It was terrible. Potter had been right. Kissing simply didn't work for them. It would have been better if Potter wasn't frozen like a statue and if Draco could remember how to kiss.

The terribleness of the kiss didn't stop him, however. He couldn't stop. Potter's lips were made to be worshipped. Hard and unmoving though they were, Draco still shivered as he mapped them with his tongue and then trapped Potter's bottom lip, sucking on it lightly. Potter made a sound as though he wanted to say something; his lips moved and closed around Draco's upper lip. That was much better. It was almost a real kiss. Draco opened his mouth a little wider and slowly slid his tongue past Potter's lips.

Potter shuddered, then jerked his head back with a gasp. Draco half-expected him to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but Potter simply traced his lips with his tongue as though to make sure they were still attached to him. The sight of that made Draco lean forward and Potter automatically leaned backward, but with Draco's arm around his waist he couldn't move far.

"Why are you doing this?" Potter whispered, his eyes frantically searching Draco's face for an answer. "Have you gone insane? Did I hit you too hard? Did someone hex you? Did someone poison — mmph!"

Draco pressed his mouth to Potter's again and buried his free hand into Potter's hair to prevent him from moving away. His hand wouldn't stay still; it insisted on caressing Potter's hair as his tongue moved in and out of Potter's mouth.

Potter tried to speak, and failing that, he grabbed Draco's wrist, pushing his arm away until he managed to twist it behind Draco's back. That hurt — a lot, but it didn't make Draco pull away. Even after Potter turned his head and Draco's lips ended up pressed against Potter's cheek, he couldn't stop kissing him. He attacked Potter's face with heated open-mouth kisses, moving slowly toward his ear and that soft spot near his hairline. He almost reached it when Potter jerked his body and twisted his trapped arm. He pulled sharply and the ever-present sensation of Potter's fingers on Draco's thigh suddenly disappeared, leaving nothing but pain and emptiness in its wake.

Draco gasped and pulled away, shocked to see that the ropes around his thigh had loosened and released Potter's hand. Potter seemed equally surprised and he let go off Draco's arm, his hands flying to the rope around his neck. He pulled and struggled, but they refused to budge. Draco half-heartedly tried to free his right arm, but the ropes didn't miraculously release him. 

"The Charm is slowly wearing off," Draco commented, wondering if that was true or if Potter somehow succeeded to beat the Charm when he had panicked. It was distressing to think that Potter had been bothered by the kiss so much he broke the rules of magic.

Potter stopped struggling with the ropes. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, glaring, making Draco blink in surprise. He expected Potter to start ranting about his status as the Chosen One and some unwritten rule that said ex-Death Eaters weren't allowed to touch the Hero's precious lips. Instead, Potter bombarded him with ridiculous questions. "Do you know what day it is? Do you know who's Minister? Do you know your name? Do you have a concussion? Do you have a fever?" He raised his hand as tough to touch Draco's forehead but then he changed his mind and did the oddest thing — he shoved two fingers in front of Draco's eyes and asked, "How many fingers?"

Draco blanched. "Are you insane, Potter? What are you doing?" 

Potter's hand dropped onto his lap. He rubbed his injured wrist, wincing slightly. "Am I insane?" he asked furiously. "What are youdoing?

It was a valid question, but Draco had no answer. He shrugged.

"Do you get off on torturing me?"

Draco raised his eyebrows and considered the question. "Possibly."

Potter huffed and apparently refused to accept that as a definite explanation. He stared at Draco unflinchingly; his gaze so intense Draco feared it would burn a hole in his skull. He wished he knew what to say. Perhaps he should have claimed he had been poisoned or hexed. Maybe he was. It would explain his behaviour.

Potter's eyes filled with some sort of understanding and he grinned. Draco almost gulped; it was a dangerous, sly grin, the likes of which Draco had never seen on Potter's face before. 

Potter leaned forward. "Are you gay, Malfoy?"

"What? No!" Draco gasped, horrified. Potter raised an eyebrow, his hand sneaking toward Draco's thigh. Draco quickly grabbed Potter's wrist, but Potter seemed untroubled. He had made his point. Draco was aroused and he had kissed Potter; even Draco had to acknowledge — it looked gay. It was still a crazy conclusion. "It's your shampoo," Draco said a bit desperately. "It's girly."

Potter stared at him. His wrist was still trapped in Draco's hand. Draco didn't feel like releasing it.

"And all this talk about sex . . . affected me," Draco added.

"We weren't talking about sex."

Oh. Draco frowned. No, he had been thinking about sex. "It's the ropes?" he asked more than stated, then burst out, "I don't know, all right? It's certainly not you, Potty." Draco imagined eating a plateful of Flobberworms and made an appropriate expression. He must have managed to look sufficiently disgusted because Potter looked almost hurt for a second, but in the next moment, his mouth twitched. 

"All right." Potter grinned deviously. "I'll make you a deal, Malfoy. You don't tell anyone what I told you about my crisis and you nevertry to kiss me again and I won't tell everyone you have a thing for shampoos and ropes. Or that sometimes you kiss other boys in a completely heterosexual fashion."

Draco's jaw clenched. Potter was a sneaky bastard. All that talk about how he could tell Draco anything because Draco couldn't use it against him, and then he jumped at the first chance to blackmail him and ensure his silence. 

"Well, Malfoy?" Potter asked, his voice turning low, almost threatening. It should have been terrifying, but the feeling didn't reach his eyes. Just like all those smiles. 

Something clicked in Draco's brain as he stared at Potter's menacing expression, which conflicted with the haunted look in his green eyes. It was all fake, Draco realised. The sly grin, the confident blackmail, the threat — all of it. Potter was worried. No, he wasterrified. Draco could see it in his eyes. Though he had no idea what Potter was so afraid of. He couldn't have been afraid of Draco. He was never afraid of Draco. And he couldn't have been afraid of everyone finding out he was gay, since he claimed he wasn't sure about that, anyway. Even if he had lied about it, Potter wasn't so easily intimidated by public opinion. Easily embarrassed, yes, but not cowed. The only thing that could have sacred Potter so much was Draco's kiss. And that would only scare him if . . . Draco's heart started pounding as though it just woke up. He could feel it hitting against his ribcage, throbbing in his throat. It was so obvious — Potter was crushing on him.

"Do we have a deal?" Potter's voice echoed in Draco's mind. Draco was surprised to discover that he was no longer gripping Potter's wrist, but Potter was gripping his — painfully. And yet, his thumb moved slightly against Draco's skin. Almost caressing. No, definitelycaressing.

"No," Draco said, his thoughts awhirl. Potter was crushing on him. Harry freaking Potter had a crush on him. Merlin, when did that happen, and how? 

A stray thought caught Draco's attention. He remembered wondering who had spoken in his favour to McGonagall. It seemed apparent now — it had to have been Potter. He had almost confessed it; right after he said he cared about Draco's future. Why had Draco ever believed that McGonagall would have listened to his mother? His mother, whose involvement in the Death Eaters activities ran far deeper than Draco's. Someone else had to have promised McGonagall that Draco was worthy of another chance. No one else but Potter could have done it; no one else would have done it. And that explained McGonagall's anger with Potter. First he had asked her to let Draco came back and then he had punched him in the hallway. She must have been shocked when she had heard the tale. 

Potter's eye twitched. "What do you want, Malfoy? Why —?" Potter stopped speaking abruptly. He was losing his composure, his grip on Draco's wrist turning desperate and his gaze pleading. He looked confused and utterly lost. But his thumb still stroked Draco's skin.

Draco's kisses must have driven him insane. Potter wanted them, but knew he couldn't have them. But he wanted them. He had enjoyed them, but he didn't show it, not once. He must have been too scared, having no idea what Draco was doing. Perhaps thinking that Draco had figured him out and decided to torment him. Which almost happened after the terrible accident. And Draco had accused Potter of crushing on him, though he was kidding. But Potter could only suspect Draco was kidding, not know it. It must have horrified him. First his girlfriend had figured him out and now so did Draco. 

Oh, how Potter had played him with his claim that he was confused. It had been such a Slytherin confession. Potter gave him enough so Draco could focus on teasing and ridiculing him, but not enough to make him suspect he was crushing on Draco.

I wish I were crushing on you. Then I'd know for certain that I'm not gay, but touched in the head.

Oh, but that was how one lied when cornered. By convincing your opponent that something else is bothering you much more that his silly irrelevant suggestion. How very, very Slytherin. Draco should have picked up on it immediately. But Merlin, no one sane would have dared to draw that conclusion. Potter wanted him. Potter was in love with him.

Draco stared at Potter's troubled eyes. For years he wanted to be the main source of Potter's misery and now he was. A heady sense of power overwhelmed him. He had done it. He had scared Potter. With kisses. 

Draco leaned in closer, watching Potter's pupils dilate. Potter's gaze was fixed on Draco's eyes, but then, for a split second, something Draco wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't observed carefully, it fell on Draco's lips. 

"What do you want?" Potter asked for what must have been the fifth time since McGonagall left. The desperation in his voice was music to Draco's ears.

It was a very good question. Now that he knew what Potter wanted, how would he exploit it?