He's got Potter on his belly this time, thin wrists restrained with ties attached to the bedposts, his face obscured by a sweaty mat of messy black hair. From this angle, Draco can objectively study the expanse of smooth skin trailing from Potter's neck to his back to the curve of his too-skinny backside, triumphant in the knowledge that he has this, that he won this, that he controls this. His hands are digging into Potter's hips, and he's found the perfect rhythm now, not fast enough that it'll be over in a minute, but not slow enough that Potter will forget exactly who's in charge here. With every thrust, Potter keens, and pants Draco's name, the sound muffled by expensive bedding and the constant derision falling from Draco's lips.

"I will be over you. I am over you, you worthless piece of half-blood trash. Nothing special about you, nothing, do you hear me? Never wanted you, never wanted you to be my friend, never wanted anything more, how dare you assume that, you son of a Mudblood whore? Boy Who Lived? Boy who lived to have my cock shoved up his undeserving arse, more like. Fuck."

He keens as he slides in and out of that tight channel, again and again, feeling his balls draw up. Draco's knees slide down the slippery, silky sheets, bringing his chest flush against Potter's back. Potter whimpers, and turns, craning his neck to capture Draco's mouth, his eyes wide and green and still trapped behind those blasted, oversized black glasses, watching him, eyes still open as they kiss, and Draco feels himself unable to hold on, unable to stop the jolt of feeling that twists his stomach into a painful knot, and he moans against Potter's lips, feeling want and need coursing through his entire body.

"Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry," Draco chants as he comes, each repetition more and more reverent. The body underneath him freezes, then shudders, twisting and morphing and popping and changing, hair lightening and lengthening, changing from unruly mop to careful wave, wide green eyes narrowing and turning icy blue. Draco's heart starts thudding again, but with realisation and dread instead of arousal and something harder to define.

Draco remembers his mid-coital words, and winces: Draco Malfoy is a liar.

Blaise wriggles, and Draco takes that as his cue to pull out, doing so without much care, flopping onto his back to stare at the canopy. Blaise is looking at him, he knows, but he can't bring himself to look back.

I will not blush, he admonishes himself harshly, though he can feel his skin flaming. Malfoys do not blush.

"A little help?"

Draco opens one eye. Blaise, as usual, looks amused, watching him with some mixture of sadness and sharpness, and Draco knows his punishment will be harsh for this particular transgression. Blaise is also tugging at his bonds as he somehow manages to hump the mattress elegantly, and Draco -- heat flooding his face, despite his best efforts -- moves to free him. Once untied, Blaise rolls to his back, fisting his cock slowly, and -- also despite his best interests -- Draco finds himself watching intently.

This had been a test. This had been a test of everything Draco had thought he'd learnt in the past months, a test of control, a test of discipline, a test of separating Potter and feeling, trying to focus on what Potter had done to his father, trying to ignore Potter... the way Potter had become so damned good at ignoring him. It'd taken over a month to plan this, far longer to even approach the discussion stage, and he'd failed -- spectacularly, if the way the memory of Potter's face in ecstasy is burned into his mind is any indication.

A practised, wanton moan brings his wandering mind back to Blaise, whose chest is perfectly flushed, his cheeks perfectly pink, the huge black frames doing nothing for his symmetrical face. It could just be the post-orgasm talking, but the scene does nothing for Draco. Damn it.

"Oh, Draco," Blaise says, shaking his head sadly as he arches once, and comes over his perfectly manicured hand, "I really thought we'd been making progress."

Draco doesn't reply, balling the ties up in one sweaty hand, and plucking the glassless frames from Blaise's face with the other, wordlessly shoving them back into their drawer along with the lock of dark hair.

He has a Defence lesson with Potter today, and wishes he didn't. It was easier when they only shared Potions and Care of Magical Creatures; not only had Potter actually acknowledged his existence then, but Potter's ineptitude in Potions was also a constant reminder of how faultless Harry Potter was not, and with that half-giant oaf leading the other, Draco used to have more than enough distraction there to keep Potter shoved into that corner of his mind where he usually lingered, taunting him purely by existing.

Usually.

But in Defence, Draco gets no such relief. This class is supposed to be the best of his year, and Potter is the best of the best. He anticipates everyone else's moves as though they're boring him (which they possibly are), offers theory that makes even the Mudblood bint look vaguely impressed, and has beaten their sad excuse for a Dumbledore-sycophant-cum-professor in so many duels that the part of the class that wasn't already looking to Potter as their leader found themselves doing so. Even the Slytherins.

This, at least, is a relief -- Draco can write this off as an excuse to watch Potter. To watch the back of Potter's head as though his eyes could bore holes through the back, as though they could leave an indelible imprint on Potter's mind that says Look at me, I'm worth something, you want me, even though Draco knows in his heart of hearts that that will never be true.

Today, they're working in pairs, which Draco hates because it only leads to Blaise watching him, using what he sees against Draco later on. But Draco can't help it, can't help it when Potter is the centre of the entire group's attention, even if he's supposedly working with the Ravenclaw Patil today.

"What are you looking at, Malfoy?"

Weasley, of course. When Potter manages to focus his gaze in Draco's direction, it's usually as though he's just barely biting back a yawn, and he never notices unless Draco's presence is brought to his attention by others (and yes, sometimes by Draco himself). If Draco ever gets a chance to yell at his eleven-year-old self, he'll make sure to drill into his mind that it's a far better thing if Harry Potter hates you than if he forgets your existence entirely.

Potter and Weasley are still both looking at him. Draco swallows, and tears his eyes from Potter's face to focus on Weasley's wide, freckled one.

You don't deserve him, he thinks harshly, hating that thought as much as the one that follows: Neither do you.

"I was hoping that today Potter would finally start holding his wand like a real wizard, instead of like the waifish Muggle street urchin he seems to think he is." Draco hopes his haughty tone covers up the fact that mentioning Potter's wand has brought forth a flood of unwanted-wanted thoughts.

They both turn away without a reply, Weasley forcibly by way of Granger, and Potter on his own, looking more as though Draco had been an annoying bit of an already annoying dream than someone who had actually heard him. Potter shuffles behind Patil again, correcting her wand movement, and Draco scowls as she turns her face toward Potter, beaming at his faint praise when she gets the spell correct.

Draco knows Blaise has seen all of this, and he closes his eyes tightly, willing everyone away. If I can't see them, I disappear.

Sometimes Draco doesn't even need to close his eyes for that.

The next day Draco is burning, his insides turning to ash with some unseen force that makes him watch Potter as he cuts his meat, as he scrapes potatoes onto his fork, as he passes his pudding to Weasley, who doesn't seem to notice Potter's aberrant behaviour, choosing instead to open his giant maw to seemingly swallow Potter's cake whole. It's a burn that makes him time the conclusion of his meal to Potter's, makes him stand up as Potter stands, makes him exit the Great Hall at the same time as Potter does, leaving bewildered expressions on Crabbe and Goyle's faces -- they've barely started their third helpings.

Draco follows, watching as Weasley and Granger chatter mindlessly, flanking Potter's sides, talking at Potter, instead of with Potter, who bobs along listlessly, and for the first time, Draco thinks that it might not just be him.

I could change that, he thinks fiercely, even if he doesn't exactly believe it. I could make him burn like I do.

He doesn't even know where the three of them are headed, but when the Weasel and Mudblood try engaging Potter in the third subject change in as many minutes, Draco has had enough. Emerging from the shadows, he quickens his pace, and charges through the three of them, knocking unbalanced, dreamy Potter to the ground, a number of stolen chocolate biscuits scattering in his wake.

"Malfoy, what the hell are you doing?" Weasley's shoving him aside before Draco can decide whether he wants to sneer or stick his hand out and help Potter up, and he's caught so off-guard by the idea of someone actually questioning his actions -- not that he can explain them -- that he can't do more than shrug as Weasley and Granger help Potter to his feet and begin to walk again.

As they pass, Weasley purposefully throws out an elbow, knocking the wind out of Draco's lungs, and he crumples to the floor, frantically heaving for breath. During the entire altercation, Potter hadn't spared even one glance in Draco's direction, a fact that hurts nearly as much as his breathless gut.

All alone, no one helps Draco up, but he supposes he deserved that.

"What did you expect when you asked for discipline?" Blaise is regarding him impassively, and Draco winces under his gaze. Draco likes being looked at, but he doesn't like being looked at.

He sighs, knowing he'll have to answer Blaise one way or another. "Power. Control. To help me shape my own destiny without feeling like every decision had been made for me. I've said all of that before, and you said you could help me."

"So I recall. Now, this obsession of yours... Draco, look up." Draco does so automatically, shuddering as he's forced to face Blaise's stern expression head-on. "This obsession of yours," he continues. "Does it make you feel powerful? In control?"

"No." His voice is barely audible.

"What was that?"

"No."

"Too true. So, you have two options: tell Potter how you feel, and--"

"I can't do that!" says Draco, sounding nearly hysterical. "There's nothing to tell."

"Don't interrupt. Tell Potter how you feel, and get it out in the open, and see if there's anything there beyond mere obsession, or sever all ties with him. Forget him the way he's forgotten you."

"I've been trying."

Blaise arches one flawlessly shaped eyebrow. "Well, obviously, you haven't been trying hard enough. But either way, you'll need to make a decision."

"All... all right." Draco is exhausted, bringing one hand up to massage his temple. "I'll do it."

"Which?"

Draco shrugs.

"Fine, Draco, but you'll need to make that decision some time. But!" shouts Blaise, clapping his hands. "That's enough heart-to-heart for one millennium. Let's begin tonight's lesson."

It seems silly, but Draco thinks the pain actually helps him.

Draco's been pacing outside of Snape's office for nearly an hour. It's been so long that he thinks he's made a groove in the floor, and he's sure Snape will murder him for that, but it's the only place he knows to catch Potter by himself and on Draco's own turf, not that Draco has turf like some two-bit hoodlum, but it's the closest thing he can think of, and it all makes sense in his head.

He hasn't made his decision. He figures he'll know when he sees Potter.

Potter comes tearing out of Snape's office, rubbing his head, and scowling, and barrels headlong into Draco. It's the first time Potter has caused any contact between them all year.

"Watch where you're going."

Draco gapes. "You ran into me."

"Then, sorry." Potter pushes past him, looking tired and angry and right through Draco instead of at him. Draco watches him go.

"Potter!" he yells suddenly, desperately, one hand outstretched, reaching for Potter's retreating form.

To his surprise, the other boy actually whirls around, wearing a dispassionate expression -- not with intense eyes, flashing with anger, not with red lips exhaling slur after slur, not with the attention Draco craves, needs.

"I'll... I'll have you," says Draco weakly once Potter is watching, sounding whiny and petulant, even to his own ears. "My father will... watch your... yourself. Half-blood filth. Muggle lover... Dumbledore can't protect you forever. I'll get you." Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "And your horrible friends, too!"

"Yeah, I've heard that before." There's not a hint of emotion in Potter's reply, and to his dismay, Draco feels his own shoulders slump. "Is that all?"

Draco swallows at the cold dismissal. "You don't matter to m-- you don't matter at all. You don't exist."

Potter doesn't respond right away, choosing instead to scrutinise Draco closely, making him squirm. After a moment, he simply says, "You'll never get it, will you?" and turns to walk away again.

Don't go, he tries to yell, but his mouth is dry, his throat tight.

Long after he's out of earshot, out of sight, Draco's still watching him leave.

"Harry," he pleads. The sound echoes, and bounces off the stones.