Written for the miettesdesmots (on LJ) September Cookie Challenge. This is me when I'm a) desperate, and b) lovesick/hyper.
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
untitled
"Harry," Seamus called from the lounge, his eyes roaming the room for any sign of the black-haired youth.
"Yes?" Harry responded, his head sticking out from his dorm.
"Just to let you know," Seamus said, a hint of a smirk on his face, "there'll be a new tenant moving in here. From England, I think. Yours is the only room available, so they'll be rooming with you. 'Kay?"
"Sure," Harry said, looking confused. "But won't they object? Since I'm…you know?" He squirmed a little there, since the quiet student had experienced his fair share of homophobia, and didn't care to receive more of it.
Seamus grinned widely, then turned back to the TV. "It's okay, they don't care about your sexual orientation."
"Okay," Harry said, shrugging, before he went back into his room.
"Either that, or they're just clueless," Seamus added under his breath, watching the rest of his program. He'd heard the new student was obnoxious, arrogant, and hot. Those three factors, he knew, would be the usually composed Harry's undoing.
He could hardly wait.
"Seamus!" Harry yelled, pounding on the Irish boy's door. "SEAMUS, I know you're in there! OPEN UP!" he roared, his glasses already askew. When Seamus had said someone would be moving in, he'd just assumed the standard transfer-student scenario: a few bags, a couple of pieces of furniture, and maybe room décor. But this?
Ever since his new roommate had moved in, he could barely even walk into his room, let alone paint. And a not-painting Harry was not a happy Harry. Not at all.
"Sea—" he said one more time, before the door flew open and Seamus's bleary face stared back at him. He yawned loudly. "What is it, Harry?"
Harry glared. "My new roommate moved in, and she's got so much junk stuffed into my room, I can't even stand without toppling over a box! I can't study; and, more importantly, I can't paint!" Harry glared some more, his green eyes smoldering.
Seamus perked up immediately. "Your new roomie moved in? Oh my God, how exciting! Just for that, Harry," he grinned cheekily, "I'll forgive you for waking me at such a rude hour."
Harry snorted. "Rude hour? It's one o'clock in the afternoon, you lazy ass!"
Seamus winced. Harry hardly ever cursed; he must've meant business.
"Okay, okay, I get it. You're not happy."
Harry stared at him, and said nothing.
He sighed. "Look, I know you're not happy about the new intern—"
"Intern?" Harry interrupted. "What intern?"
"Your new roomie, duh." Seamus returned Harry's scowl with one of his cocky half-smiles. "Didn't I tell you? They came all the way from England to get some working experience, and to do studying for part of the time. Isn't that cool?" The last part he said with mock enthusiasm, as he already knew exactly what Harry thought about it.
"How precious," Harry muttered under his breath.
"Isn't it?" Seamus beamed. "Anyway," he continued, "I know it's not exactly the ideal situation, but what am I supposed to do about it? I'm only your student supervisor."
"You assigned him to this room, didn't you?"
"And how was I supposed to control how much he packed? Fly over to England and threaten him with death?" retorted Seamus.
Harry conceded. "Okay, so it's not exactly your fault. But still—" Seamus's eyes crinkled in amusement, "that doesn't explain my painting problem. How am I supposed to do my art projects when my room is completely filled with her stuff? You know the university doesn't like me using their labs—I'm too messy."
"True," Seamus said thoughtfully. "I'll see what I can do."
Harry brightened immediately. "Really?"
"Sure," Seamus replied. "I can try."
"But Harry," he added warningly, "remember, the operative word here is try. I'm not guaranteeing anything. And if I don't succeed, you're just going to have to deal with it. Okay?"
"Yeah, uh huh," Harry murmured distractedly. Seamus could tell he was already lost in his own world, filled with vague painting designs and blues and greens and whites—and he sighed. There was just no getting through to him; the boy was made to paint, and all of the other tenants had known this within living with him for a week. If his constantly wandering mind didn't indicate it, his paint-stained, tattered clothes sure did. Half the time he could barely even seen, since his glasses were always specked with paint.
But still, they couldn't help but love him; it was hard not to.
Seamus only hoped that their new neighbor would feel the same.
The next day, Harry woke up feeling comfortable. Extremely comfortable.
In fact, it was just the kind of comfort that made him feel suspicious; his bed and sheets, he knew, just couldn't do what they—it—whatever it was—was doing to his body. He was so relaxed, in fact, that he didn't notice the blond head three inches within his own until right…about…now.
"AGH!" he yelped suddenly, jumping out of the bed and staring at the blond's sleeping form. "Who are you!" he added for good measure; the blond's eyes blinked sleepily—grey eyes, Harry noted unconsciously—and stared up at him.
This guy must have the stealth of a cat, Harry realized, for me not to have noticed him coming in. And I'd always thought I was a really light sleeper…
"Yes?" came the response, the voice issuing forth as smooth as satin even in the throes of sleep.
He stretched luxuriously on the bed, his mouth opening wide as he yawned—and Harry's eyes widened—and he patted the bed half-heartedly in an effort to find his shirt. Harry's eyes traced the outline of his body, already mentally calculating how he would paint such a person: the hair had to be flowing, he already knew, with whites-and-yellows-and-silvers; with all the hues blended, just right, to fully capture the shade that was this stranger's hair.
And his eyes: such a molten grey, almost silver, piercing and perceptive and—they made him feel so...raw, Harry realized, like he could see right through the green-eyed boy. If he were ever to paint this person--this…this man--he knew he would stay up hours at a time trying to achieve that affect.
His body, too, would have to long, and lean, and sinewy, and…
Harry lost himself to his thoughts, his mind a whir of colors and shapes and, above all, feelings: his paintings, whatever they were, always were full of feeling. An angry jaguar; a sleeping roommate, slightly irritable; a new roommate, full of secrets.
He sighed then, and shook himself out of his thoughts.
If only.
"Hello?"
Harry was startled to see his new roommates face only inches from his own (for the second time that morning, he realized ruefully) and he waved his hand back and forth in front of Harry's eyes.
"Oh, good," he said, realizing that Harry had broken out of his reverie. "I thought I'd lost you, for a moment," he added, as if it explained everything.
Harry could only look at him silently; in a desperate attempt to make some sense of his situation, he asked, almost accusingly, "Who are you?"
The blond sat back on the bad and gathered his knees to his chest, looking at Harry intently. Those eyes again, Harry thought. I just know those eyes are going to cause me nothing but trouble.
"Draco Malfoy," the boy finally said, his head resting on his knees. "And you?"
"Harry," he found himself answering. "Harry Potter."
"Nice to meet you, Harry." Draco looked up at him through his lashes—was he doing it on purpose, Harry wondered—and smiled.
"You too."
Draco laughed lightly. "From the looks of things, you weren't exactly pleased with the sleeping arrangements. I'm sorry if the sheets startled you; I had some extra, and I thought you'd enjoy them."
"Oh, no," Harry shook his head, "they were great. Really comfortable. I was just—startled, I guess." There was a silence between them.
After a while, Harry burst out, "What are they, anyway?"
"Egyptian cotton," was the reply, his head tilted at an angle. "You approve?" And there was a smirk on his face, and this changed a lot of things for Harry.
Instead of his painting being wistful, it will be arrogant; instead of vulnerable, cold and distant, with an underlying neediness on the inside—where did he get that?—and instead of a large, toothy smile, a coy grin—half a smile. He'd add lines, maybe use a trick of the light: make it seem like a smile that you'll miss if you so much as blink.
This is what Harry saw in Draco Malfoy, after knowing him for twenty minutes; after sharing his Egyptian cotton sheets with him; after complaining to his supervisor, and shouting quite a lot; after contemplating his experience and actions with a scrutiny that, if he bothered to look back on it, would scare him out of his pants.
Two weeks later, after Harry demanded an explanation from his supervisor (who was clearly trying to his delight and failing miserably), Seamus denied that he had been purposely vague about the whole thing just to confuse Harry.
"You said he was a student!" Harry had hurled at him, desperate for anything—anything—that could be held against Seamus.
All Seamus did, though, was give him his best confused face and say, "I never said that—when did I say that?"
But, considering all that had happened, Harry figured he'd give the Irishman a break. He couldn't help it if he was too mischievous for his own good—and some other vengeful student would give him his comeuppance sooner or later, anyway.
Besides, he thought, picturing Draco—smiling, laughing, pouting, smirking—Harry really couldn't complain.
"I really am sorry, though," Draco said.
"It's okay. No harm done."
"Well, if there's anything I can do to make it up to you," Draco insisted, and a lock of hair fell over his eye and nearly made Harry squeak, "just tell me."
"Well…" Harry said.
He thought of his painting; Draco's storm-grey eyes and smirk/smile/grin and his silver-yellow-white hair; and he said, without giving himself time to chicken out, "There is one thing."
xx