Enough was enough. Actually, Harry was surprised he had waited so long to react.
He has been saying to himself that he shouldn't answer to Malfoy's provocations for the sake of reconciliation. But the git has been a prat since they started their so called eighth year and Harry was fed up beyond reason.
The first day, Harry thought it wasn't intentional. During Potions, he approached the table where Parkinson and Malfoy were working, to ask for a pair of snake fangs. He should have suspected when Parkinson sniggered and Malfoy, very politely, said: "Help yourself."
Harry stared at him a little longer and convinced himself that he was beyond the phase of suspecting Malfoy's every intention. Then he reached for the jar and the moment he touched it, a stuffed snake pounced at his face, making him nearly jump out of his skin. He feared his heart would bounce out of his mouth.
Parkinson burst out laughing and Malfoy, the git, busied himself with their cauldron while failing to suppress a smirk. Harry glared daggers at them but bit his tongue and left, ignoring Ron's and Hermione's questions when he sat at their bench.
The second time was a silly thing, actually. They both were arguing about who had which responsibilities in a group assignment, while Zabini and Seamus stared at them over the breakfast table, looking from one to another like in a tennis match. Not that they know what tennis is, but not the point.
"That's not fair and you know it," Malfoy had said.
"We agreed before sorting the parts," Harry had answered, vehement, while serving himself some toast. He was fucking right.
"If you consider the amount of…"
"You agreed," Harry insisted, looking the prat in the eye. He grabbed a mug of coffee, an eighth year's privilege, and looked around for the sugar bowl. Malfoy pushed it forward and Harry reached for it to put two spoonfuls in his mug. "If you don't like it you can change it with anyone but me."
"Oh, how gracious of you," Malfoy deadpanned.
Harry flashed him a tight smile and took a mouthful of his coffee. Merlin he needed it if he had to put up with the insufferable git.
It was ghastly.
Harry couldn't help but splutter the disgusting liquid.
"What the hell!" he croaked between coughs. He eyed the coffee, then the sugar bowl. He glared at Malfoy. “Did you transfigured the sugar into salt?”
“Did I?” the idiot asked fooling no one.
“Is this how it’s going to be?”
Malfoy shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harry inhaled deeply, trying to get his anger under control. He turned to talk to their other partners and ignored Malfoy for the rest of the morning. Well, he tried to, but the prat was nearly impossible to ignore.
The third day in a row that the sodding moron tried to prank him - and succeeded - Harry thought that, really, after their argument the day before he should have seen it coming. It was Saturday and they had agreed on meeting to work on the group project after breakfast, in the eighth year’s common room.
Harry had lingered at the table, not wanting to go back with the others. Well, not with Malfoy specifically, but still.
Even Ron finished his breakfast before he felt he was ready to leave.
When he rose from the table, a paper crane landed on his plate. He picked it up, knowing full well who it was from. He read the note inside with a bit of annoyance.
Idiot, change of plans. There’s too much noise in the common room. We are moving to the empty classroom on the second floor, third corridor to the left. Don’t be late.
~ Draco M.
Harry sighed. It was going to be a long morning.
He went to the classroom, mentally preparing himself to endure the company of the pointy git. What he didn't expect when he opened the door was a bunch of screaming teenagers, well… kids - really, was he so small at their ages? - that lost their shit when they saw him.
After a bit of fuss and manhandling, Harry found himself seated in the middle of the gathering of Harry Potter's Best and Merriest Fanclub, mortified and silently fuming and plotting how to kill a certain blond.
On Sunday he went to the quidditch pitch to fly before the sun rose. That wasn't an extraordinary event, he did it as often as he could; it was just the hour what was exceptional. He'd been awake for most of the night, at times trying to convince himself that he wouldn't rise to the bait and hit Malfoy with a bat bogey hex; at times he pondered just smothering the idiot; he even considered asking George for ideas for his long due revenge. So he reached a point when it was evident that sleep wouldn't come and he thought he better be doing something productive. Or at least enjoyable. Hence the flying.
It was as exhilarating as the first time. It was perfect.
Until the bane of his existence appeared in one of the Slytherin stands, that is. He ignored him for a good half an hour until his fingers were cold and his ass numb. And after that, he went directly to floor level; if Malfoy wanted to apologize, Harry wasn't going to make it easy for him.
"Potter!" Malfoy yelled behind him a moment later.
Harry turned and waited until he stood in front of him. "What do you want?"
"I wanted to… Merlin, you're sweaty."
"Ever so charming," Harry muttered. If Malfoy heard him he surely chose to ignore him. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
"I came to tell you we have a group meeting in fifteen minutes. We need to discuss what are we going to tell McGonagall tomorrow. She wants to discuss our progress, apparently."
"It would have been in about 50 minutes if some idiot wouldn't have ignored me."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"You didn't show up yesterday."
"And whose fault is that?"
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. The prick.
"Why didn't Seamus tell me?" Harry asked, more to himself than anything, but the insufferable git answered all the same.
"Apparently you were in a bad mood and ignored everyone and no one could see you this morning."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "And you knew where to find me?"
The moron averted his eyes and turned his mouth down in distaste, an incongruous pink coloured his cheeks. "I drew the shortest straw. This seemed the most likely place for you to mope."
Harry snorted. "I'm not moping."
"Whatever. Ten minutes, Potter," the idiot said. And with that, he left.
Harry glared at his back for a good couple of minutes before rushing to the showers. Totally worth it.
He didn't bother with regulating the taps and the water was scalding; when he faced the mirror he was red all over. He tried to domesticate his hair for nearly 30 seconds, but even if he had the time he wouldn't achieved more than a "recently shagged" look (Ron's words, not his) so why bother, really. He had 4 minutes to get dressed and meet the others. He'll be on time just to piss the prat off.
He struggled with his underwear, struggled with his shirt and when he struggled with his trousers he paused and narrowed his eyes. Did he grabbed the wrong set of clothing? He shook his head. Who's else's clothes would be?
He put his trousers on and wondered if he had put on some weight as he slid the button on place with difficulty. They were his trousers, the telltale marks here and there said so, but… they were like… two sizes too small.
Then it dawned on him: Malfoy! The stupid git, the pompous coward… He tried with finitem incantatem , with engorgio , with every other spell he could think of… His clothes didn't return to their normal size.
"What the fucking fuck?" Harry muttered. He wondered what the moron had done to his clothes. "Stupid prick and his stupid, arrogant… face." Harry forced himself into the rest of his clothes, determined to be on time.
At least his boots were their normal size. Thank Merlin for small mercies.
He walked all the way back to the castle cursing under his breath and pausing every other step to accommodate himself in his too tight trousers.
He would retaliate. He would think of a way to pay the idiot back. Enough was enough.
He arrived at the common room just in time, a bit breathless, but in time. He spotted Seamus and Zabini already hunched over a couple of books. The supreme idiot was preparing himself a cup of coffee on the kitchenette - another privilege of the eighth year's students -, with his back to the door.
Harry reached their table in few strides.
"Harry, what happened to…?" He raised his finger to his mouth to silence Hermione, who was seated in an armchair by the fire, a book on her lap, just next to their table; but Malfoy heard her anyway, and turned to face Harry with a smirk, spoon clinking delicately in his cup.
"How generous of you…" Malfoy raised one eyebrow, probably noticing his hair's state of disarray, "...to grace us…" The other eyebrow joined the first as Malfoy's eyes traveled down from Harry's flushed cheeks to the strained buttons of his shirt, "...with your presence…" Harry shifted on the spot as he watched Malfoy's eyes roam all over his tight trousers, "...Potter." That one last word was a whisper.
Harry blinked, did Malfoy...? Did he just…?
Malfoy turned towards the kitchenette and left his mug on the counter, then he picked it up again and left the spoon on its place. He looked a bit lost before moving to seat beside Zabini, not looking to Harry again.
If Harry didn't know better he would think that Malfoy was flustered… By him. He turned his head, looking for confirmation, and made eye contact with Hermione, who had raised her eyes from her book again and looked from him to Malfoy with narrowed eyes.
It seemed unlikely, but… Harry smiled slowly. This could be interesting.
He made himself sure that the next two hours were torture for the pointy git. He sat next to him and leaned close until he could count the freckles on his nose.
He saw him squirm, shift in his seat and sweat. He even saw him blush.
He only stopped his teasing when Parkinson entered the common room and shouted: "Sweet Salazar, Potter! Where did you hide those muscles?"
It was then his turn to blush.
He thought that now he’d had his little revenge, Malfoy would leave him alone from now on, which strangely saddened him. But when he stared at the mirror the next morning, he gaped at his Gryffindor red hair.
"Sneaky bastard…" Harry couldn't help but smile.