Untitled
A/N: In case you guys didn't notice this is a slash fic so please no lame bitching about the guy on guy love k? Obviously this story has yet to be named have any ideas do leave suggestions in reviews. Also, though this is under my penname it is a collaborative effort by me and my friend the-goddess-of-sex scenes, aka Kelly.
Enjoy!
Harry POV:
Platform 9 ¾ was bustling with life, children and their parents raced, laden with trunks and suitcases, towards the shining red engine in hopes of securing a good seat. Mothers were stealing last minute hugs from reluctant sons and teary-eyed daughters as Fathers patted their backs encouragingly. Everyone was saying good-bye to their loved ones whom they wouldn't see until that Christmas, everyone except Harry Potter.
Trunk and owl in hand, Harry trudged through the crowds, studiously ignoring the looks of those he passed. While still dangerously thin and frail, Harry's face had developed handsomely over the summer. His constant work in the gardens of Number Four Privet Drive had given his skin a golden shine that delicately emphasized his now prominent cheek bones and elegant nose. Slender hands moved to push soft black hair away from brilliant green eyes that sparkled with discontent, momentarily exposing the cursed scar residing on his forehead.
There had to be a reason, thought Harry as he heaved his trunk into the overhead bin of an empty compartment. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, Harry couldn't deny that his best friends silence over the summer had disturbed him. He had received not a single letter or greeting from them since the end of term last year. Even the brief, vague notes that had characterized their correspondence the summer before were absent. He'd had to convince his uncle Vernon to drive him to King's Cross, who, though eager to be rid of his freakish nephew was not at all happy about having to drive him.
"Where are those freaky friends of yours boy? Making me drive you there, probably getting a good laugh out of it ain't you boy?" Uncle Vernon had continued in much the same manner the entire drive to the station.
Indeed, thought Harry as he sat alone in his compartment, gazing at the people still crowding the platform. Where were they? Though, that wasn't really the right question, Harry knew well enough where they'd been; playing exploding snap and chess at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The real question was why wasn't he there with them? Though the thought of spending such a long stretch of time in the building that had once housed his late Godfather was distressing, Harry would have preferred it to his interminable and abusive time at the Dursley's. Probably Dumbeldore's idea of keeping him safe he thought as the hunched his shoulders, trying to bury himself in his seat.
Dumbeldore had been a sore subject for Harry ever since he'd learned the prophecy. He simple could not understand the headmaster's reasoning in not telling him, preparing him. How on earth was he to be expected to defeat the most terrible Dark Lord to exist since Grindwald without any training? Surely Hogwarts wasn't enough, hadn't generations of Hogwarts witches and wizards already fallen to his wand? Then there were his relatives, the more he thought about it (and he'd had plenty of time to do that over the summer), the more the Dursley's treatment of him had begun to look like the abuse it was, and Dumbeldore's passé attitude, negligence.
Harry clenched his fists, breathing in and out slowly he controlled his rising anger and again looked out the window. Staring absent mindedly Harry found his attention to a black cloaked figure a bit down the platform. There stood the most attractive boy Harry had ever laid eyes on. His hair pale as white gold, hung in loose strands around his face, blending with equally pale skin that appeared so soft and smooth Harry's hands clenched against the need to caress it with his fingers. In stark contrast were his sharp grey eyes, piercing and intense. What muggle attire that could be seen under his cloak was snug, extenuating a lithe, muscular build. It took a few minutes for Harry's brain to catch up to his body as he realized he was staring, quite sappily at his rival Draco Malfoy. He turned his gaze quickly from the window; a deep blush showing threw his tan. Impossible he thought, there was no way he was having amorous thoughts about Draco Malfoy, or even another boy for that matter. It must be the heat, he decided, though his stomach was still filled with unease.
"Oi mate, you alright?" came the distinct voice of Ron Weasley, snapping Harry out of his trance.
"Oh Harry, you aren't sick are you?" said Hermione, what sounded like worry, coloring her tone. She smoothed the hair from his head, checking his temperature while he stared at her trying to sort through his rising confusion. It was so good to see them again; the familiarity of their presence was a comfort to Harry through the aching feelings of betrayal at seeing them act as though nothing was the matter. Pushing Hermione's hand away, Harry asked the question that had been burning on his lips all day, "Why didn't you write?"
"Oh Harry," Hermione admonished sternly, hands on here hips, bearing a startling resemblance to Mrs. Weasley. "You know that things have been tense ever since the Ministry of Magic fiasco! It wasn't safe to write, what if You-Know-Who had intercepted one of our letters? Honestly Harry, do you want a repeat of last June?"
"Of course not!" snapped Harry, offended by her tone, she didn't honestly think he wanted to see any of them dead did she? "That doesn't explain why you didn't come get me!"
"Really mate," said Ron, stepping up behind Hermione in a gesture of support that made Harry's heart sink, " the muggle's was the safest place for you to be because of the wards, Dumbeldore said so. It isn't like we like it, you know? We were just trying to keep you safe."
"Safe?!" Harry all but shouted, "Look at this!" He pulled up his shirt, revealing a long area of bruised cut skin on his side.
"Harry!" said Hermione warningly, "You really ought to be more careful!"
"Careful?!" he cried, "My bloody Aunt threw a gardening spade at me!"
"Language!" Hermione snapped, Ron nodding behind her.
With a frustrated groan, Harry buried his face in his hands, mumbling "You're impossible" before pushing past them into the carriages narrow corridor, determined to find Neville, Luna, and Ginny. Comforting himself with the knowledge that the whole world wasn't mad.
Draco POV:
Draco Malfoy sighed as he waited patiently for his father to content himself with looking intimidating before he could say his good byes. He scanned the crowed, sharp eyes noting his year mates, first years, and muggleborns, mudbloods he reminded himself for the hundredth time. What did it matter in the end? He thought as he watched them gaze wide eyed at the train, he would be better than them in the end no matter how pure their blood. As he waited beside his father, he recognized the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, but when he turned to see just who dared stare at Draco Malfoy their was no one.
"Draco", said his father in a condescending tone that made Draco flinch on the inside. Malfoys never show emotion. "I shall see you for the holidays, in the mean time I expect you to conduct yourself in a manner befitting one of your status." Draco nodded solemnly. He understood exactly what his father implied, act the good little Deatheater and be prepared to take the dark mark soon or I'll torture you myself. Smashing, thought Draco, no pressure or anything.
"Until Christmas Father" that was it, no heart felt good byes or encouraging words, not for a Malfoy heir. Draco made his way quickly through the crowds, gliding snakelike towards the train, glaring icily at those in his way. Upon finding his flunkies, friends, he chided himself; he pulled out a copy of Advanced Potion Making and settled down for the train ride. However, it was not long until his reading was interrupted by the sound of quick foot falls approaching down the corridor. Harry Potter, looking quite agitated glanced quickly into their compartment before hurrying along.
Draco forgot how to breathe. Damn he thought; when did Potter get so…beautiful? Though he had only glimpsed him, Draco could still picture his perfect skin and delicate face framed by soft hair in his mind. What would it be like to run his hands through that hair? No! He snapped himself out of his delusions; he was the Malfoy heir, lusting after a boy, especially the Boy-Who-Lived, would get him disowned for sure, if they didn't kill him first. Nonetheless, the thought of his father's reaction drew a smirk to his face. Ignoring his year-mates as they attempted to engage him in conversation and Pansy Parkinson pressed herself uncomfortable close to his side, Draco turned back to his book.
