Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.

A/N: Angst. Set in the fifth or sixth year.

Fucking Potter was going to get one, or both of them, killed one day, but not today. No, today it would be okay, and after they fucked, they'd go their separate ways.

Draco would sneer and Potter would reciprocate. They'd keep their covers, Merlin forgive them. It was the only way they could survive and still see each other while He-Who-Not-Be-Named was at large, and seeking to kill those who were Potter sympathizers.

Draco bit his lip and closed his eyes, savoring every moment – the tight heat that encased his cock, the soft, guttural moans that issued from Potter's lips – for as long as he could. He knew that it wouldn't last, that what he and Potter were doing couldn't last much longer. For now, though, he'd take what he could, draw things out for as long as he was able to.

He came, balls tightening and releasing, Potter stifling a cry as Draco rode out his orgasm, digging his fingers into Potter's hips, resting his forehead on the back of Potter's shoulder, kissing the soft, sweaty expanse of flesh there. Potter shivered and sagged and Draco pulled out, the cool air stirring around them made him shudder.

He swallowed thickly as he pushed away from Potter, needing to distance himself before the other boy turned around. No declarations of love, no making sure that Potter was okay. He wasn't. Neither of them was.

He heard the telltale sound of clothes rustling as Potter moved away from the dungeon wall adjusting his robes the Muggle way.

Typical, Draco thought with a snort and a shake of his head. It never ceased to amaze him how often Potter seemed to forget that he was a wizard.

Draco let his robes fall where they would, used his wand to straighten them, and rid himself of every last vestige of what he'd done with the Gryffindor boy he'd been brought up to believe was his enemy. He could still feel Potter's heat, the lithe body straining to meet his thrusts, and he had to sink his teeth into his fist to keep from groaning in frustration and want that strangely resembled need.

They said nothing, each walking in opposite directions when they reached the larger corridor that led from the dark, unused portion of the castle where they'd met to fuck. Draco knew Potter was limping slightly, and stifled the stupid pride he felt at that, tamped down on the insane urge he had to smile.

His stomach was a knot of nervous energy and he took a deep breath, forced his head up and squared his shoulders. He snarled at a pair of first years who were heading toward the Great Hall for dinner, and gained some small satisfaction at the way their eyes had grown wide and they'd scampered off, nearly running in their haste to stay out of his path.

"Scaring first years, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape's silky voice startled him and caused Draco's skin to prickle, the sweat from what he'd done with Potter was already drying, but he felt some of it trickle down his back.

He held his breath and swallowed, met Snape's dark eyes without showing any of the fear that he felt. Snape raised an eyebrow and Draco smirked.

"Just showing them who's boss, Sir," he drawled, forcing himself to relax.

Snape shook his head, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Tread carefully, Mr. Malfoy," he said quietly, before walking away, robes billowing impressively.

Draco bit his tongue, gripped his wand tightly and headed to the Great Hall, knowing that, if Professor Snape knew about him and Potter, he wouldn't say anything. Discretion, after all, was the better part of valor.