The pretty pale boy
Life is brief
But when it's gone
Love goes on
And on
Draco strode easily through the halls of Hogwarts, flanked by other Slytherins in his year. His smile was easy but his cold eyes, easily unreadable sought out a certain figure – usually foreshadowed by three figures that caused a monster to rise and thrash in his gut. He pulled on one of the long nearly silver locks that he had allowed to grow ruggedly to his chin; chopped rather messily and made to easily fall in his pale face. The pretty pale boy pursed his lips, unable to find the figure that he so sought until… there.
A smirk crossed his jaw, stretching to the left side of his face and accentuating his entire features… almost distorting him; it was a rather nasty expression – of course Draco couldn't show that he truly had been seeking the rather frightened figure before him. "Longbottom," he said easily, the words dripping like heavy venom from his jaw and he watched the Gryffindor cringe – it seemed that Neville had grown some gut in the past year but not enough. Ah, well.
"Y-yes," the other boy said, raising his rather round face to look Draco in the eye – his own pale blue ones lined with uncertainty. Neville hitched his chin, trying to press a look of defiance across his face but he couldn't pull the stutter from his voice… it just wouldn't flee. That was all right though; Draco rather liked the stutter.
Draco pressed his hand against Neville's shoulder, almost as if he were going to push him and felt a tingle rise against his fingers. The Slytherin boy ground his teeth – this wasn't supposed to happen, none of it. Maybe if he got one taste, one night, he would be satisfied – and right then and there, with his hand pressed against Neville's shoulder he made up his mind to pursue. His cold grey eyes did not fully detect the fear resting so completely in those wide blue eyes gazing rather admiringly at him… all he registered were his fingers pressed up against the one he had been watching.
Draco purposefully wrinkled up his nose and pushed past Neville, turning his head around to shoot one last retort at the Gryffindor. "Try to grow some balls," he said to the laughter of those at his side – it was a simple enough comment but obviously stung and that, of course, had been the purpose.
--
Neville shivered – he could still feel the place where Draco's fingers had brushed against him and whether the touch had been for kindness or torment he didn't really care – it was still a touch and it still burned against him. The Gryffindor rolled over onto his side, pulling the crimson sheets up to his chin and closed his eyes the image of a pretty pale boy burning beneath his lids.
His fists were clenched against the sheets, so tight that his knuckles burned white and soon his eyes closed just as tight – the lids scrunching up as he tried to push the image of a Slytherin boy out of his mind. If it had to be a boy why a Slytherin… why Draco Malfoy?