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Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations that are not mine. They belong to JK Rowling. This was written for entertainment only, and the only thing I claim as my own is this story's plot.
Walking in between the ruby-coloured lockers, Harry cursed. Of all the days for one of the shower units in the Quidditch pitch to break down, why did it have to be today, on the day of the first Quidditch match of the year? It's not as if they hadn't seen this coming - both Filch and Hooch had been complaining about the state of the pipes in the other locker room. And why did he have to pick this very day to leave his gloves behind, anyway? It's as if he had a secret death wish even he knew nothing about.
Harry probably didn't have to worry. The Slytherins were probably out of the showers by now - the ones that did shower, that is. Baddock had simply reeked.
The game had been hard. He'd been forced to keep Goyle, who played in the position of Beater, away from Ron, because the troll-like bastard kept trying to hit his friend over the head. It had made things difficult, but they'd won eventually.
Harry admitted to himself that it wasn't his reputable talent for flying that had won this particular match. It wasn't like he had the better broom, either - Malfoy's was slightly newer than his Firebolt, and he'd gotten better in spotting the Snitch over the years. That's why Gryffindor's victory was partly due to the size differences between him and the Slytherin Seeker. If Malfoy had been as light as Harry or as short, Harry would've had a serious fight on his hands - because dammit, Malfoy could fly.
Harry finally found the gloves and headed for the exit. But the sound that suddenly echoed around the showers stopped him in his tracks.
Harry remembered the Quidditch World Cup very well. In fact, he had a very sharp memory of himself, about to jump down to the field from the Minister's box. The thought usually made him shiver nowadays, but he remembered how he'd felt - the dancing Veela had created a soothing, soft, carefree air for the two microseconds before the desire to impress them took hold. He'd never expected to experience something similar again, especially now that he knew about the Veela and what they were capable of.
As if its only purpose was to make Harry drown, the sound poured into all of his senses, enveloping him completely. The strong, confident notes echoed around the locker room. The acoustics were as close to perfect as they could possibly be, considering the fact that it was a locker room.
His original intention had been to get the gloves and leave as quickly as possible, mainly because of the Slytherins. He didn't want to confront all of them on his own, because he'd found the Snitch before they'd had a chance to even the score with the Gryffindor team, and a group of angry, bulky, huge Slytherins and a wandless Harry Potter in the showers didn't seem like an appealing situation to get into. He'd snuck inside after he'd spotted Goyle and Baddock leaving the showers, assuming they were empty. And now he couldn't make himself walk away. Who was this?
Harry had always loved listening to people sing. Once, when he'd been about seven years old, he'd sat outside the auditorium in school for three and a half hours, listening as the school choir practiced. It had been amazing - like the floaty sense of contentment created by the Veela, only better, since Harry was in full control of his faculties and could willingly submit to the mesmerizing voices. Harry had been infatuated with listening to people sing ever since. He hadn't had the chance to do that since his first year here, and after all this time, he could still feel it.
The voice was so passionate, resonant, strong and confident, and Harry was mesmerized. It floated in the air, circling around him and enveloping him in warmth. He took a couple of steps closer to the showers, realizing that they were the source of the voice. Someone was singing in the shower, and Harry knew it was a private moment, one that no one was supposed to witness, but he couldn't help himself. The voice took a high note and held it, and Harry unconsciously leaned forward to peer carefully around the wall.
Harry didn't know what he'd expected to find, but he certainly hadn't expected this. Certainly not this, the sight of water cascading through pale locks and gliding down a gloriously strong, lean back. He hadn't expected moist, pale skin, he hadn't expected the hands massaging something into wet blond hair that, darkened with water, seemed almost golden, and he certainly hadn't expected that voice, those emotions, coming out of Draco Malfoy's mouth. But there it was - resonant, confident, melodious and utterly perfect. After a short pause to run his fingers through his hair once and tilt his head back under the spray, Malfoy took a deep breath and continued his verse.
It sounded old, and faintly middle-agey, and Harry balked as the Slytherin's voice wrapped around him. It couldn't be - not this one, of all the people in Hogwarts, not this one to sing so emotionally as to melt Harry's heart into a puddle of mush. He stumbled back, falling over a bench with a loud crash. He turned around and pushed himself into a run, ignoring the flash of Malfoy's surprised face, hoping the Slytherin hadn't recognized him.
He ran like a madman up to the castle, bumping into grumpy students on the way and apologizing distractedly. He didn’t stop running until he reached the Fat Lady's portrait. There he stopped and breathed out the password. With a concerned look, she let him in. He made his way up to his dorm and dropped on his bed, face first.
Of all the bloody people in the bloody world. How could it be that Draco Malfoy's voice touched him like that? Harry groaned into his pillow. It wasn't fair! He'd always had a weakness for people with nice voices, but this was Malfoy for crying out loud!
Harry had no illusions about the danger this situation posed. He'd admitted to himself a while back that he could probably formulate a crush on someone based on their voice alone, because no one could sing this beautifully without emotion behind it.
The thought that this incident might make him develop a thing for Malfoy made him want to scream. Why'd it have to be him? First crushing over a girl who loved someone else, and now this - a Slytherin and a boy and Malfoy, goddammit.
And the worst of all was that he wouldn't even be able to discuss this with anyone. How could he ever tell Ron or Hermione that he maybe possibly might have an unlikely totally new and unwanted crush on Malfoy?
They wouldn't hate him. They wouldn't reject him or push him aside or anything of the sort. Ron would be disgruntled, of course, but they'd attempt to be supportive. The only problem was that their attempts to be supportive would include endless questions such as how Harry came to develop this infatuation with singing - which he couldn't for the life of him explain, seeing as he had no idea - or how in the hell he managed to hear Malfoy sing, and what was so appealing about the Slytherin's voice and why he'd felt like he was drowning and-
Harry buried his head in his pillow with a groan.
~*~*~
Harry stared up at Dumbledore, horrified, as the Headmaster told the whole school of his newest Distraction Plan.
Of course, it wasn't actually called that. The name was more… well, subtle wasn't really a word for something that some piteous oaf had named House Unity Sports. Every week since the escalation of the battles during the Christmas break, one of the teachers would come up with a bright new idea to unite the students and distract them from the war. Their ideas varied from duelling nights to pie eating contests. The first half of the games' purposes, distracting the students, had worked marvellously. Instead of uniting, though, the Houses now plotted against each other, and Harry was certain that if something a little more violent in nature came along, there would be bloody massacres all over the castle.
Despite everyone's best efforts, something always seemed to go wrong. The pie eating contest, for example, had sent the entire school running for the toilets. Every single Hogwarts student was sick. Some less fortunate ones didn't make it into the stalls, and threw up in the hallway. The castle had smelled rank for weeks, and since Filch and the house-elves failed to control the mess, some students were recruited for cleaning duties as well.
And it wasn't the only contest to go out of hand. During the chess matches week, Malfoy and Ron's intense, swearing-filled game had been brought to an abrupt halt when Goyle had hurled a discarded chess piece at Ron and split his head open. The duelling week had found half of Harry's class hospitalized for the weekend, and ongoing weeks of Exploding Snap had robbed many people of their eyebrows. During the fencing tournament - a sport that apparently used to be pretty common in Hogwarts once upon a time, because McGonagall had procured the required equipment from the dungeons with little to no difficulty - had ended with Harry himself getting his heart pierced. The blade had been enchanted, so no actual harm had been done, but the pain of metal pushing through pulsing muscle was something Harry wasn't very eager to repeat in the foreseeable future.
None of the previous contests had horrified him more than this new idea, though.
"This is the best idea yet!" Hermione exclaimed beside him, cheerfully nibbling on a piece of toast. "I can't believe they hadn't thought of that sooner. It would've been better than those awful fencing matches, at the very least."
"I don't know," Ron said, shaking his head. "I for one don't want to hear every single person in the entire school who thinks they can sing attempt to prove it. Have you ever heard Lavender give it a try?"
Harry listened to his friends argue, not paying much attention. He couldn't be expected to, really, not when something that certainly-wasn't-but-seemed-to-be the greatest crisis in his entire life was about to happen. If he couldn't find a way out of attending this thing in any manner, including viewing it, everyone would know.
His friends would find out that the reason he'd been so down lately wasn't only the war. That it had a lot to do with developing something he absolutely refused to call a 'crush' on Draco Malfoy.
"I'm pretty certain they would have some kind of selection process," Hermione said reasonably. "They can't just let everyone give it a try in one night. They'd keep us awake for hours."
Ron brightened up at that. "And they're gonna do it on a Thursday, too! If they let everyone sing, we'll miss double Potions! This is getting better and better."
"Aren't you thrilled, Harry?" Hermione asked. "I'd have expected you to be delighted."
When Harry stared at her in utter disbelief, Ron laughed. "Oh, come on, mate! How could we have missed it? Especially after Christmas Eve? When we sat around for carols you stared at Bill as if he was some kind of god. You sat there listening to him sing for two solid hours. I thought Fleur was going to poke your eyes out," he added cheerfully.
"It's alright to love listening to people sing, Harry," Hermione said teasingly. "It's cute, really."
Harry glared at her fiercely. "This is so bad. On so many levels."
"How so?" Hermione asked curiously.
"Don't you see, Hermione?" Ron said teasingly. "Harry's got himself a kink."
Harry merely glanced over her shoulder as she laughed. Across the hall, his back straight to the wall, Draco Malfoy was sitting. He looked extremely proud of himself, which was completely common except for one thing. His eyes gleamed and he was wearing a tiny, private, predatory smile.
Harry slammed his head against the table.
The rest of the week passed in something akin to a blur. Classes merged into each other, and Harry couldn't for the life of him catch up with all the material. Potions was becoming even more of a torture - sitting through the class trying to avoid looking at Malfoy, and then trying to do so without getting caught.
To make matters worse, Malfoy seemed to be lurking in the halls even more than usual, but this time without his goons. Not that he needed them anymore, Harry had mused he and Ron walked past the blond on their way to Divination one day. Malfoy wasn't quite as tall as Ron was, but he certainly wasn't very far behind, while the top of Harry's head had yet to reach Ron's chin. And the Slytherin seemed firmer somehow - less lanky and thin than he'd looked in previous years. Or was Harry just noticing this now?
It was only the weekend, and Harry was already beginning to grow agitated. People all around him were singing ceaselessly, and the list of potential singers that was hanging in the Great Hall was becoming longer. Harry had watched that list like a hawk, and when Draco Malfoy casually sauntered over on Sunday evening and scrawled his name at the bottom Harry banged his head on the table, startling everyone around him. He assumed that if he were to keep that habit up for long, he'd develop a bump on his forehead that would outshine his scar.
During dinner on Monday, Dumbledore announced that because of the unexpected amount of applications, auditions would be held in the Teachers' Lounge in the afternoons. The appointed time for each tryout glowed purple beside every applicant's name. At the swarm of students heading for the parchment, Hermione merely rolled her eyes and continued eating.
"You know," Ron said thoughtfully, looking at Harry. "I don't think I ever heard you sing."
"Trust me, that's a good thing," Harry answered, staring decidedly at his mashed potatoes.
"Is not," Ginny muttered distractedly from across the table.
"What?" Ron asked, looking offended. "You heard him sing?"
"You what?" Harry said, gaping at Ginny.
"Well no, I didn't," Ginny admitted, spearing a bit of chicken with her fork and nibbling it hesitantly. "But Moaning Myrtle heard. And she said you had a great voice."
"And you trust the word of an eternally teenaged ghost who's fancied Harry since second year?" Ron snorted, rolling his eyes.
"Myrtle's spying on me?" Harry panicked. "She promised she wouldn't!"
Ginny just looked at him. "And you trusted the word of an eternally teenaged ghost who's fancied you since your second year?"
"Oh my God," Harry said, burying his face in his hands. "Well, at least no one penned my name in on account of Myrtle's spying and overactive imagination."
"Well, urm..." Ginny started and Harry looked up at her, completely horrified, just when a horribly familiar, drawling voice spoke up from behind.
"I must say I'm surprised. I didn't know you could sing, Potter."
Harry sent a murderous glare Ginny's way before turning to look at Dra- Malfoy, only to find himself face first into the Slytherin's stomach. He looked up, hand tightening around the fork.
"I also didn’t expect you to sign up for the competition," Malfoy drawled, and both Zabini and Goyle smiled unpleasantly. "I'd have expected you'd have had enough of performing for the entire school."
"I did not sign up," Harry hissed, glaring at Malfoy fiercely. He suppressed a shiver when he met those grey eyes. Hate him hate him hate him oh God please don't let him sing.
"Whatever you say," Malfoy said, giving him a slight mock bow. "I look forward to beating you." His goons laughed as he swept away in a swirl of robes that put Snape to shame.
"Ginny," Ron said as he tried to remove the fork from Harry's grip. "You didn't, did you?"
"Of course I didn't," Ginny said pointedly. "I'd never do that. I just saw your name on the list."
"I will get through this without making a complete fool of myself," Harry said slowly. "And then I'm going to find whoever signed me up and kill them. Slowly."
Harry thought he heard someone squeaking somewhere down the table, but he was too preoccupied with avoiding the oncoming humiliation. As soon as dinner was over, he was going straight to Dumbledore. The Headmaster would surely let him avoid this.
~*~*~
"No."
"What do you mean, no? I'm actually obligated to do this?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Don't tell me. It's a binding magical contract."
"Indeed."
"Bloody hell, haven't you people learned anything?"
"Come now, my boy, it can't be that awful."
"Believe me, it is. I sound like a frog."
"Well, then, you'll be disqualified on your audition."
"Which will be done in front of Snape. I'm going to die of humiliation."
"Professor Snape, Harry. And I don't believe it would be as humiliating as you seem to fear. Myrtle says you sound better than you think. Lemon drop?"
"Oh God."
~*~*~
When Harry walked into the Teachers' Lounge for his audition on Tuesday, he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't like Snape's malicious expression, true, but at least only the Heads of Houses were present. He'd have probably died of mortification if he'd had to sing in front of the entire faculty.
He could do this. He had a good plan, really.
"Well, then, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said encouragingly. "Let's see what you've got for us."
"Erm, actually…" Harry started, and the previously hidden sneer on Snape's face became visible to all. "I think someone signed me up as a prank. If we could maybe avoid the singing thing and go straight to disqualifying me, I'll be very grateful."
Before McGonagall could utter a word, though, Snape's sneer turned into a mocking smile. "Oh, no, Potter. We mustn't ignore the contract. Go ahead, sing."
"I'm really doing this for your own good, Professors," Harry said pleadingly.
"Don't worry, Mr. Potter," Flitwick said cheerfully. "I don't think you can do any worse than Miss Abbot."
"Poor girl sounds like a baby Mandrake," Sprout agreed with a slight nod. "Go on."
Alright, he thought, trying to calm down. They weren't going to let him off the hook. Not with Snape as gleeful as he was - the greasy git looked like he'd just been told that Christmas was going to last for a year. There was really just one solution left.
"From the top?" he asked hesitantly.
"Wherever you like," Flitwick said, still cheerful for some reason. Harry wondered if he'd used a Cheering Charm after the Hannah Abbot episode.
"Okay. Don't say I didn't warn you," he said before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
Bill had taught him this one, he remembered as he began to sing. He couldn't possibly match Bill's performance, so he just concentrated until Bill's voice filled his head and he couldn't hear anything else. He did his best to drown in it like he had last Christmas, and sang along with it until it was over.
Harry felt the blood running up to his face when no one said anything after he'd finished. Wasn't it customary to say something? Weren't they supposed to say something along the lines of: 'okay, good, we'll let you know'? Had he been so awful as to warrant shock and trauma?
When Harry finally opened his eyes to look at his Professors, he felt his heart clench. Professor Sprout was in obvious shock. Snape was scowling, McGonagall's lips were pursed, and Flitwick was grinning like a maniac.
Definitely a Cheering Charm.
"Potter?" McGonagall said finally, breaking the silence.
"I warned you, Professor," he said jokingly, and Snape grunted in disapproval.
"Who in Merlin's name said you can't sing, Potter?" McGonagall said, ignoring his comment completely.
"Er, what?" Harry asked, startled. "Well, um. My Aunt did. Why?"
"Because she was a complete li-"
"That's enough, Filius," McGonagall said, seemingly composing herself. Professor Sprout still looked shocked. "Thank you, Potter. The list will be posted tomorrow morning."
"I'm terribly sorry, Professor Sprout," Harry said as he walked out.
Well, at least he'd gone through it relatively unscathed. Those auditions actually spared him the embarrassment of performing before the entire school. So he'd humiliated himself in front of his teachers. So what. It wasn't the first time and, in all likelihood, it wouldn't be the last. All in all, Harry was quite relieved.
Until the next evening, that is.
"Oy, Harry!" Seamus yelled, drawing Harry's attention away from Quidditch strategy. "You made the cut!"
"What cut?" he asked bewilderedly, looking up.
"The singing contest, of course!"
"And how is that a good thing?" Harry demanded. Seamus was more than aware of Harry's reluctance to participate. And he'd just announced it to the whole school. Harry knew everyone heard because a hushed silence spread over the Great Hall. Seamus was one dead Irishman.
The Gryffindor table burst into cheers, shouting their congratulations at Harry, who could practically feel his face reddening. Oh, this was bad. It was a bad, bad thing. He gave McGonagall a betrayed look, but she merely gave him a curt nod before turning her attention to Flitwick, who was speaking animatedly, arms raised and flailing in the air.
The Gryffindors were cheerful because they had a somewhat pitiful representation in the contest - the only other Gryffindor who could sing was Dennis Creevey, who turned out to have a spectacular soprano. The Ravenclaws looked contemplative and the Hufflepuffs looked sympathetic, but most of the Slytherins were giving him murderous looks. Well, all except one - Dra- er, Malfoy - oh balls, Draco was smirking.
If he hadn't had a bowl of porridge sitting before him, Harry would've slammed his head against the table.
It only became worse from then on. He'd gone to beg Professor McGonagall to excuse him from the competition, only to be met with outright refusal.
"Potter, the number of Gryffindors capable of holding a note is surprisingly slim," she said pointedly. "I will not have this contest hanging on the shoulders of Dennis Creevey."
Nothing seemed to help. Snape was still glowering at him, even though he seemed slightly mollified by Harry's obvious distress. Dumbledore refused to release him from the contest, and even Fred and George, who were usually more than happy to help Harry, refused to ship him any of their Skiving Snackboxes.
As he walked into the Great Hall on the evening of the competition, Harry wanted to die. It had been turned into a small-scale concert hall - a round stage stood in the middle of the Hall, bare but for two dozen chairs set in perfectly neat rows. The rest of the seats stood around the stage much like the seats on the Quidditch pitch.
To his utter bemusement, the attempts at bridging the gaps between Houses caused him to be seated between Millicent Bulstrode and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Bulstrode didn't say much, but Justin couldn't seem to stop yammering.
All of a sudden, all the lights went out but for a lone beam of light that seemed to follow Dumbledore as he made his leisurely way from the High Table.
He gave a whole speech about the purpose of the contest and how he hoped they would all appreciate today's 'performance'. Then, when Harry was nearly about to shout at him to get on with it already, he announced the rules of the game.
One by one, the people on stage got up from their seats. To Harry's utter surprise, they all displayed a wonderful myriad of voices, and he soon lost himself in the music, acquiring a silly grin that usually made him look like an idiot.
Bulstrode gave him a shifty look before she got to her feet, and surprised everyone - if the collective gasp from the crowd was any indication - by singing a lovely, sad ancient ballad about a ghost who spent her days mooning over her lost love. She hit the final note with perfection, and breathed deeply when the crowd burst into cheers. Harry stared after her as she got back to her seat, torn between awe and disbelief. She gave him a slight smirk but he kept staring until Justin nudged his ribs.
"You're up, Harry."
Harry swallowed and glanced up at the empty spot of light. He got to his feet and started walking toward the middle of the stage, willing his feet to remain standing and trying to ignore the whispers from the crowd. Like all the other participants, he pointed his wand at his throat and whispered "Sonorus", and silence reigned.
"Just ignore them, Harry," Hermione had said before they'd gotten down to the Great Hall. "Don't sing for them, sing for you. You'll do just fine."
The sharp notes of Bill's piano echoed in his mind as Harry closed his eyes, cleared his mind and focused on following the memory of Bill's voice with his own.
The silence in the Great Hall was deafening. Everyone was staring at him, and it was like fourth year all over again, when the Goblet of Fire had burped out his name without provocation.
And then the silence was broken in a wave of wild applause. Harry felt his cheeks turn red, probably the tips of his ears, too, as he quickly cast the counter-spell on himself and got back to his seat.
As Justin Finch-Fletchley rose to sing his own part, an achingly familiar voice came from the row behind him and broke Harry's good mood.
"Who knew, Potter," Draco drawled, voice and expression tinged with curiosity. "You really can sing."
"Erm, thanks," Harry said hesitatingly. His ears were definitely red now. Possibly his cheeks, too. "I think."
He could feel Draco's eyes on the back of his neck for the next half hour, as if he wasn't listening to the music at all but content to stare at Harry. That thought, of course, prevented Harry from immersing himself in the music, and he spent all that time willing the back of his neck not to blush.
And then it was Draco's turn.
"You're good, Potter," Bulstrode said, smirking beside him. "But he's got you beat here."
"That good, is he?" Justin asked interestedly, and Harry nodded absently as Draco tucked the wand back into his robes.
Unlike Harry, Draco wasn't closing his eyes. They roamed over the crowd as he sang the same tune that had gotten Harry enraptured, sharp and inquisitive. He was looking for something, a part of Harry realized, but he was too busy listening to care. Malfoy's voice was mesmerising, inviting, crawling toward him and luring him in.
And then it wasn't just the voice, because as the last verse began Draco's eyes locked onto Harry's, and a satisfied twitch appeared on his lips as he sang.
Harry tried to look away. He really, really did, but there was no drawing away from those cool pools of grey, not without gouging his eyes out. His eyes followed Malfoy's as the blond finished his song and bowed down to the enthusiastic roar from the crowd, and breathed a sigh of relief when Draco slipped out of his line of sight.
He let his guard down too quickly, though. Just when he finally managed to turn his attention to the next performer, a dark, sibilant whisper came from the seat behind him. "Like the encore, Potter?"
Harry barely managed not to jump five feet in the air. "What the hell?"
But Draco didn't say anything else; he just smirked and nodded to himself, as if coming to a very important decision before seemingly ignoring Harry and turning his attention back to the performer of the moment. It irked Harry for no apparent reason.
And there was no hard surface to bang his head against!
After everyone was done, the crowd was asked to vote anonymously. The result had been as Bulstrode had predicted - making Harry pout and bringing a smirk to Draco's face. People began to scatter not long after - everyone had class the next day, and none of the teachers had deigned to give them the first period off.
Seamus bounded over to pat Harry's shoulder comfortingly, grinning at him. "See?" the Irishman said cheerfully. "It wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Are you kidding?" Harry scoffed. "It was awful!"
"Really, Harry, you did very well," Hermione said pointedly. "Don't be a drama queen."
"Yeah, mate," Ron agreed. "You didn't have a chance against Malfoy, obviously, but you were brilliant."
Harry frowned. "Why didn't I have a chance against Malfoy?"
Ron's eyes widened in surprise. "Really, Harry! Everyone knows Malfoy's a-"
"Heya, Harry! Great show!" Ginny said, cutting into Ron's words. She grinned at Harry and raised a pair of Omnioculars, waving it enthusiastically.
"Give it here," he said sternly. Ginny giggled, taking off at a run. Harry began to follow, fully intending to both make her pay for filming him and destroy all evidence of his humiliation, but a clear call from across the corridor stopped him in his tracks.
"Hey, Potter!" Malfoy called, raising his hand. Harry noted that his cronies were missing - then again, he didn't actually need them anymore, did he? "Got a minute?"
Harry crossed the empty corridor without pausing for thought, stopping in front of the blond.
"What is it, Malfoy?" he asked tersely. He didn't exactly want to speak to the other boy right now - he was barely stopping himself from blushing as it was. Today's encore hadn't helped his crush issue none. "I have evidence to destroy."
"I suppose you do," Draco said slowly, and hoo boy, why was he grinning? And why did Harry's stomach - and other parts, too - find it hot enough to melt iron? "Though I don't know why. You sounded very good."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Right. Is there anything in particular you want?"
"As a matter of fact, there is," Draco drawled. The smirk that spread on his face and the glint in his eyes did not bode well for Harry. "You didn't answer my question."
Harry frowned.
"Did you like the encore?" Draco asked silkily, stepping closer.
Harry felt the blood drain from his face, only to come back with gusto. He was suddenly so warm that his cheeks tingled, and his head threatened to pop off. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't make a very good liar, you know," Draco said, smirking. "You saw me in the shower, didn't you? You heard me. You fell flat on your arse and ran away."
"Look, Malfoy, I -" Harry stammered, feeling suddenly stupid. As if all connection between his brain and his mouth was severed. Brain and everywhere else, too, because he was getting this tingly feeling in the pit of his stomach and a familiar stirring sensation and he was getting warm - boy, this was not good.
"I thought it was you," Draco continued, crowding Harry up against the wall. "This is why I suggested this competition in the first place - to make sure. And the way you looked at me - I know, Potter. I know what you are."
Harry opened his mouth to reply and Draco's lips slammed onto his - they were soft and demanding at the same time, coaxing his mouth open despite himself. The melody swept into him, flooding his senses and bursting against his eyelids in flashes of light. Arm around his waist, hand in his hair and he could do nothing but curl into the touch and wordlessly beg for more. Harry moaned into the kiss, feeling the Slytherin smirk against his lips.
"Told you, Harry," Draco purred against Harry's lips - Harry hadn't even known people were capable of making that sound. "You're my mate. Mine."
Harry drew back, letting out a ragged gasp and evading Draco's urgent seeking lips as they moved around his face, kissing and licking their way up to his ear. He needed an explanation! He needed details! "What the- Malfoy, what-"
"Part Siren," Draco said shortly, and ran a languorous tongue up the shell of Harry's ear, making him shiver. "Very possessive. Mated for life, too."
Harry sputtered, trying to gather his senses enough to think straight, but Draco was chuckling in his ear and doing wondrous things with his tongue - Harry's knees buckled and he wrapped his arm around Draco's neck as the blond's mouth threatened to swallow him whole.
Harry decided the details could wait until later.