Drarry In Love

The acrid stench of burnt lacewing flies and curdled Boomslang skin clung to them as they burst out of the Potions classroom, the dungeon corridor offering little relief from the cloying atmosphere of their failure. Slughorn, in his infinite and infuriating wisdom, had declared that the upcoming N.E.W.T.-level practicals required “inter-house unity” and had promptly partnered Harry with the one person he’d rather feed to a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

“If you hadn’t been so heavy-handed with the powdered Bicorn horn, Potter, we might have actually produced a passable Draught of Living Death,” Draco sneered, his pale face flushed with anger as he stalked alongside Harry. He ripped his leather gloves off, one finger at a time, the motion sharp and venomous. “But no, Saint Potter has to do everything with the subtlety of a rampaging troll.”

“Me?” Harry rounded on him, his own temper, already frayed from a week of relentless tournament speculation and sleepless nights, snapping like a dry twig. “You’re the one who stirred counter-clockwise a full three times before adding the Sopophorous bean juice! I saw you. You were trying to sabotage it from the start.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Draco drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. He stopped, forcing Harry to halt with him in the middle of the cold, echoing corridor. “I forgot I was working with the Chosen One, whose innate brilliance in all things magical surely compensates for his inability to read simple instructions. My mistake. I should have just let you toss the ingredients in at random and hoped for the best. It seems to work for everything else in your charmed life.”

The words hit a nerve, raw and exposed. Charmed life. The irony was so bitter it felt like bile in Harry’s throat. “Shut your mouth, Malfoy.”

“Or what? You’ll run and tell Dumbledore on me?” Draco took a step closer, crowding Harry’s space. The air crackled, the animosity between them a tangible thing, thick and suffocating. His grey eyes, the colour of a stormy sea, glittered with malice. “You’re nothing without your powerful friends, are you, Potter? A pathetic orphan who stumbled into fame.”

That was it. The final straw. A red haze clouded Harry’s vision. “Better than being a coward who hides behind his father’s name.”

The shift in Draco was instantaneous. The sneer vanished, replaced by something harder, colder, and far more dangerous. Before Harry could brace himself, Draco surged forward, slamming him back against the unyielding stone wall of the corridor. The impact knocked the air from Harry’s lungs, his head connecting with the cold, damp stone with a dull thud.

Draco’s hands were fisted in the front of Harry’s robes, yanking him forward until their faces were mere inches apart. The clean, sharp scent of Draco’s expensive cologne—something like sandalwood and winter air—filled Harry’s senses, a bizarre counterpoint to the rage radiating from him in palpable waves. Harry could feel the heat of Draco’s body, see the faint silver of his irises constricting around his pupils, feel the spray of his furious breath against his lips.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Draco hissed, his voice a low, guttural snarl that was nothing like his usual aristocratic drawl. It was raw. Unfiltered.

Harry’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He could feel the solid muscle of Draco’s forearm pressing into his chest, pinning him. His own hands came up, intending to shove him away, but they faltered, gripping the fabric of Draco’s sleeves instead. The world had narrowed to this single, explosive point: the press of Draco’s body, the fury in his eyes, the unbearable, humming tension that vibrated between them.

And then, in the space of a single, ragged breath, the nature of that tension warped. Harry’s gaze dropped from Draco’s furious eyes to his mouth. He watched as Draco’s lips parted, a silent snarl still shaping them, pale and surprisingly full. He saw the flicker in Draco’s own eyes as they followed his, a flicker of… something else. Not just hate. Something wilder. Hungrier.

The anger hadn’t vanished. It had transmuted, curdling into a desperate, violent need. With a sound that was half-growl, half-groan, Draco crushed his mouth to Harry’s.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. An act of aggression. Draco’s lips were hard, demanding, his teeth scraping against Harry’s own in a brutal claim. Harry’s mind went blank with shock, every coherent thought obliterated by the sheer, stunning force of it. He tasted fury and that sharp, sandalwood scent, a dizzying combination that set his blood on fire. A whimper of protest died in his throat as Draco’s tongue thrust past his lips, hot and wet and demanding, a brazen invasion.

The fight was still there, but now it was a battle of mouths, of tongues clashing and tangling in a rough, wet duel. Harry’s initial shock gave way to a surge of heat that pooled low in his belly, sharp and shocking. Without conscious thought, his hands tightened on Draco’s arms, pulling him closer, impossibly closer. He kissed back, meeting the punishing force with a desperate, confused hunger of his own. He bit down on Draco’s lower lip, hard enough to draw a sharp hiss of pain that was swallowed by their kiss.

Draco answered by grinding his hips forward, a deliberate, punishing motion. Harry gasped into his mouth as he felt the undeniable, rigid length of Draco’s cock pressing against his thigh through the layers of their school trousers. The blatant evidence of arousal sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through him, so potent it made him dizzy. His own body, that traitorous bastard, answered in kind, his own dick swelling, hardening with a painful, immediate ache.

One of Draco’s hands left his robes, sliding down his chest with agonizing slowness, fingers splayed over his furiously beating heart before continuing its descent. The hand settled over the front of Harry’s trousers, right over the burgeoning thickness there. Draco’s grip was possessive, his fingers pressing down, and Harry choked on a moan, his back arching against the cold stone. This was insane. This was Malfoy. And fuck, he was about to come in his pants from a simple, clothed touch.

The sound of his own muffled pleasure seemed to shatter the spell.

Draco tore his mouth away, shoving Harry back against the wall again, this time with a finality that felt like a physical blow. He stumbled back a step, his chest heaving, his lips swollen and dark from the force of their kiss. His grey eyes were wide, wild with a mixture of horror and a raw, stark hunger that mirrored the ache in Harry’s own groin.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the only sounds in the corridor their harsh, ragged breaths. A faint, dark flush stained the high points of Draco’s cheekbones. He looked at Harry’s mouth, then at his own hand as if it had betrayed him, a look of utter self-loathing twisting his features.

Without another word, Draco turned on his heel and fled, his long-legged stride eating up the length of the dungeon corridor until he disappeared around the corner, leaving Harry slumped against the wall, breathless, bewildered, and burning with a shameful, incandescent heat.

Of course. Here is the narrative for the second bullet point of the chapter "Shards of Animosity."

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The heat from that encounter in the dungeon corridor clung to Harry for the rest of the day, a phantom warmth under his skin that was both sickening and thrilling. He’d scrubbed his mouth raw in the lavatory, trying to erase the taste of Draco, of sandalwood and rage and something that tasted terrifyingly like want. But the memory was branded onto him. The punishing force of Draco’s lips, the possessive grip of his hand, the shocking, solid press of his erection against Harry’s thigh—it all replayed in a dizzying, shameful loop behind his eyes.

He couldn't face the Gryffindor common room. He couldn't bear the cheerful chatter, Ron’s oblivious questions, or Hermione’s perceptive gaze which would surely see that something was deeply, fundamentally wrong. The weight of it all—the tournament, the constant threat of Voldemort simmering in the background of his nightmares, and now this volatile, confusing firestorm with Malfoy—was crushing him. He felt utterly, terrifyingly alone.

So he walked. He walked until his legs ached, seeking out the most deserted parts of the castle, the corridors that even the ghosts seemed to avoid. He ended up in a high, narrow passage near the West Tower, lit only by a single slit of a window showing a sliver of the darkening, bruised-purple sky. The air was cold and still, the silence a welcome balm. He slumped against the stone wall, the same unyielding cold he’d felt pressed against his back hours earlier, and let his head fall back with a sigh that felt ripped from his soul.

He closed his eyes, and the images returned, vivid and unwelcome. Draco’s face, inches from his, pupils blown wide in his stormy grey eyes. The raw, guttural sound he’d made. The way Harry’s own body had betrayed him, leaping to life with a desperate, aching need that he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling, especially not for him. He’d wanted it. Gods, in that moment, pinned and powerless, he had wanted it. He’d wanted the violence, the anger, the brutal claiming. The realization was a fresh wave of nausea and heat. He was supposed to hate Malfoy. Hate was simple. It was clean. This… this was a filthy, tangled mess.

Loneliness was a hollow ache in his chest. Who could he ever tell? Who would understand that the boy who tormented him, who stood for everything he fought against, was also the one who could ignite such a shameful, powerful inferno in his blood with a single, hate-fueled kiss? He felt like a freak, broken in some essential way. The weight of being the Chosen One felt heavier than ever, a cloak of isolation he couldn't shrug off.

A soft scuff of a shoe against stone broke the silence.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. Standing at the far end of the corridor, half-shrouded in shadow where he’d just turned the corner, was Draco Malfoy.

The world stopped. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and every muscle in his body went rigid, bracing for the inevitable sneer, the cutting remark. This was it. Malfoy had found him, vulnerable and alone, the perfect target.

But the sneer never came.

For a long, suspended moment, Draco just stood there, watching him. In the dim light, his face was pale and stark. He wasn't smirking. He wasn't posturing. He was just… looking. And in his eyes, Harry saw none of the usual aristocratic disdain. He saw a flicker of something else, something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t triumph. It was something quieter, more complex. A flicker of recognition, perhaps, as if the raw exhaustion and despair on Harry’s face was something he understood on a level that went beyond their rivalry.

Harry stared back, his heart hammering a frantic, unsteady rhythm against his ribs. He felt stripped bare, his loneliness and confusion laid out for his enemy to see. He saw the slight parting of Draco’s lips, as if he meant to speak, but no sound emerged. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, with the memory of their bodies pressed together, with the ghost of a kiss that was more like a declaration of war. Draco’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second to Harry’s mouth, and Harry felt the phantom pressure there again, a tingling, electric memory.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile. It was Draco who broke it. He gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, as if to clear it of a thought he didn't want. His expression shuttered, the familiar mask of cool indifference sliding back into place, but it didn’t quite settle right. It looked brittle. Without a single word, not a taunt or an insult, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing softly before fading into the vast silence of the castle, leaving Harry utterly alone once more.

Harry slid the rest of the way down the wall to sit on the cold floor, his legs suddenly unable to support him. The silence Draco left behind was louder and more unnerving than any insult he could have hurled. He hadn't mocked him. He had seen him at his lowest, and he had simply walked away. And that, somehow, was the most terrifying thing of all.

Of course. Here is the narrative for the third bullet point of the chapter "Shards of Animosity."

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The following morning was a study in exquisite torture. Harry felt as though he’d been flayed, every nerve ending exposed and screaming. Sleep had been a distant, impossible dream, replaced by feverish, fragmented replays of the dungeon corridor. He’d woken with the phantom taste of sandalwood and fury on his tongue and the distinct, shameful ache of a phantom touch against his thigh. He felt branded. The ghost of Draco’s mouth on his, the press of his body, the possessive grip of his hand—it was a litany of sin that had etched itself onto his skin.

He moved through the castle like a wraith, his senses dialed to an unbearable high. Every flash of platinum-blond hair in his peripheral vision made his heart seize. He saw Malfoy across the Great Hall at breakfast, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, looking pale and drawn, his movements sharp and agitated. He wasn't sneering. He was pushing food around his plate with a silver fork, his jaw tight, a dark smudge of sleeplessness under his eyes that mirrored Harry’s own. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second across the cavernous room, and the connection was as sharp and painful as a physical blow. Harry had looked away first, his stomach churning.

The bell signaling the end of Charms shrieked through the castle, releasing a torrent of students into the corridors. Harry was swept up in the tide, a piece of driftwood in a human river. He kept his head down, his focus on the worn stone floor, trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. He just had to get to the Transfiguration classroom. He just had to avoid…

The flow of the crowd bottlenecked near the grand staircase. Students pushed from behind, jostling and shoving. Harry was pressed forward, trying to keep his balance, when he was suddenly forced sideways against someone moving in the opposite direction. He instinctively put a hand out to steady himself against the wall, but another body was already there.

And then it happened.

The back of his hand brushed against the back of another. The contact was feather-light, skin against skin, lasting no more than a second. But it was enough. A bolt of pure, unadulterated heat shot up Harry’s arm, so potent and shocking it felt like a jolt from a faulty electrical wire. It wasn’t just warmth; it was a searing, living fire that bypassed his skin and went straight for his blood, his nerves, his very core. In that single, fleeting moment, every memory of the previous day crashed over him: the violent kiss, the scrape of teeth, the hot invasion of Draco’s tongue, the hard, blatant pressure of his erection.

He knew, without even looking, whose hand it was.

He snatched his hand back as if he’d touched a burning coal, a sharp gasp catching in his throat. At the exact same moment, the other person flinched away with equal violence. Harry’s head snapped up, and his eyes locked with Draco Malfoy’s.

Draco’s face was a mask of pure shock. His grey eyes were wide, his pupils blown, the carefully constructed wall of indifference from the previous evening utterly shattered. He was staring at Harry, his lips slightly parted, his breath visibly hitching. In his eyes, Harry saw it all reflected back at him: the same stunned disbelief, the same searing heat, the same terrifying, undeniable pull. The air between them, thick with the noise and chaos of the corridor, suddenly became a vacuum, silent and charged with a voltage that made the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end.

A traitorous, immediate heat flooded Harry’s groin. His cock, that fucking bastard, gave a distinct, painful throb, beginning to swell against the confines of his trousers. The sensation was so abrupt, so shameful in the middle of a packed hallway, that a dark flush crept up his neck. He saw a flicker in Draco’s eyes as his gaze dropped for a nanosecond, as if he could somehow see the effect he was having, before snapping back up to Harry’s face.

The moment broke. Draco’s shock curdled back into a familiar, defensive fury. His expression twisted into a snarl of self-loathing and disgust, aimed as much at himself as it was at Harry. With a low, guttural sound of revulsion, he shoved his way past, his shoulder deliberately slamming into Harry’s with enough force to make him stumble.

Harry was left reeling in his wake, his hand tingling as if it had been burned, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. He stood frozen amidst the oblivious, churning sea of students, his body alight with a confusing, mortifying fire. The brief, accidental touch had confirmed it. Yesterday wasn’t an aberration. It wasn’t just anger. It was something else, something raw and real and terrifyingly mutual that now hung between them, a live, sparking wire just waiting to be touched again.

Of course. Here is the narrative for the fourth bullet point of the chapter "Shards of Animosity."

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The library had always been a sanctuary for Harry, a place of quiet contemplation where the noise of his life could be muted by the sheer, comforting weight of a million silent words. But now, the silence was a torment. It gave the memories room to breathe, to expand and take shape in the dusty air. Every time he tried to focus on the diagrams of dragons in Men Who Love Dragons Too Much, his mind would betray him, replacing the intricate scales of a Hungarian Horntail with the stormy grey of Draco Malfoy’s eyes. The accidental brush of their hands in the corridor had been a brand, a searing confirmation that the fire in the dungeon was no fluke. It was a shared, terrifying inferno.

He was tracing the curve of a dragon’s claw with his finger when a shadow fell over the page. A very specific shadow, one that made the fine hairs on his neck stand on end and sent a jolt of ice and fire through his veins. He didn't need to look up. He could smell it—that clean, sharp scent of sandalwood and winter air that was now irrevocably linked in his mind with fury and a soul-deep, shameful ache.

Slowly, Harry lifted his head.

Draco stood at the end of the narrow aisle, blocking the only exit. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t posturing. He looked like a predator, coiled and tense, his face pale and stark in the dim light filtering through the high, arched windows. He was haunted. Harry could see it in the dark smudges under his eyes, in the tight set of his jaw. He was haunted by the same thing that was tormenting Harry.

Without a word, Draco started toward him, his steps slow, deliberate, and utterly silent on the stone floor. Harry’s heart began to hammer against his ribs, a frantic, trapped thing. He pushed his chair back, standing to face him, his own body tensing for a fight. He would not be caught sitting down. He would not be made to feel small.

Draco didn’t stop until he was standing directly in front of Harry, crowding him, forcing him back a step until the hard edge of a bookshelf pressed into his spine. The space between them was electric, a humming, vibrant void that sucked all the air from Harry’s lungs. He could see the faint, silvery flecks in Draco’s irises, see them constrict as his gaze dropped to Harry’s mouth.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry managed, his voice coming out as a rough rasp.

Draco’s eyes snapped back to his, glittering with a raw, unnerving intensity. He leaned in closer, his voice a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the silent air and straight into Harry’s bones.

“You’d better not get yourself killed, Potter,” he hissed, his breath warm against Harry’s lips. “It would be dreadfully boring.”

The words were an insult, but the tone was anything but. It was a threat, a promise, a possessive claim wrapped in the familiar language of their animosity. It wasn't about boredom. It was about something deeper, something darker that Draco couldn't or wouldn't name. It was the most terrifying thing Harry had ever heard him say.

And then the pretense of control shattered for them both.

With a sound that was a choked-off groan of frustration, Draco closed the final inch between them. This kiss wasn't a collision like the first one. It was a desperate, frantic claiming. His mouth slanted over Harry’s, hot and wet and demanding, his lips parting Harry’s with a brutal sort of reverence. One of his hands came up to fist in the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, yanking his head back to give him better access.

This time, there was no shock to paralyze Harry. There was only a tidal wave of heat that obliterated all thought. He whimpered into Draco’s mouth, a pathetic, needy sound, and his hands came up to grip the front of Draco’s robes, pulling him closer. He kissed back with a feverish, desperate hunger that matched Draco’s own. He opened his mouth, and Draco’s tongue swept inside, a hot, slick invasion that tasted of desperation and mint and that indefinable, maddening taste of Draco himself.

It was a wet, messy, open-mouthed kiss, a battle for dominance that neither of them was winning. Tongues tangled and dueled, teeth scraped against swollen lips. Draco pushed him harder against the bookshelf, his body flush against Harry’s, and the friction was agonizingly, exquisitely perfect. Harry could feel the hard ridge of Draco’s cock pressing insistently against his stomach, a solid, demanding heat that promised all sorts of filthy things. A responding jolt of pure lust shot through Harry, and his own dick swelled, hard and aching, grinding against the rigid length of Draco’s through the layers of their wool trousers.

Harry moaned, a raw, broken sound swallowed by their kiss. The sound seemed to drive Draco wilder. He shifted his hips, a deliberate, rocking motion that sent sparks of pleasure straight to Harry’s groin. One of Draco’s hands left his hair, sliding down his back, fingers digging into the muscle there before settling on his arse, squeezing one cheek hard, possessively. Harry gasped, arching into the touch, into the punishing friction between their crotches. He was going to come, right here, in the fucking library, pinned against a shelf of books on magical herbs by his arch-nemesis.

Draco tore his mouth away, both of them panting, their chests heaving. His forehead rested against Harry’s, their lips still slick and swollen, mere inches apart. His grey eyes were blown wide, dark with a mixture of raw lust and utter self-loathing. He looked at Harry as if he were a disease he’d willingly infected himself with.

“Potter,” he breathed, the name a curse and a prayer all at once.

He stared at Harry for one long, agonizing moment, his breath ghosting over Harry’s lips, the silence of the library pressing in around them, thick and suffocating with the evidence of their sin.

The world narrowed to the point of contact. Draco’s fingers were a manacle of heat and pressure around Harry’s forearm, but it was his thumb that stole the air from Harry’s lungs. It pressed, not hard, but with an unnerving, deliberate firmness into the delicate, blue-veined skin of his inner wrist. Right over his pulse. Harry could feel his own frantic heartbeat thudding against Draco’s flesh, a frantic, trapped bird beating against its cage.

Draco’s silver eyes, so often cold with contempt, were now burning with a feverish intensity that Harry had never seen before. They weren't just looking at him; they were devouring him, stripping him bare right there between the towering shelves of forgotten lore. The scent of old parchment, dust, and something uniquely Draco—sharp, clean, like winter air and expensive soap—filled Harry’s senses, overwhelming him.

"Malfoy, what the fuck—" Harry started, his voice a raw whisper, but the words died on his lips.

Draco’s gaze dropped from Harry’s eyes to his mouth. The shift was so slight, so quick, but it felt like a physical blow. A silent, damning admission. The air crackled, thick with unspoken things, with years of animosity that had suddenly curdled into something else. Something dark, and hungry, and terrifyingly new.

Harry’s mind was a maelstrom. Shove him off. Punch him. Hex his smug face into next week. The litany of appropriate responses played on a loop, but his body refused to obey. He was paralyzed, pinned by that searing gaze and the proprietary heat of Draco’s hand on his skin. The war inside him had begun: Gryffindor courage against a treacherous, coiling curiosity. Revulsion against a sudden, shocking pull.

And then Draco moved. He didn't release him. He leaned in.

The space between them vanished. Draco’s mouth crashed against his, not in a gentle exploration, but in a bruising, desperate collision. It was a kiss born of conflict, all teeth and punishing pressure. It tasted of fury and confusion. Harry’s first instinct was to recoil, to fight, but the shock of it was a lightning strike to his system, short-circuiting every rational thought. A ragged gasp was torn from his throat, a sound of protest that was half a surrender.

Draco took the sound as an invitation. His tongue, hot and wet, pushed past Harry’s lips, insistent and demanding. It was an invasion, an act of sheer possession, and Harry’s mind screamed no. But his body, that fucking traitor, arched forward. His hands, which should have been pushing Draco away, fisted in the front of Draco’s expensive wool robes, clinging to him as the world tilted on its axis.

The kiss changed. The initial violence bled away into a raw, frantic passion. It was no longer an attack, but a mutual, desperate catechism. Draco’s tongue swept through his mouth, exploring and claiming, and Harry, god help him, began to kiss back. He met the slick slide of Draco’s tongue with his own, a clumsy, untutored dance of long-suppressed… something. He didn’t have a name for it. All he knew was the dizzying heat of it, the way a groan rumbled in Draco’s chest, vibrating through their locked mouths.

Draco’s other hand left the bookshelf and slid down Harry’s side, his long fingers mapping the curve of his hip before settling, with shocking possessiveness, on his arse. He squeezed, hard, pulling Harry’s body flush against his. The friction was immediate, undeniable. Through the layers of their school trousers, Harry could feel the hard ridge of Draco’s erection pressing against his stomach. A jolt of pure, unadulterated lust shot through him, hot and sharp, pooling low in his belly. His own cock, already stirring, swelled tight against his jeans, aching with a need that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

He was hard for Draco Malfoy. The thought was a splash of ice water, but it was too late to stop. He was drowning in the sensation of it all—the taste of Draco’s mouth, the rough texture of his robes under his desperate grip, the solid heat of his body, the hard proof of his desire pressing into him.

Just as Harry felt he might completely unravel, might drag Draco further into the shadows and do something utterly unforgivable, Draco tore his mouth away.

They were both panting, their chests heaving. Spittle and sweat slicked their skin. Draco’s lips were red and swollen, his silver eyes wide with a dawning horror that mirrored Harry’s own. He looked from Harry’s debauched mouth, down to where their bodies were still pressed together, and a flicker of self-loathing crossed his pale features.

With a choked sound that was half-disgust, half-panic, Draco shoved himself back. He released Harry’s arm as if he’d been burned, the sudden absence of his touch a cold shock. He stared at Harry for one more heart-stopping second, his expression an unreadable storm of fury, desire, and confusion.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel. The sharp swish of his robes was the only sound as he swept out of the aisle and disappeared, leaving Harry utterly wrecked in his wake.

Harry slumped back against the bookshelf, his legs threatening to give out. He was breathless, his lips tingling and bruised. A sticky wetness was beginning to cool on the front of his trousers. He slowly lifted a trembling hand to his wrist, to the place where Draco’s thumb had pressed his pulse into a frantic rhythm. The skin was tender, branded by the touch. The silent war he’d felt brewing moments ago was no longer silent. It was a raging, chaotic inferno in his veins, a battle between a lifetime of hatred and a single, searing moment of inexplicable, undeniable want. He was lost. And a terrifying part of him knew, with sickening certainty, that this was only the beginning.