Disclaimer: I am a shameless Cuckoo, i am borrowing some one else characters for a while, and playing with them. they don't belong to me, they belongto JKR, may she live forever. and i'll put them back when i'm done. honest.
Draco's POV
I was walking down a corridor when it happened. It wasn't anywhere you'd expect it to happen. It wasn't on the Quidditch Pitch in the middle of a heated chase toward the same golden target. It wasn't in Potions, as we glared at each other hatefully over our cauldrons, that the hate started to melt away. It wasn't even by the lake, or in the forest or the Astronomy Tower, or any of the numerous romantic settings that Hogwarts has to offer.
It was merely a corridor. It had the normal amount of creaking empty armour. It was neither hot nor cold, merely mellow, a warm spring day. The sun was shining normally outside, not bothering to shine itself in such a way as to create a halo around his head as he walked by. It was entirely ordinary, and had it not been for peeves, I doubt we would have done more than notice each other, if that, in the crush of students rushing from one class to another.
I blame it entirely on the wretched Poltergeist, and to this day I cannot decide whether to thank him, or fulfil Filches dearest wish, and find a way to rid the castle of his childish pranks. He was walking by, surrounded as usual by a crowd of friends. How desperately now I long to be one of them, just so that I could be near him. I would become what I hate merely to have a chance to touch him, to be with him and talk with him as they do.
He was distracted, running his fingers through his already messy hair, barely listening to the noise going on around him. I watched him even then, although I was wary of an insult or hex, rather than that he would look at me - or that he would not.
Now when I stare at him, the need for him to look back is a finely tuned balance of pleasure and pain, I hope desperately for some sort of recognition, yet I am at the same time fearful that I will not be able to inject the same hatred in my gaze, the same venom in my voice that he is accustomed to. Scared that he will look at me, and see me for what I really am. Namely, a fool.
Once I would have blamed him for my weakness, now I find myself unable to do so, and my ire is directed upon the pitiful excuse for a ghost that haunts this place, causing trouble at every turn. When he appeared through the side of the wall, and tripped him up as I passed, without knowing it he caused me to fall, caused my life to spin on its axis as surely as he sent the boy crashing into me, and we both fell to the ground.
We had both been trailing behind our respective groups; he lost in thought, I intent on studying him, always intent on finding a weakness. Only a few people looked around to see if we were alright, but we both waved them on. I don't think anyone realised who they had left together, tangled in a heap on the floor. If they had known who the other person was, they would have stayed, some to protect him or myself, others to watch the almost certain battle of wits that would follow, and still others intent on letting no such thing happen. But no one seemed know who both of the pair was. Once again, I will never be able to decide whether I regret this, or am grateful for it.
As soon as we became aware of whom we were lying with, we began to try and disentangle ourselves as quickly as possible, but only ended up more hopelessly entwined. Eventually we managed to sit up. He was sitting on my leg, which was rapidly beginning to cramp.
He attempted to stand up at the same time as I tried to pull my leg out from under him, and somehow we both ended up on the floor again, this time separately. And for some reason that at the time I could not fathom I felt a sense of loss in not touching him. I shook my head, trying to clear it, not understanding these strange feelings that had so suddenly appeared within me.
He sat up quickly, and looked around. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see his glasses lying near my hand, and watching him grope blindly along the floor, realised that he couldn't see without them. Without thinking, I picked them up and handed them to him. He seemed surprised, but took them with a muttered word of thanks, and as he put them on I sat up. Then he turned to look at me.
Suddenly I was staring into brilliant green eyes. For what seemed an eternity we stared at each other. suddenly I found my eyes sweeping his face, taking in his full pink lips, his hollow cheeks, his slightly upturned nose, and once again his beautiful green eyes. As he looked at me they flashed with an emotion I couldn't read, and darkened to a forest green.
His hand lifted as though it would touch my cheek. My breath quickened in anticipation, but then his hand was past my face and onto the window sill, as he used it to pull himself up. He gathered his books without saying a word, and set off, almost running down the corridor after his friends. I stared after him, bewildered.
My mind raced as it looked back over the past few moments, the way I had missed his touch, the green of his eyes, and the tilt of his nose, and that soft pink mouth.
When I think back to it now, I would laugh if it had been anyone else. I must have presented a comical picture, sitting in the middle of the hallway, my robes in a disarray around my knees, my normally perfect hair mussed and my mouth and eyes wide, staring after the disappearing figure of my enemy, Harry Potter.
The impossible had happened.
Draco Malfoy had fallen in love.
Harry's POV.
We're lying in a tangle of arms and legs on the floor. As soon as I see who is with me I move faster, terrified that being so close to him will reveal my secret. all this seems to do is make it harder to get away from him, and the dangerous irrational part of me is flying, delighting in being to close to him.
My skin is humming, my breathing is erratic, and I struggle desperately against the side of myself that would like nothing more than to stay exactly where it is, in the arms of Draco Malfoy. Finally the battle inside me ends, and we are no longer entangled.
As I sit up, I realise that I am still sitting on top of his leg. Immediately I try to stand up, but he pulls his leg out at the same time, and I trip, sending us both tumbling again. I sit up quickly, desperate to get away from this dangerous situation, but I have lost my glasses.
I feel for them blindly, only to have the pressed in my hand a moment later. For a moment I'm shocked that Malfoy would bother. Normally he would be ecstatic at the idea of watching me stumble blindly around. I take the glasses quickly, but as soon as I put them on I am confronted by silver eyes.
I stare into them silently, trying to drag my gaze away. I finally succeed, but then I see his sweet pink mouth, and feel his hip pressing into mine, and I am lost. Without thinking, I lift up my hand to touch his cheek.
He leans into my hand, and I moan slightly at the contact. Then I draw his face toward mine, and my lips touch his smooth soft ones, and then we are kissing and it is like nothing I have ever imagined.
His lips are warm, and I tentatively reach out my tongue to lick them, asking, o begging for entrance which he gives. I explore every corner of his mouth, then return to curl my tongue around his
. He tastes of honey and warmth and the peach juice I see him drink every morning at breakfast. He leans forward and I fall back, our lips still locked in a passionate embrace. His hands are undoing the buttons of my robe and as my head touches the floor-
Harry Potter sat up in bed, gasping. He quickly poked his head outside of his curtains to make sure that none of his house mates had awoken. Fortunately the only sounds emitting from the beds grouped around the room were the syncopated snores of Ron and Neville.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry flopped onto his back. It had been months since the corridor incident, and yet he still dreamt about it every night. He had known for a long time that he liked boys. In fact, it had not been until he had come to Hogwarts that he realised that most boys liked girls.
He had never had any contact with people his own age, he had never watched TV, and he had never been allowed to read any books other than what they had been given in school. He had never had the opportunity to listen to fairytales in which the handsome Prince won the beautiful Princess. So he had assumed that everyone else was the same as him.
When he came to Hogwarts, and had listened to his friends talking about the girls they liked and, as they became older, what they would like to do to them, he realised that in yet another way, he was different from everyone else.
At first it had made him feel even more lonely than before, this was just one other thing that set him apart from everyone else. But eventually he had confided in his friends, and had come to accept this part of him. What he did find hard to accept however, was the boy he chose to fall in love with. Draco Malfoy. He had asked himself over and over again if he had gone insane. He really suspected he might have.
After all, Draco Malfoy was the school's most notorious playboy. Over the past two years he had been rumoured to have had an affair with almost every girl from fourth year to seventh, including several Gryffindors. But there were no rumours whatsoever of him being gay.
This meant that Harry was in love with a very sexually active heterosexual, who hated him, tried to piss him off at every turn, and was the son of the right hand man of the guy that wanted to kill him.
Great, just great. He could not have made a worse choice. When he had first realised that he was crushing on Malfoy, it hadn't worried him, he had had crushes before, and they had come and gone easily enough. But that day in the corridor had changed everything. He had felt desperate to touch the boy beside him; to touch him, kiss him, claim him as his own. It had taken everything in him to reach past Malfoy and use the window sill to lever himself up, instead of caressing his cheek.
That was the day he had fallen in love. From that day forward, every moment spent around Malfoy had been a pleasurable torment. Every time he saw him, he had to resist the urge to stare at him, almost frantic with the need to meet the beautiful pools of silver.
Every time he saw Parkinson or Zabini or any one of the girls that constantly swarmed around Malfoy so much as touch him, he had to physically restrain himself from ripping Malfoy from their midst.
And for months now he had had that dream every single night. Every night he would see himself collide with Malfoy, watch as they both fell to the ground, and tried to disentangle them. Every night he felt again the thrill of having Malfoy close to him, and every night he gave into the temptation that he had been unable to give in to in reality. Every night he felt the wonder of Malfoy's lips on his own, and every night, just as they began to kiss in earnest, he would awake, covered in sweat and achingly hard.
Every night he would have to reach beneath the covers and bring himself to a frantic release, screaming silently into the cold night air as he pictured Draco's naked body. Sometime he would try to resist the temptation, but time did not alleviate his need, and he would lie there in the dark, unable to sleep.
In the end he would give in to his longing, and then fall asleep immediately, each time hoping that the dream would not come again that night, but waking strangely disappointed every night that it did not.
Draco had entered his mind, the mere idea of him sent his heart beat racing, and there was nothing he could do to escape.
All he could do was wait silently in the sea of emotion that was drowning him - and pray that death came soon.
It was silent on the roof that night. For once he wished that the clouds covered the stars. He remembered the first time he had really seen the stars. They were never visible from the Dursley's house in Surrey. The light from the street lamps made it impossible to see them.
He had seen them properly for the first time on the day he had come to Hogwarts. Sitting in the small boat with Ron to cross the lake, he had suddenly been confronted by the sight of the castle. And at the same time the sight of the stars.
The two things were mixed up in his mind, Hogwarts and the stars.
Magic and the stars.
They were his sanctuary when life became unbearable, when the pressure of being who he was became a weight to heavy for his slim shoulders. Always before the stars had looked down on him kindly, but now there was a cold glare to their light, and they seemed to mock him with their indifference.
He reached out with a finger and traced a shape in the air, following the line of the stars. His hand moved slowly but surely, tracing over and over again a familiar pattern. The dragon constellation.
He had heard Draco being called 'Dragon' many times before by the people that surrounded him, the hangers on that panted at his feet, desperate for association with the Malfoy name.
He could never bring himself to call him that. But still, he would always associate his love with the dragon stars; like the stars, he was cold, emotionless, yet beautiful, his eyes the shining white silver of stars, his hair woven out of their light.
His hand traced out the dragon, wishing its namesake would come to him, wishing that both of them could be covered by cloud, and lost forever in the sky.
It was silent on the roof that night. For once he wished that the clouds covered the stars. He remembered the first time he had really seen the stars for hat they were. He had been eight years old.
It was Christmas Eve, and he had crept out of bed to find his Christmas presents. Silent as a mouse, he had tiptoed along to fathers study. This was the one room in the house that he forbidden to enter, so it made sense that they would hide his presents there.
He opened the thick wooden door very quietly, expecting to find simply a dark empty study on the other side. Noise was the first thing that assailed him, shouts previously unheard through the sound-proofed door and thick stone walls. His mother was lying on the floor, her beautiful blond hair spread out around her.
There was the shape of a handprint on her cheek, and a gash had opened under her eye. The blood leaked out, mingling with her hair, changing it's gold to hellish red, congealing into sticky clumps. She lay there, barely moving at all, staring up at his father with wide blue eyes shimmering with tears. But the tears had not yet fallen; she blinked her eyes fiercely and bit her lip, refusing to show any sign of her pain.
Draco's father stood above, cold and terrible, staring dispassionately down at his bleeding wife. He was wearing nothing but his trousers, and his own blond hair swept magnificently over his shoulders.
Draco had always been proud of his father before then, but now he was merely afraid. The kindly giant who had taken care of him and indulged his every whim was gone, replaced by this ogre wearing his father's body.
He was shouting at his mother, so loudly that it hurt Draco's ears, but his voice was completely neutral. He spat out hard, dirty, disgusting words, words that Draco did not understand, but instinctively knew were wrong.
He stood there, a tiny eight year old, listening to his father horribly degrade his mother. For long moments he simply stood there, frozen with shock. There was a battle going on in his mind. He wanted to charge inside and protect his mother, but he could not move. In the end he turned and ran.
He ran and he had never felt so ashamed. He ran through the cold dark corridors of his house - he could no longer call this place a home. Home was where you felt safe and loved, and he had never felt so unsafe and unloved in his life.
He slipped into the kitchen, and out of the kitchen window. His bare feet padded across the grass of the manors formal garden, barely noticing the cold of the frost that had settled on the ground.
His feet took him quickly along the familiar pathways, until he reached the one tree that he was able to climb without help from his father. The place he ran when he was upset, and his mother wasn't there to make him stop crying.
Almost blindly, he reached for the branches, and swung himself into the tree, higher and higher until he reached the platform his father had had the house elves build for him. He curled up in a ball and stared at the stars.
With his finger he traced the dragon constellation that his mother had shown him. She had always loved astronomy, and had told him that every night she carried him; she had looked up at the stars, so that he could drink in their beauty. Every night since the day he was born she had shown him the stars, shown him his namesake, the dragon constellation. He was her star child, she told him.
But it was only on that night that he had seen the stars for what they were. A sanctuary. After sitting there for what seemed like hours, he went back to house, and carefully peeked into the study.
His mother was lying on the couch now. The blood on her face had dried, but there was new blood, flowing from in between her legs. Carefully he went and shook her awake, realising that she would not want to be found like this by the house elves. He went with the bathroom, and sat on the toilet seat while she bathed the blood off and then performed a concealment charm to cover the gash on her cheek.
That was only the first time of many that he had to hide in the dark, almost bursting with shame and fear. Only the first time he had to escort his bleeding and bruised mother to the bathroom, and help her conceal her injuries. And the only comfort he could find was in the stars.
He remembered all this as he lay on the hard rooftop, uncaring of the cold seeping through his clothes. He reached out a hand, as he had done so many times before, to trace his constellation in the stars.
But this time there was no comfort to be found. He looked at the dragon in the sky and hated it. He knew that Harry must hate it as well, as he hated him. His name was in the stars, and as Harry hated him and his name, so he must hate the stars.
Draco hated the silvery light that shone on him, showing him for what he was; a child of the stars. His name in the stars could give him no comfort while Harry hated him.
And the despised stars stared down upon Hogwarts, upon the school of magic, and they felt for them as much as stars can feel. For the first time in over millennia, the stars felt pity. Felt pity for the two staring up at them.
They had observed many lovers come and go, in happiness and pain for years. But now two boys lay under the stars, on the twin towers of the school, dark and light, the two sides of the same coin. And they both traced a dragon in the sky.
And the stars, as such as they could, wept. Then they spoke softly to one another in whispers, talking and plotting, for the immortals beings that were the stars could not stand to feel such pain.
But the two boys lay unknowing under the stars, tracing again and again the same uncomforting shape in the sky.
Harry's POV.
I'm simply sitting at the Gryffindor table in the great hall. As usual I am trying to hide my need to glance over the Slytherin table, to see whether or not he is there.
It is an addiction, these forbidden glances, this love that I hold in my heart. Every glance at him lessens the pain a little, and sends my heart faster on its downward spiral into oblivion.
I do whatever I can these days to feed my addiction. Ron was horrified the first time he discovered me reading one of Hermione's romance novels.
These are poorly written stories, with no real plot or content, merely hundreds of unoriginal variations on the same theme, each with highly improbable romantic situations. and yet when I read of some woman being lovingly taken into her lovers arms, see the words of his clichéd declaration of love, my heart beats a little faster, the pain drops away for just a moment, knowing that somewhere out there, people really do love.
I am a romantic, a fact I try to hide from even my closest friends. I cannot help following any love story I can find, obsessively following it through to its conclusion, until I must find a new object to sate me.
But when it comes to real life, my life, I am a cynic. As much as I long, yearn, to believe in love, I cannot think of it as anything but a destroyer. Something that comes into your heart and tears it to pieces.
At night, when I drop back through the window of Gryffindor tower, I unlock the small chest I keep at the side of my bed and pull out a sheaf of parchments.
I am good a DADA, I enjoy transfiguration and charms, but what I love most of all is description. These papers contain all the physical evidence of my love for him.
Some are pictures, drawn from surreptitious glances across the room. Others are poems full of heartbreak and stars, describing the only way I can the pain that I feel.
But most of all, there are stories. Hundreds of love stories; different, I hope from the awful romances that I cannot help but read.
Love stories about me and him, when I feel as if I can bear the pain no longer.
Of him and someone else when I hate myself for loving him, a girl when I am merely sad; a boy when I am at my most ironic or bitter.
Sometimes they are of me with someone else, when I hate him. In some inexplicable way, these stories are payback for what he puts me through, denying myself to him on paper when in life I will never have the opportunity. Once again they are with both genders, depending on my mood.
Sometimes the characters will be close to him, or to me, or complete strangers. It all depends on which stage of self loathing I happen to be in.
But most of my stories are not about either of us, they are about another world, full of people that don't exist. I write about girls mostly, finding it impossible to pour myself into another boy. It is too close, too painful.
These stories are always different, the only similarities being in that I can identify completely with one character - and not at all with the other. Writing about others pain soothes my own; it allows me to channel it into something good, useful, without having to feel it myself.
I think about this as I sit at breakfast, trying so very hard not to turn my head. I promise myself that the moment I get back to the dorm, I will allow myself another 'fix,' another feeding of my addiction.
But then he walks into the hall. His hair is perfect, reminding me of woven starlight. He hates me, just as the stars do now. His robes are impeccable, just skimming the floor above his ankles, seeming to be made of soft velvet. But the velvet of his cheek is far more enticing, it is all I can do not to reach out and try to touch it.
His grey eyes skin over the hall as he strides forward. The moment they touch me I duck my head, but the pressure of his gaze does not fade. Then it is gone and I look up.
I am on the end of the bench, and he must pass me to reach his own table. As he goes past, his hand accidentally knocks against my elbow. Sparks fly up my arm, and even minutes later, I can feel where he touched me.
It is then that I realise that what I have is not enough. I can no longer be satisfied by my 'quick fixes.' I need all of him. Everything I can have.
I refuse to stay crawling in the shadows any longer. If it takes everything in me I will have him.
I mean, I've face the Dark Lord; I can seduce Draco Malfoy, right? Right?
this is my first H/D fic so i hope you like it. i think i may have channeled a little to much of myself into it, so if it sound to un-Harry or un-Draco like, please let me know. in fact, if you have any criticisms or comments, iwould love to hear them. i need all the help i can get.