CHECKMATE

PART I – THE SET-UP

Chapter 3

Through the elegant yelling

Of this compelling

dispute

Comes the ghastly suspicion

My opposition’s

a fruit.

It’s very sad

to see the ancient and

distinguished game

That used to be

a model of decorum

and tranquility

Become like any other sport,

A battleground

for rival ideologies

To slug it out with glee.

Lyrics from “Quartet” from Chess by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * *

“GET UP, HARRY!” A very insistent voice kept repeating that same nonsense over and over.

Harry groaned. Ron.

“Hey, c’mon! It’s getting late.”

Harry moved slowly and managed to sit up. He felt like hell. “Shut up, Ron,” he murmured. “I’m coming.” He heard footsteps approach the side of his bed and stop. Then someone pulled back the bed hangings. Harry winced as the bright winter sunlight came pouring in on him from the window next to his bed. He squinted one eye open and looked up at his tall red-haired roommate with a scowl.

Ron whistled. “Geez, Harry,” he said in a low voice. “You look awful. Are you sick?”

Harry mutely shook his head. Not sick.

Ron sat down on the corner of Harry’s bed. “You didn’t have another one of those, er . . . You-Know-Who nightmares, did you?” he whispered.

Harry moaned silently. Oh, yes. That’s what it was – that’s what was wrong with his world this morning. A nightmare. The worst nightmare of his life was waiting for him at breakfast. He pulled back his blankets and dragged himself up. “No,” he sighed. “I’ll be all right, Ron. I just didn’t . . . sleep very well last night.” There was no point in warning Ron about what was about to happen. How could he? He himself could scarcely manage to think the words Draco Malfoy kissed me, much less say them out loud. And particularly not to Ron, who would probably die of heart failure on the spot. Well, thought Harry, then Ron may not live through breakfast either.

He and Ron met Hermione in the Gryffindor common room, and the three went down to breakfast together. Ron and Hermione walked ahead of Harry, hand in hand, admiring the twinkling Christmas lights and decorations which were beginning to appear everywhere, but they had to repeatedly stop and wait, because Harry seemed unable to keep up, and would keep lagging behind. By the time they reached the Great Hall, both of Harry’s friends were casting worried looks at him. Harry kept his head down, eyes on the floor, and ignored them. He wondered if he would have to go around like that for the rest of the school year.

Harry stopped for a moment just outside the doors of the Great Hall, steeling himself before he went in. Then he followed Ron and Hermione as they slowly made their way through the packed room to their regular seats at the Gryffindor table. He could hear the usual loud hum and buzz of voices and laughter, mixed with the clink of silverware on dishes. And that was all. He glanced up a little and looked around. Nothing happened. Then, “Hey, Harry,” called out Seamus in greeting as he passed. “I think you might have to cancel Quidditch practice this afternoon. I heard Trelawney’s predicting snow mixed with danger and death!” The comment elicited a chorus of giggles from several younger girls who were no doubt taking Divination this term. But no one laughed at Harry. No one paid any attention to him.

He sat down, and absently took a piece of toast and laid it on his plate. This was too weird. His eyes slid across the room to the Slytherin table. Draco was there, sitting calmly, most of his face hidden behind his copy of the Daily Prophet, just as if nothing in the world extraordinary had happened. Without taking his eyes off Draco, Harry dished up some scrambled eggs and put them on top of his toast. Then he took a spoonful of peaches in heavy syrup and put them on top of the eggs.

“Harry, what is wrong with you!” whispered Ron, nudging him in the ribs. “Look what you’re doing!”

Harry pulled his gaze away from the Slytherin table and looked down at the runny mess on his plate. Grimly he picked up his fork and took a bite. “I happen to like this,” he muttered to Ron, who was shaking his head. When Ron turned away to listen to something Hermione was saying, Harry looked back over at Draco. He was still reading the paper. Belatedly he remembered that Malfoy had told him that he had no intention of talking to anyone about last night. Had he actually meant it? Bloody hell. Had he worried himself sick over nothing?

Harry looked down, forced himself to eat a few more bites, then thoughtfully pushed the remnants of the syrupy eggs and soggy toast around with his fork. He’d been so sure that Malfoy had kissed him to make a fool of him, to ridicule his feelings, he hadn’t really taken seriously anything the other boy had said. If Malfoy hadn’t meant to humiliate him publicly, then just what the double bloody hell had he meant by kissing him like that? Even now, he was much too upset by how that kiss had made him feel, to think clearly. Even now, he could still feel it. . . .

Harry felt his face flush at the memory, and he glanced over at the Slytherin table again. Draco was looking at him over the top of his newspaper. For one second their eyes connected across the room. A shock like electricity surged through Harry. But Draco calmly looked away, folded his paper on the table, got up, and started making his way toward the doors. Oh no, you don’t, thought Harry as he grabbed his bookbag and jumped up from his seat.

“Harry!” called Hermione. “Wait! Ron and I aren’t finished eating yet.”

“Uh, sorry guys,” said Harry, backing away toward the doors, “– don’t hurry – I just forgot something. I’ll meet you in the hall – on the way to class.” And Harry turned and took off after Draco, who had just disappeared into the main entrance hall.

“Forgot something?” snorted Ron. “I’ll say. His wits!”

* * *

Draco came down to breakfast early, in spite of having had very little sleep. He was quite anxious to be in the Great Hall before Harry. He wanted to watch Harry walk in, wanted to hide behind his paper and see how Harry was reacting, without allowing Harry to see him. He needed to talk to Harry, desperately needed Harry to get involved in the chess game he had invented – his whole plan centered around that one thing. And Draco surmised that the best way to get Harry angry enough, confused enough, and off-guard enough to agree to play with him, was to completely ignore him. Harry had a habit of forcefully confronting the things that bothered him, a habit Draco was counting on.

If Harry was at all unsettled by that kiss, or, be-still-my-heart, had liked it, Draco knew it would drive Harry crazy if he pretended it hadn’t happened. Of course, the most likely possibility, and Draco knew the odds would be heavy in favor of it, was that Harry would have been horrified and repulsed, and would simply march into the Great Hall and punch Draco in the face – in which case, Draco’s plan was so much flaming toast.

Draco glanced over at the Gryffindor table and then looked down at his watch. Harry was running late. If he didn’t come in soon, Draco wouldn’t have time to talk to him before class. But, just then, he saw Weasley and Granger come in. They stopped just inside the doors and turned to look back out into the main hall. And Draco had to hold his paper up higher to hide the grin, and the heat flush that colored his face when, a few seconds later, Harry, obviously very reluctantly, walked in. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all, and like he expected the ceiling of the Great Hall itself to drop on him. He was being adorable again, completely pathetic, but so adorable.

And, Draco thought with an inner thrill, if he’s this upset, he must have liked that kiss.

Draco invoked his characteristic outward calm, and pretended to read the Daily Prophet. His plan was most definitely underway. He watched Harry surreptitiously over the top of his paper, and even though his eyes were not visible from Harry’s point of view, Draco was able to see Harry quite well. He saw Harry look over at him twice. He watched Harry poke miserably at the food on his plate. Now, said Draco to himself. It’s game time. He lowered the paper a bit and waited for Harry to look at him again. And then it happened. Harry looked up, and their eyes met, and lighting struck.

It was only years of habit that allowed Draco to keep up the pretense of composure, drop his eyes, fold his paper and walk calmly out of the room. But it worked. He saw Harry jump up, shake off Hermione, and come after him, a look of grim determination on his face that Draco was only too familiar with. It was the very same look Harry got when they played Quidditch, when Harry spotted the Snitch. One big difference though, thought Draco. Unlike that blasted Snitch, I happen to want to be caught – of course, I don’t want him to know that – or not just yet anyway.

When Draco got out into the main hall, he set off walking fast past the main stairs toward the corridor that led down to the Slytherin dungeons. He had to time it just right. If Harry caught up to him too close to the main hall, they wouldn’t be able to talk privately, but on the other hand, he doubted if Harry would follow him too far into Slytherin territory. They also didn’t have much time before everyone else would be finished eating. He looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Harry burst out of the Great Hall and skid to a momentary stop in the entrance hall. He saw Harry spot him and launch himself in pursuit.

“Malfoy!”

Draco didn’t stop or turn to look back, but he grinned. If it was possible to strangle a word, Harry had just done it to his name. Draco kept on walking, ignoring Harry; he was almost where he wanted to be. It was like fencing, he thought, giving ground to draw your opponent out after you, make him reckless, maybe careless. He wanted Harry to be angry and reckless, off-balance. He heard pounding footsteps behind him, heard, “Stop, dammit!” Draco stopped and turned so suddenly, that Harry plowed right into him. Just as Draco had intended.

Draco was anticipating the crash, so he was deftly able to catch Harry and keep them both from falling over. He calmly held on to Harry until he felt Harry get his balance, then took hold of his shoulders and shoved him back hard, so that Harry took a couple of steps backwards. Then he schooled his features to that expression of disdainful indifference that he did so well. “You should watch where you’re going, Potter,” he drawled. “If I’d been one of the first years, I‘d be road kill right now.”

* * *

Harry crashed into Draco and felt the other boy’s arms go around him, steady him, then slide up to his shoulders. Like last night. He was completely unprepared when Draco shoved him away. He stumbled back a couple of steps, then looked up at Draco in confusion, to see that oh-so-familiar-and-loathsome-expression-that-he-despised on Draco’s face.

“You should watch where you’re going, Potter,” Draco drawled. “If I’d been one of the first years, I‘d be road kill right now.”

Harry was suddenly furious. Furious and . . . hurt. He took a step forward, back toward Draco, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Stop that!” he raged, enunciating each word, but still keeping his voice down. “I’m not stupid. Everything you’ve done this morning was perfectly calculated to make me come running out here after you – so you can just cut that ‘not interested’ crap right now!”

And to Harry’s amazement, Draco did. Within the blink of an eye, the mask was gone. In its place were warm gray eyes and an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” said Draco.

Harry still frowned at him, though he was somewhat mollified by the change in expression and the apology. “You got me out here, Malfoy. Now you have some explaining to do, and I’m expecting honesty. You either be straight with me, or I walk away right now.”

Draco’s smile widened a bit. “Oh damn, Potter,” he said in a low, amused voice, “being straight with you isn’t what I had in mind at all. But,” he said, louder, “I do promise I’ll try to be honest with you.”

“Okay, then,” said Harry slowly, uncertainly. He had the unmistakable feeling that he had just missed something important, but his attention was much too intent on one other very important question for him to try to figure it out. “I just want to know one thing, Malfoy,” he said, looking Draco straight in the eyes. “What the hell did you do last night?”

“Hmm,” said Draco, thoughtfully, returning the emerald gaze with perfect calm. “I seem to recall challenging you to a chess game, Harry. I even made the first move.” He arched one eyebrow up. “You haven’t told me if you’re going to accept that challenge.”

Harry felt his anger rising again. “That is not what we’re talking about, and you know it.”

Draco gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes it is. It’s exactly what we’re talking about. Are you going to play, or not?”

“And why in the world would I want to play some weird ‘dare’ game with you?”

“Because I won’t answer any questions unless you do.”

God, he was maddening. Harry had a sudden urge to punch Draco in the nose.

“Don’t . . . do . . . it,” said Draco, quietly, as if he could read Harry’s mind.

Harry glared at Draco, and realized that his thoughts had probably been very clearly written on his face. I should just walk away, he thought. Walk away now, Harry. But he couldn’t. Something wouldn’t let him let go – he wanted an answer from that infuriating blond git. “Then explain it, Malfoy,” he said in an icy voice. “I’m not playing unless I know exactly what I’m getting into here.” He paused and narrowed his eyes at Draco. “Are there any rules to this game of yours?”

“There are rules, Potter, but not many. Dare Chess is really very simple.” Draco glanced to the side over Harry’s shoulder. A few students were starting to filter out of the Great Hall. He took hold of Harry’s arm and pulled him over close to the wall where they would not be as visible. He continued in a lowered voice. “There are three main rules. The first rule is that for each move you make on the chessboard, you must also make a move on your opponent. The move can be physical or rhetorical, but it can’t be magical or material. In other words, you can’t cast spells or take personal possessions. You can do something to your opponent, which is what I did last night, or you can tell something, or ask a question. The only stipulation is that whatever you do, tell, or ask has to be personal, private, or intimate. Like a secret, or something. And – ”

“Wait,” said Harry, interrupting. “Do you mean, if I play this game with you, I can ask you really private stuff?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“And do you have to answer?”

“I was just getting to that part, Potter. Second rule, you can’t reveal anything that is said during the game to anyone outside the game, and third, if you refuse your opponent’s move, then you forfeit the game.”

“Then what happens?” asked Harry. “What happens when somebody wins?”

“Then it’s winner take all – or nothing. Winner’s choice.”

“All?” said Harry, eyeing Draco suspiciously. “What exactly are we talking about here? Ha! I’m not sleeping with you, Malfoy, if that’s what you mean.”

Draco shrugged. “Then maybe you should just stay out of the game, Potter. You know what they say – if you can’t stand the heat, don’t step in the fire. Maybe this is just ‘too hot’ for you.”

Harry snorted. “I have nothing to hide, Malfoy. I think I can handle anything you can dish.” Harry stopped talking as a couple of Slytherin sixth year girls walked by. Both of them were eyeing Draco and giggling. Lord, thought Harry, he’s probably had girls all over this school. Then Harry grinned, and looked back at Draco. “And I believe it’s my turn. . . . Pawn to D5,” said Harry. “Now answer this: How many girls have you ever slept with?”

Draco made a slight choking sound, and raised both eyebrows. “Er, Harry – ”

“Just answer the question, Malfoy. Or is that too hot for you?”

Draco shook his head, and then grinned mischievously back at Harry. “Okay, give me a minute. It might take me a while to count them all.” He looked up in the air over Harry’s head. “Let’s see . . . there was . . . hmm, and . . . well . . . yes, and . . . and then there was . . . oh, and I can’t forget . . .” Draco dropped his eyes back to Harry’s. He seemed to be trying not to laugh. “Okay, Potter. I have your answer. It’s . . . none!”

It was Harry’s turn to make a strangled noise. “Come on, Malfoy. You can’t possibly expect me to believe you’re still a virgin.”

Draco colored slightly, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well,” he said. “I am. But, I intend for that to change by the end of this game.”

“Oh, give me a break,” said Harry, exasperated, and not really registering Draco’s last comment. “I can’t believe you haven’t been slithering around in the Slytherin girl’s dorm all these years. It’s common knowledge they all want you.”

Draco laughed. “And I really can’t believe you are as dense as you are, Potter. In case you haven’t been paying attention, and you obviously haven’t been, I prefer to do my ‘slithering’ in the boy’s dorm, thank you, and the pickings there have been . . . how shall I say it . . . rather gross, and er . . . distasteful?”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and he stared at Draco for a long moment during which he slowly turned beet red. Several things he had ignored suddenly fell into place with alarming clarity. “Oh, shit, Malfoy,” he said at last. “I was joking when I made that crack about the ‘all’ meaning us sleeping together. But you’re not joking are you?”

“No.” Draco tilted his head, and looked at Harry with thoughtful amusement. “You really are an idiot, Potter,” he said softly. “Why on earth else would I have kissed you last night? And if you’re so straight, how come you liked it so much?”

“WHAT! Arrgh! I am not going to have sex with you,” moaned Harry, “you. . . .”

“Slimy git?” supplied Draco smoothly. “Now I think it’s my turn.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Bishop to F4,” he said, and then raised one eyebrow. “Are you a virgin, Potter?”

Harry closed his eyes. He could still feel the blood pulsing in his face and ears. A second ago he had thought this situation could not possibly get any worse. But it just had. Malfoy is right – I really am an idiot. Harry had one secret, and this was it. Not even Ron knew this. And worst of all, Draco probably never would have asked him about it if Harry himself hadn’t started this line of questioning. It was just too horrible. His throat hurt, the heartache still able to seize him unexpectedly. Harry turned his body away from Draco and slumped back against the wall, his head down. “No,” he heard himself say, as if from a great distance. “No, I’m not.”

There was a long moment of stunned silence. “Who?” asked Draco finally, in an almost whisper, as if speech had failed him momentarily.

Harry pulled up off the wall and turned back to face Draco. His eyes met Draco’s for a split second, then he looked away. I am not telling you that, he thought. No way. That is just too personal. Think, Harry – think of something quick. He took a deep breath. “That is really not cool, Malfoy,” he said, stalling, thinking furiously. “It isn’t very honorable to sleep with a girl and then tell it around.” He sighed dramatically. “I really shouldn’t say . . . but if you must know . . . let’s see, the first was Fleur Delacour. That happened the summer after fourth year while I was home. She came to work in London for a bit to improve her English, and she looked me up. She was really grateful to me for saving her little sister, you know.”

“Fleur!?” gasped Draco, aghast. “You slept with Fleur! You were only fourteen!”

“I was fifteen – it was right after my birthday. Best birthday present I ever had.” Harry glanced up at Draco then and nearly laughed out loud. Draco was looking very pale and shocked. Suddenly Harry felt a whole lot better. He could handle this after all. “Next,” said Harry, warming to the subject, “was Hermione – that was last year. And this past summer there was this cute Muggle girl that I met again from my old school.” Harry shrugged and grinned at Draco. “What can I say, Malfoy – it must be the scar. Girls just seem to find it irresistible.”

Draco looked genuinely horrified. “Does Weasley know,” he said at last, “that you slept with his girlfriend? Talk about slithering! God, Potter, I really thought you had more class than that. I can’t believe you slept with Granger.”

“That’s because I didn’t, you prat!” snapped Harry, stung to truth by Draco’s comments. “I did not sleep with Hermione. Or Fleur. Or any Muggle girl. I just now made it up.”

A small crowd was starting to form in the corridor behind Harry and Draco, as students leaving the Great Hall from breakfast stopped to watch them. The two boys, completely oblivious to their growing audience, were speaking in very low voices, so only a word or two reached the crowd, but it was obvious from the expressions on their faces that something explosive was brewing. Harry and Draco hadn’t put on a show in some time, and everyone was dying to see what was going to happen.

Draco studied Harry through narrowed eyes, but a devilish smile was playing around the corners of his mouth. “So the correct answer to my question is. . . .”

Oh shit, thought Harry. He was trapped. There was no way to avoid the ‘who’ question unless he lied about the ‘virginity’ question. So he did. “The correct answer is yes, dammit,” he said. Then a novel thought occurred to Harry, and he grinned at Draco. “I really had you going, didn’t I?”

Draco grinned back. “You know, Potter, it occurs to me that there is one more rule to this game that I forgot to mention.”

Uh oh. “And that would be?” asked Harry, trying to sound unconcerned.

“That if you lie when you answer a question, your opponent gets to make two penalty moves – not in the actual chess game of course, but here, in person.”

“Oh,” said Harry, turning red again.

Draco took hold of Harry’s wrists and pulled him close. Then he slid his hands slowly up Harry’s arms until he was holding him lightly by the shoulders. He looked into Harry’s eyes. “Potter,” he said softly, “you look like one of the Christmas decorations, with those green eyes and that red face.”

“Just get it over with, Malfoy. You know when we started this, I really didn’t understand what your true intentions were.”

“Ah,” said Draco, his grip tightening on Harry’s shoulders, his mouth only a breath away from Harry’s. “You still don’t.” And he kicked Harry hard in the shin.

Harry gasped and grabbed his leg. “OW!! You bastard!”

“That was one,” said Draco. Then he stomped on Harry’s other foot. “And two. Those were for Granger. She deserves better from you, Potter.”

Harry crumpled to the floor, one hand on his aching shin, the other cradling his throbbing toes. “You really are a bastard, Malfoy,” he said.

Draco laughed. “Me? I think not. I’m afraid I’m the spitting image of my dear daddy, who was unfortunately, but quite legally, married to my mother before I was born.” He looked down on Harry with a perfectly charming smile. “Your move again, Harry.” Then with a swirl of robes, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Damn, thought Harry, as he watched Draco walk away from him. Damn, he’s . . . arrrgh – Harry couldn’t even think of a word. Stunning, suggested a small voice in Harry’s mind that Harry pointedly ignored.

“HARRY!!” Harry twisted around to look behind him. It was Hermione, pushing her way through a crowd of whispering, giggling students who were standing in the corridor. She came running up, Ron right behind her. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Ron glared down at him. “We were just coming out of the Great Hall and heard there was a fight. I thought I saw Malfoy walking away from here. What did he do Harry? Did he punch you?”

Harry looked up at his two friends and started laughing. “No,” he said to Ron, “he didn’t punch me.” He looked back at Hermione’s troubled expression. “I’m okay, really,” he said. He gave his sore shin a vigorous rub, then stood up. “I only got what I deserved.”

“What do you mean, Harry?” said Hermione, shocked. “How could you possibly deserve to be beaten up by Draco Malfoy? And I thought he had changed.”

“I’m hardly beaten up, Hermione. Look – I’m fine. I just said something I shouldn’t have –”

“That’s crazy,” said Hermione.

“Completely mental,” said Ron at the same time. Then he grinned. “What did you say?”

Harry looked down at Hermione and felt very ashamed when he remembered what he had said about her. Yes, I deserved to be kicked for that. “Er, I really can’t repeat it, Ron,” he said.

Ron snorted. “That good, huh? Well good for you, Harry.” He clapped Harry on the back. “Good for you.”

Suddenly a sharp voice called out, “Students! All of you – go to class!” Harry, Ron and Hermione turned to see Professor McGonagall dispersing the crowd of students gathered in the corridor. She clapped her hands three times. “GO TO CLASS!” The hall cleared almost instantly as students scurried off in all directions.

Oh no, thought Harry. He felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach. This is not good.

Professor McGonagall strode briskly up to them. She looked directly at Harry. “I am hearing rumors that there has been a fight, Mr. Potter, involving you and Mr. Malfoy. Is that true?”

Harry thought he might shrivel up under the sternness of that look. “No,” said Harry. “It wasn’t a fight. It was. . . .” Words failed him.

Ron spoke up. “We found Harry here on the floor, Professor, and saw Malfoy walking away. I think Malfoy punched him.”

“Ron, shut up!” hissed Harry under his breath.

Professor McGonagall looked from Harry to Ron, then back to Harry. “I expected more mature behavior from you than this,” she said in her most severe tone. You are a seventh year student, Potter, and captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The younger students look up to you. What are they to think, now, seeing you fighting in the hall with one of the prefects?” Her lips were thin with anger. “There will be an investigation,” she continued, “but not by me. Because Draco Malfoy is a prefect, and is therefore expected to set an example for the other students, the headmaster will want to handle this personally.” She gave Harry another long appraising look. “I suggest you three get to class,” she said, then turned and walked swiftly away in the direction of her own classroom.

Harry turned on Ron. “Oh, that helped a lot, Ron. Why’d you have to say anything?”

Ron looked at Harry taken aback. “Harry, if Malfoy punched you – ”

“I told you that’s not what happened!”

All right, you two,” interrupted Hermione, grabbing their arms. “Stop it! If we don’t go right now, we’re going to be late to Potions class. And then we’ll all be in trouble with Snape!”

End Chapter 3

<< Previous Chapter . . . Next Chapter >>

Review

Please list chapter number in your review.