Harry stood in the doorway, watching Malfoy. Draco, he reminded himself. His name was Draco. He watch as Draco shed his shirt, slowly. God, so slowly. He just wanted him to hurry, he wanted to get to the ministry, and figure out what was going on. Draco, it seemed, didn't. His hands moved to the edge of his trousers, and he glanced at Harry. He looked away so fast, Harry might have missed the look. But he didn't. Draco had looked nervous. As nervous as Harry felt, and his heart contracted. He did not have feeling for Malfoy. None at all. Except the fact that he wanted to snog the hell out of him. But no feelings. Harry closed his eyes, wanting the picture in front of him to leave. Instead, he saw Malfoy in the shower, the water running down his skin, his head, his back. His was mouth open in a perfect O, his gray eyes closed. Harry's eyes snapped open, and he turned. He was not going to fall in love with Malfoy. Not now. Not ever. But the little voice in his head was persistent. He didn't have to fall. He already had.