He leaned against the wall of Hog's Head. His long, black cloak dusted with the light clingers-on of first snow. He tilted his square jaw against the wind, bringing a cupped hand to his mouth to catch the flame of his wand against the tip of a cigarette. The smoke melded with his breath in the icy air. His head, tilted. Lips parted. And then his eyes - two blue crystals in a sheet of grey.
At dawn's first light the streets were empty. No footprints in the soft snow save my own. Still I kept my distance, as always, five meters away with my hands jammed into the pockets of my trousers and my hair, disheveled and sprinkled with crystalline stars, flopped over my face to hide my nose from the reddening bite of January in Britain.
"Come here." He said in a guttural tone between the escaping swirl of pungent smoke, and his voice snaked around my head, compelling me to turn it away. Running my hand over the back of my neck, I caught the quarter-inch of stubble forming on my jaw. My head hurt, dull, pain behind the eyes. Tired.
"No one's around. Just come here."
He dropped the cigarette onto the ground and pressed it out with the patent leather toe of his oxford shoes. How long had I been standing there, watching him? My legs moved without me. I felt small. But if I head learned to read those azurite eyes at all over the years, that's not the way he saw me. Pupils dilated. His long fingers wrapped around my wrist and two pressed down gently to feel the flutter of my pulse. He smelled like muggle tobacco and pine tar soap, like blowing the dust off of an old tome, like some ancient secret. Fuck.
In an instant his hand flicked up in front of his face, checking the time on the wristwatch that he wore on the inside of his wrist. I had memorized the eighteen ticking hands on that glass face, but only the simple, leather band shone in front of my nose.
"It's half-past six." He said, "Why are you always in a rush?"
"Draco."
"Harry." He dragged the A in my name on like a disappointed mother. "Is it because you haven't shaved your face since before Christmas time? Need to sneak home before Weasley catches you looking all grown up?" He punctuated the last three words. The left half of his mouth formed a smile and I wondered if the venom in his voice is genetic or if it was taught to him as a child.
"I need some sleep. I'm hungover. I'm tired."
"Did Jesus Christ ever sleep, I wonder?"
"Not with you around."
He smiled, fully. Big, perfect white teeth like the bars of a cage, locking away that venomous kiss.
"Catch you later, kid."
I turned away and pulled the hood of my cloak over my mess of black tendrils. That fucking smell clinging to the inside of my nose like a parasite. Heart racing. Cold sweat clinging to my chest. And I was gone.
—
Lowering my body into the warm, swirling water of the fifth floor prefect's bathroom, I closed my eyes for what felt like the first time. My body wracked with the feeling of having a train parked inside of it, and somehow feeling a sense of emptiness and loneliness as well. It was one I had grown to welcome over the years as the recognition that I am still relatively human. I rubbed my jaw. Clean, aside from the knick below my left ear where the straight razor burned me. My full, black eyebrows furrowed above two deep blue eyes as I watched the stained glass mermaid braid and unbraid her golden locks in the window above the glistening silver faucet.
I awoke with a start. The chime of a bells echoing through the halls. Ding-ding-ding ding. There was a white towel folded on the dry, tiled floor of the bath hall when I reached my hand out, unseeing, to grab at anything with a mitt of pruned fingers. Magic. I wrapped it around my waist. Looked in the patinated silver mirror and checked the knick on my neck. Almost healed. I turned away and then turned back. Creases were forming at the corners of my eyes, subtle, but there. I'm getting older. Imagine that. My petite frame was still graced with broad shoulders, strong arms. Curls of black hair enveloped my chest. I held the towel around my waist with a clenched fist and ran my fingers through my hair. Needs cut.
"Harry!"
In the doorway was Ron Weasley. Looking dashing in one of his mothers famous Christmas sweaters. His lumbering frame graced only by his high-and-tight red hair and the truest smile I had ever known. I grinned like a mad man.
"You need a haircut." He proclaimed. "Shit. Put on some clothes, you monster. I'm gonna be sick."
—
Though Ron Weasley was one of a million red-headed buffoons, I swear there was no other wizard like the man - savior of my misfortune, keeper of my secrets. At breakfast, he opened his mouth to speak but shoved a sweet roll in it instead. The next seat over, Hermione Granger, my loveliest lady, was engaged in a conversation with Parvati Patil about holiday. Through a gasp of air Ron spoke,
"What did you do over break, Harry? We hardly heard from you. You almost never wrote." Ah, Ron. Keeper of my secrets.
"Worked, mostly." I lied. "Read up. Practiced. I'm sorry I didn't write. It was terribly dull but somehow wholly consuming. I can't believe classes are already to begin. What about you? I like the sweater. Chic." The final word slipped from my tongue and punctuated the sentence like a rock in a puddle. Ron beamed. Though his knowledge of the word chic was limited, he knew to take it as a sarcastic compliment. I felt instantly red.
As we worked through coffee and toast, Hermione filling in on the holiday break in full detail, I found myself glancing around the room between anecdotes. My eyes pierced and ears pricked, like a wild cat, ever looking for the one opportunity to catch his eyes. It happened just after fig jelly.
Through the buzzing of the Great Hall came the distinctive clip-clip of his shoes. The brush of his fingers on my back, so subtle. And that smell. I turned to catch the devil in his eyes and returned to the conversation greeted by the scowling faces of my best friends, warding off the hallowed snake as they always had. Their anger was unmatched.
My head filled with the dreamy thoughts of a time that now seemed so far away. My ears burned. I allowed myself the pleasure of one split-second of that daydream, closing my eyes only to see the full detail of the sin that is Draco Lucius Malfoy. Ashen hair pushed back - neck arched - chest, perfect, glistening - sweat - abs solid, resonating.
"You okay, Harry?"
"Hmm? Yeah. Sorry guys. I'm tired. I fell asleep in the tub." I gestured to Ron with my toast as a measure of thank you for knowing where to find me.
"You're not having nightmares again, are you?" Hermione asked, earnestly.
"Nightmares? No. Just dreams."
—
I flopped down on my bed. Ron adjacent me. They were the same ones that we had claimed so many years prior. Now, Ron's long, tree trunk legs hung down over the the end of it as he used one foot to remove the sweaty sock of the other, groaning and hot after an afternoon practicing Quidditch.
We laid in silence, only our heavy breathing filling the small dormitory. Until, from her cage, Hedwig fluttered her snowy wings and cooed softly.
"I'm going to take a shower." Ron announced, as he always feels the need to to when he gets up to leave the room. "Then chess?" He asked. His puppy eyes filling with longing and excitement to be reunited with his best friend. I loved the guy, I really did. I wanted to tell him everything. My chest felt heavy with the weight of the last year.
"I've been practicing." I lied. And he laughed, in an honest but sad sort of way, because he can read right through me.
—
As evening began to fall and the halls of the school cleared of the ruddy faces of Hogwarts hangers-on, I found myself strolling casually but distantly though the first floor corridor. I had decided to let my feet take me where they will, but I knew very well where they were going. Soon I would find myself before the long stretch of wall that would lead to the Slytherin dormitories, just as I had a year prior, chasing those icy eyes. That venomous kiss. Behind me, the sound of feet filled the hall, three, maybe four students, I didn't look. I especially didn't when from amongst the clutter came the clip-clip of a pair of patent leather, oxford shoes. Instead, I bristled.
"Get out of my way, Potter." He spat.
"Potter?" I hissed, pronouncing my name as he does. "I'm going to need a glacius charm for that burn."
He snapped to attention, turning course from his jaunt past me. Using one long, delicate hand he maneuvered me into an isolated corner of the hall. He pressed me against the cold stone wall, the blades of my shoulders digging into the bones of the old school. He leaned towards me, mouth just a few centimeters in front of my own, stealing my breath.
"Fuck, Draco." I whispered. The heat of his body so close to my own alit me. "When can I see you again?"
His tone softened. He took a step back and his mouth formed a perfect, practiced frown.
"What do you want from me, Harry? You took off."
"I'm sorry. I can't…" I rubbed both hands through my hair and then let them rest atop my head, still leaning against the wall, absorbing its chill. "I can't stop thinking about you."
Eyes, piercing, blue like the coldest ice and deepest sea, hungry like a wolfs. His arms, lean but muscular, always crossed over his broad chest to hide the display of long, pink scars, unspoken of. His breath, deep and ragged. His crooked laugh. His trickery. His fucking smell. Warm somehow, or hot, red-hot.
I swallowed but my mouth was so dry. He stood unmoving, and then with a cat-like swiftness, he flicked his wrist in front of his face and checked the time.
"Let's go then." He said, unsmiling.
—
In dusk's light, through the fall of snow, we moved spectrally, like ghosts on a lake. Always five meters astride, hoods drawn, heads downturned. Through alleys stood a tall building, wooden and forgettable - inside three flats. We entered, kicking the snow from our shoes, and ascended.
"Incendio." His voice low and quick, and with a flick of his wrist around the tiny, one room flat, the puddled wax of surviving candles alit in soft dancing flame. The room was as we had left it, only this morning, yet to be scoured and cleaned by the mysterious entity that he had hired to care for this place. I used my wand to flick closed the door, then tossed it on a crooked end table. Locked. He turned to me and in a fluid motion extended his hand, wand raised.
"Petrificus!"
A blinding flash of blue light tangled around my body, holding me still, and I gasped. Eyes wide. The air hung stale in my lungs.
He slipped his wand into his pocket. Unclasped the latch on his heavy, wool cloak and folded it tenderly, placing it atop the dresser. He wore a black blazer over his straight trousers. White shirt, pressed. Slytherin tie held in place with a silver clip. He loosened it from around his neck. His expression hard, complexion creamy pale and only lightly kissed by the cold. I could feel the slow rise and fall of my chest. My eyes fixed on him.
He unclasped my cloak, letting it fall. Grabbed my sweater in his clenched fist as if he would rip it from me - one hand about my collar and the other with nails piercing the tender flesh of my wrist. Then he smiled, that half smile that looked so sinister and so playful. He released my shirt, long fingers running over exposed collarbones, snaking around the nape of my neck, thumb pressed gently against the knick below my ear. With one free hand he unbuckled my belt. His fingers worked at the button fly with the precision of a man practiced in his art. His head dipped into the crook of my neck, his breath beginning to quicken, and his parted lips hovered just beyond the reach of my wanting flesh. A moan. So silent. Honest, and just for him.
He took two steps into the room, turning away. His tie slipped over his head, neck craned back. Then his shirt. As he raised his arms over his head his back rippled with lean muscle, lashes of pink against a sea of foggy white flesh. He removed his belt. One shoe at a time. When he turned, the flicker of lantern light on the streets below sharpened his profile. Exquisite, delicate in it's extreme angles, but masculine in form. Lips not full, but pale pink and parted with each subtle rise and fall of his chest. Glistening, his eyes, deep set. Filled with thirst, with fear, with hatred and love.
"Rennervate." The spell floated through the unmoving air. I gasped at that word, filling my lungs.
Backlit by a soft yellow light, shadow dancing across the scratched, wooden floor, arms fallen to his sides with wand in hand, barely hanging on as it dipped towards the floor, prowling like a wolf, stood something beyond what I had the capacity to describe. Beautiful but fierce. Almost ethereal in his form. In my bunched sweater and half-off slacks, floppy uncut hair to hide the ever burning scar above my eyes, I felt like a child set prey to a dog. Always afraid. Always alert. The lantern flickered off and only we were left alone in this room filled with the tense quiver of light. Go on, Harry. Bite back.
I tasted his soft flesh. Salt, pine, sweet. The piquant smell of arousal filled my head. The heat of his flesh against mine. I grabbed his wrists in one hand, pressed them above his head.
"Submissive?" I asked, "Today?"
"No." He growled. Twisting his legs around my own and masterfully breaking free of my grasp, he lifted my body in the air. My cheek pressed against the soft of the sheets. Everything smelled of him.
"Hungry."
He mounted me, voice deep and filled with lust. He grabbed a fistful of my hair. When I caught his eyes they were twinkling. He curled the left side of his mouth into a smile.
"I'm the big bad wolf, Harry."
A white flurry of stars passed before my eyes and I groaned a deep, guttural moan.
"I'm going to eat you up."
—
The warmth of the water soothed me as I stepped tenderly into the swirling heat of the claw-foot tub. Green swirls of liquid eucalyptus formed the shapes of the long, fragrant leaves but disappeared as my lowering body disrupted the water. One arm hung in the warmth between my legs, knees pulled up. The other outside of the porcelain boat, fingertips grazing against his soap, slimy wet and cast aside. He sat as I did, knees peaking out of the steaming bath, arms rested on the lip of the tub, but not watching me. His head was tilted back, showcasing his strong neck, broad shoulders, and his eyes remained closed, lost in a far-away dream. After some time he extended a leg, grazing the inside of my thigh.
"A light?" He asked.
Between two fingers dangled an unlit cigarette, swollen with the moist air. I extended a candle, wands cast away in the dark corners of the room, and moved towards his chest. His cigarette now sticky to the creased, pink curve of his mouth. He inhaled, smoke hovering slightly in his open mouth, before drifting up to be captured by the flare of his nostrils. He once again tilted his head away, closed his eyes.
"I don't want to go back." I spoke, cooingly. The words were honest and carelessly spoken. I was surprised to discover that they were mine.
"Where?" He asked, distantly. I slid back, pressing my body against the cool porcelain, replacing the candle.
"I don't want to leave here." I unanswered. "I was looking for you this morning, in the Great Hall, waiting to hear you, smell you. I was wandering right for you. Every time I closed my eyes…" I felt my voice tremble delicately, almost unnoticeable, with fear.
He leaned forward, singeing the half-smoked cigarette in the bathwater. He ran his hand through ashen hair, clean trimmed on the sides, and dipped the hand into the water. Fingers grazed my knee with care.
"I'm not afraid of them, Harry. Of Hogwarts. I have made it quite clear that I am not the kind of man to be stepped over, do you understand?" His voice was cool and grave, unfaltering in his liquid speech. I nodded. "While I would rather not have my sexuality discussed on the cover of the Quibbler, worrying about it would be wasteful."
His hand now held my thigh, delicate fingers working as arteries for his softly beating heart and passionate speech. I felt the flutter of my own racing heart, and became suddenly aware of the heat of the tub and the cold wind fighting to break through the wooden frame of the window. His eyes, always so icy deep and pure, gleamed with a soft radiance.
"I would hope that you would feel the same."
To think of fear and shame as a wasteful emotion was at this point beyond me, always so confident in my actions, I could not seem to find confidence in what I felt with him. I knew it to be true, perhaps pure, unfaltering. Unmistakeable lust. Passion. Care. Hunger. But plightful. Confusing. Foreign.
"Harry, I am afraid of what you see when you close your eyes. Whatever you can see, He can see. My father can see. And if He can see these scars, then they will know that what you imagine is more than just a fantasy."
I opened my eyes. Realizing for the first time that they had been soothed closed. A warm, pruned palm pressed against my cheek and I turned towards it, lips pressed against soft flesh. He moved towards me, water spilling rhythmically over the curled lip of the bath, and tilted his square jaw. Venom flowing through me. One delicate hand on my face, one wrapped in the curls on my chest. His kiss. A sweet, warm bite. My lashes fluttered closed, and I let myself remember.
His body, white shirt still firmly clasped to strong chest, hovering above my own as he fastened one of my arms above my head. Bodies pressed into the soft feather of his bed. My thumb gently stoking his bottom lip, stoic in the heat of the moment, as my own quivered in fear and delight. Never had I been so hungry. So eager to taste. So wanting of flesh. His strong back arched, free hand curled underneath me, and we met in a solemn promise. Bitten for the first time in the icy silence of the Slytherin dormitories on Christmas.
I inhaled his sweet breath. Drank in his image. Reached out to stroke the curve of his back.
"If you want to see me, Harry," He continued, eyes now a soft blue-grey and filled with twinkling light.
He stood from the water, droplets gleaming off of his lithe but perfectly male form, curving down the inside of muscular thighs. He cupped my chin in his hand, drawing it nearer.
"Then I want you to see Me." He annunciated the last word in indignant pride, but his curling smile could not hide his masculine pleasure. Fuck.
"You're bad!" I growled. And he laughed, deeply, and more honestly than I had heard in the year spent slithering in and out of his warm embrace.
"You know it, kid."
—
I awoke in the deep blackness of night. The smell of smoke filled the air. I leaned upwards on my forearms, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, expecting to see his gleaming male figure, smoking in the light of the moon, as I had so many nights before. But there was nothing. Instead his lean, pale form lay beside me, curled in slumber. I inhaled. Coughed. The smoke was thick.
"Draco."
He awoke sleepily, but became quickly alert. He tossed the sheets from us and arose, nearly disappearing in the foggy room. He moved to the window, prying it open, and through the rolling blackness I could see is profile, outlined by a sinister green glow.
He grabbed his trousers, tugging them on. Tossing mine at the bed.
"Leave."
The wooden floor was hot. The room moved into check with my head, cloudy.
"Get out now. Don't be seen."
I opened my mouth to ask what was going on. My heart racing. His body tense and fierce but instilled with fear. But all I could manage was a gasp of smoke filled air.
I picked my wand off the table. He moved like a banshee in the fog. I opened the small closet door and pulled form it my heavy, iridescent cloak. Through the smoke and the thinning air, the heat of the room, he appeared before me. His face was pale, honest in fright. But his eyes, now a deep grey, did not waver. His mouth straight. His breathing becoming ragged, matching mine. In an instant he reached out and embraced me, our bare chests pressed together, my nose buried in the soft hair behind his ear. I felt his kiss press down on my forehead.
"Don't forget what I said."
He reached out and grabbed hold of the doorknob. It singed his flesh deeply, and I could hear him suppress his scream. Then with his free hand, he pressed me quickly and sternly, into the flame licked hallway. And I disappeared in my father's cloak.