Draco
Draco
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Harry thinks about Draco quite often. It surprises him. Shocks him even, when he realizes it. He spends the night wandering the halls, and whispering to himself about it.
In the end, unable to talk himself out of it, he goes back to bed, and wakes up to find his pillow wet.
"It could have been drool, you know."
"What! I don't drool in-"
"Yes he does. I've seen him. It's usually right before that thing he does..."
"What - Never mind, I don't want to know."
"It's nothing like that, Hermione. He just starts, you know, snuggling his pillow, and-"
"Ron."
"Saying things like Mama."
"I'm going to hurt you."
"That's so..."
"Well?"
"Hermione?"
"Oh, Harry, why didn't you tell me?"
"This conversation is over."
"Draco?"
"What!"
"Sorry."
"What is it?"
"What are you looking at?"
"..."
"Because it looks like you're watching that Potter again"
"So?"
"Well, it might just be me, but there are people in Slytherin intelligent enough to recognize that playing pranks of any sort is a sure way to get one's self expelled. Personally, one would prefer to graduate, prior joining the supposed Army of Evil."
"It's only what they deserve."
"Stupid Prats."
"Griffindorks."
"Be quiet, you two. Draco, what's the matter?"
"What? Nothing."
"You're quieter. Less the charming-"
"Since when was my life up for public discussion?"
"This is hardly public, Draco."
"It's the bloody Banquet Hall, Pansy, of course it's public. Especially with those Weasley Ears."
"Draco..."
"Shut up, Pansy."
Draco watches Harry quite often, sometimes worrying over it. He was well on his way to convincing himself that it was all a part of his secret, evil, plan of extreme vengeance. After all, it's Harry's fault Lucius is in Azkaban. Harry's fault that Lucius is slowly going mad. Harry's fault that Draco's mother is saying things, doing thing differently from before. Being a lilac instead of a lily.
And just as he convinces himself of this, he recalls, for no reason at all, that he hasn't thought of Lucius as his father for years.
When the thought is gone, it's so that he's focused on Harry's wrists. He has to convince himself all over again.
Harry
Harry
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Wrists are the oddest part of a person's body.
Or that's my fetish speaking. Odd, though, I've seldom seen a pair I like. A pair that bridges the gap between too thick, and emaciated. Thin, flicking, and graceful like quicksilver.
Except your wrists.
They're bony. Too much of a record of sporadic times of being well fed, starved and stuffed, and starved again. It shows in your wrists, if not anywhere else. You come to school thin as a scarecrow, and leave as fit as a young man could hope to be. No wonder the reporters wait until you've had a good few meals before snapping the pics.
The bracelet looks so cheap. It wouldn't fetch more than a few knuts here. Why do you even wear it?
Oh. SHE made it for you. That explains it. Why are you looking at me like that?
What would you give to beat me?
I always wanted to ask you.
Would you give your father, mother? Your sanity, and what's left of your pride? What about your wealth, and position?
Do you love- anything?
Would you, if you had the chance, throw me to the ground, beat me to death?
I think it's the danger in you that excites me. It always has.
I think I should stay away from you.