Draco had wanted to pin George to the wall; trap him with his hips. He had wanted to punch him; he had wanted to kiss him. The sight of Terry leaving the cupboard looking preoccupied followed by George had caused Draco's stomach to twist with jealousy and hurt. What had they been doing in there? Enclosed by darkness, pressed together...
Draco was torn by conflicting desires. He didn't know whether he should beat Terry up or take George into the broom cupboard himself.
He did nothing instead.
Just looking at George; all angles and planes, wiry muscles and dark, peaty eyes had frozen Draco to the spot. He looked troubled; what had Terry done to him? Had George not liked it?
Draco had bristled feeling another wave of hatred sweep over him. He opened his mouth but the look on George's face made him falter.
George was seething. His fists were clenched; his breath was catching in his chest-a visible sign that he was upset. So many feverish words were passed between them unsaid.
George was blaming Draco for the way that things had turned out. He was angry with Draco and it was unforgivable.
George's stubborn, expressive eyes allowed Draco to read him like a book. And Draco didn't like this particular story.
George shoved past him so hard he could feel his shoulder begin to bruise. He stood there, unable to move, head bowed. His eyes were beginning to sting. This was ridiculous. Malfoy's don't cry.
But Draco didn't know what to do anymore. He had tried.
He had tried so goddamn hard.
He had told George exactly how he felt in the bathroom and yet nothing had changed. In fact it was now worse. Draco had wanted to keep fighting, he had wanted to heal George and make things right. But in all honesty it was too late. This was Draco Malfoy's life and in his life nothing ever went to plan. He never did anything right.

George sat on the changing room bench, head bowed, hands locked together. He was dressed in his Quidditch robes, his stomach churning. It wasn't pre-match nerves. It was this whole debacle with Draco. It was all the emotions he felt crashing together into one big cauldron of fear, pity, fury, bitterness and something stronger that pulsed through his blood; was it love?
The very word made George flinch. He shouldn't think like that. Not ever.
Because nothing could ever, ever happen between him and Draco. That chapter of his life was over, that ship had sailed; it didn't matter what analogy he used. It was done.
He couldn't allow himself to even consider the possibility that he loved Draco. He had spent a sleepless night trying not to think about him.
And now he had to concentrate on winning the Quidditch match against Slytherin, of making his team and his brother proud. He also hoped wildly that Draco wasn't playing.
The Gods were not in his favour. When the team marched out onto the pitch-blanketed by a glittering crust of snow, Draco Malfoy was already there clutching his broomstick. He looked good in green, George's heart lurched and he mounted his own broomstick, looking up at the sky. The clouds had gathered; grey and threatening. At the shrill blow of Madame Hooch's whistle George kicked off hard, spraying clumps of grass behind him. He gripped his beater's bat, scanning the Quidditch pitch. He could feel a pair of eyes on him and he didn't have to look to know they were Draco's. He swerved and chased a bludger away from Angelina.
The cold was biting through his gloves, snow beginning to swirl down in fat, wet flakes.
Hurry up Harry. Catch the damn snitch, George thought desperately. Not only was it cold, he felt vulnerable out here in the snow, unable to see anything but white, knowing that Draco could be inches away.
The snow thickened into a blizzard, sticking his hair together in frozen clumps. He wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire and thaw out. A green clad player shot past him, knocking him off balance. He grasped the broomstick desperately, the beater bat slipping from his fingers. He heard it thump on the frozen ground below.
Bloody hell.
Without his bat he was useless. The falling snow had lessened slightly and George could make out the silhouette of his bat on the ground. He prepared to swoop down, angling his broomstick. However he heard the aggressive sound of a bludger approaching and his heart hammered against his ribcage as he looked up at the whirling ball. It was going to smack straight into his chest and there wasn't time to move.
A flash of green startled him and he almost fell off his broom. It took a few stunned milliseconds for George to register what had just happened. Finally it all fell into place. Draco Malfoy had leapt in front of him and the bludger had smashed into his chest instead of George's.
And now Draco was streaking towards the ground, unconscious. George dived after him without a second's thought, urging his broom faster. He grabbed Draco with both hands, yanking him up onto his own broomstick. He held him awkwardly, arm flung across Draco's chest. He wasn't sure if he could feel Draco's heartbeat as he stumbled to the ground. He let the other boy slither onto the pitch, falling to his knees. He scrabbled at Draco's wrist, trying to feel for a pulse, panic beginning to rise up within him.
Snape stormed up and he was pushed back. He fell onto the snow, the cold seeping through his cloak. Draco was pale and dishevelled, bruises forming under his eyes, his lips had fallen apart. He looked like he was asleep.
George swore. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the cold form of Draco. He stood shivering as a deadened roar rose up around him. Harry must have caught the snitch. Something scarlet plummeted into him, arms wrapping around his torso. It was Fred and the rest of the Gryffindor team screaming in delight. George craned his neck to stare over Alicia's shoulder at Draco.
Was he beginning to stir?
Hope burned in his chest as Fred knocked him to the ground laughing. He was so elated he hadn't noticed how ashen George's face was. George fought free, struggling to stand up, snow sticking to his hair, coming face to face with Draco Malfoy.
Well, Draco was standing a few feet away. His eyes were molten silver; his hair was damp and dark gold, curling around his ears. George dragged his eyes away unwillingly. Fred had stilled by George's elbow, probably fixing Draco with a hostile glare.
"George, look at me," a broken voice whispered. George's eyes met Draco's surprised. Grey eyes locked on brown. George tried to say something, to move away but he couldn't. Even the feel of Fred next to him melted away. All there was left in the world was white and silver and gold; Draco Malfoy and the words coming out of his mouth.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't be...I'm sorry I'm not good enough for you," he said quietly.
"No. No, you are good enough," George stammered. Draco had jumped in front of that bludger for him. He had sacrificed himself. He was more than good enough. Why had it taken George so long to realize it? Draco had changed. But before George could muster up the courage to say so, Draco began to speak.
"If you want me to leave you alone forever just say. Because if that's what you want-what you really want, then I will never bother you again," Draco said, his eyes shining with tears.
George couldn't think of anything worse. Last week all he had wanted was Draco's disappearance. Now, the idea terrified him. Heart pounding, he shook his head jerkily.
"No," he croaked "I don't want that".
For a moment Draco looked stunned. Snow stuck to his cheeks as he said "Really?"
A smile was slowly beginning to split his face. George could only nod.
As Draco took a step forward, George gasped out "Wait!"
The smile slid off Draco's face and he paused, looking vulnerable.
"I need to know how this is going to work...I need to know if it's going to be different from last time," George said. He was aware that Fred was still standing next to him, glowering with disapproval. He was also aware that the Slytherin Quidditch team had flanked Draco, confused and angry. Draco swallowed; all eyes on him.
"I..." he glanced at Flint and his mouth snapped shut again. George went cold inside. He began to turn away when Draco yelped "I love you!"
"What?" George asked, turning back around, beginning to grin.
"I love you," Draco said, his eyes bright and hard, and true.
"Sorry?" George's grin widened, his stomach somersaulting.
"I SAID I LOVE YOU," Draco Malfoy yelled, striding across to George who had his arms open and waiting.
Draco fiercely pressed his lips to George's and the old fire returned, renewed. George's arms wrapped around Draco, his hands trembling as he kept the other boy close. He tasted new and yet familiar. His heart was pounding so fast his ribs ached. He felt Draco's lips brushing his jaw; he felt his eyelashes brushing his cheekbone. They didn't want to draw apart. Now that the blood rushing in George's ears had quietened, he was aware of the deathly silence that had befallen the stadium. He knew Draco was too. He had stilled. George drew in a shaky breath and whispered "I love you too."
He felt Draco smile against his face and briefly he pressed his lips to George's before stepping back.
A blast of cold hit George followed by emptiness. The last kiss still lingered on George's lips.
Draco turned to the Slytherin team who were spitting with fury and disgust.
"You lost us the match! For some pretty boy Gryffindor?!" was all that Flint could manage.
"I'm not sorry," Draco replied.
George took his hand.
The stadium was a ring of blistering stares. George felt derision bubble up within him and he began to laugh with relief. Draco turned to him shocked. George just laughed harder until Draco's mouth began to twist up in a reluctant grin. He gave George a rough kiss on the cheek and they sloped off.

Delirious.