She writes fourteen, I give her one. I think I got the better end of the deal! *smooches Serina* Wo zhende ai ni!

Harry refolded the parchment quickly, blushing furiously.

The words he had read twisted themselves around in his swirling mind, prickling in his chest and his belly. He never knew words could make him feel this way.

I feel your hands on me in the steaming water and pull you to me. I take your soft lip gently between my teeth, but not too gently, because I want you to know how searing the fire is that I feel for you. Could we have heated all this water, merely from the passion between us? You gasp and open your eyes, and I know you feel it, too.

Harry's breath rasped a little in his lungs, the image so vivid that he wondered whether the author - whoever it was - had charmed the ink to make the words leap to life.

He shook his head, feeling stupid.

Someone had been sending him these stories all week. In every one, there had been this gap, this undefined space, where another person had held him or kissed him, but he didn't know who the other protagonist was meant to be. It was very strange, this feeling of passion and heat, directed toward a space in his mind which was waiting to be filled with an as-yet unidentified player.

Only it wasn't entirely true that the space was empty. Nature abhors a vacuum, after all, and Harry's mind was as natural as could be. With no face or body to put to the images, he had supplied one of his own choosing. Naturally, the one he'd chosen was the least likely of all.

'Stupid,' he whispered aloud. 'It probably isn't even a bloke.'

It wasn't common knowledge, after all. Only Harry's closest friends knew he was gay, so it was entirely possible that this bold and highly sneaky author, who'd been leaving these prose-filled parchments for him all week, was in fact a girl.

If it was a girl, though, Harry might seriously have to reconsider his orientation. Whoever had written all of these messages had managed to get very thoroughly under his skin.

Something in his gut told Harry that the author was male, however. He couldn't put his finger on the reason he was sure, but it was entwined in the images in his mind. The chest pressed against his back was hard and smooth. The chin that brushed against his was dusted with fine, prickly stubble. The hands that gripped his hips, and pulled them tightly against -

Harry flushed again, trying to force his heart rate to slow. He was already uncomfortably aware of the effect of the written words on his mind and body, and didn't need to exacerbate the issue.

It didn't matter that his dormmates were all asleep or that he was perfectly adept with Silencing Charms. He needed to keep his head clear, and get to sleep. They had an important practical lesson in Potions tomorrow - naturally, Snape would give them a challenging assignment on Valentine's Day - and Harry needed to have his wits about him.

It would only make things worse if he were to allow himself to continue to fantasise about his classmate. It would only cause him to distract Harry more in the morning.

***

Harry flinched as the bit of parchment slipped from between the pages of his Potions text. Even as he was recoiling from the onslaught of distracting images from the stories he'd received thus far, his Seeker instincts caused him to catch the fluttering paper before it could reach the floor.

At the next desk, Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Harry braced himself for Malfoy's taunts, but they never arrived. He squirmed a bit under the arch of that challenging brow, but dragged his gaze away.

On Harry's other side stood Ron, sharing the same desk. He'd noticed the parchment and the look on Malfoy's face.

'What are those things, Harry?' he whispered, pointing at Harry's hand. 'What do they say?'

'Never mind,' said Harry equally quietly, pocketing the parchment as quickly as the flush crept up his neck. 'It's nothing.'

Ron was smirking at him now. 'It is a secret admirer, isn't it, Harry? You can try to deny it again, but I won't believe you. I can tell from the way you're blushing!'

'I'm not.'

'You are. Don't try to fool a Weasley when it comes to blushing - we're experts!'

Hermione, on Ron's other side, looked up with laughter sparkling in her eyes. Ron saw her expression and proceeded to demonstrate his hereditary expertise.

'Anyway,' Ron continued, his face now a brilliant shade of crimson, 'you might as well tell us what's going on. We're going to need a story to cover for you when Malfoy starts spreading rumours.'

He pointed across to the other desk, where Malfoy was, indeed, obviously listening and shooting them glances. He looked amused, but expression was marred by a slight furrow in his forehead.

Snape's voice cracked like a whip across the classroom. 'Potter, Weasley - I instructed you to work silently. Five points from Gryffindor. Each.'

Harry and Ron both put their heads down, grumbling angrily, and resumed quietly preparing their potions. Harry was relieved to have an excuse for dropping the subject.

As he read the instructions for the next step in the brewing process, his hand found its way to the pocket where he'd hidden the newest page. All he'd seen at the top was the greeting, which varied only slightly from one installment to the next:

To Harry, who inspires me in every possible way, and in ways I had thought were impossible until now.

He couldn't wait to read it. It wasn't that they were all as passionate as the one from the previous night. One had scared him a great deal, showing his scorned lover appearing as a ghost and throttling him; another had left him feeling wistful, with the image of an unripe fruit, crushed in a hand before it could ripen to its full beauty. Still others had been funny, such as the one where he'd been tackled by the author in the snow, or beautiful and subtly erotic, where the writer had described a musical composition inspired by their shared passion.

Whatever this one contained, he knew it would make him feel wanted, even needed. Whatever it contained, it would make him feel like there was something more to want about Harry Potter than the reflected glow of being near his fame.

As his mind drifted from the potion to the stories, his fingers caressed the edges of the folded paper. His eyes shot to the side, on instinct, and he discovered that Malfoy was watching him openly, focused on his hand. The eyebrow raised again, and the smirk returned.

Something of the heat Harry had felt the previous night was rekindled in his belly. He flushed again, and returned to work.

'I just don't understand how he's doing it, whoever he is,' muttered Ron from the corner of his mouth.

Of course, Ron had no more way of knowing that it was a boy than Harry did, but it was kind of him to make that assumption, for Harry's sake.

Harry tried to ignore him, focusing on shredding his mallow root finely and uniformly. It was hard to tune Ron out, though, because he was thinking the same thing.

'Do you think it's a Gryffindor?' Ron asked again, a bit more insistently. 'It would have to be, wouldn't it, to slip those bits of parchment under your pillow every evening, and into your books by morning?'

'Shh!' warned Hermione, glancing worriedly at their professor, whose gaze was narrowing in their direction.

They worked for a few moments in silence, before Snape's attention was distracted by a small commotion at Ernie MacMillan's desk. Ernie and Hannah had apparently got distracted by their mutual attraction, and allowed their potion to boil over.

'Was it you, then, Weasley?' sneered Malfoy, once Snape had swept toward the back of the classroom. 'Leaving love notes for your Potty friend?'

'What makes you think he's been getting love notes?' asked Hermione pointedly while Ron looked murderous.

Malfoy made no response, only arching an eyebrow again at Harry, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. The smirk that followed made Harry's skin itch all over, in a vaguely pleasant manner.

He really had to stop hoping that Malfoy had been the one to write those stories.

***

I could have anything in the school, but I couldn't have you, until I snuck into your room that night and claimed you with my lips and fingers and teeth. You belong to me now, and you can't deny it. It's written all over you.

Harry's heart pounded as he read the final lines on the parchment. He was glad he'd managed to find a bit of privacy before unfolding the day's installment. He considered using the opportunity to relieve some of the tension that had built as he'd read the passionate words, but his corner of deserted corridor really could be invaded at any moment.

He leaned his head back against the cool stone of the wall, shivering slightly at the cold draughtiness of the castle. It was dark already, even though it wasn't even tea time yet. February was such a dreary time of year. He couldn't wait until spring.

Footfalls echoed in the corridor, and Harry looked around, wishing he could hide. He wanted to be alone with his fantasy, to read the story again and again, letting the warmth bloom inside his chest. These stories made him feel wanted in a way he'd never experienced before. Someone, inside this same castle, wanted Harry for who he was, not what he was. Someone wanted to be with him, not be rescued by him. It was extremely enticing.

Whoever that someone was, he (Harry continued to hope, very much, that it was a 'he') wanted much more than Harry had ever experienced with another person. Harry had realised he was gay, true, but he hadn't yet had the opportunity to put that realisation into practice, so to speak. Two years after his disastrous Valentine's date with Cho, he hadn't even had another kiss. To read the missives he's been receiving, though ... Harry flushed very deeply at imagining the opportunity to bring some of those scenes to life.

The footfalls grew louder, and finally Hermione came into view, racing around the corner. She stumbled to a halt when she saw Harry.

'Finally, there you are!' she panted. 'The Valentine's Feast is about to start, and we've been searching for you everywhere!'

'Ugh,' replied Harry unceremoniously.

Hermione paused and looked at Harry for a long moment. 'It's really bothering you, isn't it? Not knowing?'

Harry started to shake his head, but gave up and nodded.

'It's only ... I've never read anything like these, you know?'

Hermione smirked as she replied, 'No, I don't know, because you won't show us what he wrote.'

'You really think it's a "he?"' he asked hopefully.

'I have no idea, Harry,' she said with a shrug, 'but I know that's what you want it to be, so I'll say it if it will help.'

'Help what?' Harry asked, feeling confused and defeated.

She looked at him very directly. 'Help you get up your courage to find out who's been writing these.'

Harry couldn't find any air. His eyes went all dim and blurry. The very thought of trying to find the author of his stories, the very idea...

Hermione's hand was on his shoulder, and she was encouraging him to breathe deeply. Harry let his shoulders relax away from his neck, and found his sight returning.

'Goodness, Harry, there's no need to panic!'

He could only nod weakly in response.

'Harry Potter, you are the strangest person I have ever met. You can duel with Death Eaters and hardly bat an eye, but send you a few love-notes, and you melt into a quivering pile of goo.'

Harry shot Hermione a very dirty look, but didn't respond. He would be extremely put out if her observations weren't quite so accurate.

'Look, just come down and eat, alright? I won't make you talk about the notes, and neither will Ron if he wants to enjoy the rest of the evening.'

She tipped Harry a wink with her final words, making him blush all over again, but he did feel better, and even a little hungry.

'Watch out for Malfoy,' she added as they walked, arm-in-arm, toward the Great Hall. 'He seemed awfully interested in those notes of yours. You'd hate for him to get his hands on one.'

Harry stumbled slightly in his paces, but Hermione caught him before he could fall.

***

'I still can't believe your admirer hasn't shown himself by now!' exclaimed Ron as they returned to the dormitory, following the Feast and several games of Gobstones.

It was early yet, but Ron and Hermione were both on patrol that night, and had plans for making the best of it at the end of their shift, so Ron wanted to get a little rest first. Harry simply wanted to go to sleep early and forget all about the day.

His thoughts echoed Ron's exclamation. He'd thought for sure he would have received some sort of sign during the Feast. It was the only logical conclusion he could see to the week's letters.

Why would someone go to all that trouble, and not reveal himself?

Harry remembered the idea Ron had mentioned in Potions that morning. Could it be another Gryffindor? Dean was downstairs snogging Ginny at that very moment, so he was pretty well ruled out. Seamus had been spending an awful lot of time with Susan Bones, so he was unlikely, as well.

Neville? He'd never be quite so bold, would he? And anyway, there were rumours floating around about him and Zacharias Smith and a particularly scandalous episode in Greenhouse Three.

Other possibilities popped to mind, each less likely than the last. Finally, Harry's mind settled on Malfoy again.

Oh, no, he thought suddenly, what if it's all some sort of practical joke?

It would be just like Malfoy, wouldn't it? Harry was surprised Malfoy could manage to slip all those parchments into his books and under his pillow without getting caught, but perhaps he was using some residual power over Dobby to get it done. Malfoy would relish seeing Harry all heated and wrong-footed, panting and heart-racing over stories that had always been meant as a giant gag.

Ron saw Harry's face, and sat halfway up, propping himself on his elbow. 'What's wrong?'

'Malfoy,' answered Harry simply.

'I still don't understand what you see in that git,' sighed Ron, with a dismissive shrug. He'd been livid when Harry had first admitted his crush but now accepted it with a certain degree of bewildered resignation.

'Neither can I,' admitted Harry. 'But I was just thinking - what if it is him, and he did it all as a joke?'

Ron sat all the way up, and fixed Harry with a very direct stare. 'Harry, what would happen if someone did that to Ginny? Especially someone like Malfoy?'

Harry saw the intensity in Ron's glare, and felt a moment of very real fear, and an equal measure of awe.

'Er, you and your brothers would take it in turns to show the poor slob various painful reasons why you don't toy with someone who has six older brothers?'

'Exactly,' replied Ron with a decisive nod. 'And I may only be five months older than you are, but you're like my adopted brother, too, which means the same goes for you.'

Harry swallowed audibly. Now he hoped, more than ever, that Malfoy wasn't playing games with him. It would be cruel and horrible if he was, true, but Harry wouldn't wish a Weasley's wrath on Malfoy, even then - and especially not that of six Weasleys.

Exhausted from the emotions of the day, Harry threw himself down on his bed, letting his head fall heavily into his pillow.

His pillow crackled.

Harry's and Ron's eyes met in simultaneous surprise and understanding. As Harry felt under his pillow for the crinkling parchment, he wondered why he hadn't suspected that a final story might appear that night. He supposed he'd expected his benefactor to reveal himself on Valentine's Day itself, but perhaps he was waiting until the following day.

Harry unfolded the paper as he drew it out. It only took a moment to read it, because instead of the usual page or two of writing, it contained only a couple of lines.

It was an invitation.

'Ron,' asked Harry casually, 'how many chocolate frogs do I have to give you to keep you away from the seventh floor of Astronomy Tower at midnight tonight?'

Ron smirked and shook his head. 'More than you've got, mate. You think I'm going to miss a chance to see who's been making you blush all week?'

Harry threw his pillow at him. 'I don't blush,' he said.

'Right,' answered Ron, drawing out the vowel sarcastically. 'Lucky for you Hermione would murder me if I actually did try to spy on you. Tell me where you're going to be, and we'll keep the way clear for you.'

Harry buried his head under his pillow, the colour of his face belying his claim.

'Merlin!' he groaned, his voice muffled by his bedding. 'What am I getting myself into?'

***

Harry crept up the stairs of Astronomy Tower, checking constantly to make sure the Invisibility Cloak covered him all the way to the floor. It would be awkward, to say the least, to be forced to explain himself, being out of Gryffindor Tower so late at night.

He tugged at the neck of his thin, green jumper and scowled again at the fact that Ron couldn't keep his mouth shut around Hermione, and Hermione couldn't pass up an opportunity to meddle. She'd dragged Lavender into the situation, who had insisted that Harry wear the jumper in place of his school robes, claiming it brought out his eyes and defined his shoulders. Harry was mortified enough about all of this without having to imagine what Lavender might be speculating now about whom Harry was meeting.

At least Ron and Hermione hadn't mentioned anything about the letters. He could count on them for that much.

One last flight of stairs, and Harry found himself in a round room that served as a landing, surrounded by doors to the various viewing rooms at the top of the tower. The quiet sounds of scuffles and giggling seemed to echo from every corner - why couldn't his mysterious admirer have chosen a less popular place for a secret Valentine's meeting?

Harry sighed. For better or worse, someone was waiting behind the fourth door on the left.

He took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

When the silhouette at the window turned to face him, Harry's heart sank. If he was here, if he was really here, then it must be a joke.

Unless ... maybe Malfoy had found out about the notes somehow, and had decided to intercept Harry, to scare off the real author?

Of course! It had to be someone else, after all. It didn't matter who, so long as he really showed up, and so long as Malfoy was long gone when he did.

Malfoy crossed his arms, leaning back against the window frame. He smirked as he looked Harry up and down.

'What are you doing here, Malfoy?' hissed Harry.

'Me? I'm looking at the stars, of course,' replied Malfoy smoothly, never taking his eyes from Harry.

'Well, look somewhere else. I'm - this room is taken.'

Malfoy's eyes narrowed fractionally. 'The way I see it, I was here first.'

'Yes, well ...' Harry's voice faltered, and he couldn't keep a hint of pleading from entering his expression.

Malfoy's own expression, in response, turned into one of pure glee. 'Are you meeting someone, Potter? Do you have a midnight rendezvous planned with some secret lover?' He raked his gaze over Harry again, making the green jumper feel very tight and very inadequate in terms of a covering. 'Potter, you little slut.'

At this last word, Harry's shoulders grew tight, and his jaw clenched in anger. 'Look, it's not like that, I don't even -' He broke off, realising how much there was that he didn't want Malfoy to know about the situation.

Unfortunately, Malfoy guessed.

'You "don't even" what, Potter?' A second passed, as the thought visibly took seed in his mind. 'You don't even know who's meeting you, do you? You have a secret admirer, and you're pathetic enough to climb up Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night to meet him!'

Harry spluttered, wishing for a way - any way at all - to make the words not true, to deny them plausibly so Malfoy would go away and never, never mention this to anyone. It was far too disturbing, the way the moonlight from the window played over Malfoy's hair and face, defining his features and the curve of his neck, making Harry wish a little more with each second that it really was Malfoy who was here to meet him.

Him.

Hang on.

'Hang on,' Harry echoed his own thoughts aloud, 'how did you know it's supposed to be a "him" that meets me?'

Malfoy's smirk very obviously faltered. Harry hadn't seen Malfoy this wrong-footed since the day the fake Moody had turned him into a ferret and bounced him around the Entrance Hall. It was an intriguing sight.

Emboldened, Harry took a step toward him.

'How did you know, Malfoy?'

Malfoy was edging to his left, looking ready to try to bolt for the exit. Deftly as a cat, Harry stepped sideways and threw his right hand against the wall, blocking his adversary's escape.

They were standing very close now. The moonlight cast Malfoy's shadow across Harry's face, making a corona of icy gold around the blond head. Harry could only see the glistening reflection where Malfoy's eyes must be.

'You know,' Harry said casually, pretending his heart wasn't racing or his blood rushing south, 'Ron and his brothers are going to kill you if you were only playing around when you wrote all of those stories. And they won't kill you quickly, either.'

Malfoy's eyes widened slightly. Harry watched his Adam's Apple bob once, twice. His mouth watered with the desire to run his tongue along the contours of Malfoy's throat.

The silence extended just long enough for Harry to fear that Malfoy had, indeed, been playing around.

Before Harry's mind could conjure images of exactly how Ron and the twins would go about dismembering Malfoy, the delicately curved lips parted, and Malfoy found his voice at last.

'It's a good job I wasn't playing, then,' he whispered huskily as he twined his arms around Harry's waist.

Harry's heart leapt as he felt the lithe Seeker's body slide into his arms, as firm and real and alive as it had felt in all of his many fantasies.

A hair's breadth from Malfoy's lips, Harry paused. 'I only have one question.'

'Mmm?' Malfoy breathed, his eyes half-lidded.

'Did you bring the whipped cream, chocolate and strawberries you mentioned?'

Malfoy's mouth widened into a shining smile as he closed the distance between them.

As Harry tasted Malfoy's lips against his own, he was sure he felt him nod.