My Potty Valentine:
It was, quite possibly, the worst tradition ever, Of All Time, from the day the universe first sparked its little insignificant self into the big bang, NOTHING had been as bad as this fucking tradition.
Draco Malfoy was pouting.
He knew he was pouting rather than sulking, because his mother had once told him the difference. Sulking was when you wanted someone to notice you being annoyed and ask why, then hopefully fix it for you. Pouting came from the same idea only it was more private. Pouting involved an element of hurt feelings and the desire to not actually be caught pouting. As he was currently slouched behind a large wooden strut up in the Owlery, knees drawn up to his chest and generally feeling unloved and sorry for himself, Draco thought it fair to decide he did not want to be discovered.
Ok, so Malfoy's weren't supposed to have hurt feelings... for that matter he wasn't sure they were supposed to have feelings full stop, but that didn't prevent the miserable little ball of cold, hard hurt from dwelling heavily in the pit of his stomach. He sniffed desolately and tried to ignore the gritty hot sensation in his eyes, refusing to let the scalding liquid spill past his lashes.
Bloody Saint Valentine, what did he ever do that was so bloody great anyway? Like the sodding holiday wasn't enough of a trial in this pathetic excuse for a school, this year, of all years, it had to be an event.
It was the fourteenth anniversary of the fourteenth anniversary of St. Valentines Day and that meant something in the magical world. Soul mates had met and bonded on this day, peace treaties had been served and, most celebrated, the rite of choice had been initiated.
In life, such as it was, this meant that couples could choose each other from strangers without ever having met before, like a predestined blind date, one partner blindly led towards the other, seeking them out till their lips met as if it was the most natural thing on earth for them to do.
Of course, this being a school filled with hormones, angst and overstressed teenagers, it was a nightmare. Teenagers lacked the natural element of reserve or constancy that made adults able to seek their partners out in no doubt of them not being who they wanted. Most teenagers couldn't pick and ran round in abject confusion whilst others made several choices all at once and proceeded to be torn apart by conflicted longings and then some... Some lucky bastard gits had every last person in the school fall for them.
Draco hated Harry Potter.
Potter had had every seething mass of hormones launched at him, blindly trying for that perfect kiss since breakfast, his expression of frozen horror lasting him long into the afternoon when the novelty of his humiliation and distress had worn away and Draco was left with the sad realisation that while Potter had everyone loving him and wanting none of them, Draco had no one and had never felt it so keenly in his life.
It had been about the time of that little revelation that Draco had retreated to his current hiding place, waiting now in the darkness, awash with his own misery, for the clock to strike twelve so he could drag himself to bed and pretend the day had never happened, that someone wanted him, anyone...
"Malfoy? That you?"
Bugger.
Scrunching his eyes as tight as he could and clenching his teeth so hard he though he heard them splinter and crack, Draco wished valiantly for a large hungry owl to take pity on him and devour Potter whole on the spot. Or better yet to devour Draco himself. Why prolong the torture after all?
"Malfoy?"
He sighed. No such luck then.
"What do you want, Potter?" he drawled wearily, hoping against hope the little shite would scarper.
"N... nothing I... it's just. What're you doing up here? It's almost midnight."
The voice was closer now, and Draco sighed, relaxing back against the post as he accepted his fate, this, to be badgered to death by someone who cared less about him than the rest of the world, if that were indeed possible.
"Yes, thank you, Potter, I am aware of the time as it happens."
"Oh... Alright then."
Nervous shuffling and a sigh.
"You still here, Potter?"
"Ummm... yes?"
"Why?"
More nervous scuffles, closer now.
"I ummm, that is... It's almost midnight... nearly time."
Draco slumped. "You say it like it should mean something," he whispered.
The reply was so quiet that he might have missed it if it wasn't for the sudden pounding of his heart drowning out the heavy chimes of the school clocks.
"It does to me," Potter whispered almost against his lips, and before Draco had the chance or inclination to think about it, a firm, warm mouth pressed tight to his, just for a heavy aching moment and then, as the dying clangs of the chimes concluded, hurried panicked footfalls could be heard as the Gryffindor turned tail and fled.
Draco swallowed his heart and opened his eyes, whispering to the retreating echo, "Happy Valentines Day, Potter." And he smiled.
Fin.