Draco and Harry Forever
"Ferret face, what are you looking at?" he asked. I felt my cheeks growing hot once again. Transfixed by green eyes, raven hair, and the tantalizingly slow smile that overtook his stunning face, I tried to look away, but my eyes were drawn back to his lightly flushed cheekbones. Were those glittering eyes unreadable or was I afraid that I might be wrong about what I thought I saw there? I admitted to myself, for perhaps the one thousandth time, yes, Potter is easy on the eyes. But I preferred to look without being noticed.
"What were you looking at before, scarface?" I responded, trying to summon up a convincing sneer. He had been looking when I sought him out earlier across the dining hall, as I always did, among what I thought of then as the overly earnest thickos, whingey ankle-biters, half-breeds and mudbloods at the Gryffindor table.
"Looking at you, Malfoy. Are going to try to tell me that you mind?" Should I deny it and be caught out in a lie? I could not let fearless Harry Potter expose me as a coward. But my mind went blank.
"Sod off." Short of inspired, I plead guilty. But he had caught me off guard.
"Your choice. Your loss," he answered with that maddening insouciant shrug.
"Wait." I said, grabbing his arm. Hard muscle flexed beneath my hot hand. Arrogant showoff.
"Yes?" His attempt at a careless smirk failed, not so sure of himself anymore. Score one for me finally. Yet the almost imperceptible tremor in the right comer of his lower lip resulted in my exultant silent shriek of utter joy, which caused me to drop his arm in a reflexive belated self-protective gesture. What the fuck? Much too late I realized. He surely had sussed to my reaction. Another hit for Harry. I knew even then when to cut my losses and move on.
Caution to the winds, I whispered, "You're beautiful, you fucking, ignorant Gryffindor. Fucking beautiful." I was lost, gone, defeated, conquered, victorious, and jubilant.
"You're blind," he said, his lips so close I felt I could taste them. "But so bloody fucking fuckable. You're the one who is beautiful." Harry fucking Potter wanted to fuck me. Who died and made me king of the world? I thought. Although I admitted to myself that he was brilliant, no way I was going to let him take credit for everything. I grabbed his delectable arse with one hand and already-hard cock with the other--right there against the wall outside of the dining hall--and gave him the longest, wettest, hottest kiss that he had ever had. There were not a lot of people around and no professors. Still it took nerve--very public place, you know--and I had moved first.
Typical Potter he trumped me. "I love you," he said when I let go of him. I've never quite decided if he had scored that time or if I had. Although by that point it didn't matter anymore.
That was the beginning. We have never looked back. I'd love to tell about the first time we did it: how it felt, who topped whom, but all of those outstanding details are mine, ours actually, not the kind of thing I'd share with anyone. Well, not when the subject is Harry at least. I suppose I can say it was magnificent. Still is. Always. I will say one more thing: Harry Potter is fucking brilliant.