to sacrifice a few virgins at my satanic altar.”

“So that’s it.”

“Stay away from me.” Draco continued to walk away. He wanted nothing more than to fly away from all of this. Spend a solitary season on the moon.

Frustrated, “I wish I’d never met you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, arsehole.”

If only the weather had been awful, Draco could have felt less pathetic.

And then the sound came from behind him. Footsteps. Harry Potter had begun to walk after him.

Draco almost broke into a run. Almost, but not quite. Partly, it was pride. Partly, there was a part of him that almost wanted to turn around, stay put. Keep getting hurt, if it meant that he could spend more time with Potter. If it meant that he could matter to Potter, for just that moment longer. Even if that interest was unwilling and held in contempt.

Draco kept walking. Torn by a dozen desires, and unsure which was the strongest.

“I wish you’d never developed this—this weird interest in me.”

That hurt uncomfortably more than it should have done. Draco was aware that the extent of his emotion was—strange. It was absurd that he had begun to feel any sort of thing for this person, who made him feel so inferior. Who produced within him so much self-contempt. Even now, Draco was furious at himself. That he was this weak. That he was this unlucky. What had he done to deserve this? Lots of things, he supposed. Lots and lots and lots of things.

But still. For Potter to gather everything that Draco felt—all the awe, the respect, the begrudging affection—and to call it ‘weird interest.’ If only it stopped at interest. If only Potter’s presence satisfied a trivial curiosity, and not some sort of—bloody, carnal desire. An innate need. It wasn’t just attention that Draco wanted. It was Potter. And just acknowledging that thought was excruciating.

Ignore him. Draco took a turn and walked faster.

“Was it the challenge, Malfoy?” Potter called, “Or my arse?”

“It was charity.” Draco spat. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

The footsteps stopped. 

“How am I supposed to leave you alone when you lie like that?”

“Don’t.” Draco hissed, turning around on the spot, his heart forgetting all rhythm. “What do you want? What are you doing?”

Potter looked back at him miserably. “Losing.”

Draco clenched his jaw, looking, doubtlessly, just as miserable. “What do you want from me.”

Potter took his face in his hands and kissed him. 

Draco melted into his mouth. 

The confusion, the chaos of it all. The desperation. The only legible thought in Draco’s mind was, Is this our last kiss? He didn’t think to question it. He was too busy indulging himself. He moved his fingers along the back of Potter’s neck, along the sides. The perfect position to strangle him. And in that perfect position for harm, Draco kissed Potter, and caressed him, and tried desperately to commit everything to memory. Let it never end.

Let him sin.

Potter’s back hit something—a wall. The space around them had all but melted away. It was just this moment. And having cornered Potter—having him under his hands, finally, again—was satisfying within Draco some sort of dark urgency. 

Mine. 

He moved his hands downwards, and caught Potter’s, pinning them above his head and to either side. 

All mine.

He kissed Potter, as deeply as he could. And in that kiss he told him he loved him, for the first time. Not that Potter would ever realise, though the silence of the confession was rather the point.

Potter broke the kiss. He looked into Draco’s eyes and tightened their interlocked fingers. They were holding hands, staring at each other, pressed together. Just the two of them. Just them, that’s all. And the moment could have lasted forever, if only Draco had felt just ‘interest.’ But what Draco felt was greater than he knew what to do with. Alarmingly, it wasn’t enough. To just have this, but not the rest.

“What do you want from me?” Draco asked him. He had whispered, it was a plea. What does this mean?

“I don’t know,” Potter replied, staring at him with eyes that were almost black, with lips that were wet with Draco’s spit. Heat churned in Draco’s stomach. “Are you scared?” he asked, quietly.

Mine. You’re mine, Harry Potter.

Draco kissed him, holding onto him harder. And then again, losing himself in the slide, and the warmth, and the feeling of Potter kissing him. Him kissing Potter, and Potter kissing him back. The overwhelming sensation that began in his stomach and moved outwards, left the inside of his thighs tingling and a tremor in his fingers. There’d been too much surprise last time, it’d been difficult to identify. But feeling all the heat that surrounded his heart, he knew. So this is Desire.

He broke away, feeling like the only thing that kept him together were Harry Potter’s fingers clenching his own. Draco let go of them, somewhat regretfully, and moved his arms around Potter’s waist, burying his face in Potter’s neck. He wasn’t thinking, and that was perhaps why he answered in truth.

“I’m terrified,” he murmured into the softness of Harry’s neck.

“I’m terrified,” Harry repeated, or maybe it was his own confession. Then even quieter, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” said Draco. You tell me.

All he knew right then was the feeling of Harry Potter’s body against his own, and the warmth of it. He thought, in vague admission, that he was losing his mind.

“Draco,” said Harry. 

Draco buried his face deeper into his neck. Away from reality, away from everything. Especially the painful hope in his heart.

“Potter,” Draco returned.

Harry laughed, “Stubborn git,”

Draco kissed his neck, as he’d done hundreds of times before in his mind. Harry moved his hands to the back of Draco’s head, moving his fingers through his hair. The touches against Draco’s scalp were light, and every single one sent a shiver down the back of his neck.

What are we doing? thought Draco, his lips under Harry’s jaw, kissing his pulse. He’s alive, came the thought, he’s alive, he’s real, and I’m kissing the proof.

“Is this a joke to you?” Harry asked him, a little breathlessly.

Draco didn’t want to look him in the face, the thought of meeting his eyes was petrifying. He stayed in his position, tucked away into his neck. He felt more in control this way, it felt far more familiar. But to look Harry Potter in the face would break the reverie, make it reality. And the only reality Draco knew with Harry was one where they hated each other. One where they kissed and then pretended they didn’t. Where they refused to talk about anything. Where there was no future, just reckless decisions. Where time ticked, and an end existed.

“Draco,” whispered Harry. The very sound of his voice made Draco’s heart ache.

“Why does it matter?” Draco managed. Tell me why you care. Tell me, break my heart if you must.

There was the briefest moment of weighted silence. Harry pulled Draco out of his neck, made him look him in the eye. Even then, Draco found, the reverie was sustained. Had they ever been this soft with each other, for so long?

“You’re making fun of me.” he accused. 

He wasn’t quite glaring, though Draco rather thought he wanted to be able to. It was a commendable effort. Draco couldn’t help his smile. He reached forward for Harry’s glasses, removed them. Then, he leant forward to place a kiss on the faint red marks on either side of his nose-bridge. 

“I am.” he agreed, smiling. “I always am,”

“Wanker.”

Draco laughed and kissed the red marks again, “Speccy git.”

Harry’s not-quite glare broke at the seams into a reluctant grin, “Bellend.”

Draco smirked, “N—”

His words cut off as was pulled by the back of his head into Harry’s mouth. There was no room for breath or thought. Harry led with his tongue. In the time that followed, everything gave way to desire. 

They broke away simultaneously, for air.

Harry broke into a shit-eating grin on sight of Draco’s face. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I met you,”

Draco’s heart leapt in his chest, “Kiss me?”

“Wipe that fucking smirk off your face,” he corrected, touching Draco’s bottom lip with his finger.

Right. Irritation and self-derision helped Draco gather himself somewhat. Ignoring his molten insides, he raised an eyebrow, “If that interpretation of things helps you sleep at night,”

And Harry blushed. He blushed. The sly wanker. Draco bit back a groan. But he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He took hold of Harry’s finger, no longer on his lip, and holding eye contact, he put it in his mouth. Observing Harry’s heavy breathing, he ran his tongue under it, then around it. And then he sucked it, gently.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed.

“Ahem.” came a cough. And not just any cough.

Draco’s burgeoning smirk withered instantly. He turned in horror—Harry withdrawing his finger from his mouth with lightning speed—to come face to face with an unimpressed Minerva McGonagall. It was a second too late, but they both tore away from each other.

“Boys.” she said.

Fuck.

Was being gay against the school rules? No, thought Draco, That’s homophobic. They weren’t in trouble, then. Draco refused. They were just—well. Draco didn’t think he’d ever felt this embarrassed before. He hadn’t thought it possible to feel this embarrassed. He was aware that he was bright red. He glanced at Harry, and then rapidly away when he saw that Harry was holding both of his hands over his crotch. Draco pursed his lips.

“Professor,” he managed to say. Please, please don’t make this more painful than it already is.

“Malfoy.” McGonagall returned, unimpressed.

I know you find this excruciating, as well. Please just—kill me. Draco steadfastly ignored Harry Potter and his fucking erection.

McGonagall pursed her lips. “While you’re entitled to indulge in roman—”

Harry broke into a coughing fit. After all that ‘you’re making fun of me,’ drama. Draco should’ve kneed him in the balls when he’d had the chance. 

McGonagall eyed him. She glanced at Draco, then at the glasses Draco still held in his unfortunate hands. Looking incredibly pained, she started again, “It would be wise to choose your setting more prudently in the future.” and then she turned and fled the scene.

For a minute, they both stood there, traumatised.

“How long—”

“Don’t think about it.”

“Right.” Harry nodded, bright red. “Dying would be nice right now.”

“Yes.” Draco agreed, also bright red. He handed Potter his glasses. 

“Do you think she’ll—”

“McGonagall’s got better things to do than engage in schoolyard gossip.”

“Right.” Harry put his glasses on, shifting his hands awkwardly in front of his crotch.

“Still?” Draco asked, pointedly.

“Shut up.” Harry muttered.

“Are you an exhibitionist?”

“Shut up.”

Draco ran a hand over his face. What had they been doing? How could he have been so stupid?

“That—”

“Was stupid.” finished Draco. “Incredibly stupid.”

“Agreed.”

Draco couldn’t help his scoff.

“What?” Harry asked, offended. Still sporting a fucking stiffy.

“Seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”

Harry turned to face him, “As if you weren’t.”

Draco blushed. “Control yourself.”

“You were the one who—your mouth—”

“Stop talking, Potter.”

Ever the disappointment, Harry muttered, “You started it.”

“Fucking child.” Draco glanced again at Harry’s tented crotch. “Do something about that.” he snapped.

“Yeah, I’ll just jack-off right here, then. You can watch.” Harry snapped back.

Draco couldn’t look at him. His heart couldn’t take it.

“Wouldn’t want to make the experience too enjoyable for you.” he managed, snidely.

“Enough.” Harry groaned, his voice strangled. “Please.”

Draco was facing completely away. He ran another hand over his face, in danger of an erection himself. Control. Trigonometry. Cos squared x plus Sin squared x is equal to one.

The urge to continue was strong. Draco had to remove himself.

“Where’s your bag?” Draco asked, after taking a few calming breaths.

Harry was looking at him, in a way far more dangerous than any glare could’ve been. “By the lockers.”

Draco exhaled. “Wait here.”

“If you insist.” Potter replied, dryly.

Draco rolled his eyes, and went to the lockers to fetch Potter’s bag for him. 

It had been tempting to just leave Potter there and fuck off. The problem was, it had been even more tempting to go back to Potter. Potter, with his erection. With his bloody eyes, and his hair. His smell.

Fuck, he’d smelled nice.

Draco was aware that he was a creep. He couldn’t help it. It was sad. In line, apparently, with the rest of his existence.

“Draco,” called Luna.

Draco stopped walking and looked towards the sky. He cursed whatever was up there, if there even was anything up there. He then turned around and pretended that he wasn’t incredibly horny. Being horny in front of his cousin was sacrilegious. 

And also incredibly embarrassing.

“Luna!” Draco smiled.

Luna raised her eyebrows and slowed her walk. “Thanks for waiting for me,”

“Of course,” he smiled.

She smiled back, “You look well,”

Draco laughed nervously. “It’s sunny.”

She glanced at Harry’s bag, which Draco was carrying in his arms. Draco hated his life.

Smiling wider, she said, “Shall we go, then?”

Draco decided to fuck Harry’s bag into the nearest bush and nodded. Harry Potter’s problems were not Draco Malfoy’s problems.

“To Harry, that is,” Luna finished, nodding towards the bag.

Draco pursed his lips. Why was she so bloody smart? He couldn’t look her in the face. She was a baby, and he couldn’t do that to her. His soul was beyond saving. Not because he was gay or anything, but because he was awful and perpetually horny and just one minute ago had been planning very meticulously how exactly he was going to suck Harry Potter’s dick.

“If you want.” Draco responded. He tried his best to appear aloof.

Luna laughed.

“What took you—Luna!” Harry exclaimed. He shot Draco a panicked glance. “How lovely to—see you.”

“Hello Harry,” Luna smiled. “We’ve got your bag.”

Harry flushed. He’d taken off his sweater and bunched it up over his crotch. Draco shut his eyes in exasperation.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy, Draco thought furiously, handing Potter his bag. Potter winced as he took it. Draco supposed his perfectly polite smile didn’t look all that polite, after all.

“Shall we?” Luna asked.

Harry laughed awkwardly, “You guys go on ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

Harry looked at Draco for help. Draco raised an eyebrow. He really didn’t want to help him out. He really, really didn’t want to help Harry fucking Potter out. But, well. What the fuck else was he meant to do? Unwillingly, he complied: “He ate at a dodgy chippers.”

“Oh,” Luna looked at Potter, lucidly, “You shouldn’t do that if you’ve got a weak stomach.”

“Ha ha, yes.” Potter replied, having just glared at Draco.

The glare, unfortunately, was not helping matters. It was not helping matters, at all. Potter’s glare was a star player in Draco’s internal porno theatre.

“Let's leave him to his unfortunate bathroom time, shall we?”

“Alright,” Luna agreed, “See you, Harry,”

“Bye, Luna,”

“Try not to destroy the bathroom,” Draco said, turning already.

“I’ll do my best.” Harry answered, resigned.

This involuntarily made Draco smile. He turned away faster, lest his fondness ever be discovered.

And then Luna and him were off.

And Harry Potter was masterbating in the school bathroom.

Not that Draco had first-person evidence.

It was midnight and Draco was lying in bed, staring at his phone.

More accurately, he was staring at the message he had just received.

Bane of My Existence: Did you crack your phone screen?

Draco stared at it, unsure what to feel. He thought he was excited, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe he was annoyed. What kind of icebreaker is ‘did you crack your phone screen?’ And what kind of moron cracks a guy’s phone screen just because he’s jealous? Draco was near certain that Harry had been jealous.

Bane of My Existence: I’ll pay for it

Bane of My Existence: Sorry

“Idiot.” Draco murmured. He stared at his phone a moment longer.

And then, because he truly had lost every last one of his marbles, he called Harry Potter.

It took three rings for Harry to answer. And then a long, drawn-out moment for him to say anything.

“...Hello?”

“Why do you sound so scared,” Draco scoffed.

“What kind of person calls someone at midnight?” Harry replied, somewhat indignantly.

“The kind with a cracked phone screen.”

“I—shit—it’s cracked then?”

“Thanks for that, by the way,”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“You incorrigible idiot.” Draco smiled. “So you admit to the subterfuge.”

“Wha—stop it with the mind games.”

“What kind of low calibre mind do you have, that you think of normal conversation as a mind game?”

There was a muffled silence, followed by a frustrated sigh. The sound—Harry’s breath—sent goosebumps down Draco’s arm. He squirmed under his covers and glanced at his closed door. It was unlocked. 

“No conversation I’ve ever had with you has been normal.” Harry muttered.

“What can I say,” Draco told his ceiling, “I’m a phenomenal conversationalist,”

“It’s an extreme sport,” Harry continued, “Talking to you.”

Draco bit his lip against a laugh. “That just means you’re weak.”

“Bullocks. It means you’re scary.”

There had been no release to the long, arduous trials of the day. Draco glanced again at his unlocked door. And then he thought, fuck it, lifted a hand and locked it. 

Lowering his voice, he murmured, “Why, Potter, do I scare you?”

There was silence on the line. Then, a little tremulously, “You wish.”

Draco’s hand was on his stomach. He thought about Harry masterbating.

“How was your wank,” he asked, his voice smooth. The dark made him fearless.

There was the sound of vague turbulence on the other side. Draco took it to mean that Harry had dropped his phone.

“Fine, thanks.” Harry replied, clipped.

Draco bit his lip. He imagined Harry in the school bathroom. Which one had he used?

“Where did you do it?”

Harry was silent for a moment. He answered, quietly, “The handicapped bathroom on the ground floor.”

Draco imagined Harry in the handicapped bathroom. His trousers pooling around his feet, his dick heavy and in his hand. His own dick began to harden.

“Good use of resources,” he commented, as he put his hand inside his pyjama bottoms. “Tell me, Potter, did it take long?”

Draco could see it clearly. Harry, sweating, with his dick in hand. Stroking, frowning, biting his lip.

“...What are you doing?” 

“I think,” Draco stroked himself, “three minutes max.”

“What are you doing.”

“Guess.” Draco smirked.

“Are you smirking?” Harry asked, breathlessly.

“Do you want me to be?”

“Fuck.”

Straight to his dick. Draco slowed his strokes and brought his hand to the tip. He began to play with it. “Say that again.”

“Fuck,” Harry exhaled. 

Draco closed his eyes as the word carried over his body. “Again.”

“Draco…” he groaned. “Fuck…”

“Did you think about me?” Draco asked, his breath coming faster.

“Yes,”

Draco bit his lip against a groan and began stroking the entirety of the shaft. “Tell me,”

“You were on your knees,”

“You absolute knob, of course I was.”

“Are you—touching yourself, right now?”

“Do you want me to be?” Draco stroked himself, “Was that what I was doing, Potter?”

“H—huh?”

“Touching myself,” Draco whispered.

“Y—you were touching me.”

“What was I doing,”

“Killing me.” Harry breathed.

 Draco laughed. “Kinky bastard.”

There was silence on the line. All Draco could hear was the sound of heavy breathing. Inadvertently, he’d begun syncing his movements to the sound.

“Say something,” he commanded.

“—‘M a bit—preoccupied,”

“Shite multi-tasking, Golden-boy.” Draco commented, wanking himself with growing enthusiasm. “How do you ever manage to save the day?”

“—pponents are a bit—crap,”

“Ha.” Draco scoffed, ticked off. “I was letting you win,”

Harry laughed, breathlessly, “Sure,”

“Arrogant knob,” Draco scowled, “I should charge you for using me as wanking material,” and then Draco cut the phone.

And then Draco closed his eyes, imagined Harry’s frustration, stroked himself twice more, and came all over his hands.

He awoke three hours later and thought, What the fuck.

“Good Morning, Sunshine,” Blaise beamed, walking into Draco’s room unannounced.

Draco was staring at his ceiling. Light was pouring in through his window. He had not fallen asleep again after waking up seven hours ago. This would’ve been disastrous had today not miraculously been a school holiday.

“All hail Professional Development,” called Pansy, walking into Draco’s room unannounced.

“Get out.” Draco told the ceiling.

“They were selling jammie dodgers half-off at the Tesco Express,” Luna said, walking in also unannounced.

“Everybody leave.”

“I’ve got jammie dodgers, though,” Luna held up a packet.

Draco strained his neck off his pillow. He pointed at Blaise and Pansy “You, and you,” and then the door, “Bye.”

“Why do we tolerate you, you awful boy,” Pansy tutted, sitting on Draco’s bed.

Draco glowered at her.

“Sexually frustrated, are we?” Blaise asked, seating himself on Draco’s spinny chair like some pseudo-psychiatrist.

Draco turned his glower at him.

“Ungrateful is what he is,” Pansy sniffed, “After we came all this way to cheer him up.”

“How long have you been awake?” Luna asked him, sitting on his floor and opening her jammie dodger packet. (Draco didn’t even like jammie dodgers.) “Your Wrackspurts have gone a bit mental,”

“How could you lose sleep over Potter?” Pansy asked scathingly, pulling herself under his covers.

“Fuck off, you ugly cow.”

“Let me rephrase,” she said, “How could you get rejected by Potter?”

“All of you leave.”

Blaise looked him up and down. “I think he’s got a rejection kink, Pans,”

Draco shut his eyes and covered his face with the duvet.

“Harry hasn’t rejected him.” Luna said. “They spoke yesterday just fine.”

“What’s this,” Pansy noted, with interest. “And you didn’t tell us, you knobhead.”

“Fuck off.” Draco mumbled.

“What, did he kiss you again?”

Draco hated Pansy’s best friend's intuition.

“And you didn’t tell me?” Pansy screeched, tearing his duvet off his bed, leaving him to face the unbearable morning sunlight unprotected.

“I’m hurt, Dracon.” Blaise lamented, turning himself in circles on Draco’s spinny chair. “You know how I feel about Potter and his sexy disaster hair.”

“Well?” Pansy demanded.

Draco glared at her. “Are you that desperate to live the rest of your life believing you’re a dog?”

Pansy pulled his pillow out from under him and whacked him, hard. “Well?” she repeated.

“Jammie dodger, Blaise?” Luna asked.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Blaise took a jammie dodger and bit into it. “Not bad for Tesco-brand,”

“I needed time to think, you crazy bint,” Draco scowled at Pansy.

“Think about what?” Pansy demanded. “What is there to think about, exactly?”

“He kissed me.”

“And?”

“He did it willingly.” Draco hissed. “But he obviously doesn’t—harbour romantic affections. So I’m a tad confused. Alright? Bitch.”

Pansy whacked him again with his own pillow.

“Ow.”

“First of all,” she commanded. “Stop looking so miserable. It’s pathetic.”

Draco gave her the finger.

“Second of all,” she continued, undeterred, “What thought process led you to conclude this nonsense?”

Draco snatched his pillow from her hands and lay back on it. “Who the fuck let you all in, anyway.”

“Maximillian was pulling up in the driveway,” Luna answered.

Draco rolled his eyes, “You’ll all be the death of me.”

“What better way to die?” Blaise replied, “You should be grateful,”

“Stop stalling, Draco.” Pansy pulled his duvet away from him.

“What do you want me to say?” Draco snapped. “That he doesn’t look at me the way he looks at Weaselette, or even that—Cho Chang? That he never hesitated to spend time with them but ignored me the entire day at school?”

“Oh my god, you drama-queen.” Pansy rolled her eyes, “That’s all?”

“Of course not,” Draco scowled, miserably. “He’s definitely gay.”

“I don’t see what the problem is.” Blaise commented.

“The problem, Blaise, is that he sees me for my dick and I see him for his stupid recklessness.”

“So he thinks you’re hot and you think he’s—what—annoying?” Pansy looked at him incredulously. “Draco, be honest, for fuck’s sake.”

“I am being honest.” Draco said. “I see him for his recklessness and his fucking—goody-goodness and—” he pulled his duvet away from Pansy, “—and I still, I still want to be with him.”

No-one said anything for a mortifying moment.

Blaise coughed, “You know I was kidding when I said that rubbish about you being in love with him, right?”

“Yeah, well.” Draco said bitterly, “Congratulations on being right, for once.”

Another mortifying moment of revelations and silence.

“Oh, Dracon.” Blaise sighed, leaning back on the chair. “And I can’t even celebrate…”

“You idiot.” Pansy said, staring at him. 

Luna stopped nibbling on her biscuit to comment, softly, “What a lovely thing you’ve discovered, Draco,”

“Yeah,” Draco laughed without humour, “How lovely that I’m probably in fucking—embarrassing romance-book love with him, and he’s just—he just is what he is.” Draco said. “It’s complicated, but it’s not the same as love.”

“And you think this because?” Pansy asked, somewhat subdued.

“Because I know him, Pansy.” Draco said. “And I know that he’s interested in trying to save me from myself or whatever other nonsense he’s fabricated in his head. Or he’s desperate for my validation because our lives are so coincidentally interconnected and he has this—need to satisfy everyone. Play out his role as bloody saviour.” Draco felt so very lethargic. “And so all this interest is sexual, and—centred around himself. All he wants is my—fucking, friendship. Hilarious, isn’t it?” Draco couldn’t laugh, “He wants to be friends. He wants to matter to me, like he matters to everyone else. Maybe he even wants me to love him, who knows?”

“Is that not a sort of love in itself?” Luna asked.

Draco replied, “How can it be love if he places what he means to me over what I mean to him?” 

Luna smiled at him gently. “He just doesn’t know what to do with himself half the time,”

“You think I don’t know that?” Draco asked her, “You think I don’t know that he has no idea what he’s doing? That’s he’s thought absolutely none of this through?”

“What’s so awful about him thinking with his dick?” Pansy asked, confrontationally. “He's following Blaise’s life philosophy.”

“She’s not wrong,” Blaise nodded.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Draco agreed, unhappily, “It’s just upsetting sometimes to remember that his feelings will never catch up to mine.”

“Never’s a big word,” Luna murmured.

“He looks at you.” Pansy blurted. “He stares at you. All the time.”

“I know,”

“He was jealous, you realise?” she continued.

“Yeah,”

“Surely, it must mean something,” she shoved Draco’s arm. “Think, you idiot.”

“What part of ‘I got three hours of sleep last night ’ do you not understand?” Draco replied sourly, “Do you remember that ordeal in fourth year? With the school dance?"

“When Millie kissed Theodore?” Blaise asked. Recalling the event, he winced. “Embarrassing for all parties involved, I tell you.”

“Shut up, Blaise,” Pansy said. “Are you talking about the rumour that Granger and Potter were shagging?”

Draco nodded. “After Weasel asked Granger to the dance, Potter spent the next week glowering into space,” he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at this point, “despite his completely non-romantic feelings. Hence the rumours.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“That he’s a jealous person.” Draco concluded. “He’s possessive by nature.”

“Why would he be possessive over you, you moron?” Pansy scowled. “Think, Draco.”

“He wants what he can’t have.” Draco rubbed his forehead. “So stop insinuating rubbish.”

“Stop being so bloody thick,” Pansy rebutted. “He already has you.”

“He doesn’t know it, though.” Draco said, quietly. “When he finds out, he’ll lose interest.”

Pansy stared at him. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

“What?” Draco got up on his elbows to look at her incredulously, “Why would I embarrass myself like that, of course not.”

“Good.” Pansy stared at him some more. “God, this is heavy for a Tuesday morning.”

“It could’ve been heavier,” Blaise spun around in Draco’s spinny chair. “Imagine they’d fucked,”

“Over my dead body,” Pansy hissed.

Draco thought about last night. He kept his face carefully blank.

“Don’t be upset, Draco,” Luna said. “Harry likes you,”

“No,” Draco shook his head, “He just wants me to like him.”

Luna tilted her head in thought, “I wonder,”

“Either way,” Draco said, “It’s not love.”

“Who told you to go and develop feelings for him?” Pansy demanded, furiously.

“You think I would love him if I could choose?” Draco shot back. 

It was such a humiliating thing to be the one who loved more. How could it have ever been the other way around? How could Draco have helped himself? 

Luna was staring at him unnervingly. Draco willed her to hold her tongue.

“I thought I told you not to speak to him again.”

Frustrated, Draco showed a furious Pansy his cracked phone screen. “The idiot lost his temper.”

Pansy stared at his screen. Blaise stopped spinning on the chair and moved closer to join her.

When Blaise grinned, Draco got a sudden premonition.

“Potter’s asking if you’d please let him cum the next time you wank on the phone to him,” Blaise said, beaming.

Draco snapped his phone backwards and gaped at his new notification.

He was still gaping when Pansy began assaulting him with a pillow and foul obscenities.

“I think,” he heard Luna’s voice, “perhaps it’s time for a tea break.”