Note: This is an authorized translation from Livia57adC's "Mas Quisieras, Malfoy!", you can find a link to her profile on my own profile.

You wish, Malfoy!

Draco has always hated the Care of Magical Creatures class almost as much as he hates that uncouth semi-giant that teaches it. Or maybe its all precisely because of that inept and so called Professor. Since last year's incident with that bloody chicken, he cant's stand him. A Malfoy bows to no one; even less to an absurd, stinking, ugly, mule-chicken hybrid.

This spring morning on late April is no different from all the previous forty-nine. They share the class with the Gryffindors and, as always, they are the only ones paying any sort of attention to the bearded idiot. Specially Potter and Co.. Pansy, Blaise and all the other Slytherins almost lose their breath laughing because of the Professor's clumsiness. But Draco is not into it today. He keeps staring to where Potter and his friends, on first row, are sitting like good students and friends. Draco has only eyes for him. The only Gryffindor that interests him.

He remembers how Potter did that great bow before the dumb hippogriff, the same hippogriff that hurt Draco. The blonde thinks he wouldn't mind if Potter bows to him in the same way. No, he wouldn't mind at all if Potter would bend in just like that, with the same embarrassed and scared expression planted on his face like in that occasion. Only this time without his school robes. With short sleeves. Because Draco wants to taste the pleasure of watching that round, tanned ass, that from some time now he has imagined marked against those pants, when he does it. He imagines how Potter will look him in the eye, not glancing away, and Draco will let himself be charmed by the crystallized shine of those green pupils. Draco will return the salute, accepting his good intentions. Even if his own are not as honorable. Then he will help Potter ride. But not on that bloody chicken. On Draco. Fitting Potter in his lap like a piece in a perfect puzzle, feeling how Potter's seeker hands firmly grasp his shoulders to keep from falling as he sways. Draco himself will support with his own hands those hips, holding him, keeping him secure. Keeping him tight against his body. And both of them will rise so Draco can teach him to fly. Truly fly. He will guide Potter into a slow and smooth take off, with his hands, with his mouth, training him in the desire that will keep their bodies together and will keep him floating in concupiscent white clouds that will cover his mind, make him think of no other than Draco. He'll mark the way and placidly drive him, avoiding any turbulence, slowly increasing the speed of their flight, stirring up his thirst for emotion, stimulating his audacity. Until Draco makes him touch the sky with his fingertips. With his entire hand. Until gray is the only color in Potter's firmament, and until every waft of wind whispers in his ear all the words Draco has saved for him. Until every raindrop falling from heaven's vault flood his lips with the taste of skin hungry for skin, damp in greed to be the first, the last, the only. Draco fantasizes he will hear Potter scream louder and stronger than when he flew with that beast over the Black Lake and the echo of his voice, happy and excited, reverberated into the clearing. Draco imagines him with his eyes closed, shut tight, while all the colors in the rainbow explode behind his eyelids and his body finally lets the last ballast fall and they both ascend to the seventh heaven, the heaven only the ones who learn to fly like them can reach.

Potter will descend spilled and loose, perhaps confused, rocking still with the breeze of his own breathing. And when his senses come back to earth in the reality that surrounds him, Draco knows their eyes will meet. Once again. But he doesn't want to imagine it. Because when he reaches that point, fear creeps up in him. He doesn't know what to expect. His dream dissolves and that idyllic moment breaks into tiny and fragile pieces. As breakable as the heart he hides behind the aeronaut mask he wears.

Class is over and Draco hasn't noticed. Students are hurriedly packing their books, wanting to get to the castle, to a well deserved meal. However, Draco doesn't move. He waits. He sees him coming closer with his backpack hanging from his shoulder, alone and left behind, pretending to ignore him but alert to any provocation. Draco smiles with a hint of a smirk and when he passes right by him, he pulls from the pack's strap to make it fall to the floor. As anticipated, Potter's face turns red, he scowls and turns a furious glance to him that sparks green. Its perhaps because of that that Draco speaks only to his lips when he says:

"I'll teach you to fly one of these days, Potter. Truly fly."

He feels the Gryffindor's glance traveling along his face, burning his cheeks, his nose, his lips... When he finally looks up, Potter is smiling.

"You wish, Malfoy."

He picks up his bag and starts walking towards the castle, Draco's left to curse his back. He suddenly stops and turns back to the Slytherin. He's still smiling when he says:

"Most likely it would be me teaching you to fly."

The End

(To be continued...)